False Tongues (28 page)

‘Adam. But not
him
, as such,' she assured him. ‘It just brought back all of the pain that he put me through.'

‘Oh, Callie.' Marco sighed. ‘I wish I was there to hold you and support you and make everything better.'

‘So do I,' she said softly. ‘Marco, so do I.'

***

‘Paul Bradley here,' said the voice on the phone.

At last! Taken aback by his success, Neville was at a momentary loss for words. How, exactly, did one tell a bloke that his son had confessed to murder?

‘Mr Bradley, this is Detective Inspector Neville Stewart,' he said, after a fractional pause. ‘Metropolitan Police, CID, Paddington Green. We…um…have your son Joshua here, and hope that it won't be too inconvenient for you to attend as soon as possible.'

‘You have Josh? There? He hasn't done anything, has he?'

Neville swallowed. ‘I'm afraid, Mr Bradley, that we're holding him for the murder of Sebastian Frost.'

‘But that's absurd! Impossible!'

‘I'm afraid not.' He waited for his words to sink in.

‘But…but I should be there! And he needs a solicitor. I'm sure this is just some ridiculous mistake. A joke. My son isn't a murderer.'

‘We would appreciate it, as I said, if you could come to the station at your earliest convenience. We need to ask your son some questions, and the law requires that you be present for that.' He added, ‘Please do bring your solicitor, or we can make arrangements for you to ring a duty solicitor.'

‘Don't worry,' said the voice on the other end. ‘I'll be there. With my solicitor. And
you'd
better be prepared to answer some questions yourself, Detective.'

Chapter Sixteen

Lilith's phone rang; she could see that the caller was her boss, Rob Gardiner-Smith.

‘Hello, Lilith. Are you busy?' he asked.

‘Yes,' she fibbed. Her efforts to find a juicy new twist to the story had so far been in vain, but she didn't want to admit that to the boss.

‘Well, then, perhaps I'd better look for someone else to deal with this,' he said. ‘Something new in the Sebastian Field murder.'

‘No! That is…' she back-peddled. ‘I'm sure I can manage.'

‘Good woman.' He lowered his voice. ‘The thing is, one of my sources tells me that there's been an arrest.'

Lilith's heart started beating faster. ‘Paddington Green Station?'

‘That's right.'

‘Any details?'

‘Not yet. That's up to you, Lilith.'

She didn't harbour any great hopes that the police would be more forthcoming than on her last visit, but the police station seemed the most logical place to start. If she played it safe, kept her eyes and ears open…‘Thanks, Rob,' she said. ‘I'll keep you informed.'

‘Just remember the deadline for the morning paper,' he offered as his parting shot.

***

Callie was determined to enjoy her penultimate evening in Cambridge. She said as much to her friends at dinner, and Tamsin had a suggestion. ‘Let's make the most of it,' she said. ‘Instead of spending the evening in the college bar, let's go into town. We could go to a pub or two. Maybe catch some live music somewhere, or go to a film. Are you up for it?'

Although Callie's thoughts had run more to a quiet evening in the bar with her friends, she agreed. ‘Sounds like fun,' she said gamely.

‘I'm definitely up for it,' Nicky concurred.

‘I'll see if Jeremy wants to come,' Val suggested.

‘The more, the merrier,' Nicky declared. ‘Let's see who else we can round up. It will be like old times.'

Tamsin clapped her hands, jubilant. ‘Brilliant! Curates on the town.'

‘But no clericals,' Nicky warned. ‘Dog collars will not be worn. Strictly mufti tonight. We don't want to bring Archbishop Temple House, or Holy Mother Church for that matter, into disrepute, do we?'

Val frowned. ‘Not that we'd do anything to risk that, would we?' she said with a prim set of her mouth.

‘I wouldn't be so sure.' Nicky twirled an imaginary moustache and chuckled wickedly. ‘We've been working hard all week. It's time to cut loose!'

Adam was walking past the group, returning his tray to the rack. He paused behind Tamsin's chair. ‘You're all going out?' he asked. ‘Can I come, too?'

There was a moment of sudden preternatural silence, as if the whole dining room was holding its breath; Callie was conscious that everyone's eyes had turned in her direction. Waiting.

She stared straight ahead, willing herself not to make eye contact with anyone. Especially not Adam. She took a deep breath, then let it out.

‘Sure,' she said. ‘Why not? As Nicky says, the more, the merrier.'

***

This time Lilith had better luck at the police station. She showed the guard her press pass and engaged in a minute or two of mild flirtation; he waved her through the door with a smile.

