Secret Sins: A Callie Anson (37 page)

Callie had her usual Saturday morning rush to get to Morning Prayer, exacerbated by Peter deciding to get up early for a change and take a long shower. Why today, of all days? she asked herself in frustration. Any other day he’d still be sound asleep on the pull-out sofa, grumbling that she’d woken him with her noisy ablutions.

Now he was the one abluting, and he didn’t seem inclined to stop any time soon. He was singing in the shower: always a bad sign. He only did that when he was in it for the long haul. Tunes from Broadway musicals were his favourite. ‘If ever I would leave you…’ he was warbling, in his fine tenor voice.

‘I wish you would,’ Callie muttered, feeling distinctly
uncharitable
. She stood outside of the bathroom door for a moment, finally resorting to banging on it. Peter, in full flow, didn’t miss a note; evidently enchanted by the sound of his own voice, he hadn’t even heard her. ‘Oh no, not in springtime, summer, winter or fall…’

If he was still here in the springtime, she would slit her wrists. Giving up, Callie sprinted back to the bedroom and pulled on her clericals and her cassock, then gave her hair a quick brush and put on a bit of lip gloss. She’d have to shower when she got back.

As she ran for the door, Peter emerged from the bathroom in his towelling dressing gown, looking angelically pink and clean, and incredibly young, his wet hair ruffled round his face. ‘Oh, hi, Sis. Going somewhere?’

‘Morning Prayer. As usual,’ she snapped over her shoulder, then pelted down the stairs. She knew it was the wrong mood in which to approach an act of worship, but at this point she was beyond caring.

When she got home some thirty minutes later, Peter was waiting for her with a freshly-brewed cup of coffee. ‘Sis, I’m sorry about the shower,’ he said contritely. ‘I just wasn’t thinking, I suppose. I thought I was being so virtuous, getting up early. And instead I buggered up your day.’

He looked so woebegone and penitent that Callie nearly burst out laughing; it just wasn’t possible to stay angry with Peter for long. Annoying as he was, he was also the most charming man she’d ever met. Genuinely so: there was no calculation or guile in him. He could be thoughtless, it was true, but he was also capable of the most touching sensitivity.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘There were only three people at Morning Prayer, and none of them complained about my personal hygiene.’

Peter laughed. ‘Well, drink this coffee, then you can take your shower. I’ve already given Bella a short walk, so you won’t have to worry about that. You’ll have the flat to yourself—I’m off in a minute.’

For a wild, joyous instant she thought he meant he was
leaving
for good. ‘Where are you going?’

‘You put me to shame by doing your Christmas shopping
yesterday
. So I thought I’d head to Sloane Square and get mine done.’

‘Sloane Square? Not Oxford Street?’

He shrugged. ‘Too many people in Oxford Street. And the shops are better in Sloane Square.’ He added, ‘And then I’ll drop in to see Mum. I’ll be the good son. Maybe it will take the heat off you for a few days.’

‘Oh, bless you.’ She really was grateful: looking at her diary the day before, she didn’t see how she was going to manage to fit in a visit to her mother before Christmas.

‘I have my uses,’ he grinned. ‘Even if I’m a royal pain in the tush most of the time.’

She couldn’t dispute either part of his statement. Callie flopped down on the sofa, which—miracle of miracles—he’d already closed up, and gulped at the coffee.

‘What are you up to for the rest of the day?’ Peter asked as he wound a striped cashmere scarf round his neck.

‘Ugh.’ She pulled a face. ‘Making Christingles with the Mothers’ Union this morning. I can hardly wait.’

Peter stopped winding. ‘What the hell are Christingles? Wait—don’t tell me. Let me imagine something really exotic and kinky.’ He winked at her.

Callie laughed. ‘Oh, would that it were so. I’ll put it this way: it almost makes me wish I were going with you to see Mum.’

‘Now
that
is alarming.’

‘It wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t for Jane,’ she admitted. ‘Most of the people in the MU are really nice. But Jane is so…bossy. So proprietorial, like she owns the Mothers’ Union. She always manages to put me in the wrong. And she seems to enjoy showing me up. I’ve never understood why she dislikes me so much.’

‘Oh, Sis.’ Peter zipped up his leather jacket. ‘You still have a lot to learn, don’t you?’ Suddenly he sounded knowing, wise, like an older brother rather than a younger one. ‘You seeing Marco tonight?’ he added, heading for the stairs.

‘I’m not sure,’ she said.

She
wasn’t
sure. They had no advance plans; he hadn’t rung. Well, she’d worry about that later. Now it was time for a shower and the Mothers’ Union.

Before leaving St. John’s Wood for the station, Neville took Mark to the kitchen of the flat for a quiet word. ‘How is it going?’ he asked.

Mark lifted his shoulders helplessly. ‘Well,
she’s
not helping, of course. She’s like a spoiled brat. And you were right: she doesn’t care a fig about Alex. Everything has to be about
her
.’

Ah, the delightful Jilly was right on form, then.

‘I feel so sorry for
him
,’ Mark went on. ‘He’s such a take-charge bloke. Used to being in control, getting his own way. And there’s not a blessed thing he can do, but wait and hope. And pray, I suppose, if he’s that way inclined. Which I somehow doubt.’

