False Tongues (35 page)

‘Never mind that.' If Neville's hunch was right, and Josh hadn't stabbed Sebastian, then the knife could be anywhere, and dragging the canal would turn out to be a total waste of police resources. ‘Give them a call. Tell them to suspend the search,' he decided.

Cowley obeyed, with a quizzical look. ‘What's up?' he repeated when he'd finished.

Neville explained, indicating the photos. ‘I just don't think that Josh could have done it. He's too short. See how tall Sebastian was? I mean, Sid, this one's a no-brainer. We saw the body. We should have realised.'

‘Red Dwarf.' Cowley might not be the most sensitive officer on the force, but at least he was reasonably sharp, Neville recognised with gratitude.

‘Exactly.'

‘There's something else,' Cowley offered. ‘When we interviewed Josh. Did he ever mention the second stab wound?'

Neville shook his head. ‘No.'

‘He said he went home after he stabbed him in the neck, didn't he?'

‘After he got rid of the knife.' There was something else he hadn't mentioned, Neville realised: the smashed phone. He hadn't mentioned Sebastian's phone at all. ‘And then there's the phone,' he said; Sid's grimace told him that no further explanation was necessary.

Cowley sagged back against the wall. ‘I hate to say it, Guv, but it sounds like we're on to a loser.'

‘Oh, Sid.' Neville groaned, then rubbed his face between his hands. ‘We're going to have to let him go.'

‘Which leaves us with…nothing,' Cowley pointed out glumly.

‘Bloody hell, Sid.' Neville shuffled the photos back into a pile as the implications of it all began to sink in. ‘How on earth am I going to tell Evans that after nearly five days of this damned investigation, we're back to square one?'

***

Trying not to let her imagination run wild about what was going on with Mad Phil and the Principal, Callie went back to her room to pack her case. If she packed most of her stuff now, she reasoned, she could get an early start in the morning.

First, though, she pulled out the dress she'd packed in the event that there would be an occasion for a posh frock—she would wear it for the dinner tonight—and put it on a hanger. It was tried-and-true: a pretty flowered dress which fell below the knee, suitable for dinner parties and even for parish events. Not exciting, but safe.

As she hung it in the wardrobe, she discovered, to her dismay, that it had a conspicuous stain down the front of the skirt. Tea or coffee, it looked like. And then she remembered: the last time she'd worn it, to a concert in church a few weeks ago, someone had jogged her elbow while she was drinking her interval coffee. She'd intended to wash it out as soon as she got home, or take it to the dry cleaner if necessary, but something had distracted her and she'd put it back in her wardrobe untreated.

And now it was too late.

‘Oh, no…' Callie said aloud.

No use trying to borrow something from Tamsin. Even if Tamsin had a spare frock with her, she was entirely the wrong shape.

Val, then? Val had fewer curves than Callie, and was a bit taller, but she might have something that would do. And since she lived in college, her entire wardrobe was in close proximity.

Callie rang Val and explained her dilemma. ‘Do you think you might have anything that would fit me?' she concluded.

‘Well, I might. But what's the matter with the dress you bought the other day?' Val asked. ‘Why don't you wear
that
?'

The dress she'd bought the other day. Callie hadn't even thought about it.

She'd bought it under duress—Tamsin, Nicky, and Val had insisted upon it. It wasn't at all the sort of dress she would normally even look at, but it had been displayed in the window of a shop in Rose Crescent and Tamsin had gone into raptures about it.

‘I couldn't wear it in a million years,' Tamsin had said, ‘but it would look great on
you
, Callie.'

Against her better judgment she'd tried it on, admitted that it fit perfectly and looked good, and had been persuaded to buy it.

A little black dress—she'd never owned one before. Elegant, understated, and more than just a little bit sexy. ‘I'll never wear it,' she'd protested.

‘You
will
,' Tamsin had stated.

And it looked as if Tamsin might have been right, sooner than she could have imagined.

Did she dare wear it tonight? Callie retrieved it from the bottom of the shopping bag, where it was carefully wrapped in tissue paper, shook it out, and held it up against her.

It was way shorter than anything Callie had ever worn—well above the knees. But she
did
have decent legs, she admitted to herself, even if they were usually covered up.

