False Tongues (18 page)

The last thing on her mind had been retrieving the tangible reminders of the love she and Adam had shared. She couldn't wait to get out of that room, out of the college, out of Cambridge. Away from everything that held memories of Adam.

She had, in her numb-minded distress, simply forgotten that the bundle was there.

What if the new inhabitant of the room had discovered it? Again Callie went cold, then hot.

How embarrassing. How humiliating. If he had…

But he probably hadn't, she told herself firmly. If it was a ‘he'…He probably didn't see the fireplace as anything other than a convenient receptacle for his overflow of books, not as a hiding place for precious personal memorabilia.

Oh, God.

Callie took a deep breath. If only she could kindle a fire in the fireplace right now, and reduce these things to a pile of ashes, she would do it.

***

Lilith positioned herself in the front row at the news conference. She felt she'd earned that position, as the only journalist who had covered the story to date. That, she was aware, was about to change. There was bound to be a great deal of interest in it—for a few days at least, or until the police caught the killer. She looked round the room: it was pretty well full, with print journalists filling the chairs at the front, bloggers and tweeters in the middle, and video cameras at the back.

Not just a couple of down-and-outs whose no-hoper son had been knifed by some other loser. The Frosts were an attractive professional couple, the sort who didn't have this kind of thing happen to them. That's what made them interesting. That's what made the whole thing interesting. There was nothing cut-and-dried about this case.

As the principals filed onto the stage, she looked down at her notebook, avoiding eye contact with any of her known police adversaries, or with Dr Richard Frost. He probably wasn't feeling too anxious to establish contact with her, either. She observed, from under lowered lids, that his wife put some distance between them as they took their seats, moving her chair a good six inches farther from him.

If the Frosts
had
been a couple of down-and-outs, Lilith doubted that the proceedings would have merited the presence of Detective Superintendent Evans, but DS Evans was indeed there, in all his grotesque ugliness. His prognathous jaw was thrust out even further than usual, she fancied, as he welcomed the audience, thanked them for coming, and introduced Detective Inspector Neville Stewart, the Senior Investigating Officer.

Stewart, she was interested to see, was looking a bit seedy this afternoon. Was this case getting to him, or was it something else? He hadn't exactly dressed up for the occasion, and the lines round his eyes were more pronounced than she remembered.

‘As Detective Superintendent Evans has indicated,' he began in that maddeningly sexy Irish voice, ‘we've invited you here today to talk about the murder of Sebastian Frost.' He pulled a ragged bit of paper out of the pocket of his tweed jacket and read from it. ‘Sebastian Frost, aged fifteen, of St Michael's Street, Paddington, was stabbed to death on Paddington Green late on Sunday night, or in the early hours of Monday morning. A postmortem examination has been carried out, and the cause of death was established as a knife wound to the throat, severing the jugular. We appeal to anyone who was in the area at the time of the incident who may have seen or heard anything suspicious, or has any information about this incident, to contact us in confidence.' He gave the phone number, then added, ‘Anonymous information would also be welcome at Crimestoppers, on 0800 555 111. We do need your help to find the person or persons who carried out this horrific murder.'

He seemed to have run out of words on his paper; at that point he stuffed it back in his pocket, looked up, and said, ‘We'll be happy to take your questions in a moment or two. Now, though, I'm going to ask Sebastian Frost's parents to say a few words.'

Richard Frost leaned toward the microphone on the table, between him and his wife.

***

She had loved Adam. He had loved her; she had loved him. There was no doubt about that. The bundle of memories, tied up with a silver ribbon, brought it all back with a force that was almost physical.

Over the past months that was something Callie had tried to forget, to downplay in her own mind. As Marco had become more important to her, her previous relationship with Adam had been reduced to a passing thing, a romance of a lesser magnitude.

But she
had
loved him, truly. However little worthy of her love he had proved to be, she had loved him. He'd been in her thoughts constantly; he'd brought her happiness in that present, and in that present—now past—her future was tied up with his.

Except that it hadn't been. He'd gone his own way, left her behind. He'd made his own future, one in which she had no part.

And her own future now included—revolved round—Marco.

Or did it?

Was she just falling into the same trap, all over again? Out of the frying pan, and all that?

Marco wasn't anything like Adam. But would he hurt her as well, maybe in a different way yet with equally painful results?

