Deep Waters (23 page)

Poor, poor Chiara, Callie thought as she headed for the bus stop. There couldn’t be a worse age to lose your father than thirteen. Callie had been a young adult when her father died; how much more terrible at thirteen!

Thirteen was the worst age for
anything
, come to that. Callie remembered it all too vividly: awash with hormones, experiencing confusing body changes and bewildering mood swings. People telling you how lovely it was to be young and you knowing how wrong they were. Hating yourself—the child you’d been, the person you were becoming. Hating everyone else. Especially your mother.

She and her friends had despised their mothers. For hours on end they’d discussed it: how embarrassed they were by their mothers, by their uncool dress sense and their inconvenient standards, how they would have traded their own mother for anyone else’s at the drop of a hat.

Surely there was more than a bit of that involved in Chiara’s vehemence about Serena. She would have hated her whether Joe had died or not.

But it wasn’t the whole story. Chiara had known more about the tension between her parents than the family thought—that much was clear. Had she, as a sensitive child, just picked up on the atmosphere, or did she know something specific?

And it wasn’t just her mother that Chiara hated right now. She was also pretty angry with God.

God had let her father die. She’d prayed and prayed, every prayer she knew, from the very depths of her heart and soul. She’d begged God to save her father; she’d promised to be good for the rest of her life if he lived. But God hadn’t listened to her. He’d let her father die.

All of that had emerged as Chiara poured her heart out to Callie. It was why she didn’t want to talk to a priest or any of the professionally religious people at the school. They would just say it was God’s will, but they wouldn’t be able to explain why. And what use was that, any more than a God who didn’t answer prayers?

Callie had been asked for not because of but in spite of her profession. She was there as a person who had lost her own father, not as a clergywoman. She understood that now, very well.

This was not the time to talk to Chiara about God. All the theology in the world wouldn’t reach her now. Nothing about God watching his own son die, about his being with people through their pain, would mean anything to a girl who had set her heart against him.

For Callie herself it had been different. She’d had no faith before her father’s death: no one to pray to, no concept of a personal God. It was Frances, the hospital chaplain who had been there at the bedside as his family had watched him die, who had introduced her to a strength outside herself and her own experience. Callie didn’t know how she would have survived without that. The sense of being upheld, of not being alone in her terrible grief: it had saved her.

And eventually, God willing, it would save Chiara as well. Callie wasn’t sure how, or when, but she would do all she could, whenever Chiara was ready to accept it.

Shortly after she reached the bus stop, her phone rang. This time she recognised the tune, though not the number displayed, and she managed to flip it open and accept the call without difficulty.

‘This is Brenda. Brenda Betts,’ said a tremulous voice. ‘Remember? You came to talk about Muffin’s funeral.’

‘Yes, of course, Mrs Betts.’ She’d given Brenda Betts her card, Callie recalled, recognising in her the only mature adult in the household. She’d told her to ring when they were ready to make more concrete plans, or if they needed her for anything else.

‘Jodee’s mum. She rung. The papers—they’re full of terrible things about them. Saying as how they was out clubbing when Muffin died. Saying they was bad parents.’

Why, Callie wondered, was Brenda ringing
her
? Surely there wasn’t anything she could do about it.

Brenda went on without stopping for breath. ‘Our Chazz is that upset, and Jodee too, of course. I tried to ring that policeman, that Mark, who’s meant to be helping us, but he en’t answering. And Lilith. She’d write the truth, but she don’t answer neither. I just didn’t know where else to turn. We can’t go out. But we just have to talk to someone, like.’

‘All right,’ said Callie.

‘You’ll come?’

Callie took a deep breath, thinking about Brian—and Jane—and the possible consequences. But she really had no choice: they were her parishioners, and they needed her. She’d just have to square it with Brian later. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’ll come.’

Lilith went to the ladies’ room to refresh her make-up and think about what Rob Gardiner-Smith had said.

Could he be right? Was she losing it?

Had she really lost her killer instinct, the taste for blood, the ‘going for the jugular’ that had been her trademark for so long?

She’d heard what DI Stewart had said in his statement,
recognised
its potential as a story, and then she’d pulled back.

She was going soft.

Lilith stared at herself in the mirror, scarcely recognising the face she saw. Where was the confident Lilith Noone, the woman whose very name inspired fear in hearts across the United Kingdom?

Sentimentality. No one had ever accused her of that before.

She reminded herself of the explanation she’d given to her boss. Betraying the confidence of Jodee and Chazz would have consequences, severe repercussions. If they felt they couldn’t trust her, she would lose her unique position and thus her competitive edge.

All of that was true.

But…

Lilith thought about Jodee and Chazz. Yes, they were in love with their own status as celebrities. They were self-absorbed and not terribly bright.

But their love for each other seemed genuine, and they had
certainly
loved their baby. Chazz was good to his mother—Brenda,
who had been a rock through all of this, and who didn’t deserve any more suffering than she’d already endured.

