Evil Intent (27 page)

‘Sounds good to me,’ Mark agreed.

When they got to the pub, and worked their way up to the bar, Neville’s caution and good sense overcame his craving for Guinness. After all, Evans might reappear at any moment, and when that happened he would need all his wits about him. ‘I’ll have an orange juice,’ he said with a grimace of regret.

‘On the wagon?’ Mark grinned at him, bemused.

‘Let’s say, on duty.’

Mark ordered a bottle of Peroni and they glanced at the menu. It didn’t require more than a glance; the menu was a modest one, and reassuringly unchanging.

‘Steak and kidney,’ Neville said. ‘And chips.’

‘Fish and chips,’ Mark decided.

‘You’re not going for the spag bol, then?’ Neville teased.

Mark shuddered. ‘Not on your life.’

Someone was just vacating a table, so they appropriated it quickly.

‘I thought you’d be up to your ears in that murder,’ Mark said, pouring his beer.

Neville looked at it enviously, though he’d never even fancied trying that watery Italian lager that Mark liked. What was the point of drinking something you could see through? Something that, not to put too fine a point on it, looked like pee? Probably tasted like it, as well. ‘Well, I am, in a manner of speaking. But the lovely Denise has given me an unexpected breather.’ He explained about Evans’ unavailability.

‘So that means you haven’t arrested Frances Cherry?’ Mark asked
carefully.

‘Not yet. Not till Evans gives the go-ahead.’

‘But you
will
arrest her.’ It was a statement rather than a question.

‘I don’t think we have much choice, to be frank.’ Neville shook his head. ‘And I’m sure that Evans will agree with me, given the position we’ve been put in by the
Globe.’

Mark leaned back in his chair and took a sip of his beer. ‘Do you think she did it?’

‘I’m not sure,’ he admitted. ‘Let’s put it this way. There isn’t anyone else in the picture at the moment. And as Lilith Noone so helpfully pointed out, it
was
her…umm…“garment” round his neck.’

‘What sort of garment are we talking about here? Something frilly and unmentionable?’

Neville laughed. ‘Good Lord, no. Far from it. The opposite, in fact. Something liturgical – I think that’s the proper term. It’s been a long time since my days as an altar boy.’

‘The mind boggles.’

‘Anyway, why are you so interested?’

Mark looked away, studying the label on his beer bottle. ‘I suppose I’d
better
confess, Nev. Someone I know…is rather worried about Frances Cherry.’

If he hadn’t just been reading through the files, Neville might not have made the connection. ‘Caroline Anson, isn’t it? Callie? That curate. You said that you knew her.’

‘That’s right.’ Still Mark studied the beer bottle. ‘She’s a friend.’

The penny dropped. ‘Ah,’ said Neville.
‘That
kind of friend.’

Mark flushed. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Oh, I reckon you do, mate,’ Neville smirked. ‘She’s quite attractive, if I recall. A bit prim for my taste, in that black clerical get-up. But I dare say you could set me straight about that. Appearances can be deceiving.’

‘I certainly couldn’t set you straight,’ snapped Mark. ‘It isn’t like that. We’re just
friends
.’

‘You don’t fancy her, then?’

Mark was silent for more than a few seconds. ‘To be honest,’ he
admitted,
‘I do.’

‘Well, then.’

‘Well, what?’

‘Go for it, man!’ Neville put his glass down on the table with enough force to splash a few drops of orange juice on his jacket sleeve. ‘She’s not attached, is she? What’s stopping you from taking things a step further?’

Again Mark was silent. ‘I wouldn’t just want that kind of meaningless fling,’ he said at last. ‘She’s…well, she’s special. Different. Not like any other woman I’ve ever met.’

This was, thought Neville, sounding serious. ‘We’re not talking the big “L” word here, are we, mate?’ he probed.

Mark pressed his lips together and watched the bubbles rise in his beer glass. ‘Could be. I haven’t known her for very long, it’s too soon to say, but…well. It could be. As I said, she’s different. Special. And we get on so well together, it’s like we’ve always known each other.’

‘All the more reason to go for it, I would have thought,’ Neville
pointed
out. ‘You’re not … well, you’re not unattractive yourself, though it pains me to say it.’ He grinned. ‘I don’t suppose she’d run a mile if you made a move on her.’

‘It’s just not that simple.’ Mark’s voice was quiet but firm.

