Secret Sins E-Book

Kate Charles

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Callie Anson
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 548

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

Life may not be getting any easier for curate Callie Anson, but it is definitely getting more interesting. When a young man goes missing - with a heavily pregnant wife at home - the local police are baffled. Has he run away from his imminent new responsibilities? Or does his disappearance have a more sinister explanation? And just when the police thing they've solved the mystery, someone else goes missing: a troubled teenager and granddaughter of one of Callie's parishioners. An absorbing and chilling mystery, Secret Sins explores the power of passion, morality and loss, and the things people do in the name of love.

Leseprobe

Secret Sins

KATE CHARLES

For the world’s greatest fan, Laurel Anderson

Contents

Title PageDedicationAcknowledgmentsChapter OneChapter TwoChapter ThreeChapter FourChapter FiveChapter SixChapter SevenChapter EightChapter NineChapter TenChapter ElevenChapter TwelveChapter ThirteenChapter FourteenChapter FifteenChapter SixteenChapter SeventeenChapter EighteenChapter NineteenChapter TwentyChapter Twenty-oneAbout the AuthorBooks by Kate CharlesCopyright

Acknowledgments

As ever, this book would not have been possible without the encouragement, advice and expertise of many people. Among them are Suzanne Clackson, Deborah Crombie, the Revd. Dr. Joan Crossley, the Rt. Revd. Christopher Herbert, Ann Hinrichs, Gianna Lombardi-Roberts, Marcia Talley, Margaret Anne Tibbs, and Mel Thompson, as well as my wonderful agent, Dot Lumley, and my two splendid editors, Susie Dunlop and Barbara Peters. Heartfelt thanks to all of them.

Chapter One

Callie Anson first met Morag Hamilton at a Mothers’ Union meeting. Jane Stanford, the vicar’s wife, was very much in charge of the Mothers’ Union at All Saints’ Church, Paddington, and as the lowly curate, Callie was deliberately keeping a low profile, sitting in the back row as Jane introduced the speaker. Callie’s thoughts were elsewhere: certainly not on the woman who was to demonstrate how to make festive Christmas decorations out of yogurt pots and ribbon, with the assistance of scissors and a glue gun. The Mothers’ Union was not an institution which held much appeal for her in any case, but she knew that Jane would take as much offence if she were not there as she would if Callie were to try to take too prominent a role in its operation. The safest option, she had long since discovered, was literally to take a back seat.

As the correct use of the glue gun was explained, Callie’s attention wandered still further, to the woman sitting nearest to her in the back row. She didn’t recall having seen her before, though she wasn’t exactly a striking or memorable type: late middle-aged, small, compact, neatly put together, with capable-looking hands folded over a black handbag on a tartan-clad lap. Her grey hair was short and tidy, if not stylish, and her eyes were concealed behind spectacles, their frames unfashionably large.

What did seem out of place to Callie in the midst of the well-groomed London ladies was the woman’s complexion, her cheeks ruddy with small broken blood vessels, as if she had spent much of her life out of doors and in a less genteel and rarefied climate than the soft rains of Paddington, Bayswater and Hyde Park.

Callie spoke to her at the earliest opportunity, as soon as the speaker had finished and the applause had died away. There was a discreet rush in the direction of the tea urn, but the woman hesitated for just a moment, and Callie turned to her.

‘Hello,’ she said, extending her hand. ‘I don’t think we’ve met. I’m the curate, Callie Anson.’

The woman took her hand in a firm grip. ‘Morag Hamilton,’ she said, her strong Scottish burr as much an indicator of her origins as her un-English name. ‘I’m new here.’

‘It’s good to meet you, Morag. And good to have you with us. Do you live in the parish?’

‘Yes, that’s right. Just round the corner, in fact.’ Morag indicated the direction with a tilt of her head.

‘Oh, we’re neighbours, then,’ Callie said, raising her eyes to the ceiling. ‘I live in the flat upstairs.’

‘Over the shop.’ Morag smiled. ‘That’s something I know a bit about myself. My husband was the village doctor, and we lived above the surgery.’

‘In Scotland?’ Callie ventured.

‘That’s right. In the Highlands,’ she amplified. ‘Gartenbridge. Not far from Aviemore. Do you know it?’

Callie shook her head. ‘No. I’ve been to Edinburgh once or twice, but that’s as far as I’ve been in Scotland.’

Morag gave a brisk laugh. ‘Edinburgh’s so far south, it hardly counts as Scotland at all!’

‘I understand the Highlands are very beautiful.’

‘Oh, there’s nothing so lovely on earth.’ Morag’s eyes looked over Callie’s shoulder, as if focusing on something far away, and her face softened. ‘You really should go, you know. Go for a week, and you’ll never want to come back.’

Callie felt a prickle of curiosity. If the Highlands were so perfect, what was Morag Hamilton doing in London? Might her husband have retired and taken a fancy to city life? As she thought how to phrase the question diplomatically, she was forestalled by Jane Stanford, who was proprietorially steering the speaker towards the refreshments. ‘Callie, it looks as if Mrs. Barton could use a hand with pouring the tea,’ she said sharply, her brows drawn together in disapproval at the curate’s failure to read her mind. ‘I would help, of course, but I must look after our speaker.’

‘Yes, of course, Jane.’ Callie smiled an apology at Morag Hamilton, who quirked an understanding eyebrow in Jane’s direction. That endeared her to Callie, who decided on the spot that she liked the Scottish newcomer. ‘I’ll see you later, Mrs. Hamilton,’ she promised as she made a move. ‘Do come this way and have a cup of tea and a mince pie.’

‘Please, call me Morag,’ insisted the other woman. ‘And it would be very nice to see you again.’

Rachel Norton woke gradually, and not because it was yet daylight. The only source of light was from the ensuite bathroom, glowing faintly round the top and side of the stripped pine door. These Victorian houses had many charms, but period features came with a price—and that included doors which didn’t quite fit in their frames and single-glazed sash windows which admitted the chill winds of winter without putting up a great deal of fight.

Half awake, Rachel couldn’t quite decide whether her sleep had been disturbed by noises from the bathroom, or by the baby’s movements. Under the duvet, she ran her hands over the great mound of her belly, still not used to the shape she had assumed over the last months. Yes, the baby was kicking, all right. She shifted a bit, trying to find a more comfortable position. Most of the time now she slept on her back; anything else was just too awkward.

The cracks of light round the bathroom door morphed into a rectangle as Trevor came through, clad in his running shorts, a grey tee shirt and his expensive state-of-the-art trainers. His iPod was strapped round his upper arm in a holster.

