Secret Sins: A Callie Anson (31 page)

‘I know I’m asking for a big favour,’ he said, ‘but I really, really need a table tonight.’

‘A table? Marco, you must be joking.’

‘It’s important. I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t,’ he wheedled in his best little-brother voice.

Serena sighed. ‘I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what this is all about?’

‘It’s a surprise.’

‘Oh. great. Remember, Marco—Mamma doesn’t like
surprises
.’

That was certainly true, Mark acknowledged to himself. For a moment he was in danger of losing his nerve. He could take Callie somewhere else for dinner, and do this another time. After Christmas, when things had settled down on all fronts.

No. It had been put off long enough.

‘I’ll deal with Mamma,’ he said with more conviction than he felt. ‘Just find me a table, okay? Remember, you owe me one, after I came in and and worked last weekend.’

‘That’s true,’ she admitted. ‘I’ll see what I can do. But it will have to be late. Not before nine.’

It would have to do. ‘Okay. Nine o’clock.’

‘Or a bit after. A table for…please don’t say six.’

‘Two,’ said Mark firmly. ‘A table for two.’

Angus Hamilton put his car in the garage behind the flat, then let himself in with his key. ‘Jilly?’ he called.

She was definitely at home; he could hear her voice in another room. Still on the phone, then. Jilly seemed to spend hours on the phone with her sister, her mother and her girlfriends. What they had to talk about he had no idea, since as far as he could determine they usually spent mornings together at the gym and the hairdresser, and afternoons together in the shops.

He followed the sound of her voice to the bedroom, where she was sprawled—alluringly, he thought—on the bed, cordless phone to her ear. For just a moment he entertained the notion of cancelling the dinner reservation and having an early night in. Starting now.

Then he remembered the inconvenience of Alex. Well, she could entertain herself in her room, playing with that expensive computer he’d bought her. She usually did anyway, finding the computer better company than her parents.

Jilly smiled up at him. ‘I have to go now, Mel,’ she said into the phone. ‘Angus is home. I’ll ring you later.’

Angus loosened his tie. Jilly really did look lovely: silky blond hair against the pale blue satin of the bedspread, a fine pink
cashmere
sweater emphasising rather than concealing her curves.

But she was sitting up, putting the phone on the bedside table, arranging her clothing. ‘You’re home early,’ she observed.

‘I’ve booked a table for tonight. Chez Antoine. I fancied going out for a meal.’

‘Well, I hope you weren’t planning to take Alex with us,’ Jilly said with the raised-eyebrow, wide-eyed expression she generally substituted for the face-damaging frown. ‘Your daughter is in disgrace, as far as I’m concerned.’

His heart sank; against all expectation, he’d been hoping for a pleasant evening, a relaxing weekend. ‘What has she done?’

Jilly flicked her hair. ‘Only started a totally humiliating fight at school. With Beatrice and Georgina, no less! The Headmistress rang Mel! I’ve spent the afternoon on the phone, apologising to my own sister for your daughter’s bad behaviour. I mean, I’m sure she did it just to get at me.’

Angus’ first instinct was to defend his daughter. He had seen Jilly’s young nieces in action, Sunday after Sunday, and was under no illusion that they were blameless in whatever had happened. To make allegations to that effect, though, would be counter-productive. He needed to talk to Alex, to get her side of the story, to determine what had really happened before taking any action. ‘Where is she now?’ he asked.

‘In her room. Sulking. She can stay there all weekend, as far as I’m concerned.’

Angus turned and started for the door.

Jilly raised her voice. ‘I suppose you’re going to go and tell her it’s all right. Well, it’s
not
all right. Not as far as I’m concerned.’

‘I’m going to ask her what happened,’ he said, as reasonably as he could manage.

‘And you’ll believe whatever she tells you. Your precious daughter,’ Jilly sneered. ‘Never mind Melanie, and Beatrice and Georgina. Never mind
me
.’

Angus chewed on another indigestion tablet on his way to Alex’s room. He knocked softly on the door. ‘Alex? Alex, lassie? Can I come in?’

There was no reply.

‘Listen, lassie. I know there’s more than one side to every story. I’d like to hear what you have to say.’ He debated whether he should mention Jilly at that point, and decided against it.

After a long moment of silence, he tried one last time. ‘Alex, lassie, if you don’t open the door, I’m going to do it myself. We need to talk.’

