False Tongues (27 page)

‘The sort who has to make a living.' Neville wasn't sure why he was defending the bloke; if it were
his
kid, he probably wouldn't even think of leaving him. It was just that Evans' assumptions annoyed the hell out of him. ‘Lots of fifteen-year-olds are capable of looking after themselves for a few hours.'

‘Is that the sort who sticks knives in other kids?' Evans enquired sarcastically.

‘Point taken,' admitted Neville.

Evans drummed his fingers on his desk. ‘Doesn't the bloke have a mobile?'

‘He's not answering.'

‘Probably in the car, then,' Evans surmised. ‘A good, law-abiding bloke who doesn't answer his phone when he's behind the wheel. Even if he does abandon his kid. Keep trying.'

‘Yes, Sir.' Neville pressed his lips together. ‘I will.'

***

‘I killed Hal,' Margaret said again.

John Kingsley shook his head. ‘You mustn't think that.'

‘But I do. Because it's true. If I'd been able to forgive him, the way I should have done, he would still be alive today.'

‘You don't know that. He had a bad heart, you said—'

She cut across his words. ‘And now I can't forgive
myself
. I know that I killed him. And I know, intellectually I suppose, that God forgives me. But that doesn't mean I can forgive myself. It was a horrible thing to do to a man who loved me.'

‘You couldn't have known—'

‘It doesn't matter,' she stated. ‘I failed him. I failed our marriage and I failed my vocation. And because he died before the divorce went through, I actually benefitted by his death. This job here—Principal of a fine theological college. It suits me down to the ground, but do you think I'd ever have been offered this job if I'd been divorced? No way.' She gave an emphatic shake of her head. ‘Every day, when I wake up in my beautiful lodgings, I feel guilty about that. If Hal hadn't died, I wouldn't be here. I feel such a fraud. People feel sorry for me because my husband died, but they don't have any idea…'

For a moment John bowed his head, then he said quietly. ‘Why now, Margaret? Why has this suddenly come to the surface, since last night? If you live with this terrible guilt all of the time, and have done so for several years, why now?'

‘Because of Keith Moody,' she blurted. ‘He…cares for me, apparently. And I…could. Could care for him as well. But I mustn't, because I don't deserve him. I don't deserve any happiness, ever again. Not after what I've done. It would be wrong.'

He shook his head, almost violently. ‘Love is never wrong, Margaret. Not when two people are free to care about each other. Love is God's greatest gift to us. He wants his creatures to be happy, not to suffer.'

‘But I'm
not
free.'

‘Only because you've allowed yourself to be enslaved by guilt and regret. You don't think that God would wish to see you deny yourself happiness, do you, just for the sake of wallowing in your own guilt?'

That was exactly what she
did
think, but hearing him say it like that…

‘You and Keith,' he went on more warmly. ‘It's exactly what I would wish for both of you. The two of you have so much to give each other. You're two lovely people. You'd be a great team. You've both suffered, but with God's help, you could heal each other.'

She let out a long, slow sigh. ‘If only I could believe that…'

‘You
must
believe it. If you believe in God, as you say you do, you must trust in his absolute forgiveness, then allow him to heal you and grant you another chance of happiness.'

He made it all sound so simple. Could it be true? ‘Thank you, John,' she said, feeling dazed. ‘I need to think about this. I have to absorb what you've said. Maybe we could talk a bit more…?'

The Canon nodded. ‘I'll be here until Saturday morning, my dear. And you know where to find me.'

***

Neville was back in his office, trying Josh Bradley's father's mobile yet again, when Sergeant Sally Pratt came in.

‘Sorry to disturb you,' she said.

‘No problem.' He hung up: still no reply. Not even a voicemail option.

Sally Pratt was the Custody Officer on duty. Neville had a lot of time for her: she was sensible, kind, intelligent—if decidedly unglamorous. A middle-aged woman with short grey hair, at birth she had been given the unlikely and entirely unsuitable name of Salome; everyone knew her as Sally.

