Evil Intent (26 page)

‘Vincent? My taxi’s here, so I’m off now. I shouldn’t be too late.’

He put the phone down quickly and spun round. ‘All right, dear,’ he said heartily. ‘Have fun.’

One week. It was almost impossible to believe, thought Callie as she laid the table, that exactly a week ago she’d been working herself up into a stew before the Deanery Clergy Chapter meeting. Looking at herself in the
mirror,
worrying about facing Adam for the first time.

With everything that had happened since, that had faded into
insignificance.

A man was dead, and Frances…It just didn’t bear thinking about, the agony her friend was going through at the moment.

And tonight Mark was coming back, yet again. To see Bella, of course, she reminded herself. He’d said that it wasn’t fair for her to feed him for a second evening in a row, and had insisted that he would cook for her instead. He would bring the ingredients and the wine; all she had to do was lay the table.

He arrived on time, greeted Callie warmly and Bella effusively, then opened the wine, pouring two generous glasses. ‘You can relax in the sitting room and drink it,’ he said, ‘or you can keep me company in the kitchen.’

She followed him towards the kitchen, Bella at her heels. ‘If that won’t distract you.’

‘Believe it or not, I can cook and talk at the same time. As long as I
don’t step on Bella.’

Callie leaned against a counter and watched him as he skilfully and
rapidly
chopped an onion, then scooped it into a saucepan with a glug of olive oil. ‘Who taught you to cook like this?’ she asked, impressed.

‘La Mia
mamma, naturalmente,’
he said lightly. ‘She’s the best cook in the world.
La migliora cuora.
Bar none. I told you my parents have a
restaurant.
Un ristorante.’

‘Yes, of course. We saw it. La Venezia.’ She added shyly, ‘Maybe we could go there some time.’

‘Perhaps.’ He opened a tin of plum tomatoes and ran the knife through them. ‘Unless you can get fresh ones, in season, these tinned ones make the best sauce,’ he told her. ‘You have to use good Italian ones, of course.’

‘Are we having pasta?’

‘We are.’ Mark went to one of the bags he’d brought and pulled out a flat box. ‘I would have made my own, but I didn’t have time.’

‘You make your own pasta?’ She really was impressed.

‘It’s not difficult. I’ll show you some time.’

‘Great. I’d like that.’

‘My mum made this,’ he confessed. ‘I begged it off her.’ He opened the box to show Callie.

The pasta was, she thought, almost too pretty to eat: little nests of creamy-coloured noodles, still soft, curled in twin rows.

‘Oh, yum.’ The onion was throwing off a most delectable smell, and her mouth was beginning to water.

Mark took a sip of his wine, then started snipping fresh herbs with her kitchen scissors.

Callie took a rather larger sip of hers, seeking courage. She had
something
she needed to say to him, and it was going to require all of the
bravery
she could muster. And the longer she waited, the more difficult it would be.

‘Listen, Marco,’ she said tentatively. ‘Can I ask you about something?’

‘Sure.’ He turned to grin at her. ‘As I said before, I can cook and talk at the same time.’ His grin widened, and he winked. ‘Unless you’re going to ask me for my mum’s secret recipe for the best pasta sauce in the world.
Then my lips are sealed.’

She gave him a weak smile, then plunged in. ‘I know I don’t have any business asking you this.’

‘Now you have me worried.’

‘It’s my friend Frances. Frances Cherry.’

She had his attention. For a moment he paused, before deliberately turning back to his snipping. ‘Yes?’ he said neutrally.

Callie couldn’t stop now, and it came out all in a rush. ‘I know it’s not your department or anything. And you couldn’t really tell me if it was. But I just thought you might have heard something. She’s terribly upset. I rang her this afternoon, and she was crying. There was a story in the
Globe
today. She’s sure that she’s going to be arrested. For a murder she had
nothing
to do with.’ She found, to her horror, that she was on the brink of tears herself.

Mark put the scissors down and turned to face her. ‘It
isn’t
my
department,’
he said, unsmiling now. ‘I don’t know anything about that case. Not officially.’

‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. I’m just so worried about Frances, and I didn’t know where else to turn.’

‘It’s good of you to be so worried about your friend.’

