Evil Intent (28 page)

Lilith indicated a chair, the one nearest the fire, and took a seat on the sofa, facing him.

‘Thank you very much,’ he said, and repeated it when she handed him a cup of tea.

He wasn’t exactly chatty, she realised. Perfectly polite, but not
forthcoming
. Perhaps this was going to be harder work than she’d anticipated. Or maybe he was just nervous, and needed to be put at his ease.

‘So, Oliver,’ she said after a few minutes of meaningless social chat. ‘You wanted to see me. You said it was important.’

‘Yes.’

‘You said,’ she prompted him, ‘that it was about Leo Jackson.’

‘Yes.’ He lowered his head; his blond fringe obscured his eyes.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘I’m all ears.’

Oliver Pickett put his tea cup down abruptly; Lilith could see that his hands were shaking. ‘I hardly know where to begin,’ he said, almost in a whisper.

‘Begin at the beginning.’

He took a deep breath and looked away from her, staring at the
glowing
bar of the electric fire. She had to strain to hear his voice. ‘What would you say if I told you that Leo Jackson had…had sexually abused me?’

At twenty-two minutes past ten on Wednesday night, Denise Evans, exhausted and battered, gave birth to a son. He was nearly a month
premature
, and had been through the same ordeal as his mother, but he was alive and relatively healthy. ‘He’s a fighter, all right,’ said the doctor, handing the tiny scrap of humanity to his father.

‘He’s an Evans.’ His father spoke proudly, for of that fact there was no doubt: already the Evans jaw was in evidence.

Detective Chief Superintendent Evans had not left his wife’s side for more than a few minutes at a time since they’d arrived at the hospital, over forty-four hours ago. So he, like Denise, was badly in need of sleep.

But there were things that needed to be done.

Neville was in bed, asleep, when the call came. He squinted at the clock: it was past eleven.

Evans wasted no time on the preliminaries. ‘Get yourself and your
sergeant
down here to the station. Now.’

‘Your wife, sir? How is she?’ Neville dared to ask, albeit with  trepidation.

‘She’s fine. We have a son.’

Neville could hear the smile in Evans’ voice. That was all right, then. At least the old man ought to be in a good mood.

As soon as Evans had put the phone down Neville rang Sid Cowley’s mobile. Knowing Sid and his propensity for late nights, he figured the chances were at least fifty-fifty that he wouldn’t be at home.

Cowley didn’t answer for almost a minute, and when he did he was breathless and brusque. ‘Cowley.’

‘Evans wants us at the station. Now.’

Cowley swore picturesquely.

‘Are you at home?’

‘No, Guv. I’m at the …’ there was a pause and Neville could hear him consulting someone else. ‘At the Regent Palace Hotel. Piccadilly Circus.’

Neville sighed. ‘I won’t ask. I don’t suppose you’re fit to drive?’

‘No,’ admitted Cowley. ‘I’ve had a few.’

‘Then I’ll collect you on my way. Wait for me at the corner of Regent
Street and Piccadilly.’

Cowley was standing at the corner, smoking, when Neville pulled up thirty minutes later. He looked surly and cold, his free hand jammed in the pocket of his leather jacket.

Neville adopted a conciliatory tone. ‘Sorry about this, Sid. Not my idea, as you can imagine.’

‘Your timing couldn’t have been worse, Guv.’

He wasn’t going to ask, but Cowley told him anyway. ‘That American bird. The one who had her wallet half-inched this morning?’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, you
did
tell me to settle her down, didn’t you, Guv? You said I was to make sure she didn’t go home with a bad impression of London.’

Neville had pictured a middle-aged woman with middle-age spread, waddling round London in white trainers and a tan trench coat, a camera round her neck and a baseball-capped hayseed husband at her side. It would seem he’d been wrong. ‘Just out of university, or college as she called it,’ Cowley told him. ‘It’s her first trip abroad. Her first day in London. So I took you at your word, Guv. I thought since there wasn’t anything else going on, I’d show her a few of the sights.’

Neville groaned. Somehow Sid always managed to twist his words to justify whatever he wanted to do. It was a gift. ‘What sights did you show her, then?’ he asked dryly.

‘Oh, we went on the London Eye. I’d never been. It was really
something
, Guv. You ought to try it.’

‘I’ll keep that in mind. Next time I have a day with nothing to do. Some time in the next millennium, that will be.’

Ignoring the sarcastic interruption, Cowley went on. ‘Then we went to the Tower of London. And she wanted to see St Paul’s Cathedral, so we went there. Then I took her to Madame Tussaud’s – thought she’d enjoy that. Later on we had a bite to eat.’

