Deep Waters (25 page)

‘What was that about?’ he pursued.

Serena compressed her lips. ‘Evidently Chiara’s not doing too well,’ she said. ‘I’ll need to have a word with her when she gets home.’

Before that happened, though, Angelina arrived, letting
herself
into the house and coming through to the kitchen, where she dumped her bags, shed her coat, and went to give her mother a robust hug.

‘My turn,’ said Mark, opening his arms to her.

‘Uncle Marco.’ Her voice was a bit choked up, but the tears swimming in her eyes didn’t spill over as they hugged.

‘I’m so sorry about your dad,’ Mark said.

‘Me too.’ Angelina disengaged herself, dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, and went to the range, reaching for the coffee pot and a mug.

At twenty, in her second year of university—reading law at Birmingham—Angelina was practically a grown-up. She’d always been a very different sort of girl from Chiara, inheriting her mother’s more phlegmatic temperament. Now that Chiara was a teen-ager and even more emotional and unpredictable than usual, the contrast was marked. While Chiara was artistic and imaginative, Angelina was practical, down-to-earth. She would, Mark realised with gratitude, be a great asset to her mother during the next difficult days.

‘You needn’t have come till next week,’ Serena said, echoing a conversation Mark knew they’d already had on the phone, but she didn’t protest when Angelina started a fresh pot of coffee and began washing up the cups in the sink.

A few minutes later they heard the outside door slam. ‘Chiara,’ said Serena, waiting; Chiara, though, by-passed the kitchen without stopping and went straight up the stairs to her room, slamming that door as well.

Serena exchanged glances with Angelina, who raised her eyebrows.

‘Would you like me to go up and get her?’ Mark offered.

‘No. I’ll go.’ Serena’s voice was firm.

As soon as her mother had left the room, Angelina pulled out a chair and plopped down across from Mark at the kitchen table, cradling her cup of coffee. ‘How is Mum doing?’ she asked him. ‘I mean, really?’

‘She says she’s okay.’ That, he thought, was the most honest answer he could give. Serena was carrying on; she was doing what she needed to do. He had yet to see her shed a tear. But he had no idea what was actually going on inside her head. ‘How are
you
doing?’ he added. Angelina and her father had always been close,
though there had been fireworks at Christmas when she’d brought home a boyfriend of whom Joe had vociferously disapproved. There had been more than a few tense moments between father and daughter; Joe had barely been civil to the young Chinese man.

‘I’m not sure. I don’t think it’s actually sunk in,’ Angelina confessed. ‘It just feels weird. I keep telling myself he’s dead, but I don’t really believe it.’ She looked round the kitchen. ‘I keep expecting him to walk in, asking for coffee.’

Mark knew exactly what she meant, and his heart went out to his niece.

He made a stab at changing the subject. ‘How is Li?’

Angelina shrugged. ‘I suppose he’s all right. He was the last time I saw him.’ She took a sip of coffee. ‘We’re not together any more,’ she added matter-of-factly.

‘Oh! I’m sorry!’ Mark meant it: he’d liked what he’d seen of Li, and had admired the way the young man had coped with the culture clash of being thrust into the middle of a voluble Italian family, some of whom were actively hostile towards him.

Surprisingly at the time, Mamma had not been one of them. Everyone had expected her to be upset about Angelina’s relationship with Li—as upset as Joe—but she’d been philosophical about it. ‘It won’t last,’ she’d said. ‘They’re too different.
Sono troppo diversi. Vedrete
. You’ll see.’ And she’d been right, Mark thought wryly.

‘It’s okay,’ said Angelina. ‘Really. We parted as friends.’

‘He didn’t…break your heart?’ Mark asked awkwardly.

She laughed. ‘God, no. To tell you the truth, Uncle Marco, Li’s a nice bloke, but once we’d got over the novelty of sleeping together, we realised we didn’t have that much in common.’

In spite of himself, Mark was shocked; he hoped it didn’t show on his face. ‘Oh,’ he said.

Angelina leaned across the table and patted his arm in a kindly, almost patronising, way. ‘Sorry, Uncle Marco,’ she said. ‘I keep forgetting you’re one of
them
.’

‘Them?’

‘Their generation—Mum and Dad’s. The ones that think people mate for life. Like swans.’

Mark wasn’t sure whether to be insulted or flattered.

‘Oh, don’t get me wrong,’ Angelina went on. ‘I think Mum and Dad’s marriage is…was…great. And it was wonderful to grow up in a family like that, with that kind of security. But my generation doesn’t think that way. We don’t expect relationships to last forever.’

‘You don’t?’ He
was
shocked, and he didn’t care if she knew it.

She shook her head. ‘No way. We expect to have lots of
different
partners in our lifetime. And to put it crudely, the people I know at uni—my mates—wouldn’t dream of buying something without sampling the merchandise first. It doesn’t mean we don’t have standards. Just that we’re not necessarily looking for the same things our parents’ generation think we are.’

