Deep Waters (17 page)

‘He couldn’t stay.’ Triona didn’t volunteer anything further; Callie could tell that Frances was dying to know more but didn’t dare ask.

Through lunch Triona remained uncommunicative, causing a slightly strained atmosphere in spite of Graham’s easy
conversation
, but anything, Callie told herself, was better than lunch with Jane and Brian.

She’d had her walk in Holland Park with Bella, enjoyed a cup of tea with Frances, then had returned to All Saints’ in time for Evensong. Frances had provided her with a sandwich to take back for her evening meal, and had emphasised an open invitation to join them whenever she needed to get away from All Saints’ vicarage. ‘I’d ask you to stay here, of course,’ Frances had said, ‘but we have Triona in the guest room.’

‘And I do need to be in the parish,’ Callie admitted with regret. How much nicer it would be to stay at Frances’, where she wouldn’t have to be treading on eggshells all of the time.

After Evensong she’d gone straight to her room and switched her phone on, hoping that Marco might ring. Then she ate her sandwich and got involved on the internet doing some research for a future sermon.

She’d almost managed to forget the existence of Jane Stanford, when there was a knock on her door. ‘Callie?’ said Jane, in a voice heavy with disapproval. ‘You have a visitor.’

‘A visitor?’

‘A man,’ Jane announced. ‘A Mr Lombardi. I’ve shown him into the sitting room.’

Callie’s heart jumped. Why would Marco come here without letting her know? She could have arranged to meet him
somewhere
else if he’d rung her.

Allowing herself a few seconds for a quick glance in the mirror and a flick at her hair, she followed Jane down the stairs.

‘Brian and I will be in the kitchen,’ Jane said, ushering Callie into the room. ‘Would either of you like coffee or tea?’

Callie shook her head. ‘No, thanks.’

‘A coffee would be lovely, Mrs Stanford,’ said Marco in his most agreeable voice.

Instant
, Callie mouthed at him, out of Jane’s line of sight.

‘Or could I change my mind and ask for a cup of tea?’ he went on smoothly.

‘Very well. I’ll bring it through as soon as it’s ready.’

Callie closed the door and went into Marco’s arms. ‘Mmm. To what do I owe this lovely surprise? Or to put it another way, have you lost your mind to venture into the lion’s den like this?’

He kissed her. ‘I just needed to see you,
Cara mia
.’

‘You’ve come all this way without ringing? I did have my phone on.’

‘I took a chance. I didn’t want to give you the opportunity to make any excuses not to see me.’

‘As if.’ She raised her face for another kiss, then reluctantly disengaged from his arms, where she happily would have stayed for hours.

‘Anyway, I was in the neighbourhood,’ he said. ‘Work.’

It took her a moment to realise what he meant. ‘Oh—Jodee and Chazz?’

‘That’s right.’

‘What’s happened?’

‘The news conference,’ he stated. ‘They heard about it from various busybodies, and got themselves into a real state about it. Jodee was practically hysterical at the idea that the police might think she killed her baby.’

Callie didn’t understand. ‘But…that’s not what you…they… think, is it?’

‘Well.’ Marco took both her hands in his and squeezed them. ‘The short answer is, I’m not really sure.
I
don’t think they did,’ he added quickly. ‘And that’s what I told them. But I’ve only just spoken to Neville. We were playing telephone tag, and…never mind. Anyway, I finally reached him, and he says that there were some unexpected findings in the post-mortem.’

‘You can’t really tell me, can you?’

‘I shouldn’t,’ he agreed. ‘Not now. But trust me. It doesn’t look very good for them. I’m not sure what to do.’

‘I know you’ll do the right thing,’ she said, meaning it; as far as she was concerned, Marco was honourable and good, and his instincts were sound. ‘But if there’s any way I can help—’

The door opened; Callie dropped Marco’s hands and stepped back. ‘Do you take sugar, Mr Lombardi?’ Jane asked, poking her head into the room.

‘No, thank you. And please call me Mark,’ he added, with his most charming smile.

