Deep Waters (15 page)

The Italian Church in Clerkenwell was like a little slice of Italy; with its grand baroque architecture and its lavish furnishings—its wall paintings, statues and gilding, its mosaics and coloured marble—it was embellished within an inch of its life. And to Mark, it had always been synonymous with
church
. The only church he’d ever really known.

Certainly he had never even been inside an Anglican church. Not until very recently, when he’d begun slipping into little parish churches on his travels round London. How alien they
seemed to him—the grey stone Victorian ones, with their quiet gothic piety, and the clean white Wren churches of the City. Alien, yet somehow appealing in their relative simplicity. He longed to attend a service in one, to see what it was like. For one who had lived his entire life in London, he was, he felt, woefully ignorant on the subject of the Church of England.

When visiting one church, he’d picked up and paid for a book at the bookstall:
What Anglicans Believe
. He’d been reading it, and was surprised to discover that Anglicans believed pretty much the same things he’d always been taught. He wasn’t sure he believed all of them himself any more, but that wasn’t really the point. For people to believe
anything
in this secular age was rather remarkable.

Mark hadn’t discussed his flirtation with Anglicanism with anyone, not with Callie—and certainly not with Mamma.

One of these days, and soon, he would go to a service at Callie’s church. Maybe on a Sunday when he knew she was preaching. He wouldn’t tell her he was coming; perhaps he’d be able to slip in and sit at the back and listen to her sermon without her knowing he was there.

Soon, but not today. Today was Chiara’s birthday, and Mass with
la famiglia
was compulsory.

After his extra ten minutes, Mark stretched again and got out of bed. Time for his bath.

It was only then that he remembered that he needed to ring Neville, to find out what was going on and learn whether he would have to alter his plans for the day. He picked up his mobile from the bedside table.

Before he could summon up Neville’s number, the phone rang in his hand. Mark squinted at the caller ID: not Neville, as he might have expected, but Serena.

‘Hello?’

‘Marco.’ Her voice was as calm as ever. ‘I’m glad I caught you, before you left. There’s a change of plan.’

Mark frowned. There was
never
a change of plan on Sunday. Unless…‘Mamma’s not ill, is she? Or Pappa?’

‘No.’ There was a fractional pause. ‘It’s Joe, Marco. He’s… not well.’

‘Joe!’

‘He went out running first thing this morning. He’s been doing that lately, nearly every day. And when he got back he was…dizzy, he said. Sick. Having a hard time breathing.’

‘Heart attack?’ Mark had seen a few of those in middle-aged men who suddenly took up rigourous physical exercise.

‘That’s what the paramedics think. I rang for them when he didn’t seem to be getting any better.’

‘And…?’

‘They came straight away. We’re on the way to hospital now. In the ambulance.’

‘So you’re with him. What about Chiara?’

‘She was still in bed when we left. I didn’t want to wake her. And I don’t want to disturb Mamma yet. Could you go there now, Marco? Could you?’ For the first time he detected emotion in her voice: on behalf of her daughter, not her husband.

‘I’m on my way,’ Mark said, reaching for last night’s discarded trousers.

Though he’d downed a fair few pints of Guinness the night before, Neville was feeling as well as could be expected on Sunday morning. And his mind was perfectly clear, especially after a shower, a shave and a cup of strong instant coffee.

His search for Triona, at their respective flats, had been fruitless, but his subconscious reasoning powers had been hard at work and he’d waked in the middle of the night with the sort of crystal-clear revelation which occasionally manifested itself in his job—and had given him the reputation for being a good, intuitive detective.

Triona wasn’t at her flat. Where would she have gone? Not to an hotel. The answer was bloody obvious, staring him in the face: she would be with a friend. And what friend more probable than Frances Cherry? Frances, the priest and professional shoulder-
to-cry-on
. Frances, who had attended Triona at the wedding.

Frances would also protect and shield Triona. Would she lie if he rang her and asked her straight out whether she knew where Triona was? That was an interesting question; as a priest, could she tell a deliberate falsehood? As a friend, would she betray a confidence?

At any rate, he hoped he wouldn’t have to put her to the test.

He wouldn’t ring. He would go to her house.

It was Sunday morning. With any luck, both Frances and her husband Graham would be in church. If he timed his visit right…

First, though, he had a phone call to make. Mark Lombardi hadn’t returned his call, and although it wasn’t urgent, it was fairly important for Mark to be fully in the picture, in case he felt
compelled
to check in on Jodee and Chazz at some point today.

