Secret Sins: A Callie Anson (36 page)

Angus Hamilton stopped pacing and smacked his forehead with an open hand.
‘I’m
the blethering idiot,’ he announced. ‘Why did I not think of it? Why did
you
not think of it, for that matter?’

Mark turned round. ‘What’s that, Mr. Hamilton?’

‘The hospitals, man! Ring them
now
. All of them. Ask them if they’ve had a young lassie admitted. On her own. Been in an accident or such like. Get on with it, man!’

Something in his voice reached Mark then, through the layers of his own defensiveness at being treated like a brainless underling and his disappointment at the ruin of his evening.
Alex Hamilton, the missing girl, was twelve years old. Exactly the same age as his niece Chiara. Chiara was growing up—he’d observed it himself—but she was still a little girl. Defenseless, trusting, naive. Not street-smart. If Chiara were missing…

Serena would be beside herself. Joe would be out there himself looking for her. He would be threatening to dismember anyone who laid a finger on her. Pressurising the police, just as Angus Hamilton was doing.

Mark’s heart softened. Yes, Angus Hamilton was a rude, objectionable man. But they were on the same side. They both wanted to find a little girl who was missing from home. From now on he would remember that.

Callie was still on the sofa with Bella, watching a mindless—and as far as she could tell, pointless—film on the television when Peter let himself in, well past midnight.

‘Oh, Sis! I wasn’t expecting to see you here,’ he said. ‘I thought you’d still be out on the town. Charming look, by the way,’ he grinned, indicating the threadbare dressing gown over the velvet shirt.

‘Thanks. Actually, today I bought a dressing gown for Mum for Christmas. I’m hoping she’ll hate it, so I can keep it for myself.’

‘Well, I suspect you’re on to a winner.’ He dropped his leather jacket on the nearest chair. ‘When has she ever liked anything you gave her?’

‘Just about as often as she’s liked anything
you
gave her,’ Callie pointed out.

‘That’s our Mum. At least she doesn’t play favourites.’

She made a wry face. ‘That’s some consolation, I suppose.’

‘Anyway, what are you doing back already?’ Peter didn’t pause for a reply, continuing to fire questions at her. ‘How did it go? How was the restaurant? And how was Marco’s family? Ready to welcome you with open arms?’

‘Don’t ask,’ Callie said, in what she hoped was a firm voice. ‘Really. I mean it. Don’t ask.’

Things really started to happen shortly after midnight, when Angus Hamilton rang the Assistant Commissioner, rousing him from his virtuous bed. The Assistant Commissioner in turn disturbed the ongoing familial festivities at the Evans home, and Evans immediately rang Neville Stewart.

As it happened, when the phone went, Neville wasn’t nearly as intoxicated as he might have been. For some reason the first Guinness had sent him into a sound, dreamless sleep, right there on the sofa; only the persistent ringing of the mobile in his pocket penetrated that sleep and brought him round to almost sober consciousness.

‘Oh, God,’ he said, fumbling for the phone, realising in some part of his brain that he was more disorientated than drunk. He had no idea what time it was, or how long he’d been sleeping.

‘I don’t care what you’re doing or who you’re with,’ Evans said, in tones that brooked no argument. ‘I want you back at that flat in twenty minutes. Thirty, tops. Take Cowley with you, if you must. But keep him on a short lead.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘I mean it, Stewart. I don’t want anybody upsetting Angus Hamilton. No funny business. Of any kind whatsoever.’

Neville wondered whether Evans had some inkling of the attractions of Mrs. Hamilton—attractions of the sort which were sure to appeal to the red-blooded Sid Cowley—or whether he
was speaking in general terms. Sid wasn’t exactly renowned for tact or impeccable manners. ‘Yes, Sir,’ he repeated.

Cowley hadn’t been drinking at all; unlike Neville, he wasn’t scheduled to have the day off on Saturday. So he collected Neville by car and they set off for St. John’s Wood.

On the way, Neville filled him in about the situation—and about why they had been called out in the middle of the night to deal with it. ‘This is a kid-gloves job,’ he warned Cowley. ‘Evans was insistent. The Hamilton bloke knows the Assistant Commissioner. So we’re to be on our best behaviour.’

‘Guv.’ Cowley turned his head briefly from his concentration on the icy road, shooting a quick, reproachful look at Neville. ‘When am I ever not on my best behaviour?’

Neville snorted. ‘Oh, please, Sid. Give me a break.’

‘Maybe he meant
you
, Guv,’ Cowley suggested smugly.

Ignoring that remark, Neville continued. ‘The main thing I want to tell you before we get there is that you’re not to start drooling too obviously when you see Mrs. Hamilton. That’s about the worst thing you could do.’

Cowley looked interested. ‘Worth drooling over, is she, Guv?’

‘God, yes. Younger than him by, oh, maybe ten years. Blonde. Great body. He thought about how else he might describe her, remembering that delicious shrug she was so good at, consciously or not. The thing about Jilly Hamilton, though, was that she wasn’t just some cheap, flirtatious, curvaceous blonde. She was rich. Posh. Polished, in every sense of the word. St. John’s Wood, through and through. Born to it. He couldn’t put it into words that Cowley would understand, so he just said, ‘But she’s not for the likes of you or me, Sid. Not only is she a married woman, she’s way out of our league. And don’t you forget it.’

Sid Cowley managed to get himself on the wrong side of Jilly Hamilton almost immediately, within just a few seconds of their arrival. ‘Mind if I smoke?’ he said to no one in particular, pulling out a packet of fags.

‘Yes, I do mind,’ Jilly Hamilton countered sharply. ‘This is a non-smoking home. Once it gets in the curtains, you can never get it out. Surely you know that…Sergeant, is it?’ She glared at him until he put the packet back in his pocket.

