Deep Waters (11 page)

When Callie went into Jodee and Chazz’s townhouse, she’d had to fight her way through the press gathered on the pavement, but by the time she and Mark came out, a couple of hours later, the pavement was clear of all but the odd oblivious pedestrian.

‘News conference,’ Mark said. ‘Neville’s holding it in the briefing room at the station. No one’s going to miss that.’

Callie had psyched herself up for the cameras; now she was aware that she was shaking with emotion. ‘Oh, Marco,’ she said, her voice wobbly.

He turned to her, looking concerned. ‘Are you all right?’

‘No. I’m not.’

More than anything she wanted to go home—back to her cosy flat. She wanted to make a pot of tea, light a fire, curl up on the sofa with Bella—and Marco. She did
not
want to go to the vicarage, to that horrible room. To Jane’s accusing eyes and pursed lips.

‘I think you need a drink,’ Marco said.

She shook her head. ‘Not a drink, no. I just need…’ What
did
she need? ‘To be with you,’ she finished. ‘Can we go somewhere? Where we can just talk?’

‘How about the church?’

The church. Not perfect, but it would do. Brian wouldn’t be there, Jane wouldn’t be there. With any luck, no one else would, either.

She allowed him to lead her there, a protective arm round her shoulders. All Saints’ Church, a mere three minutes’ walk away, was unlocked; it was empty of people. Though the day had been overcast, the sun had been trying to fight its way out and as they entered the church a shaft of afternoon sun escaped the cloud cover and streamed through the stained glass of the west window, illuminating dust motes in the air and creating coloured pools on the stone flags of the floor.

A sign?

Marco steered her towards a pew. ‘Not here,’ Callie said. ‘The Lady Chapel.’

The Lady Chapel, at the southeast corner of the building, was more secluded and private than the nave. Separated from the nave by a carved wooden screen, it was the smaller space in which weekday services were held. The fixed pews had been removed in favour of more flexible seating—chairs which could be shifted about as needed. The rogue beam of sunlight hadn’t penetrated
here; in the dim half-light, Callie felt sufficiently shielded from potential public view to move closer to Marco, to put her arms round him and rest her head on his shoulder.

‘What’s the matter,
Cara mia
?’ he asked, hugging her close.

‘That was…horrible.’

It wasn’t as if she’d never counselled bereaved parishioners before. Brian considered it part of her training to do her share of pre-funeral visits, talking to people who had just lost loved ones, providing practical advice, trying to glean enough information about the deceased to cobble together a halfway decent sermon for the funeral. Sometimes she’d even known the people in question—church-goers in whose lives she had already become involved and about whom she cared personally. More often they were people like Jodee and Chazz, residents of the parish who were entitled by law to take advantage of the three-fold public services of their parish church: hatch, match, and dispatch. Baptisms, weddings, funerals.

Like Jodee and Chazz, but…
not
like them.

It wasn’t their fame that set them apart. That had nothing to do with it, as far as Callie was concerned.

No. This was the first time she’d dealt, up close and personal, with the death of a baby. And she’d found it impossible to keep her feelings out of it.

It was her job to be professional, neutral, sympathetic but not involved. To provide the bereaved with reassurance and information. To help them choose a few hymns, talk through the form the service would take, give them advice about local funeral directors. To listen, if they wanted to talk about their loss, and supply tissues if they needed to cry.

But…a
baby
. A tiny baby, not even two months old.

They’d showed her photos, from the pre-natal scan to the first birth photos to the most recent pictures of little Muffin, dressed all in pink.

The parents were raw, hurting. Reeling in disbelief that this tiny, precious creature had been taken from them.

And all she’d wanted to do was…cry.

She’d managed to hold it together, just. She hadn’t broken down in front of them. She’d given them the information they needed, expressed sympathy, agreed to take the funeral herself if that was what they wanted.

‘But you were brilliant,’ Marco said. ‘The things you said—they were exactly right. Exactly what they needed to hear.’

‘I was…useless.’

He tightened his arms round her. ‘You weren’t. You did your job,
Cara mia
. I was proud of you.’

