Deep Waters (22 page)

‘Yes,’ said Chiara fiercely, looking at her at last. ‘That’s it. That’s how I feel. That’s exactly how I feel.’

Of course she did: Callie had seen them together, Chiara and Joe. She’d recognised the bond that held them together. It had resonated with her, reminded her of the way she and her own father had been. How could she convey to Chiara what her life would be like from now on? How could she tell her that the pain would be almost unbearable for a very long while, but that eventually it would ease? That, though she would never stop missing him, in time there would be hours when she didn’t even think about him? And that that forgetting would bring its own special torment, its own brand of guilt?

It probably, Callie realised, wasn’t what Chiara wanted or needed to hear right now. She just needed to talk to someone who had experienced the same loss. It would be a long process, lasting years, and—God willing—Callie would be there with her every step of the way.

‘No one else understands,’ Chiara stated. ‘Nonna—her dad died about a million years ago, so she wouldn’t even remember what it’s like. And Mum. Her dad is still alive!’

‘But she’s lost her husband,’ Callie couldn’t help reminding her. ‘You’re not the only one who’s lost him, Chiara. Your mum must be feeling pretty much the same way you are right now. And I’m sure she understands how you feel.’

Chiara pressed her lips together and shook her head. ‘She made me come to school. I didn’t want to come.’

‘Your mother?’

Scowling, the girl nodded. ‘Yes. She made me come. She said it was the best thing, but I think she just wanted me out of her hair.’

‘I’m sure she had your best interests at heart,’ Callie said. ‘There probably wasn’t anything you could do at home, and here you could get some counselling.’

‘And take my mind off the fact that my dad is dead. As if,’ she said bitterly. ‘School. Business as usual. Just carry on like
nothing
’s happened. Like Mum. She’ll probably go to work today.’

‘Surely not.’

‘I’ll bet she will.’ Chiara gulped, then went on all in a rush, as if the words were being torn out of her. ‘She doesn’t care that he’s dead. It’s her fault! Don’t you see? She wanted him dead. She drove him to a heart attack. It’s like she killed him, and she’s glad he’s dead!’

Callie stared at her, appalled. ‘Oh, Chiara, sweetheart! That’s not true.’

‘It
is
true! She wanted him dead.’ Chiara’s hands went into fists, which she pounded on her knees to emphasise her next words. ‘And I
hate
her. I hate her, I hate her, I hate her!’

Lilith had seen the papers on Tuesday morning, so it was no surprise to her when she was called into Rob Gardiner-Smith’s office.

Rob Gardiner-Smith was the editor of the
Daily Globe
. He was young—younger than Lilith, to her chagrin,—clever and ambitious. Educated at Eton and Oxbridge, he had a
reputation
for being a bully and was widely considered to be ruthless; consequently he was feared by both his competitors and his employees.

He had the papers spread on his desk, facing her, with the
Globe
squarely in the middle. ‘All right, Lilith,’ he said. ‘Tell me what’s wrong with this picture.’

‘HOME ALONE’ screamed one tabloid headline, while another had the single enormous word ‘SHAME’. The other papers featured variations of the same, all accompanied by file photos of Jodee and Chazz in various states of undress and/or intoxication, staggering out of clubs or tossing down drinks.

Gardiner-Smith picked up one of the tabloids and began reading aloud. ‘“Shock revelations emerged from the opening of the inquest into the sudden death of the infant daughter of celeb couple Jodee and Chazz Betts. In his summary of the case, Senior Investigating Officer DI Neville Stewart revealed that at the moment tiny Muffin Angel Betts died, in the small hours of last Friday morning, her parents were out CLUBBING.” Blah blah blah—more in that vein. I’ll skip to the end.

‘“The inquest was adjourned until the 25th of April, when Coroner Hereward Rice will ask the question: did Jodee and Chazz’s irresponsible behaviour contribute to or even cause their daughter’s death? Was this a case of Gross Neglect, or of Manslaughter?”

‘Bloody hell, Lilith.’ He threw the paper down and picked up the
Globe
. ‘It’s not even our lead story. Bottom right-hand corner stuff: “Jodee and Chazz inquest Opened, Adjourned”. What is this all about?’

‘I don’t choose the lead stories,’ she said defensively. ‘That’s
your
job.’

It was the wrong thing to say. ‘Jesus Christ, Lilith!’ he exploded. ‘You know exactly what I mean! You filed some weak-kneed little story about Jodee and Chazz being too upset to attend the inquest. No mention of any of this “Home Alone” stuff. Were you asleep during the inquest? Did you actually
go
?’

‘Yes, I went. I heard what he said.’

‘And this pathetic story was the best you could do?’ He slapped it with the back of his hand. ‘Give me strength.’

Lilith felt obliged to defend herself. ‘I have a relationship of trust with Jodee and Chazz,’ she explained. ‘I didn’t want to do anything to jeopardise that.’

He glared at her. ‘And that excuses your criminally
incompetent
behaviour? I’m beginning to wonder whether you belong in this business at all, Lilith. In case you hadn’t noticed, we play hardball. There’s no place in tabloid journalism for sentimentality.’

That, thought Lilith, was unfair. There was plenty of place in tabloid journalism for sentimentality, when it suited their purposes. ‘What about all those ‘poor Jodee and Chazz’ stories you wanted a few days ago?’ she pointed out.

