Secret Sins: A Callie Anson (38 page)

To Callie’s astonishment, Jane smiled at her when she came into the church hall. ‘Ready to learn all about Christingles?’ Jane greeted her.

‘I don’t know a thing about them,’ admitted Callie, disarmed out of the customary defensiveness she felt where Jane was
concerned
.

Jane had laid the various components out on long folding tables: trays of oranges, boxes of stubby white candles, heaps of red ribbons and squares of foil, decorated cocktail sticks.

Some members of the Mothers’ Union were already there, and others arrived within the next few minutes, standing round the tables.

Morag Hamilton was one of the later arrivals. She headed for a spot next to Callie, who smiled warmly at her. She hadn’t seen Morag for a few days, and had intended to call on her at some point during the weekend to see how she was getting on.

‘I’m glad you’ve come,’ Callie greeted her. ‘I hoped you would. I meant to ring you and remind you about this, but yesterday was my day off.’

‘Well, it’s a chance to get out of the flat and meet people.’

‘Any news from the hospital?’ queried Callie.

Morag shook her head. ‘Still no appointment. I suppose it could be weeks.’

‘You’ll let me know when you hear, won’t you?’

‘Aye. I will.’

Jane was looking at the clock, clearly impatient to begin. Knowing how jealously Jane guarded Brian’s Saturday days off as sacrosanct family time, Callie was a bit surprised that Jane was there at all, especially with her sons at home. She supposed—
perhaps
uncharitable, but true—that Jane couldn’t bear not to be in charge of this enterprise, and it couldn’t really be done at any other time. The Christingle service was always held on the third Sunday of Advent, and the oranges wouldn’t keep if they were done any earlier than the day before that.

‘For those of you who are new to this,’ Jane said in her official vicar’s wife voice, looking towards Callie and Morag Hamilton, ‘perhaps a bit of history about Christingle and what we’re doing here today would be in order.’ She smiled at everyone else. ‘If the rest of you could just bear with me for a minute.’

White and grey heads nodded. Callie nodded as well, to
indicate
her appreciation at being granted special consideration.

‘The Christingle service is of Moravian origin, and dates back to the mid-seventeen hundreds in Germany,’ Jane explained. ‘It has always been intended for children—a way of demonstrating, at Christmas time, the light of Christ coming into the world. The Church of England began holding Christingle services in 1968, sponsored by the Church of England Children’s Society. It’s always one of the most popular and best-attended services of the year.’

Jane held up an orange. ‘I’ll demonstrate how we make a Christingle. We’ll do it in assembly-line fashion, passing them along the tables—that’s the most efficient way. But here’s the whole process.’

She took a sharp knife from the table in front of her. ‘The orange represents the world,’ she said, cutting a deep cross in the top of it. ‘I’m preparing it now to receive its candle. But first it needs its red ribbon. The ribbon symbolises the blood of Christ, given in sacrifice for the world and all its people.’ She wrapped a pre-cut length of ribbon round the centre of the orange, securing it with sellotape.

‘Now it will be passed on to the person with the kitchen foil.’ Jane held up a small square of foil. ‘The foil is a safety
feature, rather than a symbol. It helps to catch the wax from the lit candle. A piece of it is placed over the cross at the top, then the candle is inserted through the centre of the foil.’ She demonstrated this move, pushing the candle down firmly into place. ‘I don’t need to tell you that the candle represents the light of Christ in the world.’

‘Finally,’ she went on, ‘we have the cocktail sticks. They have raisins and sweets on them, representing the fruits of the earth. We used to use nuts as well,’ Jane added. ‘But that is discouraged these days, because so many children have nut allergies. And I’ve read that the Moravians used to use goose quills instead of cocktail sticks, but goose quills are in rather short supply these days.’ She laughed. ‘Each Christingle gets four of these cocktail sticks stuck round the candle, like this.’ She positioned them carefully, then held up the finished product so everyone could see it. ‘At the end of the assembly line, I’ll take the Christingles and put them in the boxes, ready for tomorrow.’

There was a smattering of applause, then the women began arranging themselves at chairs round the tables, probably, thought Callie, each taking up the task they’d done for years on end. Maybe since 1968, in some cases.

‘Callie, why don’t you sit here?’ Jane suggested. ‘You can put candles in. Is that all right?’

‘Yes, fine.’

‘And Mrs. Hamilton, isn’t it? If you come here next to Callie, you can place the foil squares on and and pass them on to her.’

Obviously, Callie realised, the newcomers were given the simplest jobs—they were not to be trusted with knives or cocktail sticks or anything else that could inflict injury.

‘I’m pretty good at candles,’ Callie whispered to Morag. ‘Though it could be a bit tricky to get them in straight, so they don’t tip over or fall out or drip wax.’

Morag smiled. ‘It’s a charming custom, isn’t it? I’ve never seen it in Scotland. I imagine the bairns really enjoy it.’

‘Why don’t you bring your granddaughter to the service?’ Callie suggested impulsively. ‘Alex. She’d like it, wouldn’t she?’

Morag looked away, her eyes shadowed. ‘She’d love it. But they’d never allow it. I’m sure of it.’