‘Frances…’ Callie searched for the words to explain. ‘She’s more than a friend to me. She’s been my mentor. My inspiration. At times she’s been more like a mother to me than my own mother. I’d do anything to help her.’

Mark studied her for a moment, then nodded, as if making his mind up. ‘I’ll see what I can find out,’ he conceded. ‘I can’t make any promises,
obviously,
but I know one or two people who might tell me something. Given the proper incentive, that is.’

‘Oh, Marco! That’s so kind! Thank you so much.’ She tried to smile, and started crying instead.

‘Now, now.’ He took a step forward and folded her in a comforting hug.

Callie assumed he would have done the same for any friend in distress, but that didn’t stop her from enjoying it, in spite of the circumstances.

Wednesday morning’s
Globe
was the first issue for several days in which no by-lined piece by Lilith Noone appeared. Leo’s appointment was noted in one small and noncommittal paragraph buried deep on an inside page,
bearing
the alliterative headline ‘Black Bishop for Brixton’.

Other newspapers gave more coverage to the appointment, quoting
liberally
from the press release and running the official photos. In fact, Leo’s phone had begun to ring immediately after the announcement, with
journalists
anxious to set up interviews, in addition to friends and colleagues congratulating him.

Every time the phone rang he’d reached for it, his heart lurching with hope. So many people ringing. But none of them were the only person he really wanted to talk to: Oliver.

On Wednesday, though, he awoke early and with renewed hope. Surely Oliver would ring him today. And in the mean time he had a very busy day ahead of him. The religious affairs correspondents for the
Times
and the
Telegraph
were coming to interview him first thing in the morning, one after the other, before his weekly meeting with the Archdeacon. The
Church Times
were planning an extensive feature, and were sending
someone
in the afternoon. Even the
Guardian,
not ordinarily known for its
religious
coverage, were interested in Leo because of his reputation as an activist for liberal causes, and its reporter was coming at teatime.

The postman brought the first trickle of congratulatory letters from quick-off-the-mark well-wishers, and more were sure to follow over the next few days. Answering them, if only with no more than a brief
acknowledgement,
was going to keep him busy, Leo realised, bemused. His life had changed, and there was no going back now.

Still, every phone call engendered that rush of adrenaline, that upsurge of hope. Oliver
would
ring. He
must.

In the wake of Tuesday’s sensational story, various people went out early to buy the
Globe,
fearing even more unwelcome revelations by Lilith Noone. Frances and Graham, Callie, Neville Stewart and Sid Cowley, and even
Marigold Underwood breathed sighs of relief that not a word was said about Jonah Adimola’s murder: no more dramatic disclosures, no sly
innuendo
about anyone’s involvement or the police’s deficiencies.

Lilith Noone, it would seem, had run out of steam.

Lilith herself was, of course, the one person who was not happy about this development. In fact, she was profoundly depressed by it.

It hardly seemed worth getting out of bed, she felt. Why should she? She was washed up. Finished. She’d staked her reputation on this story, and it had fizzled out. The police hadn’t risen to the bait. Nothing had
happened;
no arrest had been made. There was nowhere else for her to go.

She wrapped the duvet more closely round her, shivering. The room seemed chillier. Perhaps, Lilith told herself, she was coming down with something. Her head was throbbing, and was her throat sore? She must be developing a nasty cold.

Bed-rest was what she needed. She’d been working so hard lately that she hadn’t been taking proper care of herself.

If only there were someone else here to bring her a cup of tea. But she was alone – quite alone.

Feeling thoroughly sorry for herself, Lilith reached for the bedside phone and rang the receptionist at the
Globe.
She wouldn’t be coming into the offices today, she said. She was quite poorly, sickening with something. It might be days before she was well enough to come in.

Her efforts to go back to sleep were not successful. Someone in the flat upstairs was taking a shower, and the pipes were making a dreadful racket. And the state of her bedroom was beginning to oppress her. To put it bluntly, it was a tip; in the past few days, when she’d been working flat out on the Jonah Adimola story, it had crossed the line from being merely untidy to being a disaster area. Discarded clothes lay on the floor in piles, where she’d stepped out of them, and drawers were pulled half-open, spilling over with lacy, frilly bits. Every flat surface held dirty tea cups and coffee mugs, plates with crusts and crumbs. On the evidence, she’d been living on caffeine and adrenaline, with just a bit of toast to keep body and soul together. It was no wonder she was ill.

