Secret Sins: A Callie Anson (44 page)

The nursing sister on the maternity ward wasn’t very happy about Yolanda’s visit. ‘It’s past visiting hours,’ she pointed out. ‘Only dads are allowed to come this late.’

Yolanda resorted to showing the nurse her police ID, which mollified the woman enough to let her in. ‘Official business, then? I suppose that’s all right,’ the nurse murmured, standing aside.

Rachel was drowsing in bed, holding her baby in the crook of her arm.

‘Oh, she’s such a darling,’ said Yolanda as she approached the bed. ‘Have you settled on a name for her yet?’

Rachel shook her head. ‘Trevor was so sure it would be a boy. We talked about boys’ names all the time, but didn’t get round to choosing a girls’ name. I just don’t know what to call her.’ She raised the baby up. ‘Would you like to hold her?’

That was exactly what Yolanda had been yearning to do. She put her carrier bag down and accepted the precious bundle, crooning over the tiny black head.

‘Oh,’ said Rachel in a surprised voice, a moment later.

Yolanda looked up and followed Rachel’s gaze to the door.

A young man was coming in, smiling at the nursing sister, smiling at Rachel, smiling at Yolanda and positively beaming at the baby.

A young man with dusky skin and very, very black hair.

‘Hey, Rache,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know you had another visitor.’

He held out his arms for the baby; automatically Yolanda
transferred
the little bundle. ‘I just couldn’t stay away,’ he added.

Rachel looked more than a bit discomfited. ‘Um, Yolanda,’ she said quickly. ‘This is my…um…friend. Abdul.’

Callie couldn’t believe her ears. ‘You’re going to
Scotland
?’

‘Aye,’ said Morag. ‘Right now.’

‘But
how
?’ protested Callie. ‘It’s late. The trains…’

‘Trains? I never said anything about trains.’

‘Then how on earth will you get there?’

Morag was already moving, opening a drawer in her bureau. ‘By car, of course.’

‘But you don’t have a car.’

‘And why would you think that, lassie?’ Morag pulled a
keyring
out of the drawer and shook it in Callie’s face. ‘You don’t think I moved into this ugly block of flats because I liked the architecture, do you? I bought this flat because it came with a lock-up garage. And that’s where my car is.’

‘Your car?’ Callie echoed stupidly.

‘Aye. The Flying Scot, she’s called. I couldn’t bear to give her up when I came to London.’

Morag went into the kitchen and switched the kettle on. ‘I’ll make a thermos of coffee. It’s going to be a long night, and I can’t count on finding motorway caffs when I need them.’

If you couldn’t beat them, Callie told herself, you may as well join them. ‘And I’ll make some sandwiches,’ she said. ‘I’m coming with you.’

It was no great distance from the hospital to Rachel’s house. Telling herself that she was over-stepping her job description, Yolanda nevertheless retraced her steps to the Victorian semi near the canal and let herself back in.

The laptop was where she’d left it, sticking out from under the bed. Yolanda hesitated for no more than a few seconds before pulling it out.

She hadn’t properly thought through what she was going to do with it. Strictly speaking, she knew that she should ring Neville Stewart and allow him to deal with the matter. But it was too late at night for that; if he wasn’t at home, sleeping in his own bed, he ought to be.

And that, Yolanda decided, was where she should be as well. In her own bed, with her own husband.

The laptop would wait until morning. In the meantime, though, she was going to take it home with her. For safe-
keeping
, she told herself.

The Flying Scot, Callie discovered when they got to the lock-up garage, was an ancient Morris Minor estate wagon, with wood
on the sides and tartan plaid seat covers. ‘Are you sure this car will run?’ she asked doubtfully.

Morag gave a decisive nod. ‘She took Donald on his rounds all over the Highlands for years and years. Reliable as they come.’ She patted the car’s bonnet.

‘Where, exactly, are we going?’ Callie asked as she lifted Bella into the back of the car.

‘I told you, lassie. You don’t have to come.’

