False Tongues (13 page)

‘Like you said, he's my boyfriend.' She shrugged. ‘It's not a big deal.'

Once again, unwillingly, Neville's mind was dragged back to his fifteen-year-old self. It had been a big deal for him, and for Norah Kelly. Or it would have been a big deal, if it had happened. A
very
big deal. Things had certainly changed. At least kids today had easy access to contraception, so they wouldn't have to worry about nasty surprises, and he trusted that Lexie was smart enough to insist on safe sex.

Lexie's eyes widened; she clapped a hand over her mouth. ‘Oops,' she said from behind her hand. ‘Is that what this is about? Statutory rape, or something like that? Because I'm fifteen? In that case, I take it all back. Seb's never shagged me. I never said he did.'

‘Nothing like that,' he assured her quickly. ‘My interest is in…another matter.' He would have to tell her sooner or later, but he wanted to get as much from her as he could before it became necessary.

‘That's okay, then.' She removed her hand and visibly relaxed.

Neville made a couple of sketchy notes, to buy himself a bit of time before framing his next question. ‘Did…does…Sebastian come here? For your…um…intimate times? Or did…do…you meet at his house?'

‘His parents work at night a lot. So that's pretty convenient.' She flicked her long fringe out of her eyes. ‘My mum works evening shifts, too, sometimes—at Tesco—but
she's
always around.' Lexie jerked her head in the direction of the lounge, presumably a reference to the younger girl who had answered the door.

‘Your sister?'

‘Yeah.' She made a disgusted noise in the back of her throat. ‘Georgie. She's a pain in the bum.'

So they'd had their romantic trysts at the Frosts', then. Neville made a note, wondering whether Lexie's mother knew that she left her little sister home alone to go and shag her boyfriend. ‘Did you see Sebastian last night?' he asked, recalling Hugo's assertion that a meeting had been planned.

She didn't hesitate. ‘Last night? No.'

‘Were you supposed to meet him?'

‘No.' She shook her head.

‘When was the last time you saw Sebastian, then?'

Lexie narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Why are you asking these questions?' she demanded. ‘What's happened? Is Seb okay?'

There was no getting round it now. Neville cleared his throat. ‘I'm really sorry to have to tell you this, Miss Renton, but Sebastian Frost…is dead.'

He was in no doubt that the look of astonishment and shock on her face was totally genuine.

***

The free afternoon gave Margaret Phillips a chance to work at her desk and catch up on some admin. But she found that her mind kept drifting to other things. Normally a very focussed person, she could only blame it on spring fever. Outside the open window of her office the birds were chirping away and the gentlest of breezes stirred the cherry blossom, wafting its faint yet intoxicating scent toward her. She longed for…what? Something different. Something other than this panelled and book-lined room, attractive as it was.

Margaret leaned back in her chair and buzzed her secretary's desk. A moment later Hanna Young appeared in the doorway. ‘Yes?'

‘What are you doing at the moment, Hanna?'

‘Photocopying the hand-outs for tomorrow's sessions.' Hanna waved a handful of papers as evidence.

‘I was thinking about calling it a day,' confessed Margaret. ‘As the weather's so nice. I just can't concentrate, if you want to know the truth.'

Hanna's brows drew together for a split second in what Margaret feared was disapproval. ‘So you can leave as well, if you like,' she added hastily. ‘Go home early. Put your feet up.'

‘I have to finish this photocopying, to be honest. Canon Kingsley's only just given it to me.'

Now Margaret felt guilty. ‘Well, I can help you, I suppose,' she offered.

‘Photocopying is a one-person job,' Hanna stated. ‘I'll just carry on. And I'll lock up when I've finished.'

‘All right, then. I'll see you tomorrow morning.' Feeling now like a naughty school-girl skiving off from her lessons, Margaret left her desk and went upstairs to her sitting room. The house had been built in the Gothic style, and this room featured a large stone-mullioned and leaded oriel window, also overlooking the courtyard. She crossed to the window and pushed open as many of the leaded panes as were openable, breathing in the aromas of spring. A few people lingered in the courtyard, but most had scattered to enjoy their afternoon of freedom elsewhere.