‘Morning,’ Rachel murmured.

‘Oh, love.’ Trevor came to the side of the bed and leaned over, kissing her forehead. ‘I hope I didn’t wake you—I was trying to be quiet.’

‘The baby was kicking.’

Trevor gave a fond chuckle and patted the duvet above the mound. ‘He’ll be a football player. Mark my words, Rache.’

‘You’re so sure it’s a boy.’ Rachel’s protest was perfunctory and half-hearted, oft-repeated. The scans had been noncommittal on the subject, but Trevor was unfazed.

‘It’s got to be. A beautiful blond boy.’ Trevor lifted a lock of the thick blond hair spread on Rachel’s pillow and fingered it lovingly, then patted his own close-cropped fair head. ‘Couldn’t be anything else.’

Rachel changed the subject. ‘What time is it?’

‘Seven. As usual. You know I always run at seven.’

Like clockwork, she reflected. You could set your watch by Trevor’s timekeeping. A run along the canal at seven—winter or summer, dark or light—, home for a shower and a quick breakfast, and at his desk by half-past eight.

Trevor was much happier these days, since he no longer had to commute into the City. His office was at the other end of the corridor, in the large bay-fronted room at the front of the house. When they’d bought the house, six months ago, Rachel had fancied that room for their bedroom, but Trevor had been adamant. ‘I’ll spend more time in the office than the bedroom—we both will, for that matter. Makes sense to use the biggest room. Space for all the computers and filing cabinets. And good light.’ She hadn’t really argued. It was a big house, and their bedroom at the back was perfectly adequate in size. And they’d taken the small bedroom next to it, knocked it through and fitted it out as an ensuite, still leaving another bedroom to use as the nursery.

They’d come a long way from the scruffy, cramped flat in Stoke Newington that they’d shared for a few years before their marriage, and where they’d started their married life a scant year ago. Trevor was an IT genius—she’d always told him so, and eventually he’d carried through with the threat he always made when his boss hacked him off. He’d told him where to put his job, and had started up on his own as an independent IT consultant. Some—many—of his old clients had followed him; it hadn’t taken long for word-of-mouth to bring others, and now the business was flourishing. They’d bought the Victorian semi in Paddington—with the canal close by for the daily run—and left Stoke Newington behind forever.

Rachel, too, had quit her job—as a bookkeeper in the same City firm where Trevor had worked, and where they had met. Trevor had insisted that she could do his books instead. After all, with the business growing like it was, he needed a good bookkeeper. She didn’t miss the commute, she admitted to herself, but she did miss her co-workers, her mates. She’d been working there since she left school, and those people were almost like family to her. The congenial coffee breaks, the confidences shared over sandwiches at lunchtimes, the drinks at the corner pub after work: those things were undervalued at the time, barely thought of when she’d agreed to pack in the job. Now, when she no longer had them, she valued them fiercely with a nostalgia she’d never expected in herself.

And now, with the baby on the way, Trevor didn’t want her to work at all. ‘We don’t need the money,’ he said often. ‘You can be a stay-at-home mum.’

‘But your books…’

‘I can hire a bookkeeper,’ Trevor had stated grandly. ‘I’ll advertise.’

The baby kicked her again, even more violently than before. Rachel flinched and rubbed her stomach.

‘I’m off, then.’ Trevor leaned over and kissed her lightly on the lips. ‘See you in a bit. There’s no rush for you to get up, love. Take your time.’

‘Have fun,’ she called after him.

‘Running isn’t supposed to be fun,’ Trevor reminded her as he slipped his iPod earphones into his ears and pushed the play button. With a wave over his shoulder he disappeared down the corridor, already breaking into a trot.

Rachel waited until she heard the front door close, then struggled into a sitting position and reached under the bed for her laptop. Propping it up awkwardly on her bump, she opened it, logged into the wireless network, and checked her e-mail.

Neville Stewart had scarcely seen his friend Mark Lombardi for weeks. They’d run across each other occasionally at the police station, once or twice sharing a meal in the canteen, but it seemed as if the old days of bachelor evenings together at the pub had come to an end.

There had been no row; they hadn’t changed their pattern by design. It just happened that the station’s two most confirmed bachelors had developed relationships at the same time, and things had changed.

Today, though, Neville was feeling restless, missing the old camaraderie he and Mark had shared.

There was an underlying reason for his restlessness, one he didn’t want to think about too closely.

Triona.

He was sick of the status quo, tired of the way things seemed to have stalled out. Going nowhere: that was their relationship. Why was she so stubborn?

They had met up again a couple of months ago, nine years after a brief but intense affair which had scarred them both. The magic, Neville realised at once, was still there. Triona affected him as no other woman had ever done, before or since.

He had invited her out to dinner; she had accepted.

He had gone to pick her up at her flat—her posh flat in a warehouse conversion overlooking the river.

They’d never made it to dinner. They hadn’t made it any further than her bedroom.

Turning over the papers on his desk without really looking at them, Neville recalled that night with a complex mixture of burning longing, self-pity, and anger.

It had been as good as ever. Better. Triona had matured, was now a grown woman who knew what she wanted and knew how to give pleasure, without losing any of her raw animal energy. He knew her so well, recalled every detail of her body, yet she was a stranger to him, a source of unexpected delight.

That night had been the best, most memorable one of Neville’s life. He hadn’t wanted it to end. He’d assumed, naturally enough, that it would be just the first of many such nights to come.

In the morning, lying with Triona in his arms, her head pillowed on his chest, he’d looked round her bedroom. ‘It’s a great flat,’ he said, playing with a curled strand of her long black hair. When he’d first known Triona, her hair had been shorter, wild and curly with a life all its own. Now she’d grown it out, wearing it in a neat and elegant knot by day. That night, though, he’d freed it from its constraints; it had sprung back into its curly ways, untamed and uncivilized. ‘Do you own it? I don’t suppose you’ll want to move back to my scruffy old place. It would make more sense for me to move in here.’

Triona twisted round to stare at him, her dark blue eyes abruptly losing their drowsy look. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

‘My flat. It’s the same old place in Shepherd’s Bush. No nicer than it used to be, and not very convenient for your job in the City. This will be a bit of a commute for me, but…’

He tailed off at the look on her face. ‘Don’t be daft, Neville.’ Triona sat up and wrapped the duvet round her. ‘Neither one of us is moving anywhere.’

‘But…’ He reached for her; she jerked away.

‘It happened,’ she said crisply. ‘It just happened. Okay? And I enjoyed it. I won’t pretend that I didn’t. But it was a one-off. Don’t make the mistake of thinking that we’re back together. Not in any sense of the word.’

