Evil Intent (2 page)

But when she’d broached the subject to Brian, he’d been horrified. ‘You can’t do that
now
,’ he’d said. ‘Not after all these years. I mean, who would look after
me
?’ Then he’d given her a hug. ‘We’ll manage somehow, Janey.
You’ll
manage. You always do.’

So that had been that. And she
had
managed.

Jane had always prided herself on being able to produce a reasonable
meal for visitors at short notice; it was something she was called upon to do with some regularity. Usually this wasn’t a problem, with judicious use of things from the freezer and a stock of tins in the larder. At the moment, though, the larder and the freezer were both a bit depleted. It wasn’t very sensitive of Brian to have invited the new curate to supper tonight, of all nights. She couldn’t very well give the woman beans on toast.

There was a packet of spaghetti in the larder. But what to put on it? Jane got down on her knees and pulled things out of the freezer. At the back she made a serendipitous discovery: a container labelled ‘Bolognese sauce’. It was a legacy from a parish supper, some months ago now, when they had ambitiously over-catered; the left-overs had been prodigious in quantity. ‘You take it, Jane,’ the other women on the catering team had urged. ‘You have those boys to feed, and Father Brian.’ So Jane had filled a shelf of the freezer with little containers, and they’d eaten Bolognese until the boys were sick of it. This one little remnant of that bounty had escaped
undetected,
and now was welcomed by Jane as a positive Godsend. Never mind that it might not be at its best. There was a nub of cheese in the fridge, and if she grated that over the top perhaps it wouldn’t be noticed.

‘Do you fancy a pint, mate?’ Neville Stewart paused by the desk of his
colleague
Mark Lombardi.

‘Great, Nev.’ Mark looked up at him, distracted from his paperwork for just an instant. ‘I’ve nearly finished.’

They were among a dwindling number of policemen left at the station, early on Sunday evening. Neither of them was scheduled to be there, but both had come in for their own reasons, and now it seemed the right time for them to call a halt to their activities and leave together for some liquid refreshment.

Neville Stewart was an Irishman by birth. His name, with its roots so strongly on the eastern rather than the western side of the Irish Sea, was a source of mild amusement, sometimes hilarity, amongst the English. But in Dublin, where he’d grown up, it was little short of an incitement to riot. ‘I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had the crap beat out of me because of my name,’ he’d once told Mark. ‘Very early on, I knew there were only two
things I could do about it: change my name, or leave Ireland.’ London had proved a safe haven for him, and in spite of the soft Irish lilt in his voice which he’d retained, and his predeliction for drinking Guinness, he had assimilated very well. Now in his late thirties, he had risen through the ranks of the CID to become a Detective Inspector, and a very good one, with responsibility for major crimes.

Mark Lombardi was a few years younger – just over thirty – and a Detective Sergeant whose speciality in the CID was as a Family Liaison Officer. He was London born and bred, though both of his parents had come from Italy, and he was proud of his Italian roots.

There was a natural affinity between the two, not least because of their non-English backgrounds, and they often had a drink together when their schedules permitted it. These drinking sessions sometimes went on for rather longer than intended but, unlike most of their colleagues, neither of them had anyone at home waiting for them – no wife, no girlfriend – so it didn’t matter, as long as they were in fit condition for their next stint of duty.

The pub to which they regularly repaired was an anonymous sort of place without a great deal of character, but it possessed the virtue of being close to the station, and the beer was a few pence cheaper than in the more upmarket pubs. Besides, they offered Guinness on draught.

‘My turn to buy, I think,’ Neville announced. Mark found a table, and Neville joined him a few minutes later, balancing a pint of Guinness in one hand and a Peroni in the other, trying hard not to lose a precious drop of either.

‘So,’ said Neville, after they’d quaffed the first few refreshing
mouthfuls,
‘I haven’t seen you since you got back from Italy. Had a good time, did you?’

‘Fine. I always enjoy Venice.’

‘And your granny was in good health?’

‘Remarkable,’ said Mark. ‘She’s in her eighties, but she’s very fit. She still does her own shopping every day.’

‘She’s still on at you to find yourself a wife?’

Mark shrugged and nodded. ‘She won’t give up until I do. And of course she keeps trying to help me out – every time I’m there, she dredges
up some young women and makes sure I meet them. It’s my duty, she says. My duty to
la famiglia.’

