Deep Waters (29 page)

‘You malign me, doll. I’m hurt.’ Eli put his hand over his heart melodramatically. ‘Aren’t I allowed to spoil you a bit?’

‘Or maybe you’re feeling guilty,’ Yolanda suggested. ‘I saw the way you looked at that new WPC. Have you been flirting with her or something?’

They both knew she was teasing; Eli had a well-deserved reputation as the most uxorious of men, who never looked at another woman. If he did look at them, it was only to compare them unfavourably with his wife. ‘That skinny little thing?’ he scoffed. ‘Not an ounce of meat on her bones.’

Yolanda wasn’t fat, but she was statuesque: tall, broad-hipped, full-breasted. That, she knew, was the way Eli liked her. Womanly, he called it. And she liked him just the way he was as well—
large-framed
, with a shiny shaved head and a trim moustache.

She’d put her phone on the table; they both jumped slightly when it rang. Eli frowned as Yolanda reached for it.

‘Yolanda? It’s Neville Stewart. I hope you didn’t have any plans for this evening.’ He filled her in; she scribbled the information on a paper serviette.

‘Sorry, babe. No Thai tonight,’ she said to Eli when she’d finished. The look of disappointment on his face made her feel just a bit guilty, but she couldn’t help the little thrill of
excitement
that always accompanied a new assignment.

‘No worries, doll,’ he grinned. ‘I guess I could always take that WPC out instead. Fatten her up a bit, you know?’

By the time Neville drove back across town, rush hour was long since over. Red buses still plied Oxford Street in their numbers, but at least the traffic wasn’t bumper-to-bumper.

It had started to rain, which was bad news for Sid Cowley. Every time he put his fag out of the window it fizzled out;
eventually
he gave up and sat in bad-tempered silence.

Neville tried to draw him out. ‘Quite an evening, eh, Sid?’

‘I suppose.’ He turned a packet of fags round in his hands, shook one out, then put it back in again.

‘What did you make of her? Mark’s sister?’

Cowley shrugged. ‘A cool customer, I thought. Bit of a cold fish.’

Neville agreed: for someone who had just been told that her husband had been murdered, she was remarkably composed. No hysteria, just consistent denials. Admittedly she’d had a couple of days to get used to the fact that her husband was dead, but…

‘That Angelina,’ Cowley volunteered. ‘Phoar.’

‘A pretty girl,’ Neville concurred. Not yet beautiful, in his opinion. She was like a younger version of her mother, with as yet just the promise of her mother’s beauty.

Did that mean he was really getting old, to prefer the mature charms of Serena to her daughter’s youthful freshness? God help him.

He was a married man, he reminded himself. He shouldn’t be thinking about either one of them in that way. Leave that to Sid…

Sid, to give him credit, had been the one who had found it. The bottle—almost certainly the murder weapon. While the
SOCOs had scurried round looking in cupboards and under beds, Sid had spotted it.

It had been in plain sight, in the house’s small entrance hall. There was a table at the foot of the stairs to collect keys, post, and daily detritus, and on it, amongst the other things, was a bottle—a Lucozade bottle, the sort athletes and runners used to keep themselves hydrated. Sid had unscrewed the top and sniffed it. ‘Lucozade,’ he said. ‘Just like it says on the tin. But isn’t there something else as well?’

Neville took it from him and gave a sniff. Anti-freeze—he’d swear it.

The SOCOs had bagged it up and taken it away for analysis, but Neville would bet a week’s wages that it was the murder weapon.

An elegant way to kill someone, he admitted to himself with sneaking admiration. Someone who went running every
morning
, anyway. Just pour out a bit of the Lucozade and replace it with anti-freeze. The taste wouldn’t be very noticeable, and by the time the runner had taken a few slugs, it would be too late. An ounce or two of anti-freeze could be fatal.

And unless the killer left fingerprints all over the bottle—which hardly seemed likely, in a crime so beautifully planned—it would be almost impossible to catch him. Or her. Anyone could have done it, then ditched the tell-tale bottle of anti-freeze in any kerbside bin or skip in town. Well in advance, even, knowing that sooner or later…

But the fact was that the wife was far and away the best
suspect
. She knew her husband’s habits; she would have had access to his supply of Lucozade. And she had motive. The classic motive, the old favourite. The green-eyed monster.

