False Tongues (26 page)

‘Yes?'

A boy stood there looking at them. At first Neville took him for a young child, then realised that he was just quite short, and probably several years older than his size would indicate. Fifteen or sixteen, at a guess, given the deepness of his voice and the stubble on his cheeks. Ginger stubble.

Ginger hair.

‘Joshua Bradley?' Neville asked.

‘That's right. Josh,' he added, widening his eyes.

Neville glanced at Cowley, who nodded. He didn't need to say anything; Neville knew what he was thinking.

They'd just found Red Dwarf.

Chapter Fifteen

Mark went to an Italian restaurant in Praed Street, near Paddington Station, for his lunch break. He'd been there before; he knew it wasn't as good as the family restaurant, La Venezia, but he also knew—from experience—that there were far worse, and this one was reliable. And cheap. He could get a plate of pasta, a glass of wine, with a decent shot of espresso after, and not have to take out a bank loan.

He put his phone on the table while he waited for his food. No luck yet in talking to Callie; surely she would ring him soon, or at least turn her phone on so he could reach her.

There was a tumbler of long, crunchy breadsticks on the table. He took one and bit off the end, telling himself not to obsess. She
would
ring. She would. Maybe during her own lunch break. Any time now.

But when the phone rang, it wasn't Callie's ringtone.

Chiara, the caller display revealed. Mark sighed, remembering he'd told his niece she could ring him any time she needed to talk. He just wasn't in the mood for this right now.

‘
Ciao, Nipotina
,' he said, forcing a cheerful tone of voice.

‘Hey, Uncle Marco.'

‘What's up?'

‘Are you busy tomorrow?' she asked. ‘I mean
busy
busy?'

‘Well, I'm working. It's Friday. A workday.' He knew he was hedging; Miranda Frost had already told him that he wouldn't be required tomorrow, so in theory he could be a bit flexible, but that wasn't something he was ready to reveal to Chiara.

She sighed. ‘And you can't get a day off? For something really, really important?'

‘Why don't you just tell me what you need me for.' At least it wasn't his sister, asking him to wait tables at the restaurant. He'd been guilt-tripped into doing that more than once.

‘It's a Fun Walk. To raise money for the church. We've all got sponsors and everything. Don't you remember, Uncle Marco? You said you'd give me twenty pounds if I finished.'

He had a vague recollection of saying something like that, but it had been a long time ago. ‘That was months ago, wasn't it?'

‘Well, I asked you months ago. But the walk is tomorrow.'

‘And you need me to come and cheer you on?' he guessed.

‘Not exactly. I need you to go with me,' she explained. ‘It's a Parent and Child Fun Walk. Kids can't do it on their own—it's part of the rules.'

‘But I'm not your parent,' Mark said, just as he realised that he was stepping into the giant chasm that had opened at his feet.

There was a stifled sob on the other end of the phone. ‘Dad was supposed to go with me,' Chiara gulped. ‘Like you said, it was ages ago. Dad and I. We were going to do it together.'

Madre de Dio.
‘Your mother,' he said helplessly. ‘She can't…?' Of course she couldn't. She would be working at the restaurant, and that was sacrosanct.

‘Mum's working. There's a big party in at lunchtime, she said, so there's no way she can get away.' Chiara sighed deeply down the phone. ‘Please, Uncle Marco? Please? I don't have a dad any longer, but you're my uncle. Isn't there any way you can get off work to go with me? I've been looking forward to it so much. And it's for a good cause. Wouldn't you feel guilty if the church lost all that money, just because my dad died?'

Mark knew when he was beaten. The girl must have taken guilt-trip lessons from her mother and her grandmother; she was world-class already, at the age of thirteen. ‘I'll see what I can do,
Nipotina
,' he conceded. ‘I should be able to manage it, without getting sacked.'

Instantly her tone of voice changed. ‘Oh, that's brilliant! It's going to be such fun—you'll see. My friend Emilia and her mum are coming, and I hardly ever get to see her because she goes to a different school. She would have been just gutted if I'd had to cancel.'

‘What time does it start? And where?'

‘Oh, Mum will ring you later about all of that,' she said dismissively. ‘The important thing is that you're coming. Love you, Uncle Marco!' she added as she hung up.

