False Tongues (6 page)

Jane's first impulse was to storm into the chapel and confront them. ‘Don't be ridiculous,' she wanted to say to Wendy Page.

But if she did, she told herself, they would probably only take it for confirmation. Protesting too much…

‘I don't suppose Jane knows what Mildred is telling people,' Wendy continued, lowering her voice. ‘They do say the wife is always the last to know.'

‘She's probably in denial,' agreed her companion.

In denial, indeed. Jane gritted her teeth as she plopped the cereal box on the table with unnecessary force.

It was no wonder she was out-of-sorts.

And then there was the fraught issue of this week's holiday—or non-holiday, as it had turned out.

Brian had always taken the week after Easter as holiday, ever since he'd been in parish ministry. Most clergy did: after the rigours of Lent, and the heavy-duty Holy Week and Easter services, they were entitled to a bit of R and R. Usually the Stanfords went to Wales, where they had the free use of a cottage which was owned by an old school friend of Brian's. It was a good place for the boys, with lots of outdoor activities on offer, and Jane always looked forward to their annual week there as a family.

But this year it hadn't happened, and wasn't going to happen.

To be fair, the boys hadn't helped, with their alternative plans. Simon had spent Easter with his girlfriend Ellie's family, and was going with them to the South of France this week. And Charlie, after a few days at home, had returned to Oxford to do some work in the Bodleian. He had an essay due right after the hols, he said, and the only way he was going to finish it was to go back to Oxford.

Things just weren't the same now that the twins were at university, Jane acknowledged unhappily. But she and Brian still could have gone to Wales. This year, with Brian's inheritance from his Australian uncle, they wouldn't even have been limited to Wales. They might have had a romantic week in Venice, taken a cruise, flown to the Caribbean, or gone on safari. Just the two of them: a holiday to remember.

Brian had said no, though, and the reason was Callie.

Callie—that woman again. Glancing at the clock to judge the timing of Brian's return, Jane filled the kettle and switched it on. Callie Anson needed to go to Cambridge for something to do with her old theological college, and Brian felt he had to be a martyr, to make a point, and stay at home this week so that the parish wouldn't be left unattended.

It was ridiculous. As ridiculous as the suggestion that there was anything between Brian and his curate, Jane told herself. Last year this time he had scarcely known of the existence of Callie Anson. He didn't have a curate then, and it hadn't occurred to him to be worried about leaving the parish unattended, at Easter or any other time. He'd always taken his Saturdays off, his weeks after Christmas and Easter, his summer holidays. He was entitled to time off, like anyone else. Why, this year, did he feel that he had to make a point?

Callie.

Jane filled the milk jug and slammed it down on the table, splashing more than a few drops of milk on the cloth.

She'd made such an effort to tolerate her husband's curate, and she actually felt she'd been making progress lately. In spite of everything, she'd begun warming to her; there had even been a few times when she'd thought they might eventually be friends.

Now, though…

Mopping up the milk, Jane knocked over Brian's juice glass. The juice soaked the tablecloth and the glass rolled off the edge, shattering on the floor.

‘Oh, great.' Jane felt the tears welling up. What was the matter with her?

She crouched down and started gathering up the jagged bits of glass. Maybe, she thought suddenly, it was PMS. Wasn't she about due for her period? With all of the frenetic busyness of the last few days—Holy Week, getting the church ready for Easter, all of the services, Charlie coming and going—she hadn't really had time to think about it.

The calendar was on the side of the fridge, with all of the relevant days circled and notated. After disposing of the largest pieces of glass and sweeping up the tiny shards, Jane looked at the April calendar page.

She heard Brian letting himself in through the front door, calling out a greeting to her, as the realisation struck.

She was overdue.

Was it possible?

Could she be pregnant?

Chapter Four

After a short night, Neville Stewart's morning had begun very early, and very badly.

Of course the first problem was Triona. This was a Bank Holiday; naturally she wasn't working, and he was meant to have the day off as well. He had arranged for them to go to the house they were in the process of buying, and measure up the rooms so that they could start buying furniture.

