Evil Intent Read Free Page A

there, she dredgesup some young women and makes sure I meet them. It’s my duty, she says. My duty to la famiglia.’
    ‘Sounds just like my granny,’ Neville commiserated. ‘Though in Ireland no one expects a bloke to get married before he’s forty. It’s well known that the sap doesn’t start to rise till then.’
    Mark, in the process of sipping his beer, sputtered and choked. When he’d recovered, he pointed out to his friend, ‘You don’t have much time left, then. You’ll be forty in a couple of years. Then no more excuses.’
    ‘Don’t remind me,’ Neville groaned.
    Neville wasn’t averse to women: far from it. On the contrary, he was well known amongst his colleagues for his success with the ladies. Blessed with more than his fair share of charm, and above average looks to boot, he could have had his pick of any number of women. But he preferred to sample their goods – freely offered – rather than buy into anything permanent. ‘I’m just not ready to settle down,’ was his mantra. So far he’d managed to get away with it.
    ‘Let’s change the subject,’ said Neville, knocking back half his glass in one swallow. ‘What were you doing at your desk this afternoon? I thought you were off until tomorrow.’
    ‘As a matter of fact, it had something to do with my trip to Italy.’ Mark followed suit and took a long drink, aware that the next round was his and that Neville would soon be ready for a second Guinness. ‘Tying up some paperwork. Turns out there was some bloke on the plane who had bumped off his wife in Venice, and thought he’d get away with it.’
    ‘Oh, I heard something about that.’ Neville assumed a look of professional interest.
    ‘The usual story, it seems. Clearing the way for another woman. His Italian girlfriend came back with him on his wife’s passport.’
    ‘Doesn’t sound like Immigration were doing their job,’ grumbled Neville.
    ‘I’m sure they’ll catch hell for it, if that’s any consolation.’
    ‘So how did he get caught? If they made it through Immigration?’
    Mark drained his glass. ‘That’s a long story, best left for the next pint. I’ll get you one, shall I?’

     
    Evensong was over; in the vestry, vicar and curate took off their surplices and cassocks. ‘Shall I go home and change?’ Callie asked.
    ‘Mufti? Oh, no need for that,’ Brian Stanford assured her. ‘Just come along with me. Jane will be waiting.’
    It was only a short distance, but the wind was blowing cold, and Callie didn’t have the benefit of a clerical cloak like the one Brian wore; she was glad to reach the vicarage, with its promise of warmth.
    The warmth, though, was merely relative, as the heating had only just come on. Brian apologised, adding, ‘If it were up to Jane, we wouldn’t put the heating on at all until the end of October, no matter what the weather. She tells me that I have no idea how expensive heating oil is.’ He shook his head. ‘And I’m afraid she’s right – I don’t worry about things like that. I leave it all to her.’
    Jane appeared at that moment, proffering a small bowl of crisps. ‘Would you like a drink, Miss Anson?’ she asked. ‘Wine? Sherry? Fruit juice?’
    Brian intervened before Callie could reply. ‘I’ll open a bottle of wine, shall I?’
    ‘Yes, all right.’ Jane sat on the sofa, and indicated that Callie should take one of the arm chairs.
    ‘It’s so kind of you to have me,’ Callie said impulsively. ‘I do hope it hasn’t caused you any trouble.’
    ‘It’s our pleasure, Miss Anson,’ said Jane, without warmth.
    ‘Oh, please – do call me Callie. Everyone does.’
    Jane seemed to be inspecting her. ‘An unusual name.’
    She was used to explaining it. ‘My given name is Caroline,’ she said. ‘But when we were small my younger brother couldn’t say his “r”s. So I’ve been called Callie ever since.’
    Brian came through from the kitchen with a bottle of red wine and three glasses. ‘Here we