Evil Intent (21 page)

‘Sounds interesting.’

‘He’s going to Milan this week, flying out tomorrow morning.’

‘That’s a shame,’ Callie sympathised.

‘No, not at all.’ Peter sounded triumphant. ‘He’s asked me to go with him, Sis!’

‘Can you manage it?’ she asked practically. ‘What about work?’

‘Oh, I don’t have that much on this week. Just a couple of gigs. I’ll
cancel.’
She could imagine him waving a hand in airy dismissal. ‘I’ll be back in time for my regular Saturday night gig.’

‘Well, I hope you have a good time.’

‘Don’t worry – I will,’ Peter assured her. ‘I’ll give you a ring when I get back.’

Love at first sight yet again, Callie thought ironically as she put the phone down; she might have found it easier to believe in if it didn’t happen to him with such frequency. She kicked her shoes off and flopped on the sofa, feeling exhausted, wondering whether she ought to summon up the energy to make herself something to eat.

Before she’d decided what to do about food, the phone rang again, and this time in was Mark.

‘Are you in for the evening?’ he wanted to know.

‘Yes. Unless I decide to go out and collect a takeaway,’ she thought aloud as her stomach rumbled with hunger.

‘Well, I can bring her round right now.’

‘Bring her round?’

His voice was patient. ‘Bella. The dog.’

‘She’s called Bella?’

‘It’s Italian for beautiful. And she is, Callie. Wait till you see her.’

She’d begun to have second thoughts about the dog in the clear light of day. What on earth had she let herself in for, under the influence of alcohol and Mark’s persuasiveness? ‘I’m just not sure,’ she said doubtfully.

He seemingly chose to misunderstand her. ‘Oh, she’s beautiful all right,’ he said. ‘And you don’t have to worry about her gear – I’ll bring it all. Bed, food, lead.’

‘All right, then,’ she capitulated.

‘I’ll be round in a bit. Say, three-quarters of an hour. And,’ he added, ‘if you can hold out that long, I’ll pick up a takeaway on the way. Indian, or do you prefer Chinese?’

‘Either. I don’t mind.’

‘Brilliant. See you soon.’

Having been dragged out of her lethargy, Callie looked round the
sitting
room and tried to decide what she needed to do before he arrived. She retrieved her shoes, fluffed up the sofa cushions, and looked for a duster, which she flicked over the mantelpiece and coffee table. There was wine in the fridge, so that was all right, though her lunch dishes were still in the sink. She washed them up and put them away, then laid the table, using her favourite mats. That still left time for a quick shower and change of clothes. She was just giving her face a critical look in the mirror when the bell went.

Callie threw the door open breathlessly.

‘Hi,’ said Mark, a dog in his arms. ‘This is Bella.’

The dog was a cocker spaniel, black and white. Her head was mostly black, with a white blaze, and her body was mostly white, flecked with black spots. Callie, who had had little experience with dogs and was no great judge of such things, could see that she was indeed beautiful, with her long silky ears and her enormous dark eyes.

Bella raised those eyes to Callie and wagged her tail; as Mark delivered her into Callie’s arms, she lifted her head and licked Callie’s chin.

Till that moment, Callie had been sceptical about love at first sight. Now, though, she knew that it was possible. ‘Hi, Bella,’ she said softly, cradling her in her arms.

Neville had been dreading Monday morning. He was scheduled to have a meeting with Detective Chief Superintendent Evans, and he knew that it wasn’t going to be pleasant.

The meeting was to be in DCS Evans’ office, which made things worse. Evans was fiercely territorial; his office was very much an extension of
himself.

Neville knocked on the door at the appointed time, which happened to be quite early. ‘Come in,’ barked Evans.

Edging through the door, Neville was confronted with the sight which greeted all comers: a wall completely covered with photos of Evans’ family – wife, children, grandchildren, a veritable tribe of Evanses.

In the centre was a large and rather flattering studio portrait of Mrs Evans. The lovely Denise, Neville said to himself reminiscently.