Eventually she relented, just a tiny bit. ‘If you want me back,’ she said, ‘you’ll have to prove it. You’ll have to woo me. No more shagging. We’ll forget all the water under the bridge, and pretend we’ve only just met for the first time.’

‘But we shagged the day after we met,’ Neville pointed out. ‘You moved in a few days later.’

A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. ‘Perhaps we’re not the world’s best example,’ she admitted. ‘But this time it will be different, Neville. If you want a relationship, it has to be on my terms. And my terms are simple. In a word, courtship.’

She’d meant it, too. And he’d been bending over backwards to do it her way. Dinner dates, flowers, the whole bit.

And after weeks of this game, Neville was sick of it. Sick of the artificiality, sick of the frustration. They were going nowhere.

Last night he’d confronted her about it. After dinner—admittedly a nice, romantic evening—he’d pressed her to take things a step further. ‘Let me stay the night,’ he’d begged. ‘Don’t you think we’ve waited long enough?’

Triona had been firm, though. ‘No way, Neville. You just don’t get it, do you?’

He’d asked her the question which for him summed everything up. ‘Do you want to be with me or not?’

She’d lowered her eyes, turned her head away. ‘That’s not really the point.’

It seemed to Neville that it was exactly the point. He wanted to be with her. With her—in her bed, in her arms. God, how he wanted it. But he was tired of playing games. Enough was enough.

Tonight, he decided, he wouldn’t be available. And maybe not tomorrow night either. Let her stew.

He picked up his phone and rang Mark Lombardi.

Jane Stanford had always put great stock in Christmas, busy time that it was for her husband Brian, and tried to make it special for her family.

On a vicar’s stipend there had never been a great deal of spare cash for splashing out on the trimmings, so Jane had to plan carefully, putting aside small sums of money through the year and using her creativity to make that money go as far as possible. Fresh trees were increasingly expensive; some years ago she’d obtained a very good quality artificial one at a church jumble sale, and had fashioned some decorations for it herself. She’d knit a set of crib figures out of bits of left-over wool, and the wreath for the front door of the vicarage was trimmed with a recycled bow from an ancient flower arrangement and some pine cones she’d found in the park. On Stir-up Sunday she’d made her own Christmas pudding, and the Christmas cake, laced with brandy from a generous parishioner, had been maturing in the larder for even longer than that.

Their parishioners were very generous, Jane acknowledged, especially at Christmas time, providing enough bottles to get the Stanfords through the first few months of a new year. That was how she thought of them: their parishioners, rather than Brian’s. She was a partner in Brian’s ministry, proud of her calling as a vicar’s wife, smug in her feelings of superiority to those modern clergy wives who scorned their proper place at the heart of the parish and instead took up jobs outside the home. Or even, in this day and age, went for ordination themselves.

That, inevitably, reminded Jane of Callie Anson, her husband’s curate. Why Brian hadn’t been given a nice young man as a curate was beyond Jane. Up till now the curates had always been young men: some more pleasant than others, some brighter or more capable, but always men. The nicer ones Jane had treated almost like members of her family, like older brothers to the twins, inviting them to meals and sometimes even doing their laundry. But much as she’d tried, she just couldn’t warm to Callie Anson.

It wasn’t that she was jealous of Callie—not exactly. She didn’t think that Callie was a wanton temptress, trying to steal her husband away from her. Though, Jane knew, such things were not unknown with vicars and female curates: she’d read one or two accounts in the papers. Proximity fostered intimacy, and when people were thrown together in the course of their jobs, day in and day out, sharing confidences…Well, anything could happen. It was human nature. Not that she didn’t trust Brian, of course.

Brian had suggested that they might invite Callie to join them for Christmas lunch. That, as far as Jane was concerned, was out of the question. ‘She has her own family,’ she’d pointed out. ‘Her mother lives in Kensington, doesn’t she? And isn’t there a brother? Why would she want to come to us? Christmas is a family time.’

‘I just thought it would be nice to offer,’ Brian had said mildly. ‘I don’t think she gets on all that well with her mother. And when Tom was the curate, you invited him for Christmas at least twice.’

‘That was different,’ stated Jane, though she wasn’t able to explain why. And this year things were going to be different enough as it was.

For the first time, the boys would be coming home for Christmas, back from their first term at Oxford. Jane and Brian had visited them once during the term, taking them out for a meal, but Charlie and Simon hadn’t yet been home.

So their homecoming would be special, and Jane was determined that this Christmas would be the best ever for the Stanford family, with no curates or other hangers-on to spoil it.

On this particular evening, Jane was feeling even less charitable towards Callie Anson than usual: Brian, having received two tickets to a posh pre-Christmas charity concert, had opted to take his curate rather than his wife. Jane felt she’d done a very good job of masking her disappointment from him; she’d even managed, with a semblance of cheerfulness, to tell him to have an enjoyable evening.

‘You’re sure you don’t mind?’ Brian had said at the last minute— far too late to have done anything about it if she’d said yes.

‘I’ll enjoy an evening in by myself,’ Jane had assured him.

She’d had a scrappy supper of leftovers; she’d listened to The Archers. She’d checked the telly listings and not found anything remotely appealing, then had picked up her library book and tried to immerse herself in it.

But she couldn’t get the picture out of her mind: Brian, enjoying himself with Callie Anson. Listening to the concert, eating the lovely food at the livery company reception, chatting to interesting and important people. Brian would be introducing Callie to them, showing her off. Callie, with her shiny brown bob and her attractive figure, probably wearing a brand new frock.

Deliberately she switched her mind to thoughts of Christmas. Christmas, and the boys.

Dropping her library book, which wasn’t that good anyway, she got up and went to the telephone. On impulse she dialled Simon’s mobile number. A chat with him was just what she needed to cheer her up. Mothers were not supposed to have favourites, especially when it came to twins, and Jane didn’t—not really. She adored both her boys. But Simon was the one who was temperamentally more similar to her, of all people on earth the quickest to understand her moods and most likely to say just the right thing.

‘Mum?’ said Simon when he heard her voice. He sounded surprised. And was it her imagination that he didn’t sound pleased?

‘Hello, darling. I just wanted to say hello.’

‘Umm…Mum. Could I ring you back later?’

Her maternal antennae twitched, sensitive to the tiniest signal. ‘Is everything all right?’

‘Fine. I’m just…This isn’t a good time. Okay?’

‘It’s not important,’ she assured him. ‘Don’t bother ringing back.’

‘Okay, then. Bye, Mum.’ He hung up.

