Secret Sins: A Callie Anson (5 page)

Detective Inspector Neville Stewart was bored. It seemed like weeks since he’d had a decent case to get his teeth into. Car theft, muggings, burglary, petty drug stuff: it was all too tedious for words. They hardly ever caught the perps, and it didn’t make all that much difference when they did—they’d be back on the streets, doing it again, before you could say ‘Crown Prosecution Service.’ What he needed was a good murder. Something that would give him a buzz, get his brain cells going. Something that would take up his long, lonely evenings.

And paperwork was making him crazy. Every little petty crime spawned a mountain of paper. He hadn’t joined the police to push bits of paper round his desk.

Glaring balefully at his heaped in-tray, then at the rain
streaking
down the window, wishing—as he occasionally did—that he hadn’t given up smoking, Neville pushed his chair back from his desk and went in search of coffee.

In the corridor outside of his office, he ran into Detective Sergeant Sid Cowley, going the other way. Cowley was wearing an overcoat, carrying a brolly.

‘Hey, Sid. What’s up?’

Cowley paused. ‘Hi, Guv. I’m just off on a case.’

‘Anything interesting?’ As if, thought Neville.

‘Doubt it.’ Cowley shrugged. ‘Missing person. Bloke goes jogging. Doesn’t come home. Wife panics.’ He shrugged again. ‘He’s probably just buggered off somewhere to keep dry. By the time I get there, he’ll likely be tucked up at home, taking a hot shower after getting a bollocking from the wife.’

Neville made a snap decision. ‘Hold on a second, Sid. I’ll come with you. Let me get my coat.’

‘It’s not really a job for a DI.’

‘Don’t want me cramping your style, eh, Sid?’ Neville slapped the sergeant’s shoulder. ‘Just in case the wife is…dishy? Or desperate.’

‘Bugger off,’ Cowley growled. ‘With all due respect, Guv.’

Must have hit a nerve, Neville thought complacently as he grabbed his rain coat. He could read Sid Cowley like a book, when it came to women.

This case might not be anything exciting. It might be over before they got there. But at least it would get him out of the bloody station.

The wife
was
dishy. She was young, she was very pretty, she was blonde. And if Neville wasn’t mistaken, her hair colour was natural, not out of a bottle. Not pale: that sort of deep
corn-colour
which is very difficult to achieve artificially.

She was also heavily pregnant.

That, thought Neville, might just put Sid Cowley off.

And she was on the verge of being hysterical.

‘Trevor is never late,’ she told them as she showed them into the downstairs lounge of the substantial Victorian semi. ‘I always say you could set your watch by Trevor. I tease him about that.’

He would let Sid deal with this, Neville decided; after all, it was Sid’s case. He’d just come along for the ride.

Cowley was taking out his notebook. ‘Let’s start at the
beginning
, Mrs.…err…’

‘Norton. Rachel Norton.’ She wrapped her arms round her distended belly.

The lounge was clean, almost sterile; it had the air of a room which was seldom used. The three-piece suite fit the space
perfectly
, as though it had been bought for it, and looked as if it had never been sat on.

This was not a social visit, and coffee was not offered. Rachel Norton gestured for the two policeman to sit on the sofa.

Cowley looked at the notes he’d made earlier, on the phone. ‘So, Mrs. Norton. You say that your husband, Mr. Trevor Norton, went jogging at seven a.m.’

‘He always does. Every day. Rain or shine.’ Today was
definitely
a case of the former: the rain was slapping aggressively against the front bay window, streaming down it in great
runnels
. She looked at the window and gave an involuntary shiver, hugging her shoulders.

‘And when did you expect him back?’

‘He’s always back by eight. He has a quick shower, gets dressed, eats a bowl of cereal. He’s always at his desk by half past eight.’

Cowley blinked, looked confused. ‘So he works…?’

‘Here. At home. Didn’t I say? He runs his own business at home.’

‘What sort of work does he do, Mrs. Norton?’ Neville
interjected
. Cowley narrowed his eyes at him, warning him to back off.

‘IT. Computer consultancy.’ She couldn’t keep the pride out of her voice. ‘Trevor is a genius with computers. It was about a year ago that he decided to start up on his own. He’s done
very
well.’

‘Does he work entirely at home, then?’ Cowley picked up the thread. ‘Or does he go out sometimes?’

‘Oh, he spends quite a bit of time out of the office. It’s part of the job, see. He has to be where the computers are. When someone has a problem or something. They call him, and he goes.’

‘Maybe he had an appointment,’ suggested Cowley. ‘Or
something
urgent came up. Does he carry a mobile when he jogs?’

Rachel Norton shook her head. ‘No. He doesn’t carry his mobile. He wouldn’t let anything disturb his running. All he takes is his iPod.’

