False Tongues Read Free Page B

street-hardened gang member, thick-set, covered with tattoos and scars of previous fights. This boy wasn’t like that. He was tall and slender, clean, well-dressed. And so young.
    He was someone’s son.
    Somewhere, perhaps not far away, his parents were wondering where he was. Wondering why he hadn’t come home from an evening out with his mates.
    The police photographer had arrived and was supervising the setting up of lights to illuminate the crime scene. ‘Let’s get on with it,’ Neville muttered, mostly to himself, but the photographer heard him.
    â€˜Keep your hair on, mate. We’re working as fast as we can.’
    â€˜Yeah, yeah.’ Neville rocked back on his heels, then stood up.
    The photographer threw a switch and suddenly the body on the ground was exposed in a glare of bright white light, lying in a pool of darkening blood.
    â€˜Jesus,’ Neville said.
    In addition to the stab wound in the neck, there was blood round the boy’s mouth, difficult to see in the dark but now clearly visible. Neville turned to the doctor, who was still hovering nearby, and pointed down. ‘What’s that about, then?’
    â€˜His tongue,’ said Dr Tompkins quietly. ‘ Looks like it’s been split. With a knife.’
    â€˜Jesus,’ he repeated with feeling. ‘Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.’
    ***
    Travelling by public transport on a Sunday—let alone a holiday—was seldom a good idea, Callie recognised belatedly.
    She’d spent longer talking to Peter than she’d planned, certain that the break-up with Jason was hitting him harder than he was willing to admit, then she’d made the mistake of taking the Tube to Kings Cross rather than grabbing a taxi.
    Services on the London Underground were greatly reduced on Easter, she discovered. In fact, the District and Circle Line wasn’t running at all, due to engineering works, so she had to take the Bakerloo Line from Paddington to Baker Street. Once there, she wheeled her case along endless corridors and down the escalator to the Northern Line platform only to see the tail lights of the departing train disappearing into the tunnel, and when she checked the electronic board for the next service, she was dismayed to see that there wasn’t even one listed.
    The platform was deserted; everyone else had made it onto the train. At least that meant she could sit down to wait for the next one, Callie told herself, dragging her suitcase to one of the plastic chairs bolted to the wall. She got out the envelope with her ticket and checked the time of the Cambridge train, synchronising her watch with the electronic display board on the platform. If the Tube train came within the next ten minutes, she ought to make it.
    The Tube train didn’t come. A few more people rushed onto the platform, looking hopeful or desperate. An unshaven man with a can of cider in his hand wandered over and lowered himself into the chair next to Callie, giving her an appraising sideways look as he took a swig from his can.
    She had debated about whether she should wear her dog collar for the journey, and had decided against it. Now she wasn’t sure she’d made the right decision. Sometimes it seemed to her that a clerical collar was an open invitation to strangers to talk to her, but in a funny way it also felt like a sort of protection, especially for her as a woman.
    Maybe she was being silly, she told herself. This man was almost certainly harmless. Nonetheless she was glad there were other people on the platform.
    Eventually the train roared out of the tunnel, stopping with a squeal and a lurch, its doors sliding open.
    ***
    DS Sid Cowley’s comment on the dead boy was even more terse than Dr Tompkins’: a single monosyllabic expletive said it all.
    â€˜Yeah,’ Neville agreed, turning as his sergeant arrived at his side. Trust Sid to hit the nail on the head.
    â€˜He’s—how old?’ Cowley