Secret Sins: A Callie Anson (27 page)

‘Of course, Marco, if that’s what you’d like to do.’

‘I want to take you to La Venezia.’

Now there was a pause on Callie’s end of the phone. ‘Okay.’

‘But first we need to talk,’ he went on. ‘There are some things I need to explain to you before we go there. So if we meet up for a drink beforehand?’

‘Yes, that’s fine. I take it,’ Callie added wryly, ‘that Peter isn’t included in this invitation?’

Mark laughed. ‘You’ve got it in one.’

Frances pulled a chair up beside Rachel’s bed. She wasn’t at all sure what she was doing here: the black woman who’d identified herself as a police officer had given her an explanation which
was sketchy at best, but her urgency had been evident. ‘It’s very important that she shouldn’t be left alone,’ she’d said. ‘I hope I won’t be away very long. If it looks like I can’t get back right away, I’ll send a PC to take over from you.’

It appeared to Frances as though Rachel was on the verge of sleep. ‘You don’t have to talk or anything,’ she said. ‘I’ll just sit here.’

Rachel nodded drowsily and almost immediately drifted off. A few minutes later, a nurse brought a tiny dark-haired baby to the bed and roused Rachel. ‘Time for a feed, dear,’ she announced. ‘Baby’s hungry.’

Taking the baby from the nurse, Rachel’s ineptitude was evident. ‘First time, is it, dear?’ clucked the nurse. ‘Never mind. I’ll give you a bit of help and show you what to do. It’s as easy as falling off a log, really. Nothing to it. Baby knows what to do, you’ll see.’

She kept up the encouraging chatter through the feeding session. Frances wondered whether she ought to withdraw, out of delicacy, but recalled the injunction of the woman Yolanda Fish not to leave Rachel, even for a moment.

‘Would you like to keep baby with you for a bit, dear?’ asked the nurse, when the feed was accomplished to her satisfaction. ‘You don’t have to, mind. I can take her away if you’d prefer to have a sleep.’

‘Oh, yes, please. I’d love to keep her.’ Rachel tightened her arms round the baby.

‘Well, then. Let’s get her settled.’ The nurse made sure that Rachel was decently covered, then arranged the baby in the crook of her arm. ‘Perhaps baby’s daddy will be visiting later?’ she suggested coyly, with a wink in Frances’ direction.

Rachel bit her lip. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Oh, well. Never mind. I’ll fetch her presently.’

Once the nurse had gone, Frances leaned over and inspected the baby. ‘She’s beautiful, isn’t she?’

‘The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.’ Rachel’s voice was soft, almost indistinct with emotion. ‘I never imagined…well, I just couldn’t imagine her at all. Not as a real person or anything.
But she’s…’ Choking on tears, she stroked the baby’s cheek with one tender, tentative finger.

‘I know exactly what you mean,’ said Frances. ‘It was the same with my daughter. You carry a baby for nine months, and you think you’re ready, but nothing prepares you for what it feels like to hold her in your arms.’

Rachel twisted her head and looked at Frances, as if she were seeing her for the first time. ‘You have a daughter?’

‘Yes, just the one. Heather, she’s called. She’s nearly
twenty-five
now—I can’t believe it. Seems like just last week that I was holding her like that.’

Rachel’s eyes travelled to Frances’ dog collar. ‘Are you really a priest?’

That, thought Frances, was a loaded question in some
quarters
: there were any number of traditionalist male priests who didn’t believe that her ordination was lawful or valid. But this young woman, of course, wasn’t interested in the ontological or theological niceties. She smiled wryly and gave a simple answer. ‘Yes, I am.’

‘Can I talk to you? As…a priest, I mean?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Frances nodded.

Now Rachel looked away, almost shyly, and whispered her next question. ‘Is it true that you won’t…can’t…tell anyone else what I say to you?’

‘Anything you tell me is just between us.’ And God, Frances added to herself.

‘I’m not religious,’ Rachel repeated, as if she’d heard the unspoken words. ‘I don’t go to church or anything.’

‘That doesn’t matter. I’m here for anyone who needs me,’ Frances assured her.

Rachel was silent for a moment, bending her face over her baby’s downy dark head; tears dropped from her eyes onto the baby’s cheek. When she finally spoke, her voice was almost non-existent, a thready whisper. ‘I’ve done something terrible. Something really, really terrible.’

The three girls stood behind Alex in the food queue and spoke in deliberately loud voices, so she couldn’t fail to hear every word.