To Callie’s amazement, Jane smiled back, and when she spoke her voice was noticeably warmer. ‘It will be ready in a minute.’ The door closed again.

Callie changed the subject. ‘How was the birthday party?’

‘Oh.’ Marco looked stricken. ‘You don’t know. Sorry,
Cara mia
. I didn’t have a chance to ring you.’

‘What?’

‘Family crisis. Joe had a heart attack this morning. He’s in hospital.’

She stared at him, unbelieving. ‘But we saw him last night! He was fine!’

‘I know. I know. It was very sudden. He went out running, and when he got home, he collapsed.’

‘Oh, poor Serena! Poor Chiara! How awful for all of them.’

He filled her in on the day’s events: the subdued birthday lunch, Serena’s report on Joe’s condition, his own hurried
departure
. ‘And then Jodee and Chazz to deal with. And talking to Neville. After all that, I just needed to see you.’ The smile he gave her turned her insides to warm mush; Callie wished they were anywhere but the Stanfords’ sitting room, with Jane
bearing
down on them carrying a mug of tea and a plate with two chocolate digestives.

‘Thank you so much, Mrs Stanford,’ Mark said. ‘It’s so kind of you. I’ve had a difficult day, and this is just what I need.’

She virtually simpered. ‘Please, call me Jane. And you’re very welcome.’

Chiara poked at her cereal with her spoon, stirred it, but didn’t actually convey any of it to her mouth. She was suffering from a surfeit of birthday cake and pizza, as well as a deficiency of sleep. ‘I don’t want to go to school today, Mum,’ she said. ‘I don’t feel well.’

Her mother shook her head. ‘I’m not surprised that you don’t feel well, you greedy girl—you must have eaten nearly two whole pizzas. But you have to go to school. I’m going to the hospital this morning, remember?’

As if she would forget. ‘I want to go with you, Mum,’ Chiara said promptly. ‘I want to see Dad. I know he’d want me to come.’

‘You can’t have it both ways. If you’re not well enough to go to school, how could you go to the hospital? Anyway,’ her mother went on, ‘it’s too soon for you to see him. He’ll be having tests and things today. They won’t want extra people about.’

Extra people? Tears of hurt and frustration welled in Chiara’s eyes. ‘I’m not an extra person. I’m his daughter. I have as much right to be there as you do.’

Her mother sighed, and for a few seconds Chiara felt sorry for her. She looked tired—exhausted, in fact, with dark circles under her eyes. Chiara knew that she’d been up late, on the telephone; she’d heard her well into the night, talking probably to Angelina and maybe even to Dad’s relatives in Italy.

But then Chiara hardened her heart. Mum was keeping her from seeing Dad. She was probably doing it because she was
jealous of her relationship with Dad; all those evenings they’d spent together through the years while Mum was working at the restaurant had made them close, a real team, and Mum must resent that.

And then another realisation hit Chiara, so forcibly that she almost cried aloud.

It was Mum’s fault that Dad was sick.

Heart attacks were caused by stress, weren’t they? And what did Dad have to be stressed about, if not the way Mum talked to him when she thought no one could hear? Calling him bad names, saying horrible things to him. Everyone thought they were such a perfect, loving couple—Nonna and Nonno, Uncle Marco, Angelina. They just saw what Mum wanted them to see. Chiara was the only one who heard them at night, who knew the truth: that her mother had driven her father to a heart attack. She might have even done it on purpose.

And now she wouldn’t let Chiara see him.

Chiara put her spoon down next to her cereal bowl and folded her arms across her chest. ‘If you won’t let me go to see Dad,’ she said, ‘I’ll hate you for the rest of my life.’

Once again her mother sighed. She closed her eyes for a moment, pressed her fingers to her temples, then gave Chiara a thin smile. ‘Well,’ she said wearily, ‘I suppose I’ll just have to live with that, won’t I?’