Aimless still, Margaret wandered to the table near the window which held a collection of framed photographs. All of them contained the same person: her son Alexander. From his earliest baby pictures to his school photos to the most current, a formal studio portrait with his partner, Alexander was the focus, the photos charting his progress from adorable child to extremely good-looking young man, as handsome as his father. She picked up the studio portrait and smiled at her son's serious expression. His partner, Luke, appeared somewhat more cheerful.

There were no grandchildren, of course. And there wouldn't be, unless Alexander and Luke were moved to adopt at some point. They'd shown no inclination to do so, and they'd been together for several years now. They'd entered into a civil partnership; they were a stable couple. Margaret knew she must be grateful for that, at least, though there were brief moments when she longed for a grandchild. For a new generation, a new beginning.

Automatically her eyes sought for her favourite photo of Alexander: the one with Hal, the two of them—the teenaged Alexander and his father—looking like peas in a pod. It wasn't there, of course. There were no photos of Hal.

Margaret suddenly felt overheated, even with the windows open. She was wearing her black cassock, as she customarily did at the college as a mark of her position. Now she went to her bedroom and took it off, hanging it up carefully, contempating her wardrobe as she stood there in her slip.

She was going to a garden party, she reminded herself. It had been several years since she'd been to one, even one as small and informal as this one. What should she wear?

A floaty summer frock would be ideal, and would suit her uncharacteristically frivolous mood, but there were none such in her very clerical wardrobe.

Then Margaret remembered the jacket. It was hanging at the far end of the wardrobe, unworn for years, somehow having escaped relegation to the local Oxfam shop.

It wasn't a frivolous jacket, but it was quite unclerical. The abstract print was in shades of soft dove grey and blue, and had been selected to complement Margaret's colouring: her blue eyes and her wiry salt-and-pepper hair. It would do nicely, she decided, over a black skirt and pale blue clerical shirt. She pulled it out of the wardrobe and laid it across the bed.

The Archdeaconry clergy garden party: it all came back to her now. The hot day, the crowds of clergy with axes to grind, their dowdy wives in their best summer frocks. And Hal, dazzling in his cream linen suit, pouring Pimms and acting the perfect host.

Perhaps she wouldn't wear the jacket today, after all.

***

The fact that it was a Bank Holiday meant that Neville didn't have Detective Superintendent Evans breathing down his neck, and as far as he was concerned that was a blessing. Evans had been in his office first thing in the morning to give Neville his orders, but after that he had decamped home for an Easter egg hunt with his children and grandchildren, leaving Neville to get on with things.

Now, though, it was time to check in with Evans and discuss the next steps in the investigation. Evans, obviously hoping that it would be a cut-and-dried case, had ordered him to ‘sort it,' and he hadn't even begun to do so.

Well, Neville told himself defensively, he had
begun
. This morning they hadn't known who the dead boy was; now he had a name. Sebastian Frost had left behind parents and friends, so that was a beginning.

But still. It wasn't exactly going to fill Evans with joy.

Summoning up all of his courage, Neville rang Superintendent Evans' mobile number. His boss, he discovered, was still at home with his family, and not about to return to the police station. ‘Come here and brief me,' Evans said. It wasn't a suggestion; it was a command.

‘To your house, Sir?'

‘That's right.'

He made little effort to hide his disbelief. ‘You want me to drive—'

Evans cut him off. ‘It's Bromley, Stewart, not the bloody moon. Ten miles from London Bridge. Not much traffic today. Won't take long. Bring Cowley, if you like.'

At least that would give him a chance to talk things over with Sid, Neville reflected as he tracked his sergeant down.

Cowley's phone was back on, and he was at the station. Neville drove there to collect him.

‘Bromley?' said Cowley, getting into the car. ‘Bloody Bromley? You have to be kidding me.'

‘If only.' Neville made an attempt at mimicking Evans' sing-song Welsh accent. ‘Ten miles from London Bridge, boyo. Won't take long.'

‘That's all right then.' Cowley snorted. ‘In the middle of an investigation, we have to drive to bloody Bromley, because the boss can't be bothered to leave his family.'

