Deep Waters (21 page)

Lilith knew that the opening of the inquest into Muffin Betts’ death would be a mere formality; she knew that Jodee and Chazz wouldn’t be in attendance and that she could write an account of it without actually being present herself. She could, in fact, do
what she usually did: send some underling to take notes, then write up the story as if she’d been there.

But in this case she wanted to be there herself, for a number of reasons. She wanted to be able to tell Jodee and Chazz that she’d gone, in case they ever asked. She wanted to get the flavour of the event so that she could accurately convey the atmosphere. And she wanted to hear the exact words of Neville Stewart’s
summary
while she watched his body language and listened to the tone of his voice; that might help her to judge how truthful he was being, and intuit whether he was holding anything back.

She would allow plenty of time to get to Horseferry Road. First, though, she went to the ladies’ room at the
Globe
’s offices to make herself presentable; Lilith was always conscious of the image she projected and wouldn’t allow herself to go out in public looking less than her best.

While she was applying a fresh coat of lipstick her phone rang; she pulled it out of her bag and saw that the call was coming from the Bettses’ home number.

‘Oh, thank goodness,’ said Brenda Betts when she answered. ‘We need your help, Lilith.’

‘My help?’

‘That policeman. He hasn’t half put the wind up round here.’

‘That would be Neville Stewart,’ Lilith guessed. ‘DI Stewart.’ It figured.

‘No, not him. The other one.’

‘DS Cowley,’ said Lilith. Cowley was Neville Stewart’s usual side-kick, and if such a thing were credible, he was an even nastier piece of work than his boss.

‘No. The Italian one. DS Lombardi. Mark, he told us to call him.’

She didn’t know him, though the name sounded vaguely familiar. Probably family liaison rather than investigating officer, Lilith concluded, making a mental note of the name.

‘Our Chazz is that desperate for his pot noodles. I gave him the money—forty quid from my purse. And he’s scarpered!’

Brenda Betts, usually so dependable and level-headed, was making no sense. She went on in the same vein for a few minutes before Lilith was able to unravel her tangled monologue and figure out what was going on.

‘So what you’re telling me is that you sent DS Lombardi out to do some shopping, and he hasn’t come back.’

‘That’s what I said. And he en’t answering his phone, neither. I’ve tried and tried.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Lilith assured her. ‘I’ll get your shopping. It will be a bit later this afternoon, but I’ll bring it as soon as I can.’ She scrambled in her bag for her notebook and took down the list, item by item. ‘Just ring and let me know if DS Lombardi shows up in the mean time. He’s probably just been delayed.’

‘Maybe he’s decided he’d best not show his face round here again,’ Brenda muttered darkly.

‘What do you mean?’

Brenda told her. Absconding with the shopping money wasn’t the only transgression DS Lombardi had committed against the Betts family that morning, or even the most heinous one. (Lilith loved words like heinous and horrific.) Again it took Lilith some time to put the picture together from Brenda’s disjointed account.

DS Lombardi had interviewed each member of the family separately, but they’d compared notes afterwards. And to each one he had made the suggestion that Muffin had been violently shaken at some time before her death. They had all denied it, of course. It was daft. Mad.

‘You’re absolutely sure about that?’ Lilith said, unable to believe what she’d heard.

Brenda was emphatic, almost belligerent. ‘Positive. You don’t think I’d make something like that up?’

‘But why would he think such a thing?’

‘He said it was that post-mortem.’ Brenda choked. ‘You know, when they cut people up and such. Somebody had shook her hard. That’s what he said. Somebody shook our Muffin, and they think it was one of
us
.’

Callie had been hoping for, and halfway expecting, a call from Marco all day. She’d tried to ring him once or twice and found that his phone was turned off. That in itself was a cause for mild worry; because of the nature of his job, he was almost always reachable.

So when her phone rang, as she walked back to Bayswater from Frances’, where she’d seen Bella and had a cup of tea, she reached into her pocket for it eagerly.

It wasn’t Marco, she saw on the display as she accepted the call.

Peter. ‘Hi, Sis,’ he said. ‘Are you in the middle of something important? Or interesting?’