‘The lad,' she said. ‘Josh. He's asking to see you.'

Neville had left Josh Bradley in Sally's care, even though he was not technically in custody. The boy had come with them voluntarily, not under arrest, and it didn't make sense to book him in until they were able to question him. As soon as Sally booked him into custody, the clock would start running and they would have limited time to conduct interviews.

‘Did you tell him that we have to wait until his father gets here?'

‘I did.' She put her hands on her ample hips. ‘He says he wants to see you anyway. I told him I'd see what I could do.' Sally was the mother of three teen-aged sons; she'd obviously established a rapport with the boy. Which was why Neville had felt comfortable about leaving him in her care…

‘I suppose we could have a little chat,' Neville said. ‘Off the record. It wouldn't hurt for me to get to know him a bit.'

‘It would calm him down, I think. He's awfully jumpy at the moment. And he
is
free to go,' she reminded him. ‘I'm afraid he might bolt if he's left alone too long.' She gave him a wink. ‘And I won't tell Evans if you won't.'

Evans would probably have a fit. If he knew. But surely there was no harm in an informal chat…

‘I've found a little room for him,' Sally said as she led him down the corridor. ‘I wish there was a place with a telly. Or a computer or something, to keep him occupied. Young lads get bored so easily. My three are always saying they're bored.'

Josh Bradley was sprawled on a hard chair, sipping from a can of Coke. He didn't get up when Neville entered the room.

‘Is Sergeant Pratt looking after you all right?' he asked awkwardly.

‘Yeah. She's ace,' the boy confirmed. ‘She got me a burger for lunch. I was starving.'

‘Excellent.' He paused. ‘She said you wanted to see me?'

‘Yeah.' Josh took a slug of Coke.

‘Did the Sergeant explain that we need to wait for your father?'

He nodded. ‘But I don't see why. I mean, I'm ready to talk.'

‘It's the law,' Neville explained. ‘You're under age. A juvenile. It's for your protection,' he added. ‘Like having a solicitor present. You're allowed to have that, as well, by the way. When the time comes.'

‘Can't I have a solicitor instead of my dad?'

‘I'm afraid not.'

‘Having my dad here won't make any difference,' the boy said defiantly. ‘I mean, he'll just try to stop me from telling the truth. Which is that I did it. I killed Seb Frost.'

***

Callie was feeling a bit uneasy. Something—she wasn't sure what—wasn't quite right.

She'd talked to Marco at last, which was good. But that conversation had been less than satisfactory. He'd been in a restaurant, and when they'd only been talking for a few minutes, his lunch had arrived. Feeling awkward, she'd cut the conversation short.

She missed him. That was part of it: she missed his warm smile, his arms round her, the sheer pleasure of being in his company. Talking to him on the phone was better than nothing, but it was a poor substitute for his physical presence. It had only been four days since she'd seen him; already, when she closed her eyes, she found it difficult to picture his face. She could remember his eyes, his smile, the shape of his ears, the colour of his hair, but those elements failed to assemble themselves into a whole person. That was deeply worrying.

The afternoon session was in full flow; she was trying to pay attention. It was important, she knew: Canon Kingsley was talking about the effect of priesthood on family relationships. She ought to be listening, benefitting from it. Her mother, for instance, had never accepted the validity of her call to ministry. Disappointed that Callie had given up her secure future in the Civil Service, Laura Anson was virtually in denial about it. And as for Marco, with his Roman Catholic upbringing and very different expectations of the priestly role…

She really needed to talk to Marco again. Properly this time. As soon as this session was over, she would ring him.

***

‘It was me. I killed him,' Josh repeated.

That was what Neville wanted to hear, but not now. Not like this, without the proper procedures in place. Josh Bradley hadn't even been cautioned, let alone arrested: this could cause no end of trouble about admissibility. And Evans would have his hide.

‘You shouldn't be telling me that,' he said quickly. ‘Not without legal advice. And your father present.'

‘I don't care. I did it. And I'm not sorry,' the boy blurted.