‘Love you, too.' Mark sighed and dropped the phone back on the table.

Almost immediately it rang again: Callie's tune this time. He snatched it and punched the button. ‘
Cara Mia
!' he said eagerly.

‘This is the first chance I've had to ring,' she explained. ‘I've been tied up all morning. Marco, it's so good to hear your voice.'

He couldn't help himself. ‘But last night…? I left so many messages. Is something wrong?'

‘It's good to hear your voice,' Callie repeated.

***

Margaret had no appetite, and even less desire to be sociable, so she slipped away after the morning session and went into the chapel while everyone else trooped to the dining hall for lunch. The chapel was quiet, empty, peaceful. In contrast to the Victorian Gothic style which dominated most of the college, the chapel was decorated simply, with white walls, clear glass windows and movable chairs rather than stationary pews. Margaret always found it a restful haven.

She knelt down at the altar rail and tried to empty her mind of its turmoil, to place herself in God's hands and ask for his forgiveness.

After a few minutes, she was conscious of someone else in the chapel, but she was determined to block out the intrusion and concentrate on her prayers.

It was no good; she couldn't focus. Margaret gave up and rocked back on her heels, tears prickling her eyes.

‘I'm so sorry. I hope I didn't disturb you, my dear,' said a soft voice at her side.

She turned to see John Kingsley, crouching down beside her.

‘It doesn't matter,' she said dismissively, attempting a smile as she rose to her feet.

‘But it does matter. Something is wrong. I can see that.' He put out a hand to stop her before she could flee. ‘I've sensed it all morning. Something is troubling you. And it's something that's happened since last evening.'

Not trusting herself to speak, Margaret nodded.

‘Would you like to talk about it, my dear?'

She tried to protest. ‘You should be having lunch. You're very kind, but you don't have time for all of this, Canon.'

‘Please, call me John,' he said. ‘And I'm not hungry. You fed me so well last night that I don't think I'll need to eat again for a week.'

In spite of herself, Margaret smiled at the compliment, even as her throat tightened at the man's kindness.

‘Come over here,' he urged. ‘Let's sit down and talk for a few minutes.'

She had thought she would resist him, but discovered that she didn't really want to. It had been so long since she'd had anyone to talk to, anyone who would listen. Margaret was the one who usually did the listening; the prospect of being on the other side was as comforting as it was terrifying. So much pain…

She remembered the fleeting temptation, the night before, to confide in him, and knew now—as she'd known then—that he wouldn't judge her, and that he would truly listen.

‘Tell me what's troubling you,' he invited, as they sat side-by-side in adjoining chairs.

‘I don't want to burden you,' she protested.

‘My dear Margaret, you must know that sharing in others' sorrows, as well as in their joys, is one of the chief privileges of priesthood.'

She
did
know it; she had often felt the same, though she'd rarely heard it so well expressed.

‘Tell me,' he repeated.

So she told him.

‘I was married,' she began, ‘to an exceptional man.' Then she stopped, hardly knowing how to proceed.

‘Hal,' he prompted.

Margaret sighed. ‘Yes. Hal. I loved him very much. He was clever and kind. And the handsomest man I've ever laid eyes on,' she added. ‘I wouldn't mention that, but it does play a part in what happened, I think. His attractiveness, I mean.'

The Canon nodded.

‘Hal was so supportive of my ministry,' she said. ‘When I became an Archdeacon, especially. Some men would have been threatened by that. But not Hal. Though he'd been a very successful man in his own right, he was quite happy to take a back seat to my career. He embraced life as a clergy spouse.'

‘A rare treasure.'

She smiled. ‘Indeed. He'd had a heart attack, you see. Too much job stress. So he gave it all up, sold his business, and became a painter and decorator.'

‘Hmm. That could be a dangerous job for an attractive man,' John observed.

He understood! ‘Exactly,' she confirmed. ‘He was charming, funny, handsome. And doing a job that put him in contact with women, quite a lot of the time.'

‘How did you feel about that?'

‘I thought it was rather amusing, to tell you the truth,' Margaret admitted. ‘He always came home and told me about the women who fell for him—it was sort of a joke between us. Because I trusted him, you see. I knew that he loved me, and I didn't have anything to worry about.'

