Evil Intent (24 page)

Whom, though, was she protecting?

The police, who had stonewalled her at every turn? Frances Cherry
herself,
who had unceremoniously thrown her out of her house and refused to
make any comment at all?

They hadn’t made her life easy. And all she was trying to do was her job.

The public had a right to know. That was the founding principle of
journalism,
and one to which she had always subscribed.

The public had a right to know, and her editor had a right to expect a good story.

Why had she even contemplated wimping out now, when she had the best story of all in hand? Surely she, Lilith Noone, was made of sterner stuff than that.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard and the words began to appear on her screen. ‘This reporter can reveal exclusively …’

‘Well, really!’ said Jane Stanford indignantly, when Brian told her that his curate had visited the Harringtons without him, and had then failed to tell him. ‘That woman’s getting above herself, Brian. I did warn you.’

‘I’m sure it was an honest mistake,’ he backtracked. ‘After all, I
scarcely
saw her after that, except for Sunday. And it was a busy day.’

She ignored him. ‘She’s only been here for five minutes,’ she fumed. ‘Already she’s going behind your back.’

‘I need a curate,’ he said mildly.

‘You need a curate, yes. But you don’t need her.’ Jane frowned. ‘That woman is going to be more trouble than she’s worth. Mark my words.’

Not sure whether she’d get into even more trouble with Brian, but feeling that she had to do it, Callie rang the Harringtons late in the afternoon. ‘I just wanted to make sure you were both okay,’ she said to Dennis when he picked up the phone.

‘As well as might be expected,’ he replied.

‘I was worried about you. And so was Father Brian,’ she added. ‘Why did you send us away?’

There was a long pause on the other end. ‘Father Brian,’ he said at last. ‘We were … well, we were embarrassed. About our Stu, and all. Father might not understand.’

‘But you rang him on Thursday. You wanted to talk to him.’

‘We were upset. We needed to talk to somebody. Afterwards, though, we thought better of it.’

‘You talked to
me
,’ Callie pointed out.

‘Oh, that was different, girl. You’re…well, you seemed to understand. And as I said, we needed to talk to somebody. Then we thought you’d probably tell Father, and we were afraid to face him.’

‘He’s your parish priest,’ she said firmly. ‘Believe me, he’s not going to pass judgement on you and Elsie, or your son, or anyone else.’

‘We’ll think about it,’ Dennis conceded. ‘In the mean time, though, girl, if you want to come and see us, we wouldn’t turn you away.’

Callie exhaled in a whistling breath as she put the phone down. Going to see the Harringtons without Brian would certainly get her into even
hotter
water. But they needed her. How could she let them down?

Neville rang Detective Chief Superintendent Evans’ secretary on the way back to the station, and as luck would have it, Evans was in his office and available to see Neville immediately.

He said hello to the secretary as he went in. When the lovely Denise had married Evans and given up the job, she’d chosen her own replacement: middle-aged, flat-chested, and plain as a boot. But she was a nice woman, and could be relied upon to warn people if her boss was in a particularly foul mood. She also seemed to have a soft spot for Neville. ‘He’s not too bad at the moment,’ she told him. ‘Better than he was this morning.’

Thank goodness for small favours, thought Neville.

This time he was invited to sit. ‘What progress have you made?’ Evans wanted to know.

‘Not as much as I’d like,’ conceded Neville. ‘We’ve talked to Cherry and Jackson. Separately, of course. Neither of them would admit anything about an affair. They were both pretty angry at the suggestion, in fact. Jackson practically chucked us out of the door.’

‘That doesn’t mean anything.’

‘No, sir. I know.’

Evans stroked his long chin. ‘What was your gut feeling about it? Did you believe them?’

‘I’m not sure,’ confessed Neville. ‘They seemed sincerely shocked at the question. But they could just be good actors. If it were true, though …’ He explained DS Cowley’s theory about blackmail as a motive for Jonah Adimola’s murder.

‘Possible,’ Evans said thoughtfully. ‘It would certainly explain a great deal.’

