Secret Sins: A Callie Anson (16 page)

Climbing the steps to her flat, Callie’s thoughts were on Bella; she’d been home at lunch-time to give her a walk, but Bella would be needing another one quite soon. She’d better do it straightaway and get it over with, before it got any darker, and before she’d had a chance to get warm and comfortable. Once that happened, she wouldn’t want to go back out.

As she got near the top, she became aware of voices on the other side of the door. Male voices. More than one. What on earth? Loquacious burglars?

The voices stopped by the time she’d opened the door, and two faces were turned towards her. Peter, draped over a chair. And Marco, on the sofa, with Bella on his lap. Tea things—mugs, teapot, biscuit tin—were strewn over the coffee table, and a rather large fir tree leaned precariously in the corner of the room.

Bella wagged her tail but didn’t move.

‘Hi, Sis,’ said Peter. ‘About time you came home. It’s a good thing I had a key. I found Marco, here, standing outside in the cold with this whacking great tree, freezing his whatsit off.’

‘I wasn’t expecting you this early,’ Callie said to Marco,
ignoring
her brother for the time being. ‘You said sevenish.’

He smiled at her a bit tentatively, as if unsure of the welcome he would receive. ‘I managed to get away early. I wanted to find a tree,’ he added. ‘Your flat’s been looking very bare without one.’

Callie shook her head, bemused at the pair of them. ‘I don’t suppose anyone’s taken Bella out.’

‘We did,’ said Peter virtuously. ‘As soon as we got here, really—she insisted on it. Then we rewarded ourselves with some tea. It’s freezing cold out there, you know.’

If they’d spared her another trip out into the cold, she would forgive them anything. ‘I know.’

‘I was just about to light a fire,’ Marco put in. ‘But Bella jumped on my lap, and I couldn’t shift her.’ The dog leaned into his chest, looking blissful as he scratched her ears.

‘And we were going to put the tree up, to surprise you,’ added Peter. ‘Now we can all do it together. It will be more fun that way.’

Callie addressed Marco. ‘I thought we were going out tonight?’

‘And leave me here to look after Bella?’ demanded Peter. ‘Not a chance. I think we’ll order in a pizza.’

Now she turned her attention to her brother. ‘What, exactly, are you doing here? Don’t you have a home of your own to go to?’

Peter uncurled himself from the chair, came to her, and draped an arm over her shoulder. ‘Well, you see now, Sis, that’s the thing.’

She didn’t like the sound of that, and she was right to be apprehensive.

He told her—making an amusing story out of it—that the woman in the flat above him had let her bath overflow. Rather badly, in fact: to the extent that his ceiling had fallen down. ‘Plaster everywhere,’ he grimaced. ‘You have no idea of the mess.’

Callie could just about imagine; that, though, wasn’t what concerned her. ‘So you’re…’

‘Homeless, at the moment. Hoping to cadge a place to lay my head, to put not too fine a point on it. Throwing myself on your mercy. You wouldn’t turn your poor brother out into the streets, would you?’ he wheedled.

‘But I don’t have a spare room,’ protested Callie. The thought of untidy Peter invading her carefully ordered life…

‘This sofa pulls out into a bed, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes, but…’

‘Sis, you’re my only hope,’ he stated. ‘I don’t have anywhere else to go.’ He grinned at her. ‘I’m between boyfriends at the moment, worse luck. And unfortunately I haven’t stayed on sufficiently good terms with any of my exes. I suppose I should have been more careful about that.’

‘What about—’ Callie began, but Peter clamped a hand over her mouth.

‘Don’t even say it,’ he ordered. ‘Don’t you dare even mention the M word.’

Marco, who had been watching this exchange, bemused, from the safety of the sofa, chimed in. ‘Are you talking about me?’

‘No,’ they both said together as Peter removed his hand.

‘Because if you are, it wouldn’t work. I have a flatmate, you know. And he wouldn’t countenance it.’