Still there was silence on the other side of the door. He turned the knob and pushed the door inwards.

Alex’s bedroom was the usual tip: bed unmade, school
uniform
discarded in a heap, clothes strewn on the floor. Jilly refused to set foot in Alex’s room; even the cleaning lady hadn’t touched it in days, and it showed.

Angus looked to the left; he looked to the right. He looked at her desk, with its glowing computer screen and its piles of books and papers.

Everything much the same as the last time he’d seen it. Everything, except that Alex wasn’t there.

He peeked into the wardrobe, just to make certain that she wasn’t hiding in there to alarm him.

‘Jilly,’ he called, going back out into the corridor. ‘Alex isn’t in her room.’

She came out of the bedroom, shrugging. ‘Have you checked the loo? And the kitchen?’

Angus went from room to room. There was no trace of her.

‘Maybe she sneaked out while I was on the phone,’ suggested Jilly. ‘Just to spite me.’

‘Is her coat here?’ he demanded. ‘Surely she wouldn’t go out without her coat, on a day like this.’

Jilly looked over towards the chair which served as the usual receptacle for Alex’s coat. ‘It was on that chair earlier,’ she admitted. ‘She does it to annoy me. Usually I hang it up, but
today I just decided I wouldn’t. I’m not that girl’s nursemaid, you know.’

‘Then she’s gone!’

Jilly shrugged again. ‘She’s just playing up, looking for
attention
. She’ll come back as soon as she’s had enough of her little game.’

Angus’ heart hammered, the bile rose up in his throat, and his imagination conjured up a terrible picture: a vision of Alex’s broken body, lying somewhere on the streets of London,
abandoned
and alone.

He made an effort to keep his voice calm. ‘Alex is gone,’ he said. ‘My wee lassie. And I’m calling the police.’

Time to go home. At last. Neville gave Sid Cowley a few
instructions
for keeping the Trevor Norton investigation ticking over during the weekend, then went back to his office just long enough to get his jacket. He checked his e-mail one last time before shutting the computer down: still nothing from Triona. And no messages on his voice mail or his mobile. Maybe she would have rung his home number and left a message there.

Detective Superintendent Evans was bearing down the
corridor
towards him as he shut his office door. Evans didn’t often stray from his expansive corner office; it must be something important to bring him out like this.

‘Oh, Stewart. Glad I caught you,’ Evans said, fixing him with his close-set eyes.

That, thought Neville apprehensively, did not sound like something he wanted to hear. ‘Sir?’

‘What’s the latest on the Norton case?’

‘We’re still…working on it, Sir.’ Neville tried to think of something positive to say, something that would distract Evans from the fact that they were no closer to solving the murder than they’d been a week earlier. ‘Mrs. Norton’s had her baby,’ was all he could come up with.

‘Girl or boy?’

Neville thought for a moment. ‘Girl, I think DC Fish said.’

Evans frowned, and belatedly Neville remembered that Yolanda Fish’s indiscretions with the press—in the form of Lilith Noone—had landed her in Evans’ bad books. He tried to make amends on her behalf. ‘DC Fish has been excellent, Sir,’ he said. ‘A great asset.’

‘Good. Good.’

‘Well, have a good weekend, Sir.’ Neville turned to go.

‘Just one minute, Stewart. I have something else to talk to you about. Something important.’

Neville suppressed a sigh of weariness. ‘Actually, Sir, I was on my way home. For the weekend.’

But Evans stood his ground. ‘That can wait, Stewart. I need you to look into something that’s just come up.’

I’m bloody knackered, Neville wanted to shout into his ugly mug. I’ve just spent a week on a dead-end murder case, and I want to go home. ‘Sir?’ he said.

‘Little girl missing. Well, not so little, I suppose,’ he amended. ‘She’s twelve. Almost a teenager. Still, she’s missing. Left home some time this afternoon and hasn’t come back. I’d like you to go round and see her parents. St. John’s Wood.’

No, no, no, Neville’s brain screamed. I want to go home. ‘She hasn’t been missing for long, Sir,’ he pointed out. ‘She’s
probably
just gone round to see a friend. Or sneaked out to meet a boyfriend. They start young these days, Sir. I believe.’

Evans shook his head impatiently. ‘I’d like you to deal with it, Stewart.’

