Evil Intent (8 page)

Callie lifted her chin and looked him straight in the eye. ‘I’m sorry, Adam,’ she said firmly. ‘I won’t be able to join you and Pippa on Saturday.’ She paused and took a deep breath. ‘I have a date.’

When DI Neville Stewart reported for duty on Wednesday morning, it was with the sincere hope that it would be a routine day, with nothing more challenging than a few minor infringements of the law to occupy his time. If at all possible, he planned to spend the day at his desk – he had a heap of paperwork with which he needed to catch up. At least that was the excuse he gave to the duty sergeant on his way to his office.

The truth of the matter was, Neville Stewart was rather the worse for wear.

Although he didn’t usually indulge in late nights when he was on duty the following morning, the night before had been an exception. He’d met a girl at the weekend who had expressed an interest in traditional Irish music, and he’d arranged to meet her at a pub in Kilburn which was renowned in equal measure for its live music and its perfectly pulled Guinness.

The girl had stood him up, but Neville had remained, finding the pub’s reputation to be well founded. The music was as good as he’d ever heard in Dublin, and as for the Guinness…

The long and the short of it was that he had stayed till closing time, singing along with the music with increasing confidence, volume and
merriment.
And though his capacity for Guinness was prodigious – even
legendary
– he had sunk at least one pint too many. Maybe more. He couldn’t quite remember.

On his way to his desk, he collected what was sure to be the first in a series of mugs of strong black coffee. Perhaps that would help, though the bitterness of the coffee was decidedly unpleasant on his furred tongue.

As put the mug down, coffee slopped over the edge onto the surface of his desk. Neville gave it an ineffectual wipe, but wasn’t too bothered, as the desk was already marred by discoloured rings and various scratches. For a moment he contemplated the mound of paper in the in-tray, wishing he knew where to begin. Wishing he had a cigarette.

Neville was a reformed smoker, and usually a zealously self-righteous one – the first to point out to a smoking colleague the dangers of the evil
weed. Though once he had made up his mind to quit, he had never so much as sneaked a clandestine puff, secretly he was envious of those who
continued
to blacken their lungs without regard for the consequences, and
nothing
made him happier than to be in a room full of smokers, breathing in second-hand smoke.

The pub last night had been a winner on that score, as well: at times it was difficult to see the musicians for the fuggy haze which enveloped the place.

Neville sniffed the sleeve of his tweed jacket reminiscently. Yes, it still had that lovely redolence of stale tobacco. Maybe that would help to get him through the day.

He had just begun to thumb through his paperwork when Mark Lombardi stuck his head round the door. ‘Morning, Nev,’ he said.

‘Morning.’ He grimaced. ‘At least I think it is.’

Mark wrinkled his nose in distaste. He had never smoked, and felt this gave him the moral edge when it came to disapproval of the habit. ‘Whew – you smell like you’ve been sleeping in an ashtray.’

‘Pub,’ Neville mumbled. ‘Irish pub.’

‘Ah.’ Mark grinned, altogether too knowingly for Neville’s liking. ‘That explains a great deal.’

‘I’ll have you know I’m perfectly sober,’ Neville said with all the
dignity
he could muster.

‘That’s as may be. But let’s hope you don’t have to get behind the wheel of a car any time soon.’

It was at that moment that Neville’s phone rang. He jumped slightly, then picked it up. ‘DI Stewart.’

‘Sorry, Guv,’ said the duty sergeant. ‘Your paperwork is going to have to wait for another day. Or two.’

‘What’s up, then?’

‘A body,’ said the sergeant succinctly. ‘Murdered. DCS Evans wants you there right away.’

‘You’re sure about that?’ Neville gulped down the rest of his coffee, now cold as well as bitter. ‘Sure it’s murder?’

‘Sure as sure. I don’t think the poor bastard strangled himself.’ There
was a pause on the other end of the phone. ‘I haven’t told you the best part, Guv. It’s in a church – St John’s, Lancaster Gate. And the dead bloke’s a priest.’

‘You did what?’ Graham Cherry stared at his wife with undisguised
astonishment
over their Wednesday morning cornflakes.

‘I threw a glass of wine over Father Jonah What’s-his-name,’ Frances repeated patiently. ‘Red wine.’

‘What on earth did you do a thing like that for?’