‘I was referring to our mother,’ Callie said firmly. Even as she said it, she knew it was out of the question. Not in a
million
years would Peter even contemplate it. And there was no guarantee that Laura Anson would agree. Their mother would complain bitterly about being put upon; even if she said yes and allowed him to move in, she would be on the phone every five minutes to Callie, detailing his latest transgression. A towel on the bathroom floor, a dirty plate left on the table, forbidden food scoffed down. Heinous sins, reported one by one.

‘I’ll be the perfect guest,’ Peter declared, his hand sweeping to his heart in a dramatic gesture. ‘I promise. I won’t get in your way. I’ll clean up after myself. You won’t even know I’m here.’

That would be the day. ‘You’ll cook for yourself, then?’

‘Well, no,’ he admitted, then grinned. ‘But I’ll eat whatever you put in front of me. No complaints.’

There really was, she saw, not going to be any escape from this one. ‘Well…’

‘And I’ll walk Bella, even when it’s cold,’ he said quickly. ‘Resident dog walker.’ A deal clincher.

Callie gave Marco an apologetic look; he shrugged and shook his head. Wordless communication: they both recognised that if their relationship were going anywhere, it wouldn’t do so very easily with Peter Anson in residence.

‘How long are we talking about?’ she asked. ‘Days?’

‘A few weeks, max. I’ll be out of your hair before you know it.’

Oh, Lord, she thought. A few weeks—that meant beyond Christmas. But how could she say no?

‘Well,’ Callie said, capitulating, ‘what kind of a sister would I be to turn my brother out on the streets?’

Peter enveloped her in a bear hug. ‘Thanks, Sis. You won’t regret it.’

Callie hoped—against hope—that he was right.

Neville had arranged to meet Willow Tree at a pub near the police station—not the one where he usually went with Mark, but a slightly more up-market one, with a decent menu. He’d give her a good meal, then see where the evening led.

He was a few minutes late leaving work—the coroner had rung to talk about the timing of the inquest—so he walked briskly to the pub. She wasn’t waiting outside, but then he wouldn’t have expected her to be, in that sort of temperature.

She was leaning against the bar, a pint of Guinness in her hand. ‘Hi, Inspector Stewart,’ she said, raising the glass in his direction.

‘Call me Neville.’ He grinned at her approvingly. Guinness! A woman after his own heart. And she was looking a bit more mainstream than the last time they’d met; her orange hair was
no longer in spikes, her fingernails were now dark red rather than iridescent green, and she had a discreet jewel in her nose instead of the gold ring. She was rather fanciable, in fact. Under her sheepskin coat, he could glimpse some sort of gauzy ethnic print blouse, tantalisingly low cut.

He ordered a Guinness; while he was waiting for them to pull it, he turned to her. ‘Thanks for coming. I hope you didn’t have any trouble finding this place.’

‘Not at all. I’ve been here before, in fact. I work just a few streets away from here, at the health food shop. Planet Earth. Do you know it?’

‘No. I’m not a health food sort of bloke,’ Neville admitted with a grimace.

She smiled at him. ‘Somehow I didn’t think you were.’

‘And you came anyway. That’s a good sign.’

‘I was…intrigued,’ Willow confessed. ‘About why you asked me.’

It wasn’t exactly a question, and Neville didn’t answer it directly. He accepted his Guinness from the barman, held it up to inspect it, then clinked it against her glass. ‘To new
beginnings
,’ he said, and drank deeply.

‘You’re not on duty, then,’ she observed.

‘Not tonight.’

‘So this isn’t an…official…meeting.’

‘Good Lord, no.’ Was that what she thought? That he’d asked her to come so he could question her about a case that had finished months ago? ‘I thought I’d made it clear that this is very…unofficial.’

‘Just making sure.’ She sipped at her drink, then licked the foam off her upper lip—an unconscious move which Neville, watching, found extremely sexy. ‘I didn’t know how long I would have to make this drink last.’