‘No. But I’m on my way to church. It’s nearly time for Evening Prayer.’

‘Do you have plans for the evening?’

She’d been hoping that she would—hoping that Marco would suggest a meal out, or anything to get her away from the vicarage. That hadn’t happened, and now she supposed it wasn’t going to. ‘No,’ she admitted. ‘No meetings or anything.’

‘And no Marco?’ Peter probed.

‘It seems not.’ She hoped she didn’t sound as disappointed as she felt.

‘Well, then, you definitely need cheering up. A night out with your brother should do the trick.’

It sounded a rather alarming prospect, given some of the things she knew he got up to, but infinitely preferable to an evening with Jane and Brian. ‘Nothing too exciting, I hope,’ she said. ‘Keeping in mind my advanced age, and the dog collar.’

Peter laughed. ‘I wasn’t proposing to take you to a gay bar in Soho. I was thinking more along the lines of a noodle bar.’

‘That sounds perfect. There’s one not far from here that’s meant to be good.’

‘Sorted.’ He gave a wicked chuckle. ‘Shall I come and collect you at the vicarage? I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting your delightful hostess.’

How had it happened that he’d avoided Jane up till now? He
had
been fairly reclusive during those days in December he’d stayed with Callie, she recalled. Was Peter really prepared for Jane? And more appositely, was Jane ready for the Peter
experience
? He was capable of being utterly charming, but…‘Only if you promise to be on your best behaviour,’ she said severely.

‘When am I not?’ he asked with arch innocence. ‘I’ll promise, if you’ll promise to leave the dog collar at home.’

‘I think that could be arranged.’

‘Done deal,’ Peter said. ‘See you at seven.’

He was as good as his word. Charming to Jane and deferential to Brian, Peter stayed just long enough at the vicarage before whisking Callie away.

‘What a dreary place,’ he said as soon as they were out of earshot. ‘How can you bear it, Sis?’

‘I don’t seem to have any choice at the moment.’

‘I mean, that Dralon sofa. It’s horrid. Sort of vomit-coloured. I think I’d be sick every time I laid eyes on it.’

‘You
are
naughty,’ she said, but with a smile that belied the severity of her voice.

They reached the noodle bar and sat on benches facing each other at one of the large communal tables. It was as well that they weren’t in search of privacy, Callie reflected, though the restaurant wasn’t overwhelmed with customers on a Monday evening.

‘So,’ she said after they’d perused the menus and placed their orders, ‘what’s the reason for this unexpected pleasure? Do you have something to tell me?’ If he weren’t so cheerful, she would have suspected that he was about to announce another break-up with Jason; with Peter’s track-record, that was overdue.

He smiled at her across the table. ‘Well, actually, I wanted to show something off.’ Peter reached in his pocket and pulled out a flat black object. ‘My new iPhone. Isn’t it the coolest thing you’ve ever seen?’

‘Didn’t you just get a new phone a few months ago? One of those flip phones?’

‘Well, yes,’ Peter admitted. ‘But I just couldn’t resist one of these.’ He pushed a button and showed her the touch screen. ‘Gorgeous, isn’t it?’

Callie shoved down an unworthy stab of envy. Her own phone was nearly three years old, bulky and old-fashioned by current standards. Decidedly uncool, with no internet access and only rudimentary texting capabilities. Not that she’d ever cracked the skill of texting: watching young people—on the Tube or just walking down the street—with their thumbs flying on tiny keyboards made her feel ancient and inadequate. One of these days, she kept telling herself, she was going to have to ask Peter to teach her to text properly.

‘Anyway, Sis, I thought you might want my old phone.’ He reached in his pocket again and brought out the flip phone, sliding it across the table towards her.

She resisted reaching for it. ‘But it has your number.’ The last thing she needed, or wanted, was to get Peter’s phone calls. And to have to tell everyone that she’d changed her number.

‘Don’t you know anything about mobile phones?’ he teased. ‘All you need to do is swap the SIM card. I’ve already taken mine out. Just pop yours in, and as long as you’re on the same carrier it should work just fine.’

‘Can you do it for me?’ She handed him her phone and watched as he switched it off, slid the back off and removed the tiny card.