Once upon a time, Denise had been DCS Evans’ secretary. Young and single, she had been the object of many a fantasy at the station.

It wasn’t that she was particularly beautiful. Denise was a pretty enough girl, with youth and a good complexion on her side, but her chief attraction was not her face. To put not too fine a point on it, she possessed a
magnificent
pair of breasts – the envy of all the women, and the focus of lust in all the men.

They’d virtually queued up to go out with her, Neville recalled. He’d even taken her out once. Only once, though: he’d found her a bit on the dim side, and not at all forthcoming with her favours.

And old Evans was clearly smitten with her, from the very beginning. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her, could scarcely keep his hands off her either.

It had been a standing joke at the station. The desk sergeant had even started running a book on the outcome: would Evans be successful – as none of the rest of them had been – in seducing Denise, or would she have him up on sexual harassment charges?

But they had underestimated Denise. She had confounded them all,
displaying
rather more cunning than anyone expected of her.

It would seem that she’d always had her eye on the higher prize, if prize it could be called. She had played the Anne Boleyn game, refusing to sleep with Evans – giving him enough to keep him interested and coming back for more, but not enough so that he ever became bored or took her for granted.

And in the end it had paid off for her. Five years ago DCS Evans had divorced his comfortable middle-aged wife and married the lovely Denise.

In spite of the fact that he had grown children and an increasing
number
of grandchildren, Evans and his young wife had promptly started a new family. There were now two children under five, with a third on the way.

It must have been the money and the status which attracted her, Neville concluded dispassionately as he faced Evans across an expanse of desk. She certainly hadn’t married him for his looks: DCS Evans was no oil painting.

He had a heavy prognathous jaw, his vast chin jutting out to create an underbite. And his eyebrows, several shades darker than his greying hair, were wild and bushy, overshadowing his rather small eyes. It was an easy face to caricature; many a young policeman with rather more artistic talent than discretion had doodled a cartoon image – caterpillar eyebrows, lantern jaw – during the long briefing sessions of which Evans was fond.

The eyebrows were lowered now, the piggy eyes boring holes in Neville. ‘Well?’ Evans said, and it was obvious that he wasn’t asking after Neville’s health.

Neville decided on the cautious approach. ‘You wanted to see me, sir.’ He said it in a neutral voice, careful not to sound apologetic or defensive.

‘Damn right I wanted to see you. What, exactly, have you accomplished this weekend on the Adimola case?’

‘Well, sir, we’re still making enquiries. There’s a full team out —’

Evans’ voice cut across his. ‘Because it seems to me that Lilith Noone has been a lot busier than your lot.’ His palm slapped down on the tabloid spread across his desk. ‘The Cherry woman on Saturday. That happy-
clappy
lunatic on Sunday. And Vincent Underwood this morning. Have you seen it?’

‘Not yet, sir.’

‘Perhaps we should be hiring Lilith Noone to replace you, Stewart. Do
you think that’s a good idea?’

Neville gulped. ‘No, sir.’ But he filed the remark away for future
reference:
it was a good one, and he might be able to use it on Cowley at some point.

The DCS bent his head to the newspaper, squinting at it; vanity
prevented
him from using the reading glasses he so badly needed. ‘The bloody woman’s damn clever. There’s no denying that.’

‘What does she say, sir?’

‘It’s more what she
doesn’t
say. She’s always careful to stay just the other side of libel. But she keeps having a go at us. Implying that we should have made an arrest by now.’ This time it was his fist rather than his palm making impact with the paper. ‘And damn it, man, she’s right.’

‘Does she say exactly whom we should be arresting?’