‘Do you think she did it, Sid?’ Neville asked.

‘Angelina? But she wasn’t even at home. She’s been away at uni in Birmingham since after Christmas.’

Still thinking about Angelina, Neville realised, bemused. While his own ruminations had ranged far beyond, Sid was still fantasizing about that girl.

‘I meant her mother,’ he explained. ‘The grieving widow, as you put it.’

Cowley shrugged. ‘I’d lay money on it. She didn’t seem very grieving to me. And she had the best reason to do it, if he was shagging Samantha Winter. The lucky bugger,’ he added.

‘Lucky? Sid, he’s
dead
!’

‘Oh, well, yeah. But at least he must have died happy.’ He grinned.

Neville dropped the sergeant off at the police station, where he’d left his car.

‘See you in the morning, Guv,’ Cowley said, sounding eager rather than jaded.

He must be looking forward to interviewing the dead man’s mistress, Neville realised. That wasn’t going to happen: he was determined not to let Sid Cowley within a mile of Samantha Winter. There were plenty of other things he could send his keen young sergeant to follow up on. But he didn’t have the heart to tell him that now, Neville decided: he’d let Sid enjoy his wet dreams of Samantha for one night. ‘I’ll be in touch,’ he said cryptically.

Unable to face the Tube journey, and knowing that he’d need the police car in the morning, Neville drove it home to Shepherd’s Bush, and miraculously found a place to park it on the street.

He climbed the stairs, let himself into the flat, and resisted the temptation to collapse on the sofa: if he did that, he’d never get up again. He was knackered, and he was hungry; he couldn’t remember the last meal he’d eaten.

But he didn’t possess the energy even to scramble an egg. Neville poured himself a bowl of cornflakes and ate them quickly, standing up.

God, he missed Triona: the thought came unbidden to his mind. He didn’t want to think about her. Not now. But if she’d been here, waiting for him…

Not allowing himself to mull over the wisdom of it, he picked up his phone and rang her mobile number.

There was no answer.

Of course not.

But when it went to voice mail, instead of hanging up, he left a message.

‘It’s me. I’m thinking about you,’ he said quietly. ‘I miss you. I…I love you.’

Callie got into her pyjamas, cleaned her teeth, washed her face, and applied some moisturiser, then switched off the overhead light and climbed into bed. Inevitably she rolled into the crevasse in the middle, where she curled up under the covers.

She missed Bella, that warm little black-and-white body who snuggled against her so comfortingly when Callie was in need of a cuddle.

Callie closed her eyes and listened to the rain slapping against the window. The sound was hypnotic, even soothing, and Callie hoped it would soon lull her to sleep. Sleep, where she could escape from the memory of what she’d done.

She had told Frances.

Even now she couldn’t believe she’d done it. She’d told Frances about Marco’s phone call, asking her to stay clear of the di Stefanos. Under Frances’ gentle probing, she’d confessed the hurt she’d been bottling up, trying not to think about.

She’d cried, as well: not just a few trickles but hot, scalding tears, mourning for a relationship she’d thought was so strong, so promising. ‘He said he loved me,’ she wept. ‘How could he do that if he really did? How could he shut me out like that?’

‘His sister’s put him in a difficult position,’ Frances pointed out. ‘Right in the middle.’

‘Yes, but he chose
her
. He’s taken her side.’

That was what really hurt: when confronted with a choice, Marco had sided with Serena.

His bloody family, Callie told herself savagely. Always his family. She should have known it would be like that, from the beginning.

She should have run a mile, as soon as he’d told her about
la famiglia
—Mamma and Pappa and beloved Serena. The very fact that it had taken him so many months to get round to introducing her to them…

It should have been a warning. But by then she’d already started falling in love with him.

She’d been on the rebound, she reminded herself. Deeply hurt when Adam broke their engagement, she’d fallen for the first man who’d come along and shown some interest in her.