In a year's time, would she be looking back on her relationship with Marco, and wonder how she'd ever let herself get involved with him?

Callie's hands were shaking; she clasped them together in her lap.

She loved Marco, she told herself; she believed that they could make a future together.

But she had believed that—just as fervently, just as honestly—about Adam as well. A year ago she'd been in love with him, wrapped up in plans for their shared future. Now she couldn't bear the sight of him.

Marco and his family,
la famiglia Lombardi
…

Would he always, in a crisis, put them first? Would he ever be strong enough to stand up against them?

Adam, whatever else you might say about him, was strong. He knew what he wanted, and he went after it. There was a certainty about him that had once attracted her—a quality that she, who lived her life in a much more tentative way, knew that she lacked.

That certainty was now manifesting itself in a rather unattractive brand of religious fundamentalism, and she liked him the less for that. But Adam's strength of mind and purpose had much to be said for it. If Marco had just a bit more of that sort of strength…

He wouldn't be Marco, she told herself firmly. She loved Marco, just the way he was. Gentle, empathetic Marco.

And he loved her, and wanted her to be his wife.

Callie twisted the ring on her finger. The ring which had belonged to his grandmother, a symbol which bound her into the Lombardi family. But would she ever truly be a part of it? Would they be able to accept her—English, Anglican, a priest?—into that tightly knit Italian unit?

And was that what she really wanted for herself? To be sucked into that matriarchal world, where Mamma reigned supreme, with Serena not far behind, and Marco falling in with whatever they decreed, all for the sake of a quiet life?

She swallowed hard, gulping back a sob, and twisted the ring off.

Adam had been a mistake—she could see that now, very clearly, though it hadn't been at all clear at the time.

Maybe Marco was a mistake as well. Maybe he had come along too soon, when she was needy and vulnerable, and it had all happened too fast.

And maybe, Callie told herself, she needed to give it a lot more thought before she committed herself to another big mistake.

***

When Mark's brother-in-law Joe had been murdered, not that many weeks ago, there hadn't been a news conference. It had been altogether a more private death, at least as far as public interest was concerned during the investigation. That had been one of the few mercies, Mark reflected as he sat beside Miranda Frost on the platform. Serena and the rest of the family had been spared this ordeal.

It was part of his job to be there, to provide support for the family. Sometimes, when the family were too distraught to speak—or too inarticulate—he might be called upon to read out a prepared statement on their behalf. In this instance, though, the Frosts were more than capable of speaking for themselves, even if it was reluctant in Miranda's case.

They knew what the police expected of them, and why it was important for them to be seen by the press. Richard, who spoke first, was pitch-perfect. His voice wobbled; his eyes filled with tears; he ran a distraught hand through his springy brown curls.

‘Our son Sebastian was a fine young man,' he said. ‘He had so much to live for. He was a gifted student, a gifted athlete. He was popular with his friends. He loved life. He could have accomplished so much if he had lived. His…death…is a tragedy not just for us, but for everyone.' He stopped for a moment, drawing a deep breath before continuing, as the television cameras zoomed in for a close-up. ‘Please, please. If you know anything that will help to catch the monster that did this to our son, ring the police. It won't bring him back, but we need to know. For ourselves, and for everyone else who loved him. And so that justice may be done.' The tears spilled over and rolled down his face; he got out a handkerchief and wiped them away, then leaned back from the microphone and closed his eyes, his part done.

It would make good televison, Mark judged. An effective performance.

Lilith Noone, he saw, was sitting on the front row, smiling. Pleased with herself, obviously. For an instant he caught her eye, then she looked away deliberately.

Now it was Miranda's turn. Mark could feel the anger rolling off her in waves as she pulled the microphone toward her. She yanked it out of its stand and rose to her feet. ‘I had a son,' she said with quiet force. ‘Just one. My only child. Now he's dead. The person who murdered him has not only killed the best son in the world. They've also destroyed our family.' She narrowed her eyes and turned her head slowly, sweeping the room, staring down every person in it, ending with the television cameras. ‘I hope they're happy,' she concluded. ‘And I hope they rot in hell.'

Mark sensed the collective indrawn breath as she sat down, her face set, refusing to shed tears on demand. Yet she'd done what had been asked of her, and had done it superlatively well. He found himself liking her a bit more for it.

***

Interlude: an anonymous phone message, left on Tuesday night

Umm…is this the number to ring about Seb Frost? I guess it is.