This place, she reflected not for the first time, was nothing like ‘Dixon of Dock Green,' dimly remembered in old reruns from her childhood. No cheery, avuncular desk sergeant, no cosy wood panelling, no venerable oak counter. Just a lot of industrial architecture—stainless steel, formica—and sour-faced people going about their business.

The person at the reception desk was a woman, and a miserable-looking one at that. No chance of charming that one into revealing anything.

Lilith considered her options: risk asking the miserable cow, or look for someone marginally more sympathetic?

While she was thinking about it, a man strode into the reception area, frowning—a stocky, rather powerfully built chap with an auburn beard. He went straight to the reception desk.

As luck would have it, the miserable cow was at that moment on the phone. She kept her head down and ignored the man, clearly conveying that her conversation was more important than he was.

He pounded on the formica surface. ‘Oy,' he said loudly.

The miserable cow raised her eyes, shook her head, and continued talking into the phone.

‘Listen here,' he shouted, reaching across the desk and yanking the phone out of her hand. ‘I've come to fetch my son. Josh Bradley. Some moron rang to say he'd been arrested for murder. I've never heard such foolishness in all my life. If this isn't someone's idea of a joke, and my son is really here, I want to see him. Now.'

The woman stared him down, unintimidated. ‘Mr Bradley,' she said, putting her hand out for the phone. ‘We'll have none of that sort of behaviour. Please take a seat. And as soon as I've finished my call, I'll ring Detective Inspector Stewart and tell him you're here.'

The bearded man looked as though he were going to explode, but after locking eyes with her for a moment, he handed the phone over and stalked toward the plastic chairs provided for people on hold.

Lilith, smiling, followed him.

***

Callie, furious that she'd been backed into a corner and had allowed herself to be intimidated by the fear of what other people would think of her, stomped up the stairs to her room.

It was so unfair! The choice that lay before her now was to go out with her friends, and have a miserable time as she spent the evening avoiding the odious Adam, or to stay behind and be miserable at the thought of what she was missing—her friends, out having fun without her.

Miserable, either way. Thanks to Adam.

Her gut feeling was that she shouldn't go. She'd ring Tamsin on her mobile, tell her that she'd developed a sudden, blinding migraine. Tamsin wouldn't believe her, of course, and neither would anyone else, but face would be saved.

At the top of the stairs she turned into the corridor and nearly ran head-on into John Kingsley.

‘Oh! Excuse me,' she gasped. ‘I wasn't paying attention to where I was going.'

He stopped. ‘Are you all right, my dear?'

‘No. Not really,' she admitted.

‘Would you like to tell me about it?'

It was tempting: he was such a good listener, and had given her very sound advice already.

Except that he'd told her to forgive Adam, she recalled suddenly. Not good advice at all. ‘You said I needed to forgive Adam,' she said, almost accusingly. ‘But he doesn't deserve my forgiveness.'

‘Oh.' The Canon put out a hand to stop her, as she started to squeeze by him and head for her room. ‘We definitely need to talk, my dear. Don't run away.'

Reluctantly she stopped. ‘I don't think there's much more to say.'

‘I think there is.'

Callie allowed him to follow her to her room. She would rather have gone in, locked the door behind her, and fumed in private. But she opened the door and gestured him in. ‘I'll put the kettle on,' she said automatically.

‘A cup of tea would be lovely,' the Canon said, and sat on her desk chair as she filled the little kettle from the basin in the corner, plugged it in, and reached for the teabags and her mug.

‘I only have the one mug,' Callie said. ‘One person, one mug.' They were nothing if not efficient here.

‘I'll fetch mine.' He disappeared down the corridor for a moment, returning with his own mug just as the kettle boiled.

‘It's a shame they can't give us proper milk,' she said, pouring the water into the mugs. ‘I hate this UHT stuff.' Along with one mug, they were provided with individual tubs of processed, long-life milk.

‘It's not very nice,' he agreed, but when the tea had brewed sufficiently and she'd fished the bags out, he proclaimed the tea to be just to his taste. ‘I'm sure you've learned by now,' he said. ‘One of the chief indispensable skills of a clergyperson is the making of tea. And the drinking of it. Any time, day or night.'

Callie laughed. ‘Too right. I learned that within the first week.'

He resumed sitting on the hard desk chair, leaving her with the comfy arm chair. ‘Now, my dear,' he said. ‘Let's hear about this. What's happened?'

She told him: first about Adam's visit to her room, with his infuriating suggestion that they resume their friendship, and then about tonight's fiasco.