Nicky had whistled admiringly when she'd tried it on and modelled it, reluctantly, for her friends. ‘You look stunning, darling,' he'd declared. ''Almost enough to turn me.'

She didn't want to be responsible for
that
, she told herself, smiling, unless Tamsin were the eventual beneficiary.

Why not wear it? Callie decided. It wasn't as if she had many other choices. And since Adam wouldn't be there to see her, and possibly suspect her of ulterior motives, she wouldn't need to worry about that source of embarrassment.

She would have to wear the new underthings, of course—the dress wouldn't look or feel right with her plain vanilla Marks and Spencers bra and knickers, so scorned by Tamsin.

But why not?

***

The deed had been done: Josh Bradley was released without charge, free to go home. Though that, Neville reflected, was something of a mixed blessing for the boy, with that father in residence.

It was, by now, late enough that Neville could have gone home himself, and had a fresh start in the morning. But he was loath to do that. He needed to think through the state of play, and try to approach the situation from a different direction.

‘Shall we go for a drink?' he suggested to Cowley. ‘Or do you have other plans for the evening?'

Cowley hesitated for just a second. ‘I do, as a matter of fact. But I could manage a quick one, Guv.'

They went to the nearest pub, which was less than salubrious, but had the advantage of an awning over the smokers' terrace at the rear. Rain was threatening again; dark clouds massed overhead as they took their pints outside to the tables provided for those for whom drinking and smoking were inextricably linked.

Cowley lit up as Neville took his first sip of Guinness.

‘Okay,' said Neville, wiping the froth from his upper lip. ‘Josh Bradley didn't do it. But he wanted us to believe that he did. Why? Why would he insist on confessing?'

‘He was protecting someone,' Cowley replied promptly.

‘And why would he do that?'

‘Because he's afraid of them?' Cowley closed his eyes, concentrating on getting that first lungful of smoke.

‘Or in love with them, maybe.'

The sergeant nodded; he exhaled slowly. ‘Could be, Guv. Who, then?'

Neville tapped his fingers on the table. ‘I can't help feeling that this all has something to do with the bullying. There was a whole gang of them at it. And we know who most of them were, thanks to Lexie's little sister. Apart from Sebastian, there was Hugo, Lexie, Olly, Tom. And Tom's girlfriend, apparently.'

‘So you think one of them killed him, and Josh was protecting them, for whatever reason?'

Neville took another sip, then shook his head. ‘I don't know. All I can say is, since Josh and Sebastian were both gay, it was unlikely to involve a fight over a girl.' He gave an unamused snort.

There was a crack of thunder overhead, startling and unexpected. A few seconds later the rain started, pounding on the awning above them—no gentle shower, but a sudden fierce downpour.

Cowley raised his voice a notch to compensate for the racket overhead. ‘Maybe we ought to look at it another way, Guv.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Maybe we ought to ask ourselves, which of those kids is tall enough?'

Tall enough to have done it. Neville stared at his sergeant.

It was so simple, when you looked at it that way.

‘Hugo.' Cowley answered his own question. ‘And Tom.'

Neville grinned, then reached for his pint. The sooner he finished it, the sooner they could go and talk to Hugo and Tom again—in spite of the rain, in spite of Cowley's plans for the evening.

‘Sid, I could kiss you,' he declared.

The look on Cowley's face was priceless. ‘No, thanks, Guv,' he said quickly. ‘I appreciate the sentiment, but
I'm
not a flamin' poofter!'

***

Determined that tonight she would share the big news with Brian, Jane made his favourite steak and kidney pie for supper. But halfway through the meal—which he seemed to be enjoying hugely—Brian had a phone call from one of his churchwardens. As he explained to Jane, Philip Page had been in the church—changing some light bulbs—when the heavy rains started, and water was pouring through the roof in various places.

‘I need to get over there straight away,' Brian said ruefully, eyeing the remains of his steak and kidney pie.

‘But what can
you
do?' Jane frowned. ‘He's the churchwarden. He should sort it.'

‘He needs help. He can't get the bowls and buckets emptied fast enough by himself.'

