Deep Waters (32 page)

‘It’s such a beautiful day,’ Callie said, handing her the flowers. ‘I thought if you couldn’t go out and enjoy the spring, I’d bring a bit of it in to you.’

‘How kind.’ Brenda smiled at her. ‘I’ll find something to put them in. Would you like a cuppa?’

‘That would be lovely.’

Callie followed Brenda to the kitchen and watched while she arranged the flowers in a vase. ‘I was wondering something,’ she said. ‘Do you mind if I ask you a question?’

‘Course not.’

‘When was the last time you saw your husband? Kev?’

Brenda scowled. ‘I thought I told you. When I were in
hospital
with the twins. I ain’t laid eyes on Kev Betts since that day. And good riddance to bad rubbish,’ she added.

‘So he’s never come here, to this house?’

‘He’d know better than to show his face here,’ Brenda stated. ‘Though I must admit, I wouldn’t of put it past him to come sniffing round, once our Chazz got famous. And rich. But if he so much as tried it, I’d send him packing so fast he’d wonder what hit him. He never had no use for us when Chazz needed a dad. Now Chazz don’t have no use for
him
. Chazz would say the same, if you asked him.’

It was the answer Callie had more or less expected. But she wasn’t finished yet, and she had her chance to resume her
enquiries
a short while later, after they’d joined Jodee and Chazz in the white sitting room. Brenda went back to the kitchen to top up the tea pot, and Chazz—evidently bored—sloped off to another part of the house to commune with his Playstation.

This was, Callie realised, the first time she’d ever been alone with Jodee. She knew that it wouldn’t last long—Brenda would soon be back—so she decided to tackle her head-on. Subtlety would probably be wasted on Jodee, in any case.

‘Have you ever met Chazz’s father?’ Callie asked, attempting to sound casual.

Jodee paled visibly; her eyes widened. ‘How’d you know?’ she gasped.

So she’d been right. ‘He came here, didn’t he?’

‘Oh, God.’ Jodee emitted a long, drawn-out sigh. ‘I swear I didn’t mean to, like, lie about it. I just didn’t want to, like, hurt Chazz. Or Bren.’

Callie reached over and touched Jodee’s arm. ‘Tell me what happened.’

Jodee closed her eyes. ‘It were a few weeks ago, like. Chazz were out. So were Bren, though she didn’t say she were going. I were looking for Bren to like keep an eye on Muffin—I had a photo shoot to go to. Then he, like, rang the doorbell.’

‘So you weren’t expecting him.’

‘Course not. Out of the bloody blue, it was. I thought he were a salesman or something—he didn’t look like no journalist. I told
him to bugger off, I didn’t need no kitchen cloths or nothing like that.’

It was, thought Callie, as if Jodee had re-lived this in her mind for days, as if she’d rehearsed it, waiting for a chance to tell someone.

‘And then he said he were Chazz’s dad. Kev.’ Jodee slumped in her chair, her eyes still shut. ‘I could see it, like. Looked like Chazz, he did, only old. Nice smile, just like Chazz. That’s why I didn’t slam the door in his face.’

‘What else did he say?’ Callie prompted her.

‘He said I were even prettier than I looked on the telly.’ Jodee smiled in spite of herself, and her hand went to her hair.

So vanity was the way to her heart, realised Callie without surprise. Kev Betts must really be a smooth operator—first charming his way into Brenda’s knickers, all those years ago, then getting round Jodee with glib compliments.

‘Then he said he wanted to see Muffin. Just once, he said. His own grandbabby, like. His flesh and blood.’ She sighed again, deeply. ‘And I thought it were only right. I admit I did, like. He’s her granddad, when all’s said and done. Blood’s thicker than water.’

‘Even if Brenda and Chazz wouldn’t have wanted it.’

‘They didn’t have to know, did they? I didn’t think it would do no harm, and what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.’ She gave Callie a defensive, sideways look. ‘Then I said I had to like go out. I were going to take Muffin with me, since Bren weren’t about.’

Callie held her breath, listening for Brenda’s return, praying to be granted just a few more minutes.

‘Then he—Kev—said he’d stay with her. Do each other a big favour, he said, like. He could get to know his granddaughter while I were out.’ Jodee squeezed her eyes shut; big tears trickled from the corners. ‘I were only gone an hour. No more. She were sleeping when I left, and she were sleeping when I got back. He said she’d been good as gold. But now I think, like…’

Callie could imagine the scenario that must have played over and over in Jodee’s head over the last few days, like an unstoppable
horror movie: Muffin waking from sleep and crying for food or because her nappy was wet. Kev Betts trying to stop her crying… Kev Betts, who—according to Brenda—couldn’t stand bawling babies, not meaning to hurt her, only trying to make the crying stop.

Brenda’s footsteps were coming down the corridor, almost to the door.

‘Don’t tell Bren!’ Jodee whispered frantically, dashing away her tears. ‘And for God’s sake, don’t tell Chazz!’

Lilith’s first port of call was the Metropolitan Police’s web site. She navigated to the page where the Met’s press bureau posted sterile—and, in her opinion, badly written—news releases about cases in progress.

Di Stefano—that was the name Hereward Rice had
mentioned
, in that conversation she’d overheard. As she typed the name into the search engine, Lilith congratulated herself on her good memory. A nurse had been suspicious: that’s what he’d said. Evidently with good reason.

‘Poisoning Investigation Launched’ was the headline.

Lilith clicked on it and read the story.

‘Detectives are investigating the death of Guiseppe “Joe” di Stefano, of Clerkenwell. Dr di Stefano, a professor of sociology at the University of London, died in St Mary’s Hospital, Paddington after being admitted with a suspected heart attack.