‘My, you
are
conscientious in pursuit of your duty,’ Neville commented ironically.

‘She seemed to appreciate it,’ Cowley said, unruffled. ‘Would you believe it? She thought that I talked really posh! Just like the people on the
telly, she said. “I could listen to you all day and all night.” That’s what she said.’

‘So you took her at her word. And that’s how you ended up at the Regent Palace Hotel?’ suggested Neville.

Cowley grinned. ‘Well, let’s just say that we were getting down to some serious cultural exchange.’

‘Is that what they call it now?’ Neville muttered sourly.

‘You’re just jealous, Guv.’ Cowley sounded smug.

Maybe he
was
jealous, Neville admitted to himself – if not to Cowley. First Mark Lombardi with his curate, and now Sid and his American bird. Was this the first sign that he was reaching middle age, this envy of younger men’s love lives? Was he afraid that he would soon be over the hill, past it, unable to pull a girl to save his life?

It didn’t bear thinking about.

Evans was waiting for them in his office.

‘It took you long enough.’ Fortunately, he was smiling.

‘I had to collect Sergeant Cowley, sir.’

‘Yes, yes.’ Evans waved the two of them into chairs. It was a measure of his frame of mind; usually he would have made them stand. ‘Now. Let’s talk about Frances Cherry. I understand that the
Globe
has forced our hand a bit.’

‘That’s right, sir.’ Neville leaned forward. ‘It’s my opinion that we should arrest her. Not that I’m totally confident we’ll get anything out of her that she hasn’t told us already, but it would give us a fair crack at her.’

Cowley, who was usually silent in Evans’ presence, was emboldened to add, ‘And it would send a message – to the bloody
Globe
– that we’re doing something other than sitting on our bums and twiddling our thumbs.’

‘“A woman is helping the police with their enquiries.” That sort of thing.’ Neville amplified.

‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ Evans said beneficently. ‘Go and arrest her.’

Neville stared at him. ‘Now? At midnight?’

Evans stroked his massive chin – heavily stubbled and not a pretty sight.
‘It’s too late to get it into the morning papers, I suppose. And she
probably
wouldn’t be able to rouse a solicitor very easily at this time of night, so it would just be wasting our time.’

‘Our initial six hours would be gone before we could do anything,’ Neville pointed out.

‘We’ll give her a few more hours of beauty sleep,’ decided Evans. ‘Bring her in at six. Or seven.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And speaking of beauty sleep, I think I could use a bit of that myself.’ Evans yawned. ‘You chaps, as well. Go home and grab a few hours. I shall do the same.’

Neville and Cowley rose at the same time as Evans.

‘But before you go,’ Evans said, ‘I have something to show you.’

He handed a photo to Neville: a polaroid snapshot of the newest
member
of his family. The baby was red, wrinkled, and ugly as sin, his head way out of proportion to his tiny body and the Evans jaw all too clearly evident. ‘Isn’t he beautiful?’ Evans almost cooed.

‘Lovely, sir,’ Neville confirmed.

Cowley, looking over his shoulder, agreed. ‘Nicest looking baby I’ve ever seen, sir.’

On their way back to the car, Neville repeated Cowley’s words
mockingly
. ‘“Nicest looking baby I’ve ever seen, sir.” Don’t you think that was overdoing it just a shade, Sid?’

Cowley gave a self-righteous smirk. ‘It never hurts to keep on the big man’s good side.’

‘I think the big man’s gone soft in the head,’ Neville muttered. ‘Beauty sleep, indeed. That man could sleep for a hundred years, like bloody Sleeping Beauty, and he’d still look like the back end of a bus.’ He sighed. ‘Let’s go home, Sid. Like Evans said.’

‘Can you drop me back at Piccadilly Circus, Guv?’ Cowley requested, getting into the car. ‘I have some unfinished business to attend to. And sleep doesn’t come into it. Not right away.’

‘It’s past midnight,’ Neville reminded him. ‘What makes you think she’ll be waiting for you?’

‘Jet lag,’ Cowley said succinctly. ‘That, and my legendary charm.’

‘Well, you and your legendary charm had better be back here at the
station
by half-past six in the morning, or …’

‘Yeah, yeah.’ Cowley shrugged and flipped open a new packet of
cigarettes
. ‘I’ll be here.’

Marigold had not had a proper night’s sleep for more than a week. Her father continued to appear to her in dreams, as real as he’d been in life. His message to her was a comforting one. ‘No one will ever know, Marigold. I’ve sorted it. I’ll always look after you. You’re all I have, my dear. I’ll make sure that you’re all right.’