‘I’m not letting you go by yourself.’ That much was certain: it was the least she could do.

She tried not to think about what Marco would say when he found out. Yes, he’d instructed her to stay with Morag and keep her out of everyone’s hair. But she was sure he didn’t mean that she was to accompany Morag on a wild goose chase to Scotland. He’d probably be furious with her, and she wouldn’t blame him.

And then there was Brian. This was, Callie reminded herself, Saturday night. She would be missing the morning services, and she’d almost certainly miss the Christingle service as well. Never mind Brian: Jane would be incandescent if she missed the Christingle.

Well, it couldn’t be helped. She was going, and that was that. It was too late to contact Brian; she’d have to ring in the morning.

‘We’re going,’ said Morag, ‘to Kelso. In the Borders, so it’s not so very far. Only six or seven hours. Depending on how fast I can convince the old girl to go.’

Driving six or seven hours in the middle of the night to Scotland in a Morris Minor that was probably older than Callie herself? She must, Callie told herself, be mad.

When she got home, Yolanda couldn’t resist taking just a little peek at the laptop. Eli was in the bath—she could hear him splashing about—so she set it up on the dining table and opened the lid.

There was no password protection, and the e-mail programme was already open. Yolanda scrolled through the list of e-mails,
reading one or two of the most recent ones. From Abdul. To Abdul.

‘Hey, doll.’ Eli emerged from the bathroom wearing no more than a towel wrapped round his waist. ‘You’re home, then. About time.’

She looked up from the laptop. ‘Eli, I’ve found something. Rachel—’

‘Never mind about Rachel.’ He closed the lid of the laptop and took Yolanda’s hand. ‘Come on, doll. We’ve got other fish to fry.’

‘So,’ said Morag when they’d left the London conurbation and were headed up the A1. ‘Talk to me, lassie. Tell me about
yourself
. Ever since we met, I’m the one who seems to have done all the talking. Now it’s your turn.’

And so Callie talked. She started with her family: her
difficult
mother, her beloved father’s death, Peter’s homosexuality. Eventually she told Morag about Adam and the broken
engagement
; finally, several hours into the trip, she got round to the subject of Marco.

‘He sounds a lovely young man,’ Morag said.

‘Oh, he is.’

Perhaps she didn’t sound very convinced, because Morag gave her a searching look. ‘But?’

‘But.’ Callie sighed. ‘But I’m just not sure I’m ready for another relationship like that. Like I had with Adam. Maybe I never will be.’ There—she’d said it. It was something she’d never before articulated, even to herself. ‘I have a job I love. Not just a job—a vocation. Being a priest—which is what I’ll be in less than a year—can be your whole life, something that will take all the hours I can possibly give to it. Will I have the energy for a relationship as well? I don’t know.’

‘With all due respect,’ said Morag, ‘I just don’t accept that. You’re still a human being, Callie lass. Not superwoman. Not a hermit, either. You still need love and support. It’s not good to be alone. Not good for anyone. Believe me. I’ve had it both ways, and alone is…lonely.’

‘But relationships complicate your life.’ She was thinking about Morag’s son. About the complications his new marriage had caused for so many people, not least for his mother…

‘And enrich it.’ Morag kept her eyes on the road. ‘Lass, I know there must be a temptation for you to think that God—and the Church—will be enough for you. Enough to fill in those spaces in your life. And Bella,’ she added with a smile, glancing over her shoulder at the back seat.

Grudgingly Callie nodded. That
was
what she thought. Though perhaps she wouldn’t have put it quite like that…

‘If you go down that route, lass, you’ll only be living half a life. And you’ll never know what you’ve missed out on.’ She smiled, almost to herself. ‘I had nearly forty years with my Donald. Not enough years, mind you, and not all of them were wonderful. I’d be the first to admit that. But you have to be prepared to take the rough with the smooth, and the smooth makes it all worthwhile. I would not trade the time I had with my Donald for…for anything. I’m just so thankful for the years we had.’

