Secret Sins: A Callie Anson (7 page)

She really should go to see her mother.

Callie went through to her study, sat down in the desk chair, and stared at the phone. Summoning up her courage for the deed.

The phone rang—a stay of execution. ‘Thank you, God,’ she breathed, reaching for it.

‘Hi, Sis,’ said her brother’s voice.

‘Peter!’

‘Long time, no see.’

It hadn’t been
that
long—no more than a few days; spending time with her brother was a pleasure rather than a duty, and as they both had flexible schedules, they usually managed to get
together at least once a week. Peter was a freelance musician; when he worked it was usually in the evenings, so often he dropped by during the day for a cup of tea or a bite of lunch.

‘You were here for lunch on Monday,’ she reminded him.

‘What are you up to now? It’s your day off, isn’t it?’

Callie sighed. ‘Actually, I was steeling myself. To go and see Mum this afternoon. I was just about to ring her.’

‘I’ll go with you,’ he offered. ‘It’s always easier for both of us that way.’

‘Oh, that would be great.’ It was true: their mother couldn’t aim at two targets simultaneously.

‘Why don’t we have lunch first?’ Peter suggested. ‘My treat,’ he added grandly. ‘McDonald’s.’

‘Surely you could stretch to Prêt à Manger. After all the meals I’ve given you.’

He chuckled, unrepentant. ‘Better yet, how about Pizza Express?’

‘Sounds good.’

‘In about an hour? The one in the Earl’s Court Road? That’s the closest one to Mum’s, I think.’

Callie looked at her watch. ‘That should work. I’ll give Mum a ring.’

‘See you, then.’ In a provocative voice he added, ‘I have something interesting to tell you.’

Oh, no, thought Callie. He must have a new boyfriend. Another doomed relationship.

When it came to his love life, Peter was both a romantic and an optimist: an attractive but dangerous combination. He embarked on each new relationship with enthusiasm, certain that this one would be
the
one. And the inevitable
disappointments
never got him down for long. Through it all, Callie was his confidante, his sounding board, rejoicing with him and then consoling him. She wasn’t sure that she was up to it today.

Sure enough, Peter was more than usually ebullient, waiting for her just inside Pizza Express, out of the rain. It wasn’t like Peter to be early—not for anything.

She may as well get it over with, Callie decided. ‘What’s this all about?’ she asked as they were shown to their table.

‘All in good time, Sis.’

The waiter hovered. ‘Would you like something to drink?’

Peter raised an eyebrow at Callie. ‘We’re on with Mum?’

‘Yes. At half-past two.’

He turned back to the waiter. ‘Then yes. Definitely. A bottle of house red.’

‘A whole bottle of wine at lunch?’ Callie protested half-
heartedly
.

‘I may even order a second bottle. It’s Mum, remember.’

Their mother. A bitter woman who blamed her husband for dying on her. A woman who never approved of anything that either of her children did. Who was always complaining that they didn’t visit her enough, yet seemed to find their visits tiresome and inconvenient. Who was still, in spite of all the evidence, trying to find a nice girl for her son to marry.

Callie held out her glass as soon as the bottle arrived.

Peter was looking at the menu. ‘I think I’ll have the American Hot. Or the Hot American, as I like to call it.’ He grinned. ‘I live in hope.’

‘I can’t resist the Veneziana,’ Callie said with an answering smile.

‘Funny you should say that.’ Peter put the menu down on the table and clinked glasses with her. ‘It reminds me of what I wanted to tell you.’

‘It does?’

‘You’ll never guess where I had lunch yesterday.’

Callie shook her head.

‘La Venezia. In Camberwell.’ He took a sip of wine, watching her reaction over the rim of the glass.

She stared at him, aghast. ‘Peter! You didn’t!’

‘I did. And I must say, the food was divine.’

Marco’s family’s restaurant. In spite of her repeated hints, Marco had never taken her there. She was beginning be paranoid
about it, to think that there was some reason he didn’t want her to meet his family. ‘But…’ she sputtered.

