Deep Waters (16 page)

The words of the Mass washed over Chiara; even the music, which she usually loved, didn’t reach her today. Her eyes were fixed not on the priest at the altar but on the painting in the dome above the baldacchino: Jesus, his arms upraised, floating in the air above his disciples’ heads as he ascended to heaven. Going to his father.

Usually Chiara said her dutiful prayers at the statue of Our Lady of Fatima, with her serene face and the oversized crown balanced improbably on her inclined head. Today, though, her prayers were all addressed to the ascendant figure in the dome. ‘Jesus, don’t let Dad die,’ she said over and over again in her head, as though through repetition she would achieve a better result.

It had been Nonna’s decision to go to church, in spite of
everything
. ‘What better place to be?’ she’d said. ‘
La chiesa
.’ So they’d met there: Nonna and Nonno, Chiara and Uncle Marco. The others, Chiara was sure, were praying just as hard for Dad as she was.

A living nightmare—that’s what it was. Dad sick, maybe dying. She’d thought that bad dream she’d had—Mum standing over Dad with a knife in her hand—was terrible enough, but this was worse. This was real. Dad might die. Really die.

‘Jesus, don’t let Dad die,’ she said again, this time in a tiny whisper. Beside her, Uncle Marco gave her arm a little squeeze.

Neville rooted round in his clothes till he found his phone, punching the button to answer the call.

‘Stewart? Hereward Rice here,’ announced a crisp voice.

The coroner.

Neville sat down on the bed. ‘I thought you were away for the weekend, Dr Rice. In the country. With your wife.’

‘I am. And my wife would kill me if she knew I was ringing you now. She’s gone off bird-watching for an hour, and I’ve seen enough great-speckled-whatsits to last me a lifetime.’

‘I can sympathise with that, Dr Rice.’ Neville shot a look in the direction of Triona, who was calmly putting her clothes on, her back turned to him.

‘So tell me. What the hell is going on?’

Neville played for time. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I made the mistake of switching on the news last night. I saw your news conference.

‘And?’

‘And what’s all this “inconclusive” bollocks? Did they kill their baby, or didn’t they?’

Hereward Rice was known for getting to the point, and he certainly wasn’t letting his reputation down.

‘Well,’ said Neville, ‘in a way, it’s going to be up to you to say.’

‘Explain yourself.’

‘I don’t think they
did
kill their baby, actually. But according to the preliminary p.m. report, someone shook Muffin Betts at some time in her life. Hard enough to cause a hairline fracture in her neck. It could have contributed to her death. Or maybe not.’

‘And what makes you think the parents didn’t do it, there and then?’

It was time, Neville decided, to come clean with the coroner. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘In the first place, Dr Tompkins thought it had probably happened a few weeks ago. And I’m pretty sure they couldn’t have done it right then, because…they were out of the house when she died. Everyone was. Muffin was alone. My FLO has had that from Mrs Betts, the baby’s grandmother.’

‘Christ almighty,’ said Hereward Rice. ‘Gross neglect, then.’

‘I don’t think so. The grandmother says it was accidental. The parents thought she was there and went out. She was mortified.’

‘She
would
say that, wouldn’t she?’

‘She didn’t have to tell him at all,’ Neville pointed out. ‘She brought it up. Volunteered the information.’

The coroner cleared his throat. ‘Well, I’ll tell you one thing, DI Stewart. There
will
be an inquest.’

‘Yes, I thought you’d say that.’

‘Opening tomorrow afternoon, so I hope you’re free. I’ll need a statement from you before I adjourn.’

‘Tomorrow? That soon? Will it need to include…everything? We’re still in the early stages of our investigation, you realise. And,’ Neville added, ‘there’s a great deal of media interest in this case. I’m sure the press gallery will be packed.’

‘Hmm. I’ll give it some thought.’ There was a brief pause. ‘I think I hear my wife coming. I’ll speak to you tomorrow
morning
, when I’m back at my desk.’

Triona had finished dressing; she stood with her arms crossed over her chest, looking at Neville as he ended the call. ‘It sounds like you won’t be free to go house-hunting tomorrow,’ she said quietly.

‘Well, maybe not tomorrow. But perhaps the next day.’

She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Get real, Neville.’

‘Come back to my flat with me. We can talk about it later.’

‘Later? After we’ve been to bed again, I suppose, and then you’ll get another phone call and first thing you know you’ll go haring off and leave me alone in that revolting flat? I don’t think so.’

‘You’d rather stay in a room with a black wall than come home with me?’

Triona took her time answering. ‘I’m not coming home with you until you have a home to take me to.’ Adding insult to injury, she came to him, pulled him to his feet, and kissed him full on the lips. ‘I mean it, Neville,’ she said, squirming away just as she had him panting for more. ‘And that’s that.’

To Mark’s surprise, Chiara’s birthday celebrations had gone ahead pretty much as planned, in spite of the absence of her parents.
Mamma sensibly pointed out that everything was in place, they all had to eat anyway, and it might serve to distract Chiara, just a little, from worrying about her father.

