False Tongues (2 page)

All the while that she was packing, a black and white cocker spaniel watched her every move from its position near the door with an expression that Callie interpreted as both accusatory and miserable. ‘Oh, Bella,' she said, crouching down to stroke the dog's soft ears. ‘Are you afraid I'm going to sneak out and leave you?'

Something else to feel guilty about, she told herself. Poor Bella. During Callie's weeks of enforced residence at the vicarage, she'd had to find a temporary home for Bella with her friend Frances in Notting Hill. Now, all too soon, Bella would be returning to Frances' for a few days. She'd be well looked after, if not thoroughly spoilt, but Callie felt bad about it all the same.

Her mobile phone rang in her bag and she scrambled to retrieve it, pressing the button to answer the call as she registered the fact that it was her brother.

‘Hi, Sis,' said Peter's breezy voice.

‘Hi.' She took the phone away from her ear for a second to check the time display. ‘I don't have too much time to talk right now,' she said. ‘I have to finish packing, then take Bella over to Frances', and then catch a train.'

‘Packing? Train?' Peter echoed.

She sighed. ‘I told you. I'm away this week. Cambridge.'

‘Oh, that's right. Meeting up with your chums.'

‘Well, that's not really what it's about,' she protested.

‘Whatever. Will what's-his-name be there?'

Adam. Peter had never liked him, and refusing to call him by name had always been his way of letting her know that. ‘I sincerely hope not,' Callie said with feeling. She had monitored the replies to Tamsin's Facebook invitation, and Adam was down as a ‘no.'

‘And nice as it is to talk to you, I've really got to go.'

‘Hang on a second,' Peter said. ‘I can save you a bit of time. You won't have to take Bella to Frances.' I'll look after her this week.'

‘What?'

‘The thing is, Sis,' her brother went on in a remarkably cheerful voice, ‘Jason and I have split up.'

‘Oh, Peter, no!' It wasn't the first time, and with Jason's known predilection for chorus boys, Callie had privately expected the breakup much sooner.

‘Don't sound so upset,' he said. ‘I'm not. Mutual consent this time. We just haven't been getting on, and it was time for me to move out.'

‘So you're…'

‘Homeless again,' he chirped. ‘And on my way to Bayswater, even as we speak. I'm in a taxi. I'll be there in…oh, ten minutes at the most.'

Callie's heart sank, remembering the last time. She recalled it all too well: the wet towels on the floor, the dirty crockery in the sink…‘But you
can't
stay here,' she protested. She'd only just moved back in and reclaimed her home. It wasn't fair!

‘It won't be for long. Just a few days. I have my eye on a flat, so it's just a matter of some paperwork,' Peter said smoothly. ‘And I'll be doing you a favour, Sis. Looking after Bella.'

‘All right,' she capitulated, knowing she didn't sound very gracious about it. ‘But you
have
to be out when I get back at the end of the week.'

‘Done deal. See you in a few,' he said, hanging up.

Callie sighed, surveying her flat. Her lovely cosy flat, with everything just the way she liked it. That wouldn't last five minutes with Peter in residence.

But Bella would probably be happier in her own home, she told herself. Trying to inject some enthusiasm into her voice, she stroked Bella's ears and said, ‘Uncle Peter's coming to take care of you. Won't that be nice?'

Her case was packed and she didn't have to take Bella to Frances'. That gave Callie a few spare minutes to check the invitation list one more time. She went to her desk and switched her computer on, navigating to her bookmarked Facebook home page.

The list was much the same as the last time she'd looked: in the ‘yes' column were various names including Tamsin Howells, Val Carver, and Nicky Lamb. But one name had been added at the bottom of the list. Adam Masters was now a ‘yes'.

Callie caught her breath and uttered a single word which the average man in the street would not believe could ever pass the lips of a clergyperson.

Interlude: Facebook

DarthVader474 to RedDwarf287:

U make me sick u little wanker. U need to die. Y dont u just kill urself & save us the trouble?

