False Tongues (37 page)

‘What happened?' she couldn't help asking.

‘A man turned up. Out of the blue. An old boyfriend of my wife's, as it turned out.'

Now, instead of maintaining eye contact with Margaret, Keith inspected his fingernails as he told her the next part. The man's relationship with Gemma, when they were both quite young, had been a main cause of her problems with her protective parents, and had been carried out furtively. The habit of secrecy well established, Gemma had continued seeing him for a while, even after she and Keith had married, until they moved away. She loved him then; she continued to love him.

She had never loved her husband. He, poor besotted fool, was merely an expedient way for her to escape from her parents. The other man had been in no position to marry her, so she'd taken the first alternative who had come along—Keith, the smitten vicar.

And then the real shocker: the man claimed that he was Flora's biological father. A blood test had proved it.

‘I don't know whether you can imagine what I went through,' Keith said softly, still not looking at her. ‘My darling daughter…wasn't mine. And when Gemma announced that she was divorcing me and going off with him, there was nothing I could do to stop her.'

‘And Flora?' Margaret's heart ached for him.

‘I had no legal rights to her at all. Even though my name was on the birth certificate, it had been proven that I wasn't her father. They took her away. They changed her surname to his. And they wouldn't let me see her—they didn't even let me know where she was.' He swallowed. ‘I left my parish, of course. There was no way I could stay. That's when I applied to come here, as a tutor in theology. And I put “single” on my application form. Because I was.'

She was beginning to have a glimmer of the truth. ‘Flora?' she prompted again.

‘Last autumn she came to Cambridge, as an undergraduate. I had no idea, of course, and she had no way of knowing that I was here. We hadn't been allowed any contact for nearly ten years.' Keith smiled now, a smile that lit his face and made it almost handsome. ‘We ran into each other, just by chance. Literally. In the fog, on the bridge over the river at Garrett Hostel Lane. I was cycling one way, late for a tutorial, and she was cycling the other way, late for a lecture. Her cycle clipped mine, or the other way round. We both went down. And then…It was…a magical moment. When we recognised each other.'

Margaret was able to imagine it, vividly.

So the girl he'd been kissing was his daughter. Or not his daughter, but someone whom he had regarded as such since the moment of her birth.

‘She's beautiful,' he said proudly. ‘My Flora. And clever, as well, of course. Having her back in my life has been the most wonderful gift. We just picked up where we left off—father and daughter, in every way that matters.'

‘Her mother. Gemma…'

‘She doesn't know. Flora feels guilty, keeping it from her. But it's the only way we can continue to see each other. And that's something neither one of us is willing to give up.' He shook his head, bemused. ‘The other day—the day your secretary must have seen us together—I rang Flora up in a panic, because you were coming to tea. I needed her help. She bakes the most wonderful chocolate cakes, and I had to have one. For you.'

He looked at her at last. Margaret's throat closed up; her eyes welled with tears.

‘It was too soon, then, to tell her why I needed the cake. But things have…happened this week. Marvellous things. So yesterday I took her out for the day, to a pub in the country, to tell her about you. She was so pleased that I'd found someone, after all these years.' Keith smiled. ‘She wants to meet you, Margaret. I hope…'

Margaret blinked back the tears. ‘I'd love to meet her,' she said huskily. ‘She sounds wonderful.'

Afterwards she wasn't sure which of them had made the first move, reaching across the desk. But their hands met halfway, clasped and held on tight.

***

Neville had a short list of two people whom he wished to interview as a matter of urgency. A call to the hospital ascertained that Tom Gresham was definitely out of the woods, which was the good news. The bad news was that he would not be well enough to be questioned by the police until later in the day—some time in the afternoon.

‘I'll ring you when he's ready,' the doctor promised.

The other person on Neville's list was Josh Bradley. There was no point going to the Bradleys' flat too early, Neville reflected; as it was Saturday, he was taking a chance in going at all. He just had to hope that Paul Bradley would be out—doing something at his church, or catching up with lost work.

