Evil Intent (30 page)

Frances exhaled in a silent prayer of thanks.

She came. ‘I never forget a promise,’ she said as she was ushered into Frances’ little room. ‘I told you to call me if you ever needed a good lawyer,
and here I am.’

Her voice was just the same as Frances remembered, her lilting Irish accent undiminished. In other ways, though, Triona had changed. Her hair was longer, swept into an elegant twist at the nape of her neck. She’d filled out a bit, as well, from her former skeletal thinness. Both the longer hair and the added pounds became her. Once a striking girl, she was now a
beautiful
woman. And she was very well dressed: her student scruffiness had given way to a sleek, perfectly cut suit, clearly expensive.

‘How are you, Frances?’ she asked, then answered herself. ‘Silly
question
. I can see how you are.’

‘As well as can be expected. Thanks for coming, Triona.’

Triona lowered herself into the chair by the desk, dropping a pad of paper on the bare surface. ‘It’s because of the promise,’ she said. ‘I don’t do criminal work, not ordinarily.’

‘Then what …’

‘I’ve sold out,’ she announced bluntly. ‘I’ve been seduced by Mammon. I work for a big City firm. Corporate conveyancing.’ She pulled a face. ‘It’s as boring as it sounds. Boring as hell, to tell the truth. But it pays
fantastically
well.’

‘I do appreciate your coming,’ Frances said. ‘If you’d rather not do it, perhaps you could recommend someone else. I just didn’t know where else to turn.’

‘Oh, I’ll do it.’ Triona looked directly at Frances; her eyes were unchanged, still alight with that spark of adventure which Frances
remembered
so well. ‘It will be a challenge.’

She took a pen from her black leather handbag and pulled the pad of paper towards her. ‘Start at the beginning and tell me everything,’ she ordered.

‘Have you read the papers? The
Globe
?’ If she had, thought Frances, this might be easier.

Triona waved her hand dismissively. ‘I never read the papers. A load of rubbish, in my opinion. I want this in
your
words.’

So Frances told her, beginning with the Deanery Clergy Chapter
meeting
. Occasionally Triona interrupted her with a question, or a request for
clarification, pausing now and again to make notes on her pad. The process lasted the better part of an hour.

‘I suppose the police will be wanting to interview me soon,’ Frances said. ‘Detective Inspector Stewart said it would be this morning.’

Triona paused in the act of writing, her pen poised in mid-air. ‘Detective Inspector Stewart, did you say?’

‘That’s right. And Detective Sergeant Cowley.’

‘Neville Stewart?’

Frances nodded. ‘That’s right. Why? Do you know him?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Triona said softly, almost to herself. ‘I know Neville Stewart. Or at least I used to know him.’

‘In Ireland?’

‘No. In London.’

Frances waited for more, but Triona remained silent, looking pensive. ‘Well, well,’ she said at last, with a half-smile. ‘It will be…interesting…to see Neville Stewart again.’

Leo had no intimation that his world was about to fall apart when, early on Thursday morning, he was awakened by an insistent ringing of the doorbell.

His clock told him that it was nearly seven, but there wasn’t a hint of sun round the edges of the curtains. He got out of bed and went to the
window
, pulling the curtain aside.

It was overcast, misty – threatening rain. The golden autumn seemed to have vanished under a cloud.

The bell went again. Sighing, Leo padded downstairs, not bothering to look for his dressing gown. If the postman – or whoever it happened to be – didn’t want to see him in his boxer shorts, then he shouldn’t be ringing the bell at this unsociable hour.

He opened the door a crack and was blinded by a dozen flashes. He blinked, stepped back, and instinctively slammed the door shut, as much from the shock of the cold temperature as anything else. ‘What on earth?’ he said aloud.

Now there were voices calling out; he could hear them through the door. ‘Mr Jackson!’ ‘Do you have any comment?’ ‘Could we have a word?’

Leo stood for a moment, shivering, blinking as the blobs on his retina faded away, trying to fathom what was going on. There were people out there. More than a handful, judging by the noise and the number of
flashes
. Journalists? Surely a black bishop wasn’t
that
newsworthy? He’d spent yesterday talking to journalists; why were they back?

He went to the coat-rack in the hall and found an anorak. Perhaps not the most appropriate garment for the occasion, but at least it would keep him warm – and decent. Shoving his cold feet into a pair of wellie boots, he returned to the door and pulled it open. This time he was ready for the flashes; he shaded his eyes and addressed the person who had been ringing the bell, a weedy man with gingery hair and unfortunate teeth. ‘What do you want?’ he said fiercely in his most booming voice, drawing himself up to his full, impressive height.

‘Would you care to comment on this morning’s
Globe
?’ the man asked, over the shouted questions of the gathered mob. He was clutching a
tabloid, on which Leo could get a glimpse of the screaming headline: ‘Randy Reverend’ was all he could see.

Oh, Lord, thought Leo. One of the clergy in the deanery must have done something naughty. As Area Dean, and a bishop-elect to boot, he would naturally be the journalists’ first port of call for a comment.