‘And boss the police about,’ Neville added tartly. ‘I’m
surprised
you’ve managed to forget that, mate. It almost sounds like you’re on his side.’

Mark shook his head, startling Neville with his vehemence. ‘We’re on the same side, Nev. We all want to find Alex. I’m surprised you’ve forgotten
that
.’

‘But he’s so bloody arrogant…’

‘The man’s child is missing. She’s twelve years old. Just a kid. A little girl.’ Mark had tears in his eyes. ‘The same age as my niece. He’s going through hell right now, so cut him a bit of slack, all right? He may not be the world’s best dad, but he loves Alex.’

Feeling suitably chastened, Neville left the kitchen and
collected
Sid Cowley. ‘I’ll be in touch,’ he said to Angus Hamilton, making an effort to remind himself of the man’s difficult
position
. ‘I’ll keep you informed. As soon as we have any information at all, I’ll ring you.’

‘Thank you, Inspector,’ said Angus Hamilton through clenched teeth.

‘We’ll see ourselves out,’ Neville stated to no one in particular.

Cowley reached for his fags and lighter as soon as they were out of the door. ‘Arrogant poncy sod,’ he said conversationally.

‘And the lovely Mrs. Hamilton? What did you think?’

The sergeant paused long enough to light his cigarette and take a long, thoughtful draw. ‘She’s a stuck-up cow,’ he
pronounced
. ‘A selfish bitch. “Non-smoking home,” my arse.’

Neville chuckled. ‘That’s what I like about you, Sid. You’re so tolerant.’

‘But dead fanciable, for all that,’ Cowley added, leering. With his hands he sketched exaggerated curves in the air.

‘And,’ said Neville, ‘you’re so predictable.’

Alex knew that the trains to Scotland went from King’s Cross station. What she didn’t know was how to get to King’s Cross from Bayswater.

She could take a taxi, but she was reluctant to spend any of her dwindling cash. If she was lucky, she might have just about enough money to get her to Scotland. So no taxi. It would have to be the Underground.

Somehow, by trial and error, she found her way back to the Bayswater tube station. There she pored over the complicated map, like a heap of tangled electrical wires or a bowl of
multi-coloured
spaghetti. With her finger she traced the lines: the yellow one went all the way from Bayswater to King’s Cross. She checked the colour key at the bottom; the yellow one was the Circle Line. Simple enough.

All right. She could do this.

She had to part with one pound and fifty pence into the machine, but she reminded herself that the taxi would have cost much more.

Alex put the ticket into the slot at the ticket barrier and passed through, following the signs
District and Circle
to the platform. No one paid any attention to her as she stood on the platform. ‘The next train…’ woofed the tannoy, followed by an incomprehensible list of destinations.

Most everyone got on the train, and Alex followed.

It was crowded. The penultimate Saturday before Christmas: shoppers, tourists and all the rest. Alex wedged herself into a tiny space by the door and held onto the back of the seat beside her.

Neville was resigned to the fact that although he was the Chief Investigating Officer in the case of Alex Hamilton, Evans wasn’t
about to leave him alone to get on with it. He supposed he ought to be thankful that the Assistant Commissioner didn’t have him on speed-dial as well. It was all chain-of-command stuff;
everything
came to him through Evans, his immediate boss.

‘Family?’ Evans demanded during one of his calls, taking time out from the in-laws. ‘I understand that Mrs. Hamilton isn’t the girl’s mother. Do we know where her mother is? And what about any other family?’

‘I’m not sure about the mother, Sir. I can ask.’ Neville opened his notebook and flipped through it. ‘The only thing I have is that there’s a grandmother in Scotland.’

‘Get her address,’ Evans ordered. ‘And the mother as well.’

‘Maybe she’s dead.’

‘And maybe she’s not. Find out.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

Instead of ringing Angus Hamilton, Neville took the coward’s way out and rang Mark. He explained what he needed. ‘Can you find out?’ he requested. ‘Ring me back.’

He drummed his fingers on his scarred desk for what seemed like an age, until the phone bleeped. ‘Yes?’

Mark sounded puzzled. ‘The mother seems to be in some sort of institution. A care home, he called it. She’s had some type of breakdown.’

‘Breakdown?’

‘Mental, I assume. Mrs. Hamilton—Jilly—said she—the other Mrs. Hamilton, the first one—had gone “round the twist” when he left her.’

‘Good God,’ Neville muttered. ‘I’d dance a jig and thank my lucky stars.’

‘But it’s the grandmother that surprised me,’ Mark went on.

‘What about her?’

‘It’s his mother. Angus’ mother. Morag Hamilton, she’s called. You said she was in Scotland. But he says she lives in London. Bayswater.’

‘The devil she does.’ Neville wanted to swear; somehow he managed to hold his tongue. Evans was definitely not going to
be amused by this little slip-up. For all they knew, the girl might have gone to her grandmother’s house yesterday afternoon. That was the first place they should have looked; it might have saved them all a great deal of aggro. Though, Neville told himself, if she had done, surely the grandmother would have rung her son, or taken the girl home?

‘Do you want the address? I have the phone number as well.’

Neville scribbled them down. ‘Thanks, Mark. I’ll send
someone
over there right away.’