Frances sighed. ‘I was provoked. He was incredibly rude.’

‘He’s always been rude to you,’ Graham pointed out. ‘What did you expect?’

‘It wasn’t so much on my own behalf.’ She poured herself a second cup of tea and a ghost of a smile twitched at the corners of her mouth. ‘Though he did call me a spawn of Satan. But he was picking on Callie, and then he brought Leo into it. I just…lost it. The wine was in my hand, and the next thing I knew, it…wasn’t.’

Graham shook his head, as much in wonderment as in reproach. ‘I
suppose
in your place I might have done the same. But it just doesn’t seem like you, Fran. After all you’ve put up with through the years…’

How nice it was to have a supportive husband, Frances reflected. They’d always been able to talk things through, even if they didn’t always agree on everything. ‘It was more or less the last straw,’ she admitted. ‘I was already upset about…various things. He caught me at a bad moment.’

He leaned forward, frowning in concern. ‘What other things were you upset about?’

‘Heather, for one.’ There was a slight tremble in her voice, even now. ‘I haven’t had a chance to tell you. She rang yesterday afternoon. She won’t be home for Christmas.’

‘Oh.’ Graham’s eyes widened, the pupils dilated. ‘That’s bad news.’ His relationship with their only child was a far less complicated one than Frances’: he had always adored Heather unreservedly, and that was
reciprocated
,
even if Heather’s behaviour didn’t always accord with her love for her father.

‘She said to tell you she’s sorry.’

‘So am I.’ He looked down into his cornflakes, overwhelmed with
disappointment.

Frances was glad she’d been able to distract him from asking any more questions: she didn’t want to tell him about Leo and his young lover, and her unease over that situation. It was Leo’s secret rather than hers; the fact that he had trusted her with it made it all the more important that she not pass it on, not even to Graham.

DI Neville Stewart allowed his young sergeant, DS Cowley, to drive him to the crime scene, though from the moment he received the phone call, he was stone cold sober; he couldn’t afford to be anything else.

They arrived at the church a few minutes after the SOCOs and the
doctor;
Detective Chief Superintendent Evans had already come and gone. Neville always thought it was important for him to view a crime scene as soon as possible, and before anything was disturbed by the SOCOs, but this time he was too late. Having had the go-ahead from DCS Evans, the white-suited officers were already about their business, efficiently and without a lot of superfluous chat. The room at the focus of all the activity was a small one, located at the back end of the church. Deciding that it was the better part of valour to wait a few minutes until he could get into the room without being in the way of the SOCOs’ necessary ministrations, Neville left his sergeant in the narrow corridor and went through into the nave of the church.

The interior of St John’s, Lancaster Gate looked not at all as Neville had imagined it. In his Irish Catholic childhood, he had always been told – in tones of derision – that the Anglican Church was Protestant, and in his mind that conjured up pictures of whitewashed walls, pitch-pine pews and no decoration save the Ten Commandments on a wooden board behind a simple wooden communion table.

This church was nothing like that. Indeed, it was far more richly
decorated
than the church of his childhood, with jewel-like stained glass
windows,
carved stone pillars, and painted statues on pedestals. A flickering red candle suspended near the stone altar indicated that the Blessed
Sacrament was reserved. Neville hadn’t been inside a church – any church – for years, but he realised with a jolt of surprise that he had just crossed himself as he walked in front of the altar.

Maybe this wasn’t an Anglican church after all, he told himself.

There was a middle-aged woman near the pulpit, fiddling with a large flower arrangement, picking off a few wilting heads and titivating the rest to hide the gaps. Perhaps he could ask her.

‘Excuse me,’ he said tentatively. ‘Is this church the Church of England?’

She stopped and peered at him over the tops of her glasses. ‘It most
certainly
is,’ she said in an accent of cut-glass purity.

‘I just thought maybe it was Catholic.’

‘It’s that, as well,’ the woman stated. ‘The two things aren’t mutually exclusive, you know.’

Now he was confused, and he felt as though the woman were
subjecting
him to a rather detailed inspection which he was sure to fail. It must be obvious to her that he was not a sightseer or a religious seeker, and in a moment she would probably tell him to be on his way. She belonged here; he didn’t. Defensively he said, ‘I’m investigating a murder.’

