False Tongues (30 page)

Josh raised his eyes. ‘Yeah?'

‘Did Sebastian Frost ever send you texts or other messages, suggesting that you were…homosexual?'

Paul Bradley shot to his feet. ‘That is an outrageous question, Inspector, and I will not allow it! Joshua does not even know about such things—he's a boy who's been brought up in the Lord, brought up to be pure and not polluted by filthy talk like that!'

‘Please sit down,' Neville said, as calmly as he could manage. ‘Josh, please answer my question. And when you do, I suggest that you remember the things you've been taught by your parents and your church about lying,' he added, with sudden inspiration.

The boy's father nodded as he sat down. ‘False witness,' he said.

‘Josh, did Sebastian Frost ever suggest that you were gay?'

Josh looked down at the table. ‘He might have done,' he mumbled.

Paul Bradley's fist crashed onto the table. ‘That's enough!' he shouted. ‘I withdraw my permission for you to question my son. And if you're suggesting, Inspector, that my son is a pervert, a filthy sodomite, then I suggest you think again. You could find yourself looking at a lawsuit for slander! Isn't that right, Walt?'

Walter—Wally—Kendrick shrugged.

***

Interlude: from the front page of the Friday
Daily Globe

EXCLUSIVE: ARREST IN TEEN BULLY STABBING

By Lilith Noone

This paper can reveal, exclusively, that an arrest has been made in the death of teen bully Sebastian Frost. A juvenile thought to be Joshua Bradley, aged fifteen, from the Paddington area, is being held for questioning at Paddington Green Police Station.

Sebastian Frost was stabbed to death on Paddington Green late on Sunday evening. A friend confirmed that Sebastian was the ringleader of a group who engaged in cyber-bullying, targeting an unpopular schoolmate.

Chapter Seventeen

Callie didn't look at the clock when she crawled into bed, but she knew it was well past her usual bedtime. Past midnight, in fact—which meant it was Friday already.

‘I'll get up for Morning Prayer,' she said to herself, aware that she'd only made it once during the whole week.

She'd just closed her eyes when the storm hit: a downpour, lashing against her east-facing window, as the wind changed direction and blew rain in from the North Sea.

The unseasonable warm spell was over.
We made it back just in time
, was Callie's last thought before—rain or no rain—she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

***

It had been an entirely knackering day, in all sorts of ways, so Neville had expected to sleep soundly when he finally got to his bed.

But though he dropped off quickly, some time in the early hours of the morning rain arrived in the form of a windy storm, rattling the windows as it flung moisture against them. Waking, Neville groaned and turned over. He pulled Triona close and buried his face in her cloud of loose hair. ‘Mmm,' she murmured as his arm went round her, cupping her bump with his hand.

Unusually, Neville wasn't in the mood for sex. That troubled him for a moment: did it mean he was getting too old, or too domesticated? Did marriage do that to you? He pushed the unwelcome thought away.

‘Are you awake?' he whispered.

‘I am now,' came her resigned reply.

She'd been in bed already, asleep, when he got home, so he hadn't had the chance to tell her about what had happened.

They hadn't charged Josh Bradley with the murder. It was too late at night; they were all exhausted, and Neville had taken the decision that it could wait until morning. The formalities, the paperwork, the magistrate: there was no rush.

And now…there was a niggle. Something not quite right. What was it?

Procedurally, they had dotted the I's and crossed the T's—he was sure of it. He'd been more than scrupulous. Why, then, was there this uneasiness? This feeling that something was going to come back and bite them on the bum?

Triona rolled over to face him. ‘What is it?' she asked sleepily. ‘Is something bothering you?'

‘We arrested someone for the murder,' he told her. ‘He's confessed.'

‘Then you should be happy.'

‘I…am.' Was he? Wide awake now, Neville told her all about the events of the previous day, hoping that in the telling he would realise what was tugging at the back of his mind. ‘And you'll never guess who his solicitor is,' he added. ‘Wally Kendrick.'

‘Oh, Lord! The poor boy!' She sighed. ‘Mr Incompetent—a disgrace to my profession. That boy doesn't stand a chance of getting out of there, does he?'

‘Not in the short term, I'm afraid. If it wasn't for Sally Pratt, looking out for his interests…'

‘And his father sounds like a real piece of work,' Triona observed. ‘With that father, and Wally Kendrick, he's really drawn the short straw.'

‘He's afraid of his father,' Neville said, knowing it was true as he said it. ‘And because of that, there's something he's holding back. Or lying about. I'm just not sure what it is. I wish I could think…'

‘Sleep on it,' she urged, yawning. ‘Maybe your subconscious will work it out by morning.'