‘What would you like us to do now, sir? Shall we arrest Frances Cherry? Her connection with the murder weapon—’

Evans’ phone rang. He picked it up with a frown. ‘I thought I told you— Oh. All right, then.’ There was a brief pause, then he went on. ‘Yes. Yes, I’m glad you rang, darling. …Don’t panic. I’m sure…Yes. All right.…As soon as possible.’ He put the phone down and turned back to Neville. ‘You were saying, Stewart?’

‘I wondered whether you wanted us to arrest Frances Cherry. If we brought her in, we might be able to break her down.’

There was a small frown between Evans’ heavy brows, and he seemed to look at Neville without really seeing him. ‘I don’t think that’s necessary just yet,’ he said. ‘Let’s give it another day and see what happens.’

‘The blackmail scenario is the closest thing to a plausible motive that we have,’ Neville pointed out. ‘Everything else we’ve looked at is a non-starter.’

But Evans was no longer listening. ‘Not now, Stewart,’ he said
dismissively.
‘Go home and catch up on your sleep, man. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.’

Neville could certainly have used the sleep, but he was too keyed up to contemplate that. On impulse, he rang Mark Lombardi on his mobile.

‘I wondered if you’d like to meet up for a drink,’ he suggested. ‘Or even a bite to eat, later. A curry, maybe.’

‘Sorry,’ said Mark. ‘I can’t do it. I have…plans.’

‘Plans? That sounds intriguing.’ Neville laughed. ‘What’s her name, then?’

Mark, though, was evasive. ‘Let’s do it another time,’ he suggested.

Leo had already had a full afternoon: he’d spent time calming Frances down, and he’d been subjected to a visit from the police. Both of these things had been unscheduled, and had taken valuable time. But there was
one more thing which
was
scheduled, and which couldn’t be avoided.

Late in the afternoon, a photographer arrived at the rectory. He was to take the official photographs of Leo in advance of the
announcement
of his new appointment, photos which would be available for the press and media. It was the last thing, really, that Leo needed at that moment.

In spite of that, he switched on a smile and welcomed the man. ‘Where would you like to take them?’ he asked. ‘Here at the rectory, or in the church?’

‘Maybe we’d better do it both ways,’ the man suggested. ‘It’s good to have a variety.’

Leo led him into his study and posed at his desk as the man snapped away.

‘Now,’ said the photographer, ‘before we go to the church, I wonder whether we might take one or two with your family? That’s what I usually do, if they’re willing and you don’t have any objections.’

‘I don’t have a family,’ Leo said.

‘No? No wife and kiddies?’

‘No. I’m a bachelor.’

The man looked round speculatively. ‘You live in this big house all by yourself, then?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Seems a shame, somehow.’ As they headed towards the church, he continued to chatter companionably. ‘Me and the wife, we’ve got three kiddies. Two boys and a girl. Don’t ever believe it if people tell you that boys are more trouble than girls. Our boys have never given us a minute’s worry. But the girl, our Kayleigh – that’s another story. She’s twelve now. Twelve going on twenty-one, the wife says. Wants her
belly-button
pierced, if you can believe it! Twelve years old, and wants a pierced belly-button. Can you feature it?’ He shook his head in
wonderment.
‘She says all the other girls are doing it. Of course, the wife has put her foot down. Ears, maybe, she says, but no belly-button. Not at twelve.’

Leo let it all wash over him; his thoughts were elsewhere. The
photographer’s
innocent question, and his automatic response, had triggered a flood of emotion which he had to hide – from the man and from his camera.

No family. A bachelor. Just a few short weeks ago he would have said it light-heartedly, with more relief than regret. God had been good to him. He had his friends, he had his church: why would he need anything more than that?

But that was before Oliver had entered his life. Now he knew that he needed more. Now he knew, from experience, in the depths of his soul, that there was profound truth in the Genesis account: ‘It is not good that man should be alone.’ Man was created for love, for companionship, and once that had been experienced, it was unthinkable that it should be taken away.

How much easier it had been, before.

And how unfair it was. If Oliver had been a woman, had been his wife or his fiancée, he would have been at his side today, sharing his joy in this public recognition of his abilities and accomplishments. Proud of him, and proud to be there with him.

For Leo, for Oliver, that wasn’t an option.