It was the most emotion Neville had yet seen her express over anything. Well, well, he thought. Jilly Hamilton
does
care about something after all. Even if it’s only her curtains.

In the hours Neville had been away, Mark might have been able to tell him that Jilly’s demeanour had gone from indifferent to bored, and now she had moved on to sulky. She obviously, Neville thought, was unused to not being the centre of attention.

While Neville consulted with Angus Hamilton about the steps which were now being taken or would shortly come into play in the search for Alex, Jilly crossed and re-crossed her legs, got up and moved round the room, ostentatiously consulted her delicate Rolex, and finally announced, ‘I’m going to bed. There isn’t any reason for me to stay up, is there?’

Angus broke off what he was saying and looked at her, his brows drawn together. ‘Do you really think you can sleep?’

She shrugged. ‘If she comes home, she comes home. If she doesn’t…well, there isn’t anything I can do about it either way, is there?’

By Saturday morning, the police were well and truly mobilised in their search for the missing girl. Although it was obviously too late to get anything in the morning papers, her photo had been released to the press and the Assistant Commissioner himself had scheduled a press conference. By lunchtime it would be the lead story in news bulletins, at least in London, and the public would be made aware that anyone who had seen a girl fitting Alex Hamilton’s description should ring the Metropolitan Police on a special number.

Though the Hamiltons’ flat was not itself regarded as a crime scene, SOCOs had visited it and given Alex’s room in particular a thorough inspection, retrieving DNA samples and taking away her computer. Danny Duffy had been called in, forcing him
to turn back on the motorway en-route to a Christmas
shopping
trip at Bluewater with his girlfriend. The girlfriend, it was understood by everyone at the station, was not amused.

When Alex woke early on Saturday morning, cramped and chilled, it took her some time to remember where she was.

Her search for her Granny had not been a successful one. She’d found Bayswater, all right, but it was a bigger place than she’d expected, sprawling into Paddington on one side and Notting Hill on another. Not a village like Gartenbridge: just part of London. In the dark nothing looked familiar to her; she didn’t recognise Granny’s block of flats or even any landmarks.

By that time of night she’d even had problems finding anyone to ask about Granny. The streets of the residential areas were virtually deserted; eventually she’d found a 24-hour convenience store and enquired of the young dark-skinned man behind the till whether he knew Mrs. Morag Hamilton. He stared at her as if she’d come from another planet, and shook his head, spreading his hands in a universal gesture of helplessness. He probably, she realised, didn’t understand her. Either her Scottish accent was unfamiliar to him, or he didn’t actually speak English.

So she’d continued to wander, feeling more and more cold and weary. All she wanted now was to find a warm place and sleep.

Eventually she’d spotted her chance, and had taken it. A car pulled up to an empty spot on the kerb and a woman got out, then let herself into a block of flats—council flats,
probably
— with a key. Alex hurried to catch her up and slipped in behind her, into a draughty passageway. The woman nodded at her, unconcerned, and continued on her way.

The passageway itself was chilly and unpromising, but surely something better would present itself. Alex went down to the end of it, where she found a small, unlocked room: a laundry room, evidently for the communal use of the flats’ residents. It held several industrial-sized washing machines and tumble dryers, all with coin slots. The walls were concrete; so was the floor. It was
damp and clammy, and smelt of dirty clothes and pungent
washing
powder. The lighting, which consisted of a single bare bulb dangling from the ceiling, seemed to be permanently on, casting grim shadows into the corners. Not exactly a congenial spot, but as welcome to Alex at that moment as a room at the Ritz.

And she was in luck. One of the tumble dryers was in
operation
, throwing off a fair amount of heat. Alex opened it and pulled out an armful of towels, nearly dry and so hot they almost burned her hands. She spread them on the concrete floor in between two of the machines, curled up with her back propped against the warm one, and promptly fell asleep.

She woke up once in the middle of the night, cold and cramped. The dryer had shut itself off and the room no longer held any of its lingering warmth. Alex tried to go back to sleep with no success; eventually she got up, rooted in the dryer till she found a sheet to cover herself with, and when even that didn’t work she sacrificed one of her precious pound coins for another hour of heat from the dryer. After that she slept till morning, uncomfortable but warm enough.

Yolanda hadn’t realised how tired she was, how worn out by the stresses of the past week. She’d gone home, on Neville’s orders, and had virtually fallen into bed, not even waking up when Eli joined her at some point on Friday night. She didn’t wake up, in fact, until Eli wafted a mug of black coffee under her nose on Saturday morning.

‘Hey, doll,’ he said when she’d half-opened her eyes. ‘Thought you might need this.’

‘Mmmm.’ She rubbed her eyes and sat up, taking the cup from him.

‘You slept well?’

Yolanda nodded. ‘Did I ever.’ She’d seldom before reflected on what a delightful luxury it was to sleep in one’s own bed.

Eli perched on the edge of the bed. He was, she saw to her disappointment, already dressed for work. ‘Do you want to tell
me what’s going on?’ he asked. ‘I’ve got five minutes before I have to leave.’

‘Rachel had her baby. A girl. The DNA results came back, and I was wrong about Trevor still being alive.’ She sighed and took a tentative sip of the coffee. ‘Which means that we still don’t know who killed him, or whether Rachel was involved in any way. They’ll obviously keep an eye on her, but at this point there’s nothing to go on. And she’s in hospital for a day or two, so there’s nothing for me to do.’

‘Except catch up on your sleep,’ Eli stated. ‘And get
reacquainted
with your husband, who was beginning to forget what you looked like.’ He leaned over and gave her a squeeze.

She stroked his cheek. ‘I wish you didn’t have to work today.’

‘So do I, doll,’ said Eli. ‘So do I.’