False Tongues (24 page)

How would he feel about it? Disappointed? Disgusted?

Or fearful that this kind of thing might be directed at him?

Nothing was being achieved by wallowing in this filth, Neville told himself firmly. He shuffled the pages together and tossed them in his in-tray. He was going home.

***

John Kingsley yawned, covering his mouth. ‘Oh, excuse me,' he said.

‘I'll make some coffee,' said Margaret. ‘Or would you prefer tea?'

He put down his pudding spoon and shook his head. ‘I'm really sorry, my dear, but I'm going to have to call it a night. This has been a splendid evening, but I'm afraid it's past my bedtime.'

Margaret escorted him to the door; when she returned, Keith Moody was still at the table. ‘I'm not going yet,' he said with a cheeky grin. ‘And I'll have some of that coffee you offered.'

‘Fine,' she smiled. ‘Shall we have it in the drawing room?'

‘Sounds good to me.'

Margaret had already laid out a tray with cups and a caffetière in the kitchen, so it was just a matter of boiling the kettle. Switching it on, she removed the third cup from the tray and put it away.

It had been a most successful meal, she reflected as she waited for the kettle to boil. In spite of her fears about her cooking skills being rusty, all had gone according to plan, and her guests had been enthusiastic about the results.

She had enjoyed herself, as well. John Kingsley was a dear—one of the nicest people she'd ever met, she decided—and the more time she spent with Keith Moody, the better she liked him. Already, with all of the things they'd discovered they had in common, there was such an ease between him that she felt as if she'd known him for years. That, and a little
frisson,
a niggle, that she wasn't yet ready to examine too closely…

Keith appeared at the kitchen door just as the kettle boiled. ‘Can I carry that tray for you?' he offered.

‘Thanks.' Margaret poured the boiling water into the caffetière and replaced its lid.

He took it through into the drawing room.

‘It's a shame John had to rush off like that,' Margaret said. ‘He really is a lovely man, isn't he?'

‘The best,' Keith confirmed with feeling. ‘I'd trust him with my life, you know.'

They chatted over their coffee, then Margaret remembered something. ‘Oh! I'd meant to offer you a chocolate with your coffee.' She went to the drawer where she'd stashed the large box of chocolates which had been on her desk that morning; she'd put them there mostly to remove them from her sight and minimise the temptation to tuck in.

The appearance of the box of chocolates brought a knowing smile to Keith's face, confirming all of Margaret's suspicions. ‘You,' she said. ‘You've been leaving the chocolates on my desk, all along. Why?'

‘Why not?' he countered. ‘Everyone knows that you love chocolate. I wanted to do something nice for you. Because you're special.'

‘But you didn't really even know me, when you started doing it.'

He stood up, put his empty cup on the tray, then took the box of chocolates from her and put it down on the coffee table. ‘I know you now,' he said. ‘And after the last few days, Margaret, I have to tell you something.' Keith paused until she made eye contact. ‘I think I've fallen in love with you.'

Margaret stopped breathing for a second. He took a step closer and folded her in his arms; her head nestled into his shoulder naturally, as though it belonged there. She exhaled, then breathed in deeply, savouring the spicy scent of his after-shave, the feel of the tweed against her cheek. Suddenly, inexplicably, she wanted to cry.

But a moment later he kissed her, and crying was the last thing on her mind.

***

Interlude: from the front page of the Thursday
Daily Globe

STABBED BOY WAS A BULLY

By Lilith Noone

Tragic teen Sebastian Frost, who was stabbed on Paddington Green late on Sunday night, was a bully, one of his friends has revealed.

The friend, who has asked not to be named, confirms that another boy at their school (who also cannot be identified, for legal reasons) was the main target of Sebastian's cyber-bullying on a special Facebook page. ‘Seb hated his guts,' the friend said. ‘We all did, really. I mean, R** D**** is just so lame. So f***ing g*y.'

He added, ‘But it was just a bit of fun, to be honest.'