John said nothing, waiting for her to continue. She swallowed, hard: this was the beginning of the difficult bit. ‘But then,' she said at last, ‘he did something that neither one of us had ever expected. He fell in love. With a dowdy vicar's wife—not even someone glamorous or beautiful.'

It had been horrible. He hadn't told her; she'd found out about it through a malicious third party. The bottom had dropped out of her secure world. Remembering, she clasped her hands together in her lap so hard that the nails dug into the backs of her hands.

‘They didn't have an affair,' she went on, trying to keep the emotion out of her voice. ‘They were both too…good. Too honourable to give in and violate their marriage vows. That's what he told me, and I believed him.'

‘But it must have been very painful for you.'

‘I just couldn't cope with it,' she confessed. ‘He gave her up. Her husband never even knew. Very
Brief Encounter
,' she added with a bitter little smile. ‘But I couldn't forget what he'd done to me. The emotional betrayal…falling in love with someone else. It was worse, in a way, than if he'd slept with her and not loved her, or at least it seemed that way to me at the time. It undermined everything I believed about myself and about our marriage.'

‘I can understand that,' he said gravely.

‘I tried to carry on. To put it behind us and rebuild our marriage. We both tried. He was determined to make it work. But I just…couldn't. At the end of the day, I couldn't do it. Every time I looked at him…' Margaret buried her face in her hands and squeezed her eyes shut.

John waited.

‘So I filed for divorce. I didn't see what else I could do in the circumstances. I knew it would damage my career in the Church, but that wasn't my concern. I just…couldn't bear to look at him. I wanted him out of my life.'

‘And?'

‘And I got him out of my life, but not in the way I'd planned.' Margaret gulped back a sob. ‘He…died.'

‘Oh, my dear.' His voice was compassionate.

‘He had another heart attack. A massive one. He died instantly.' She took a deep breath. ‘Stress again, the doctor said. And I knew what that meant. Hal didn't want the divorce, but I insisted on it. It meant that it was my fault that he died. I…I killed him.'

It was the first time she'd ever spoken the words, though she'd thought them, pondered over them, wept over them a thousand and more times. ‘I killed him,' she repeated.

***

‘Are you treating this boy, this Joshua Bradley, as a suspect?' Detective Superintendent Evans leaned across his desk and stared Neville down with his piggy eyes.

Neville nodded. ‘Yes, Sir. That's what I've been trying to tell you.' He ticked the points off on his fingers. ‘The dead boy bullied this kid something shocking. He encouraged his friends to do the same. We don't know why he hated him, but he did. That gives Josh Bradley plenty of motive, as far as I'm concerned. And Bradley lives two minutes' walk from Paddington Green, where the murder took place,' he added. ‘I think it's very likely that he did it. We certainly don't have anyone else in the picture at the moment. This is the first breakthrough we've had.'

‘Then no. Absolutely not. You can't question him.'

‘But Sir. Why not?'

Evans sighed and leaned back in his chair. ‘You know the law, Stewart. He's a under sixteen. You're not allowed to question him without a parent or “appropriate adult” present. Do I need to quote you chapter and verse of PACE?'

He could do it, too, Neville had no doubt. The Police and Criminal Evidence codes were probably Evans' bedtime reading. ‘We've questioned all of Sebastian Frost's mates,' he pointed out. ‘Most of them didn't have their parents present.'

‘That was different. They weren't suspects, were they?'

‘No,' he admitted.

‘Surely you can see the difference. They weren't detained or in custody. When you're gathering information, it's one thing. When a kid is in the frame for murder, it's something else entirely.'

Neville knew Evans was right, but it put him in an impossible position. ‘What am I supposed to do, then?'

‘I suggest that you track down one of the kid's parents, as soon as you can.' Evans bared his teeth in something he would have liked to believe resembled a smile. As far as Neville was concerned, it wasn't even close.

He tried to be patient. ‘His mother is dead. His father is a travelling salesman. Travelling. As in on the road. Left home this morning, not expected back until tonight.'

‘He leaves his kid alone when he goes on the road?'

‘It's the school holidays,' Neville reminded him. ‘The kid would usually be in school during the day.'

‘Humph.' Evans frowned. ‘What sort of a dad would leave a fifteen-year-old on his own all day?'