Just her luck that it was Marco, an Italian man who was still tied to his mamma’s apron strings, who dropped everything and ran whenever his sister needed him.

Yes, he was undeniably gorgeous. Yes, he was funny and sweet and thoughtful. Yes, he made her insides turn to jelly when he kissed her. Yes, he said he loved her.

But they weren’t engaged. He hadn’t asked her to marry him. There was nothing formal between them. Nothing but the love, the warmth, the wanting to be together…

Maybe, Callie told herself sternly, there in the dark in the middle of the world’s most uncomfortable bed, it was for the best. Best that they broke it off now, before they were in any deeper.

His family would always come first. When push came to shove, he would always choose them over her. And she didn’t need that.

He said he’d ring. He hadn’t rung.

The wind picked up; the rain increased in intensity.

Eventually, emotionally exhausted, Callie cried herself to sleep.

First thing on Thursday morning, Neville made the necessary phone calls. He rang the TV network which aired ‘Junior Idol’; they referred him to Reality Bites, the production company. Eventually tracking down the producer of the show, Neville explained that he needed to interview Samantha Winter on an urgent police matter.

‘Good Lord,’ said the producer in a stunned voice. ‘What’s she done? Drugs? Drink driving? Bloody hell! Not before the final!’

‘Nothing like that,’ Neville assured him.

‘Can’t it wait till next week?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘But she’s in rehearsals all day,’ the man protested. ‘It’s only two days till the final!’

Neville put on his sternest official police voice. ‘I’m
investigating
a homicide, sir. Miss Winter is an important witness, and it’s essential that I interview her today.’

‘Oh, well,’ the producer said weakly. ‘If you go to the studio, you might be able to catch her between rehearsals. I’d
appreciate
it if you tried not to upset her too much,’ he added. ‘Not so close to the final.’

‘Heaven forbid that a murder investigation should stand in the way of the “Junior Idol” final,’ Neville muttered to himself when he’d obtained directions to the studio and instructions about getting through security.

Then he made another phone call, imparting the bad news to Sid Cowley. ‘I have an important assignment for you, Sid,’ he said. ‘Go to the university. To di Stefano’s office, to his department. Talk to as many people as you can—colleagues, staff, secretaries, students. Get a feel for what they thought of him. Try to find out—without giving anything away—if people knew about him and Samantha Winter. Or him and anyone else, for that matter,’ added Neville. ‘If he was sleeping with one of his students, how likely is it that she was the only one? He’s probably been
shagging
pretty girls for years—Mark seemed to think so. Track them down. Talk to them.’

‘But…what about Samantha, Guv?’ Cowley protested. ‘Isn’t it important to interview her?’

‘Don’t you worry your pretty little head about that, Sid.’ Neville gave a dry chuckle. ‘I’ll deal with Samantha.’

First, though, he had to deal with Andrew Linton.

He drove the police car to Paddington and pulled up on a double yellow just outside of the estate agents’ office. The traffic wardens wouldn’t dare ticket a police car, and he intended to be quick about it.

The secretary waved him through to Andrew’s desk.

‘Mr Stewart!’ said Andrew, rising from his chair. ‘I’ve been trying to get in touch! Didn’t you get my messages?’

‘Sorry. Urgent police business. A murder to investigate.’

Mollified, Andrew subsided into the chair. He spread out the papers on his desk and began to explain them. ‘This is the sole agency agreement. That means—’

‘Never mind.’ Neville got out his pen and scribbled a signature on each document, then dropped his spare set of keys on the desk.

‘Don’t you want to check the draft details?’ Andrew flapped them at him.

‘I trust you,’ Neville assured him. ‘I’ve got to run,’ he added. ‘Keep in touch.’

After Morning Prayer, Callie made her excuses to Brian: she just couldn’t face breakfast at the vicarage, though she didn’t
tell him that. She didn’t have much of an appetite anyway, and the thought of munching cornflakes under Jane’s beady eye was less than appealing.