Neville rolled his eyes. ‘Tell me. Tell your Uncle Nev what is so damned complicated about it.’

At that moment their food arrived, and for a few minutes after that they applied themselves to it. But Neville wasn’t about to let the subject go.

‘What’s so complicated?’ he repeated. ‘Okay, you respect her too much to have a meaningless fling. Then why not a relationship? A real,
honest-to
-God
grown-up relationship?’

Mark speared a stray pea before it rolled off his plate. ‘She’s going to be a priest.’

‘So what? I assume that priests are human beings under those dog
collars
. Though,’ Neville added, ‘judging from my experiences of Father Flynn and Father O’Malley, I’m not so sure about that after all.’

Mark smiled. ‘An
Anglican
priest.’

‘That should make it even easier. Anglican priests don’t take vows of celibacy. Apparently they’re allowed to be human,’ said Neville
thoughtfully
. ‘Most of the ones I’ve met on this case have been, more or less. Human, that is. Maybe that’s the difference between them and the Catholics.’

‘I
am
a Catholic,’ Mark pointed out. ‘Or at least, that’s the way I was brought up. Like you, Nev. Mass every Sunday, and Holy Days of Obligation.’

‘The Holy Father and I parted company a long time ago,’ Neville said wryly.

‘I still go to Mass when I can,’ admitted Mark, as though he were confessing some shameful secret. ‘Though it’s not as often as my parents would like. My mum goes nearly every day, in fact. She practically runs the Italian church in Clerkenwell. Padre Luigi would be totally lost without her.’

Once again the penny dropped for Neville. ‘So this is about your family, isn’t it?’

Mark shrugged his shoulders. ‘Can you imagine what my mum would say if I brought home a woman in a dog collar? It’s bad enough that she’s not Italian. But an Anglo, and an Anglican priest, all at once! A woman priest, for God’s sake!’

‘She might be more upset if you brought home a
male
priest.’ Neville grinned provocatively. ‘Even an Italian one.’

Mark roared with laughter. ‘You’re right about that, Nev.’

‘Well then, mate.’ Neville put his cutlery on his plate and his elbows on the table, looking directly at Mark to emphasise the importance of his words. ‘Here’s how I see it. What is it that your family want you to do?’

The reply was prompt. ‘Marry a nice Italian girl. Have lots and lots of
bambini.
It’s what they’ve always wanted.’

‘And have you done it?’

‘You know I haven’t.’

‘Well, then.’

Mark drew his brows together, puzzled. ‘I don’t see what you’re getting  at.’

‘I’m just saying,’ Neville elaborated, ‘that for all these years you’ve known what your family wanted you to do, and you haven’t done it. Haven’t paid it a blind bit of notice, from what I’ve seen. So why, my friend, should you start worrying about it now?’

Neville could see that Mark was wavering, that he had no good answer for that one. He put on the broadest of Irish brogues. ‘Listen to your Uncle Nev, me boy. Faith and begorrah, would he lead you astray?’

‘Regularly,’ Mark confirmed, laughing.

Lilith was feeling much better, she discovered. She showered and dressed, then went down to the corner shop for fresh milk, fresh bread, a packet of ham, and a few other necessities. For lunch she made herself a ham
sandwich,
and afterwards she set about tidying her flat – or at least the more public rooms – as it hadn’t been tidied in weeks, if not months. She threw away a bin full of old newspapers and other rubbish; she washed up a mountain of stained mugs and food-encrusted plates. She even ran the hoover round and fluffed up the cushions on the sofa.

Her antennae were quivering. She didn’t know what the young man – who had not given her his name – wanted to talk to her about, but she knew in her bones that it was going to be good. Her instincts for these sorts of things were always on target.

Leo Jackson, that arrogant son-of-a-bitch. Did he have his hand in the
collection
plate, then? Or up the skirt of the young man’s girlfriend or sister,
perhaps?
If so, the world had a right to know. Especially now, since he was going to be a bishop. Bishops had to be whiter than white – even if they were black, she told herself with self-righteous smugness and not a glimmer of irony. If he’d done something wrong, Lilith was glad that she was in a position to be the instrument of justice. Justice – that was it. Revenge had nothing to do with it.

Callie had promised Dennis Harrington that she would bring Bella back to see Elsie. When she rang the bell, shortly after lunchtime, there was a
several
minute delay before he came to the door. ‘My Elsie’s not so good today,’ he told her quietly.

‘Oh, I’ll go then. We can come back another day.’