‘As long as you want it to last. There are lots more where that one came from.’ Neville looked behind the bar at the blackboard with the chalked menu. ‘Do you fancy ordering some food?’ he suggested. ‘They do a great burger here.’ As soon as he said it,
he remembered that she worked at a health food store, and tried to cover his tracks. ‘Or I’m sure they do vegetarian food as well,’ he added. ‘Tofu, or something like that.’ That was the extent of his knowledge about vegetarian food; he hoped it didn’t sound too ignorant.

Willow laughed. ‘I’m not a vegetarian, Neville.’

‘I just thought…’

‘You thought that someone who works at a health food store must be a vegetarian. Wrong. If I worked in a vet’s office, would it make me a dog?’ She took a deep gulp from her glass, raising her eyebrows at him. ‘I happen to love a good burger. Or a nice juicy steak,’ she added.

This evening was looking more promising all the time. ‘Let’s have steaks, then,’ Neville said decisively. ‘Steak and chips.’

‘Sounds great. Make mine rare.’

He gave the order to the barman, then led her to an empty table. ‘You’re a surprising woman, Willow Tree,’ he said, lifting his glass in her direction.

‘Good. I like to keep people on their toes.’

There was one more thing—all right, maybe two—that would make his evening complete. ‘You don’t, by any chance, like Irish music, do you?’ he ventured.

‘Love it,’ she said promptly. ‘In fact, I live practically next door to a pub which has the best live Irish music in town. And the best Guinness. Better than any place in Kilburn.’

‘Where’s that, then?’ He sounded sceptical.

‘Paddy’s Place. Just off the Edgware Road. Do you know it?’

Neville couldn’t believe there was an Irish pub that he’d never heard of—and so near. ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘I don’t know it.’

‘We could go there after we’ve eaten, if you like,’ she
suggested
.

He settled back in his chair with a contented sigh. Tomorrow might hold all sorts of horrors, but tonight Neville Stewart was a happy man.

Frances Cherry had had a busy weekend at the hospital, which was overcrowded with victims of cold-weather diseases and even hypothermia. Monday had been no better. Triona O’Neil was never far from her mind, but she’d had no opportunity to do anything about her. She didn’t know what she
could
do, in any case, yet the fact that Triona had confided in her had given Frances a sense of responsibility for the other woman.

When it came to the sacrament of confession, or anything like it, Frances was strictly professional in her respect for
confidentially
. This, though, was different: Triona had talked to her woman-to-woman, friend-to-friend, and not as a priest. That, in Frances’ mind, provided her with more leeway.

She had no hesitation in speaking to her husband Graham about the matter. Graham, as a priest himself, was discretion itself, and a useful sounding-board. He didn’t always tell her what she wanted to hear; that made his advice more rather than less valuable.

It was Tuesday morning before she had a chance to discuss Triona with him. Over their breakfast cereal, she broached the subject in an oblique way. ‘You remember Detective Inspector Stewart, don’t you?’

Graham looked up from his Weetabix, eyebrows raised. ‘I’m not likely to forget him, am I?’

‘I suppose not.’ She pulled a face.

‘He was practically a member of the family for a while. Don’t tell me he’s back?’

Frances replied with feeling. ‘No. No.’

‘Then why are you trying to spoil my breakfast by reminding me about something I’d rather forget?’

She put her spoon down for emphasis. ‘Well, it’s my friend Triona.’

‘The solicitor,’ he stated.

‘Yes. I was aware, vaguely, that she and Neville Stewart had known each other at some point in the past. But now it seems that they’re rather better acquainted than I thought.’

‘Oh?’

As concisely as she could, Frances outlined the conversation she’d had with Triona a few days before. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she finished.

Graham got up, rinsed his cereal bowl, and slotted it in the dishwasher. ‘I should stay out of it, if I were you. It’s nothing to do with you, Fran.’

‘But she confided in me, and that makes me feel that I ought to do something to help her.’

Refilling his coffee mug, he shook his head. ‘Like what? Ring Inspector Stewart and tell him that the stork is on its way?’

‘No, of course not.’