Chapter Fourteen

I have to ring Callie
, was Mark's first waking thought on Thursday morning. He'd tried to reach her, multiple times, the night before, but her phone had gone straight to voice mail. Either she'd let the battery run down and forgot to charge it, he surmised, or she'd switched it off whilst in a setting—a church service, a group session—where a ringing phone would be inappropriate, and not remembered to turn it back on.

Or she didn't want to talk to him.

Either of the first two possibilities he could believe, and he could live with. It wouldn't be the first time.

But what if she didn't want to talk to him?

Why wouldn't she?

His imagination supplied him all too readily with a reason, and a scenario. Adam. Picking up where they'd left off.

Yes, Adam was married now. But there was such a thing as proximity, and opportunity. An old spark, flaring up, overwhelming both of them whether they'd sought it out or not.

He didn't want to think about it. And yet…

Mark reached for his phone and pushed the speed-dial button.

‘The person you are trying to reach is not available,' said the mechanical voice. ‘Please leave a message.'

He'd left messages last night. Several of them, and she hadn't rung him back. ‘It's me,' he said tersely. ‘Ring me when you can.'

Then he went to take his shower, leaving the phone on the edge of the basin so he could hear it if it rang.

It
did
ring, at the worst possible time—just as he was washing his hair under the shower head. He switched off the water, flung open the glass door, and lunged for the phone, a split second before he registered the fact that it wasn't Callie's ringtone.

‘Hello?' he barked into the phone.

‘Did I catch you at a bad time?' Neville Stewart asked, with patently false sympathy.

Mark's reply was blunt and to the point. ‘Yes.' He was starkers, dripping all over the floor—which his flatmate would not appreciate—and shampoo was running into his eyes. And it wasn't the call he'd been waiting for.

‘Well, too bad. Things are about to get worse, mate.'

He reached for his towel. ‘Tell me.'

‘You haven't seen the
Globe
this morning, then?'

It took a second for him to realise what Neville was on about. ‘No. Why would I have?'

‘Well, then.' Neville paused. ‘Brace yourself.'

***

Getting up on Thursday morning wasn't high on Callie's list of priorities. She'd slept badly, with troubling dreams, so when the bell chimed for Morning Prayer all she wanted to do was pull the duvet over her head and have a lie-in.

She wasn't going to be allowed to do that, she realised when there was a loud knock on the door.

‘Callie? Are you in there?' Tamsin demanded.

She sighed, climbed out of bed, and unlocked the door.

‘You're not ready for Morning Prayer. Or even breakfast,' Tamsin observed, looking her up and down.

Callie ran her hands through her tousled hair, considered a sarcastic reply, but settled for a neutral one. ‘I suppose not.'

‘Are you okay?' Tamsin scrutinised her closely. ‘We hardly had a word out of you last night. At dinner, and in the bar. Is something the matter?'

‘Oh, Tamsin.' Callie plopped back down on the bed. ‘It's Adam.'

‘
Him
again.' Tamsin snorted in a rather unladylike manner. ‘I know he's a pain, but can't you just ignore him, like the rest of us do? I mean, I thought you'd moved on. To your hunky Italian. Remember?'

‘He came here yesterday,' Callie blurted. She hadn't meant to tell Tamsin, but there was no escaping now.

‘Adam? To your room?'

She nodded miserably.

‘Oh my God. To have his wicked way with you? Just like old times?'

Trust Tamsin. ‘No,' Callie said tartly. ‘Quite the opposite, in fact. He was very clear about that. God has blessed him with a wife who's great in bed, so he no longer has any interest whatsoever in my body.'

‘Then what's the problem?' Tamsin widened her eyes. ‘You didn't want to sleep with him, did you?'

‘Of course not. Don't be ridiculous.'

Tamsin lowered herself into the chair and gave a patient sigh. ‘I'm missing something here, clearly. You're going to have to explain it to your thick friend.'

‘I just don't understand why I've become so repulsive,' Callie said, round the lump in her throat. ‘My fiancé doesn't want to sleep with me. And now my ex makes it very clear that he doesn't, either. What is wrong with me? Am I
that
hideous?'

***

The inbox on Lilith's e-mail was full of messages. Ignoring most of them, she opened the one from her editor.