Lilith acknowledged to herself the shocking truth: she
liked
them. She liked them all: camera-courting Jodee, thick Chazz, managing Brenda. And she didn’t believe that any of them had been responsible in any way for Muffin’s death.

Their denials, when she’d taken the shopping round on Monday afternoon, had been unprompted, spontaneous and utterly credible.

And remarkably stupid, she reminded herself. They’d delivered themselves into her hands, given her the ammunition to destroy them completely. They knew she was a journalist, yet they’d told her something that at this point was known only to them and the police, and possibly the coroner. Something far more damaging than DI Stewart’s revelation at the inquest. Something that, in one stroke, would save her job and confirm her reputation as the most feared, ruthless reporter in the business.

She didn’t want to do it, Lilith admitted to herself. Sentimental it might be, but she didn’t want to hurt them.

‘No place in tabloid journalism for sentimentality,’ he’d said. She repeated it to her image in the mirror, then reached for her phone with sudden resolve. She knew what she had to do.

Neville was on his way across London, into the City, where he’d agreed to meet Andrew Linton at Triona’s flat. He felt vaguely guilty about it: the fact that he had a key did not necessarily mean that Triona had given him permission to put her flat on the market and sell it out from under her.

It wasn’t to that point yet, he assuaged his conscience. All he was doing was getting a valuation. He needed to know how much money the flat might realise if he were to put his plan into action and win Triona back. No commitment had been made, no contract signed.

Andrew, eager as ever, was waiting for him at the entrance to the block of flats. ‘I love this location,’ he gushed. ‘Brilliant.’
And his enthusiasm was undimmed after Neville wielded the key and took him inside. ‘Oh,’ he said, looking round, his eyelids fluttering and his mouth agape.

Neville had a sudden strong memory of a picture in a book he’d possessed as a child: Saint Francis receiving the Stigmata, with an upward gaze of supreme ecstasy as the blood spurted from his upturned palms. It had scared the bejesus out of Neville at the time; he’d had nightmares about that picture for years.

Andrew’s palms were intact as he lifted them up, but his face wore that same look of concentrated rapture. ‘Now
this
is just the sort of thing that young professionals are queueing up for. I have two or three dozen people on my books who are looking for a flat like this, in this area. We’ll sell it in a day. It might even go to sealed bids.’

Sealed bids, Neville gathered, were like the Holy Grail to estate agents. ‘How much?’ he ventured.

‘Oh, well over half a million,’ Andrew stated. ‘We’ll achieve that with no problem. It might go as high as six, six fifty. In this condition…And it will show brilliantly,’ he added.

Neville admitted to himself that Triona had done it up very well, and that she kept it immaculate. Minimalist, that was the word. White walls, with a couple of expensive modern oil
paintings
. No knick-nacks, no clutter. And she
did
employ a cleaner to keep it spotless and tidy.

‘Oh, stainless steel,’ Andrew enthused as he opened the door into the kitchen. ‘And granite work-tops. Very nice indeed. Will she be leaving the appliances?’

Neville shrugged. ‘I suppose so.’ In for a penny, in for a pound.

‘Excellent.’ He moved across to the bedroom door as Neville’s phone rang.

‘Excuse me,’ said Neville, reaching into his pocket for the phone.

Andrew waved his hand. ‘Carry on. I’ll just pop into the bedroom, if I may.’

‘Go ahead.’ Neville turned his attention to the phone. Mark Lombardi, the caller display informed him. Fine time to ring
now, he thought with a flash of irritation. Before the opening of the inquest was when he’d needed him, not the day after.

‘Mark!’ he began. ‘Where have you been, mate? I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for days!’

‘My brother-in-law,’ Mark said flatly. ‘Joe. He died
yesterday
.’

‘Oh, God. I didn’t know.’

Mark didn’t elaborate. ‘Listen, Neville. I need your help.’

‘My help?’ He listened as Mark explained: the coroner had apparently ordered a post-mortem, and Mark wanted to discover why.

‘You know the coroner, don’t you?’ Mark asked. ‘Could you ring him and find out what’s going on? It would be better coming from you than from me.’

‘Hereward Rice, do you mean? But if Joe died in the City, that would be a different jurisdiction. A different coroner.’

‘He
lived
in the City,’ Mark explained. ‘Clerkenwell. But he died in hospital. In Paddington.’

‘So that puts him in Hereward’s patch.’ Oh, great, Neville said to himself. He thought he’d done with Hereward Rice for a while.

Mark was a good friend, though—probably the best he had—and it wasn’t such a great favour to ask. ‘Sure, mate,’ he said. ‘I’ll see what I can find out, and I’ll get back to you.’

Andrew returned from the bedroom with a clipboard, a space-age laser measuring device, a camera and a determined air. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘I’ll get these measurements done, take a few photos, and we can have it on the market by tomorrow.’