Some family it was, too: two families, really. Neville and everyone else at the station had watched with considerable interest a few years ago as Detective Superintendent Evans had wooed and won the hand of the fair Denise, a secretary with awesome physical assets. To do so he'd had to ditch an inconvenient middle-aged wife, one who had long since provided him with the offspring who had made them grandparents. With Denise he had embarked upon creating a new family, and they now had three children under five.

Not bad going, Neville reflected, for a bloke as monumentally ugly as Evans, with his whacking great jaw and his eyebrows like furry black caterpillars. You could only hope that the kids took after their respective mothers.

‘Look at it this way,' Neville said. ‘We have ten miles, give or take, to talk about what we've found out so far, and to decide what to tell him.'

‘Well, I've found out bugger all,' Cowley confessed, fumbling for his packet of fags.

Neville knew it would be a waste of his breath to tell Cowley to put his fags away. It was against regulations to smoke in police cars, but Cowley was very skilled at doing it in a way that left no traces. So he sighed, loudly enough to make the point that he wasn't happy about it, then addressed himself to Sid's confession. ‘You talked to his mates, didn't you? To Tom and Olly?'

‘Snotty little rich kids,' Cowley pronounced with a sneer. ‘Butter wouldn't melt. The idea of them being part of a gang—well, it's just laughable.'

‘Yes?' Neville encouraged him to elaborate.

‘They go to a posh school. They have all the latest kit: computers, laptops, iPads, games consoles, smart phones, iPods, video cameras. Parents with bottomless pockets. It's not a world I know anything about, Guv.' He took a deep drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke out of the window. ‘Gangs are for kids like the ones I grew up with. Kids with time on their hands, nothing else to do. Bored kids. Not kids with X-boxes and wiis and iPhones.'

Neville took his point. ‘And if another kid stabbed him, it wasn't to nick his stuff, either. His phone was smashed, not nicked.'

‘That's exactly what I'm saying.' Cowley shook his head. ‘What a waste. My nephew—he'd practically kill to get his hands on that phone. Hell, Guv—I practically would myself, to be honest.' He grinned. ‘But these kids don't need to. If they want something, they just ask Mum and Dad.'

‘What about drugs, then?'

‘Possible,' admitted Cowley. ‘When you've got that much money, you could certainly afford drugs if you wanted them.'

Again, though, Neville reflected, it just didn't fit the picture they'd started to build up. It was usually bored kids who got their kicks from drugs, as well as from gang membership. ‘The Frosts were adamant that their son had nothing to do with drugs,' he said. ‘They're doctors, so they would know what to look for. I suppose I'm inclined to believe them.'

‘Well, what's left, then?' Cowley tapped ash into the little portable ashtray he carried in his pocket.

‘Sex,' said Neville, allowing himself a quick sideways glance to see the effect on Cowley.

The sergeant's reaction was gratifying; he raised his eyebrows and grinned. ‘Oh?'

‘I talked to his girlfriend. Sexy Lexie, I understand she's known as.'

‘Tell me more, Guv.'

‘I'd say she earned the nickname, fair and square.' He shook his head, remembering. ‘She was quite blasé about the whole thing, really, but it's clear that our boy Sebastian was having it off with her regularly while his parents were at work. Fifteen, the both of them,' he added meditatively.

‘Good on them.' Sid's grin widened. ‘But how does that add up to a motive for murder? You're not saying that she's the one who stabbed him, are you?'

‘No. But say one of his mates fancied her. Or shagged her, and he found out.'

‘A crime of passion, you're saying?'

Put like that, it didn't sound very likely, even to Neville's own ears. They were fifteen years old, for God's sake. Love—or lust, more accurately—might be intense at fifteen, but it was understood to be fleeting. Would he have pulled a knife on one of his mates if he'd found out that they'd managed to get into Norah Kelly's knickers? Not likely. Even making allowances for a different time and a different place…

Still, at this point it was the best angle they had.

Gangs? Unlikely. Drugs? Probably not. Sex? Well, just maybe…

Now Cowley's grin split his face from side to side. ‘Guv, can I ask a favour?'