But who? he asked himself. Brian Stanford? Jane kept him on a short leash, so he would scarcely have the opportunity to stray. And Brian was so idle that he wouldn’t have the energy for it, even if he had the opportunity. Vincent Underwood was too bloodless, too pleased with himself, to lose himself in
passion
. Surely not the ever-so-upright Richard Grant? Maybe so: those self-
righteous
Evangelicals, when they fell from their pedestals, usually fell the hardest.

These speculations went through his mind in less than a heartbeat, then he shouted ‘No comment!’ and slammed the door shut again.

How could he find out? He was, Leo recognised, under siege: he
certainly
wasn’t going to get out of the rectory this morning, to buy a
newspaper
or for anything else.

Oliver! he thought. He could ring Oliver, and ask him to go out and find a copy of the
Globe
. It would be a legitimate excuse to ring him, to talk to him, however briefly.

He went into his study and rang Oliver’s mobile. ‘This number is not in service,’ announced a metallic voice.

‘Oh, hell,’ he muttered. He supposed he could ring Frannie, but he
didn’t
want to drag her into this, whatever it was.

And then his eye fell on his iMac computer, its screen-saver
beckoning
him to the delights of tropical isles, obscuring his half-written sermon for Sunday.

He sat down at the keyboard, went on line, and typed ‘Globe
newspaper
’ into Google. The first result listed, half a second later, took him straight to the
Globe
’s home page.

And there it was: the full alliterative headline, emblazoned across his screen. ‘Randy Reverend in Raunchy Rectory Romps’.

There was a photo as well. Leo stared in dawning horror at his own face.

When Marigold saw how unpleasant the weather was – cold, misty and threatening rain – she almost changed her mind about going out to get the papers. After all, most of the press had gone quiet about the murder
several
days ago, and even the
Globe
seemed to have dropped the subject. But this had become a habit, a ritual for her. As soon as Vincent was out of sight, on his way to say Morning Prayer, she slipped out of the house and turned her steps towards Oxford Street.

She never saw it coming. A shadowy figure stepped out of the mist as she went by, and with one swift movement grabbed her handbag and shoved her to the ground, then ran off. It had all happened within a matter of seconds.

Marigold wasn’t badly hurt, but she was stunned and shaken up. She lay on the pavement for a few moments, catching her breath, assessing her injuries. Trying to decide whether she could stand without assistance.

An approaching jogger proved to be her own Good Samaritan. He paused when he saw the obstruction on the pavement, and went to her aid immediately. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked with concern.

‘I think so.’

He helped to her to feet. ‘What happened? Can you remember?’

‘Well, I’m not sure,’ she admitted unsteadily. ‘I didn’t see anything. One minute I was walking along, and then…something hit me. Someone, I
suppose.
And my handbag. It’s gone.’

‘Oh, dear. I don’t suppose there’s any hope of catching him now,’ the man said, shaking his head. ‘Never mind. The important thing is looking after
you,
and getting you home.’

‘I don’t want to hold you up,’ she protested, without much conviction. There was something comforting, trustworthy, about the jogger. Something familiar, even. She had no doubt that she was in safe hands with him.

‘Don’t be silly.’ He scrutinised her, then pronounced, ‘I think you need a cup of tea. There’s a little caff just round the corner. Nothing grand, but they do a decent cuppa. Do you think you can walk that far? Or shall I try to find a taxi and get you home?’

She took a few tentative steps. ‘Yes, I can walk,’ she discovered. ‘I must not have broken anything.’

He held on to her arm and led her slowly to an unprepossessing café
with an inviting smell of freshly brewed coffee. ‘A pot of tea for two,’ he ordered, even before they sat down at a table covered with a
flower-bedecked
plasticised cloth.

The tea came quickly, in a brown earthenware pot, accompanied by two thick white cups and saucers. Nothing delicate about it, but it was what she needed. The man poured, adding two spoons of sugar to her cup.

‘I don’t take sugar,’ she objected.

‘It’s the best thing for shock. Sweet, strong tea. Drink it.’

Obediently she sipped it, under his watchful gaze. It was almost like she was a child again, her father coaxing her to eat something she didn’t fancy.

With a jolt she looked across at the man. Did he remind her of her father? Was that why he seemed so familiar to her?

His face was thinner than her father’s, with deep vertical furrows
bracketing
his nose and mouth, though the eyes – under strong brows – were not unlike. Perhaps it was the hair: salt and pepper, straight, with short back and sides. That, and the thin but muscular forearms, exposed by his jogging gear. Arms very like those which had held her as a child, had picked her up when she’d fallen off her swing.

Suddenly she had an overwhelming desire to confide in this man. He was a stranger to her; he was safe. He didn’t know who
she
was, she didn’t know who
he
was. She could say anything to him, and it would go no
further.
She opened her mouth, about to pour her heart out to him.

‘It was a good thing I came along when I did,’ he said, smiling at her, revealing a set of straight, white teeth. ‘But I don’t think for a moment it was a coincidence.’

‘It wasn’t?’

‘No. The Lord led me to you, in your moment of need. I don’t usually run down that road. But this morning I found myself going that way. Not knowing why. Obviously the Lord had a purpose for it.’