On her way to the Bettses’ house, Callie stopped at a
newsagents
’ and surveyed the headlines in the papers. It was bad: worse than she’d imagined. She perused a few of the stories until the proprietor began glaring in her direction. ‘Thanks,’ she said hastily, grabbing a bar of chocolate and taking it to the till. This, she thought, was likely to be her main meal today, the
way things were going. No time to stop, even for a sandwich. And as for poor Bella…

Given the hysteria of the newspaper stories, she wasn’t too surprised to see that the media watch at the Betts home had stepped up a notch or two. Once again she fought her way through the assembled photographers and cameramen; the door opened a crack and she slipped inside.

‘Oh, thank you for coming,’ said Brenda Betts. ‘I didn’t know where else to turn.’

‘I’m glad to help, if I can.’

Brenda led her straight through to the kitchen. ‘We can talk in here,’ she said, putting the kettle on.

Callie sat at the kitchen table and watched her as she made the tea. Brenda Betts was an interesting woman: down-to-earth and unashamedly working class in her speech, her attitudes, her values. Yet she had the surface gloss that money brings, with her stylishly-cut hair and her expensive jewellery.

‘I was disappointed in that policeman, that Mark,’ Brenda stated. ‘He left us high and dry. Said he’d do some shopping for us. Took my money and all. But he never came back. And he won’t answer his phone, neither. Friend of yours, is he?’ she added, looking at Callie.

Callie sprang to his defence. ‘He’s had a death in his family,’ she explained. ‘Very sudden and unexpected. I’m sure he didn’t mean to abandon you like that.’

‘Oh, well, then.’ Brenda looked somewhat mollified.

‘Do you need me to do some shopping for you?’ Callie offered.

Brenda poured the tea into two sturdy mugs and put one in front of Callie. ‘That’s kind of you. But Lilith done it. She came round yesterday afternoon, as soon as she could. Chazz was getting that desperate for his pot noodles. Sugar?’

‘No, thanks.’

Adding a generous spoonful to her own mug, Brenda sat down across from Callie. ‘It’s not true,’ she said simply. ‘All them terrible things the papers said.’

‘You haven’t actually seen the papers, have you?’

‘No. But Jodee’s mum couldn’t wait to ring and tell her. The cow,’ Brenda added. ‘Fine mum she is. Read the stories out to her. “Home alone” and all that rubbish. Sent Jodee into
hysterics
, it did.’

‘Where is she now?’ Callie asked. ‘Jodee?’

‘I sent her off to bed—I reckoned that was the best place for her, till she calms down a bit. And Chazz,’ she added. ‘He don’t say much, but he gets dead wound up. He’s messing about with his Playstation, and that’s what he does when he’s really upset.’

It sounded to Callie as though Brenda was dealing with the situation perfectly well on her own; she wasn’t sure why she had felt the need to ring her and get her involved.

As if reading her mind, Brenda admitted, ‘I did feel a bit guilty ringing you. We’re not church-goers, you know.’

‘That doesn’t matter,’ Callie assured her. ‘You live in the parish. Everyone in the parish is our responsibility.’ It was one of the first lessons Brian had taught her, and she’d experienced it for herself, over and over again: people who couldn’t be bothered with the Church for years on end always wanted it to be there for them when they needed it. For birth, marriage, and death, mostly, but sometimes for other things as well.

‘Nothing against it, mind,’ Brenda added. ‘Just never had no time for it.’ She said it matter-of-factly rather than defensively. ‘I was a single mum, see. Not that I wasn’t proper married, like, but Kev Betts wasn’t cut out to be a dad. Soon as he found out it was twins, he scarpered. Said he couldn’t stand one bawling baby, never mind two. And he never sent me tuppence, neither. I brought them twins up all on my own.’

Callie sensed that this personal history was a delaying tactic. Echoing Brenda’s honesty, she decided to tackle the subject
head-on
. ‘Why, exactly,
did
you want me to come?’

Brenda looked down into her mug. ‘I wanted to talk to someone,’ she admitted. ‘Someone who wouldn’t…go blabbing me business round the world, like.’

Callie began to understand: this wasn’t what it had seemed to be at all. Jodee had been an excuse, and Brenda had rung her
not because she couldn’t reach anyone else, but precisely because of who—and what—Callie was.

‘Anything you say to me is just between us,’ Callie assured her.

‘That’s what I thought, like.’ Still Brenda didn’t look at her. ‘All this palaver about Chazz and Jodee being out clubbing that night,’ she said. ‘Nobody’s asked me where
I
was. Why I weren’t at home with Muffin, like I should of been.’

Callie
had
wondered; the papers hadn’t even mentioned Brenda. ‘Do you want to tell me?’ she prompted gently.

Resolutely keeping her eyes down, tracing the pattern of the tablecloth with her finger, Brenda told her.

His name was Eric. Brenda had met him several months ago, at the supermarket. His wife had died of cancer not long before; he’d asked Brenda’s advice on buying washing powder. They’d talked, gone for a cup of coffee. He was lonely. They’d seen each other a few times after that, then more regularly. Usually they went out for a meal. She would tell Chazz and Jodee that she was going to see a friend. No names mentioned.