False Tongues (32 page)

Chapter Eighteen

One more session to go. Tomorrow she'd be back at home.

Callie finished her lunch and went out to get a bit of fresh air in the courtyard. The rain had cleared, and the sun was struggling to come out from behind the lingering clouds, but the damage had been done. The cherry blossom was one visible casualty: the grass was covered with damp pink petals, leaving the trees with only their small, tender leaves. Daffodils had been beat down and crocuses shredded by the force of the storm.

Glad she'd put on a warm jumper, Callie wrapped her arms round herself as she sat on her favourite bench for a few minutes, lifting her face to the weak sun. She closed her eyes, thinking about Marco, longing to see him. This week had been good in so many ways, but she was ready to go home. Ready to have Marco's arms round her instead of her own…

‘Callie?'

She sighed, and took a moment to open her eyes. ‘Hello, Adam.'

‘I'm leaving for home as soon as the last session is over,' he said. ‘So this might be our last chance to talk.'

Fine with her. ‘Okay.'

Adam hesitated a minute. ‘Do you mind if I sit down? I'd like to ask you something.'

‘Help yourself.' She scooted over to give him a bit more room—and to put some distance between them.

‘It's just that…I don't quite understand the way you've been treating me,' he said.

‘Treating you?'

‘This week. I mean, at first you ignored me like I wasn't even there, and wouldn't talk to me. I tried to be friendly. I came to your room the other day to sort things out, hoping we could be friends again, and you chucked me out!' He shook his head in bafflement. ‘No explanation or anything. And then all of a sudden you're being nice. Last night, at the pub. We actually had a normal conversation! And this morning at breakfast. What's going on, Callie?'

Was he really that oblivious? She decided to cut to the heart of things. ‘What's going on,' she said, ‘is that I've decided to forgive you. We'll never be friends again, Adam. You can forget that little plan—I'm not that much of a masochist. But I can be civil to you, like I would be to anyone else whose company I don't particularly enjoy.'

‘But…‘ he sputtered, staring at her. ‘I don't understand!'

‘No, you don't,' she agreed pleasantly. ‘You never have. And as far as I'm concerned, that doesn't matter. I'm not going to try to explain it to you, Adam. If you want someone to tell you about the way women's hearts work, maybe you should ask your wife to explain it.' Preferably in words of one syllable, she added to herself as she got to her feet; he was obviously as dim as Pippa. Why had she never realised that? ‘I'm going up to my room now. And if I don't see you to talk to before you leave, travel safely.' Callie paused. ‘And have a nice life.'

***

Neville had hoped to interview Josh as soon as the boy had had his lunch, but that proved to be impossible.

‘His father's not here,' Sally Pratt told him. ‘He got fed up with waiting round all morning, and went off to do a few things.'

‘Bugger,' said Neville.

‘He said to remind you that he's a working man, it's a working day for him, and he has better things to do than sitting round a police station. He'll be back later, he said. Paul Bradley is an angry man,' she added unnecessarily.

‘But that's not good enough! He knows full well that we can't interview Josh without him. And we only have…' Neville looked at his watch, ‘nine hours, tops.'

She merely raised her eyebrows; Neville interpreted that to mean she was exercising extreme forbearance in not reminding him that it was his own fault. If he'd done the interview first thing this morning it wouldn't have been a problem. Hell, she was probably still fuming that they hadn't charged Josh yet. From what Cowley had told him, the arrangements she'd had to make to keep the boy in custody had taxed even her considerable powers.

‘So will you let me know when Paul Bradley deigns to show up?'

Sally Pratt nodded. ‘I'll give you a ring, shall I? And I assume you'd like me to arrange an interview room?'

‘Yes, please. To both.' Neville forced a smile, knowing how important it was to keep Sally Pratt on side. ‘Ring me on my mobile.'

He'd better make use of this enforced hiatus to follow other lines of enquiry, he decided. The revelation of Sebastian Frost's unsuspected sexual orientation raised quite a few questions, and made it necessary to rethink things Neville had taken for granted.

Had Seb's parents even suspected? What about his mates?

