Evil Intent (37 page)

‘What is it?’

‘This bloke here. The one who says that Leo Jackson jumped his bones.’

‘Oliver Pickett,’ Callie supplied.

‘If his name is Oliver Pickett, then I’m the Prince of Wales.’

‘What? What are you saying?’

Peter shook his head. ‘I’ve known him for years.’ He tapped his finger on Oliver’s photo. ‘A well-known fixture on the scene. A rent boy, to put not too fine a point on it. Though he’s not a boy any longer. He’s one of those lucky ones who’s managed to keep his boyish looks – the punters like them to look young. But he’s twenty-five if he’s a day.’

Callie stared at him. ‘And he’s not Oliver Pickett?’

‘I don’t know what his name really is,’ Peter admitted. ‘But I’ve always known him as Baz Smith.’

‘There must be some mistake.’ Callie couldn’t take it in, couldn’t understand it. ‘Did Lilith Noone just make it up, then? Why would Leo molest a rent boy?’

‘It sounds to me as if friend Leo has been scammed,’ Peter guessed. ‘Taken in by a young and pretty face. I’ve seen it before. And there’s got to be money involved somewhere.’

‘Money? What do you mean?’

‘Well,’ said Peter, thinking aloud, ‘Baz goes with men for money. That much I know for sure. Say he meets this Leo chap somewhere and does the usual. Then Leo won’t pay up, so he gets his revenge by cooking up this story for Lilith Noone.’

‘I suppose …’

‘Or,’ Peter went on, ‘What if, after they do the deed, he happens to find out that Leo is high up in the Church? What if he tries to blackmail him, and when Leo won’t play ball, he goes to the
Globe
?’

‘It’s all so…sordid,’ Callie blurted. She hated to think about her
brother
inhabiting a world where such transactions were commonplace.

As if reading her mind, Peter grinned. ‘Don’t worry, Sis. I’ve never slept with Baz Smith. I wouldn’t touch him with a barge pole.’

‘Oh, it’s not funny,’ she protested.

‘The point is, whatever went on between Leo Jackson and Baz, it didn’t happen the way Lilith Noone says. Baz is no innocent, no religious truth
seeker who was led astray by a predatory older man. He must have known exactly what he was doing when he went with Leo. So why doesn’t Leo just come forward and set the record straight? He may have been stupid – or
desperate
– to go with a rent boy, but it’s a far cry from molesting an innocent young man.’

‘As far as the Church is concerned,’ Callie pointed out, ‘it isn’t any
better.
Leo must know that his career is finished, no matter how it happened.’

‘Dinner will be ready in five minutes,’ Mark called from the kitchen. ‘I could use a bit of help.’

‘I’ll go,’ Callie said quickly. She didn’t want to think about Leo any more, and she welcomed the excuse to escape.

The table was set, the wine was open – Mark had already poured himself a glass – and the sauce was bubbling away on the hob. ‘What can I do?’ she asked.

Mark put down his wine. ‘I didn’t really need any help. Everything is under control. But I seem to recall we have a bit of unfinished business.’ He opened his arms, and she went into them.

‘Sis!’ Peter called from the other room. ‘Come here for a minute!’

‘Oh, great,’ she muttered, leaning against Mark for just a few seconds, inhaling the spicy sweet scent of aftershave mingled with tomato sauce, then pulling away. ‘I’d better go.’

‘Look at this, Sis.’ Peter was pointing to something in a tabloid, and his voice was excited.

‘Oh, that’s that horrible priest,’ she said distractedly, her heart still pounding. ‘Father Vincent. He was Father Jonah’s boss. He doesn’t believe in women priests. It even says so in that article. And he implies that Frances killed Father Jonah. He’s not a nice man. And he’s homophobic, as well.’ She could tell she was babbling, and hoped she wasn’t blushing as well.

‘Sis, listen to me.’ Peter looked towards her, almost through her, as if his thoughts had gone far beyond. ‘I know this man. Or at least I’ve seen him.’

‘But he’s not part of “the scene”, as you call it. He’s a priest. He’s married.’

‘Sis, I’ve told you before. I probably know more priests than you do.’

Marigold was still sitting by the fire when Vincent came in. Her tea had gone stone cold; the fire was little warmer.

‘Marigold, my dear!’ he said. ‘I thought you were going out this evening. The ballet, wasn’t it?’

She raised her eyes but said nothing.