This wasn't the first time he'd let Triona down, and they both knew it wouldn't be the last. He had expected that she would shout at him with something along those lines. But on this occasion Triona didn't shout, and somehow he found her resigned disappointment—the slope of her shoulders, the averted face—even more upsetting than an out-and-out row would have been. Instead of defending himself, he'd heard himself apologising—almost grovelling. Neville didn't like to grovel.

Not a good start to the day.

And then, before anything else, he'd had to go to the mortuary, to witness the postmortem examination of the nameless boy. Neville wasn't squeamish, but he couldn't help finding it distressing. Dr Tompkins was so matter-of-fact, so taciturn, that Neville wanted to shout at him. ‘This is someone's son,' he wanted to say. ‘Don't you feel
anything
, man?'

When the procedure was over, Colin Tompkins went to the basin to wash his hands, turning his head to address Neville in the longest speech he'd ever heard him make. ‘Some of these boys really carve each other up, but this one was quite efficient. Death was caused by a single stab wound to the neck. Severed the jugular. It would have been fairly quick,' he added as he reached for a towel. ‘Maybe that will be a consolation to the parents.'

Some consolation. ‘Do you have children?' Neville heard himself asking.

‘Four, as a matter of fact. Two boys, two girls.'

‘Then how do you…?'

The doctor smiled faintly. ‘I can't let myself think about it. This is my job. I do it. And when I go home I forget about it.'

Neville wondered, as he headed for the police station for an inevitable meeting with his boss, how it was possible to achieve that level of detachment. If only he could manage to do the same—to remain uninvolved with the dead, to view them only as pieces of meat on the table, unconnected with the living and breathing human beings they had once been. Would it make his job easier, or would it mean that he would be unable to continue doing it? He knew that he was a good detective—was it because he felt so deeply for the dead?

One thing he was sure about: it would certainly make his personal life easier if, like Dr Tompkins, he could leave his work behind when he went home at the end of the day.

***

‘You're
engaged
?!' Tamsin squealed at a volume that would have waked the dead—had there been any dead nearby. She grabbed Callie's hand and scrutinised the ring. ‘Oh. My. God. But who? You've been holding out on me, girl. Tell me everything!'

Callie smiled at her friend, bemused. She was glad that they'd retreated to her room—with its thick, soundproof walls—for their after-breakfast chat, rather than a more public place. ‘Where do you want me to begin?'

‘At the beginning! Since you haven't bothered to tell me anything at all about this mystery man. I mean, as far as I knew, you were still pining after that love-rat Adam. And you haven't put anything on your Facebook page about it.'

‘I know. I know. Guilty as charged.' Callie put her hands in the air in mock surrender.

‘Well? Who is he?'

‘His name is Mark. Mark Lombardi. I call him Marco.' Saying his name conjured him up in Callie's mind, vividly, and she couldn't help smiling.

‘And?' demanded Tamsin.

‘He's a policeman. A Family Liaison Officer, in fact—he deals with families of murder victims and that sort of thing. And he's Italian,' she added.

‘Oooh. The dark and handsome type, I suppose.' Tamsin rolled her eyes. ‘Do you have a photo?'

There must be some on her phone, Callie realised. Probably not very good, yet better than nothing. ‘Hang on a second,' she said.

The phone, plugged into the wall, hadn't fully recharged yet, but there was sufficient juice in it to access the photos. She clicked through them till she found one that seemed to represent him with reasonable accuracy. She handed it to Tamsin. ‘Here.'

‘Umm.' Tamsin squinted at the photo. ‘Gorgeous. How did you meet him, and how long has it been going on?'

‘I met him on an aeroplane, actually. Coming back from Venice, right after my ordination.' Relaxing on the bed, Callie recounted the story: how she'd chatted with the attractive man sitting next to her, and the way things had developed since then. She left out the part about his demanding Italian family, his sister's insidious attempts to undermine their relationship, and a few other messy details that she didn't consider relevant or necessary.

Tamsin sighed happily. ‘He sounds perfect. Lucky old you. But why didn't you tell me about him before?'