Callie thought about the contrast between Morag and her own mother: about her mother’s embittered widowhood, and how she’d never forgiven her husband for dying on her. How much healthier Morag’s attitude was, in spite of what she’d been through. Perhaps, Callie admitted to herself, her mother’s
negativity
had influenced her more than she’d ever realised.

One thing she knew for sure: she didn’t want to turn into her mother.

‘I’m not trying to tell you how to live your life, lass,’ Morag said, almost apologetically. ‘I hope you don’t think I’m interfering.’

‘Not at all.’

Morag’s voice became brisk. ‘I think we’d better look for a place to pull off the road, Callie lass. Time for coffee and sandwiches. And I suspect that wee Bella wouldn’t mind stretching her legs.’

It took quite some time for the sound of the telephone to
penetrate
Neville’s dreams—unpleasant dreams, full of formless
horror which evaporated as soon as he struggled to
consciousness
, leaving behind only a nasty aftertaste.

His eyes were still closed; he wasn’t entirely sure where he was. The phone was ringing somewhere near his right ear and he fumbled for it for a moment.

‘DI Stewart,’ he managed to say into the receiver, in a voice which creaked and croaked.

He was, in fact, in his office, at his desk, where he’d been for most of the night. At some point, exhausted beyond all reason, unable to keep his eyes open for another moment, he must have put his head down on his desk and fallen asleep.

It was still dark. What time was it? Neville pried his eyes open and squinted at his watch. Just a bit past seven.

‘Oh, you’re still there,’ said the voice of Detective
Superintendent
Evans. ‘Good.’

Neville wasn’t sure what was good about it. Every muscle ached from the unnatural position in which he’d been sleeping; his head hurt. He longed to be at home in his bed, away from all of this, sleeping the sleep of the just. Instead he was still here, and Alex Hamilton was still missing. Unless Evans knew something he didn’t know…

‘Nothing new?’ Evans asked.

‘Uh…no.’

‘Well, Stewart, I just wanted to let you know that I’m not going to be available for a few hours. The christening, you know. I’ll be in church,’ Evans explained, adding, ‘I’ll leave my phone on vibrate. Just in case there’s a major break-through. Like you’ve found the girl.’

Or her body, Neville said to himself.

‘But for God’s sake, Stewart, don’t you dare ring me for anything less than that.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

Neville leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. Someone, he thought, must be in there behind his eyes, pushing on them from the back. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d had a
headache
like this. Caffeine poisoning from those endless cups of
coffee which he’d poured down his throat in the last twenty-four hours? He hadn’t had any alcohol; that much he knew.

The nasty taste in his mouth was more than metaphorical: his mouth tasted like an ashtray.

‘Oh, God,’ he groaned, remembering.

He, the smug ex-smoker, self-righteous and fanatical about it, occasionally to the point of obnoxiousness, at some point during the long night had cadged a fag from Cowley. What’s more, he had smoked it, all the way down to the end. And he had enjoyed every toxic puff.

Now he was going to have to pay the price. The headache, for starters. And Cowley would never let him live it down. Never.

‘But Guv,’ he’d protested when Neville had asked him for it. ‘Smoking is a filthy habit. As you tell me every single day. And it kills you.’

‘Just shut up and give me the bloody fag,’ he’d insisted. Then he’d smoked it, defying Cowley’s superior sneer.

Cowley. Speak of the devil. In he strolled, looking as seedy as Neville felt. Unshaven, a bit grimy round the edges. ‘Hey, Guv,’ he smirked. ‘How are you feeling this morning? A bit ropey?’ He took a packet out of his pocket and shook it in Neville’s direction. ‘Want another fag, then? Hair of the dog, so to speak?’

‘Go to hell,’ Neville muttered.

Morag and Callie had made it nearly as far as Newcastle when the Flying Scot decided she’d gone far enough. That wasn’t too surprising: after all, she’d been sitting in a garage for months, undriven.