Mark now knew what side of the generation gap he fell on; that was yet another shock. He was still mulling it over when Serena came back into the kitchen.

She was alone, and she wasn’t smiling. ‘Marco,’ she said. ‘We need to talk. Now.’

Most of the clothes that Callie had hastily packed to bring with her to the vicarage had been worn. It was time to do some laundry, but she didn’t really want to ask Jane to use her
washing
machine. She was bound to do something wrong—use too much washing powder, or get in the way while Jane was cooking supper. So she bundled up her dirty clothes and used towels, shoved them into a Tesco carrier bag, and went to a launderette. It was in the neighbourhood, in the parish; she walked by it nearly every day but had never had need to use it before.

The launderette was noisy, hot and unexpectedly full of people. There were students, single men—a good place to keep in mind if she ever needed to pick up a man, Callie told herself humorously—and foreign tourists, sorting through piles of pocket change to identify the coins they needed for the machines. No one she knew; none of the faithful of the parish. A place for transients.

She bought an over-priced miniature packet of washing powder, then found an empty washing machine, pushed in her bundle of laundry, and fed the machine with an extortionate number of pound coins.

Callie sat down on a plastic chair, shrugged out of her
too-warm
jacket, and watched her clothes go round. Round and round, wetly: slosh, thump, pause…slosh, thump, pause. Her mind emptied of everything but that rhythm. It was hypnotic, therapeutic. She didn’t have to think about anything else—not about Chiara, or Brenda Betts, or Jane. Not even about Marco, and the fact that he hadn’t rung her all day.

Slosh, thump, pause.

Dimly she became aware that a phone was ringing. Over the cacophony of the combined sloshes and thumpings of two dozen washing machines a tinny tune was playing: ‘I will survive’.

It was
her
phone.

She reached for her handbag and managed to find the phone before it stopped its jaunty tune.

Marco, the display indicated. With fumbling fingers she flipped the phone open, covering her free ear with her other hand. ‘Marco?’

‘
Cara mia
? Where are you? It sounds like you’re in an
aeroplane
hangar or something.’

‘Launderette.’ She said it quietly, then repeated it more loudly; a few heads turned. ‘Just a sec,’ she added. ‘I’ll go outside.’

Callie went out into the comparative quiet of the busy street. ‘That’s better. Oh, I’m so glad you’ve rung, Marco. I’ve been thinking about you all day. And about Serena and the family. How is Serena doing?’

There was a slight pause before Marco replied. ‘So-so,’ he said, then paused again. ‘The thing is,
Cara mia
, she wasn’t very happy. About you talking to Chiara.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Chiara’s at such a difficult age. She needs careful handling.’ He said the words as though he’d memorised them.

Someone came out of the launderette and pushed past her on the pavement with their large bundle.

‘But it’s my job, Marco. It’s what I’m trained to do. And,’ Callie added, ‘she asked for me. I couldn’t let her down.’

‘Serena said to tell you that it’s a family matter, and that she would appreciate it if you didn’t get involved.’ Marco cleared his throat. ‘I’m sorry, Callie.’

‘But…’

‘I’m sorry. Really sorry,’ he repeated, adding, ‘I’ll ring you soon.’ Then he hung up.

She closed the phone and stared at it for a moment, not quite taking in what she’d heard.

The traffic carried on, and the pedestrians rushed on their way, home to their suppers and their families. Suddenly chilled, Callie realised that she’d left her jacket inside and went back into the steamy, rackety launderette.

Her jacket was where she’d left it, on her chair. Her clothes continued to go round in their hypnotic rhythm.

But her bag wasn’t where she’d last seen it, on the floor by the chair.

Her slouchy black shoulder bag, as indispensable to her as her right arm. The bag that held everything essential to her life, from her purse with her money, debit and credit cards to her diary to a spare pair of tights to her small prayer book.

She got down on her knees to look for it, convinced that it must have been kicked under the chair somehow.

Her bag was not there.

‘My bag?’ she said to the woman at the neighbouring machine. ‘A black bag. Have you seen it?’

The woman shrugged, lifting her hands palms-up in a clear gesture of indifference.

Callie remembered the person—she wasn’t even sure of the gender—who had pushed past her on the pavement. In a hurry to get out of the launderette.

‘My bag,’ said Callie, and burst into tears.

On his way to work in the mornings, Neville usually stopped at the newsagents’ by the Tube station to pick up a newspaper or two, for reading material on the Tube and to keep up with what was going on in the world—not to mention what the papers were saying about the police in particular.

His choice of paper on Wednesday morning didn’t require much deliberation. The headline on the front page of the
Daily Globe
was in letters at least three inches high: S
HAKEN
T
O
D
EATH
?