‘Chinese tea,’ announced the waiter, at Callie’s elbow. He poured from a fat pot into two handle-less cups and set the steaming cups in front of them. ‘Your food come soon.’

‘Lovely.’ Callie waited for her tea to cool, while Peter blew on his and took a sip.

‘Ouch! That’s hot.’ He made a face.

Typical, she thought fondly. Delayed gratification had never been part of her brother’s vocabulary.

When he’d polished off the first cup and poured a second for himself, just about the time Callie ventured a sip, Peter resumed his labours with the phones. He took the back off the flip phone
and carefully slotted the little card into place, then replaced the back. ‘Now let’s see if it works.’

Peter turned the phone on and watched the display. ‘Yes, it’s recognised the network. This should work just fine for you.’ He handed it to her across the table.

‘Thanks, Peter. I really appreciate it.’ How generous he was, she said to herself. Impulsive, scatty and lot of other things, but generous to a fault.

The phone made an unexpected noise and she nearly dropped it. ‘Oh! What does that mean?’

‘It just means you have a message.’ Peter took the phone back from her, flipped it open, and pushed a button. ‘Voice mail. You’ve missed a call.’

Callie reached for the phone, put it to her ear, and heard Marco’s voice. Her disappointment that she’d missed his call rapidly changed to shock and disbelief as she tried to take in what he was saying.

Her face must have reflected her emotions, because Peter demanded, ‘What’s the matter? Who is it?’

‘Marco,’ she said, staring across the table at her brother. ‘His brother-in-law. Joe. He’s dead!’

Chiara had been having a wonderful dream. She was on stage on ‘Junior Idol’, singing a duet with Karma. Then Karma stepped back and left Chiara to carry on by herself, belting the song into the microphone. The audience went wild, chanting
KEE-AR
-AH, KEE-AR-AH at the tops of their voices. She had to sing even louder to be heard over the noise of the crowd.

She sang so hard, so loud that her throat hurt.

Her throat hurt.

Chiara struggled out of the dream into reality. There was still the trace of a smile on her face as she snatched at a remnant of the retreating dream, but her throat hurt. So did the rest of her face. Why did her face hurt?

It took her a moment to remember.

Dad.

Dad was dead.

She’d cried herself to sleep, and her subconscious, unable to deal with the horrendous reality of it, had wrapped her in a beautiful dream.

But now she was awake. And Dad was still dead.

Still dead, always dead. She was just beginning to grasp the finality of it. He wouldn’t be alive tomorrow or the next day. Never again. Death wasn’t a reversible state, like tonsillitis or a sprained ankle or a bad cold. Dead was forever.

Dad would never tuck her in again, or read to her at
bedtime
, or help her with her homework. He’d never watch ‘Junior
Idol’ with her on a Saturday night or share the guilty pleasure of Pringles and hot chocolate. He wouldn’t be there to criticise her boyfriend, when she finally had one. He wouldn’t walk down the aisle with her when she got married, or hold his grandchildren.

Dad was dead.

And Mum…

Mum hadn’t even cried when she told Chiara.

‘Your father didn’t make it,’ she’d said. Just like that. ‘I’m really sorry, Chiara.’

Sorry
?

She wasn’t sorry at all, or she would have been crying. Crying like Chiara did, for hours after. Crying till her throat was raw and her eyes were sore and her face hurt. Crying till she felt sick and hollow and drained of tears, only the tears were still coming.

Chiara turned her face into her pillow—still damp—as the tears began again. ‘She’s a hard-hearted bitch,’ she said aloud. It was something she’d heard in a movie once, and Mum would have a fit to hear her use a word like that. ‘Hard-hearted bitch,’ she repeated. The anger that the words engendered were the best defence yet against the pain. For a moment she almost felt a tiny bit better, and that made her even angrier. She buried her face in her pillow. ‘Bitch, bitch, bitch,’ Chiara cried. ‘She’s horrible and I hate her.’

Neville was in no rush to go to work on Tuesday morning. He was, quite frankly, feeling a bit cheesed off about the Betts case.

Had it really been necessary for him to be dragged back from his honeymoon? To put his private life in turmoil and his marriage in jeopardy?