Neville watched Sid Cowley’s face; sure enough, a look of envy flashed across it. Neville knew that Sid was lusting after an iPod, but hadn’t yet managed to save enough spare cash to buy one. He’d told Sid more than once, with all the self-righteousness of an ex-smoker, that if he gave up his two-pack-a-day habit, it wouldn’t take long for him to be sporting those distinctive white earphones.

Come to think of it, Neville realised with a shock, Sid hadn’t lit up once since he’d been with him this morning. He hadn’t smoked in the car, and he hadn’t asked Mrs. Norton if he could smoke in the house—that was usually the first thing he did. And on closer scrutiny, Neville could see that Sid was chewing gum. Bloody hell—was he really quitting?

‘What sort of iPod does he have?’ Cowley asked.

Rachel Norton furrowed her brow, looked at him oddly. ‘I’m not sure. The latest model, I suppose. Does it matter?’

‘I was just curious,’ he mumbled, then got back on track. ‘So you can’t think where he might have gone.’

‘He’s
never
been late like this.’ She inspected her watch. ‘It’s nearly eleven o’clock. He should have been home three hours ago.
Three hours
.’

Three hours was nothing in their world. If he’d been in charge, thought Neville, he would have cut things short right now, made some soothing noises to the lady and told her to let them know if he came home and otherwise call them again tomorrow morning if he still hadn’t turned up. Trevor Norton was a grown man: if he wanted to slope off for a few hours, get away from the pregnant wife, then it was scarcely any business of theirs.

But Neville wasn’t in charge, and he didn’t say a word. Sid, evidently, had different ideas. Either he was trying to impress the guv with his conscientious approach, or he fancied Rachel Norton in spite of her grotesquely distended shape. Or maybe, like Neville himself, he was bored and had nothing better—or more interesting—to do.

‘Does your husband have a diary?’ Cowley asked. ‘On his desk, perhaps?’

She shook her head. ‘Not a paper diary as such. It’s on his computer. And on his PDA, of course.’

‘Could we have a look?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Rachel Norton led them back into the entrance hall and up a flight of stairs. She had to hold onto the bannister, virtually pulling herself up. ‘Sorry,’ she said at the
top of the stairs, drawing a ragged breath. ‘I’m not moving very fast these days.’

Cowley looked her up and down. ‘Trevor’s happy about the baby, is he?’

‘Delighted,’ she said, smiling. ‘He can’t wait.’

Neville knew what Sid was getting at: the same thought had occurred to him. Maybe Trevor couldn’t cope with approaching fatherhood. Maybe it had all been too much for him, and he’d done a runner.

The room at the front of the house, above the lounge, was an office, fitted out with modern Ikea-style office furniture and equipped with all the latest technology. There were two sleek flat screens which Neville assumed must be computers, though they bore scant resemblance to the ugly hunk of beige plastic on his desk at the station. A printer was recognisable, but there were all sorts of other gadgets and gizmos which spoke nothing to him of their functions.

And there was a telephone, which began ringing almost on cue as they entered the room.

Rachel Norton’s hand fluttered to her throat; she reached for the phone. ‘Hello?’ she breathed in a voice whose tremulousness might have been attributable to her recent climb, but somehow Neville didn’t think so.

He watched her carefully as she listened to the voice on the other end. ‘No,’ she replied, sighing. ‘No, Trevor isn’t here. I don’t— I’m sorry, I can’t— Yes, I’ll—’

In the meanwhile, Cowley was taking advantage of the
interruption
to remove the chewing gum from his mouth, wrap it in a bit of tissue, dispose of it in a nearby wastepaper bin, and pop in a fresh piece.

Rachel put the phone down and turned to Cowley, biting her lip. ‘That was one of Trevor’s clients. Trevor was supposed to be with him to sort out his configuration. At ten. He hasn’t heard from him. He tried Trevor’s mobile, but it was switched off.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Doesn’t that prove that something’s terribly wrong? Trevor would never let one of his clients down.’

Cowley eyed the computer screens. ‘Could we see his diary, Mrs. Norton?’

She sat down in front of one of the displays and tapped a key. The screen saver disappeared, replaced by icons and a blue desktop.

‘He left his computer on?’ Cowley asked.

‘Trevor always leaves them running,’ she said over her
shoulder
as she clicked on an icon. ‘He says it’s better for machines which are in regular use. All that switching on and off just wears them out.’

A calendar page appeared on the screen, replicating a page in a desk diary. ‘Here’s today,’ she said. ‘The appointment at ten. And another at two in the afternoon.’ She pointed to the screen. ‘And at four, he’s taking me to the antenatal clinic.’

It still, thought Neville, didn’t mean that Trevor Norton hadn’t intended to disappear.

He picked up the only ornament on the desk, a silver-framed photo of Rachel Norton in a traditional white wedding gown. Slim, beautiful, radiant. ‘How long have you been married, then?’

