False Tongues Read Free Page A

hated more than being woken out of a deep sleep by an emergency call, it was for the phone to go when he’d just managed to fall asleep after a bout of insomnia.
    To be fair, it didn’t happen that often. There weren’t too many criminal incidents in the middle of the night that couldn’t be dealt with by a more junior policeman—a detective constable or a detective sergeant, or even a beat officer. Traffic violations, drug busts, vandalism, drunken rowdyism: Neville need not be called from his bed for any of these.
    But murder was something different.
    And this murder was literally in his professional backyard—on the open common ground called Paddington Green, behind the police station.
    A late dog walker had discovered the body—just the other side of the walk from the churchyard—and because of its proximity to the station it hadn’t taken long for the police to reach the crime scene and cordon it off with plastic tape. As it was a Sunday night, though, and Easter to boot, few officers were on duty. When Neville arrived, feeling hard done-by, the SOCO team was just beginning to assemble near the square bulk of the church and the photographer hadn’t got there yet. Neither had Neville’s sergeant, DS Sid Cowley, but at least the police doctor was there and had made the necessary examination to ascertain death.
    It was to him that Neville naturally gravitated for a quick rundown of the state of play.
    â€˜He’s dead, all right,’ Dr Tompkins said with characteristic brusqueness. ‘Stabbed. In the neck.’
    Neville felt a chill like icy fingers on the back of his own neck. It was spring; the day had been warm, but that didn’t mean it didn’t cool off quite substantially at night. At least that was Neville’s story, and he intended sticking with it. ‘Do we know who he is?’
    Colin Tompkins shook his head. ‘Young lad. On his own. He might have some ID on him, but we’ve left him for you to have a look.’
    Neville nodded approvingly; the less mucking about with the crime scene and the body, the better. ‘Murder weapon?’ he asked, falling in with Dr Tompkins’ terse speech pattern.
    â€˜Knife. No sign of it yet.’
    Another one, then. Neville closed his eyes and sighed. There had been so many of them lately: young men, little more than boys, killing each other with knives. What a waste. What a bloody, stupid waste.
    ***
    Callie had very nearly changed her mind and stayed at home. Before the night was over, she wished she had.
    Adam was a complication she had certainly not counted on. Spending the better part of a week in proximity to him—and in such emotive, evocative surroundings—was the last thing she needed at this point in her life. Just going back to the place they’d met was difficult enough to contemplate, let alone with him there.
    It wasn’t too late to change her mind, she’d told herself, breathing deeply to control her panic. After all, Adam had changed his, virtually at the last minute. The success of the week didn’t depend on her being there. Tamsin would miss her, and Val and Nicky, but they’d get on fine without her.
    Then Callie remembered Peter. He was on his way; he’d be here in a few minutes. To stay.
    It was impossible. She was not going to share her flat with Peter again. Peter here on his own was bad enough; for her to be here with him just wasn’t going to work.
    She had to go to Cambridge. There was no alternative. No backing out now.
    ***
    A bloody, stupid waste.
    Neville looked down at the body in the feeble light of his hand-held torch, then crouched down for a closer look and swallowed hard. He wasn’t squeamish; he’d seen enough violent deaths in his time that he knew he shouldn’t be bothered. But this was just a kid. Just a lad, with a tangle of dark curls and downy cheeks that had probably never seen a razor. He’d expected some