Secret Sins: A Callie Anson (33 page)

‘It’s urgent,’ Neville repeated. ‘He gave me this number, and told me to use it.’

‘But we’re just sitting down to dinner,’ the lovely Denise protested. ‘I’m dishing up the soup right now.’

‘Could you please tell him that Mr. Hamilton is going to ring the Assistant Commissioner again?’ he requested, adding, ‘I’ll hold.’

‘Oh, all right, then,’ she said grudgingly. ‘I’ll tell him.’

A moment later Evans was on the phone. ‘What’s this about the Assistant Commissioner?’

‘Hamilton’s playing hard ball, Sir,’ Neville said tersely. ‘He says he won’t be fobbed off.’

‘Were you trying to fob him off?’ demanded Evans. ‘I thought I told you to get it sorted.’

Neville drew in a deep breath. ‘Sir. It’s the sort of thing that happens every day. The girl has a row with her stepmother and walks out. It’s not the first time it’s happened, either—according to the stepmother, the kid comes and goes as she pleases. Maybe she’s staying away longer than usual because of the row. She’s taken her coat, so she won’t freeze to death. She’s probably gone to a school friend’s house. Or she’s wandering round the shops, eating chips. Hating her stepmother. She’ll come back when she gets bored or fed up. I’d stake my life on it.’

‘I wouldn’t do anything that rash, Stewart,’ Evans growled. ‘Mind, I’m sure you’re right. But that’s not the point, is it?’

‘I suppose not,’ he admitted.

‘This Hamilton isn’t going to be happy until his precious daughter is home safe and sound.’

‘That’s it in a nutshell, Sir.’

‘In the mean time, he has to believe that we’re taking it very seriously. That we’re doing something, in actual fact. Whether we are or not.’

Neville wasn’t sure what Evans was getting at. ‘So what are you telling me to do, Sir? Just sit here and make soothing noises until the shops close, the girl gets tired and comes home?’ The idea didn’t appeal, even with Mrs. Hamilton as eye candy.

‘Ring the station and get them to alert uniformed,’ Evans said crisply. ‘They can be keeping an eye out for the girl, in the neighbourhood and round the West End. Ask Hamilton for a photo. And if you don’t want to be there all night,’ he
added, ‘which I suspect you don’t, then get an FLO over there to hold their hands. That’s what Family Liaison Officers are for. DC Fish, maybe? You said she’d been doing a good job in this Norton business.’

‘That’s just the point, Sir. I sent her home. Told her to take the weekend off.’

‘Well, find someone else, then. There are other FLOs. I’m sure you can find one who won’t squawk too much about being hauled out on a Friday night. Just make sure it’s someone civilised. Like I said before. Someone who won’t ruffle Hamilton’s feathers too much.’

‘Bugger,’ Neville muttered as Evans rang off.

Who the hell could he ring?

Mark Lombardi, said a voice in his head.

He and Mark were mates. Drinking buddies, fellow bachelors. He couldn’t do this to Mark.

For a long moment he looked at his mobile phone, inert in his hand.

Mark Lombardi. Presentable, personable. Discreet. Just what Evans demanded, what this situation required.

The number was in his phone’s directory. Mark’s mobile, in case he wanted to ring him for a spur-of-the-moment
get-together
at the pub. He wouldn’t even have to look it up, or ring the station to get it.

‘Sorry, mate,’ he said under his breath as he pushed the button. ‘It’s either you or me.’

‘Anyway,’ said Mark, having refilled their wine glasses, ‘all of this business with Joe has got me thinking. About all kinds of things. About the family.
La famiglia.
’

‘Yes?’

‘The thing you have to understand about my family…’ he said earnestly. ‘They’re Italian.’

Callie wanted to laugh but didn’t. ‘Well, yes. I rather guessed that.’

‘I mean,
really
Italian. Or really Venetian, to be more
precise
. I was born here, in London, and so was Serena. But my parents,
i genitori
, were both born in Venice, and their parents and grandparents, going back forever. They’ve lived in London for more than forty years, but they’re not Londoners. They never will be. They’ll always be Venetians who just happen to live somewhere else.’

‘Lots of people in London come from somewhere else,’ she pointed out, not sure what he was getting at. ‘Most of them become Londoners, sooner or later.’

‘Not my parents,’ he stated. ‘Not in a million years. And they don’t understand what it’s like for me. They think I’m as Italian as they are.’

Now Callie
was
confused. ‘But…aren’t you?’

‘Genetically, anyway. And culturally, in a lot of ways. Being born to Italian parents has shaped me in ways I probably will never really understand. The language, the Church…’

Ah, thought Callie. The Church. Was that what this was all about?

‘But I’m a Londoner, too,’ he went on. ‘I’ve grown up in a multicultural city. An
English
city, as well. Eating fish and chips, drinking English ale. When I can’t get Italian wine or Peroni beer,’ he added with a self-deprecating grin.

Callie raised her glass, smiling, and he did the same.

‘And when it comes to relationships…’ Mark tailed off,
looking
away from her and into his glass.

Callie stopped smiling.