‘Good God,’ said Neville aloud, then swore savagely under his breath as he read the first few lines, beneath the prominent by-line of Lilith Noone.

‘Tragic Muffin Betts may have died from being S
HAKEN
, this reporter has learned exclusively. The infant daughter of celeb couple Jodee and Chazz died last week in what appeared to be C
OT
D
EATH
, but sources now confirm that —’

‘Bloody woman!’ Neville exploded, to the alarm of the woman at the till. ‘Not you,’ he assured her as he gave her a pound coin. ‘Lilith Bloody Noone!’ He slapped the paper with the flat of his hand. ‘Where does she come up with this rubbish?’

‘I don’t know, I’m sure,’ said the woman, handing back his change. ‘But people seem to want to read it,’ she added. ‘We’re nearly sold out of the
Globe
already. I’ve sent for extra copies.’

‘Muck-raking, filth-spreading bloody woman,’ he muttered.

And who, he asked himself as he read the story on the Tube, was her source? So few people knew anything about the
post-mortem
results. The pathologist himself, who’d shown him the x-rays. The coroner, probably the deputy coroner. DCS Evans. Mark Lombardi.

Surely Mark wouldn’t have revealed anything to Lilith Noone? He would know better. Besides, Neville told himself, Mark had been tied up with other things. His brother-in-law’s death. Neville hadn’t even been able to reach him—how could Lilith Noone have tracked him down?

Ruling out Mark didn’t leave many other options.

Evans would want to know. He’d insist on getting to the bottom of it. He’d probably, Neville realised, think that Neville himself could have been the source.

Well, he’d disabuse him of that notion if he so much as
suggested
it. The woman was trouble. Poison. He’d as soon talk to her as sup with the devil. And he didn’t care who knew it.

Loss.

Callie woke on Wednesday morning, achingly hollow with the knowledge of it.

Her bag. Her
life
.

She hadn’t felt so utterly empty since that horrible day when her fiancé Adam had told her he’d fallen in love with someone else. And before that, when her father died.

It was just a bag, but along with it had gone so many things she relied on.

How would she manage, for instance, without her diary? All of her appointments, meetings, places she had to be and things she had to do over the next months? Callie had a fairly good memory, but she relied on her diary to tell her where she was meant to be at any given time.

And the prayer book. That was important to her for other reasons. She used it, yes, on a daily basis—she’d read a Psalm or two when she was on the Tube with no other reading material, or
use one of the prayers with a parishioner in hospital. The main reason she valued it, though, was for its associations: Frances had given it to her at her confirmation. Frances, who had brought her to faith—confirmation—and ultimately to her vocation—ordination. The little book had originally belonged to Frances’ vicar father, who’d received it when he was confirmed, and he had, in turn, passed it on to Frances at her own confirmation. Since Frances’ strong-minded daughter had refused to be
confirmed
, Frances had given it to Callie. Her spiritual daughter, she said. The book was bound in leather, now a little rubbed round the edges, and its pages were of the sort of thin, expensive paper that you just didn’t see any more.

And it was gone. Presumably forever.

When she’d arrived back at the vicarage without the bag, in tears, Jane had been unexpectedly sympathetic. She and Brian had offered practical advice: ring the bank, the credit card
company
, the police.

All very matter-of-fact. The police had told her to go to the nearest police station in the morning to file a report.

‘I wouldn’t bother,’ Brian said. ‘They’ll never catch him. Not if you can’t give them a description.’

‘I don’t even know if it was a
him
,’ Callie admitted.

But she would do as she was told.

Going to the police station: that was a strange thing. As she approached it, a forbiddingly utilitarian building protected by busy streets and a guard armed with a submachine gun, Callie realised that she’d only ever been inside it once—visiting the cells. It was where Marco worked—a familiar world to him—but to her it was alien and even frightening.

She might see Marco, Callie told herself. She wasn’t sure she wanted to see him right now. She’d been trying hard
not
to think about Marco, ever since last night.

The armed guard didn’t even turn his head to look at her as she sidled past, ready with an explanation of her mission. She was wearing a dog collar; he probably didn’t think of her as a major threat to security.

‘I’d like to report a theft,’ she said to the person at the
reception
desk in the lobby, and after ten minutes in a waiting room she was ushered into a small office where a uniformed officer sat behind a desk. Twin towers of in-trays and out-trays held down either side of the desk. ‘Yes?’ sighed the young woman,
beckoning
to a chair. She would probably, Callie reckoned, rather be out on the street than stuck in this tiny, airless room without a window, surrounded by paperwork.

‘My handbag was stolen,’ said Callie, and with another sigh the WPC selected the appropriate piece of paper from one of the trays and pulled it in front of her, biro at the ready.

‘Name?’

Callie supplied the necessary details, giving the vicarage as her address and providing her mobile number. She gave the date, time and location of the theft.