‘Sounds just like my granny,’ Neville commiserated. ‘Though in Ireland no one expects a bloke to get married before he’s forty. It’s well known that the sap doesn’t start to rise till then.’

Mark, in the process of sipping his beer, sputtered and choked. When he’d recovered, he pointed out to his friend, ‘You don’t have much time left, then. You’ll be forty in a couple of years. Then no more excuses.’

‘Don’t remind me,’ Neville groaned.

Neville wasn’t averse to women: far from it. On the contrary, he was well known amongst his colleagues for his success with the ladies. Blessed with more than his fair share of charm, and above average looks to boot, he could have had his pick of any number of women. But he preferred to
sample
their goods – freely offered – rather than buy into anything permanent. ‘I’m just not ready to settle down,’ was his mantra. So far he’d managed to get away with it.

‘Let’s change the subject,’ said Neville, knocking back half his glass in one swallow. ‘What were you doing at your desk this afternoon? I thought you were off until tomorrow.’

‘As a matter of fact, it had something to do with my trip to Italy.’ Mark followed suit and took a long drink, aware that the next round was his and that Neville would soon be ready for a second Guinness. ‘Tying up some paperwork. Turns out there was some bloke on the plane who had bumped off his wife in Venice, and thought he’d get away with it.’

‘Oh, I heard something about that.’ Neville assumed a look of
professional
interest.

‘The usual story, it seems. Clearing the way for another woman. His Italian girlfriend came back with him on his wife’s passport.’

‘Doesn’t sound like Immigration were doing their job,’ grumbled Neville.

‘I’m sure they’ll catch hell for it, if that’s any consolation.’

‘So how did he get caught? If they made it through Immigration?’

Mark drained his glass. ‘That’s a long story, best left for the next pint. I’ll get you one, shall I?’

Evensong was over; in the vestry, vicar and curate took off their surplices and cassocks. ‘Shall I go home and change?’ Callie asked.

‘Mufti? Oh, no need for that,’ Brian Stanford assured her. ‘Just come along with me. Jane will be waiting.’

It was only a short distance, but the wind was blowing cold, and Callie didn’t have the benefit of a clerical cloak like the one Brian wore; she was glad to reach the vicarage, with its promise of warmth.

The warmth, though, was merely relative, as the heating had only just come on. Brian apologised, adding, ‘If it were up to Jane, we wouldn’t put the heating on at all until the end of October, no matter what the weather. She tells me that I have no idea how expensive heating oil is.’ He shook his head. ‘And I’m afraid she’s right – I don’t worry about things like that. I leave it all to her.’

Jane appeared at that moment, proffering a small bowl of crisps. ‘Would you like a drink, Miss Anson?’ she asked. ‘Wine? Sherry? Fruit juice?’

Brian intervened before Callie could reply. ‘I’ll open a bottle of wine, shall I?’

‘Yes, all right.’ Jane sat on the sofa, and indicated that Callie should take one of the arm chairs.

‘It’s so kind of you to have me,’ Callie said impulsively. ‘I do hope it hasn’t caused you any trouble.’

‘It’s our pleasure, Miss Anson,’ said Jane, without warmth.

‘Oh, please – do call me Callie. Everyone does.’

Jane seemed to be inspecting her. ‘An unusual name.’

She was used to explaining it. ‘My given name is Caroline,’ she said. ‘But when we were small my younger brother couldn’t say his “r”s. So I’ve been called Callie ever since.’

Brian came through from the kitchen with a bottle of red wine and three glasses. ‘Here we are,’ he announced, beaming jovially. ‘This will warm us up.’

‘Miss Anson – Callie – was just telling me about the origins of her
interesting
name,’ Jane addressed him, then turned back to Callie. ‘So do you have other family? Other brothers and sisters?’

‘No, just the one brother. There are four years between us, but we’ve
always been quite close. He lives just across the river, in Southwark.’

‘And your parents?’

Callie felt as if she were being given the third degree. ‘My father died a few years ago. He was a Civil Servant, in Whitehall. My mother still lives in London.’ She made an effort to deflect further questions. ‘I understand that you have two sons.’