The rain had recently stopped, leaving London looking
new-washed
and fresh, and there was a promise of spring in the mild temperatures which followed the rain. Callie thought she might go to Frances’ and take Bella for a walk, but first she wanted to stop at the newsagents’ to check out the latest coverage of the Bettses.

Most of the papers—all of the tabloids—had front-page stories on variations of ‘shaken to death’. A banner at the top of the
Daily Globe
said ‘Inside: Exclusive. Jodee and Chazz - The Whole Story’, by Lilith Noone’.

Callie bought a copy and took it into the nearest Starbucks, where, baffled by the proliferation of choices, she ordered
something
at random—a regular house blend latte—and settled down in an armchair to read her newspaper. She was, she realised, probably one of the few people in the United Kingdom whose knowledge of Jodee and Chazz—up until a few days ago—was limited to recognition of their names and their faces. She felt this put her at a real disadvantage in her dealings with them, and was thankful to the
Globe
for giving her an opportunity to catch up with things it might be helpful for her to know about them.

It was a centrefold story, liberally illustrated with photos.

‘A little over a year ago,’ she read, ‘Jodee Fuller was working as a nail technician at a beauty salon in Newcastle, specialising in nail extensions and French manicures. After growing up in Lamesley, a village to the the south of the River Tyne, Jodee left her home and family behind at the age of sixteen, attracted by the bright lights of the city. With her went her boyfriend from school, Darren Shotton, who works as a garage mechanic. They shared a small one-bedroom flat in Newcastle for nearly four years.

‘In an exclusive interview last summer, while Jodee was in the “twentyfour/seven” house, Darren talked about their
relationship
. “Jodee’s a right fit lass,” he said. “She’s brilliant—a real goer. Always up for it, whether it’s drinking, dancing, partying, shagging. We was cracking together. But I always knew it couldn’t
last—me and her. She was too big for Lamesley. She was too big for Newcastle. All she could ever talk about was going to London, being rich and famous. Getting on ‘twentyfour/seven’ was, like, destiny. I wish her well, but I miss her.” Darren has since moved back to Lamesley.

‘In contrast, removal man Chazz Betts auditioned for “
twenty-four
/seven” on the urging of his mates—“for a laugh, like”. London born and bred, Chazz lived with his mother Brenda on a Westbourne Green council estate. His father abandoned the family when Chazz and his twin sister were babies, and his mother worked as a cleaner to support the family. But handsome Chazz captured the imagination of the nation, who voted in their millions to make him the winner of “twentyfour/seven”, at the same time that he captured the love of Jodee Fuller.

‘Now, wildly rich from prize money, product endorsements and modelling jobs, Chazz and Jodee share a posh house in tony Bayswater. A perfect couple, you might think.

‘But behind the perfection, behind the wealth, there is a story of heartbreak and tragedy…’

Callie skipped across to a sidebar story about Jodee’s best friend in Newcastle, a hairdresser called Kim who had been responsible for the famous bi-coloured, asymmetrical bob. ‘She wanted something that would set her apart, like,’ Kim was quoted. ‘And I think it did, if I say it myself. But once she got famous, she forgot about all her mates up north. I haven’t heard from her since the wedding. I hope she’s happy.’ The story was accompanied by dramatic before-and-after photos: Jodee with forgettable dishwater blonde tresses hanging lankly to her
shoulders
, and Jodee as she was now, instantly recognisable.

Callie’s phone rang and she reached for her new bag.

The number was one she didn’t recognise—from another mobile, she noted as she answered it. ‘Hello?’

‘Callie?’ said a whispered voice. ‘It’s Chiara.’

Oh, no. She hadn’t prepared herself for this; hadn’t decided what she’d say in case Chiara rang her. ‘Oh…hi,’ she managed.

‘I’ve borrowed my friend’s phone,’ Chiara added. ‘Mum won’t let me have one. She says I’m too young. But I need to see you.’

‘I’m not sure…’

Chiara cut over her. ‘I’m allowed out of school at lunch time. Could you meet me by the school gates?’

Deciding that honesty was the best approach, Callie took a deep breath. ‘Listen, Chiara. Your mother doesn’t want me to talk to you.’