He did
not
want to do this. How far could he push Evans? ‘But Sir. I have the weekend off,’ he dared to say, in his
desperation
. ‘Couldn’t you send DS Cowley? Or someone else? She’ll probably turn up in an hour or two anyway.’

‘Detective Inspector Stewart.’ Evans drew his bristly
caterpillar
brows together in displeasure. ‘Do I have to spell this out to you? I want
you
to do it. Not Cowley, not anyone else.’

‘Sir.’

Evans lowered his voice. ‘I need a man with a bit of discretion. A bit of
nous
. Not some lout who will go in and upset people.’

Flattery, thought Neville wearily, in no mood to accept it with good grace.

‘Mr. Hamilton, the girl’s father. He’s an important man. Rich.’ Evans gave a confidential wink. ‘He plays golf with the Assistant Commissioner, for God’s sake. He didn’t ring 999 like normal people, Stewart. He rang the Assistant Commissioner. At home. Now do you see why I can’t send Cowley in there?’

Neville was struck with a sudden inspiration. ‘If it’s that important and sensitive, Sir, perhaps
you
—’

‘Out of the question,’ Evans interrupted crisply. ‘It’s my son’s christening this weekend. The wife’s family, descending from all over. Big dinner party this evening.’

Ah
. Neville hoped his smile didn’t give away what he was thinking. The lovely Denise. The second Mrs. Evans. Not overly endowed with brains but making up for it elsewhere. Erstwhile secretary, now trophy wife. Mother of the latest Evans sprog.

Poor little devil, with—if photos were to be believed—the massive Evans chin already terrifyingly in evidence.

‘I have faith in you, Stewart. And, as you say, it will probably be all over before you even get there,’ Evans added, with what he seemed to think was a reassuring smile. He clapped Neville on the shoulder. ‘What I
will
do, Stewart, is let you have my home number. So you can keep me informed.’

Neville gave up.

In spite of her feigned nonchalance for Peter’s benefit, Callie was nervous about the evening ahead; she had dressed with as much care as she had on the first occasion she’d gone out with Mark. In all likelihood she would be meeting at least some members of his family, so jeans just wouldn’t do. Nothing in her wardrobe seemed quite right, but eventually she’d settled on her best pair of black trousers and a claret-coloured velvet shirt, accessorised with a rich-looking silk scarf woven in jewel tones. Her coat looked a bit shabby, she decided at the last minute, but it was too cold to go out without it, so the best she could
hope for was that no one would notice. At least she had some smart black boots to wear.

The wine bar was new to Callie, who tended not to venture into the West End very often. She found it with no difficulty, though. Mark was waiting outside.

‘Cara mia
! You look smashing,’ he greeted her.

She lifted her face for a public, social kiss in the form of a peck on the cheek. ‘You’re not looking too bad yourself, Marco.’ That was an understatement: he was wearing a tie, which was rare for him, and a freshly-ironed shirt. His face was smooth from a recent shave and a faint scent of spicy after-shave wafted towards Callie, sending her pulses racing unexpectedly. For just an instant she wished that they were alone together.

The wine bar was buzzing with post-work Friday night drinkers, but most of them were in transit to somewhere else, so it wasn’t long before they were able to claim a table with a reasonable amount of privacy. ‘You sit,’ said Mark. ‘I’ll get some wine. Is red okay?’

‘Fine.’ She looked down at her shirt. ‘At least I’m wearing the right colour in case I spill it.’

He came back with a bottle and two glasses.

‘A whole bottle?’ Callie queried. ‘Is someone else joining us?’

Mark shook his head. ‘I’m afraid we have rather a long time to drink it. We can’t get a table at La Venezia until after nine. I hope you don’t mind.’

‘I don’t have any other plans. Except,’ she added, ‘that I’m on early duty for Morning Prayer tomorrow. Brian’s day off.’

‘I’ll have you home well before that,’ Mark assured her, with a rather strained laugh.

He seemed, Callie thought, as nervous as she felt. What on earth was this all about? His twitchiness only increased her own apprehension.

Mark poured two full glasses. ‘
Cin cin
,’ he said, clinking rims.

‘What, exactly, does that mean?’ She’d often wondered, never asked.

‘It’s just the Italian equivalent of “cheers.” I thought it was appropriate for Italian wine.’

Callie took a sip. She was no connoisseur, especially of Italian wines, but she could tell by the complexity of the flavour that this was no bottle of plonk; he’d obviously spared no expense. ‘Mmm. Nice.’