Crossly, Jane scraped the contents of Brian's plate into the bin and did the washing up. She'd nearly finished when the phone went again. ‘
Now
what?' she muttered.

It was Liz Gresham, asking for the vicar. ‘I'm afraid that Brian's not here,' Jane told her. ‘I don't know when he'll be back. And tomorrow's his day off, you know. Can it wait until Sunday?'

‘I don't think so,' the other woman said, her voice shaky with evident distress. ‘Can
you
come over, Jane? I'd really appreciate it.'

Jane looked at the window: the rain was coming straight down in torrents. The last thing she wanted to do was venture out into that deluge.

‘It's my son. Tom…I'm so worried about him, ‘ Liz added. ‘I just don't know where else to turn. My husband is away on business, in New York, so there's no one else here.'

It was part of being a vicar's wife, Jane told herself with stoicism. She wasn't sure what she could do in a practical way, but if her moral support was really required…

‘All right,' she said, feeling virtuous. ‘I'll be there as soon as I can.'

***

Mark paced up and down the lounge of his flat, the noise of the storm outside a fitting background to the tumultuous emotions which gripped him.

He was angrier than he'd ever been in his life. Serena—whom he'd trusted, given the benefit of the doubt, even made excuses for—had betrayed him. He meant what he said: given a choice between his sister and Callie, he was prepared to cut Serena out of his life. Whatever the consequences, however poignant and heart-rending Mamma's tears. He would continue to see the girls, somehow, but at this moment he didn't care whether he ever laid eyes on Serena again.

And he owed Callie an apology. She'd known all along that Serena didn't like her, hadn't even begun to accept her, but Mark had refused to acknowledge it. At all costs, he'd wanted to make his family happy, to preserve the unity of
la famiglia Lombardi
. He'd subsumed his own happiness to that impossible ideal. In fact, somehow he'd accepted the unstated assumption that he didn't actually deserve anything for himself. He'd been conditioned, all of his life, into the belief that
la famigilia
must always come first.

Gradually Mark turned his anger on himself. He didn't
deserve
Callie, he told himself furiously. He'd been weak—more a mouse than a man. It was a wonder that she hadn't walked away from him months ago. He wouldn't blame her if she had.

He needed to tell her how sorry he was, to promise her that from now on he would put her first. To make himself worthy of her—and her love.

Tomorrow, he thought, and then his flatmate came through the door.

Geoff Brownlow was dripping wet. ‘It's pitching down out there,' he said conversationally. ‘Forgot my brolly this morning. Bad move.' He stripped off his sodden jacket and draped it over a chair. ‘So that means a change of plan for tonight. I was going to meet some mates after work, and go down the pub to watch the football on the big screen. But now I don't fancy going back out again, so I think I'll just stay in and watch the match here. I hope there's some beer in the fridge,' he added. ‘One or two of my mates will probably drop by. Feel free to join us if you like.'

That did it. Not tomorrow. Tonight. ‘I'm going out,' Mark announced abruptly.

‘Don't forget your brolly!'

But Mark didn't care about little things like getting wet. He was going to Cambridge. Now.

***

Liz Gresham, her face creased with worry, let Jane in and took her dripping rain coat.

‘I'll put my brolly here,' Jane said, propping it by the door. No danger she'd forget it, if the rain continued like this.

She followed Liz into the sitting room, just to the left of the front door, still unsure what she was expected to do. Liz gestured her into a chair.

‘Would you like something to drink?' Liz offered. ‘Coffee? Tea? Or a glass of wine, perhaps?'

As if this were a social call, Jane thought. ‘Only if you're having something.'

Liz produced a bottle of red wine and uncorked it with trembling hands, sloshing it into two glasses. ‘From my husband's wine cellar,' she said as she brought one of the glasses to Jane. ‘He's into fine wines in a big way, and this is one of his favourites.'

Jane remembered suddenly that she shouldn't be drinking wine, but it was too late to turn it down now without arousing suspicion. She accepted the glass and took a sip. She was certainly no judge of fine wines, having had scarce opportunity to sample such things in her life, but this one tasted very good indeed to her untutored palate, and the label on the bottle was impressively ornate, with a large house on it.