The thing is, you've got it wrong. Seb Frost wasn't a saint. Nothing like it. His parents might think the sun shone out of his bum, but they were wrong. He was a nasty piece of work. An arrogant bastard, and worse. Whoever killed him, I reckon he deserved it.

If you don't believe me, ask his mates. Ask that Hugo. Ask him about the bullying. Not that he's any better, mind you. He'll lie through his teeth to protect them all—Seb and all his crowd. But ask him.

I'm telling you the truth. The real truth.

Chapter Eleven

Margaret was smiling when she woke up. No nightmares of Hal; only pleasant dreams.

She was smiling as she showered, as she dressed. Not even the thought of Hanna, waiting for her in her office with a disapproving expression, was enough to wipe the smile off of her face as she went to Morning Prayer.

Involuntarily her eyes searched the chapel for Keith, then she reminded herself that he wouldn't be there, nor would he be at breakfast in the dining hall: this morning he would be hosting his old tutor group, and they would have their own act of worship, their own breakfast. All of the tutor groups were having reunions this morning, so the congregation for Morning Prayer was minimal.

She tried to keep her mind on the liturgy, but it was difficult. The words were familiar, ingrained, and tripped off her tongue without any intervention from her brain. ‘O Lord, open thou our lips…' ‘Our Father, which art in heaven…'

It had been a wonderful evening. The weather had continued to be unseasonably balmy, so the walk across the Backs to Kings' College Chapel was a sensory delight. The earthy smell of the spring flowers, the touch of the breeze on her warm skin, the laughter of the punters on the river, the glint of the water, sparkling in the slanting rays of the setting sun as she and Keith crossed the bridge.

And the concert was superb—a feast for the ears, balm for the heart. In the amazing acoustic of the soaring Perpendicular chapel, a few perfectly tuned voices filled the space completely, ravishingly. Margaret didn't want it to end, ever.

Of course it did end. Keith seemed to sense—and share—her mood of elation at the beauty of the music, so he didn't descend to meaningless chit-chat as they walked back through the water meadows and across the bridge.

In the dark, in the silence of their wordless communion, it was even more magical. They paused on the bridge, leaning on the side rails, watching the water—black now—as it flowed beneath them. His arm, in its rough tweed sleeve, brushed against hers, and she shivered slightly.

For the first time, she was aware of him as a man, and the sensation was both disturbing and pleasurable. The faint spicy scent of his after-shave, the feel of his sleeve…And then he reached for her hand, lacing his fingers with hers. It was natural, unforced, unthreatening, and shocking only in the warm rush of physical pleasure it elicited in Margaret. How long had it been since a man had had this effect on her?

Keith Moody was not a prepossessing man in any sense. He was middle-aged, losing his hair. He'd probably never been very handsome, even in his prime. Yet when he held her hand like that, she didn't want him to stop.

Margaret had been married to a handsome man. She'd been there, done that. Hal was the kind of man who was a joy to look at. Achingly, heart-stoppingly handsome, more handsome than any man had a right to be. The kind of man whom other men's wives fell in love with…

A disturbing man in many ways. And that comeliness had turned her life—and the lives of several other people—upside-down.

Keith was nothing like that. He was comfortable, like a well-fitting shoe.

But still, Margaret's pulses were beating faster at the touch of his fingers on hers. And she didn't want him to stop…

‘The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ…'

Morning prayer was over. Margaret had daydreamed her way through it, on auto-pilot.

Feeling a bit guilty, but still smiling, she decided to skip breakfast and go straight to her office. Maybe she could get there before her secretary arrived, and have a few uninterrupted minutes with her post and her e-mails.

The office door was unlocked; the post was unopened on her desk, delivered first thing by the porter.

And on her desk, as well, was a box of chocolates. Not just one chocolate, but a whole box. A
large
box. Expensive chocolates, from the poshest shop in town. Tied up with an extravagant bow.

It wasn't even Monday.

Margaret's smile spread across her face, from ear to ear.

***

Neville scrunched the computer print-out into a ball and lobbed it into his bin. ‘Rubbish,' he said.

‘You can't do that, Guv!' Cowley sounded outraged as he retrieved it. He uncrumpled it and smoothed it out on Neville's desk. ‘What if they're telling the truth? And even if they're not, you can't just bin it.'