‘Well, the tide has turned,’ he stated, sweeping his hand across his desk to indicate the papers. ‘The press is now baying for their blood, and the
Globe
has got to play catch-up. Quickly.’ He fixed her with a challenging stare. ‘You find something to give me for tomorrow, or we may have to consider your position.’

It hadn’t even occurred to Mark that he might go to work on Tuesday. He rang the station first thing to tell them he was having a day off for personal reasons.

Serena needed him, and that took priority over his job.

He went to her house early. Mamma was there already,
holding
forth in the kitchen in spite of Serena’s protests that she was perfectly capable of making coffee.

Chiara had left for school. ‘I’m surprised,’ said Mark. ‘She told me last night that she didn’t want to go.’

‘She didn’t,’ Serena admitted. ‘But what good would it do for her to stay at home? She’d just mope about and make herself feel worse. Better for her to keep busy. And at school they can provide her with some proper counselling.’

Mark was surprised, as well, to find that Serena’s ‘keep busy’ philosophy extended to herself: she was planning to go to work in the evening. ‘What’s the point of staying at home?’ she said. ‘We still have to earn a living.’

Yesterday, at lunch time, they’d managed to cover for Serena at the restaurant; Pappa had taken over her front-of-house role. Last night they’d shut, for the first time ever, putting a sign on the door which said ‘Closed due to family bereavement’. Mamma, in particular, had been needed at home, to make all the phone calls to the Italian relatives and to feed
la famiglia
. Serena was now insisting that Mamma and Pappa should open La Venezia at lunchtime today, while she and Mark took care of various arrangements, and that she would join them as usual in the evening.

‘But what about Chiara?’ asked Mark.

‘You’ll be here, Marco. Won’t you?’

‘Of course. If you want me to be.’

‘And Angelina will be home by late this afternoon,’ Serena added. ‘Though I told her that there was no need to come just yet. I hate to have her interrupting her studies in the middle of term. And the funeral won’t be till next week.’

Making funeral arrangements was one of the things on Serena’s agenda for today. Mark had offered to go with her to the funeral director’s. ‘You can help me to choose a nice manly coffin,’ Serena said.

It was a firm recommended by Father Luigi, located a bit too far away to walk. Mark insisted that they take a taxi, though Serena said she’d be happy to go by bus.

The dark-suited proprietor was waiting for them, suitably solemn if not quite lugubrious. ‘Allow me to say, Mrs di Stefano,
how very sorry I am about your husband’s passing,’ he greeted her.

Not all
that
sorry, Mark suspected cynically; without deaths—or passings, to be less bald about it—like Joe’s, this bloke would be out of business. Well, at least he had a good line in
professional
patter.

‘And this is…?’

‘My brother, Marco Lombardi.’

‘It’s good to meet you both.’ He inclined his head in a little bow. ‘I’m Mr Silvestri, and I’m here to do all I can to make
everything
easier for you. Bereavement is a difficult time for people. They’re seldom prepared for it, I find. Especially when one is… snatched away…in the prime of life, like your dear husband.’ He led them to a desk, where the paperwork was already set out. ‘If we can just take care of a bit of this first,’ he said, ‘then we can get on with choosing a suitable…erm…receptacle.’

Mr Silvestri helped Serena into a chair, leaving Mark to find a seat, then went behind the desk to his own chair. ‘Now, Mrs di Stefano. The first question: burial or cremation?’

Serena shrugged. ‘Burial, I suppose. I haven’t really given it much thought.’

‘Yes, yes. Quite understandable.’ He put a tick in the
appropriate
box. ‘I assume you’ll want Father Luigi to take the funeral? At St Peter’s?’

‘Yes, of course. That’s what Joe would have wanted.’

He made a note. ‘And do you have a preference for the date?’

‘Middle of next week? Wednesday, maybe?’ She turned to Mark. ‘I suppose we’ll have to close La Venezia for the day, whatever day we choose.’

‘I’ll see what we can do,’ said Mr Silvestri.

Serena turned back. ‘Can’t we set the date now? Could you ring Father Luigi and see if Wednesday is all right? We need to let the
famiglia
in Italy know as soon as possible so they can make travel arrangements.’ She added, ‘Joe’s mother is too frail to travel, but several of his brothers and sisters want to come.’

Mr Silvestri put down his pen and rubbed his hands together apologetically. ‘I’m afraid nothing can be set in stone until the
post-mortem
is concluded and the coroner releases the…remains.’

‘Post-mortem?’ Serena stared at him, then swivelled to look at Mark. ‘What’s this about?’

Mark raised his shoulders and his eyebrows; this was the first he’d heard of it. ‘But a post-mortem shouldn’t be necessary,’ he said to neither of them in particular. ‘Joe died in hospital, under medical supervision. Of a heart attack. There shouldn’t be any difficulty about issuing a death certificate.’

The funeral director’s hand fluttered to the knot of his sober tie. ‘All I know is that when I rang the hospital to make
arrangements
to collect the remains, I was told that a post-mortem had been ordered.’

They were both looking at him, Mark realised. ‘I’ll get to the bottom of it,’ he promised. ‘I’ll make a phone call or two and find out what’s going on.’