‘Oh, yes.’ It didn’t faze her at all. ‘Then I suppose you’re looking for the young woman who found Father. She’s in the chapel, I believe.’

It was the first he’d heard of that, but it gave him a legitimate excuse to take his leave of her. ‘Thank you,’ he said. It was only as he walked away that he realised the woman shouldn’t have been there at all – the church was now sealed off as a crime scene; he himself had had to duck under the tape to get in. She must have been in here when the body was discovered, and no one had been able to shift her. He could understand that: he certainly wasn’t going to try. Maybe Sergeant Cowley, with his lack of sentiment and total obliviousness to nuance, would have better luck.

The small side chapel was in semi-darkness, and it was a moment before he saw the young woman in question, kneeling in one of the back pews. Neville felt awkward about disturbing her, so he slid into the pew next to her and waited. Her hands were clasped tightly together, their knuckles white with tension, and her head was bowed over them. As his eyes
adjusted
to the dimness, he noted that she was a rather pretty girl, in spite of her
efforts to disguise the fact, her short carrot-coloured hair moussed into rather aggressive-looking spikes. She had a ring through her nostril, and wore distressed blue jeans, a shocking pink fleece and thick-soled DM boots. Her fingernails were painted the iridescent green of an exotic beetle.

Sensing his presence, she looked up at him. Her eyes were large, either naturally or because of shock, and the heavy kohl make-up had smeared a bit, giving her the appearance of a surprised panda.

‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ Neville said quietly.

She shrugged. ‘That’s all right. You’re the police, aren’t you?’

Neville nodded. ‘Detective Inspector Stewart.’

‘I was waiting here because I figured you’d want to talk to me.’

Automatically Neville reached for the notebook in his pocket. ‘That was good of you, Miss… err…’

‘Tree,’ she said.

‘Christian name?’

She twisted her fingers together. ‘Promise you won’t laugh?’

‘I promise.’ He was, Neville thought wryly, the last person to laugh at anyone else’s name.

‘Willow. Willow Tree.’

In spite of himself he smiled. ‘That’s…unusual.’

‘My parents were hippies,’ she explained bitterly. ‘Eco-warriors, really. They thought it was clever.
They
don’t have to live with it. And I get tired of people taking the mickey about it.’

Neville bent his head over his notebook and wrote her name at the top of the page. ‘Yes, I can see that.’ He wanted to tell her about his name and the problems it had caused him over the years, but this was not the time or place for that. ‘I guess it’s better than Christmas.’

It took her a few seconds to get his meaning, then she relaxed and smiled. ‘Yes. I suppose it could always be worse.’ Neville gave her a moment, then asked, ‘Do you feel able to answer a few questions now, Miss Tree? I promise I’ll try not to keep you too long.’

‘I’m all right,’ she said bravely. ‘Just a bit shaken, that’s all. And please – call me Willow.’

He noted down the details of her address and telephone number. ‘You
can always get me on my mobile,’ she said.

‘If you could just begin, Miss… err… Willow, by telling me what brought you to the church this morning? How did you happen to be here?’

Willow looked at the altar in the chapel as she told him, concisely and without fuss. She was, she explained, the sacristan at the church. That meant she had responsibility for setting up for services: getting the communion vessels out of the safe in the sacristy and putting them on the altar, and also laying out the vestments in the vestry. Although today’s Mass wasn’t until noon, she had come in early, on her way to work, as was her custom.

‘But today’s not Sunday,’ Neville pointed out.

She turned her head and looked at him. ‘We have a service here every day. At least one.’

He was more confused than ever about the practices of the Church of England, but this was not the occasion to go into that.

‘And that’s when you found…’ he said delicately.

‘Yes.’ She nodded, bowing her head. ‘In the vestry. It was…horrible. He was lying on the floor, with a stole wrapped round his neck.’

‘You could tell he was dead?’

‘There wasn’t much doubt about that.’ Willow swallowed hard.

‘And you recognised him?’

‘Oh, yes.’

Neville could feel her distress, so he deliberately shifted his questions away from that painful subject. Willow Tree intrigued him; it seemed strange to him that a young woman – and one who didn’t even live in the parish, according to the address she’d supplied – should be so involved with the church. ‘What brings you here?’ he asked, as much as anything to
satisfy
his own curiosity.