Neville sighed; Sid was right. Even if it was rubbish, it would have to be saved and put into a file. That was the way of bureaucracy: file it and forget it, but be sure you've covered your backside.

‘I think we need to look into this,' Cowley went on. ‘Check it out. It could be true.'

‘It's anonymous,' Neville pointed out with exaggerated patience. ‘We can't follow up on it.'

Cowley's finger stabbed the transcript. ‘It says to ask his friends, to ask Hugo. We can do that, Guv.'

Neville had things to do that morning: apart from anything else, he needed to draft his statement for the inquest. He had no wish to speak to the posh Hugo Summerville again, and besides, the caller's claim was patently unfounded. He shook his head. ‘I'm sorry, Sid. I just don't buy it.'

‘Why not?' Cowley demanded.

‘Sebastian Frost was a good kid. A
normal
kid, for God's sake. His parents knew him better than anyone, and if he'd been into something unsavoury like bullying—'

‘But he got himself killed, didn't he? There has to be a reason for that. If it wasn't drugs, or gangs—'

Neville cut across Cowley's interruption. ‘You're saying you believe that Sebastian Frost was a bully? And that someone killed him because of it?'

The sergeant crossed his arms across his chest. ‘I'm saying it's possible, Guv. You know what school kids are like. If someone's different in any way—a little bit of bullying happens. Someone starts it, other people join in. Sometimes it gets out of hand.'

Suddenly, vividly, Neville was transported back in time over thirty years. A schoolyard in another land, another time. Connor O'Brian, Fergal Flaherty, Donal Ryan: he could see them as clear as day, remember the looks of scorn on their faces, the mocking voices. ‘What kind of a name is Neville Stewart? You call yourself Irish, boy, with a name like that?' He'd wanted to curl up and die. He'd wanted to change his name. He'd wanted to strike out with his fists…

He shook his head abruptly to clear the image. ‘What about
you,
Sid? You seem to be an expert on the subject. Were you ever bullied at school?'

Cowley shifted from one foot to the other and looked away. ‘Well, no, Guv. Not me.'

Not me.
Neville realised, in a flash, what that meant: Sid Cowley had been a bully. Not a victim, but a perpetrator. No wonder he was an expert on the subject.

He found that it wasn't difficult to believe, or imagine. Sid Cowley, taller than the other kids. Chippy. A bit of a smart-aleck, a know-it-all. Mouthy, then as now. If he couldn't intimidate the other kids with his fists—and he'd have been perfectly capable of it—he could always do it with his mouth.

Was it possible? Could Sebastian Frost have used his height and his educated, middle-class superiority to bully kids who were less blessed by nature or circumstances?

Well, he told himself, nothing else of value, no credible leads, had been forthcoming from the news conference and the appeal for information. No witnesses, no one stepping forward to say they'd seen Sebastian that night. Much as he disliked the thought, he needed to take this seriously, to follow it up. Maybe something would come of it. Neville sighed.

‘All right, Sid,' he conceded. ‘We'll do it. We'll talk to his friends about this. Let's do it and get it over with.'

***

‘It's just like old times,' Tamsin said happily as she and Callie crossed the courtyard. ‘Getting up early on Wednesday morning for Tutor Group.'

Callie rather enjoyed
not
having to get up early on Wednesdays since she'd left Archbishop Temple House, but she nodded her agreement.

‘Except that I had to get up
really
early to do Facebook,' Tamsin added. ‘I've been so busy the last couple of days that I feel like I'm falling behind.'

‘How are you doing it? Did you bring a laptop?'

Tamsin shook her head, sending her ringlets bouncing. ‘Phone. I had to get an iPhone so I could keep up with Facebook when I'm not near my computer.'

Callie laughed incredulously. ‘Has anyone ever told you that you're seriously addicted to Facebook?'

‘I don't deny it.' Tamsin grinned. ‘The only trouble with the phone is that the keyboard is so small. What I really want is an iPad. Or maybe an iPad Mini. I'm saving up for one,' she added.

They'd reached the row of staff housing, tucked at the back of the courtyard. It
would
be good to meet with their Tutor Group again, Callie told herself. Not least because Adam wasn't part of the group. At the time, she'd regretted that he'd been in a different group, but now it was a source of great relief. A couple of hours with no danger of running into Adam was something she was looking forward to unreservedly.