‘And you…’ It was the first time she’d actually seen Marco at work, and she’d been impressed. His job was every bit as
difficult
as hers, Callie realised. In some ways, even more difficult: she was allowed to be sympathetic, and so was he, but he had to keep it in balance with the information-seeking functions of a police officer.

Surely,
surely
he couldn’t suspect that those poor, heartbroken people had in any way knowingly contributed to the death of their baby?

‘I’ve never worked on a SIDS case before,’ he admitted. ‘It’s really grim.’

‘Do you have to go back there?’ Callie hoped he would say no. It had been less than three days since she’d seen him but it seemed like weeks.

‘Not today. They need some time on their own.’

‘So do we,’ Callie murmured into his shoulder, suddenly shy.

Marco stroked her hair; she shivered, then felt herself go hot all over. She wanted him to kiss her and not stop for a very long time. But they were in church, where someone could walk in at any moment.

‘Well, I have a little plan,’ he said. ‘We need to go to Serena’s, to deliver Chiara’s present.’

‘It’s in my bag,’ she remembered.

‘Then,
Cara mia
, after that, we’ll go somewhere for a meal. Just the two of us.’

‘I’d like that,’ Callie said. ‘Very much.’

Before they could carry out their plans, though, Callie had to go back to the vicarage to change out of her clericals and to wrap Chiara’s present. Mark, too, wanted to change clothes and smarten up a bit. They arranged to meet up in an hour or so.

Letting herself into the vicarage with her key, Callie heard the sound of the television coming from the sitting room and crept up the stairs to her room. It seemed even bleaker without Bella there to greet her. She looked over at the space in the corner where Bella’s bed had been, her eyes prickling with tears, missing her dog. Trying not to think about it, she quickly located her favourite jumper, one she’d had from Peter for Christmas.

Once she’d changed, she got out the CD and realised that she had nothing with which to wrap it. There wasn’t time to go out and buy a sheet of wrapping paper, so she was going to have to throw herself on Jane’s mercy.

‘Come in!’ Brian called out to Callie’s tentative tap on the sitting room door.

The Stanfords were side-by-side on their ugly old brown Dralon sofa, watching an ancient black-and-white film, drinking cups of tea. ‘Sorry to bother you,’ said Callie.

‘Would you like some tea?’ Brian indicated the pot on the coffee table. ‘We can get another cup.’

‘Thanks, but I won’t.’

‘Then take a seat. The film is nearly over, but it’s a good one. Cary Grant. The one where—’

Jane cut him off. ‘Was there something particular you wanted?’

Callie held up the CD. ‘I need a bit of wrapping paper and some sellotape. If it isn’t too much trouble.’

Jane’s long-suffering sigh told Callie that it was indeed too much trouble, but that she considered it part of the lot of a vicar’s wife to put up with such things. ‘Come with me,’ Jane instructed, getting up and heading towards the kitchen.

‘Sellotape,’ she said, as she retrieved it from a drawer an slapped it on the countertop. ‘I suppose you’ll need scissors as well?’

‘Yes, thanks.’

The scissors joined the sellotape, then Jane pulled out a deep drawer and Callie got a glimpse of folded and stacked pieces of wrapping paper, crammed in almost to overflowing. ‘Is there a
particular
occasion?’ Jane asked. ‘Birthday? Wedding? New baby?’

‘Birthday. For a teenage girl.’

Jane leafed through the paper and pulled a square out, holding it up as if to judge the size. ‘This should do,’ she said briskly.

It was pink, decorated with flowers and ‘Happy Birthday’ inscriptions. It was also creased and had fragments of sellotape on the edges. ‘It’s…been used?’ Callie ventured.

‘Of course. I never buy new wrapping paper.’ Jane looked smug rather than defensive. ‘Waste not, want not. You just cut off the edges and no one can tell the difference.’

‘Uh…thanks.’ Callie took the paper from her. ‘I really appreciate it.’

She wrapped the package quickly at the kitchen table, under Jane’s watchful eye. Was Jane afraid that she was going to pocket her scissors or the roll of sellotape?

‘The dog is gone?’ Jane asked.

‘Yes. To my friend Frances’ house.’ Again Callie’s eyes
prickled
; she didn’t trust herself to say any more.