‘Nearly a year. We married right after Christmas last year.’ She gulped, rubbing her bump. ‘We’d been together for a few years, and Trevor was ready to start a family. We both were. So we decided to get married. Lovely wedding, it was.’

Cowley scribbled a few things in his notebook, then snapped it shut. ‘Well, thank you, Mrs. Norton,’ he said. ‘Please do ring and let us know if your husband comes home.’

‘
If
?
’ she demanded, twisting in the chair to look up at him. ‘And what if he doesn’t? What then?’

A few minutes later they were back at the car, anxious to get out of the rain. ‘What do you make of it, Guv?’ Cowley asked as he slid behind the wheel.

Neville shrugged. ‘I still think he might have gone somewhere to get dry, when the rain started pelting down. Or maybe he’s done a runner.’

‘With a wife like that? He’d have to be mad.’ Cowley put the key in the ignition, but before turning it, he wrapped his gum in tissue, put it in the ash tray, and got out a fresh piece.

‘Maybe he’s got cold feet about the baby. Wouldn’t be the first time that happened.’

Cowley nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yeah, I suppose.’

‘A baby sounds good in the abstract. Then his wife gets big as a house. You know what I mean?’

‘Maybe he’s even found someone else.’ Cowley turned the key and the car engine sputtered reluctantly to life. ‘I don’t suppose he and his wife are doing much shagging these days, and maybe he’s gone somewhere else for it. Can’t blame him for that, Guv. Not really.’

‘If he doesn’t turn up in twenty-four hours, I think I’d start looking at that possibility. If I were you, that is,’ he added. ‘And it was my case.’

‘The computer,’ Cowley said sagely. ‘There might be e-mails or something. People can be really stupid about what they leave on their computers.’

‘Or he might come home in the next five minutes.’

‘Or not. No smoke without fire, Guv.’

Neville saw his opening, and went for it. ‘Speaking of smoke, Sid…’

‘Yeah?’ His voice was defensive.

‘Did I notice the absence of something this morning?’

Cowley kept his eyes on the traffic in front of them. ‘Okay. I’m trying to quit.’

‘So what I said about the iPod made sense, did it?’ Neville couldn’t help gloating. ‘In two, three weeks you’ll have saved enough dosh to buy one.’

‘That’s part of it,’ Cowley admitted. ‘But the truth is, Guv…Have you ever heard of findagain.co.uk?’

‘Huh? What’s that?’

‘It’s a web site. Helps you track down people you went to school with,’ Cowley explained. ‘So you can meet up with them again.’

Neville snorted contemptuously. ‘I can’t imagine anything worse! One of the best things about leaving Ireland was knowing I’d never have to lay eyes on any of those clowns from school as long as I lived. Anyway, what does that have to do with the price of fags?’

‘Well,’ Cowley explained with a touch of defensiveness, ‘I signed up. And found this girl—a girl I fancied like crazy when I was at school. She never had the time of day for me then, but now…well, it’s going great.’

‘Ah. A girl.’ Sid always had some girl or other in the picture, but it had never stopped him from smoking before. Maybe this one required a larger than usual outlay of cash. That was something Neville could relate to: Triona, with her fondness for posh
restaurants
and the bloody theatre, had nearly bankrupted him, before he’d decided that enough was enough. ‘Expensive, is she?’

‘No, it’s not that.’ The traffic light in front of them turned to amber and Sid put his foot on the brake. ‘She hates smoking. She says that…that kissing me is like licking an ash tray. She says that if I don’t quit…’

‘Oh, well.’ Poor Sid, he thought. Bloody woman had him by the short and curlies. He knew what that was like. Not good. Not good at all. ‘Well, Sid. I hope she’s worth it,’ Neville said, shaking his head. ‘I hope she’s bloody worth it.’

Mark Lombardi didn’t see much of his sister these days. Not nearly enough, given the fact that she had been like a second mother to him for the first decade of his life. Serena had been eight when Mark was born; with their mother working all the hours God gave at La Venezia, the family restaurant, Serena had been the one there in the evenings to help with homework and tuck him into bed.

Now, though, she worked every bit as hard as their mother at the restaurant, which meant that lunchtimes and evenings were impossible. If Mark wanted to see Serena, he usually had to make a point of visiting her in the morning.

When Serena’s children were younger, Mark had done his own share of babysitting in the evenings. But now Angelina was at university, and Chiara was twelve—an age when she considered it a grave insult to have a babysitter, even if it was her adored uncle Marco.

Serena had married young, at eighteen. It was exactly what the family—
la famiglia
—had wanted. His mother would never have admitted it, but Mark had always suspected that it had been carefully planned from the beginning. Guiseppe di Stefano, son of a friend of Mark’s mother’s sister, had come from Italy to attend university in London. He’d been given a job at the restaurant—washing dishes, mostly—to help him earn money for his fees. As a family connection, he’d even been invited to move into the spare room as a long-term guest.