Jane stood for a moment, staring at the receiver in her hand. What on earth was wrong?

Charlie would know. He and his twin brother had always been extraordinarily close. Jane rang his number. He answered after a couple of rings.

Sensitive now, she asked him, ‘Is this a good time for you? I’m not disturbing you, am I?’

Charlie laughed. ‘I’m working on an essay. So I’m delighted at the interruption, Mum. What’s up?’

How could she put it? ‘I was just…wondering about Simon,’ she began. ‘I rang him just now, and he…Well, I just wondered if something was wrong.’

‘Oh,’ said Charlie. ‘I expect he’s with Ellie. Not wanting to be disturbed, if you understand me.’

‘Ellie?’

There was a brief silence on the other end. ‘Hasn’t he…?’ Charlie began. ‘Oh, bother.’

‘Who is Ellie?’ Jane heard a squeak in her voice as she said the name, tasting it in her mouth, knowing instinctively that it would become familiar to her.

‘He said he was going to tell you. Weeks ago, Mum. I thought he had done.’

‘Tell me what?’ Now her voice was calm, deliberately so.

‘About Ellie.’ Charlie sighed. ‘His girlfriend.’

‘Girlfriend?’

‘He met her during Freshers Week. They started going out straightaway. And they’ve been inseparable ever since. He spends all his time with her—I’ve barely seen him for weeks.’ Charlie sighed again. ‘I really thought he’d told you, Mum.’

‘No,’ she said. She played with the phone wire, unkinking a twist in the spiral cord. ‘But why, Charlie? Why didn’t he tell me?’

Charlie spoke slowly, as though choosing his words with care. ‘Maybe he thought you’d be jealous.’

‘Jealous?’ Jane gave a laugh which sounded forced to her own ears. ‘Why would I be jealous? Simon’s always had girlfriends. Both of you have, all through school.’ And they had: it was only natural. Her sons were good looking, red-blooded boys. Of course they’d had girlfriends.

‘Girlfriends, yes.’ Charlie cleared his throat. ‘Ellie’s different, Mum. It’s…serious.’

‘But he’s only known her for a few weeks.’

Charlie gave a dry chuckle. ‘You’ve always told us that as soon as you met Dad, you knew he was the one.’

‘Yes, but—’ Trust Charlie to remember that and throw it back at her now.

‘Ellie’s the one, Mum.’ His voice was gentle, as if breaking bad news to a child. ‘Believe me. She’s the one.’

Neville and Mark met for dinner at a Chinese buffet not far from the station. ‘This worked out well,’ Mark said as they sat down facing each other across a red tablecloth. ‘Callie is out tonight. Out with her boss, the vicar. Some posh do.’

‘You’d better keep an eye on that sort of thing,’ Neville warned, grinning. ‘She’ll throw you over for the boss.’

Mark smiled. ‘I’m not too worried. He’s married.’

‘And you think that will stop him?’

‘Also middle-aged and not exactly a catch. Callie has better taste than that—or at least I like to think so.’

Neville suppressed a small twinge of jealousy. ‘So—things are going well, then?’

‘Yes and no.’ Mark fiddled with his chopsticks. ‘Callie’s great. I really, really…’ He swallowed. ‘Well.’

‘Don’t tell me. It’s the family thing.’

Mark sighed. ‘Always the family thing.’

‘They don’t like her?’

He didn’t look at Neville. ‘They haven’t met her. They don’t even know about her.’

‘Good God, man.’ Neville shook his head. ‘How long are you going to wait till you tell them, then? Maybe when you send out the wedding invitations?’

Mark stood and moved towards the buffet table. ‘We’re a long way from that, Nev.’

Neville followed. ‘Just tell them. Bloody get it over with, man. You’ve been seeing her for months. If you think there’s any future in it, you’re going to have to tell them.’

‘I’d like to think there’s a future.’ He took a plate and regarded the choice of starters, then helped himself to some prawn crackers, a spring roll, and a spoonful of seaweed. ‘In fact, I can’t imagine my future without her.’

Neville heaped his plate with sticky ribs and added a few fried wontons, banishing a momentary mental vision of Triona. ‘Then you don’t have any choice.’

‘I know. I know.’ Mark went back to the table and for a moment he picked at the seaweed with his chopsticks, looking thoughtful.

‘I don’t know how you can eat that bloody grass,’ said Neville, picking up a rib with his fingers.

‘It’s good. Just a bit hard to eat, is all.’

Neville, chewing on a rib, was incapable of speech for a moment.

Mark thought out loud. ‘My sister,’ he said. ‘Maybe I could talk to my sister. She might be sympathetic. She might have ideas about how to tell Mum. Nostra mamma.’

Around the rib, Neville asked, ‘Is your sister married?’

‘Oh, yes. She’s been married for years. She’s older than me,’ he added. ‘Eight years older. Nearly nine.’

‘And she did what your parents wanted her to?’ Neville lifted an ironic eyebrow. ‘Married an Italian and had lots of bambinos?’

‘Bambini,’ Mark corrected him automatically. ‘Only two, as it happens. Serena’s had a lot of problems with her pregnancies— just like my mum. She’s had several miscarriages and that sort of thing.’

Neville made a face. ‘Too much information.’

‘Sorry. You did ask.’

He put down the chewed bone and picked up another rib. ‘These things are almost more trouble than they’re worth,’ he grumbled. Like women, he was about to add. That, though, might lead him down a path where he definitely did not want to go. It was all very well for Mark—those Mediterranean types always wore their hearts on their sleeves anyway—but he didn’t want to talk about his romantic woes to anyone. Not even Mark. And he wasn’t going to talk to Triona. Not tonight. Maybe never.

Chapter Two

It was several days before Callie found the time to pay a call on Morag Hamilton. Afterwards she wasn’t quite sure what had impelled her to juggle her schedule, find out Morag’s address, and turn up unannounced on her doorstep. Whatever it was, though, she was glad that she did.

The corners of Morag’s eyes crinkled with pleasure at the sight of her. ‘What a nice surprise,’ she said, opening the door wide. ‘Come in and have a cup of tea, my dear. I’ve just put the kettle on.’

‘That would be lovely.’ Callie followed her into the flat.