‘He is absolutely clueless,' she finished. ‘Not only has he not even asked for my forgiveness. He doesn't seem to realise that he needs to. I don't think he's even sorry for what he's done to me! Like I said, he clearly doesn't deserve to be forgiven.'

John Kingsley sipped his tea, regarding her over the top of his mug. ‘Think about what you've just said, my dear.'

‘I've only said the truth.'

‘Do you think that God puts conditions on
his
forgiveness?'

She thought about it for a moment. ‘We're supposed to be sorry if we do something wrong. We're supposed to ask him to forgive us.'

‘But what if we're not sorry, and we don't ask him? Do you think God forgives us anyway?'

It was something she'd never considered.

‘I think he does,' John Kingsley said quietly. ‘In my understanding of God—which is as imperfect as anyone else's, I admit—he is supreme love. That's his defining characteristic. Of course he forgives us, even before we ask. That's what I think.'

‘But we're told to ask,' she repeated.

‘Yes. But the asking…that's for ourselves, my dear. Not for him. We're the ones who benefit by the asking.'

Callie didn't understand what he was getting at. ‘What does that have to do with Adam?'

He regarded her for a moment before answering, and then his reply was oblique. ‘Who do you think is suffering because you aren't able to forgive Adam?'

Not Adam, that was for sure. ‘If anyone,' she said slowly, ‘it's
me
. I'm the one who is all tied up in knots about it.'

‘Exactly.'

Again, he waited while she worked through the implications.

‘So you're saying that I need to forgive him for
me
, not for him?'

The Canon nodded. ‘You keep saying that Adam doesn't deserve forgiveness. From God's point of view no one
deserves
forgiveness—it's a free gift, no strings attached.' He smiled at her. ‘In the Lord's Prayer, Jesus said “forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us.” He doesn't say “as long as they're sorry about it.” Nowhere are we taught that forgiveness has to be conditional. Conditional on repentance, that is. We like to think that it is—if someone comes to you, and says they're really sorry, it would be wrong, as a Christian, not to forgive them. Most everyone would agree with that. But take it a step further. What if they're
not
sorry, like Adam? Does that remove from you the obligation to forgive?'

She was stunned. ‘So you're saying that I could—I
should
—forgive him, whether he's sorry or not?'

‘And you're the one who will benefit from it. That's the wonderful thing. If you just let go of your resentment and your anger, hand it all over to God, you'll be so much happier. You can get on with the rest of your life. That,' he added, ‘is what I meant when I said yesterday that it's time for you to forgive Adam. Not for his benefit. For
you
. With forgiveness comes freedom.'

Freedom from the pain of the past. She could get on with the rest of her life.

It was a Road to Damascus moment; the scales fell from her eyes.

Callie finished her mug of tea in silence, absorbing the implications of his words.

‘Now,' he said, putting down his empty mug, ‘I think I'd better be on my way. I believe you're going out with your friends.'

‘Yes,' said Callie, smiling. ‘That's right. I'm going out with my friends.'

***

‘He's here,' the desk sergeant said when Neville answered his phone. ‘Josh Bradley's father. And he's pretty angry,' she added.

Neville wasn't surprised. ‘I'll be there in a couple of minutes,' he said.

Before he went down to reception, he rang Cowley on his mobile. Sid had gone to the canteen to get a bite to eat, and had wanted Neville to go with him. Neville, though, had little appetite.

‘Heads up, Sid,' he said. ‘It's showtime.'

‘Right ho, Guv. I'm nearly finished.'

He didn't wait for Sid to get back, but went straight down to the ground floor.

The first person he saw, to his enormous dismay and displeasure, was Lilith Noone. She was standing close to someone who could only be the elusive Paul Bradley: a stocky, bearded man who was gesticulating and making himself heard throughout the reception area.

‘It's absolutely outrageous,' he was saying. ‘I had to cut my working day short because of this stupid misunderstanding. They call me and tell me to drop everything and come, then they leave me cooling my heels! I honestly don't know what the police are playing at. But I'm perfectly prepared to sue for defamation of character on my son's behalf, if they don't sort it immediately. To suggest that he is a murderer is beyond a joke.'

If it had been in his power, Neville would have had Lilith Noone arrested on the spot, locked up for the night, preferably sharing a cell with a mean-tempered, drunken hooker. But he couldn't do that. Regrettably.

‘I don't suppose it will do any good to ask you not to write a story about this?' he asked her, as civilly as he could manage.

‘Not a chance, Detective Inspector.' She smiled sweetly. ‘And I don't suppose you would consider making a statement for my readers? About the arrest?'

He told her, in no uncertain terms, and in two words of one syllable, where to go.