Chapter Two

If there was anything that Detective Inspector Neville Stewart hated more than being woken out of a deep sleep by an emergency call, it was for the phone to go when he'd just managed to fall asleep after a bout of insomnia.

To be fair, it didn't happen that often. There weren't too many criminal incidents in the middle of the night that couldn't be dealt with by a more junior policeman—a detective constable or a detective sergeant, or even a beat officer. Traffic violations, drug busts, vandalism, drunken rowdyism: Neville need not be called from his bed for any of these.

But murder was something different.

And this murder was literally in his professional backyard—on the open common ground called Paddington Green, behind the police station.

A late dog walker had discovered the body—just the other side of the walk from the churchyard—and because of its proximity to the station it hadn't taken long for the police to reach the crime scene and cordon it off with plastic tape. As it was a Sunday night, though, and Easter to boot, few officers were on duty. When Neville arrived, feeling hard done-by, the SOCO team was just beginning to assemble near the square bulk of the church and the photographer hadn't got there yet. Neither had Neville's sergeant, DS Sid Cowley, but at least the police doctor was there and had made the necessary examination to ascertain death.

It was to him that Neville naturally gravitated for a quick rundown of the state of play.

‘He's dead, all right,' Dr Tompkins said with characteristic brusqueness. ‘Stabbed. In the neck.'

Neville felt a chill like icy fingers on the back of his own neck. It was spring; the day had been warm, but that didn't mean it didn't cool off quite substantially at night. At least that was Neville's story, and he intended sticking with it. ‘Do we know who he is?'

Colin Tompkins shook his head. ‘Young lad. On his own. He might have some ID on him, but we've left him for you to have a look.'

Neville nodded approvingly; the less mucking about with the crime scene and the body, the better. ‘Murder weapon?' he asked, falling in with Dr Tompkins' terse speech pattern.

‘Knife. No sign of it yet.'

Another one, then. Neville closed his eyes and sighed. There had been so many of them lately: young men, little more than boys, killing each other with knives. What a waste. What a bloody, stupid waste.

***

Callie had very nearly changed her mind and stayed at home. Before the night was over, she wished she had.

Adam was a complication she had certainly not counted on. Spending the better part of a week in proximity to him—and in such emotive, evocative surroundings—was the last thing she needed at this point in her life. Just going back to the place they'd met was difficult enough to contemplate, let alone with him there.

It wasn't too late to change her mind, she'd told herself, breathing deeply to control her panic. After all, Adam had changed his, virtually at the last minute. The success of the week didn't depend on her being there. Tamsin would miss her, and Val and Nicky, but they'd get on fine without her.

Then Callie remembered Peter. He was on his way; he'd be here in a few minutes. To stay.

It was impossible. She was
not
going to share her flat with Peter again. Peter here on his own was bad enough; for her to be here with him just wasn't going to work.

She had to go to Cambridge. There was no alternative. No backing out now.

***

A bloody, stupid waste.

Neville looked down at the body in the feeble light of his hand-held torch, then crouched down for a closer look and swallowed hard. He wasn't squeamish; he'd seen enough violent deaths in his time that he knew he shouldn't be bothered. But this was just a kid. Just a lad, with a tangle of dark curls and downy cheeks that had probably never seen a razor. He'd expected some street-hardened gang member, thick-set, covered with tattoos and scars of previous fights. This boy wasn't like that. He was tall and slender, clean, well-dressed. And so young.

He was someone's son.

Somewhere, perhaps not far away, his parents were wondering where he was. Wondering why he hadn't come home from an evening out with his mates.

The police photographer had arrived and was supervising the setting up of lights to illuminate the crime scene. ‘Let's get on with it,' Neville muttered, mostly to himself, but the photographer heard him.

‘Keep your hair on, mate. We're working as fast as we can.'

‘Yeah, yeah.' Neville rocked back on his heels, then stood up.

The photographer threw a switch and suddenly the body on the ground was exposed in a glare of bright white light, lying in a pool of darkening blood.