Was
anyone
actually telling the truth?

They were going to have to talk to Tom again, and observe his reaction to the revelation that one of his best mates had been in love with him. Eventually they would need to talk to Hugo and Olly as well. And Miranda and Richard Frost…

For now, though, he would get Cowley out of harm's way by sending him to supervise the dragging of the canal for the murder weapon. And while Cowley was occupied with that, Neville would tackle Lexie.

***

From the Italian Church the walkers headed due south to the river. During that initial part of the walk they were travelling through the heart of the City of London, on pavements thronged with workers and tourists, so they more or less needed to go single file in an unsociable formation.

But when they reached the river and the Victoria Embankment, they were able to spread out a bit. Their route took them the entire length of the Victoria Embankment, all the way to Westminster, where they would turn by the Houses of Parliament and enter St James's Park, along Birdcage Walk, and thence to Green Park and Hyde Park.

Unsurprisingly, Chiara and her friend Emilia skipped ahead along the Embankment, chattering to each other and in high spirits. That meant that Mark found himself walking with Guilia Bonner.

If she felt any awkwardness, she didn't display it. ‘The girls so enjoy each others' company,' she said as they went by Somerset House. ‘Their friendship has been good for them, since they've both lost their fathers.'

‘Oh,' said Mark, caught out. ‘Your husband…?'

‘My husband was killed in Afghanistan, just about a year ago.'

‘Oh, I'm so sorry.'

She shrugged. ‘It was pretty horrible. But it happens. You get on with things.'

Over the course of the next hour or so, in an ongoing conversation that was neither forced nor maudlin, he learned the story of Guila Bonner's life.

When he'd known her, all those years ago, one of the reasons that she'd been so inaccessible, so far beyond his reach, was that she already had a serious boyfriend: Colin Bonner. She'd married him as soon as she left school, and at that point had vanished from the Italian Church youth group, and from Mark Lombardi's life.

Colin had joined the army; they'd embarked upon a peripatetic military existence, moving from one base to another. Emilia had come along quite quickly, and a few years later there was another child, Enrico.

‘The marriage wasn't particularly happy,' she said candidly. ‘I was frustrated. Pretty quickly I regretted the fact that I'd married so young, and hadn't gone to university. I couldn't get a decent job without a degree, especially the way we moved round the country. And Colin didn't think it was important. He was happy for me to stay at home with the children, and occasionally get a part-time job stocking shelves at the NAAFI or waiting tables at a local caf.'

‘What would you like to have done?' Mark asked.

‘Graphic design,' she said without hesitation. ‘I was always good at drawing, at school. It's my dream, to be a proper graphic designer.'

‘It's not too late, you know.'

‘I know.' She was, it transpired, working on it: she was doing an Open University degree course, while working as a teaching assistant at Emilia's school. ‘The job allows me to have the same hours as the children, so I can be at home when they are, and have the holidays with them as well.'

‘Where is Enrico today, then?'

‘Ah.' She gave a rueful smile, then explained. Since they'd always lived in army accommodation, when her husband was killed she'd had nowhere to go. Her own parents were dead, so she'd ended up bringing her children to the London suburbs to live with Colin's mother, with whom she had a difficult relationship.

‘She adores the children, of course. And she's always happy to look after them—she'll drop everything to do it if I need her help. But she's so…controlling. Things have to be just so. Her house is neat as a pin, and the children know they have to keep it that way. It's not…natural. They're not allowed to be themselves.'

‘And you don't get on with her?'

‘I try my best. After all, I'm living under her roof. But I was never good enough for her. She didn't want Colin to marry me, and she still thinks he made a dreadful mistake, marrying a
foreigner
.' Guilia gave the word ironic emphasis. ‘And a Roman Catholic, at that. She hates it that I bring the children to the Italian Church. I mean, she's churchwarden at her parish church, and thinks that's where we all belong. As a family, you know. But St Peter's is what keeps me sane. It keeps me connected to my roots.'

‘Yes, I can understand that.' Mark
did
understand, though as far as he was concerned it was a mixed blessing.