Admittedly, the family lunch was a flat affair, with just the four of them and so much that wasn’t being said. Mamma made a determined effort to keep things cheerful and upbeat, but Chiara was not so easily deflected.

Serena came home from hospital and joined them before Chiara’s friends were due to arrive. She seemed quite upbeat and positive about Joe’s condition, though Mark suspected that much of it was for Chiara’s benefit.

‘Can I go and see him?’ Chiara wanted to know.

‘Not for a day or two,’ Serena put her off. ‘But he’ll be back home in no time, I’m sure.’

Chiara so badly wanted to believe it that she questioned her mother no further, and later, when her friends came, she became positively manic, shrieking as she opened her presents and giggling with her chums over every silly remark in the inane, annoying way of young teenage girls in groups.

Things got so riotous during the eating of the birthday cake that Mark escaped to the kitchen to give his eardrums a rest. Serena was there before him, making coffee for the grown-ups.

‘How can you stand it?’ Mark asked. ‘They’re so shrill! It just cuts through me like a knife.’

‘They’ll grow out of it,’ Serena said imperturbably. ‘Angelina did. It’s just something about being thirteen, fourteen. It brings out the worst in girls when they get together.’

‘So you only have to put up with it for a few years.’ A few years! What an unappealing prospect, Mark reflected as he helped Serena put the coffee cups on a tray.

‘Well, it’s better than having her in floods of tears because her dad is in hospital,’ Serena pointed out.

Mark lowered his voice, though there was no one else to hear. ‘How
is
he? Really?’

Serena shrugged. ‘Holding his own, I think. There were some complications in the treatment.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, in the first place, the ambulance took him to the Royal London, which is the main A&E for this area and has a specialist cardiac unit, but there were no beds available, so he had to be transferred to Paddington. They had a bed for him there, but they were really short-staffed today, unfortunately, so he won’t be seen by a specialist until some time tomorrow at the
earliest
. They’re doing what they can to keep him comfortable and stable.’ She added, ‘I didn’t want to say any of that in front of Chiara. She’s worried enough as it is.’

‘So you don’t really know…’

‘The prognosis. No. Not yet.’

Mark’s phone buzzed in his pocket. ‘
Scusa
,’ he said to his sister, putting it to his ear. ‘Hello?’

‘Sergeant Lombardi?’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s Brenda Betts. Chazz’s mum, remember?’

‘Yes, of course, Mrs Betts.’

She launched into a rather long soliloquy, giving him no chance to interject a word. ‘Ever so sorry to trouble you on a Sunday. I wouldn’t, you know, but you did give me your card and said I could ring any time I needed. And Jodee is that upset, like. Her mum rung, see. And some of her chums as well. They’d seen that detective on the telly. The one that was here, you know, the Irish one. And he said something about “inconclusive”. Like, they don’t know what happened. Like maybe it wasn’t natural or something. Jodee’s mum, she said it was like they thought Jodee and Chazz might of killed Muffin.’

With a sinking feeling, Mark remembered Neville’s phone message. After all that had happened, he hadn’t managed to get back to Neville and find out what it was about. ‘I’m sure they don’t think that,’ he said, though he was by no means certain.

‘Only, like I say, Jodee is beside herself, or I wouldn’t ask. Chazz, too, of course. But do you think you could come round and talk to them, like? Tell them that nobody thinks they killed Muffin or nothing like that.’

Mark looked at the coffee cups on the tray, smelled the
delicious
richness of the coffee brewing on the hob. ‘Yes, all right,’ he said. ‘I’ll come.’

‘Work,’ he said to Serena’s quizzical look as he pocketed the phone. I’m sorry, but I have to go.’

‘Will you say goodbye to Chiara before you leave?’

He wasn’t sure he was up to facing the teen screamers again. ‘You can do it for me. Give her another birthday kiss on my behalf. And,’ he added, ‘keep me informed about Joe’s progress. When you know anything.’

‘Of course.’

As soon as he was out of the house, he retrieved his phone again and rang Neville; it was important that he had as much information as possible before he had to dispense comfort and reassurance to Jodee and Chazz.

But Neville wasn’t answering; his phone went straight to voice-mail. Mark left a message and set off for Bayswater.

Callie had spent much of the day trying to keep out of Jane’s way. After the morning service she’d informed Brian that she wouldn’t be joining them for lunch at the vicarage; instead she’d rung Frances and snagged an invitation to the Cherrys’, on the basis that she wanted to take Bella for a walk.

As she approached Frances’ house, a man came out of the front door, passed through the gate, and turned in the opposite direction, towards Holland Park. Callie was sure it was Neville Stewart, but though she offered him a tentative smile he didn’t speak or acknowledge her in any way.

A moment later Bella greeted her rapturously; Callie followed Frances into the kitchen to help with the vegetables, and a few minutes after that they were joined by Triona.

‘I thought I saw Neville, just now, as I arrived,’ Callie said. Frances looked enquiringly at Triona.

Triona nodded. ‘Very likely. He stopped by for a chat.’

‘You should have invited him to join us for lunch,’ Frances said.