Peter was hugely pleased with himself. ‘It wasn’t easy getting in, mind. The place was packed. All those grim works Christmas lunches—crackers and silly paper crowns. But I flirted with one of the waiters, and he found me a little table in the corner.’

She groaned aloud: worse and worse.

‘And then someone different came to take my order. A woman, and she seemed to be in charge. I reckon she was Marco’s sister. About the right age, I think. And she was a bit like Marco round the nose and mouth—a family resemblance.’

‘Oh, Peter.’ Callie closed her eyes, burning with
embarrassment
.

‘Don’t worry, Sis. I didn’t identify myself. I didn’t say, “By the way, my sister is shagging your brother.”’

Her eyes flew open. ‘I’m not. How many times do I have to tell you?’

Peter grinned wickedly. ‘I thought I’d trick you into
admitting
it. It was worth a try.’

‘But I’m
not
. Don’t you think I’d tell you if I were?’

‘Well, I don’t know what’s wrong with you, then. He’s
absolutely
gorgeous. If he were playing for the other side, I’d…well, it wouldn’t take me long to get him into bed.’ He took a gulp of his wine. ‘Are you sure he’s
not
, Sis? That might explain why nothing’s happened yet.’

Callie didn’t want to discuss it. The fact was that Marco hadn’t in any way pressed her to go to bed with him, and she wasn’t sure how she would react if he did. Not that she didn’t want to, but it wasn’t like they were engaged or anything close to it. Not like it had been with Adam. Still…‘He’s not gay,’ she stated in a voice meant to discourage any further exploration of the matter.

‘Pity,’ said Peter reflectively.

Peter approved of Marco Lombardi—approved
enthusiastically
. That, as far as Callie was concerned, was a big plus in Marco’s favour. Peter had never approved of Adam, her ex-fiancé.
He’d never thought that Adam was good enough for her, and events had proved him right.

She was dying to ask him about Marco’s sister: what she looked like, what she’d said. Whether his parents had also been present, and whether he’d had any conversation with them.

But she wasn’t going to give Peter the satisfaction. Pressing her lips together, she glared across the table at his smirking face. She’d never tried to interfere in any of his relationships, and she didn’t know why he felt he had the right to involve himself in hers.

Still, she knew that she wouldn’t be able to stay cross with him for very long. She never could, and apart from anything else, this afternoon they would have to be united in facing a common enemy. 

Neville was scheduled to have the whole weekend off. He’d been looking forward to it for weeks, planning to spend it with Triona. The idea had been for them to get right out of London, leaving on Friday evening and driving to a cosy country pub with log fires—a pub which offered bed and breakfast and exceptional food. A romantic weekend in the country, doing…whatever one did in the country. Neville hadn’t been too clear in his mind on how they’d actually spend their time, apart from sitting in front of a log fire with a pint of Guinness. With any luck, he’d be able to get Triona into bed. Two days, two nights. Surely the log fires and the country air would work their magic, and he’d break down her resistance. That was the most cherished part of his plan, the heart of it all.

All gone up the spout, now. He hadn’t called her; he wouldn’t call her. She was out of his life, and he was better off without her.

And the weekend stretched in front of him in all its
emptiness
.

Neville woke early, in spite of his resolution to have a lie-in. He turned his face to the pillow in the still-dark room, trying to go back to sleep.

Maybe he’d have a wander round Shepherd’s Bush Market later on. He’d always enjoyed doing that on a Saturday morning: just seeing the variety of things on offer and the even wider
variety
of people buying and selling. And for later there was always
the pub. His local, where they knew how to pull Guinness to perfection. If he wanted to, he could drink till he was legless; he’d have the whole of Sunday to sleep it off.

Or maybe he’d find himself a girl. One who wasn’t
interested
in a meaningful relationship or being bloody wooed with champagne and roses. He still had his black book; he still knew a few girls like that. He didn’t have to spend the weekend alone if he didn’t want to.