Put like that, it sounded ridiculous. It
was
nothing to do with her.

And yet…

Yet Triona was her friend; they went back a long way, even though they’d been out of touch for a good many years.

Perhaps just a phone call at this point. She could ring Triona and offer support. Triona, with her famed Irish temper, might tell her to mind her own business; Frances, for the sake of
friendship
, decided it was a risk she ought to take.

Callie’s alarm woke her: time for a shower, a quick cup of tea, and a trip outside with Bella before Morning Prayer.

Shivering, wrapping herself in her dressing gown, she headed for the bathroom, passing through the sitting room. It was a
journey
she was used to accomplishing without putting a light on.

In the darkness, her shin encountered something hard and painful: the frame of the pull-out sofa bed.

‘Ouch!’ She hopped out of the way, rubbing her shin, as she remembered.

Peter.

‘Sis?’ he groaned from the bed. ‘Wassamatter?’

‘I’ve just ruined my leg.’ She snapped the light on.

Peter turned and buried his face in the pillow. ‘That’s what you get for being up so early. Serves you right.’ The words were muffled.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Callie snapped. ‘It’s my job. God, remember?’

‘Well, maybe you need to rethink your job, then.’ Peter rolled onto his back, shading his eyes with his arm. ‘In my opinion, if God intended you to be up this early, he would have made it light.’

Callie took a deep breath. He was trying to be provocative, she told herself. That was just Peter’s way. She would
not
let him draw her into an argument. Not on his first day as her house guest, for heaven’s sake. ‘Well,’ she said in a reasonable voice, ‘Bella doesn’t care how early it is, or whether it’s light or dark. She has to go outside. And what happened to your promise to be the one to take her?’

‘You must be joking.’ And with that, Peter pulled the covers over his head.

Yolanda was wakened by a muffled cry, sounding as though it came from directly below her. She was out of her makeshift bed in seconds, stopping to check that Rachel’s room was empty before hurrying down the stairs, turning lights on as she went.

The cry came again, guiding Yolanda towards the back of the house. ‘I’m coming,’ she called out.

She found Rachel in the kitchen, doubled over, clinging for dear life to a mop. Her face was pasty, with a sheen of sweat. Yolanda hurried to her side, prised the mop out of her grasp, and guided her into a chair. ‘What is it, lovie?’ Yolanda crooned. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘I think the baby’s on the way.’ The words came out in a gasp as Rachel clutched her belly. ‘It hurts.’

‘There. There.’ Yolanda stroked her hair, doing calculations in her head: it was possible. Thirty-seven weeks was early, but it was considered borderline full term. ‘Have you ever had anything like this before?’

Rachel groaned. ‘Never quite like this. It’s never hurt before.’

‘What on earth were you doing, lovie?’

‘Mopping the kitchen floor.’

Yolanda didn’t bother to ask why. She’d seen it all before: that rush of restless energy in the weeks before giving birth. It was a well known phenomenon. Nesting, Yolanda always called it. Tidying, cleaning, making ready.

‘Let me get you up to your bed,’ said Yolanda. ‘Then I’ll take a look at you. You’re going to be just fine,’ she added briskly. ‘Yolanda’s here to look after you.’

Jane was trying very hard to like Ellie. Simon obviously adored her, Brian thought she was wonderful, and Charlie seemed to accept the fact that she was as good as a member of the family now, so Jane felt it was up to her to make a concerted effort.

Laying the table for breakfast on Tuesday morning, she tried to analyse her feelings. Why was she the odd one out when it came to worshipping at the shrine of Ellie?

It was difficult to put her finger on. There was the shock, of course, at having the girl in her house unexpectedly. And the fact that Simon was so young to be seriously involved with anyone. He still had two and a half years of university ahead of him, plus any qualifications he would need to pursue after that.

Ellie wasn’t unpleasant to her, or impolite: rather she was unfailingly cordial. She was a well-brought-up young woman, and always expressed gratitude at the right time—thanking Jane for meals, cups of tea, and other hospitality.