It happened in the wee hours of the morning, when they pulled into the forecourt of a roadside Little Chef. The Little Chef was closed for the night but it seemed a convenient place to have their sandwiches and coffee, as well as give Bella some water and an opportunity to relieve herself.

All had been fine up to that point. Though their progress hadn’t been speedy, the Flying Scot had moved steadily in the right direction. But when they got back in the car and Morag
turned the key in the ignition, there was an ominous grinding noise rather than the sound of the engine starting up.

‘Oh, dear,’ said Morag. ‘What do you suppose is wrong?’

Callie, who had lived in London for most of her life and had never even got round to getting a driving license, was not the best person to ask. ‘I wouldn’t have a clue,’ she admitted.

Morag tried again, with no more success; if anything, the noise sounded worse. ‘It might be the battery,’ she ventured. ‘It’s not turning over.’

‘Maybe,’ said Callie, ‘it wasn’t a good idea to leave the lights on when we got out.’

The third try was also a failure. Morag took the key out of the ignition.

‘Now what?’ Callie asked. ‘Can we call the AA or something? I have my mobile.’

Morag sighed. ‘I’m afraid my membership has lapsed,’ she confessed. ‘Donald always took care of that, and I just never got round to renewing it.’

‘Well.’ Callie considered their environs. ‘There is a garage next door. But of course they’re not open.’

‘They’re sure to be in a few hours,’ Morag said
philosophically
. ‘Look at it this way, Callie lass—this gives us a chance for a few hours of kip. We can’t very well fetch up at Lochside at five in the morning, in any case.’

So Callie had curled up on the back seat with Bella. The seat had a definite doggy pong, which Callie deduced was more to do with the late Macduff than with Bella. It didn’t prevent her from closing her eyes and falling into a deep sleep.

Neville went down the hall to the loo to splash some cold water on his face. Afterwards he sought out more coffee. It tasted stale, but he didn’t care: maybe it would help to wash that lingering tang of ashtray out of his mouth.

The interview with Lee Bicknell had been a waste of time. It had gone on for hours; they’d tried every trick in the book to get something out of him, but Bicknell had steadfastly insisted that he
hadn’t seen Alex Hamilton—Sasha—after the moment she’d run from him at Paddington Station. Nothing would shake his story.

Neville had been pinning his hopes on the CCTV cameras. Another wash-out. Yes, one camera had picked up Alex, coming up from the tube and heading towards the mainline terminal. The discovery of that had provided a momentary boost.

It was short-lived, though. The camera which might have helped them, the one pointing to that critical spot under the clock, had malfunctioned. And the one which covered the exit door—the door through which Alex had run, if Bicknell was telling the truth—had run out of tape.

So all they had was that one image. Alex, smiling, going to meet someone she thought of as her boyfriend.

Neville had looked at her hopeful smile and found it haunting. More than that: profoundly disturbing. A few seconds after that, the smiling girl had disappeared from the face of the earth.

It was at that point he’d cadged the fag.

Yes, the SOCOs had gone in to Bicknell’s house at some point during the night. Tearing the place apart, looking for any evidence whatever that Alex had been there. Fibres, hairs, traces of blood: if she’d been at the house in Camden Town, alive or dead, they would know it. Eventually. They’d impounded his car—an old Skoda, it was—and it would be undergoing a similar fate.

Until those tests were complete, though, Lee Bicknell was still very much in the picture. And he was admitting nothing.

‘Guv!’ Cowley caught him up at the coffee machine. ‘Yolanda Fish is on the phone.’

‘Yolanda Fish?’ He looked at Sid blankly. ‘But she’s off-duty. At home. What does she want?’

‘She said she had to talk to you. About Rachel Norton.’ Cowley added, ‘She said it was important.’

‘That’s all I need right now,’ Neville muttered sourly, but he took the call.

Yolanda was apologetic but insistent. ‘It is important. I found a laptop in Rachel’s bedroom. And there are some things on it that you need to know about.’