‘All my life I’ve tried to do what my parents wanted me to do. What I thought would make them happy. Serena, too. Yes, she loved Joe when she married him. She still does. But what if she’d felt free to fall in love with someone else? Someone who wasn’t Italian? Maybe her life would have been completely different.’

‘And maybe not,’ she felt compelled to say. ‘Or not
necessarily
any better.’

‘But she never felt she had the choice. And neither did I. “A nice Italian girl.” That’s what my parents have been waiting for
me to find, all these years. I haven’t found one. And I’ve never found anyone that I felt strongly enough about to risk my
parents
’ displeasure.’

Callie swallowed. Hard.

‘What I’m saying,’ Mark continued, looking up at her at last with tears in his eyes, ‘is that this is what tonight’s all about. I want you to meet my family. I want them to meet
you
.’

‘Marco…’

His phone bleated.

Mark groaned. ‘Not
now
.’

He pulled it out of his pocket and looked at the display. ‘Neville Stewart,’ he said. ‘I suppose I’d better answer it.’

‘It’s really not a good time, Neville,’ Mark said, when Neville had provided a terse explanation of the situation. ‘I’m in the middle of…something important. And I have dinner
reservations
for later.’

‘My sympathies, mate.’ He didn’t sound very sorry. ‘The thing is, this bloke has connections. And Evans doesn’t want to take any chances. There’s pressure from higher up. The Assistant Commissioner, no less.’

Mark tried again. ‘I’ve drunk half a bottle of wine. Even if I had a car here, I can’t drive.’

‘The Jubilee Line. Straight to St. John’s Wood. You’re in the West End? You can change at Baker Street. I’ll hang on till you get here.’

He couldn’t believe it. To have reached this point…

Ending the call with a savage punch of his finger, Mark looked up at Callie. ‘I’m so, so sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ll put you in a taxi.’

Callie gave him a wry smile. ‘I think I can find my own way home, Marco.’ She was already pulling her coat on, gathering up her handbag and her gloves.

‘Neville says it can’t be helped,’ he floundered, wanting to delay their parting, desperate that the evening shouldn’t end on this note. Nothing resolved, not even a response from her about the admission—the declaration, even—that he’d been working himself up to for so many weeks.

‘This would be Neville Stewart, I assume?’ There was, Mark thought, a tiny edge to her voice. Though it was something they didn’t really talk about, he knew that she had no great love for DI Stewart, having met him only in rather adverse circumstances.

Mark nodded. ‘It’s not Neville’s decision,’ he added lamely. ‘Pressure from higher up, he said.’

‘Well, if it can’t be helped, it can’t be helped.’ Callie gave a pragmatic shrug, then, seeming to take pity on him, said, ‘My job can be like that, too. Only my Higher Authority is a bit different from yours.’

In spite of himself, he laughed. ‘Yes, the Assistant Commissioner only
thinks
he’s God.’

They’d reached the street. The parting of the ways. ‘You’re sure you’ll be okay getting home from here?’

‘No problem.’

‘I’ll ring you,’ he said. ‘As soon as I can. I’ll let you know what’s going on.’

‘Take care of yourself, Marco.’

By the time Alex had stopped running, she had no idea where she was.

Not that she would have known anyway: London was a mystery to her, a puzzling monstrosity. She knew her way round St. John’s Wood, just about. The flat, her school, and places in between. But not these streets.

She might as well be in a foreign country. Kebab shops, curry houses, redolent with exotic smells.

How far had she run? How long had she walked? Alex had no idea. She looked at her watch: it was past six o’clock.

She walked some more. It was the best way to keep warm. Once she’d stopped running, once her heart had slowed from its frantic pounding to something like a normal beat, she had realised how cold it was. If she slowed down, if she stopped, she would freeze. Keep moving.

Busy commercial streets gave way to quiet residential ones, all equally strange. Then she was back in the bustle again. Posher shops this time. People a bit better dressed. Rushing about, laden with bags of Christmas shopping.

And there, at the corner, directing traffic, was a policeman. He was wearing one of those yellowy fluorescent jackets over his uniform, but he was surely a policeman.

Alex paused.

Callie decided to be extravagant and take a taxi home. She could have used the tube, of course, but the Friday night merrymakers were already out in force and she knew it would be unbearably crowded with exotically dressed young people looking for a good time. Besides, she justified to herself, it would be a cold walk from Paddington to Bayswater.

It wasn’t until she’d paid the taxi driver, gone up the steps to her flat, let herself into its welcoming warmth, and received Bella’s rapturous greeting that she realised she hadn’t had anything to eat. No lunch, no tea cake, no dinner. Nothing but a few nuts at the wine bar. And the wine, which, unimpeded by food, had gone straight to her head and made her feel more than a bit tipsy.

With Peter in residence, there wasn’t likely to be much left unscoffed in the kitchen; he seemed to think that living there gave him the right to eat whatever he could lay his hands on. Callie opened a cupboard and found a packet of breadsticks which Peter had somehow overlooked, and the fridge yielded up a plastic pot of olives, only slightly withered with age. After shedding her coat, she sat at the table and devoured them with her fingers. Crunchy breadsticks, slithery olives. When they were gone, Callie licked the salty oil from her fingers.