Somehow he got through the photo session, managing not to betray his raging feelings. Then he went back to the rectory and poured himself a whisky, settling down in the upstairs sitting room to drink it.

The sun was low in the sky, casting long shadows over Hyde Park. For just a moment there was a magical effect, as the tops of the trees were
gilded
with liquid light, glowing warmly in the gathering dusk. Unnoticed, they had started to turn colour, and the sun now pointed out their new autumn finery by adding some gold of its own. Then the sun sank a bit further, and the trees were just trees again.

Oliver had come into his life like the sun, illuminating his hidden
corners,
throwing everything into sharp relief. More than that: Oliver had changed him. And Leo hadn’t even noticed. Once – not so long ago – he had been alone, but he had never felt lonely.

Now he was profoundly lonely. Not much more than twenty-four hours since he’d seen Oliver, and he was more lonely than he’d ever been in his life.

Was it worth it?

Sipping his whisky slowly, he asked himself the question: did he really want to be a bishop?

Everything he had achieved in the Church had been done, in his mind, as a representative of his race. To prove that a black man – and one who had grown up barefoot in the slums of Jamaica – could do as well in the Church as anyone else: that was his underlying motivation, always. This
appointment
was the culmination of all he’d striven for on behalf of his race.

And as he’d told both Oliver and Frances, it gave him the most
wonderful
platform from which to campaign for change in the institution, an unparalleled opportunity to speak out on behalf on all the causes that
mattered
to him. That was not to be dismissed lightly.

And yet, and yet …

He was beginning to realise the cost involved. His life would no longer be his own, and it wasn’t just because of the enormous time commitment. He would be putting himself in the public eye far more than he’d ever done, subjecting himself to the relentless glare of publicity. His life would have to be seen to be above reproach.

That, even if he could manage it, was so unfair for Oliver.

Oliver’s life, as well as his own, would change beyond recognition. He would have to be prepared not only to wait out the initial period of
separation,
but to skulk around after that, hiding in the shadows. Living a lie.

Leo acknowledged that he hadn’t fully thought through what it would mean to Oliver, or what he was asking of him. And that was assuming that they’d pull it off, that the press wouldn’t sniff Oliver out and subject them both to the most horrible ordeal imaginable.

Again he asked himself: was it worth it?

Perhaps it wasn’t too late to change his mind, Leo told himself
suddenly,
finishing his whisky. If he were to pick up the phone this minute and ring the Appointments Secretary …

He half rose from the sofa, then sank back again, groaning as the
realisation
hit him with full force. It
was
too late. Everything had been set into motion. The Diocesan Bishop, the Archbishop, the Prime Minister, the Queen…all had given their stamp of approval. The official photos were even now being printed off, the press releases were written and at the ready. 
Tomorrow, at noon precisely, it would happen. And there was nothing he could do now to stop it.

Callie had laid the table, using her favourite mats, and had added a few twinkling tea-lights. The steaks were seasoned and ready for the grill; a big bowl of salad awaited dressing. She’d bought a punnet of late strawberries for pudding, and had chosen a bottle of red wine at the off-licence, wishing that Peter – something of a wine expert – had been around to advise her instead of off cavorting in Milan.

Now she was on the sofa with last Friday’s
Church Times,
which she’d been too busy to read until this evening. Bella was beside her, snuggled close, her head on Callie’s knee, and Callie fondled her soft ears as she read. It was almost impossible to believe that Bella had been with her for only twenty-four hours. They had bonded; they were a family now.

The doorbell rang about seven. Callie carefully moved Bella aside and went to answer it.

Mark was smiling. ‘How’s my beautiful girl this evening?’ he asked.

A shaft of wild joy, dazzling and unexpected as a rainbow, shot through Callie, but it only lasted for a heartbeat. Mark wasn’t looking at her, she realised – he was looking past her, into the room.

He was talking about Bella.

Neville knew that he should have followed DCS Evans’ advice and had an early night, but he’d been far too restless for that. Instead, for lack of a
better
drinking partner, he’d gone out with Sid Cowley. They’d had a curry, and then had gone on to a pub where he’d had at least one Guinness too many. Cowley’s fault, of course: Neville wasn’t about to let down the
honour
of his race by letting some poxy little lager-swilling Englishman
outdrink
him.