But sleep had now eluded him. Neville lay awake as his wife fell asleep beside him. He listened to the rain against the windows; he listened to Triona's even breathing. And he thought about Josh Bradley.

***

There was no sign of Tamsin at Morning Prayer, and she wasn't in the dining hall either. Callie got her breakfast and slid into the seat across from Nicky, who was picking at a bowl of cereal with a pained expression.

‘You look disgustingly cheerful this morning,' he observed. ‘You haven't been to Morning Prayer, have you?'

‘I have.' She tried not to sound smug. ‘But at least you've made it to breakfast, which is more than I can say for Tamsin.'

A few minutes later, though, Tamsin arrived, and went straight for the coffee before she joined them. ‘How can you eat?' she demanded. ‘How can you even
look
at food?'

Callie popped a bite of sausage into her mouth. ‘I obviously didn't have as much to drink as you did last night.'

‘That,' said Nicky, ‘and the visit to the kebab van in the wee small hours. You were wise to say no to the kebab, Callie. The combination of excess alcohol and kebab grease evidently doesn't agree with our Tamsin.'

Tamsin groaned. ‘Why didn't you tell me that last night? You encouraged me, you toe rag!'

‘You know you wanted to,' he smirked.

‘It was a bad idea.' Tamsin gulped at her coffee. ‘I really didn't think I was going to make it out of bed this morning,' she confessed.

Adam approached with his breakfast tray. ‘That was fun last night,' he said. ‘But I had nightmares that someone from my church was in Cambridge and saw me in the pub. And threatened to tell the vicar.'

‘Oh, fate worse than death!' Nicky declaimed, clutching his heart. ‘A curate in the pub—whatever next?'

Callie patted the chair next to her. ‘Come on, Adam,' she said cheerfully. ‘Sit down and eat your breakfast. I promise I won't tell your vicar about the pub.'

Tamsin looked up from her coffee and stared across the table at Callie, eyebrows raised almost to her scalp.

***

The weather had turned overnight, Mark observed as he got up on Friday morning. He looked out of his window to see streets and pavements slick with rain, under grey skies.

What a shame for Chiara's Fun Walk, he thought. It wasn't raining at the moment, but it might start again at any time, and it certainly wouldn't be as warm and pleasant as it was yesterday.

He had resigned himself to going on the walk, and was almost looking forward to it. Mark always enjoyed spending time with Chiara; having a day with her out in the fresh air—never mind the rain—was much more appealing than being cooped up in a house with people who really didn't want him there.

He was owed a day off, he told himself: he'd had to work on Monday, when he should have had a holiday. And Miranda Frost
had
told him not to come.

But when he'd been waked by the rain against his window, in the middle of the night, something had been nagging at him. A loose end, and one that hadn't even occurred to him until he'd talked to Callie yesterday.

That fireplace, in Sebastian's room.

Callie had said there was one in her room at the college, an old one with a hidden shelf inside.

Had anyone thought to check inside Sebastian's chimney breast? The forensics team had been through the room and had found little, they'd said, in the way of personal papers.

Had they missed something that was hiding in plain sight? Had they overlooked the architectural feature dominating the bedroom?

Mark wanted to check it out, just to be sure. Before he did anything else that day.

So he went all the way to the Frosts' house. It was a relief to see that the journalists had departed, a sign, he hoped, that they'd moved on to greener pastures, the next big story. Or maybe they'd just got tired of hanging about with no results.

Miranda frowned when she opened the door to him. ‘I told you not to come,' she reminded him. ‘I'm going to work later. Do you have some news, or something?'

He hadn't even checked in with Neville to see whether there had been any developments, he thought guiltily. But then surely Neville would have been in touch if anything significant had happened. ‘No news,' he said. ‘I just need to check something in Sebastian's room. I'll be in and out in five minutes.'

She moved aside reluctantly. ‘That room has been checked, top to bottom. I don't know what you think you'll find in there.'

Mark went up the stairs to Sebastian's room, knelt down in front of the fireplace, and extended his arm up into the chimney breast. It was impossible to see anything; his fingers moved over bricks, mortar, then encountered a ledge. He groped a bit higher and felt something soft. Carefully he grasped it and pulled it down and out.

It looked like an old pillowcase, covered in soot and grime—as was his arm, Mark noted regretfully. He was going to have to go home and change his shirt before meeting Chiara; she would be mortified if he turned up looking like a chimney sweep.

He opened the end of the pillowcase and peered inside. There was a stack of magazines, an exercise book, a few loose sheets of paper.