And she was hungry. Feed a cold, she told herself. She struggled out of
bed, rooting on the floor for her dressing gown. It was under a layer of clothes from yesterday, and her slippers proved even more elusive. ‘Oh, forget it,’ she muttered crossly, padding barefoot to the tiny kitchen.

It was definitely colder than yesterday, Lilith realised, and not just because she was ill. She hadn’t switched the heating on; there was a real chill in the air, and her feet were freezing on the uncarpeted kitchen floor. She pulled her dressing gown round her and shivered as the kettle took its time to boil. The bread was beginning to go mouldy, she discovered, and the
biscuit
tin was empty. Desperate, she scraped and picked the green mould from the least-affected slice of bread and popped it in the toaster, holding her hands over it to warm them.

She wasn’t surprised to find that the milk had gone off. The old bottle in the fridge had actually coagulated into solid lumps, and the newer one had been left out on the counter – for how long? – and smelt sour. She couldn’t cope with milkless tea, so it would have to be black coffee. Not the best thing for a cold, she was sure.

Lilith put the coffee and toast on a tray and took them back to her bed. After consuming them, she wished she hadn’t, not least because the coffee gave her heartburn and the toast left crumbs in the bed.

Maybe she should get up and watch some daytime television, like a lady of leisure.

Finding her slippers this time, she went through into the other room – the room with her computer, the television, and other accoutrements for living and working. She was dismayed to find that it was in no better shape than the bedroom. More dirty cups and mugs and plates, and untidy stacks of papers and books rather than piles of clothes. But at least it was warmer, or it would be once she’d switched on the electric fire. Shoving some things aside to make space to sit on the sofa, she deployed the remote control.

Morning television, she soon discovered, was even grimmer than she’d imagined. On BBC 1, loudmouthed designers were taking an ugly house and transforming it into an even uglier one. BBC 2 was given over to
children’s
programming; unidentifiable creatures in primary colours romped round the screen, speaking in high-pitched voices. On ITV, a woman with a shaved head and a bad attitude – almost worse than her grammar – was  
pouring out her heart to a seemingly sympathetic host and being heckled by the studio audience. Switching to Channel 4, her last hope, she found the home of educational broadcasting. If she’d wanted to know the basics of contract law, she would have been in luck.

Wishing she had cable, Lilith switched back to ITV, and in spite of herself got involved in the woman’s story. Yes, she’d slept with her mother’s boyfriend, she admitted. And she’d sold one of her mother’s rings to finance a dirty weekend with said boyfriend. But they were in love. Didn’t that make it all right? Her mother didn’t like that ring much and probably wouldn’t even miss it. Besides, what her mother didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

She appeared surprised when it was pointed out to her by an astute member of the audience that it was likely her mother would now find out.

In fact, it seemed that the programme makers were a step ahead of her. The mother was backstage, watching on closed-circuit. And the two-
timing
boyfriend was in a separate room, also watching. Just as the host was about to reveal this fact to the hapless woman, and usher one or both of the other parties onto the stage, Lilith’s phone rang.

‘Oh, bloody hell,’ she said, grabbing it with one hand and turning down the volume with the other.

‘Lilith Noone? Sorry to bother you,’ said a diffident voice – young, male. ‘The receptionist said that you were at home today, not feeling well.’

‘That’s right.’ On the telly, the mother had run out onto the stage, her face contorted with rage. She made as if to grab her daughter’s hair, then seemingly realising that she was not possessed of any, she took a swing at her instead – and missed. Burly guards stepped out and pinned her arms but she wriggled away from them just as the boyfriend approached from the other side.

‘She didn’t want to give me your home number,’ he admitted. ‘But I told her it was important.’

Wretched woman, Lilith thought – she’d tear a strip off her the next time she saw her. Did ‘sick’ no longer have any meaning?

The boyfriend had more hair than the daughter. Lots more, flowing down over his biker jacket, blending with his scraggly beard. His wronged lover seized him by the beard and pulled him onto the floor, pummelling
him with her fists.

‘I’m really not well,’ Lilith protested. ‘I hope to be back at work
tomorrow.
Can I take your number and ring you then? Or perhaps you could speak to someone else at the paper.’