But it all became academic when, just before seven, the phone went.

‘Guv?’ said the voice of Sid Cowley.

‘It’s my day off,’ Neville growled. ‘In case you didn’t
remember
.’

‘Forget about that, Guv.’ Cowley paused. ‘That bloke
yesterday
? The one who didn’t come home from his morning run?’

‘Yeah. What about him?’

‘Some dog walker, out early. He saw something odd and gave us a call on his mobile.’

‘And?’ Neville thought he could see where this was leading, and he didn’t like it much.

‘We’re not sure it’s him yet, but…it looks like our blokes have just pulled Trevor Norton out of the canal.’

‘Bloody hell,’ said Neville.

While Callie had Friday as her day off, her vicar Brian took Saturdays. That meant that Callie had to do Morning Prayer on her own.

It had been a fairly late evening. They hadn’t gone out, but Marco had brought a DVD of a recent film, and after dinner, cooked by him, they’d curled up on the sofa and watched it. He hadn’t left till nearly midnight.

This was more or less the pattern of their evenings now, unless Marco had to work or Callie had a meeting or a special service. When both of them were free, he would come to her flat—never the other way round, as he had a flatmate in residence. Sometimes
they would have a takeaway; more often one or the other of them would cook a meal. Of the two, Marco was the better cook—not surprisingly, given his family heritage—and he seemed to enjoy cooking for her, arriving on her doorstep with a bag of goodies. His meals could be elaborate affairs, taking a long time to prepare and a corresponding amount of time to eat.

Callie had set her alarm for the latest possible moment. No time for a leisurely bath this morning. A quick shower would have to suffice, and afterwards as she struggled into her clerical shirt, she talked to Bella, who sat watching her with liquid brown eyes. ‘No time for a walk now, darling,’ she said. ‘But I promise I’ll come back right after Morning Prayer. We can have a nice long walk then.’ She parted the bedroom curtains and peered out. ‘It’s not raining,’ she added. ‘Not like yesterday. So that’s all right.’

Bella didn’t say anything, but Callie fancied that her
expression
was one of approval.

The Reverend Brian Stanford, vicar of All Saints’, liked a
lie-in
on his day off. Ordinarily his wife Jane did as well, but this morning she’d been awake early. For a while she stayed in bed, then she got up and quickly pulled on her dressing gown—the Victorian vicarage was draughty and inefficiently heated. She moved as quietly as possible, so as not to disturb Brian’s sleep.

Jane went out into the corridor, to the first floor landing. There was a window there, and if you stood at a certain angle and pulled back the curtain a bit, you could get a glimpse of the church. Sometimes it soothed Jane to look at the church, solid and Victorian, comforting in its bulk and in what it stood for.

You could also see the church hall, and the side door which provided access to the curate’s upstairs flat. As Jane stood there, that door flew open and Callie rushed out, her cassock flapping behind her, and sprinted towards the church.

Late again, thought Jane, with a little grimace of disapproval. She didn’t have her watch on, but the clock on the church tower indicated that the curate was cutting it as close as possible.

Not surprising, really, given how late it had been when that young man had left the flat last night. The church clock had been inching towards midnight.

Jane wasn’t usually up at midnight, and she was not
consciously
keeping tabs on the comings and goings from the curate’s flat. But lately she hadn’t been sleeping very well, and she would often find herself creeping to this window during the night, seeking the comfort of the church’s proximity.

Last night was not the first time she’d seen the young man. She’d caught glimpses of him before, indistinct in the dim glow of the street lights; once she’d seen him arriving in daylight and had had a better look at him. Slim, with curly dark hair.

She wondered who he was: not a member of their
congregation
, that was for sure. Jane prided herself on her comprehensive knowledge of the congregation, and no one new ever escaped her notice. She wondered whether Brian knew about him. Had his curate confided in him?