Evans had made it sound so urgent, as if no one but Neville could deal with it.

But what, really, had he done? He’d seen Jodee and Chazz for a few minutes on Friday. He’d conducted the news
conference
on Saturday, and fielded a few phone calls. He’d prepared
and delivered the summary for the opening of the inquest. And that was about it.

Sensitivity to the feelings of the bereaved parents was all very well, but where did that leave him as Senior Investigating Officer?

Why should he bother to rush in to his office? There was nothing for him to do there but bloody paperwork. Neville hated paperwork, and always postponed dealing with it until absolutely necessary.

Besides, he was technically still on his honeymoon. Even if he was without the companionship of his bride.

So when Andrew Linton rang, early, and suggested coming round to do his valuation of the flat, Neville didn’t worry too much about being late for work. ‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes,’ Andrew promised. ‘The sooner we can put it on the market, the better.’

Twenty minutes wasn’t much time to get the flat in order, but Neville made a stab at it. He threw the duvet over the bed,
gathered
up his dirty clothes and stuffed them in the wardrobe, then collected the coffee cups and other assorted crockery from around the flat and dumped them in the sink. That left him with enough time to squirt some air freshener in the bathroom and draw the shower curtain to hide the blackened grout round the bath.

All the while he was seeing his flat in an unaccustomed way, as if through someone else’s eyes. It wasn’t very nice, he admitted to himself. No wonder Triona wasn’t that keen on living there.

Andrew was right on time. ‘The location is great,’ he enthused as he came into the flat. ‘A real selling point, Mr Stewart.’ Then he paused, looking round. ‘Ah.’

‘I did say it needed some work,’ Neville reminded him
defensively
. ‘Decorating and so forth. Cosmetic, you said.’

‘Er…yes. Cosmetic.’ He shook his head slightly as he followed Neville from the lounge into the kitchen, but his smile remained fixed and his enthusiasm seemed undimmed. ‘Yes, the kitchen is a good size.
Nearly
a kitchen/diner. The units are a bit dated, but a new owner would probably want to gut it anyway.’

The bathroom gave him a bit more pause, especially after he peeked round the shower curtain. ‘I think a new white suite would be in order. Avocado baths aren’t very popular these days. And some better lighting, perhaps. It’s a bit dark in here.’

‘But I want to sell it,’ Neville pointed out. ‘You’re not
suggesting
that I do those things before I put it on the market?’

‘It depends on how much you want to realise from the sale. A little money spent fixing it up could mean a great deal more profit. People are swayed by those…cosmetic…factors, much as I try to tell them to look beyond the decor.’

‘That’s just silly. Everyone knows that when people move into a new place, they fix it up the way they want it anyway.’ Though he hadn’t, Neville admitted to himself. He was still living with the same tired decor he’d inherited all those years ago. Wood chip paper, shag pile carpets.

Andrew was adamant. ‘I’m just saying that a lick of white paint would do wonders for this place and its saleability.’

‘White? Don’t you mean magnolia?’

‘I said “white” in a general sort of way, but “magnolia” is out,’ Andrew stated. ‘And “stone” is in. More contemporary, and that’s what people are looking for these days. Especially the sort of people we’re trying to market this flat to. Young professionals.’

‘I thought you were an estate agent,’ Neville muttered. ‘Not a bloody interior designer.’

Andrew looked hurt, but only for a moment. ‘The marketing of properties is very sophisticated these days. And so are buyers. That’s all I’m saying.’ Then he grinned. ‘I know! If you don’t want to do any work here, we’ll market it as a “retro gem”. We might just find a buyer who’s into seventies decor in a big way!’

Callie was on her way to Frances’ to take Bella for a walk when her new phone rang in her bag. It took her a moment to realise what that strange noise was; the ring tone was unfamiliar to her. As she stopped and rummaged in her bag, she recognised the tune: ‘I will survive’. Typical Peter, she thought. He hadn’t
showed her how to change the ring tone, but that one would definitely have to go.

She hoped it was Marco. Last night she’d managed to reach him, finally, and he’d seemed in deep shock. She’d told him that she would try to be available today if he needed her for anything.