It had been a painful parting, that morning. She knew that Frances and Graham would take good care of Bella, give her her meals on time and let her out in the garden at regular intervals
to do her business, even take her for walks. But Callie was going to miss her. Stopping by for the occasional walk just wouldn’t be the same.

Bella hadn’t been the only guest at the vicarage in Notting Hill; Callie had been more than a bit surprised to find Triona in residence. Triona, just a week after her wedding! Though she’d been at the wedding, Callie didn’t know Triona well—she knew her through Frances, and through Marco’s friendship with Neville Stewart.

And the latter connection posed a potential problem. The ins and outs of the situation hadn’t been explained to Callie, but it was pretty clear that Triona was in hiding and didn’t want her new husband to know where she was. Could she, then, tell Marco that she’d seen her? She was sure she could trust him with confidential information, but was that putting him in too difficult a position with his friend Neville?

Callie had no great love for Neville Stewart, yet she could imagine that he must be frantic with worry over his wife’s whereabouts.

Still, Callie told herself firmly, it wasn’t her business.

Her other concern was closer to home and more immediate.

She and Marco were going to Serena’s house. He’d said that Serena would be at work, that Chiara would be at home with her father.

Callie hoped he was right.

For some reason she was unable to fathom, Serena made her uncomfortable. She knew that she and Serena should get on like a house on fire, with all they had in common: they both loved Marco, for starters. And Serena’s ill treatment at the hands of her husband Joe should have inspired not only pity but
fellow-feeling
, considering that Callie had been dumped by her fiancé Adam. The way Marco had always talked about his sister, with huge affection and respect, Callie had expected to hit it off wonderfully with her from their first meeting.

That hadn’t happened. Serena was invariably courteous and hospitable, but Callie sensed no warmth there. Serena kept her distance.

‘She doesn’t like me,’ Callie had said to Marco, more than once.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,
Cara mia
,’ he always replied. ‘You’re just paranoid.’

Callie was sure she wasn’t imagining it. Serena didn’t like her. Was she just being protective of her younger brother, or was it the fact that Joe had seemed to take to Callie right away? Was it jealousy, pure and simple?

There was an even more disturbing corollary. Callie, who prided herself on seeing the best in just about everyone—even her difficult mother; even Adam’s new bride, the lovely Pippa—admitted to herself, if not to Marco, that she didn’t much like Serena either.

Walking towards their meeting place, Mark had a sudden and profound instant of
déjà vu
. It was the same spot where they’d arranged to meet for their first date, though Callie hadn’t wanted to call it that, and as he approached he could see that she was wearing the same cherry red cashmere jumper she’d worn that night.

Six months on, and so much had changed. Then she’d been an attractive woman whom he’d met only once and looked forward to getting to know better. Now she was the centre of his world.

She spotted him and her face lit up in a way that made his heart turn over in his chest. ‘Marco!’ she called, moving towards him.

‘
Cara mia
.’ He kissed her there on the street corner, in the middle of busy, anonymous London, as he’d not felt able to do in the church.

A few minutes later, Chiara opened the door to them, fizzing with birthday excitement. ‘Uncle Marco! Look! I’ve had my ears pierced!’ She pulled her long black hair back to show him the little studs.

‘Nice earrings,’ he said.

She gave him a pitying look. ‘These aren’t the
real
earrings. They’re just sleepers. Until the holes heal up. Isn’t that right?’ she appealed to Callie.

‘That’s right,’ affirmed Callie. ‘Your uncle Marco doesn’t know about things like that.’

‘And I’m going to get my hair cut,’ Chiara went on. ‘So you’ll be able to see my ears better. Mum says I can. Dad’s not very keen. He says he’s old-fashioned, but he likes long hair.’

I’ll bet he does, thought Mark sourly, hoping his distaste wasn’t evident on his face as he imagined an endless
procession
of long-haired undergraduate girls moving through Joe di Stefano’s life.

‘How short are you going to cut it?’ asked Callie. ‘What sort of style?’

‘A bob. Maybe kind of like yours.’ Chiara put her hands at her chin-line with a chopping motion. ‘I really want to have it like Jodee’s, you know? Asymmetrical? And with some of it bleached blond? But Mum says definitely no to that.’