Neville was at his desk abnormally early on Monday morning, jotting down notes for his statement for the Muffin Betts inquest and waiting for DCS Evans to arrive in his office. The moment Evans reached his desk, Neville knew he would be alerted by Evans’ admirable secretary Ursula.

Once upon a time, Evans’ secretary had been a toothsome young woman called Denise. Neville, along with a number of other male officers, attached or single, had had rather a thing for Denise, whose physical assets were legendary—and entirely natural, not the result of the surgeon’s art. But Evans had won
her for himself, shedding a middle-aged wife in the process. Now that Denise was the second Mrs Evans, she had seen to it personally that her replacement as his secretary was no threat to that more exalted position. Ursula was plain-featured,
flat-chested
, and on the far side of fifty. She did, however, have an ill-concealed soft spot for Neville, and that was something he exploited to the full. He brought her flowers on her birthday and chocolates at Christmas, bought her occasional cups of tea in the canteen, and in return she warned him about Evans’ moods, kept him up-to-date on his movements, and expedited his access to the great man.

Not surprisingly, Neville’s mind was not really on Muffin Betts, and he found himself doodling a small but detailed
drawing
of Triona’s breasts.

It really wouldn’t do, he said to himself sternly. Triona’s breasts were beautiful—as magnificent, in their own way, as Denise Evans’, if rather less monumental—but thinking about them wasn’t what he was being paid to do, and it wasn’t getting him anywhere either.

He needed a plan of action, if he hoped to pry Triona out of Frances’ vicarage. A battle plan, and allies in the fight.

But who would help him?

Frances, he thought suddenly. Frances was Triona’s friend; she would want the best for her. And she didn’t necessarily want her under her roof for the foreseeable future, either. Triona on her own was one thing; in a few months there would be a baby as well. Did Frances Cherry really want to convert that
black-walled
room into a nursery?

No, it would be in Frances’ interest as well as his own if Triona were to see the light and come back to him. He needed to enlist her in his cause.

She might not have left for work yet. Even if she had,
perhaps
Graham would pick up the phone and he could talk to him, man-to-man. Surely Graham Cherry wasn’t relishing the prospect of a squalling baby in his house, disturbing his sleep and his sermon-writing.

Neville threw down his pen and reached for the telephone directory.

It was Frances who answered.

‘This is Neville Stewart,’ he said. ‘Is Triona with you now?’

There was a thoughtful pause on the other end of the phone. ‘Yeees. But I’m not sure—’

‘I’m not asking you to put her on,’ he said quickly. ‘I know she doesn’t want to talk to me. It’s you I’d like to speak to, really.’

‘We’re having breakfast.’

Good—she wasn’t letting on to Triona who she was talking to. He was halfway there. ‘Could I meet you later? At the hospital, maybe? I have to be out this afternoon, and could stop by to see you before that. Say eleven o’clock? In the cafe?’

‘Well…’

‘I’ll buy you a cup of coffee,’ he said. ‘And I promise I won’t bring my handcuffs.’

Frances laughed. ‘All right, then.’

‘And don’t tell her,’ Neville added.

‘I can keep a secret,’ said Frances. ‘You should know that by now.’

Morning Prayer. Callie knelt beside Brian in their chancel stalls and said the General Confession with him. ‘Almighty and most merciful Father, we have erred and strayed from thy ways like lost sheep.’ The words were automatic, requiring no thought, coming as easily to her tongue as the Lord’s Prayer or the Grace.

That left her free to pray the prayers of her heart: prayers on behalf of Marco’s family.

She prayed for Joe’s health and his recovery. She prayed for Serena and Chiara, for God’s presence with them to comfort them through the times of uncertainty and worry. And she prayed for Marco, that he might come to terms with the anger towards Joe he carried in his heart and the guilt that must surely have followed it in the current circumstances.

There might not be anything practical she could do for the Lombardis and the di Stefanos, but she could pray. And that was something.

The service, attended by only a couple of people other than Brian and Callie, was over within thirty minutes. Brian shook the hands of the two congregational worshippers as they slipped out, then turned to Callie. ‘Time for breakfast, then,’ he said. ‘Janey will have it ready for us.’