Mad Phil greeted them at the door with the sort of friendly hug that was permissible now that he was no longer their tutor. ‘Come in,' he said. ‘You know the drill. Worship first, breakfast after.'

They weren't the first to arrive; Nicky was already in the lounge, Mad Phil's cat on his lap, having appropriated the most comfortable chair. He scooped the cat onto the floor, rose and gave them hugs.

‘I see you've snagged the best chair,' Callie observed.

He bowed with mock gallantry, swooping his arm in an exaggerated gesture. ‘Just saving it for you, my dear lady,' he said. ‘I'm going to sit on the sofa with Tamsin.'

Tamsin beamed with pleasure as he led her to the sofa and settled himself beside her, draping a casual arm round her shoulders.

Poor Tamsin, thought Callie. No wonder she was in love with Nicky: he certainly didn't do anything to discourage her, whatever his protestations to the contrary. She didn't stand a chance when he turned on the charm like that.

Mad Phil took the least comfortable chair, as was his custom. ‘I'll be leading the worship, as soon as everyone gets here,' he said. ‘I decided it wasn't fair to ask anyone else to do it.' He yawned suddenly. ‘Oh, excuse me.'

‘You look tired, Dr Moody,' Tamsin said.

Nicky removed his arm from around Tamsin, leaned forward and squinted at their ex-tutor. ‘Yes, you do,' he pronounced. ‘Did you have a hot date last night?'

While Callie gasped at Nicky's temerity, Mad Phil merely smiled. ‘I suppose you might say that,' he said, just as the doorbell rang. ‘Excuse me,' he repeated, rising and heading for the door.

‘Saved by the bell,' Nicky whispered. ‘Oh, that sly dog. Who would have thought it of Mad Phil?'

Tamsin's eyes were even rounder than usual. ‘Oh, Callie! Maybe it
was
true! What that Hanna said about him!' She put her hand over her mouth.

‘What?' Nicky turned to her accusingly. ‘Have you been holding back some juicy gossip from me, woman? Tell me everything!'

***

‘I don't know what you're talking about.' Hugo gave them a blank stare.

Once again Neville was in the handsome upstairs drawing room, in the wing chair across from Hugo Summerville. This time Cowley was with him, and Neville could tell that his sergeant was not impressed—either by the surroundings or by Hugo himself. Neville was trying to keep an open mind about Hugo: though the boy had never been anything but polite to him, he had the nagging feeling that something about him didn't ring quite true. But at least he had the advantage of familiarity. Cowley seemed to be thrown off by it all—by Hugo's posh accent and general air of superiority.

‘You're saying that you know nothing about Sebastian Frost and bullying,' Cowley demanded.

Hugo shrugged. ‘Seb was my best mate. Don't you think I would have known about it if someone was bullying him?'

‘Bullying
him
?' Cowley gave a contemptuous snort. ‘Don't make me laugh, Sunshine. If anyone was doing the bullying, it was your mate Sebastian.'

‘That's ludicrous.'

‘Is it?' Cowley leaned forward and eyeballed him.

If he'd been hoping to intimidate Hugo, it wasn't working. Hugo gave a little smile and shrugged again. ‘Don't you think I would have known?' he repeated. ‘And why would Seb want to bully anyone?'

Neville, in spite of himself, had to admire the performance. If performance it was…Hugo was clearly in charge of the situation, answering questions with questions, winding Sid up to the breaking point. ‘I think we're wasting our time here, Sergeant,' he interjected.

A complete and utter waste of time, just as he'd feared. Nothing but an anonymous phone call to go on, no evidence to back it up, and an adversary who was giving nothing away. A smooth customer, cleverer than the two of them put together. They could stay here all day, ask Hugo Summerville every question in the book, and they wouldn't get one inch closer to discovering the truth about this.

Meanwhile Sebastian Frost's killer was out there. And everyone—Evans, the press—wanted to know why they hadn't caught him yet. Then there was the little matter of the inquest…

Five minutes later they were back at the car. ‘Tosser,' Cowley pronounced. ‘Smooth toffee-nosed bastard.'

Neville sighed. ‘I suppose we'll have to give this up as a bad job.' He refrained from adding that he'd predicted that from the start.

‘Not yet, Guv.' Cowley slid into the driver's seat. ‘One more, at least. Let's try his mate Tom before we give it up. I talked to him before, remember? He's not as much of a clever clogs as bloody Hugo. If we can catch him on the hop—'