The parish of All Saints’, Bayswater, was full of very elegant old houses which had been converted into flats. This, however, was not one of them. It was part of a purpose-built block, stuck incongruously between two Georgian mansions, and had been put up in the 1960s—one of the low points of British architecture. At that time it must have been the height of modernity, but now it was tiredly dated, stark and ugly. Morag had seemingly done her best with it, filling it with homely furniture and covering the walls with soft watercolours of what Callie assumed were Scottish scenes. There was a realistic gas fire burning in the blocky modern fireplace, and an assortment of framed photographs ranged on top of an old upright piano against one wall. A tall bookcase held a varied collection of recent paperback novels mixed with leatherbound classics: Dickens, Scott, Robert Louis Stevenson. Callie followed her usual procedure when visiting a parishioner for the first time: she looked at the books, then at the photographs, for clues about the owner’s interests, history and family.

There were clues aplenty here, but Morag was back quickly with the tea.

‘Sorry,’ said Callie, caught in the act of examining the photos. ‘I was just being nosy.’

Morag didn’t seem to mind. ‘Not at all. There’s nothing secret about them.’

‘Your family?’ Callie said encouragingly.

‘Aye.’

‘And you have a dog!’ Callie picked up a photo of a sturdy tan-coloured Cairn terrier, standing against a background of mountains and heather, staring beady-eyed into the camera.

‘Had a dog.’ Morag’s voice was matter-of-fact, but Callie detected strong emotion behind the words. ‘Macduff. Best dog there ever was.’

‘Oh. He’s…’

‘Gone. Over six months now. Sixteen, he was. A good age for a dog. But…’

There was nothing perfunctory about Callie’s response; her rush of empathy was immediate and sincere. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry. You must miss him dreadfully.’

‘I do.’

‘I have a dog,’ Callie confided on impulse. ‘A cocker spaniel— black and white. Bella. I haven’t had her for very long, but I just can’t imagine losing her.’

Morag sighed, and her eyes were misty. ‘It comes with the territory, I’m afraid. Their lives are cruelly short.’ She picked up another photo, of a sandy-haired man with wire-rimmed spectacles. ‘Donald, my husband. We were married for nearly forty years. He died a few months before Macduff. And I’m ashamed to say that of the two, I probably miss Macduff a bit more. But then, I spent more time with Macduff than I did with Donald. He was a doctor—worked all the hours God gave, and then some.’

‘So you’re on your own now?’

‘Yes, I’m on my own.’ Morag replaced the photo on top of the piano and moved to the tea tray. ‘Do you take sugar, my dear?’

‘No sugar.’ Callie sat down across from Morag in a shabby but comfortable chair as Morag poured the tea. She was more curious than ever: why had Morag Hamilton moved to London? ‘You said you haven’t lived here long?’ she probed.

‘Not long at all.’ She handed Callie a cup. ‘I scarcely know a soul. It isn’t…well, it isn’t like Scotland. People aren’t all that friendly, are they? They don’t go out of their way.’

‘We try to be friendly at All Saints’,’ Callie said defensively.

Morag picked up a plate of shortbread biscuits and extended it towards Callie. ‘Aye. And I appreciate it. Quite a few people have spoken to me after services and so on. But you’re the first person who’s come to call.’

Callie felt ashamed on behalf of her congregation, not to mention her vicar. When she’d mentioned Morag Hamilton to Brian, at their weekly staff meeting, he’d looked vague. ‘I think I know who you mean,’ he’d said. ‘Small woman? Grey hair? Go and see her, by all means, when you have a chance.’

At least, she told herself wryly, she had Brian’s blessing. He didn’t like it when he felt she was doing things behind his back.

‘I have a confession to make,’ Morag said as Callie crunched into the shortbread.

Oh, dear, Callie thought, automatically assigning the word an upper-case C in her mind. She’d never heard anyone’s Confession, and as a deacon, not yet priested, she wasn’t authorised to do so. ‘If you want the Sacrament of Confession, you’ll have to see Father Brian, I’m afraid,’ she apologised. ‘I’m just a deacon.’

Morag laughed. ‘Not that sort of confession!’

Flustered, Callie said, ‘Oh, well, then.’

‘I’ve never been much of a church-goer,’ Morag went on. ‘I’ve tried to be a good person, but I never really had the time or the inclination to spend all of my time in church.’

‘Mm,’ Callie said, not sure what else was required of her.

‘But when I moved to London, and ended up with All Saints’ just round the corner, it seemed to me that it would be a good way to meet people.’

Callie could contain her curiosity no longer. ‘Why did you move to London?’ she blurted. ‘If you didn’t know anyone here?’

‘Oh, I didn’t say I didn’t know anyone,’ Morag said, lifting her eyebrows as her mouth twisted in an ironic smile. ‘I said that I was on my own. And I am. But my son and his family live not far from here. St. John’s Wood, just up the road.’

‘Your son!’ Callie sprayed biscuit crumbs in her lap.

‘Angus.’ Morag put down her tea cup and went to the piano, selecting a photo which she placed on the table in front of Callie. ‘And that’s my granddaughter Alex, and his wife, Jilly.’

Callie picked up the photo and studied it. No casual snapshot: it was a studio portrait, and a very expensive one at that. The man—Angus—stood in the centre, a detail which Callie found interesting. He didn’t look very tall, and had dark hair which receded sharply from his forehead, though he seemed surprisingly young in spite of that. He was wearing a well-cut suit, almost certainly bespoke, and a colourful silk tie of the sort currently favoured by newsreaders. His heavy-lidded eyes stared straight at the camera, almost in challenge.

Jilly, the woman, was on his right. If you looked up ‘trophy wife’ in the dictionary, thought Callie, her picture would be there. She was blonde, she was young. She was beautiful, in a sleek, well-maintained way. Her dress wasn’t exactly revealing, but it didn’t conceal a great deal either: a body which was no stranger to the gym and the tanning bed. Her gaze at the camera was coy, with half a glance directed at her husband.

The child, Alex, on the left, was a different matter entirely. Even though she was looking at the camera, no doubt at the photographer’s command, it was an unwilling eye contact, almost detached from it and the other people in the frame. Her eyes were saying, as clearly as if she were speaking the words, ‘I don’t want to be here, and none of this has anything to do with me.’

No one would have called her a beautiful child, but she was certainly arresting, in spite of her efforts to fade into the background. Her hair was frizzy rather than curly, and she had a wide mouth, stretched into a pro-forma smile and revealing a brace on her teeth. Those expressive eyes, though, were large and fringed with luxuriant lashes.

‘How old is Alex?’ Callie asked. ‘Is this a recent photo?’

‘Aye, it’s quite recent. She’s twelve.’

That explained part of it: Callie remembered twelve as a particularly difficult age.

‘Poor wee bairn,’ Morag said, her voice soft. ‘She’s not grown into her face yet. You may not think it to look at her, but I do believe she’ll be a beauty one day. Like her mother. She’s a lot like her mother.’