Dennis shook his head. ‘She says she wants to see you. You and the pooch.’

He’d managed to get Elsie from the bedroom into the lounge, and that is where he ushered Callie and Bella.

Callie hoped that her shock didn’t show on her face. Elsie looked so frail, so shrunken, like little more than a bundle of blankets on the sofa. But the old lady was smiling with delight. ‘Oh, isn’t she lovely!’ she cried. ‘Come here, you dear thing.’

Bella padded up to her, and was rewarded by having her ears scratched.

There was a plate with a half-eaten slice of cake on the little table beside Elsie. Bella raised her head and sniffed in that direction.

‘Oh, she wants some cake,’ Elsie said. Before Callie could protest, Elsie’s shrivelled hand reached out to the plate and broke a piece off, then held it out for Bella, who downed it in an instant.

‘She likes my Elsie’s fruit cake,’ Dennis observed with satisfaction. ‘Clever little thing, isn’t she?’

‘I’m not sure cake is good for her,’ Callie said faintly.

‘Oh, it won’t do her no harm,’ he assured her. ‘My little Spot, he used to eat anything that was going. There wasn’t such a thing as special food for dogs in them days. And you never saw a healthier dog.’

Elsie stroked the soft head. ‘I wish I had something for her,’ she
fretted.
‘A little ball, or one of them squeaky toys.’

‘Never mind. She really likes being stroked,’ said Callie. For a few
minutes
they chatted about Bella; Callie related the story of how she had come to adopt her.

Dennis was watching Elsie all the while with keen protectiveness. ‘I don’t want you to get worn out, Elsie love,’ he said. ‘Don’t you think it’s time for you to go back to bed?’

‘I am a bit weary,’ she admitted. ‘But we have guests.’

‘They’ll come back another day.’ Dennis shot Callie a look. ‘Won’t you?’

‘Oh, yes. Whenever you like. But we really must go now.’

‘Tomorrow,’ Elsie said promptly. ‘Dennis can go to the market in the
morning and get a little toy for her.’

‘That isn’t necessary.’

Elsie spoke for both of them. ‘It’s something we’d like to do.’

‘It’s very sweet of you.’ Callie stood to go.

‘Come in the afternoon – that will give me time to get Elsie up and dressed,’ Dennis said as he escorted her to the door, adding quietly, ‘I’m that worried about her, girl. She’s just not herself. Not since…well, since last week.’

‘Yes, I’ll come. Of course I will,’ Callie assured him.

Tomorrow morning, she remembered with a sinking feeling, was her weekly staff meeting with Brian. How much of this did she dare to tell him?

By three o’clock, Lilith’s living room, kitchen and loo were virtually immaculate, though she hoped her visitor would have no reason to enter her bedroom. From his voice on the phone, she reckoned that he was far too young for her. Not that she was all that scrupulous about such
distinctions
.

She didn’t want to think how long it had been since a man of
any
age had been in her bedroom. Such was the fate of a tireless seeker after the truth, she told herself virtuously. It just didn’t leave any time for a private life.

Deciding that it was late enough in the afternoon to offer him tea, Lilith was putting some biscuits on a plate when the doorbell went.

He
was
very young, she saw immediately. Probably not much older than twenty, if that. His was a boyish slenderness, long-legged and thin-hipped. Far too waifish for her her taste, even if he hadn’t been so young: Lilith
preferred
a man with a bit of meat on his bones.

The boy, as she now thought of him, was well scrubbed, dressed in clean denim jeans and an Arsenal T-shirt, and shod in expensive-looking trainers. He wasn’t wearing a jacket, and shivered in the chill of the October
afternoon
. ‘Miss Noone?’ he said, putting his hand out politely. ‘Lilith Noone? I’m Oliver Pickett.’

She took his hand; it was freezing. ‘Come in, Oliver,’ she said. ‘Come in and get warm.’

She’d left the electric fire on and he went to it immediately, warming his hands close to the glowing bar. ‘I didn’t realise it was so cold outside,’ he said.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Lilith suggested.

‘That would be just the thing. Very kind.’

She brewed the kettle, made the tea, and brought it through. Oliver had moved away from the fire and was browsing along her book shelves. ‘You have some interesting books,’ he remarked.

‘Do you like to read, then?’

‘Oh, yes. Very much.’ He had a very engaging smile and a pleasant speaking voice, without a distinct accent of any kind.