‘Jesus,' Neville said.

In addition to the stab wound in the neck, there was blood round the boy's mouth, difficult to see in the dark but now clearly visible. Neville turned to the doctor, who was still hovering nearby, and pointed down. ‘What's that about, then?'

‘His tongue,' said Dr Tompkins quietly. ‘ Looks like it's been split. With a knife.'

‘Jesus,' he repeated with feeling. ‘Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.'

***

Travelling by public transport on a Sunday—let alone a holiday—was seldom a good idea, Callie recognised belatedly.

She'd spent longer talking to Peter than she'd planned, certain that the break-up with Jason was hitting him harder than he was willing to admit, then she'd made the mistake of taking the Tube to Kings Cross rather than grabbing a taxi.

Services on the London Underground were greatly reduced on Easter, she discovered. In fact, the District and Circle Line wasn't running at all, due to engineering works, so she had to take the Bakerloo Line from Paddington to Baker Street. Once there, she wheeled her case along endless corridors and down the escalator to the Northern Line platform only to see the tail lights of the departing train disappearing into the tunnel, and when she checked the electronic board for the next service, she was dismayed to see that there wasn't even one listed.

The platform was deserted; everyone else had made it onto the train. At least that meant she could sit down to wait for the next one, Callie told herself, dragging her suitcase to one of the plastic chairs bolted to the wall. She got out the envelope with her ticket and checked the time of the Cambridge train, synchronising her watch with the electronic display board on the platform. If the Tube train came within the next ten minutes, she ought to make it.

The Tube train didn't come. A few more people rushed onto the platform, looking hopeful or desperate. An unshaven man with a can of cider in his hand wandered over and lowered himself into the chair next to Callie, giving her an appraising sideways look as he took a swig from his can.

She had debated about whether she should wear her dog collar for the journey, and had decided against it. Now she wasn't sure she'd made the right decision. Sometimes it seemed to her that a clerical collar was an open invitation to strangers to talk to her, but in a funny way it also felt like a sort of protection, especially for her as a woman.

Maybe she was being silly, she told herself. This man was almost certainly harmless. Nonetheless she was glad there were other people on the platform.

Eventually the train roared out of the tunnel, stopping with a squeal and a lurch, its doors sliding open.

***

DS Sid Cowley's comment on the dead boy was even more terse than Dr Tompkins': a single monosyllabic expletive said it all.

‘Yeah,' Neville agreed, turning as his sergeant arrived at his side. Trust Sid to hit the nail on the head.

‘He's—how old?' Cowley guessed. ‘Fourteen? Fifteen?'

Neville clasped his hands behind his back. ‘Something like that. And he's no street kid,' he added. ‘Look at those clothes.'

The photographer was moving round the body, snapping photos then stopping to scribble in his notebook. ‘I'll be done in a few, Guv,' he said. ‘Get him from all angles, then do a video just to be on the safe side. Then he's all yours.'

‘What's a lad like that doing out here this time of night?' Cowley said. ‘My mum would have killed me if I'd tried that.'

‘We don't know how long he's been here,' Neville reminded him. ‘Dog walker found him, as usual.'

Cowley turned round and surveyed the area. ‘No houses anywhere near,' he observed. ‘Not even a pub. Not likely anyone heard anything going on, unless they were up to no good themselves. We'll be bloody lucky to find any witnesses. 'Cept for them, of course,' he added, nodding in the direction of the church.

‘Who?' Neville swivelled his head hopefully, then made out the dim outlines of several large tombs in the churchyard.

The sergeant laboured the joke. ‘But I don't suppose you'll have an easy time getting anything out of them, Guv. Not even with your legendary detective skills.'

‘Har bloody har,' Neville snapped. ‘Thanks for that, Sid.' Thanks for stating the obvious.

Easy wasn't the word. This was not going to be an easy case in any sense; he could feel it in his bones.

***

King's Cross had once been a rather unappealing station at the best of times, Harry Potter notwithstanding. Now it had been tarted up beyond recognition. Callie had to stop, read the signs, and get her bearings. Harry and his chums would never have located Platform Nine and Three Quarters.