Callie couldn’t imagine Alex ever looking anything like the glamorous woman in the photo. ‘Like Jilly?’ she blurted.

Morag made a noise in the back of her throat. ‘Surely you can’t think Jilly is her mother? And Jilly is a painted doll, not a real beauty.’

‘Jilly is her stepmother, then.’ That, too, explained a great deal.

‘Aye.’ It was as if she didn’t trust herself to say any more than that.

‘Why isn’t she with her mother?’ Callie knew it wasn’t her business, but there was something about this girl, merely glimpsed in a photo, which had touched her. Morag shrugged and looked at her watch. ‘That’s a long story, my dear. One I don’t have time to tell you today—I have an appointment in a wee while. But if you come back another day, I’ll tell you all about Alex.’

Callie finished her tea and rose to go, knowing that she would be back.

The high heels echoed in the hospital corridor, clip-clopping briskly away from the room. Frances Cherry, hospital chaplain, listened to their retreat for a moment, her attention never leaving the elderly woman in the bed beside her. The woman was distressed, and not just because she knew she was dying. ‘I don’t want her having it,’ Irene Godfrey choked. ‘Not a penny.’

‘She’s your only relative?’

‘She’s a monster! I haven’t seen her for years. The only reason she came was to make sure she was getting my house and my money.’

Frances didn’t doubt that the woman was right: the niece’s demeanour had been anything but affectionate. She’d been called in very early in the morning because her aunt didn’t have long to live, but she’d been business-like, brisk. She had offered to ring her solicitor right away, to have him visit the hospital immediately and get everything in writing. A proper will. ‘It will all come to me anyway,’ she’d said, ‘but it would be much easier if we had it all tied up ahead of time.’

Irene Godfrey had refused, the niece had gone. Angry footsteps, clip-clopping down the corridor.

‘She hates cats! She always has done,’ the old woman sobbed. ‘When she was a child, and her mum brought her to visit, she kicked Snowball! I caught her doing it once. How could anyone be so cruel? Snowball was a defenceless animal.’

‘And now you think…’

‘I think that as soon as I’m gone, the first thing she’ll do is have Fluffy and George put down. I can’t let that happen.’ She squeezed Frances’ hand with surprising strength.

‘Then who…?’

‘My friend Maisie. She’d look after Fluffy and George,’ said the woman. ‘She loves them. I know I can trust her.’ She struggled to sit up. ‘I need to make a will,’ she said urgently. ‘Now, before it’s too late.’

Frances was inclined to believe she was right. She also felt that unless the will were done properly and with great care the niece would use every means in her power to overturn it, and could quite possibly succeed. ‘Do you have a solicitor?’ she asked.

‘No. I’ve never needed one before.’ Tears welled in the woman’s eyes. ‘Can’t you find one for me? Now?’

There was a clock on the bedside table, though Frances wasn’t sure why: time had ceased to mean anything to Irene Godfrey. An hour glass would have been more appropriate, she thought, with its sands rapidly running out. It was, Frances saw, the wee hours of the morning. Just gone six. Profoundly dark outside. No self-respecting solicitor would be out of his comfortable bed yet, let alone welcome a phone call from someone he’d never met.

But she didn’t know how much time they had. How long could she afford to wait?

She stroked Irene Godfrey’s hand and said a silent prayer. The answer came to her almost immediately. ‘Triona,’ Frances breathed with gratitude.

Triona might not be happy about it, but she would come.

Two hours later, the deed was done. Triona O’Neil, exuding professional competence, had drawn up a simple will and had called in a couple of nurses to witness Irene Godfrey’s signature. And a few minutes after that, her mind at rest, the old woman had closed her eyes and slipped away. Frances had said a prayer, then as the hospital mechanisms for reclaiming a bed for the next patient went into operation, she took Triona to the hospital cafe.

‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I’ll buy you a cup of coffee. Even a sticky bun, if you like. You’ve earned it.’

‘You look knackered,’ said Triona bluntly. ‘How long have you been here?’

Frances shook her head. ‘Oh, a few hours. I don’t usually work nights, but I was called in. Mrs. Godfrey asked for me, and the nurses knew she didn’t have long.’

She might not look very wonderful, Frances was aware, but Triona herself looked worse than Frances would have expected, even given the earliness of the hour. Her hair was as tidy and professional-looking as usual, brushed back into a knot, but her eyes were shadowed, with blue smudges beneath them, telling of more than just an hour or two of missed sleep.

They went back a long way together, did Frances and Triona, though they’d lost touch for a number of years. Frances still found it difficult to equate this elegant and mature woman with the passionate young firebrand Triona had once been. She must, Frances calculated, be a bit over thirty. In her prime, from Frances’ perspective of approaching fifty.

Frances re-iterated her apologies for the early call. ‘I was really desperate,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know what else to do. The poor old thing was dreadfully upset. And if you’d seen the niece…’

Triona waved her hand. ‘Don’t worry about it. You didn’t wake me, if that’s what’s bothering you.’

‘Are you okay?’ she asked impulsively.

‘Fine.’ Triona turned her head away.

They had reached the cafe, crowded with hospital personnel grabbing something to eat or drink in between various duties. Frances scanned the room and spotted a table about to be vacated. ‘Why don’t you sit there,’ she suggested, ‘and I’ll join the queue. What would you like? Coffee? Tea?’

‘Coffee, please.’

In a few minutes she was back at the table with a tray: coffee and bacon rolls. ‘I thought we ought to have something to eat,’ she said. ‘A bit of breakfast.’ Frances didn’t usually succumb to the lure of bacon rolls, but the smell of the bacon had been too tempting to resist on an empty stomach.

‘Thanks.’

‘You do eat bacon, don’t you? Heather, my daughter, has become a vegan. She’d probably never speak to me again if she saw me tucking into this.’

‘How is Heather?’ Triona took a plate and a mug from the tray and arranged them in front of her.

‘Fine, as far as I can tell. You know she’s married? And they’re coming for Christmas. So it won’t be long now.’

‘Yes, I remember you telling me.’

‘I’m looking forward to it,’ Frances said.

She was looking forward to it, but that was only part of the truth. Part of her was dreading Christmas. She and Graham were due to meet their new son-in-law, an aging American dropout— with a ponytail—called Zack, who had managed to turn Heather into a self-righteous eschewer of any animal-derived product. It would be nut roast for Christmas this year.

‘Graham is well?’ Triona asked.

‘Yes, fine. Busy as always.’

‘And how is Leo?’

Her dear friend, Leo Jackson. Frances gave an involuntary sigh. ‘I think he’s as well as could be expected.’