Josh was no longer a suspect in Sebastian Frost's murder, which meant that he could be questioned without his obstructive father present. That, too, was good news. Still, Neville couldn't help feeling that the boy held the key to what had happened that night, and he had a list of questions for him that needed answers.

Once again he walked through Paddington Green, past the site of the murder. If anything, the shrine was even more dilapidated than it had been—the flowers deader, the notes and cards sodden from the heavy rains, their messages obliterated. No one there to mourn a dead friend. An unpleasant pong of decay wafted from the pile of flowers. Neville wrinkled his nose.

He reached the gates of the mews and pressed the buzzer, warrant card at the ready this time. The unpleasant gatekeeper glowered, nodded, and swung the gates open.

‘Is Mr Bradley at home this morning, do you know?' Neville asked.

‘Nah,' the man stated smugly, little realising that it was an answer to gladden Neville's heart. ‘I seen him go, not thirty minutes ago. You missed him again.'

‘Thanks, mate,' Neville said cheerily. He went to the flat and rang the bell.

‘I said he's gone!' the man called after him. Neville ignored him and pushed the bell again.

Déjà vu
, all over again. Footsteps on the stairs, the bolt drawn back, the chain released. The door opening a crack, revealing Josh's scared face.

‘Hi, Josh,' said Neville.

The boy didn't reply. He wouldn't even make eye contact.

‘I think it's time we had a little talk, don't you?'

Josh stood back and opened the door, just enough for Neville to squeeze through.

***

After the rains of the night before, the sun was shining as Callie and Marco stepped out into the courtyard on their way to breakfast. The sky seemed new-washed to Callie, pale blue and cloudless, and the spring flowers looked to her like brave, battered warriors, their scents intensified by the moisture. A glorious morning; she couldn't remember ever being happier.

Walking hand in hand through the courtyard, they hadn't quite arrived at the dining hall when they were overtaken by a breathless Tamsin.

‘Oh. My. God,' she gasped. ‘You're Marco!'

‘I believe so,' he smiled. ‘And you're…'

Callie performed an extravagant flourish with her arm. ‘Marco, may I present my dear friend Tamsin? And Tamsin, as you've surmised, this is Marco. My fiancé,' she added proudly, and was rewarded with a warm smile and a squeeze of her hand.

‘Tamsin, it's a great pleasure to meet you,' Marco said, with a courtly little bow. ‘Callie's told me so much about you.'

‘And she's told me so much about
you
.' Tamsin seemed about to say something else; Callie shot her a warning look.

‘We're going to have some breakfast,' Marco said. ‘Would you care to join us?'

‘I'd love to.' Tamsin fell into step beside Callie as they resumed their progress toward the dining hall. ‘Mission accomplished?' she whispered.

Callie turned her head and caught Tamsin's eye. ‘Mission accomplished,' she mouthed, with a wide grin. She didn't even blush.

***

It wasn't that the Bradleys' flat was dirty—it wasn't. But there was something about it, Neville realised immediately, that indicated the lack of a female presence: a certain staleness in the air, a general feeling that corners had been cut, or more likely just overlooked.

To Neville's surprise, Josh took him not to the lounge, but to the kitchen. There the boy sprawled on a hard wooden chair, leaning his elbows on the table. The table was covered with a faded floral oilcloth, easy—Neville suspected—to wipe clean after meals. On one end of the table, a plastic tray held a pair of salt-and-pepper shakers in the shape of dogs, one black and one white, as well as a bottle of tomato ketchup and another of brown sauce.

To his further surprise, Neville found himself feeling sorry for the boy. What kind of a life was it for a young lad, being brought up by a religious nutter? ‘Your father isn't here?' he asked unnecessarily.

‘He's gone to church,' said Josh. ‘Weekends, he spends most of his time there. Saturdays he helps to get things set up for Sunday.'

‘Your mother,' Neville said. ‘How long has she been…gone?'

Josh swallowed, his Adam's apple visibly bobbing up and down. ‘Nearly a year. It'll be a year in June since cancer killed Mum.'

‘You must miss her.'

The boy nodded. ‘This was her favourite room. She used to be in here all the time, cooking, ironing, pottering about. I'd come home from school and sit here to do my homework and talk to her.'