Still hungry, she explored the freezer compartment. There was a tub of ice cream: Ben and Jerry’s Cherry Garcia. Peter’s favourite; he must have bought it. Well, too bad. If he felt free to help himself to her food, Callie wasn’t going to suffer undue qualms of guilt about eating his ice cream. Maybe he wouldn’t even notice if she only ate a bit of it.

Prying the top off, she saw that it was already half empty. She fetched a spoon and scooped out one bite, then another. Before she knew it she’d emptied the carton, scraping the last bits of chocolate from the sides.

Callie shivered as she hid the evidence in the bin, under the bread stick wrapper, the olive pot and an empty juice carton. In spite of the warmth of the flat compared to the outdoors, the ice cream had chilled her from the inside out. She went to her bedroom and took her boots off, sliding her feet into her pink fluffy slippers, then she pulled on her old, shabby dressing gown over her clothes. It was dilapidated, and she knew it looked silly, but it was comfortingly cosy. Besides, there was no one but Bella to see her.

A hot drink. That would sort her out. Might help her to think straight as well as warm her up.

The least she could do was use Peter’s fancy machine. She popped in a capsule for hot chocolate and a minute later the drink was ready.

Nice, comforting hot chocolate. She took it through to the sitting room and curled up on the sofa, where Bella joined her almost immediately, snuggling next to her. Callie stroked the silky ears with her free hand. Bella was such a comfort, such a wonderful companion.

Did she
need
comforting? Callie asked herself.

Yes, she’d been stood up. Or, more accurately, abandoned. Yes, she’d prepared herself for something she sensed was important. Crucial, even. And that critical moment in her life had been interrupted.

‘I want you to meet my family.’ What, exactly, did that mean? Marco had seemed to be investing it with an importance beyond the face value of the words.

Now that the moment had passed, would it ever come back again?

Was she disappointed? Or was she actually relieved?

Caressing her dog’s soft ears, Callie wasn’t sure.

Neville and Mark had a quiet consultation in the corridor just outside the Hamiltons’ flat. A hand-over, Neville told himself with satisfaction. Mark could see this one through from now on. The girl would come home, then they could wash their hands of this business.

‘The wife is a piece of work,’ he told Mark. ‘She doesn’t seem to care about the kid at all. It’s not her kid,’ he added at Mark’s puzzled look.

‘Oh. She’s a stepmother, then?’

‘That’s right. Wicked as they come, I don’t doubt.’ He grinned. ‘All she seems to care about is herself. I suppose the best that kid can hope for from her is benign neglect.’

Mark’s expression changed to one of alarm. ‘You don’t suspect that she’s had anything to do with the girl’s disappearance?’

‘Good Lord, no. Nothing sinister like that. Quite frankly, from what I’ve seen here tonight, she couldn’t be bothered.’

‘What about the father?’ Mark pursued, lowering his voice.

‘He does seem to care about the kid,’ Neville admitted. ‘But not to the extent of spending much time with her, from what I could see.’

‘Doesn’t sound like much of a family to me,’ said Mark; Neville couldn’t tell from his expression whether he thought this was a good thing or a bad thing.

‘You’ll see for yourself, soon enough. I suppose it’s about time for you to get in there.’ Time for me to go home, Neville added to himself.

‘What, exactly, do you want me to do?’

‘Oh, the usual thing.’ Neville shrugged. ‘Hand-holding, soothing noises.’

Mark looked distinctly put out. ‘Is that really what you think my job is all about?’

Put my foot it it now, Neville said to himself ruefully. ‘Not at all, mate,’ he back-pedalled. ‘Just one of your many talents. But it’s what
this
job is about. I have no doubt in my mind that the kid will be home any minute. Cold and tired, most likely. The
stepmother will be royally pissed off at her for wrecking their evening,’ he added. ‘She’ll probably tear a strip off her, if she can be bothered. The dad will be relieved, though he probably won’t show it. He’ll give her a hard time as well, make her wish she’d stayed away. Poor kid.’

Mark didn’t seem convinced. ‘We’ll see.’

‘Ring me in the morning and tell me if I’m right.’ Neville pushed the flat door open. ‘Okay, mate. It’s show time.’ He ushered Mark into the sitting room. ‘Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, I’d like you to meet Detective Sergeant Mark Lombardi, one of our finest Family Liaison Officers. He’ll be looking after you until Alex comes home.’

It would have been so easy just to have gone up to that
policeman
, to tell him she was lost and wanted to go home. He would have made a phone call, probably taken her home in his panda car, and that would have been that. In no time she would have been tucked up in bed with Buster. With any luck, Dad wouldn’t even be home from work yet and Jilly wouldn’t have noticed she was gone. At the worst—if she’d been missed—Dad would be a bit worried and Jilly would shout at her for worrying him.

Alex came very, very close to approaching the policeman. She stepped up to the kerb and looked at him. The words were on her lips: ‘Can you help me to get home?’

That’s when it came to her.

Home: what a joke.

St. John’s Wood wasn’t home. No way. It was the place she lived, for now. Where her stuff was, but it wasn’t home. Not by any stretch of the imagination.