Why hadn't she? ‘I suppose I didn't want to jinx it,' Callie admitted. ‘I didn't want to assume too much. Not until he actually went down on his knees and asked me to marry him. I mean, after what happened with Adam…'

‘That toe rag,' snorted Tamsin, then had the grace to look slightly guilty. ‘Sorry about breakfast. I was sitting there chatting with Nicky, and Adam came along and sat on my other side. Just like nothing had happened. Like we were still good friends. I didn't even want to speak to him, after what he did to you. But I didn't feel I should cause a scene by getting up and leaving. I hope you didn't think…'

Callie sat up, waving her hand dismissively. ‘No, of course not. I wish he hadn't come, but since he's here we just have to deal with it. All of us.'

‘How
do
you feel about Adam?' blurted Tamsin.

It was a subject she tried not to dwell on—and had been fairly successful, until yesterday afternoon. ‘Angry, still,' Callie admitted, probing her feelings like a tongue relentlessly seeking out a sore tooth, trying to be honest. ‘I'm not in love with him any longer, if that's what you mean. I don't fancy him. I don't even like him, much. But when he's here, where everything happened between us, I can't just ignore him and pretend it didn't happen.'

Tamsin chewed on her lip, looking as if she was sorry she'd asked the question. She got up from the chair where she'd been sitting and crossed to the window, studying the view silently.

That gave Callie the chance to observe the top Tamsin was wearing—something that had been difficult to do when Tamsin was seated. It was a sort of a t-shirt, periwinkle blue in colour, made of a stretchy jersey fabric, but tailored to Tamsin's ample figure and topped with a dog-collar. She was about to mention it when Tamsin shook her head, sending her curls into bouncy mode, and changed the subject.

‘Let's not talk about him anymore—he's not worth it. I want to hear more about your wonderful Marco. Is it true what they say about Latin lovers? Is he fantastic in bed?' She gave Callie a lascivious grin, then smacked her lips.

Oh, no—the question she'd hoped Tamsin wouldn't ask. Callie flopped back onto the bed, pulling the pillow over her face, aware that she was blushing. ‘Actually,' she said, ‘I don't know. Yet. We haven't—'

Tamsin shrieked. ‘You haven't? Why not? Don't tell me you've developed scruples, now that you're ordained?'

‘It's not that, exactly.' Why was she telling Tamsin this? It was something private between herself and Marco, none of Tamsin's business, but Callie couldn't stop herself now that it had gone this far. ‘It's not me, it's Marco. He's Italian. He's Roman Catholic. He has this thing about priests being holy. He says he just can't, until we're married.'

‘My God. But he's a red-blooded man, isn't he?' Tamsin yanked the pillow from Callie's hands and stared down at her.

‘I didn't say it was easy. And I've tried.' Callie pressed her palms to her burning cheeks. How humiliating—to have to admit, even to one of her best friends, that her fiancé didn't want to sleep with her. That wasn't strictly true, though, she reminded herself: he
did
want to sleep with her, and had clearly demonstrated how much on a number of occasions, but she hadn't yet managed to overcome all of those cultural barriers that were standing in their way.

‘You haven't tried hard enough, obviously.' Tamsin grinned, irrepressible. ‘I know what we'll do. We'll sneak away from the college some time this week and go into town. That sexy lingerie shop in Rose Crescent, near the market…We'll find something there that will do the trick.'

She'd had enough of this conversation; it was Callie's turn to change the subject. ‘Speaking of clothes,' she said firmly, ‘tell me about your…um…clerical shirt. I've never seen anything like it.'

Tamsin struck a pose, arms outstretched and chest thrust forward. ‘Good, isn't it? One of my parishioners is in the fashion business, and she designed it for me. I have them in all sorts of colours. Every colour of the rainbow, for every day of the week.'

‘But…why?'

‘I can't wear a normal clerical shirt.' Tamsin looked down at her chest and gave her blond curls a rueful shake. ‘My boobs are too big. The buttons won't stay done up over them, and nothing looks more unprofessional than a curate with her boobs hanging out. I have a difficult enough time being taken seriously without that.'