The WPC’s eyes flicked over the dog collar. ‘Now tell me what happened.’

‘I was at the launderette, waiting for my load to finish. My phone rang. It was too noisy to hear anything, so I took the phone outside.’

‘And left your bag behind?’ The WPC rolled her eyes but refrained from stating the obvious.

‘Yes. I know. It wasn’t a very smart thing to do,’ Callie said humbly. ‘I didn’t think.’

‘Obviously.’ She looked down at the form and made a note. ‘And when you came back it was gone.’

‘Yes.’

‘So you didn’t see the person who took it?’

‘Sort of,’ Callie said. ‘Or at least the person who
probably
took it. They came out of the launderette while I was on the phone.’

‘So you can provide a description?’

‘No,’ she apologised. ‘I wasn’t paying any attention, I’m afraid. I was…involved in the phone call. It was…important.’

She would
not
think about it. Not now.

‘Well, then.’ There wasn’t much more to say, obviously. The WPC scribbled a few additional words, then shoved the paper
across the desk towards Callie, proffering the biro. ‘Sign here, Reverend Anson.’

Callie signed. The WPC tore off the back copy of the
triplicate
form and handed it to her.

‘We have your details. We’ll be in touch if anything turns up.’
Not bloody likely
, her body language said, as she stuck the form into the appropriate tray on the opposite side of the desk.

‘Thank you,’ said Callie, backing towards the door. The WPC didn’t even look up.

Back in the waiting room, Callie retraced her steps to the entrance lobby, folding up the paper and putting it in her jacket pocket. She felt almost naked without her bag; she’d have to go out later and buy a new one.

There was a familiar-looking figure crossing the lobby. Not Marco, but Neville Stewart, a newspaper tucked under his arm and an intent expression on his face. Heading towards the lift.

‘Neville?’ she said tentatively. ‘DI Stewart?’

He stopped and turned his head, focussing for a second without seeming to register who she was.

‘Callie,’ she supplied. ‘Callie Anson.’

‘Callie, of course! Mark’s Callie.’

She nodded, though she wasn’t so sure about that any more. She wasn’t going to go there; she wasn’t going to think about that.

Neville Stewart smiled at her, and for the first time she saw how charming he could be if he set his mind to it. ‘Sorry—I was a million miles away. If you’re looking for Mark, I’m not sure whether he’s here or not. He’s had some time off—family bereavement. But I’m sure you know all about that.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s not why I’m here. My bag was stolen.’

‘Oh, bad luck.’

‘It was just a bag,’ she heard herself saying. Callie could see that his eyes flicked towards the lift. ‘I won’t keep you,’ she added. ‘I’m sure you’re busy.’

‘Yes. Good to see you.’ He was already on his way. ‘I hope we catch the bastard who stole your bag,’ he said over his shoulder.

Just a bag. That was all it was. So why were Callie’s eyes prickling with tears yet again?

Mark was of two minds about going to work on Wednesday. On the one hand, if there was a chance that Serena needed him, that he could be useful to her, he didn’t want to let her down. But he didn’t think that she
did
need him particularly: Angelina and Mamma were there for the practicalities, and perhaps it would be better for him to save his time off for the days around the funeral, when members of the Italian
famiglia
would descend. Besides, all of the plans that had yet to be made were on hold until the formality of the post-mortem was out of the way. Mark would ring the coroner’s office today to find out the status of that; he could do it from work. If the coroner was satisfied by the
post-mortem
results and agreed to release the body, they could set a date for the funeral and start sorting out the details.

He rang Serena first thing, and she was emphatic about it. ‘Go to work, Marco,’ she said. ‘There’s no reason for you not to. I’ll be working today myself.’

So that was that. He really should check in with Jodee and Chazz and Brenda, apologise to them for his sudden
disappearance
. In fact, he realised with horror, he still had Brenda’s
shopping
; the Tesco bags were piled in the corner of his bedroom. Things had developed so rapidly that he’d never had the chance to deliver it to her. The milk was
not
going to be in good shape; he’d have to replace it before he went.

He had been seriously derelict in his job there, he admitted to himself. But what else could he have done? Serena’s need had been more important than cornflakes and pot noodles. Surely Brenda would understand that.

Callie. His thoughts returned to her, circled round her, as they inevitably did; she was never far from his mind. Now, though, those thoughts were too painful to contemplate.

He knew her so well. Her voice on the phone had conveyed shock, hurt. She must be feeling betrayed. By him, the man who loved her.

How could he possibly make it better? He hadn’t meant to hurt her, though he could see how she could have taken it that way.

What
had
he done?

He wasn’t equal to sorting it out. Not now. He just couldn’t ring her and risk her hanging up on him. He would go to work, and with any luck he’d keep busy enough that he wouldn’t have time to think about her…and what he’d done.