‘The Lord?’ she echoed.

‘Our Saviour, Jesus Christ.’

Marigold stared at him, as if he’d suddenly started addressing her in Swahili.

‘Do you know Him as your personal saviour?’ he asked, fixing her
intently with his deep-set eyes.

The man was religious nutter. She’d been on the brink of confiding in him, and he was a religious nutter.

Now all she wanted was to get away from him. To escape, and try to
forget
that this had ever happened.

‘Thanks so much for the tea,’ she babbled, rising to her feet. ‘I have to go now.’

He stood as well. ‘I’ll see you home, then. I’m not allowing you to go off on your own, after what you’ve been through.’

‘No, it’s all right. Really.’ The last thing she wanted was for him to know where she lived. He’d probably start pushing tracts through the door, ringing the bell and quoting the Bible at her. ‘But thank you for everything, Mr …’

‘Grant,’ he said. ‘Richard Grant.’

Richard Grant! No wonder he looked so familiar: she’d seen his photo in the
Globe,
next to the interview in which he expounded his opinion that Jonah had deserved to die.

What a narrow escape she’d had! She’d come within a hair’s breadth of spilling her innermost secrets to Richard Grant.

Maybe, she thought gratefully as she hurried away from him, there
was
a God.

Lilith was feeling very much better on Thursday morning. In fact, she was feeling so well that she was all set to go into the office early and get to work on her next story. This one, she thought smugly, was going to play and play. Oliver Pickett had given her enough material to spin out for days, each story putting a further nail in the coffin of Leo Jackson. She already had her
headline
for tomorrow’s story: as if ‘Randy Reverend’ weren’t bad enough, she was going to skip over ‘Pervy Priest’ and go straight for ‘Bishop of Buggery’. Before someone else thought of it. She had no doubt that her press
colleagues
would already be onto the story, camping out on Leo Jackson’s doorstep. Well, good luck to them. Jackson was unlikely to say anything, and she had Oliver Pickett to herself: he’d promised her an exclusive.

After checking with her editor, she had offered Oliver Pickett money for his story, on the basis that he wouldn’t talk to anyone else. But he had
refused. His eyes filling with tears, he’d said that he wasn’t going public about his harrowing experiences for monetary gain, but to warn people about a relentless sexual predator. So that the terrible things that had
happened
to him wouldn’t happen to anyone else.

They had reached an expedient compromise: Lilith had gone out and bought him a brand new mobile phone, top of the range – a phone for which no one but she had the number. His old phone she kept, and as a
precaution
she rang the service provider and had it disconnected.

In the end she restrained herself from going in too early. It was better, she decided, to wait until everyone else was at their desks. Then she could make a grand entrance, gather her colleagues’ congratulations with gracious aplomb, and smile inwardly at their envy.

Neville looked at his watch. The morning was getting on. He and Sid Cowley had shared a leisurely breakfast at the station canteen; they’d
discussed
their strategy for interviewing Frances Cherry. ‘Good cop/bad cop’ seemed to be working well, they decided, and they may as well continue with that.

‘Well,’ said Neville, finishing up his coffee, ‘there’s no time like the
present.
Let’s go and see whether she’s got herself sorted out with a solicitor.’

Cowley took a last drag on his cigarette and stubbed it out in the
ashtray.
‘Right you are, Guv.’

Sergeant Pratt confirmed that Mrs Cherry’s solicitor had arrived, and they’d been in conference. ‘I’ll get you set up in an interview room,’ she promised. ‘Give me five minutes.’

While Cowley lit another fag, Neville went looking for Mark Lombardi and found him at his desk. ‘I just thought I should tell you,’ he said, ‘that we arrested Frances Cherry this morning. In case you want to let your
girlfriend
know.’

Mark raised his eyebrows with a long-suffering look. ‘She’s not my
girlfriend.
And she already knows,’ he added.

‘News travels fast, I see.’ Neville was obscurely disappointed.

‘She rang me an hour ago. Apparently Frances Cherry’s husband had been on the phone.’

‘Oh, well, then.’

Mark smiled belatedly. ‘Thanks, Nev. I do appreciate it. I don’t suppose there’s anything else I can tell Callie?’

‘We’re just about to start our interview. You can tell her that, if you like.’

‘Keep me informed,’ Mark called after him as Neville headed downstairs to the interview room.

Cowley was standing outside of the door, finishing his cigarette with a long drag; there would be no smoking while the interview took place. ‘They’ve gone in,’ the sergeant informed him. ‘Cherry and her solicitor. The solicitor’s a pretty hot-looking bird.’

‘Anyone you know?’

‘Never seen her before,’ Cowley said. He threw the fag end on the floor and ground it out with his heel.

Sergeant Pratt had been as efficient as usual; the taping equipment was all set up, and water glasses had been provided. Frances Cherry and her solicitor were sitting at the table, on the side facing the door, as Neville and Cowley came through.

Frances Cherry’s hands were clasped together on the table, her
knuckles
white with tension. She was trying to look calm and not succeeding
terribly
well.