But it wasn’t Marco. Callie didn’t recognise the number on the display, nor, when she’d managed to open the phone and accept the call, did she recognise the voice.

‘Is this the Reverend Callie Anson?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘This is Sister Mary Catherine, the Headmistress of Regina Coeli School.’

Chiara’s school. Callie had been there once, before Christmas, for the school’s nativity play. It was a night she’d never forget: the first time Marco had introduced her to the Lombardi family, after having kept her away from them for months. The evening had gone remarkably well, considering the nervousness on all sides, and she’d liked Chiara from the start. Chiara, of all of them, had accepted her with no questions asked.

‘Yes?’ Why, she wondered, would Chiara’s Headmistress be ringing her?

‘This is a bit…irregular, you must understand, Miss Anson. But I think the circumstances warrant it.’ Sister Mary Catherine went on to explain: Chiara di Stefano had come to school that day, having just lost her father. As was customary in instances of family bereavement, she’d been offered counselling, but she had refused. She didn’t want to talk to Sister Mary Catherine, to the school’s psychologist, to the chaplain or any of the priests attached to the school, or even to Father Luigi, her parish priest. The only person she wanted to talk to was Callie Anson. ‘You’re her uncle’s girlfriend, she said?’

‘Well, yes.’

‘And a priest in the Church of England?’

‘Still a deacon, actually,’ Callie admitted.

‘I did explain to Chiara that you aren’t of our faith. She understands that. But she insisted. You’re the one she wants to talk to, and that’s that. Under the circumstances, I felt it was right to agree. Are you willing to come and spend a little time with her, at some point today?’

‘Of course. I’ll come straightaway, if that’s all right.’

Callie took the Tube across London, then a bus, and found the school—in a quiet residential street in Islington—with no problem. After ringing the bell and being admitted, she was ushered to the Headmistress’ office.

Sister Mary Catherine wasn’t quite what she’d expected: she looked rather younger than her voice had suggested, and instead of a habit she was wearing a navy blue trouser suit and a white blouse, the large wooden cross hanging round her neck the only indication of her calling.

The nun greeted her cordially, though Callie had the feeling she was being sized up with care by someone who didn’t miss much. ‘Thank you so much for coming, Miss Anson,’ she said. ‘I’m very grateful.’

She took her to a small room off the school’s chapel. ‘This is where the priests vest before Mass,’ she explained. ‘It’s a quiet place where you won’t be disturbed.’ A couple of chairs had been provided, with a box of tissues and a glass of water in readiness on the vestment chest. Sister Mary Catherine had seemingly thought of everything.

Callie waited there for a few minutes before Chiara was brought in. She tried to think about what she would say to the girl, but when she saw Chiara’s face, blotchy with tears and pinched with misery, everything went out of her head but
empathy
. She covered the few steps between them in an instant and hugged her, allowing Chiara to cry for as long as she wanted.

Eventually, when not a few tissues had been used and
discarded
, Chiara took a sip of the water and sat on one of the chairs. ‘You came,’ she said, her voice raw. ‘Thanks.’

‘Of course I came.’

‘I wasn’t sure you would. Sister Mary Catherine said you’re not of our faith.’

‘We’re all Christians, Chiara. We believe the same things about life…and death.’

That unleashed a fresh spate of tears, dabbed away almost angrily by Chiara. ‘So are you going to say the same stuff that Sister Mary Catherine tried to tell me? That Dad is in a better place? Sitting on some cloud up in heaven?’

Callie’s heart contracted with pity. ‘No, I won’t tell you that. It isn’t what you want to hear, is it?’

‘I don’t want to hear…
anything
.’ She crossed her arms across her chest, defensive. For a long moment she sat there in silence, not looking at Callie.

‘Why
did
you want me to come?’ Callie asked when the silence had stretched beyond her own comfort zone.

Chiara still didn’t look at her. ‘Because. You told me once. Your dad died.’

In an instant, Callie understood. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He did.’

‘And how did you feel?’

Callie chose her words carefully, but in the end they were honest words. ‘It was the worst day of my life. I thought my life was over. I
wanted
it to be over. I didn’t want to live in a world without my father.’