As long as he was there, talking to her and soothing her fears, she felt good – warm and cherished, like being wrapped in the softest goosedown duvet.

Then he would vanish, and she would wake. That waking was the worst part of it: the desolation as she realised that she was on her own, that her father might have provided for her financially, but he had died and left her alone. He was now beyond helping her; he could never put things right.

Following that bitter knowledge, the demons would attack her, those demons of memory, and she would be awake for hours. The vivid dreams of her father stirred up things that she thought she’d put behind her long ago. She longed, with a fierce longing, for him to return to her in life and hold her in his arms once again, soothing her as he had done when she was just a fractious child.

She needed to talk to Vincent. She knew that. There were so many things unsaid between them through the years; she had always found it safest that way. When things were verbalised, they could never be taken back, and Marigold had always erred on the side of caution. Besides, if one asked questions, one risked getting answers one didn’t want to hear.

But she
would
talk to him. She must.

Frances and Graham were sleeping when the doorbell went, a bit before seven in the morning.

‘The postman,’ Graham guessed, peering at the clock. ‘Were you
expecting a parcel or anything, Fran?’

‘No.’ Frances was wide awake immediately, reaching for her dressing gown. In her bones she knew what it was; she’d been mentally preparing herself for this moment. Oddly enough, her first thoughts were for Graham. She must be calm for him. If she allowed herself to become upset or agitated, he would be even more distressed.

‘Shall I get it?’ Graham offered.

‘No, that’s all right. I’ll go.’

They had come for her. So this was what it felt like. As she went down the stairs, Frances thought of all those figures of history whose blood must have run cold at moments like these: Anne Boleyn, waiting to be taken to the Tower; Marie Antoinette, hearing the approach of the tumbrel; that other Anne – Anne Frank – as the SS burst through the concealed door of the Annexe.

She opened the door. Outside was no bloodthirsty mob, no armed thugs, no terrifying henchmen. Just the two policemen whom she’d come to know: DI Stewart and DS Cowley.

‘Good morning,’ she said calmly.

It was DI Stewart who spoke first. ‘We’re sorry to disturb you so early in the morning, Reverend Cherry.’

She could almost believe that he
was
sorry. DI Stewart seemed to her, in the contact she’d had with him, to be a decent man, just doing his job – a job that was occasionally difficult, but which had to be done. She didn’t blame him for that.

DS Cowley, on the other hand, appeared to take positive pleasure in what came next. ‘Frances Cherry, we are arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Jonah Adimola,’ he said, smiling. ‘You do not have to say
anything
. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when
questioned
, something which you may later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

Frances had heard the words before, on innumerable television
programmes
. Now, as she stood in the entrance hall of the vicarage, wrapped in her dressing gown and shivering at the blast of cold which followed the policemen in from the street, the whole scene possessed an air of utter
unreality.

‘Come in,’ she said mechanically, registering that they had already done so. ‘I assume it’s all right for me to get dressed?’

‘We’ll wait here,’ DI Stewart said. ‘Take as much time as you need.’

She went back upstairs; Graham was still in bed.

‘Postman?’ he asked.

‘No, it’s the police.’ She made an effort to sound as normal as possible.

‘Stewart and Cowley again?’

Frances nodded, opening the wardrobe. Should she wear clericals? she wondered. It might help, might give her a useful bit of gravitas.

‘Isn’t it a bit early for them to come calling? Honestly, I think you should complain to their superior, Fran. This is getting to the point of harassment.’

She pulled out a simple black skirt. ‘They’re arresting me. Taking me to the station, presumably.’

Graham sat up in bed. ‘Arresting you? They can’t!’

‘Oh, they certainly can.’

‘But you had nothing to do with it!’

‘Then I don’t have anything to worry about, do I?’ She’d been through it in her own mind, trying to convince herself. ‘The
Globe
has pushed them into this. Lilith Noone, suggesting every chance she gets that they’re derelict in their duty. I think the police feel they have to go through the motions – to be seen to be doing something.’

‘I’ll come with you.’ He threw the duvet off and swung his legs out of bed.

‘No, you won’t. I’m sure they won’t allow it.’ Frances decided on a black clerical shirt, the closest thing she had to an official-looking uniform. The police ought to respect a uniform.

‘A solicitor,’ Graham said. ‘You’ll need a solicitor. A good one. I’ll find one for you. Several of my parishioners are solicitors. I’ll ring one of them.’

In her anticipation of this moment, Frances had thought about it, and had already decided that she didn’t want Graham’s parishioners involved. On principle. ‘No, Graham. I’ll deal with it,’ she said gently.

‘Isn’t there anything I can do?’ His voice was anguished.