That explained why he'd chosen this room for the interview, then—it was his comfort zone. On impulse, Neville asked him, ‘Did your mum know that you're gay?'

Josh nodded again. ‘I could talk to her about it, no problem. She said she'd always known, ever since I was little. It didn't bother her. She said it was just part of me, who I am.'

‘But your father doesn't feel the same.'

‘No way.' Josh snorted. ‘You've heard him. He thinks gay people are the devil's spawn. He'd kill me if I told him.'

Or at least subject him to some horrible exorcism, or enroll him in a programme to straighten him out, Neville reckoned.

‘Not that I've actually…you know.
Done
anything,' Josh said, averting his eyes and blushing. ‘With anyone else, I mean. But as far as my dad's concerned, you don't have to. Just being gay makes you evil and sinful. That's why I couldn't answer your questions at the police station, when he was there.'

‘Well, he's not here now.' Neville leaned back in his chair. ‘So I can ask you some things, and you'll give me proper answers, right?'

‘I'll try.'

No point beating about the bush. ‘Okay, Josh. The first thing I'd like to know is this: why did you confess? Why did you tell me that you'd killed Sebastian, when you didn't do it?'

This evidently wasn't the question Josh had been expecting. He frowned, hesitated, and said, ‘I'm afraid I can't tell you that.'

‘You're protecting someone, aren't you?'

‘How did you—' The boy bit off the end of his startled exclamation; to cover his confusion he got up and went to the fridge, turning his back on Neville as he pulled out a can of Coke. ‘Do you want one?' he offered.

‘No, thanks. But I'd like you to answer my question, Josh. Because I know that you're protecting someone. And I think I know who it is.'

‘You couldn't know.' As soon as he'd said the words, Josh looked as if he wished he could call them back.

‘Right. Now we know where we stand.' Neville waited while Josh sat back down, popped the tab on the can, and gulped down some Coke.

Josh avoided his eyes. ‘You couldn't know,' he repeated stubbornly.

‘It's Tom Gresham, isn't it?'

The boy raised his eyes and stared at him.

Neville fired off another shot in the dark. ‘And you're protecting him because you're in love with him, aren't you?'

Josh pressed his lips together, lowering his head.

‘All right, Josh,' Neville said in a reasonable voice. ‘I can understand protecting someone you love. I might even do the same. But what I can't understand is how you can be in love with someone who bullies you. Someone who calls you filthy names and posts horrible things on Facebook about you.'

Once again Josh spoke without thinking. ‘He doesn't!'

‘Oh, but he does. He and Sebastian were friends—you know that. He's one of that little gang who've turned picking on you into an art form.'

Josh must have realised that he'd already gone too far to deny it all now. ‘He told me that he didn't,' he muttered. ‘He said it was Seb and Hugo. Darth Vader and Luke Skywalker. And some of their other friends.'

‘Tom is Han Solo,' Neville said, watching as Josh went pale and silent, working out the implications. He allowed him just enough time to let it sink in before firing his next question. ‘What really happened that night, Josh?' He added, a bit more gently, ‘I think you know that you have to tell me. It's no good trying to protect Tom. He doesn't deserve it, and it's too late. We're on to him.'

The boy's shoulders sagged in defeat; he squeezed his eyes shut. ‘I was there that night,' he whispered, almost inaudibly. ‘Paddington Green.'

‘So you saw what happened?'

‘No.' Josh gave an emphatic shake of his head. ‘I don't know what happened. That's the thing.'

Neville took a deep breath; for the first time since he'd stood over Sebastian's body on Paddington Green, he felt that he might actually be getting close to the truth. ‘Tell me what you
do
know,' he said gently.

‘I was there,' Josh repeated. ‘Earlier than I said. My dad went to bed early. And like I told you, I got the kitchen knife out of the drawer.' His eyes tracked to the other side of the kitchen, to one of the drawers.

‘So you were intending to…hurt someone?'

‘Myself.' He spat the word out as if it were poison. ‘I didn't text Seb. I texted Tom. I told him to meet me on Paddington Green. I said I needed to talk to him.'