‘Sad, isn’t it?’ said Beatrice, Alex’s step-cousin. ‘She’s
flat-chested
enough to be a boy.’

‘Maybe she
is
a boy,’ Georgina contributed.

‘That would explain a lot,’ said Beatrice’s best friend, Sophie.

‘Yeah, like why she doesn’t have a boyfriend. Although she’s so ugly that no boy would look at her twice. Not unless she put a bag over her head,’ added Beatrice. ‘And then there’s that brace on her teeth. Who would want to snog a mouth full of metal like that?’

Georgina and Sophie giggled hysterically as Alex spun round to confront them. She’d tried to ignore them; she’d told herself that it wasn’t worth it to rise to their bait. But she’d had enough.

‘Are you talking about
me
?’ she demanded furiously.

Beatrice folded her arms across her own rather well-endowed chest. ‘I don’t see any other ugly, flat-chested girls around here. So if the shoe fits…’

Alex wasn’t sure whether to punch her or to cry. She resisted the impulse to do either. ‘As a matter of fact,’ she said coldly, ‘I do too have a boyfriend.’

‘In Scotland, I suppose,’ Beatrice sneered. ‘Very convenient. What’s he called, then? Nessie?’

‘Her boyfriend’s the Loch Ness Monster!’ Georgina taunted.

‘He’s called Jack! And he lives in London!’ Without stopping to ask herself whether it was wise, Alex reached for the chain round her neck and pulled the locket out from under her
uniform
. ‘Here’s his photo!’ she announced, opening the locket.

Beatrice leaned over and scrutinised the tiny photo. ‘That’s what you say. You probably cut it out of a magazine or
something
.’

‘I did not!’

‘Let me see,’ Georgina demanded, grabbing for the locket. ‘Who’s this other photo, then? Is that you?’

‘It’s my mother. When she was my age.’

Alex’s tone of voice should have warned them to go no further, but they were oblivious.

‘Oh, your ugly mother. She’s just as ugly as you. No wonder your dad left her.’ Georgina tugged at the locket chain; it was old and delicate, and it snapped, leaving the locket in her hand.

‘Give me that!’ Alex grabbed for it, but Georgina was quicker.

She closed her fist round it tightly and held it above her head. Although she was a year younger than Alex, she was taller and had longer arms. ‘Make me!’

‘It’s mine! It’s mine!’ There was a weight in Alex’s chest; she almost had to struggle to breathe. Her most treasured possession in all the world, clutched just out of reach in the hand of that unspeakably awful girl…She sobbed in frustration and anger. ‘Give it to me!’

‘Oh, she’s a cry-baby,’ mocked Sophie. ‘Honestly, Beatrice. I’d never admit that that loser was related to me.’

‘She’s
not
related to me,’ Beatrice retorted, turning on her friend. ‘Just because my Aunt Jilly was stupid enough to marry her father, that doesn’t make her any relation of
mine
.’

Alex grabbed a hank of Georgina’s long blonde hair and, in her fury, pulled hard. ‘Give me my locket!’

Georgina screamed. Loudly. Heads turned, and an instant later one of the teachers was beside them. ‘What on earth is going on here?’ she demanded.

Neville sat at his desk while Yolanda paced back and forth.

‘So,’ said Yolanda. ‘Trevor Norton is really dead.’

‘As a doornail,’ Neville confirmed. ‘It’s definitely his body in the mortuary. A DNA match.’

‘And Rachel…’

‘She’s playing at something. We know that. But we don’t know what.’ Neville shook his head. ‘And it may not have anything at all to do with his murder. At the end of the day, Yolanda, we may find out that he
was
killed by a yob. For his iPod. Full stop, end of story. Just like Sid always said.’

If only, thought Yolanda, it were that cut-and-dried. Yet there was something about that scenario that just didn’t feel right to her.

‘So where do we go from here?’

‘I’m not sure where
I’m
going from here,’ said Neville. ‘Back to square one, I suppose. But I know where you’re going. Home.’

She stopped pacing. ‘Home? You must be joking.’

‘Listen to me, Yolanda.’ Neville’s voice was firm as he
enumerated
his points on his fingers. ‘You’re a Family Liaison Officer, not a detective. You’ve worked bloody hard for the past week. Rachel Norton is in hospital—she’s not going anywhere for a day or two. There’s nothing for you to do at the moment. So just go home.’

‘Well,’ Yolanda admitted with some reluctance, ‘they’re not likely to release her before the end of the weekend, especially with the baby being that bit early.’