And
why
had he let Cowley talk him into the vindaloo? he wondered in the middle of the night, tossing and turning in an agony of heartburn. He hoped that Cowley, wherever he might be, was suffering as much as he was. If not more.

That proved to be a vain hope when his phone rang at an
unconscionably
early hour. Neville reached for it, half awake and in pain,
knowing
only that it was still dark and he hadn’t had nearly enough sleep. ‘Morning, Guv,’ said Cowley’s cheerful voice.

Had he not even been to bed, then? ‘Good God, man! What time is it? What do you want?’

‘The Daily Globe,’
Cowley said succinctly. ‘You need to see it. It’s bad, Guv.’

Neville slammed the phone down, cursing Cowley and Lilith Noone in equal measure. Surely the bloody woman hadn’t carried through on her threat? Not even Lilith Noone, not even the
Globe
, could be that
irresponsible,
could jeopardise their investigation like that.

He took the time to shower, letting the hot water sluice over his face and scrubbing himself hard, as if he could get rid of the residue of the
vindaloo
and the Guinness that way. Then he dressed and went out into the dark.

It was raining. Hard. After the fine weather of the past weeks, that came as a shock. Neville sprinted to the corner newsagents’; the unaccustomed exercise was another shock to his system.

There was a caff on the opposite corner, its lights shining invitingly through steamed-up windows and dingy net curtains. Dodging the
early-bird 
Neville dashed across and found an empty table, amongst the off-duty taxi drivers and shift-workers who frequented the place at that hour. The smell of bacon frying was overwhelming; ordinarily he found it the most enticing of smells, but not this morning. He ordered black coffee, and spread the damp
Globe
open on the chipped formica table.

The story wasn’t difficult to find; it had not been relegated to the obscurity of the back pages.

A mug of coffee was slapped down beside the paper, and he sipped it absent-mindedly as he began to read. It was boiling hot, and as corrosive as battery acid; his beleaguered stomach, still reeling from the vindaloo,
contracted
queasily in protest. Neville didn’t notice.

Frances, feeling battered, buried her head in her pillow and was only dimly aware that she was alone in bed. Graham had said something about getting up early to work on a funeral sermon, she recalled, reaching for the clock.

It was later than she’d thought. Either she’d slept through Graham’s alarm, or he’d waked without its help and switched it off. She’d better get going if she wasn’t going to make a habit of being late for work, she realised with a stab of panic.

She was still gathering her strength to throw the duvet off when Graham pushed the door open with his foot, holding a cup of tea in one hand and an envelope in the other.

‘Why didn’t you wake me?’ she demanded.

‘You needed your sleep.’ His voice was firm.

‘But I’ll be late!’

Graham put the tea down on her bedside table. ‘The world won’t come to an end if you
are
, Fran. You always put in extra hours. No one will mind if you’re a bit late.’

She closed her eyes in exasperation. Graham meant well, but he was far more laid back than she when it came to timekeeping. He might not be late to his own funeral, as the saying went, but he had certainly been late to
several
other people’s – knowing full well that they wouldn’t start without him.

‘Drink your tea,’ he said. ‘I have something to show you.’

There was a note in his voice which quelled her protest before it rose to
her lips. Graham was serious, and if she wasn’t mistaken, he was upset.

‘What is it?’ she asked apprehensively. ‘Bad news?’

He gave her a wry, reassuring smile. ‘Actually, it’s
good
news. Or at least
I
think so.’

‘What?’

‘Heather is coming home for Christmas after all.’

‘But that’s wonderful!’ She sat up quickly, almost knocking her tea over. ‘How do you know? Did she phone while I was sleeping?’

Graham waved the envelope in his hand. ‘She’s written.’

‘A
letter
?’ Frances couldn’t recall the last time they’d had an actual
letter
from Heather. It had been years – probably not since she was at school. Communication since then had always been in the form of phone calls or emails. Frances wasn’t even sure she would recognise Heather’s
handwriting.
‘I suppose she’s split up with the new American chap and she’s
coming
home to recover,’ she guessed.

‘Not quite right,’ said Graham. ‘On either count.’