‘My dear, you must be freezing. It’s like the grave in here – the fire’s gone out, nearly. Your tea is cold. Shall I make you another pot?’ He
bustled
about, shaking more coal from the scuttle onto the fire and giving it a vigourous stir. ‘Can I fetch you a cardigan?’

Such solicitousness was not characteristic of him, thought Marigold dispassionately. It must be his guilty conscience.

Her determination, which had been steadily sliding back towards embracing her usual comfortable course of least resistance, experienced a new injection of resolve. She would not allow him to get away with it.

‘Vincent,’ she said, and there was something in her voice which caused him to stop his bustling and look at her.

‘Yes, my dear?’

She took a deep breath. ‘Vincent, we need to talk.’

‘There was something that happened a few months ago,’ Peter said slowly. ‘You know that club where I usually play on a Saturday night?’

‘I’ve never been there, but I’ve heard you talk about it,’ Callie confirmed.

‘Well, you wouldn’t have been there.’ He smiled. ‘It’s men only. Not even fag hags venture in there.’

‘Well, what about it?’

‘I was playing there one Saturday night. I remember it was dreadfully hot and stuffy – more so than usual – so it must have been some time in the summer. July, probably.’ He closed his eyes; it was as if he were reliving the experience. ‘And this bloke came in. He wasn’t wearing a dog collar, like in this photo, but it was him, all right.’

‘Father Vincent? In a gay club?’ Callie was sure that his memory was playing tricks on him.

He ignored the interruption. ‘And wait till I tell you the rest, Sis. He sat down at a table, and before too long someone came and joined him.’ Peter paused for effect. ‘It was Baz Smith.’

‘But …’ No, thought Callie. It couldn’t be true.

‘This bloke – this Father Vincent – gave Baz a packet of money. I saw the money change hands.’

‘Why would he do that? Apart from…but he wouldn’t.’

Peter shook his head. ‘Sis, don’t be so naïve. Of course he would. And that’s what I thought it was, at the time. A simple transaction. I give you money, you…Well, let’s not go into details.’

She was thankful to be spared that, but she still didn’t understand.

‘Don’t you see?’ Peter’s finger punched the photo of smug,
sanctimonious
Father Vincent. ‘I said it was about money, and here’s the money. Right in front of my eyes. Literally.’

‘Talk, my dear?’ said Vincent. ‘Can’t it wait till morning? You look all done in. Let me make you up a hot water bottle, and you can have an early night.’

He was treating her like an invalid – an elderly invalid at that – and it made Marigold furious. ‘My money,’ she said, the words cutting through the atmosphere like a knife. ‘What have you done with my money?’

‘Callie, you were at that meeting, where Frances had the row with Father Jonah. Leo was involved, too, wasn’t he, and Father Vincent? Try to remember. Did you get the feeling that Father Vincent disliked Leo Jackson, as well as hating women priests?’

Peter’s question seemed irrelevant, but now Callie was on familiar ground. ‘Yes, he despises him. Because Leo is so supportive of Frances, and women priests in general, and all the sort of liberal causes that Father Vincent hates. Frances told me that Father Vincent is jealous of Leo, and thinks Leo’s had preferment in the Church just because he’s black and liberal.’

‘Well, there you are, then.’ Peter leaned back, looking almost as smug as Father Vincent himself. ‘Father Vincent was paying Baz Smith to lie about Leo Jackson. Probably to seduce poor old Leo, then go to the press with his outlandish tale of being molested.’

As soon as Peter said it, Callie had no doubt that it was true.

‘Your money?’ Vincent said vaguely.

‘Did you think that Mr Firth wouldn’t tell me? Or that I wouldn’t dare
to confront you, even if he did?’

‘Well, my dear …’ Vincent sat down across from her and bared his teeth in a semblance a smile. ‘I’m sure there’s just been a misunderstanding.’

‘If you needed money for anything, all you had to do was ask,’ Marigold said. ‘You didn’t have to go behind my back.’ She made herself ask the
question,
not really wanting to know the answer. ‘What was it for, Vincent?’

‘I had…debts. I didn’t want to worry you.’ He didn’t meet her eyes.

‘Was it the same thing…as before?’

They had never talked about it. Not then, and not in all the years since. She wasn’t about to begin now, to rake up the sordid things she’d never even wanted to think about, let alone discuss. Public lavatories, anonymous encounters…Evidently it had being going on for quite some time before he’d been caught. All those supposed late night meetings and visits to parishioners…It might have gone on for longer if it hadn’t been for that undercover policeman.