Neville sighed and sat down. Too late to pretend he hadn't heard. It couldn't be unsaid now.

Except legally. Once Josh's father told him to deny it, and the solicitor advised him not to say anything to incriminate himself, it would be as though this had never taken place, in the eyes of the law.

‘All right,' Neville said, thinking about how he might salvage the situation. ‘This is what we'll do. I'll give you some paper, and you can write down what happened. Then when your father gets here, and your solicitor, we can go through it and ask you some questions about your statement at that time.'

‘I'll write it down later. But I want to tell you now.' The boy folded his arms across his chest. ‘He was a bully, just like it said in the paper. He was horrible. He sent me texts and put up all sorts of stuff on Facebook. All of his mates did it too, but he was the worst. The leader, like. They wouldn't have done it if he hadn't started it. I got sick of it, is all. So I killed him. I texted him and asked him to meet me on Paddington Green, and I stabbed him.'

So that was it: pretty much like Neville had surmised. He clamped his lips together to keep himself from asking any questions. Instead, just to protect himself, he reeled off the words of the caution.

‘Joshua Bradley, I'm arresting you for the murder of Sebastian Frost. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in Court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.' It didn't mean a thing, under the circumstances, and would have to be repeated later on, in the presence of the boy's father, but he felt better for having said it.

‘Yeah, yeah.' Josh waved his hand dismissively. ‘I watch the cop shows on telly. I know all about that stuff. Do you want me to tell you about what happened, or not?'

Neville got out his notebook. His notes wouldn't be admissible, but he could use them to refresh his memory when the formal questioning took place. ‘Okay,' he said. ‘I'm not going to ask you any questions now. I can't, as I explained. You can say whatever you like, though. I'll take notes, if that's all right with you, and we can go through it again later on.'

The boy nodded. ‘Like I said, he was a bully. He made fun of me because…well, because I'm short. And ginger. He called me Red Dwarf. And the other thing was, he had more money than me. His mum and dad are both doctors, so they have pots of money. My dad, he works hard, but cash is tight.' He took another sip from the Coke. ‘He and his mates had all the latest gear, but I can't afford that stuff. He never let me forget it. And that's why I killed him.'

Interesting, thought Neville. Josh hadn't mentioned anything about the homophobia. He wouldn't know that Neville had seen the Facebook postings, with gay-bashing as the dominant theme. Why was he omitting the most important thing about the bullying?

***

Following the afternoon session, Callie evaded her friends and went back to her room to ring Marco again.

This time she was more fortunate: he was not in the middle of anything important, he assured her, and was free to talk.

‘I'm missing you,
Cara Mia
,' he confessed.

‘And I miss you, as well.'

There was a slight pause on his end. ‘Do you mean that?' he asked.

‘Of course.'

‘Because I've been a bit worried. That something's wrong. That you've been having second thoughts about marrying me, after that fiasco on Sunday. And,' he went on, hesitation in his voice, ‘I'll be honest. I suppose I've been worried about you being with…Adam. That seeing him again, in the place where you were…together…has…oh, I don't know. Rekindled something.'

Ha! She almost laughed out loud. ‘Far from it,' she assured him. ‘Seeing him again has convinced me more than ever that I had a very lucky escape.' He'd been honest with her, Callie reflected; now she owed it to Marco to be equally honest. ‘But it
has
been difficult,' she admitted. ‘There are a lot of ghosts here, and I wasn't prepared for how uncomfortable that would be.'

‘What do you mean?'

She got up from the chair and crossed to the window, looking out without really seeing. ‘I'm in my old room,' she said. ‘I think I told you that. It's a nice room, but it's…strange. To be back here, I mean. And I found something I'd forgot about. There's an old fireplace in the room—the chimney's blocked now, but there's a little shelf inside the chimney breast. And I found some letters and things that I'd left there a couple of years ago. It really shook me. You think you've put something behind you, and there it is again, staring you in the face. I sort of…freaked out, actually.'

‘Adam?' he asked apprehensively.