‘Not in so many words. She’s too clever for that. Listen to this.’ Evans adjusted the angle of his head and squinted down. “‘Father Vincent, who worked with Jonah Adimola on a daily basis and knew him perhaps better than anyone else in London did, emphasised what a gentle man he was. ‘Everyone in the parish loved him,’ he told me with a catch in his voice and tears in his eyes. ‘I can’t imagine anyone wanting to murder him. Father Jonah had no enemies – none at all.’ He admitted, though, that outside of the parish, Father Jonah may have upset people who held less traditional views about the church. ‘He always stood up for what he knew was right, even if it wasn’t popular. He didn’t hesitate to speak out about
abominations
like so-called women priests, and I suppose there were those who might have resented that. Taken it personally, even.’”’ Evans raised his head to glare at Neville. ‘Could that be much clearer? A bit farther on in the story, she mentions – oh so casually – that Underwood had witnessed the row between Adimola and Cherry. ““It upset Father Jonah deeply,’ Father Vincent said sorrowfully. ‘She went for him, out of the blue. And so soon after that, he was dead. I suppose we must regard him as a martyr for our cause.’” You have to hand it to the woman, don’t you?’

‘Underwood told us that he was sure Cherry had done it,’ Neville pointed out.

‘I have no doubt that he told her exactly the same thing. She just knows
better than to say it in so many words.’ Evans sighed and shook his head, more in sorrow than in anger. His temper tantrum had run its course.

Neville stifled a sigh of relief. He, like everyone else, knew that Evans was prone to these little outbursts, but was essentially a reasonable man. If one could manage to weather the tantrums without responding in kind, there was a good chance of having a civilised and fruitful discussion.

‘Sit down,’ said Evans. His desk was compulsively neat, empty of messy in-trays and out-trays, holding only a writing pad and pen, and an open file, squared with the edge of his blotter. He picked up a page of notes. ‘All right, Stewart,’ he said. ‘Where, exactly, are we? Let’s talk it through. Starting from the beginning.’

Neville reminded him, as concisely as possible, what had been done by his team of detectives. Everyone at the fateful clergy meeting had been interviewed, some more than once; none of them, apart from Frances Cherry, had an evident motive for murder, and she had an alibi, unless you accepted the possibility that Leo Jackson was in it with her or prepared to lie for her. Various members of Jonah Adimola’s church had also been interviewed, turning up absolutely nothing. His flat had been searched, with a similar result. Enquiries had been made in clubs and pubs, as they looked for possible clandestine activities and
associates;
no one admitted to knowing the dead priest, or ever having seen him before.

‘What about the crime scene forensics?’ Evans prodded.

‘Plenty of fingerprints. Mostly Leo Jackson’s, and the sacristan woman’s. Some of Adimola’s, a few of Underwood’s – remember, Underwood took Adimola there after the wine incident. And Frances Cherry’s, of course. She was there earlier in the evening, before and after the service.’

‘So even if there were fibres or other evidence of her having been there, it doesn’t pin anything on her.’

‘Unfortunately not. The same is true of Jackson, of course.’ Evans looked up from his notes. ‘You have reason to suspect Jackson, then?’

‘Not really. Not unless he and Cherry are…involved. Having an affair
or something like that.’

‘And that’s possible?’

‘Possible, certainly,’ Neville confirmed. ‘They seem very protective of one another. I have a strong feeling that they’re hiding something, and that would explain it.’

‘Hmm.’ Evans digested the scenario, drawing his brows together. ‘I suppose we could lean on them a bit more.’

‘I’ll see to it, sir.’

‘Good.’ Evans checked his notes. ‘Now, what about the PM report? Anything there that helps us?’

‘He was strangled. Garrotted, really, with that stole. From behind. So he had no defensive injuries.’

Evans gave him a shrewd look. ‘And a woman could have done it?’

‘No problem.’ Neville had been through this in his own mind, had
wondered
the same thing: after all, Jonah Adimola was a tall man, and Frances Cherry quite a small woman. ‘He was sitting down when it happened. In a chair. You saw the body in situ. The murderer came up behind him. Caught him by surprise, evidently. It was just a matter of whipping the stole round his neck and twisting it. Anyone who was reasonably fit could have done it.’

‘But it doesn’t sound like a casual sort of murder,’ Evans reasoned. ‘Not, for instance, a thief breaking into the church, looking for something to steal.’