‘I should think so, too, young lady,’ Mark said with avuncular mock severity.

‘But she looks so cool!’ Then Chiara’s expressive face went suddenly solemn. ‘Her baby died, did you know that? Muffin? Poor Jodee.’

Callie caught his eye; Mark could see that she was thinking the same thing he was: this was definitely not the time to reveal his involvement with Jodee. ‘I’d heard,’ he said neutrally. ‘It’s very sad.’

‘Cot death,’ said Chiara. ‘It happened to my friend at school’s baby brother, last year. He was fine, and one morning there he was, dead. They never did know why.’

Mark looked at Callie, who was pressing her lips together. The last thing he wanted was to let her re-visit this afternoon’s emotions, so he abruptly changed the subject. ‘And you’re a teenager now,
Nipotina
!’

Chiara grinned. ‘So maybe you can stop calling me that. I’m not your
little
niece any longer, Uncle Marco.’

‘Oh, you’re very grown up,’ he agreed.

She squinted her eyes at him suspiciously. ‘Now you’re making fun of me.’

‘Would I do that?’ He pressed a hand to his chest and tried to look innocent.

‘Well, maybe not.’ She gave him a spontaneous hug, and he rubbed the top of her head as he’d always done, realising how much taller she’d grown.

There was something bittersweet in the realisation. Mark had always treasured his relationship with Chiara, which was quite different from the relationship he had with her older sister Angelina. Mark had been a child himself—younger than Chiara was now—when Angelina was born; he wasn’t at all interested in babies in those days, and regarded her as something of a nuisance, if not a rival for Serena’s attention and affections. But by the time Chiara finally came along, after a string of failed pregnancies, he was sufficiently grown up to appreciate having a young niece, a
nipotina
. In his late teens by then, he’d been the right age to be a frequent babysitter; Serena had trusted him with Chiara and a strong bond had been forged from the start. She’d always adored her uncle, who was sufficiently younger than her parents to be ‘cool’.

‘So,’ said Mark, ‘what are the plans for the birthday?’

Chiara squirmed out of his arms. ‘Family party tomorrow. Lunch. You’re coming, aren’t you?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then some of my friends are coming over later. Nonna’s baking the cake, and I’ve asked Mum if she’ll make pizza as well.’

‘Sounds like fun.’

Chiara turned to Callie. ‘Are you coming to lunch as well? I’d like it if you would.’

Callie shook her head. ‘I wish I could. But Sunday’s my busy day,’ she said.

‘Of course. Duh.’ Chiara wacked herself on the side of the head with her open palm.

‘But I’ll be thinking about you.’ Callie rummaged in her bag and handed Mark a wrapped square. ‘Don’t forget about this, Marco,’ she said. ‘The main reason we’re here.’

Chiara produced a most un-grownup squeal. ‘Oh, a prezzie!’ She snatched it from his outstretched hand and ripped the paper off. ‘Karma! Oh, Uncle Marco—it’s just what I wanted!’

Well, Serena’s suggestion had been right on the money, then.

‘This album is
so
wicked. Mega. Have you listened to it?’

‘No,’ he admitted. ‘I’m not really up on Karma.’

Another pitying look. ‘She won “Junior Idol”. Last year.’

‘So I understand.’

Chiara consulted her watch. ‘That reminds me—it’s almost half-past six. Nearly time for it—for “Junior Idol”.’

‘Well, I guess we’d better be going then.’ Mark looked at Callie, who nodded.

‘Oh, you can’t leave now! You’ve just got here, Uncle Marco. You have to stay and watch “Junior Idol” with us. Tonight’s the semi-final!’

‘With
us
?’

‘Me and Dad.’ Chiara went to the foot of the stairs and called up. ‘Dad! It’s almost time.’

Mark wouldn’t have expected Joe to be a ‘Junior Idol’ fan. But then, he told himself bitterly, some of the contestants were probably pretty young girls. Young, as in junior. ‘Why is it called “
Junior
Idol”?’ he asked Chiara.

‘They have to be under twenty-one.’ She shook her head. ‘I thought everyone knew that.’