It was brief and to the point. ‘Good work, Lilith,' it said. ‘More, please.'

He'd signed it Rob.

Not Rob Gardiner-Smith. Just Rob.

That was a first. A milestone.

Lilith smiled to herself, triumphant.

The kicker, of course, was the second sentence. She had to produce more. This was just a beginning. She couldn't rest on her laurels now. And where was she going to come up with the next story? In her bones she felt she'd pushed Olly as far as she could. He'd clammed up toward the end, and now that the story was in print, even someone as dim as Olly would realise that he had effectively betrayed his friend into her hands. No, that well was now dry, and surely none of Sebastian's other mates would talk to her either.

Her phone rang; she didn't recognise the number. ‘Lilith Noone speaking.'

‘This is Detective Inspector Stewart,' said a stiff, barely controlled voice on the other end. ‘And I have a question for you, Miss Noone.'

Her day was getting better and better. ‘You're not going to insult me by asking for my confidential sources, are you?' she said sweetly.

‘Insult you? How is that an insult?'

‘It would be an insult to my professional integrity to imply that I could possibly reveal one of my sources. You know how we journalists operate, Detective Inspector. We're prepared to go to prison if need be, to protect our sources.' She was really enjoying herself now. ‘It's one of the cornerstones of our free society. And it's part of my job. I'm afraid you'll have to look elsewhere for someone to help you with
your
job.'

‘Bollocks,' he snapped rudely. ‘I don't want to hear any of that “you do your job, I'll do mine” crap. My job is catching killers. Yours is selling newspapers. They're not exactly on the same level, are they?'

‘Insulting me will get you nowhere, Inspector,' she said. ‘And neither will anything else. I'm afraid I can't help you.' With a smile she pushed the button to end the call.

***

Callie had managed to pull herself together, more or less, with a bit of help from Tamsin. Neither one of them had made it to breakfast, though Tamsin was successful in begging an apple from the cheeky dining hall attendant before he closed the doors. She crunched into it as they made their way to the lecture hall for the morning session.

‘Oh, that's better,' she said with feeling. ‘I hope there's something good for lunch. I'm starving.'

‘Sorry for making you miss your breakfast,' Callie apologised meekly.

‘Greater love hath no woman, than she give up her breakfast for her friend,' Tamsin quipped. ‘All I can say is, you owe me one, Miss Anson.'

‘Big-time,' Callie agreed, just as she remembered that she'd left her phone in her room on the charger. She stopped in her tracks. ‘You go on ahead,' she said. ‘I'll catch up in a few minutes.'

Tamsin stopped as well and gave her an inquisitive look, her mouth too full of apple to speak.

‘Forgot my phone,' she explained over her shoulder as she headed back toward B staircase.

Callie huffed her way quickly up two flights of stairs—not that out of shape, then, she told herself with satisfaction—unlocked her door, grabbed the phone off the charger, and retraced her steps back down the stairs to the courtyard.

Checking her watch quickly for the time—if she was lucky, they might not have started yet—she nearly ran headlong into the Principal's secretary. ‘Oh, I'm so sorry,' Callie gasped.

Hanna Young seemed equally taken aback. ‘My fault. I suppose I wasn't looking where I was going, to be honest.'

‘Me, neither,' admitted Callie. She was going to have to start being more careful: this was becoming something of a habit.

Before she could resume her progress, Hanna put out a hand to stop her. ‘I suppose I'm a bit upset,' she said. ‘I don't really know what to do, to be honest. I could use some advice.'

I don't need this,
Callie thought. But she fixed a smile on her face and tried to conceal her impatience to be on her way. ‘I'm not sure I'm the best person for that,' she said.

Hanna ignored the demur. ‘I've just seen something…disturbing,' she confided, lowering her voice. ‘Dr Moody. You know—Mad Phil, as he's called?'

‘Yeees…' Now Callie was sure she didn't want to hear this. But perhaps it was better for her to be the recipient of whatever scurrilous gossip the woman was now passing out, instead of Nicky or someone else who would disseminate it still further—Jennifer Groves, maybe, or even Tamsin, who wouldn't be able to stop herself from telling Nicky.