Why, Jane asked herself, did it get under her skin so?

Maybe it was because Ellie
was
so polite. ‘Thank you, Mrs. Stanford. What a lovely meal.’ ‘That was delicious, Mrs. Stanford.’ It was the way Jane, many years ago, had been taught to speak to her elderly great-aunts. With deference and respect for their advanced age…

Perhaps that was it. Ellie made her feel
old
.

She spoke to Jane like someone who had to be placated and indulged. An irrelevance. Someone who was past it, part of an older generation who no longer counted, fit only to be consigned to the rubbish heap of history. Treated with respect, but not engaged with.

Just the way she’d felt about her great-aunts, Jane realised with a jolt. Theirs had been a world so far removed from hers that she’d had nothing to say to them, apart from the pleasantries. There was no level on which she could engage with them. They’d lived through the War, for heaven’s sakes—how boring was
that
?

Did Ellie think
she
was boring, because she’d been a child in the sixties, a teenager in the seventies, a young wife in the eighties?

But I’m not old
, Jane said to herself plaintively. She wasn’t past it. Women in their forties were now considered to be in the prime of their lives. Just look at all the forty-something movie stars: Meg Ryan, Demi Moore, even Julia Roberts. Not to mention Madonna!

With perfect timing born of long practice, she switched the kettle on just as Brian came through the front door from Morning Prayer. He liked his breakfast as soon as he got home, and by the time he was out of his cassock and into the kitchen the tea would be ready to pour.

He came through a few minutes later, holding a letter.

‘Oh, the post was early today,’ Jane remarked as she sloshed milk into two cups.

‘Janey…’ said Brian in a strange voice.

‘What is it?’ She stopped and looked at him properly: his eyes were wide with shock, as though he’d been poleaxed, and he was extending the letter in a hand which visibly trembled. ‘Is something wrong? Oh, tell me!’

His words were jerky, disjointed. ‘No. Not wrong. Far from it. At least for us.’

Jane, mystified and concerned, reached for the letter; he held on to it. ‘Tell me,’ Jane repeated.

It was a moment before Brian replied. He seemed to pull himself together, licking his lips and clearing his throat. ‘You remember my Uncle Bernard?’

‘Yes.’ Jane tried to recall what she knew about Uncle Bernard, whom she’d never met. A brother of Brian’s late father, he had emigrated when Brian was still a child and had some sort of farm or ranch in Australia. He’d never married, and had never come back to England, even for a visit. They heard from him at Christmas each year, so perhaps this was the annual Christmas card.

‘He’s dead,’ Brian said flatly. ‘He died a month ago.’

‘Oh! I’m sorry.’

Brian waved the letter, a bemused smile creasing his face. ‘He’s left us some money, Janey! Rather a lot of money.’

She snatched the letter from his hand and scanned it quickly.

It was a solicitors’ letter, written in international legalese, but the gist of it was clear. In his will, Bernard Stanford had left his nephew a hundred and fifty thousand Australian dollars. This, the solicitor believed, was something over sixty thousand pounds sterling. A cheque would follow shortly.

Sixty thousand pounds! Jane realised, after a moment, that she had stopped breathing. Deliberately she took a deep breath, then another. A hard knot of excitement began to form in her stomach.

Making ends meet on a vicar’s slender stipend had been Jane’s job, and her burden, for a good many years. It was a point of pride with her that—unlike so many clergy wives these days—she
had never worked outside of the home. She had supported Brian in his ministry in every possible way; she had brought up two clever boys of whom any mother would be proud. The fact that they were twins meant that expenses always came in twos, which was a continual strain on the budget and a challenge for Jane. When sacrifices were made, they were almost invariably hers: she saw to it that the boys never suffered or felt deprived, and neither did Brian. If she’d had to make do with her old Laura Ashley best dress for more years than she wanted to remember, if she’d clothed herself in other people’s cast-offs from church jumble sales, that seemed a small price to pay for the wellbeing of her family.