No time to examine anything more closely; he would have to deliver it to Neville and leave it up to him. And he'd have to be quick about it: he'd factored in the time to pay this visit to St Michael's Street, but not the extra time to go to the police station, and then back home for a wardrobe change. He'd promised Chiara that he'd be on time, and he wouldn't disappoint her.

Miranda Frost was standing in the corridor outside of Sebastian's door. ‘Well?' she demanded.

Mark held up his grimy bundle. ‘I found what I was looking for,' he announced with a touch of smugness.

‘Can I see it?'

‘Not yet,' he said. ‘I'll give you a receipt, if you like, but I need to take this to the police station. Right away.'

***

Margaret had expected to see Keith at Morning Prayer; trying not to be distracted and to focus on the service, she nonetheless was aware of each person who entered the chapel, earlybirds and latecomers, and felt a stab of disappointment each time as she realised it was someone else.

Perhaps he'd overslept, and gone straight to breakfast.

But when she got to the dining hall, her eyes searched out every table, every corner, in vain. No Keith Moody.

Deciding to skip breakfast herself, she went to her office instead.

Hanna wasn't in yet, which was something of a relief—especially when she found the note on her desk.

Margaret recognised Keith's distinctive handwriting on the envelope and ripped it open eagerly.

‘Sorry not to see you this morning,' she read. ‘I have to be away from college today. Will ring you later—xxx Keith.'

She sighed. Strange, she thought, that he hadn't mentioned it last night. If he'd known he was going to be away, why hadn't he said? And if not—if it was a spur-of-the-moment thing—it was even more mysterious.

Well, he'd said he would ring. She would have to be satisfied with that, Margaret told herself sternly.

***

‘But the lad's confessed. Tell me what I'm missing.' Evans glowered at Neville through narrowed eyes, beneath lowered caterpillar eyebrows.

Neville sighed. With all that was at stake, how could he possibly make Evans understand his misgivings? ‘I just don't want to rush into anything,' he explained. ‘If you'll agree to another twelve hours of custody, we'll be able to tie up all the loose ends before we commit ourselves.'

‘I repeat. The lad has confessed. What more do you need, before you charge him?' Evans drummed his fingers on his desk.

‘He
has
confessed,' Neville agreed. ‘But it's just too…easy. Too pat. He came out with his confession before we'd even had a chance to question him. Before we were
allowed
to question him, technically, with his father not available. It was like he had his story all worked out and just couldn't wait to tell us.'

‘Maybe because his story is true,' Evans suggested ironically. ‘Did you ever think of that possibility?'

‘I want to believe him,' Neville assured him. ‘Nothing would make me happier. But I'll say it again. Something's just…not right. And I can't, for the life of me, put my finger on it.'

Evans brought his fist down on his desk. ‘Can I remind you, Stewart, of what's at stake here? The bloody press have their teeth into it. The
Globe
has even named him, for God's sake! If we let this drag on, it will only get worse. But as soon as he's charged, they're gagged. No more speculation, no more police-bashing.'

That was a valid point, and very tempting. Lilith Noone gagged…‘But if we get it wrong, they'll never let it go,' he said, trying to convince himself as much as Evans. ‘They'll have an even bigger stick to beat us up with, if we charge him without being one hundred percent certain.'

‘You're the only one who's not one hundred percent certain,' Evans pointed out. ‘As far as I'm concerned, the lad did it. End of story.'

‘But I'm the SIO.'

‘And I'm beginning to regret it.'

Neville waited. Evans frowned, drummed his fingers, chewed his lip. Then with an abrupt gesture he shooed Neville out of his office. ‘All right, Stewart. You can have your twelve hours. Get on with it, and don't waste them.'

Neville went, before Evans could change his mind. He headed back toward his own office; he wanted to have a look at the crime scene photos, the photos of the victim. Perhaps something in them would jog his memory…

Going round a corner, he nearly ran headlong into Mark Lombardi.

‘Oh!' said Mark. ‘Just the man I was looking for, actually. Sid said you'd gone to see Evans.'

Neville stopped, impatient. ‘Yes?'

Mark held out what appeared to be a bundle of dirty rags. ‘I've found something,' he said. ‘In Sebastian Frost's room. It looks like it might be important.'

***

Brian Stanford enjoyed a fry-up for breakfast, though he didn't very often have one. Such treats were usually reserved for his day off; his customary fare was cereal and toast.

But today Jane had decided to surprise him with eggs, sausage, and bacon after Morning Prayer. And that wasn't the only surprise she'd planned: she was going to tell him about the amazing, enthralling, scary thing that was happening to her—to
them
. It was time to share the news that they were going to have a baby.