The daughter launched herself from her chair and entered the fray. She went for an easy target: her mother’s prominent eyebrow ring, which she grabbed and twisted.

‘It’s important,’ the young man repeated. ‘And I won’t talk to anyone at the
Globe
but you.’

The mother screamed, blood running down into her eye. She elbowed her daughter in her ample stomach, then kneed the recumbent boyfriend in the groin.

Lilith could read their lips clearly, but imagined that if the volume had been audible, she would have heard little but bleeps: it was, after all, nearly twelve hours before the watershed.

He was persistent, you had to give him that. ‘What is it in regard to, if you don’t mind my asking?’

‘I’d rather not say over the phone. I need to see you,’ he said politely but firmly. ‘Today. In private.’

Lilith sighed. Then a niggle of excitement, some sort of instinct, kicked in and she switched off the television, giving him her whole attention. ‘Does this by any chance have to do with Jonah Adimola’s murder?’ she demanded. ‘Is that why you need to talk to
me
?’

‘Well, not exactly,’ he said. ‘But it has to do with someone associated with it.’

Now she was truly engaged. ‘Who is that?’

‘Leo Jackson,’ said the young man softly. ‘The new Bishop of Brixton.’

Lilith’s eyes narrowed; her heart beat faster. ‘Where shall we meet?’

‘Can I come to you at home? This afternoon, perhaps? I could come after three.’

She looked round the flat. Well, it couldn’t be helped. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Come after three. As soon as you can get here.’ She gave him the address.

‘I’ll see you, then.’

When he’d hung up, she sat for a moment with the remote slack in her
hand, intrigued and excited. Then she remembered what she’d been doing, and turned the telly back on. The credits were rolling; the injured parties were nowhere to be seen. Now she would never know.

Frances rang Callie during her morning break. ‘It’s been ages since we’ve seen each other,’ she pointed out. ‘I know you’re very busy, but could we get together one day, even if it’s just for a coffee?’

Callie mentally checked her diary, feeling a bit guilty. She’d been
thinking
about Frances a great deal, and had spoken to her almost daily, but her free time had been absorbed by Bella…and Mark. She
must
make time for Frances. Especially now, when Frances had so much on her mind. So much hanging over her head. ‘I have a staff meeting with Brian tomorrow
morning,’
she said. ‘But I’m free at lunchtime.’

‘Shall we meet up then? You name a place.’

Bella would need to be walked. ‘Why don’t you come here?’ Callie
suggested.

‘I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’

‘I won’t go to any trouble,’ she assured her. ‘I’ll pick up some
sandwiches,
and heat some soup.’

‘Sounds great,’ Frances agreed. ‘I’ll see you about one tomorrow, if that’s all right with you.’

‘That will be wonderful. Besides,’ Callie added, ‘you haven’t met Bella yet. You have to meet Bella.’

‘I’ll look forward to that.’

Callie hesitated for a moment. ‘How are you feeling today? About…you know.’

‘Nothing in the
Globe
this morning.’ Frances gave a shaky laugh. ‘Which was a great relief. And no police knocking on the door. So I
suppose
I would describe myself as cautiously hopeful.’

Neville was frustrated but resigned. A whole day lost: Evans hadn’t even bothered to ring him, and twenty-four hours later there was as yet no word. Denise, it would seem, was still in labour. Eventually, though, there would have to be a resolution to the situation. The baby would come, dead or
alive, sooner or later.

In the mean time, Neville applied himself to clearing his desk of
accumulated
paperwork. He began to read through all the interview notes,
hoping
that something he’d missed would jump out at him, something that would suddenly make everything crystal clear.

He didn’t need Sid Cowley at this point, finding his presence a
distraction
rather than a help, so he’d sent him off to talk to a hysterical American tourist whose wallet had been lifted from her handbag during the Changing of the Guard outside of Buckingham Palace.

As lunchtime approached Neville began to flag, and welcomed the appearance of Mark Lombardi at his office door with more than usual enthusiasm.

‘Are you busy, Nev?’ Mark asked cautiously.

‘Not at all.’ He threw down the papers in his hand. ‘How about getting some lunch?’

‘Here?’

The station’s catering didn’t appeal to him at the moment, and he longed for a pint of Guinness. ‘Let’s go to the pub.’