Jane softened visibly. ‘Yes. Twins. Very clever boys, both of them. They’ve just gone up to Oxford for their first term. Charlie is reading Theology at Oriel, and Simon is reading Law at Christ Church.’

‘You must be very proud,’ said Callie. That, at least, was a safe thing to say.

‘Oh, yes,’ Brian agreed, handing Callie a glass and sitting down beside his wife on the sofa. ‘Cheers, Callie.’ He raised his glass. ‘Here’s to a
successful
partnership at All Saints.’

‘Cheers.’

Jane didn’t look overjoyed at the toast; she raised her eyebrows at Brian and took a sip of the wine. ‘I’ve always looked on our marriage as a
partnership
,’ she said to Callie, almost belligerently.

‘And so it is,’ Brian assured her, draping an arm across her shoulders and giving her a casual squeeze. ‘You know I couldn’t possibly manage without you, my dear.’

Callie observed them, middle-aged and content with each other: Brian, with his sandy, receding hair and prominent nose, and Jane, the almost quintessential vicar’s wife, chunky in her ancient Laura Ashley skirt, round-faced, bespectacled and with her dark hair skinned back from her face into a lank pony tail. A team, dependent on each other. What sort of partnership would she and Adam have had in another fifteen or twenty years? She didn’t want to think about that …

But Jane was on to the next question. ‘What did you do before you were ordained? Brian went to Theological College straight from university, of course – everyone did in those days. But I believe that nowadays they like their ordinands to have another career first.’

Callie gratefully turned her thoughts from Adam. ‘To tell you the truth, when I was at university, ordination was something that never crossed my mind. I wasn’t much of a church-goer, in fact. I wasn’t even very much
aware of the battles over the ordination of women.’

Brian seemed interested. ‘What happened?’

‘Well, I followed my father into the Civil Service. It was a good career. I enjoyed it. Then…well, then my father got sick. Cancer.’ Now she was back on painful ground; she told the rest as quickly and non-emotively as she could: how during his illness she had come to know and respect the hospital chaplain, Frances Cherry; how the respect had grown into a deep friendship; how, after her father’s death, Frances had helped her to discover her vocation to the priesthood and put her on the path leading to ordination.

‘So that’s it,’ she said. ‘Before I met Frances, I didn’t even know that women could be priests. Afterwards, I knew that I had to be one.’

And then, with the second glass of wine, came the question that she should have been expecting, but wasn’t.

‘Have you set a date yet?’ asked Jane.

‘A date?’ Callie echoed, not yet comprehending.

‘Your wedding. Brian told me that you’re engaged to a fellow ordinand. He’s the new curate at Christ Church, I believe?’

The question struck Callie like a physical blow, and for a moment she was breathless with the pain of it. Of course Jane would have known about Adam, she realised. She’d told Brian all about him at their initial interview, had explained that it was one reason why she was so interested in serving her curacy at All Saints, in the adjoining parish to Adam’s. In a year or so, she’d told him, when they were both settled into their parishes, they would get married.

Oh God, oh God, oh God, her head hammered. If only…If only Adam hadn’t gone on that particular parish placement …

The silence stretched out painfully, as Callie searched both for her voice and for something to say. The voice, when she spoke, was less wobbly than she’d feared it might be.’ I’m afraid that’s not going to happen,’ she said. ‘It’s been called off. We…changed our minds.’

‘Oh,’ said Jane, narrowing her eyes. ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

Somehow Callie got through the evening. She was going to rub along just fine with Brian, she decided – he was quite sweet, if a bit wet. And Jane?

Fortunately, she thought, she wasn’t going to have to work with Jane, at least not directly. Jane had been perfectly civil to her, but there was something there that she just couldn’t quite put her finger on …

Letting herself back into her flat, Callie was unexpectedly assailed by a feeling of desolation at its emptiness. It was silly – she had lived alone before, and that had never bothered her. Now, though, she longed for some living creature – a dog, or even a bird or a goldfish – to welcome her back. Fighting back a lump in her throat, she went to her phone and checked for messages. There were three, according to her call minder.

Not Adam, she told herself, while hoping against hope that one of them might be. Even if he weren’t ringing to say he’d changed his mind and seen the error of his ways, even if he just wanted to say hello and see how she was doing …