She had time to catch her train, Callie told herself, taking a deep breath. If she didn't dawdle and concentrated on finding the platform, she ought to make it before they closed the barriers.

Even with wheels, her case was cumbersome and heavy. Why had she packed so many clothes? A wheel caught as she rounded a tight corner; Callie paused and tugged it free.

The train was in sight. The barriers were still open.

And then she saw him: Adam, striding along on his long legs, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, heading for the platform.

Callie stopped in her tracks; her suitcase banged into her leg. ‘Oh, no,' she breathed, but not at the pain in her calf. He would see her—he was bound to see her. He would suggest sitting together and she wouldn't be able to say no. She would have to travel all the way to Cambridge with him, making awkward small-talk. They'd share a taxi from the station to the college; they would arrive together.

No. She couldn't face it. Callie ducked behind a pillar and stayed very still. She didn't move as Adam reached the platform, as he boarded the train. As they closed the gates of the barrier behind him and a few other scurrying latecomers, as the train pulled out of King's Cross station.

‘Oh, God,' she said in the direction of the vanishing last car. But Callie had no regrets about her decision. There would be another train, she told herself stoutly. She would still make it to Cambridge, sooner or later. On her own.

Callie pivoted her suitcase round and headed back into the concourse, toward the nearest cafe. A cup of tea—that's what she needed. She would sit down and have a nice cup of tea. That would help her to face the rest of the journey.

***

Neville winced as Sid Cowley, with a defiant half-look in his direction, pulled out a packet of cigarettes.

They'd moved to a bench in the churchyard to sit for a moment and discuss what they'd found in the boy's pockets while the SOCOs continued their search of the immediate area.

Let Sid have his fag, Neville decided wearily. He could bloody well do with one himself, but he'd given up that luxury a few years back. He was now an ex-smoker, with all the baggage that entailed.

‘No ID, then,' Cowley said as he thumbed his lighter.

‘Inconvenient, that.' Without any identification, there wasn't much they could do apart from waiting for someone to ring and report that their kid was missing.

The boy had been carrying a wallet but all it contained was a couple of ten-pound notes. There was a handful of loose change in his pockets as well, and a key on a bit of string. ‘No phone,' Neville observed. ‘Strange. Unless someone pinched it, which is possible. Kids that age, they never seem to go out without their phones.'

The tip of Cowley's cigarette glowed in the dark. ‘My nephew,' he said. ‘My sister's lad. Twelve years old he is, and it's like that phone is attached to his hand. Texting all the time. Used to be a right little chatterbox, but not any longer. Can't get a civil word out of him most of the time, he's so busy with that bloody phone. Not talking, just texting.'

What a world, reflected Neville. What a world it was for kids these days. Phones, computers…and knives. Sudden death in a churchyard in the middle of the night.

With an unpleasant jolt he remembered that in a few months his own child would be born into this world. Poor little bugger.

Neville shivered. Don't go there, he told himself. Not now.

***

More than two hours after Callie missed her train, she was finally on the next one bound for Cambridge. She'd managed to pass some of the intervening time in the only cafe open on Easter Sunday evening with a cup of tea and a dried-out sandwich from the chiller cabinet. Then they'd started making moves to close the cafe for the night, so she'd gone in search of something to read. W H Smith had already shut its doors; eventually she'd found a few discarded sections of someone's Sunday newspaper and had made do with that while she waited for the platform to be announced and the gates to be opened.

Finally, though, she was on the train, her suitcase stowed in the luggage rack and a journey of about an hour ahead of her. The train wasn't too crowded; she'd found a seat without difficulty, facing forward and with a table.

She should ring Marco and let him know she was actually en route, Callie decided, and then she should ring Tamsin to tell her she'd been delayed. They'd arranged to have a pizza together at their favourite eatery; it wasn't fair to keep Tamsin waiting with no idea of her whereabouts.