‘Glad you like it.’

They sat silently for a moment, sipping, then both spoke at once.

‘Listen, Callie—’

‘Marco, I—’

They laughed, which eased the unaccustomed tension between them by a fraction.

‘Okay,’ said Callie. ‘You first.’

‘No, you.’

‘Well, I just…I wondered what this was about, is all. Does it have anything to do with last night? I mean, you were about to tell me something when Peter made his entrance and
interrupted
us.’

‘That’s what started it, anyway.’

‘Does it,’ she asked with a flash of intuition, ‘have anything to do with your family?’

‘My family!’ Mark let out his breath in a huge, gusty sigh. ‘
Esattamente, cara mia
.’

Neville had dealt with his share of odd situations in the course of his job; this struck him from the beginning as one of the oddest.

It was immediately evident to him that the man and his wife were not, so to speak, singing from the same hymn sheet.

The man, Angus Hamilton, was tense, agitated. His manner was abrupt, his tone of voice demanding—the strong Scottish burr notwithstanding.

His wife, whom he introduced as Jilly, was as cool as ice—the ice that clinked in the glass she held in a relaxed hand.

‘Could I get you something to drink, Inspector?’ she asked, holding up her glass. ‘Gin and tonic? Or aren’t you allowed to drink on duty?’

‘No, thank you, Mrs. Hamilton.’

‘Or would you like a coffee?’

Neville thought about it for a second and decided that he would, but by the time he’d opened his mouth to say so, Angus Hamilton pre-empted him with an impatient gesture. ‘Just leave it, Jilly. The Inspector has more important things on his mind.’

Like getting home to that six-pack, Neville thought
longingly
.

‘My daughter,’ said Angus Hamilton, coming straight to the point. ‘Alex. What are you going to do to find her?’

‘Well, Mr. Hamilton, I’d like to ask you and your wife a few questions. That will help us in our…investigations.’

Angus Hamilton gestured towards the sofa; Neville
interpreted
that as an invitation to sit. Hamilton took the chair opposite him, sitting well forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together.

Mrs. Hamilton, meanwhile, draped herself rather languidly beside Neville on the sofa. He was sorry about that: she was, he’d already decided, rather delicious to look at. Easy on the eye, to say the least. And he couldn’t see her without turning his head in a rather obvious manner. He concentrated his attention on Angus Hamilton, meeting his eyes. ‘Now,’ he said. ‘What time did Alex leave the flat?’

‘I wasn’t here at the time. You’ll have to ask my wife that question.’

Neville turned and beheld the delectable Jilly Hamilton, half-smile on her glossy pink lips. ‘Do you have any idea what time your daughter went out?’ he repeated.

Now Jilly Hamilton grimaced. ‘She’s
not
my daughter.’

Ah. That explained a great deal. Apart from anything else, Jilly Hamilton didn’t look as if she was even close to being old enough to have a twelve-year-old daughter. He wouldn’t have
thought she was more than a few years over twenty, at the most. Probably nearer to twenty than twenty-five, if his well-educated eye was right.

And Angus Hamilton? Not all that old, either, for all that his hairline was receding. Early thirties, perhaps?

Older than
she
was, though. Second wife, evidently.

All this went through his head in the time it took Angus Hamilton to say, ‘Never you mind about that, Jilly. Tell the inspector what happened.
All
of it.’

‘Oh, all right.’ She shrugged her shoulders, moving her
cashmere
-clad chest in a rather distracting way. ‘We had a…
disagreement
. All right? Me and Alex. Right after she got home from school. Then she went off to her room to sulk, and I…well, I was on the phone. In the other room. I didn’t see her go out.’

‘Can you give me an approximate time, Mrs. Hamilton?’ Neville hoped she would shrug again, and she didn’t disappoint him.

‘I suppose it was between, oh, say, four and six?’

‘You can’t be more specific than that?’

‘No. Sorry.’

‘Alex often spends time in her room,’ Angus Hamilton stated, perhaps afraid that Neville would think his wife was neglectful. ‘She’s very…studious. A serious lass. Wouldn’t you agree, Jilly?’

Neville glanced at Jilly in time to see rolled eyes. ‘Dead
serious
,’ she affirmed, and it didn’t sound like a compliment. ‘Not interested in girlie things at all. Not like her cousins.’