‘He came into the Principal's office. He came up behind her, and touched her on the shoulder.'

Nothing too scandalous in that, surely?

‘And then he bent over, like he was going to…like he was about to kiss her! Right there, in her office! But then he caught my eye, and saw that I was watching him, so he stopped.' She drew a ragged breath. ‘I had to get out of there, to be honest. I mean, doesn't the man have any shame? He's an absolute menace. A sexual predator.' Hanna said the last words self-consciously, as though it were something she'd heard on the telly, or looked up on the Internet.

‘But he didn't kiss her,' Callie pointed out. ‘All he did was touch her on the shoulder, according to you.'

Hanna widened her eyes. ‘And now I've left him alone with her! Who knows what he might be up to, without me there to stop him? I shouldn't have left her!'

‘Well, go back, then,' Callie suggested. Was this the advice the woman was looking for? She stifled a sigh of impatience.

‘But what should I
do
?' Hanna demanded passionately.

‘Nothing. Try to forget about it. Ignore it.'

‘Ignore it? But don't you think I need to warn her? The Principal? Don't you think I need to tell her what I know about that…that beastly man?'

For a moment Callie wondered whether Hanna was interested in Mad Phil herself, and this was all just a manifestation of jealousy. Whatever her motive, though, this wasn't healthy. And it could be dangerous: a man's reputation—his very career—was at stake. In a place like this, allegations of sexual impropriety wouldn't be tolerated, especially as the man in question was a priest.

‘No,' she said firmly. ‘I don't think you should say anything at all to the Principal. Promise me you won't.'

Hanna nodded reluctantly, as Callie added, even more firmly, ‘Don't say anything to
anyone
.'

***

‘Bloody woman!' Neville shouted, resisting the temptation to hurl the phone across the room.

‘Lilith Noone?' Cowley guessed as he came into Neville's office.

‘You've got it in one.' Neville scowled at his sergeant. ‘I didn't really expect her to cooperate, but she didn't have to be so damned smug and bloody-minded about it.' He slammed the phone down and put his head in his hands. ‘Professional integrity, my arse,' he muttered.

‘Cheer up, Guv.' Cowley was grinning, which served to enrage Neville even further.

‘Why would I want to do that? And by the way,' he added sourly, ‘where the hell have you been?'

Cowley whipped his hand from behind his back, like an old-fashioned magician, and flourished a wad of folded-up papers. ‘Results!' he announced. ‘I've been hassling the kid's service provider, and they've finally come through. In spades!'

‘Phone records?' Neville's mood lifted instantly as he stretched out his hand for the papers.

The sergeant held them just out of his reach, evidently enjoying his moment of triumph to the full. ‘Text messages,' he announced.

Neville lunged forward and snatched the papers, then smoothed them out on his desk and tried to make sense of the columns of numbers. He'd expected messages, yet saw nothing but digits: dates, times, and presumably telephone numbers. There was a pattern here, but it was difficult to tell what it was.

Cowley leaned over his shoulder, pointing. ‘Here, Guv. Lots of these texts were to his mates, as you'd expect. Hugo, Olly, Tom. Some to his mum's phone. We know all of those numbers, so we can eliminate them.'

‘So what does that leave us?'

‘This number here.' Cowley indicated one which appeared on the list with a frequency unmatched by any of the others. ‘He texted this number dozens of times, every day.'

‘It must be his girlfriend, then. Lexie.' That made sense, Neville reasoned. He would text his girlfriend often, not least to arrange to meet up when the coast was clear. When his parents were working and it was safe for her to come round…

‘No.'

Neville twisted round to look at him; Cowley was shaking his head. ‘That's what I thought at first,' he admitted.

‘Then who?'

‘The bird in charge didn't want to tell me. Customer confidentiality, and all that sort of rubbish.' He grinned again. ‘But I…persuaded her, shall we say.'

Neville wasn't very successful at hiding his impatience. Letting Sid have his little moment of drama was all well and good, but time was passing. After all, at the end of the day, if they wanted to know who the number belonged to, they could always ring it and ask.