‘You know I don’t read newspapers. But I’m aware that they have a short attention span—they must have forgotten about him by now.’

‘Pretty much.’ Frances took a fortifying sip of coffee. ‘He’s dropped out of sight, and the press have moved on to their next victim.’

Triona raised an eyebrow. ‘Gone into hiding, has he?’

‘Not exactly. He did at first, of course—the Bishop sent him off to a monastery. For reflection and counselling. But being Leo, he soon got fed up with that. Wanted action, not contemplation.’ She smiled, picturing him: a giant of a man, always on the move. ‘So he volunteered to go to the Caribbean. Hurricane relief work. The last I heard from him, he was helping to rebuild a church that was flattened.’

She missed him terribly. He’d been a part of her life for years, a friend who was always there—there with a word of encouragement, a hug. Through the difficult years of waiting—and fighting— for the right of women to be ordained as priests, he had been a rock and a constant support. And recently, as well, they’d been through such a lot together. Their bond of friendship was an extraordinarily strong one. She thought about the number of times they’d been together here in the cafe, drinking coffee and talking. An odd couple, she knew they must have appeared: Leo so large and so black, towering over the petite redhead. Neither conformed to the stereotype most people attached to the Anglican priesthood.

Suddenly there was a lump in her throat. If he’d been there now, he would have noticed. ‘Frannie, pet,’ he would have said in his booming, lilting voice, leaning across the table in concern, covering her small white hand with his large dark one. ‘Whatever’s the matter? You can tell Leo.’

Instead, though, it was Triona across from her. And Triona was the one who wasn’t quite right. Her very white skin was even paler than usual, and there was an unhealthy sheen on her forehead and upper lip. She swallowed hard, then took a sip of coffee. Her eyes widened, her hand went to her mouth. ‘Excuse me,’ she said faintly from behind her hand, rising to her feet. ‘I’ll be right back.’ Her head swivelled round. ‘Where’s the loo?’

Frances took charge. ‘It’s this way,’ she said, abandoning her breakfast and guiding Triona towards the ladies’ room.

‘Sorry. You don’t need to…’

Frances waited by the row of basins, listening to the unmistakable sound of retching. Uncontrollable, gut-wrenching. She remembered how it felt, and instinctively she knew what was wrong with Triona.

Eventually Triona emerged, looking sheepish and wrung-out. ‘Sorry,’ she murmured. ‘I’m so sorry to ruin your breakfast.’

Frances was ready with a damp paper towel to wipe her friend’s face. ‘Nothing to be sorry about. You can’t help it.’

‘I think it was the smell of the bacon that did it. And I shouldn’t have drunk that coffee.’

‘Probably so. When I was expecting Heather, I couldn’t touch coffee.’

Triona swallowed hard, and averted her eyes. ‘You know, then,’ she said in a flat voice.

‘It’s pretty obvious to anyone who’s ever been pregnant. Morning sickness is wretched.’ Frances was shorter than Triona, and couldn’t really put her arm around the other woman’s shoulders, so she rubbed her arm instead. ‘Would you like to talk about it?’ she suggested.

‘No.’ She swallowed again. ‘Yes. But not here. And not in the cafe.’

‘No food smells,’ Frances agreed. She had worked at the hospital for years, and knew its every corner intimately. There were a few consultation rooms, where doctors took families to give them bad news in private, and one was quite near by. She led Triona there and sat her down, then took a seat next to her. Sometimes, she knew, it was easier to say difficult things if you didn’t have to look at someone face-to-face.

‘It just started a few days ago, maybe a week,’ Triona said. ‘But it’s been horrible.’ She clasped her hands together in her lap.

‘The father?’ Frances suggested gently.

Triona almost spat the name. ‘Neville. The bastard.’

‘Neville Stewart? Detective Inspector Neville Stewart?’ She was astonished, and couldn’t help showing it.

‘That’s the one.’

‘But…’ Frances thought back, trying to remember. Triona had mentioned that she’d known Neville Stewart, a long time ago.

Neville Stewart. Frances supposed that some women—perhaps many women—might consider him attractive, with his slightly boyish looks and his trim body, though she couldn’t see it herself. He’d never bothered turning on his Irish charm with her, of course; she’d hardly even seen him smile. Well, she acknowledged to herself, there was no accounting for taste.

‘I’ll start at the beginning, shall I?’ Triona’s voice was sounding more Irish than usual.

‘That would probably help.’

Triona positioned her body so that she was facing the window rather than Frances. ‘I met Neville Stewart years ago. Nearly ten years back.’

‘About the time you and I lost touch,’ Frances realised.

‘Yes. And he was probably the main reason. When we were together, living together, there wasn’t time for anything else in my life.’

‘Were you together for a long time?’

‘Three months. A lifetime. Take your pick.’ Triona closed her eyes. ‘God, I loved him. I was crazy in love with him. And he…I don’t think he knows the meaning of the word “love.”’ She swallowed, stopped. There was a long silence.

‘Did he leave you after three months?’ Frances prompted eventually.

‘No, I left him. I moved out.’

‘I don’t understand,’ admitted Frances.

Triona’s hands twisted together, then sprang apart in a dramatic gesture. ‘I wanted him to marry me, see? But he was terrified of commitment. So I thought I’d shock him into doing something. I moved out. I was so sure he’d come after me. Find me and…something. Whatever. But he didn’t. He never tried to find me. He just bloody let me go.’

Frances still didn’t understand; this seemed to her to be a very perverse way to get someone to marry you, and it also seemed like water long since under the bridge. She waited for Triona to continue.

‘I married someone else after a few months. Someone from work—a solicitor from the firm where I was doing my articles. I didn’t love him,’ she added bluntly. ‘I never loved him. I married him to spite bloody Neville Stewart. I hoped that Irish bastard would lay awake at night and think about what he was missing, what he’d passed up.’

‘And did he?’

Triona gave a short, bitter laugh. ‘He did not. He didn’t even know I was married! How’s that for an irony? I went through six years of a bad marriage to spite him, and he never even knew it.’

That still didn’t explain how she was now carrying his child. Frances was good at waiting and listening; she folded her hands in her lap.

Getting up restlessly and moving to the window, Triona went on. ‘And then he walked back into my life. Or me into his—I suppose it depends on the way you look at it. That day when you…’ She paused delicately, as if unwilling to remind Frances of something she would rather forget. ‘I hadn’t seen him since I left him. Nine years, almost to the day.’

Frances observed the tension in her back, heard the pain in her voice.