It had only been a few months since the break-up of her engagement to Adam Masters; she wasn’t wasting any time, Jane reflected sourly.

Young people today seemed to be like that: jumping straight from one relationship into another. Not, Jane told herself, that Callie was so very young. She was all of thirty. But she seemed to Jane to be of a completely different generation to herself and Brian, who now inhabited the far side of forty.

And her own son Simon? Would his relationship with this Ellie person be a short-lived one? Charlie seemed to think not, and his twin knew him better than anyone. Jane hoped that Charlie, in this instance, was wrong.

Not that she was jealous, as Charlie had suggested. That was ridiculous: why on earth would she be jealous of her son’s girlfriend? No, it was just that Simon was too young. Just
eighteen
—far too young to entangle himself with a girl.

Entangle? What did that mean these days? Jane supposed, from the way Charlie had talked about it, that it meant they were sleeping together. Having sex, to be blunt. Young people
seemed to do that at the drop of a hat nowadays, though her boys hadn’t been brought up that way. If that were the case, she hoped that Simon knew enough to be careful. Accidents could happen, and Jane was not ready to be a grandmother.

She hadn’t told Brian about Simon and Ellie. There just hadn’t been a good time. And somehow it seemed to her that to discuss it with Brian would lend to the relationship more importance than it merited—would, in some way, almost make it more concrete. He might feel that it was his responsibility to have a man-to-man talk with Simon, as a father and—even worse—as a priest. That would be awful—excruciatingly embarrassing for all of them. If she ignored it, the whole thing might go away, and Brian need never be the wiser about it.

Besides, today was the last day of Oxford’s Michaelmas Term. Tomorrow the boys would be home, and perhaps the weeks of separation from Ellie during the holidays would cool Simon’s ardour a bit, give him some perspective.

Tomorrow! Jane could hardly wait.

Chilled, she crept back to bed. As she slipped in next to Brian, he turned onto his back and stretched his arms above his head. ‘Oh, I’ve slept well,’ he said. ‘What time is it?’

‘Just gone eight.’

‘Janey.’ He shifted to face her, his voice wheedling. ‘You wouldn’t like to bring me some breakfast in bed, would you?’

Breakfast in bed? It
was
something he had always enjoyed, as a special treat. But it hadn’t always been the first thing on his mind, waking up with his wife on his day off. Well, thought Jane acidly, this must mean they were well and truly middle-aged.

‘All right, then. In a minute,’ she acquiesced. ‘But first, there was something I was wondering about?’

‘What’s that?’ he murmured, only half paying attention.

‘Did you know that Callie Anson has a new man in her life? Has she told you about him?’

‘What?’ Now Brian was listening.

Morning Prayer didn’t generally attract much of a
congregation
; there were even times when Callie was on her own. This morning, though, there were three others in the stalls, and Callie noted that one of them was Morag Hamilton.

After the brief service, Morag lingered behind the others as Callie said goodbye to them at the door. ‘I was just wondering if you had a wee bit of time this morning,’ she said diffidently, when it was her turn. ‘I hate to bother you…’

Callie looked into her face and saw that it was troubled. ‘No bother at all,’ she said immediately. ‘I need to walk my dog right now, but perhaps if you fancy some exercise…’

‘That would be splendid.’ Morag’s smile was grateful. ‘I don’t get enough exercise as it is.’

‘Come along with me, then. We’ll collect Bella and take her to the park.’

By the time that Neville got to the canal, the crime scene tape was up and the SOCOs had arrived. So had Sid Cowley, who stood with his hands shoved in the pockets of his leather jacket—the rain had given way to a damp December chill, the sort that sat on your shoulders and seeped through to the bone. Cowley looked morose as his jaws worked on a piece of nicotine gum. ‘Evans has been here,’ he said, referring to their Detective Superintendent. ‘Didn’t stay long, but he’s putting you in charge. It’s not my case any more.’