Now, she supposed, it would be different. Vincent was no longer the smoulderingly attractive young clergyman he’d been in those days. Now he would probably have to pay for what he needed. Possibly a lot of money.
Her
money.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he said.

She flung the words at him. ‘Men. Boys. Whatever.’ That was as near as she would ever get to saying it.

Vincent laughed. ‘Is that what you think?’

‘Because if it is,’ she went on relentlessly, ignoring his laughter, ‘you are on your own. My father isn’t here to save your skin like he did the last time. And I’m not prepared to do it.’

‘Your father!’ He laughed again, without mirth. ‘Your precious father! It always comes down to him, doesn’t it?’

Callie put her hand over her mouth. It all made horrible sense. ‘What are we going to do?’

‘Tell the police, I suppose.’

‘The antipasto is ready,’ said Mark, coming out of the kitchen. ‘Did someone mention the police?’

‘Marco, listen. We’ve discovered something. It could be important.’ Callie didn’t feel up to recapping; she allowed Peter to do it.

Mark didn’t need convincing. Antipasto forgotten, he pulled out his mobile and rang the station. ‘This is DS Lombardi. Could you put me through to Neville Stewart?’ he requested.

‘DI Stewart is tied up at the moment,’ he was told after an interminable minute of waiting. ‘I’ll get him to ring you back, as soon as he’s free.’

‘Could you tell me,’ Mark asked, ‘whether Leo Jackson is still in
custody
? And Frances Cherry?’

‘Mr Jackson is still with us. DI Stewart is in the process of releasing Mrs Cherry.’

‘Thanks,’ said Mark. ‘Have him ring me as soon as he can. I have some information that could be relevant to his enquiries.’

‘Leo’s in custody?’ Callie echoed.

‘Didn’t I tell you? Apparently he turned himself in this morning.’

She felt utterly confused. ‘But what does Leo have to do with the murder?’

Mark tucked his mobile back in his pocket. ‘We don’t know that yet. But all this fits together, somehow. It’s altogether too convenient, too neat. Whoever killed Jonah Adimola, I think we’ll find out that it had something to do with Leo Jackson.’

‘Leave my father out of it,’ warned Marigold.

‘You’re the one who brought him up. Like you always do. Your precious father, who loved you so much.’

‘How dare you? Where would you be without him?’ She demanded. ‘In prison, most likely. Disgraced, maybe even defrocked. I mean, look what’s happened to that poor Leo Jackson. That could have happened to you, Vincent, if my father hadn’t made sure that the papers never got hold of it.’

She paused, astonished to see that he was smiling – and smugly, at that. ‘Do you really find it amusing, what’s happened to Leo Jackson? That’s just sick, Vincent. I know you don’t like the man, but …’

It was then that a horrible suspicion dawned on her. ‘Vincent! You
didn’t
have anything to do with that, did you? With that young man going to the press?’

He continued to smile. ‘It was very clever, if I say it myself. And clever of you to guess,’ he acknowledged.

‘That’s what you did with my money!’ Marigold realised. ‘You paid Oliver Pickett to go to Lilith Noone!’

He didn’t deny it. ‘And the Church will be spared a liberal bishop with an agenda which goes against everything that right-minded Christians believe,’ he said sanctimoniously. ‘You must see that I was right. I did it for the Church.’

It was the most breathtaking piece of self-delusion she’d ever heard. ‘You said it was a debt!’ she reminded him.

‘Yes. A debt to Mother Church.’ Vincent folded his hands together complacently. ‘I planned it months ago,’ he couldn’t resist adding.

‘But how could you have done? You didn’t know he was going to be a bishop. No one did. It was only announced this week!’

He smiled. ‘You told me yourself.’

‘I told you? That’s insane!’

‘Don’t you remember? One day you came home from lunch with your friends – a wee bit tiddly on champagne, if I remember rightly. You said that one of your friends – Beatrice, was it? – was having an affair with a man who worked at Number Ten. He’d told her about the black bishop who was going to be appointed. He told her, she told you, you told me. Simple as that, my dear.’

Dear God, she thought. He was right. That was why it had sounded familiar to her when the announcement was made.

They sat down and started to eat the antipasto. Five minutes later, Mark’s phone rang.

‘What’s up?’ asked Neville. ‘They said it was important.’

‘Listen, Nev. Did you ever run Vincent Underwood’s name through the computer? Does he have form?’