Frances put out her hand for the letter, but Graham withheld it. Instead he handed her a photo. ‘Brace yourself,’ he warned. ‘The chap isn’t…well, he isn’t exactly what you might have expected. And they haven’t split up.’

Frances was unable to absorb what she was seeing. Heather, in a
bedraggled
-looking lace dress, clasping an equally bedraggled bunch of flowers. The man who stood next to her, his arm protectively round her shoulders, was tall and skinny and wore a tie-dyed t-shirt. His thinning hair was grey, long and braided into a pair of meagre, greasy plaits which hung halfway down his chest. And his thin forearm, which reached across to clasp Heather’s free hand, was adorned with a colourful tattoo of a green-scaled, red-eyed dragon. With his weathered, seamed – one might even say
wrinkled
– face, and his wispy, drooping grey moustache, he looked to be
closer
to sixty than fifty. Old enough to be her father; older, certainly, than her parents. ‘His name is Zack, it would seem,’ Graham said dryly.

‘Zack.’ Frances’ mind was still a blank.

Graham held the letter up and read from it. ‘“We’re coming home for Christmas, so you can meet him. I know you’ll love him, Daddy, just like I do.’”

‘Heather loves an ageing hippie called Zack,’ Frances said, trying to take it in. Then she realised something else. ‘She said “Daddy”. She didn’t write to both of us, then?’ She knew that Heather had always been closer to her father, but she couldn’t help a fleeting twinge of jealousy.

He smiled apologetically. ‘She thought you’d be upset. She wanted me to break it to you gently. To show you the photo, then tell you.’

‘Tell me what, exactly?’ Her first – unwelcome – thought was that Heather was pregnant. But as soon as the words were out of her mouth, Frances knew. This was no ordinary photo: it was a wedding photo. The lace dress. The flowers. ‘They’ve got married, haven’t they? Oh God. They’re married.’

‘Last week, apparently.’

Why didn’t Graham seem surprised? Suspicion assailed Frances. ‘Did you know anything about this before?’

‘Well, not exactly.’ Graham didn’t look at her. ‘But she’d sent me a few emails mentioning Zack. She sort of hinted at it.’

‘Oh, great. And you didn’t tell me.’

‘You’ve had other worries on your mind,’ he reminded her.

‘That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t want to know about my daughter – my only daughter – getting married to an old man she’s known for five
minutes.’
Again she put her hand out. ‘Can I read the letter?’

Graham sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘I’ll read you bits of it.’

‘All right,’ she conceded.

‘“We’re so happy. I never knew what true happiness was until now. Zack is older than I am, and he’s been married before, but he is so wise and so good. Now everything is right. So right – you just can’t imagine, Daddy. But I know you’ll understand.”’

‘Why does she think
you’ll
understand?’ Frances demanded.

He ignored her and went on. ‘“Yes, I realise that we haven’t known each other long, but when the right person comes along, you just
know.
Mum might have a hard time with this. I know she’s always had a clear idea of the sort of man she wanted for me, and Zack is nothing like that. There’s the age difference, of course, and he’s not a Christian – he’s a Pagan – and our wedding was a druid ceremony. I’m sure she’ll be disappointed in me, and 
upset that you weren’t invited to the wedding. I don’t want her to
disapprove.
Please try to help her understand. I want you both to love Zack. He’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”’

Frances sighed. ‘What else?’

‘“He is a vegan, of course, and I have become one as well. So Christmas lunch will be a bit different this year! I’ll send Mum a recipe for nut loaf.”’ ‘Oh, great.’

Graham pulled a face, then said, ‘And there’s one more thing, Fran.’

‘Tell me.’ Her heart sank at his tone.

‘“In case you think we got married because I was pregnant, Daddy, I can assure you that I’m not. In fact, we won’t be having children at all. Zack had a vasectomy about thirty years ago, after his first wife had her fourth baby. I hope you don’t mind.”’

No grandchildren, then. Frances’ eyes pricked with tears, for herself and for Graham. ‘Does it bother you?’ she asked.