‘A post-mortem examination was carried out, and the cause of death was found to be ethylene glycol poisoning. An inquest has been scheduled for Friday.

‘The death is being treated as suspicious. Police are anxious to talk to anyone who might have information about Dr di Stefano. Contact DI Neville Stewart…’

Nothing to indicate that it had anything to do with Samantha Winter or Lilith’s anonymous tipster. What would connect a university professor with a glamorous ‘Junior Idol’ contestant?

On the other hand, how many murder cases would Neville Stewart be working on at any given time? It wasn’t likely that he’d have more than one.

Leaving the Met’s dry prose behind, Lilith went to the official ‘Junior Idol’ web site. There the prose was anything but dry.

She clicked on the photo of Samantha Winter—posing with her head tilted provocatively, surrounded by a cloud of golden hair—and was taken to her bio page.

‘Twenty-year-old Samantha has brains as well as beauty,’ enthused the bio. ‘Before being selected as a contestant on “Junior Idol”, Samantha was a student at the University of London, reading sociology. Now Samantha has her sights set on a career in the music business.’

‘Bingo,’ Lilith whispered gleefully, highly pleased with herself.

Next she googled ‘ethylene glycol’ and was directed to Wikipedia, where amongst the incomprehensible chemical
formulae
and scientific jargon a word jumped out. ‘Anti-freeze.’

‘Bloody hell,’ said Lilith aloud. ‘He was poisoned with
anti-freeze
!’

This was going to be an interesting one, she reckoned,
smiling
to herself.

Neville had been summoned to Evan’s lair, but before he went upstairs he rang Sid Cowley to find out what his sergeant had turned up.

‘Not much, to be honest, Guv,’ Cowley admitted. ‘He was a well-respected bloke. His colleagues liked him. No professional jealousy or anything like that. His students liked him, as well. I haven’t found anyone who will admit to shagging him, or can tell me anyone else who did. Though,’ he added, ‘several people seemed to know about Samantha. Sounds like they weren’t all that discreet.’

From his own dealings with her, Neville could guess which one of them might have been responsible for indiscreet
behaviour
. The little bitch, he thought, grimacing.

‘What everyone does say,’ Cowley went on, ‘is that I need to talk to a Miss Harwood. Departmental secretary. Went off sick the day di Stefano died and no one’s seen her since. Apparently she was quite fond of him.’

‘Fond of him? What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘I’m not sure, Guv. But I think you should try to talk to her.’

‘Right.’ Neville made a note of it; it was best to tie up all the loose ends.

‘How was Samantha?’ Cowley asked, his voice wistful.

‘Oh, just peachy.’ Neville’s mouth twisted into a cynical smile. ‘You would have loved her, Sid. Just your cup of tea.’

‘Thanks, Guv. Thanks a lot.’

Neville did a not-very-creditable Kenneth Williams
impression
. ‘Oooh, Mr Grumpy.’

Cowley told him, succinctly, where to go, then hung up.

Now it was time to go and get kicked by DCS Evans.

‘No arrest yet?’ Evans greeted him from behind his desk.

‘No, Sir.’

Fortunately Evans seemed to be in a pretty good mood, more interested in information-gathering than apportioning blame. ‘Tell me what you’ve discovered,’ he invited, waving Neville into a chair.

‘Well, Sir, Mr di Stefano—or
Dr
di Stefano, I should say—was having an affair with one of his students, and his wife found out about it. Things must have been pretty tense between them. Even Mark admits it.’

‘So she’s your chief suspect? The wife?’

‘Has to be,’ Neville confirmed. ‘There doesn’t seem to be anyone else in the picture at the moment.’

‘What about the mistress?’

He shook his head regretfully. ‘I wish I could say yes—she’s a real piece of work, that one—but she didn’t have the motive. It was over between them, and she just wants to put it all behind her and forget that it ever happened.’

‘She’s the one who broke it off?’ Evans asked shrewdly.

‘Apparently so.’

Evans rested his elbows on his desk and templed his fingers together. ‘What if he wouldn’t let her forget?’

‘Blackmail, you mean, Sir?’

‘An old-fashioned word, but…yes. Is that possible?’

Neville repeated what he’d worked through himself. ‘He wouldn’t have wanted it to get out. It would have hurt his family too much, and I don’t believe he would have been happy about that. Two young daughters,’ he added.

‘Well, then. Suicide?’ Evans suggested. ‘Say he’s really cut up by this girl ditching him. Would he kill himself?’

‘It would be a hell of a way to top yourself, Sir. Like you said yesterday.’ Anti-freeze in your own Lucozade? There had to be easier methods of self-destruction. ‘What would be the point of doing it like that?’

‘To put the blame on his wife,’ Evans stated. ‘This is a clever boyo we’re talking about, right? PhD? Say he wants to do himself in, and get one over on his wife at the same time.’

Neville shook his head. ‘I can’t see it.’

‘So we’re back to the wife. No other family members in the frame?’

‘Apparently,’ Neville said with a faint pang of disloyalty, ‘the only other person who knew about the affair was Mark Lombardi. Her brother. The parents didn’t know, and neither did the daughters. Mrs di Stefano bent over backwards to keep it from them, Mark said.’

Evans raised his caterpillar eyebrows and looked at him, waiting.

‘I just don’t think Mark would have done anything like that, Sir. He loves his sister, but—’

‘They’re Italians, for God’s sake,’ Evans pointed out. ‘
Hot-blooded
. The honour of the family, and all that. There’s a
history
of it.’

That one was worthy of Sid Cowley, and Neville was appalled. ‘We’re not talking about the Mafia!’ If they were going to descend to racial stereotyping, he could point out a few things about
the Welsh; he bit his tongue to keep himself from chanting a childhood slur, ‘Paddy was a Welshman, Paddy was a thief…’