Mark’s phone was evidently switched off, Neville soon
discovered
. He left another message, made sure he looked as presentable as possible, and set off for the Central Line Tube station.

Shepherd’s Bush is a large area, roughly triangular in shape, served by two Underground lines at some distance from each other. To the west is the Hammersmith and City Line,
providing
easy access to Paddington for Neville on those days when he didn’t need to take a car into work, and it was at that end of Shepherd’s Bush, near the Goldhawk Road, that Neville lived. The Central Line station, to the east across Shepherd’s Bush Common, borders the much more upmarket Holland Park; as its name implies, that line leads into the centre of the City, via Notting Hill Gate and Oxford Street.

London was relatively quiet on Sunday morning, and the weather was mild, with a definite promise of spring in the air. By the time he’d crossed the common and reached the Tube station, Neville decided that he might as well walk the rest of the distance.

Graham Cherry’s vicarage was to the north of Holland Park Avenue. Neville knew the way; he’d been there on a number of occasions in a professional capacity. As he approached, he was overwhelmed with a powerful sense of
déjà vu
, remembering the last time he’d been there. The weather had been autumnal that day; it was first thing in the morning, barely light, and he’d been there in the company of DS Sid Cowley to carry out an arrest.

The vicarage was set back from the pavement. Neville went through the wrought iron gate, walked up the short path to the door and rang the bell.

Nothing happened, not then and not after he’d rung a second time.

He experienced just a second or two of doubt. Had he been wrong, then?

No. She was there; he felt it in his bones. She just wasn’t going to come to the door.

Well, he wouldn’t give up so easily. Neville put his palm on the bell and held it down, hearing a muffled buzz from inside the vicarage. A dog started barking, tentatively at first and then more persistently.

He didn’t remember that Frances Cherry had possessed a dog. Well, things could change in six months.

Could they ever.

Someone was coming. He heard footsteps approaching the door, a low voice speaking to the dog, the knob of the Yale lock being turned.

She stood behind the door, barefoot, her dressing gown
falling
from her shoulders. Obviously just awakened from sleep. Her hair was loose and tousled, and Neville had never seen her look more beautiful or fanciable. Desire shot through him like a spike of electricity. His hand fell from the bell. ‘God,’ he said tremulously. ‘Triona.’

Triona pulled her dressing gown round her, crossing her arms over her chest, but she didn’t shut the door in his face. ‘Hello, Neville,’ she said, her voice as unreadable as her expression, then after a moment added, ‘I suppose you’d better come in.’

Mark let himself into Serena’s house with his own key. There was no sign of Chiara.

In days gone by—and not so long ago, either—he would have thought nothing of going into Chiara’s room without
announcing
himself. Now that she was thirteen, though, that seemed an unacceptable invasion of her privacy. He stood by her door, hesitating, and finally gave a tentative knock. ‘Chiara?’

‘Come in,’ was the muffled reply.

Chiara was in bed, her dark hair all over the pillow and her eyes screwed shut.

‘Sorry to wake you, sleeping beauty,’ he said, feeling
awkward
. The room was almost the same as ever: pink walls, heaps
of stuffed animals, though with the recent addition of a Karma poster blu-tacked over the bed. It was Chiara herself who was somehow different.

Her eyes opened in a squint. ‘Uncle Marco! Where’s Mum?’

‘She’s…not here. Your father—’

Chiara was out of bed in a bound, her face white with shock. ‘She’s killed him, hasn’t she?’ she blurted.

He stared at her, equally shocked. ‘Why on earth would you say that?’

She lowered her head, averting her eyes. ‘I had a bad dream. Never mind. Tell me.’

‘He’s had a heart attack. I’m afraid I don’t know much more than that. They’ve taken him to hospital, and your mother has gone with him.’ Mark watched his niece as she processed the information. ‘I’m sure he’ll be okay,’ he added, though he had no basis for saying it other than the desire to reassure.

‘You don’t know that,’ she challenged. ‘He could…die.’

‘The doctors won’t let him die. He’ll be in very good hands, you know. And your mother will make sure he gets the very best care.’

‘Oh…Dad.’ Chiara’s voice broke, tears welling up. She sat down abruptly on the edge of the bed, as though her legs would no longer support her.

Mark perched beside her and put an arm round her shoulders. ‘
Nipotina
,’ he murmured. ‘Your dad will be fine. I promise.’