The tube train pulled into a station. ‘Edgware Road. This service terminates here. All change,’ announced an amplified voice.

Obediently everyone shuffled off the train. Everyone but Alex, who remained tucked into her little space.

Edgware Road? But she wanted to go to King’s Cross. This train was supposed to take her there.

Then other people started getting on, and before she knew it the train was going back in the other direction. The way she’d come, towards Bayswater.

‘Paddington,’ came the announcement a few minutes later. ‘Change here for Circle Line and Bakerloo Line services, the Hammersmith and City lines, and mainline rail services.’

‘Excuse me.’ Alex pushed her way out of the door.

She’d made a mistake, she realised as soon as she looked at the map. She’d got on one of the green-line trains, which only went as far as Edgware Road, when she’d needed to get on a yellow one. Circle Line. That’s what she wanted.

Alex saw that there was an illuminated board overhead, showing the next three trains. The second one said
Circle Line
,
6 mins
. She’d make very sure she got on the right train this time. Not the first one; she must wait for the second one.

Neville could imagine it quite clearly in his mind: Sid Cowley, lighting up a fag and lounging against the wall. Taking his own sweet time before ringing.

‘She’s not here, Guv,’ Cowley said. ‘I’ve tried the bell. I’ve waited for five minutes. If she’s here, she’s not answering.’

‘Neighbours?’ Neville suggested.

‘I talked to the old bloke across the corridor. Hardly knows her, he said. Only by sight. She hasn’t been here long, and she keeps herself to herself.’

‘Anyone else?’ Someone, he thought, might have seen the girl yesterday afternoon.

‘No one else about. Nearly Christmas, innit?’

‘Well, never mind, then, Sid. I’ll just have to ring her.’ He hadn’t wanted to do that; he’d preferred to have the news broken to her in person that her granddaughter was missing, even if it were done by the less-than-tactful Sid Cowley. If she wasn’t at home, he’d just have to hope that she had an answerphone or a callminder service.

There was indeed an answerphone. ‘Please leave a message,’ said a cultured female Scots voice.

‘My name is DI Stewart, from the Metropolitan Police CID. Please don’t be alarmed, but could you please give me a ring at your earliest convenience, Mrs. Hamilton?’ Neville left his mobile number, hoping she’d pick the message up before she found out about her granddaughter’s disappearance in some other way.

His mind was almost immediately occupied by a more
pressing
matter: a call from Danny Duffy, the computer boffin.

‘Guv,’ said Danny, ‘could you come to the computer lab? I need some advice.’

Maybe the whizz kid had found something, Neville told himself with rising excitement. Though he couldn’t imagine what it might be. Had the girl left a message for her father on the computer, telling him where she was going?

It was a beautiful, expensive-looking computer, a white slab with a large flat screen, putting to shame the other shabby machines in the lab. Danny was hunched over it, tapping the keys; he looked up as Neville came in.

‘Ah, Guv.’

‘You’ve found something?’

‘Well, no.’ Danny lifted his hands, palms up, an
empty-handed
gesture of defeat.

‘Then what am I doing here?’

‘It’s a little girl who owns this computer?’ Danny asked.

‘Twelve years old,’ confirmed Neville, still not at all sure what this was about.

‘That figures. Kids—they’re much more computer-savvy than adults.’

Neville remembered pressing a key on Alex’s computer, seeing the password prompt. ‘But this computer
does
have a password.’

‘Exactly. And she’s done it cleverly, as well. No way round it, by re-booting or holding down an option key or anything like that. It’s iron-clad. You’ve got to know the password to get in, or the whole thing locks down. I’ll hand it to the kid—she’s done it properly.’

‘But that doesn’t help us,’ stated Neville.

‘We’re buggered,’ Danny said cheerfully. ‘Unless maybe her mum or dad knows the password? Or can guess it?’

‘Guess it?’

‘That’s the thing with kids,’ said Danny. ‘They may be
technologically
clued-in, but their password is usually something pretty easy. Their name, sometimes. Most often the name of a pet. Like Fluffy or Spot.’

‘Her name is Alex.’

Danny tapped the name in, then shook his head. ‘No go.’

Neville pulled his phone out and rang Angus Hamilton.

‘Yes?’ came the reply after just one ring.

As quickly as he could, Neville explained the call. ‘Mr. Hamilton, sorry to bother you. But we’re trying to get into Alex’s computer, and we need her password. Any idea what it is?’

‘Like I said to your colleague, DS Lombardi, the whole point of a password is that it’s secret,’ Angus Hamilton stated. ‘She certainly hasn’t told me what it is.’

‘Does Alex have any sort of pet?’ This, Neville knew, was a long shot: he couldn’t imagine Jilly allowing any creature with fur, feathers or even fins into her immaculate flat.

‘No.’

‘Not even a goldfish?’

‘No.’

‘Has she
ever
had a pet? In Scotland, perhaps?’

‘No.’ This time there was a thoughtful pause on the other end of the phone. ‘But her granny had a wee dog. Dead now. Alex loved that dog. She cried when he died.’

‘And what was the dog’s name?’ Neville asked.