‘No,’ Neville said. ‘That’s unlikely. Highly unlikely. I would say that he was almost certainly killed by someone he knew.’

Evans thumbed through the file and extracted a sheet of handwritten notes. ‘I’ve been checking into the Nigerian angle,’ he said. ‘I’ve been in touch with the Nigerian embassy in London, and with the Foreign and Commonwealth Office. Unofficially, of course – any official enquiries could take years, especially dealing with Lagos.’ He pulled a wry face.

‘Have you found anything, sir?’

‘Nothing. He didn’t seem to have been involved with the Nigerian community in London. And as far as they can tell me, his life in Nigeria was as blameless as his life in the UK. No criminal record, no evidence that he
was anything but an upright citizen. And I checked with the Home Office,’ Evans added. ‘Lunar House. His immigration status was above-board. Proper papers and documentation. All permissions in order.’

It was up to Neville to voice it. ‘So we’re no further ahead at all, sir.’

Evans tapped his pen on his writing pad, frowning. ‘Well, as Lilith Noone so helpfully points out at every opportunity,
someone
killed him. And even if we don’t have much to go on, everything we do have points in just one direction.’

‘Frances Cherry,’ Neville stated.

‘Frances Cherry. Not least, Stewart, because he was killed with her stole. Don’t forget that little fact.’

‘It’s the one thing that Lilith Noone doesn’t know,’ Neville said, almost to himself.

‘And had better not find out.’

‘No, sir.’

Evans fixed him with a piercing look. ‘Lean on her, Stewart,’ he ordered. ‘Lean on Cherry. And do it soon. Time is marching on. We need to make an arrest, sooner rather than later.’

Lilith Noone was feeling depressed. On the one hand, she knew that she had cause to be elated: her continuing stories on the Adimola murder were streets ahead of anything the other papers had been able to come up with, and her exclusive interviews with the people involved were the envy of her colleagues.

But on the other hand, Lilith realised that unless something unexpected were to happen, she was nearing the end of the the road.

She had spoken to Graham Cherry, to Richard Grant, to Vincent Underwood – all of the gullible male priests. The women – Frances Cherry and Callie Anson – had refused to talk to her. Perhaps she could get to Leo Jackson, if she were lucky. Maybe.

Where could she go from here? How could she follow up the brilliant story she’d written on the Underwood interview?

She sat at her desk with a tepid cup of coffee at her right hand and tried to think what to do. She could cobble together something from the
overheard conversations after the church service, but that wasn’t really sensational enough.

On impulse, she picked up the phone and rang the police station,
asking
in her most honeyed voice to be put through to Detective Inspector Neville Stewart.

‘Can I tell him what it’s in regard to?’ asked the operator.

Restraining herself from correcting the woman’s grammar, Lilith said sweetly, ‘The Adimola case. I have some information which will interest him.’

He picked up the phone almost immediately; Lilith recognised the soft Irish accent from his television appearances. ‘Hello?’

‘Good morning, Inspector Stewart.’

‘Who’s speaking?’ He sounded brusque, rushed.

‘Let’s just say it’s someone who is as interested as you are in finding the person who killed Jonah Adimola,’ she said.

Now his voice was wary. ‘You said you had information.’

‘I do.’ She paused strategically. ‘I know about the murder weapon. About Frances Cherry’s stole. And if you don’t want me to print it,
perhaps
you could tell me exactly where you are in your investigation. Whether you’re close to making an arrest. The
Globe’s
readers want to know. It’s their right to know.’

‘Lilith Noone!’

‘Correct, Inspector. If you could just—’

Just before he slammed the phone down, he cut her off with an
Anglo-Saxon
expletive telling her where to go, and leaving her in no doubt that he meant it.

Callie woke up feeling happy. For a moment she wasn’t sure why, then she remembered: Bella.

Her feet fumbled for her slippers; she pulled her dressing gown round her shoulders and went through to the kitchen, where she’d put the dog basket. That had seemed the best place, just to be on the safe side, though it had been a wrench to leave her there.