Evil Intent Read Free

and pulled things out of the freezer. At the back she made a serendipitous discovery: a container labelled ‘Bolognese sauce’. It was a legacy from a parish supper, some months ago now, when they had ambitiously over-catered; the left-overs had been prodigious in quantity. ‘You take it, Jane,’ the other women on the catering team had urged. ‘You have those boys to feed, and Father Brian.’ So Jane had filled a shelf of the freezer with little containers, and they’d eaten Bolognese until the boys were sick of it. This one little remnant of that bounty had escaped undetected, and now was welcomed by Jane as a positive Godsend. Never mind that it might not be at its best. There was a nub of cheese in the fridge, and if she grated that over the top perhaps it wouldn’t be noticed.
     
    ‘Do you fancy a pint, mate?’ Neville Stewart paused by the desk of his colleague Mark Lombardi.
    ‘Great, Nev.’ Mark looked up at him, distracted from his paperwork for just an instant. ‘I’ve nearly finished.’
    They were among a dwindling number of policemen left at the station, early on Sunday evening. Neither of them was scheduled to be there, but both had come in for their own reasons, and now it seemed the right time for them to call a halt to their activities and leave together for some liquid refreshment.
    Neville Stewart was an Irishman by birth. His name, with its roots so strongly on the eastern rather than the western side of the Irish Sea, was a source of mild amusement, sometimes hilarity, amongst the English. But in Dublin, where he’d grown up, it was little short of an incitement to riot. ‘I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had the crap beat out of me because of my name,’ he’d once told Mark. ‘Very early on, I knew there were only twothings I could do about it: change my name, or leave Ireland.’ London had proved a safe haven for him, and in spite of the soft Irish lilt in his voice which he’d retained, and his predeliction for drinking Guinness, he had assimilated very well. Now in his late thirties, he had risen through the ranks of the CID to become a Detective Inspector, and a very good one, with responsibility for major crimes.
    Mark Lombardi was a few years younger – just over thirty – and a Detective Sergeant whose speciality in the CID was as a Family Liaison Officer. He was London born and bred, though both of his parents had come from Italy, and he was proud of his Italian roots.
    There was a natural affinity between the two, not least because of their non-English backgrounds, and they often had a drink together when their schedules permitted it. These drinking sessions sometimes went on for rather longer than intended but, unlike most of their colleagues, neither of them had anyone at home waiting for them – no wife, no girlfriend – so it didn’t matter, as long as they were in fit condition for their next stint of duty.
    The pub to which they regularly repaired was an anonymous sort of place without a great deal of character, but it possessed the virtue of being close to the station, and the beer was a few pence cheaper than in the more upmarket pubs. Besides, they offered Guinness on draught.
    ‘My turn to buy, I think,’ Neville announced. Mark found a table, and Neville joined him a few minutes later, balancing a pint of Guinness in one hand and a Peroni in the other, trying hard not to lose a precious drop of either.
    ‘So,’ said Neville, after they’d quaffed the first few refreshing mouthfuls, ‘I haven’t seen you since you got back from Italy. Had a good time, did you?’
    ‘Fine. I always enjoy Venice.’
    ‘And your granny was in good health?’
    ‘Remarkable,’ said Mark. ‘She’s in her eighties, but she’s very fit. She still does her own shopping every day.’
    ‘She’s still on at you to find yourself a wife?’
    Mark shrugged and nodded. ‘She won’t give up until I do. And of course she keeps trying to help me out – every time I’m