It said a great deal for her, he realised, that her concern was for her father rather than her ruined birthday celebrations.

And that reminded him that he was going to have to get in touch with Mamma, before she and Pappa left for church. She would be expecting to see them all there, and would have already started preparations for the birthday lunch.

Mamma might flap a bit at first, but she’d take it all in her stride and soon put herself in charge of the situation. Maybe, thought Mark, that was no bad thing. Dealing with families in trauma might be what he did for a living, but when it came to his own family, he was already feeling out of his depth.

Poor Serena, having to deal with something like this, out of the blue. Poor Chiara, having her birthday derailed. And her immediate assumption that her mother had killed her father—what was that about? Serena had assured Mark that she and Joe were keeping things as normal as possible at home for Chiara’s sake; clearly that hadn’t been as successful as she would like to believe. Chiara had obviously picked up on the underlying
tension
and it was coming out in her dreams.

And if Chiara knew, even at an instinctive level, what about Mamma? Mamma had sharp hearing and eyes like a hawk; nothing got past her. Mark had a feeling that if Serena thought Mamma was unaware of her problems with Joe, she was
kidding
herself.

He gave Chiara’s shoulders a squeeze. ‘I’ll ring Nonna now, shall I?’

One black wall. The other walls were pale yellow, but the wall facing him was a shiny jet black. The colour of crows’ wings, liquorice, Triona’s hair. ‘Who would paint a bedroom wall black?’

Neville didn’t realise he’d said the words aloud until Triona answered him. ‘Frances’ daughter. Heather. This was her room. Frances said they keep meaning to repaint it, but haven’t got round to it yet. I think,’ she added, ‘that she was a bit of a
handful
. Heather, that is.’

He rolled over to face her, running his hand down her side, lingering briefly on her breast and coming to rest on the bulge of her stomach. ‘I hope our daughter doesn’t get any ideas like that. If she wants to paint her room black I shall put my foot down.’

Triona’s mouth curved into a smile. ‘I don’t believe that for a minute. You’ll spoil her rotten. You’ll give her whatever she wants.’

‘If she looks like her mother, I’m afraid I will. How could I resist?’

Resistance was futile, and thank God for that.

She’d let him in—just to talk, she’d said. But instead of going into the drawing room or the kitchen she’d brought him to this room, the room where she’d been sleeping, in case Frances and Graham came home from church and interrupted them.

They hadn’t done much talking. She hadn’t even tried to stop him; she’d wanted it as much as he had. And now, by God, he was ready for more. He moved his hand.

Triona covered it with her own to halt its roving. ‘Oh Neville,’ she said with mock severity. ‘This isn’t always the answer, you know.’

‘That depends on what the question is.’ He kissed her
shoulder
. ‘If the question is “what is the most bloody marvellous thing you can do with the woman you adore?”…’

‘Don’t be daft. Sentimentality doesn’t suit you, Stewart.’ But she was smiling as she said it, and she didn’t try to stop his hand when he moved it again.

Half an hour later, dozing, he heard sounds which indicated they were no longer alone in the house: doors opening and closing, distant voices. Instinctively he pulled the sheet over himself.

Triona turned over. ‘I suppose they’re home. You’d better get dressed and get out of here.’

He laughed.

‘I mean it,’ she said. ‘Maybe they’ll be in the kitchen and won’t see you go.’

Neville realised that she
did
mean it, but the very
ridiculousness
of the situation kept him from getting angry. ‘For God’s sake, Triona,’ he said. ‘I’m not some back-door lover-boy. I’m your husband. I refuse to sneak out like I have no right to be here.’

‘Then go and wish Frances and Graham a good day before you leave.’

He sat up. ‘I’m not going without you, Triona. You’re packing your things and coming home with me.’

Triona tipped her head back and regarded him levelly. ‘And where is “home”, exactly?’

That brought him up short for a few seconds. ‘I suppose I was thinking of my flat,’ he admitted. ‘But if you’d rather go to your flat, I’m happy with that as well.’

She didn’t say a word, just looked at him, her lips pressed together.

‘We’ll go house-hunting this week,’ Neville heard himself saying. ‘Make the rounds of the estate agents. You don’t have to go back to work for another week, and—’

‘And you do, don’t you?’ she said tightly. ‘The dead baby, remember? I saw you on the news last night.’

As if on cue, Neville’s phone rang, somewhere amongst his discarded clothes.