‘I’d been hating him for nine years. Hating him as passionately as I’d loved him. But when I saw the bastard again, I realised that the love was still there, too. Always had been. You can’t just stop loving someone because you want to, can you?’

‘I suppose not.’

‘He was still a free agent. I’d shed my husband a few years

ago. It wouldn’t have been professionally ethical for us to see each other until your business was all sorted out. But after that…he invited me to dinner. And being a fool, I said yes.’

‘So you’re back together.’

‘I wish it were that simple.’ Again the bitter laugh, as Triona wrapped her arms round herself and leaned her forehead against the glass of the window. It had just started to rain; fat drops hit the glass and rolled slowly down, leaving beaded tracks. ‘We slept together. Just the once. Once, which turned out to be enough.’ She rubbed her stomach. ‘He wanted to move in, straightaway. Start where we’d left off. But I…said no.’

‘You didn’t want to get back together?’

‘I wanted it more than anything.’ Triona began drumming her fingers on the window in rhythm with the rain. ‘But on my terms, not his. I told him he’d have to make an effort. Win me over, woo me.’

‘And has he done that?’

Triona shot her a look over her shoulder. ‘Oh, he was brilliant. For a few weeks, at least. Flowers, romantic meals in expensive restaurants, evenings at the theatre. Every night when he wasn’t on duty. I was beginning to feel sorry for him—he was spending so much money on me, and I knew he couldn’t really afford it. I was about to give in, let him move in with me.’

It was all in the past tense, Frances noticed, then she realised what must have happened. ‘But when he found out you were pregnant…’ she blurted. The old story.

Triona turned to look at her, lifting her chin defiantly. ‘He doesn’t know,’ she stated.

‘Then what…’

‘I was feeling a little…peculiar. Started having this wretched morning sickness. So one morning, about a week ago, I did the test. Peed on the strip, turned it blue: pregnant.’ Triona closed her eyes. ‘I was going to tell him that night. Tell him I was having his baby. But then…’ She swallowed. ‘He didn’t call me. Not that night, or the next. And I haven’t heard from him since. The bastard.’

‘But he doesn’t know.’ Frances tried to defend him. ‘Maybe he’s been working hard, on an important case.’

‘That’s what I told myself the first day or two. But after that? He has a telephone—more than one. And a mobile. His fingers aren’t broken, as far as I know. If he were just busy, he could call me and tell me so. No, he’s decided that he doesn’t want to see me any more, and is taking the coward’s way out.’

‘Why don’t you call him? See what’s the matter? I’m sure that once you tell him about the baby—’

Triona cut angrily across her words. ‘That’s just the point. I’m not telling him. I can’t tell him. I won’t have him marrying me out of pity. Or bloody duty.’ She paused, tempering the tone of her voice. ‘You have to understand about Neville and me. Our relationship was always…volatile. Up and down. The good times were fantastic, brilliant. The bad times were bloody awful. And if he married me because he was backed into a corner—not because he wanted to more than anything in the world—our life together would be hell. He’d resent me, he’d hate me. And I’d end up hating him as well. What kind of a family would that be to bring a child into? It wouldn’t be fair on any of us.’

Frances rose and went to her, taking her hands and squeezing them. ‘Then what are you going to do?’ she said softly.

‘Oh, I won’t be getting rid of it, if that’s what you think.’ Triona blinked hard, as if to dispel tears. ‘I’ve always been pro-choice, and defended a woman’s right to do what she likes with her own body. As you know. In spite of what the Holy Father says. But when it comes to my own baby…well, I just couldn’t.’ She lost the fight against the tears; they trickled down her cheeks like the rain on the window. ‘I’ll have this baby. Without Neville bloody Stewart. And if I’m lucky, he’ll never find out about it.’

Detective Inspector Neville Stewart was bored. It seemed like weeks since he’d had a decent case to get his teeth into. Car theft, muggings, burglary, petty drug stuff: it was all too tedious for words. They hardly ever caught the perps, and it didn’t make all that much difference when they did—they’d be back on the streets, doing it again, before you could say ‘Crown Prosecution Service.’ What he needed was a good murder. Something that would give him a buzz, get his brain cells going. Something that would take up his long, lonely evenings.

And paperwork was making him crazy. Every little petty crime spawned a mountain of paper. He hadn’t joined the police to push bits of paper round his desk.

Glaring balefully at his heaped in-tray, then at the rain streaking down the window, wishing—as he occasionally did—that he hadn’t given up smoking, Neville pushed his chair back from his desk and went in search of coffee.

In the corridor outside of his office, he ran into Detective Sergeant Sid Cowley, going the other way. Cowley was wearing an overcoat, carrying a brolly.

‘Hey, Sid. What’s up?’

Cowley paused. ‘Hi, Guv. I’m just off on a case.’

‘Anything interesting?’ As if, thought Neville.

‘Doubt it.’ Cowley shrugged. ‘Missing person. Bloke goes jogging. Doesn’t come home. Wife panics.’ He shrugged again. ‘He’s probably just buggered off somewhere to keep dry. By the time I get there, he’ll likely be tucked up at home, taking a hot shower after getting a bollocking from the wife.’

Neville made a snap decision. ‘Hold on a second, Sid. I’ll come with you. Let me get my coat.’

‘It’s not really a job for a DI.’

‘Don’t want me cramping your style, eh, Sid?’ Neville slapped the sergeant’s shoulder. ‘Just in case the wife is…dishy? Or desperate.’

‘Bugger off,’ Cowley growled. ‘With all due respect, Guv.’

Must have hit a nerve, Neville thought complacently as he grabbed his rain coat. He could read Sid Cowley like a book, when it came to women.

This case might not be anything exciting. It might be over before they got there. But at least it would get him out of the bloody station.

Chapter Three

The wife was dishy. She was young, she was very pretty, she was blonde. And if Neville wasn’t mistaken, her hair colour was natural, not out of a bottle. Not pale: that sort of deep corn-colour which is very difficult to achieve artificially.

She was also heavily pregnant.

That, thought Neville, might just put Sid Cowley off.

And she was on the verge of being hysterical.

‘Trevor is never late,’ she told them as she showed them into the downstairs lounge of the substantial Victorian semi. ‘I always say you could set your watch by Trevor. I tease him about that.’

He would let Sid deal with this, Neville decided; after all, it was Sid’s case. He’d just come along for the ride.

Cowley was taking out his notebook. ‘Let’s start at the beginning, Mrs.…err…’

‘Norton. Rachel Norton.’ She wrapped her arms round her distended belly.

The lounge was clean, almost sterile; it had the air of a room which was seldom used. The three-piece suite fit the space perfectly