‘I know that.’ Chiara snorted impatiently. ‘She told me. You’re not of our faith, and all that rubbish.’

‘Don’t you think you should respect your mother’s wishes? You could ask to see your priest.’

‘You don’t understand.’ Chiara gulped, sounding on the edge of tears. ‘I
have
to talk to you. Everything’s changed now. Dad’s not just
dead
. He was murdered.’

‘
What
?’

‘The police were here. They wouldn’t tell me why, but I know what that means. Someone killed him, Callie.’

It took Neville nearly an hour to drive to the ‘Junior Idol’ studio, on the suburban fringes of north London. He didn’t mind the drive or the solitude; it gave him the opportunity to reflect on the strangeness of this case. It was, he reckoned, extremely unlikely that it would ever be solved. Unless they found a
half-empty
bottle of anti-freeze in someone’s possession, covered with fingerprints, there was little chance they’d be able to tie the poisoning to anyone.

Well, he would go through the motions and do the best he could.

This, at least, would be a diversion.

The studio complex was tucked behind heavy security gates. Neville showed his warrant card and was eventually waved through, with directions to the building he wanted, then he left the car in a vast car park and went through the security routine yet again at the door.

He asked for the producer of ‘Junior Idol’, but after much shaking of heads and conferring he was eventually handed over into the care of a production assistant. His keeper was a willowy young man in tight black jeans and a black ‘Junior Idol’ tee shirt, from whom Neville was unsurprised to receive a limp-wristed handshake. Neville didn’t usually trust stereotypes, but every once in a while, he thought, amused, they proved themselves true.

‘I’m Tarquin,’ said the young man, without apology or even a trace of irony.

‘DI Stewart. And I need to talk to Samantha Winter. I’m investigating a homicide,’ he added.

‘Oooh, Sam never killed anyone?’ It was a question rather than a statement; Tarquin’s eyelids fluttered in excitement.

‘She’s a material witness. An important one.’

Tarquin’s brow creased. ‘This isn’t going to get into the papers, is it?’

‘I sincerely hope not,’ Neville assured him.

‘Well, you can’t talk to her right now.’ The young man
consulted
a clipboard, shaking his head. ‘She’s rehearsing. She’ll probably be finished in…oh, say, twenty minutes. Then she’ll go to her dressing room for a break. I suppose you can talk to her then. If you must.’

Fortunately Neville wasn’t in a hurry. ‘Is there somewhere I can wait?’

‘Well, I can get you a cup of coffee and find you a seat
somewhere
. Or,’ Tarquin added, ‘if you like, you could slip into the studio and watch for a bit.’

‘Watch the rehearsal?’ Why not? thought Neville. This was a world with which he was totally unfamiliar. Why not soak up a bit of the atmosphere? Besides, it would give him something to tell Sid Cowley about. Rub it in a bit, if he was feeling
particularly
sadistic. ‘Yes, all right,’ he agreed.

Tarquin put a finger to his lips. ‘Quiet, then,’ he whispered. ‘Quiet as a mouse.’ He led Neville down a corridor and opened a door, then beckoned him to follow into the darkness beyond.

It was a large studio—much larger than Neville had expected, more like a theatre than an intimate rehearsal space, with a stage and a great deal of fixed seating.

And the noise! A group of musicians, heavily amplified, flanked the stage and whaled away at their instruments, while a young woman in the centre sang into a microphone.

Tarquin touched Neville’s arm—Neville tried not to flinch—and guided him to a seat in the back row. It was difficult to see; the stage was illuminated with overhead lights and spotlights, but the rest of the vast room was in darkness. Neville groped his way into his designated seat, and was rather relieved to realise that Tarquin wasn’t planning to remain with him. The young man leaned over and breathed, rather than whispered, into his ear. ‘Enjoy. I’ll come back for you.’

Enjoy. Neville intended to do just that with this welcome break from routine. He was willing to bet that Sid Cowley wouldn’t be the only one of his colleagues to be jealous of this opportunity to enter, if just for a few minutes, a world that most people saw only from the outside.