‘My point exactly.’ Neville smirked at her. ‘Go home, Yolanda. Shag your husband, sleep in your own bed. And don’t come back until Monday. That,’ he added, ‘is an order.’

Alex sat in the Headmistress’ office, her heart pounding
painfully
. She’d never been in trouble before. She’d never fit in at this dreadful posh school, but she’d been careful not to draw attention to herself in such a way as to warrant the personal notice of the Headmistress.

She made an effort to relax, leaning back in the hard chair, feigning nonchalance. The Headmistress was talking; Alex was listening only intermittently. ‘Disgraceful behaviour,’ she heard. ‘…common street children.’

The Headmistress leaned over her desk, opened a file, and
consulted
it for a moment. ‘Your father will be very disappointed in you,’ she said, glaring at Alex over the tops of her half-moon glasses. ‘Now, do you have anything to say for yourself, young lady?’

Alex could guess what was expected of her. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said docilely, but it was only a preliminary, so she could get on to the next—the important—bit. ‘And could I please have my locket back? That…Georgina. She still has it. I want it back.’

Frances had been the recipient of a good many hospital-bed revelations over the years, but she found Rachel’s one of the strangest she’d ever heard—and one of the most moving.

In a voice that was at times little more than a whisper,
emotional
but not hysterical, Rachel recounted the story of a marriage gone sour almost as soon as it had begun, a rekindled romance, and the almost inevitable tragedy when it became impossible to hold the two things together.

Things had been fine for the first few years, as long as Rachel and Trevor were just living together. He’d been a bit controlling, a bit jealous of her friendships with her work-mates. When they were married, though, it got much worse: he didn’t want her spending any time with anyone but him. Then he’d bought the house in Paddington and started his own business, and effectively cut them off from anyone else and from their old life.

Rachel had chafed a bit, but she was a fairly docile—even passive—soul, and it wasn’t part of her nature to confront him openly.

Then one day she’d been playing round on her laptop, surfing the internet, and had stumbled across findagain.co.uk.

She’d registered for the service, but the first approach had come from the other side: from a young man who had, for a brief period, been her boyfriend at school. Their relationship had been doomed from the start, that first time. Abdul Mahmoud was the child of first-generation Pakistani immigrants, and his parents had been even more opposed to the romance than hers. Her parents hadn’t much liked the colour of his skin; his, as devout Muslims, had considered her an infidel. They were both very young and had allowed themselves to be parted.

But Rachel had never quite forgotten Abdul, cherishing a flickering memory of sweet, stolen kisses in deserted school
corridors
and a few furtive dates, tentative fumblings in the back row of the cinema. When Trevor was being particularly difficult she would sometimes allow herself to remember Abdul, would dare to imagine how it might have been if they’d defied their parents and built a life together.

When he’d contacted her by e-mail, she’d been elated—and terrified. Elated at the thought of seeing Abdul again, yet
terrified
that Trevor would find out, terrified that things would get out of control.

Trevor hadn’t found out. But after a few weeks of e-mails— dozens a day, in both directions—Rachel and Abdul had met up again, and things had indeed got very much out of control.

She and Trevor had been trying for a baby. It was one reason they’d got married: Trevor had badly wanted a child, and had wanted to make her his wife before that happened.

When she found out she was pregnant, though, she was not at all sure whose baby it was.

In other circumstances it might not have mattered; she might have got away with it. But she and Trevor were both fair, and Abdul was not. Rachel knew enough about genetics from her GCSE biology course to know that if Abdul was the father, the baby would not have the blond hair that Trevor was expecting.

The more she thought about it, the more frightened Rachel became. As soon as the baby was born, Trevor would know. And Trevor would kill her.

She’d had no doubt that he would. He loved her so utterly, so possessively; he was so sure of her. Presented with irrefutable evidence of another man in her life, he would kill her.

And more than that: he might harm her baby. Her
childhood
history of parental abuse, so long pushed into the back of her mind, resurfaced. She spoke to Frances of her controlling, abusive father—the man, ironically, she had fled into Trevor’s arms to escape. History threatened to repeat itself; Trevor had become her father, and her baby’s safety was at risk.

So, as the birth drew inevitably nearer, their actions were born out of desperation.

The plans had been carefully laid, over several weeks.

Trevor was a creature of habit; that was one thing in their favour. He went out running at the same time every day, summer or winter, rain or shine. He followed the same path along the canal. So all Abdul had to do was to wait for him in a secluded spot—a spot not overlooked by CCTV cameras.