‘She tries to pretend that the children are English,' she said, with a passionate hand gesture which took Mark back with a jolt to his adolescent self: her expressive hands were one of the things he'd once found so enchanting about Guilia Trezzi. ‘She calls them Emily and Henry, for God's sake! And insists that I do the same! She's trying to erase their heritage!' With a grimace she added, ‘She calls me Julie. I can't bear it.'

‘If I were you, I'd try to find my own place, as soon as possible.'

‘Believe me, I dream of the day I can do that. When I've finished my degree, when I can get a proper job and don't have to rely on the charity of a woman like Colin's mother…' Guilia sighed. ‘Sometimes I think I should have listened to my own mother—
che Dio l'abbia in gloria
. She said it was a mistake to marry someone from a different culture. “
Mogli e buoi dei paesi tuoi
.” Have you ever heard that?'

Mark had, more than once, from his own mother. It meant that spouses and cows should come from your own country, and was a sentiment with which he heartily disagreed—though he didn't feel it would be very diplomatic to say so at this point.

‘Yes,' he admitted. ‘My mother says that as well.'

They were in front of Buckingham Palace, about to cross the Mall into Green Park. Keeping an eye on the girls to make sure they were okay, he offered his arm to Guilia and escorted her across the road.

‘How very gallant,' she laughed when they'd reached the other side. Then she favoured him with a smile—as dazzling as the ones he used to dream of receiving from her. ‘I've been talking a lot about myself, Marco,' she said. ‘Now it's your turn. What about
you
?'

***

The same young girl opened the door to Neville at the flat off the Edgware Road. ‘Mum's not at home,' she said, with a suspicious squint of her eyes.

‘How about your sister? Lexie?'

The girl nodded. ‘But she can't be disturbed right now.'

Neville wracked his brains for the girl's name. Something boyish, he recalled. Charlie? No, that wasn't it. Not Bobbie, either.

Georgie. That's what Lexie had called her.

‘Georgie?' he said tentatively.

She nodded again. ‘You've been here before, haven't you?'

‘Yes. I'm a policeman. Georgie. And it's important that I talk to your sister. Can I come in?'

‘I s'pose so.' She stood aside to let him through the door. ‘I was watching Jeremy Kyle. Wanta watch?'

‘All right.'

Neville had never seen the Jeremy Kyle Show, and the first few minutes were a revelation. Pasty-faced people with tattooed arms, appalling teeth, bizarre hairstyles and multiple facial piercings shouted at each other from chairs on opposite sides of a stage. ‘You're a slapper!' ‘Bleep you, bleephead.' The man in the middle egged them on. ‘Why are you calling her a slapper, mate? You were happy enough to sleep with her, even when you knew full well she was your father's girlfriend.' The audience catcalled their agreement.

Did Georgie's mother know that her child was watching this? Lexie obviously didn't care—but then Lexie was the one who was in the habit of going out and leaving the child on her own…

‘I'm waiting for the DNA results,' Georgie said conversationally. ‘They're going to find out whether her baby's father is him, or his father. If it's his, Jeremy will tell him that he has to step up to the mark and be a real dad.'

Good God. ‘You watch this a lot, then?' Neville couldn't help sounding horrified as he rapidly adjusted his preconceptions about the innocence of childhood.

‘It's my favourite,' she confirmed. ‘But I only get to watch it during school holidays.'

Jeremy Kyle looked into the camera with an earnest expression. ‘We're waiting for those all-important DNA results. Is Den the father of Tracy's baby, or are he and baby Tiger actually brothers? We'll find out, after the break.'

An advert for online bingo replaced Jeremy's smirking visage; Neville took the opportunity to ask Georgie a question. ‘Why can't Lexie be disturbed? And when do you think I'll be able to talk to her?'

‘She's in her room. The “do not disturb' sign is hanging on the doorknob. That means she'll kill me if I disturb her. Or you,' she added. ‘And she'll come out when she feels like it.'

Had Lexie been a fifteen-year-old boy rather than a fifteen-year-old girl, Neville would have understood immediately: it would have indicated the kind of forbidden behaviour which Father Flynn had insisted would make you go blind.