No chance of escape. ‘All right,’ Callie agreed, forcing a smile.

Jane had set out the cereal, made the toast, and was boiling the kettle as they came into the kitchen. ‘My Janey,’ said Brian proudly. ‘She has the timing down to a fine art. She knows I like my breakfast as soon as I come in from Morning Prayer.’

It was the first time since theological college that anyone had made breakfast for Callie after Morning Prayer, or any other service for that matter, and it softened her feelings towards Jane
considerably
. There was much to be said for having a wife, she reflected as she tucked into her cereal; no wonder Brian was so uxorious.

‘The marmalade is home-made,’ Brian pointed out. ‘Her own recipe. No one makes marmalade like Jane.’

‘My mother’s recipe, actually,’ Jane clarified, scooting the jar along the table in Callie’s direction. ‘She’s famous for it, in the WI.’

Callie spooned some onto her toast and took a bite. ‘It’s
delicious
.’ She meant it. Her own mother’s marmalade came from Waitrose and tasted nothing like this.

‘Tea?’ Jane wielded the stout brown pot over Callie’s cup.

‘I’d love some.’

It was like the Twilight Zone, Callie reflected, or
Men in Black
. Some strange creature had taken over Jane Stanford’s body. It looked like Jane, it sounded like Jane, but it was a pleasant, hospitable creature, in place of the sour, grumpy one. Why had Brian not noticed?

‘Your friend,’ Jane said to Callie, when she’d poured Brian’s tea and her own. ‘Mark. He’s delightful.’

‘Yes…’ she agreed cautiously.

‘Why haven’t you brought him round before?’

‘Well…’

‘He had to find his own way to us.’ Jane looked up towards the calendar on the wall next to the telephone. ‘We’ll have to fix a date when he can come for a meal. Next Sunday, perhaps? For lunch?’

‘He usually has Sunday lunch with his family,’ Callie explained. ‘In Clerkenwell.’

Jane raised an eyebrow. ‘Family?’

‘His parents. His sister and her family.’

‘Oh, I see. I thought maybe he had…children, perhaps?’

‘No. He’s never been married. He’s Italian,’ Callie added. ‘Italian families are very close, and the men tend to stay at home with their mothers for a long time.’

‘And are none the worse for it, I’m sure.’ Jane got up and looked more closely at the calendar. ‘How about a Saturday evening, then? Maybe the Saturday after next?’

‘I’ll ask him,’ Callie promised.

‘And if he wants to visit you here at the vicarage, any time, that would be fine,’ Jane added. ‘After all, you’re living here for the foreseeable future. We want you to feel like it’s your home. Don’t we, Brian?’

Brian nodded. ‘Of course.’

‘That’s…very kind,’ Callie managed.

What a turn-up for the books! Jane not only being pleasant, but giving her permission to entertain Marco at the vicarage. She suspected, though, that Jane’s generosity on that point wouldn’t extend to overnight stays in Callie’s room. If it ever came to that, she thought ruefully.

Mark had been told by Neville that the inquest into Muffin Betts’ death was to be opened on Monday afternoon. He knew full well that the proceedings at that point were a formality which the bereaved parents would be neither expected nor encouraged
to attend, but they were certain to find out about it, before or after the fact, because of the press interest in the case. It was that consideration which impelled him to return to their Bayswater home on Monday morning.

He wanted them to hear it from him. And while he was at it, he would ask them the difficult questions that had to be asked, arising from the preliminary post-mortem findings. As far as Neville and the coroner were concerned, the questions could wait: it would be six weeks at least before the inquest was resumed and decisions were made about how to proceed in the handling of the case. But Mark knew that the longer he waited, the more difficult it would be for him. It would hang over his head, assuming increasing importance, affecting his dealings with the family. He might as well get it over with, then get on with rebuilding his relationship with Jodee, Chazz and Brenda Betts so that he could effectively support them through the funeral and the other ordeals yet to come.