Graham turned the letter over in his hands, looking thoughtful. ‘I
suppose
if I’m honest, Fran, I’m a bit disappointed. I would really have liked to have grandchildren one day.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t rule that out.’ Frances gave a bitter laugh; if she didn’t laugh, she knew she would cry. ‘The one good thing is that, at his age, he won’t live forever. When he pops his clogs, she’ll still be young enough to have babies with someone else.’ Her laughter bubbled over into hysteria, and she collapsed back onto the pillows, unable to stop. Tears ran down her cheeks; still she laughed.

It was infectious, of course, and Graham joined in. The letter fell to the floor and they clung together, both shaking with mirth.

Neville rang Cowley on his mobile. ‘Where are you now, Sid?’

‘At the station. In your office. Where are
you
?’

‘On my way.’ That was a slight exaggeration. He ran back to his flat, changed into dry clothes, and equipped himself with an umbrella.

Cowley was indeed in Neville’s office. Sitting at Neville’s desk, in fact, and eating a greasy bacon sandwich.

Again Neville’s stomach did a flip-flop. ‘Ugh, how could you?’ he
groaned. ‘After that vindaloo?’

‘That was hours ago.’ Cowley grinned cheerfully, seeming none the worse for wear.

Neville threw the newspaper, now thoroughly wet, on the desk. ‘Well, what now?’ he asked, though he knew the answer as well as Cowley did.

‘We’ll have to arrest her,’ said Cowley, stuffing the last bite of his
sandwich
into his mouth and reaching for his cigarettes.

Yes, they would have to arrest her. They had no other option at this point. ‘But first we have to get the go-ahead from Evans,’ Neville pointed out. ‘And I’m the one who’s going to have to tell him,’ he added, almost to himself. ‘Unless he’s already seen it.’ He didn’t know which would be worse; on the whole he preferred not to have to break the news himself, though Lilith Noone’s words were seared on his memory: ‘It is a week today since Jonah Adimola was brutally murdered, and the police seem no closer than ever to making an arrest, this in spite of the fact that he was strangled with a garment which belonged to the radical feminist priest, the Reverend Frances Cherry, with whom Adimola had a public row just a short time before his murder.’ A garment, he thought: made it sound like she’d strangled him with her knickers. God, what a genius that wretched Noone woman was! She’d managed to land them deep in the brown stuff, all right, and make it sound even worse than it was.

‘Better you than me, Guv.’ Cowley struck a match on the scarred wood of Neville’s desk and inhaled as the flame caught.

Neville looked at the clock. Evans might be in his office by now, or on the way. At any rate, his efficient and admirable secretary would probably be at her desk. He picked up the phone and rang her extension. ‘Neville Stewart,’ he identified himself. ‘Is he in yet? I need to see him, urgently.’

‘The
Globe
,’ she guessed. ‘I read it on the Tube.’ She sighed regretfully and went on. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector Stewart, but he’s not in. And he’s not likely to be in for a few more hours, at least.’

‘But it’s Tuesday,’ Neville said stupidly. Why would Evans not be at his desk on a Tuesday morning?

‘It’s his wife,’ she explained. ‘She’s gone into labour. Prematurely, apparently. He’s with her at the hospital. They’ve been there since half past
two this morning.’

‘Oh, Lord.’

She anticipated his next question. ‘And he’s not reachable. You know how hospitals are when it comes to mobile phones.

Neville did know. ‘So what are we supposed to do? It’s urgent,’ he repeated.

‘If he rings in at some point, I’ll tell him to get in touch,’ she promised. ‘It’s the best I can do.’

Cowley had been listening to one side of the conversation with
interest.
‘So what’s up?’ he asked when Neville had put the phone down.

Neville told him. ‘We can’t do it without his say-so,’ he finished. ‘Not unless we’re prepared for him to have our guts for garters. So I suppose that means we cool our heels for a bit, until the lovely Denise gets round to presenting him with the latest Evans sprog.’

‘That could be hours,’ Cowley pointed out. ‘Days, even. My sister, she was in labour for forty-seven hours.’

‘Oh, great,’ Neville groaned. ‘I suppose we’d just better hope that this baby is in a big hurry to be born.’

Cowley dragged on his cigarette and twisted his mouth into a grin. ‘Poor little bastard. When he sees his father’s ugly mug, he’ll probably want to turn round and go back where he came from.’