Callie laughed. ‘Well, whatever works for you, I suppose.'

***

Neville's meeting with Detective Superintendent Evans had taken exactly the path he had expected. Evans' main concerns, apart from the obvious ones of solving the crime and finding the perpetrators, were to identify the victim and to manage the press. ‘It's mainly why I've put you on the case,' Evans said. ‘The press are going to go mad over this. Another teenager stabbed to death. Sort it, Stewart.'

Fortunately that meeting had been short, if not sweet. He knew what was expected of him; it was time to get on with it. DS Cowley was waiting for him, and together they went to see Danny Duffy, the station's resident techie. Danny was disgustingly young—as one would have to be to do that job—and seemed revoltingly chipper this morning, when Neville was feeling old and weary.

‘There was no ID on the body,' Neville explained to Danny as Cowley handed over the evidence bag with the damaged iPhone. ‘And nothing very helpful turned up at the PM. No tattoos, no birthmarks. No dental work, either. Kids these days—they take better care of their teeth,' he added ruefully.

‘In other words, you're counting on me.' Danny smiled, holding the bag up.

‘You've got it in one. We're counting on you.'

‘It's all right for me to take this out?'

‘They've already tested it for prints,' confirmed Cowley, who had been to the forensics lab while Neville was at the postmortem. ‘Not a lot to go on, apparently. Some smeary prints—nothing conclusive. And we don't even know that it belonged to the dead kid,' he added. ‘It wasn't on the body. They found it a few metres away.'

Danny tipped the phone out onto the table in front of him and bent over it, frowning. ‘Someone wanted to make sure this phone was never used again,' he observed. He fiddled with the switch at the top, pressed the ‘on' button, and shook his head.

‘But there must be something inside that you can get out,' Neville suggested, remembering what Cowley had said in the wee hours of the morning. ‘A SIM card?'

‘These phones have internal memory chips—quite substantial ones—as well as removable SIM cards.' Danny opened a drawer, poked round in it for a moment, and took out some implements, including a pair of tweezers. ‘Let's see what we can do.'

Cowley was practically salivating, Neville observed. ‘That is one slick bit of kit, that phone,' he enthused. ‘That would set you back…what? Five, maybe six hundred quid? More?'

Danny probed the top of the phone with the tweezers. ‘It's a dead cert I couldn't afford one. Not even on a contract.'

‘Me, neither. But if I won the lottery…' Cowley leaned forward, obstructing Neville's view.

Time to get rid of Cowley. ‘Sid, there's something you could do for me,' Neville said.

‘Can't it wait?'

Neville ignored the plaintive question. ‘I haven't had a chance to talk to the desk sergeant this morning,' he went on. ‘Could you pop down to see him, and make sure he knows we have an unidentified body? If he gets any missing persons reports involving teenage boys, he needs to ring me straightaway.'

Cowley went, reluctantly but obediently, with a longing backwards glance, as Neville turned back to the table and watched the delicate operation.

After what seemed a very long time, Danny gave a grunt of satisfaction and held something up with the tweezers: a tiny rectangle of bent plastic. ‘Ordinarily,' he said, ‘I could put this card into something else—another phone, a card reader—and retrieve the information off it quite easily. But you can see how badly mangled this is. Whoever broke this phone, they were pretty thorough.'

‘So you can't do anything with it.' Neville frowned: another dead end.

‘I didn't say that. The information may still be there. Or on the chips inside the phone. But I'm going to need specialised equipment, and it will take time.'

Time. That was something they didn't have much of, Neville was well aware. The press…as soon as they got a whiff of this, they'd be on it like vultures on road-kill.

Bracing the phone on the table, Danny inserted a thin blade along the side and twisted it. ‘They don't design these things to be opened up,' he said. ‘But where there's a will—' The phone came apart, revealing a mysterious interior stuffed with tiny black squares and silvery bits, none of which Neville could begin to put a name or function to. Danny grinned. ‘We'll see what we can do with this.'