Deep Waters (33 page)

‘All right, then. The wife,’ Evans conceded.

‘The trouble is, Sir,’ Neville admitted, ‘there just doesn’t seem to be any evidence. No bottle of anti-freeze, nothing to incriminate her. The SOCOs tore the house apart and they didn’t find anything. Nothing but the doctored Lucozade bottle, with his prints on it.’

‘Hmm.’ Evans sat for a moment, seemingly deep in thought. ‘Here’s a little something for you to ponder before you go to sleep tonight, Inspector.’

Neville didn’t like that sound of that. ‘Yes, Sir?’

‘If she did it, why didn’t she get rid of the Lucozade bottle? Why leave it sitting there for us to find?’

On her way back to the vicarage, Callie had a phone call from a number she didn’t recognise.

‘Miss Anson?’ said a vaguely familiar Cockney voice. ‘It’s Derek Long. The roofer.’

‘Oh, yes.’ It seemed a lifetime ago since he’d sat on her sofa, drinking highly sugared tea and cheerfully consigning her to living at the vicarage. But it had been, she calculated, exactly one week.

‘I ’ave some good news for you. I fink it’s good, anyway.’

‘Yes?’

‘I’ve spoke to your insurance company. Everyfink’s in order. And I’ve ’ad a cancellation, next week. Some cove decided to use another roofer. So I can fit you in, like. Next week. I can start on Monday.’

‘Oh, that’s wonderful! How long will it take, then?’

‘A week. Ten days. Depends on the wevver, like.’

‘I’ll pray for good weather,’ Callie told him, trying to make it sound like she was joking.

A week! Within a fortnight she could be back home. Back where she belonged, and Bella with her.

And wouldn’t Jane be pleased?

Callie smiled for what seemed the first time in days.

But her smile didn’t last, as she quickly remembered what she’d been pondering before her phone rang.

Jodee.

What on earth was she going to do with the information Jodee had given her?

What Jodee had told her—it hadn’t been a formal confession, in either the legal or the theological sense. Callie didn’t feel she was bound to any sort of confidentiality, apart from Jodee’s plea not to tell Brenda or Chazz. In other circumstances, Callie told herself with a pang, she’d have confided in Marco. He would have known what to do.

Now that wasn’t an option.

She couldn’t just sit on the information; it was too important for that. But she wouldn’t feel right in passing it along without Jodee’s permission. At the end of the day, the decision had to be Jodee’s.

That didn’t mean that Callie couldn’t push her in the right direction.

With sudden resolve, she rang Jodee’s mobile—the private number she’d been given on her first visit.

‘Listen, Jodee,’ she said, when she’d ascertained that Jodee wasn’t in a position to be overheard. ‘I’ve been thinking about what you told me.’

‘Yeah,’ Jodee admitted. ‘Me, too.’

‘I know you don’t want Chazz and Brenda to find out,’ she said. ‘But right now everyone out there thinks that one of you killed Muffin. You don’t want that, do you?’

Jodee’s answer was emphatic. ‘No!’

‘Then don’t you see that you have to tell the police?’

‘I…can’t,’ Jodee whispered. ‘I just can’t do it. It was different, like, telling you. But not the police. Not me. I can’t.’

‘Not even for Muffin?’ It wasn’t playing fair, Callie realised, but extreme measures were called for.

Jodee burst into tears. ‘Muffin!’ she wailed.

Callie sighed. ‘Do you want me to do it?’

‘Would you?,’ Jodee sobbed. ‘Oh, I’d be ever so grateful. Do it for me. For Muffin. Tell them.’

That was that, then.

Callie remembered the friendly way Neville Stewart had greeted her at the police station. He was, after all, the Senior Investigating Officer on the Betts case. A word with him would undoubtedly be the best thing. He would know exactly how to handle it from there.

Her phone was still in her hand. Callie rang the police station—she still had the number in her phone from the other day—and asked for DI Neville Stewart.

‘He’s in a meeting,’ she was told after a short delay. ‘Can I take a message?’

‘Ask him to ring Callie,’ she said. ‘Tell him it’s important.’

If she had poisoned her husband, why hadn’t Serena di Stefano got rid of the Lucozade bottle?

Neville didn’t wait till the time Evans had suggested—before he went to sleep—to ponder the question. He thought about it as he took the stairs back down to his office.

It was a good question, he admitted.

But there were some possible answers. Maybe she was
confident
that the police would never be involved—that the heart attack scenario would hold up without any questions being asked. Perhaps it was a clever double-bluff, with her counting on them to reach the conclusion that if she’d left it, she must be innocent. Or maybe she’d just forgot. Been careless. Maybe—

His phone rang, and his heart skipped a beat when he saw that it was Triona. He stopped in the stairwell to take the call.

‘Hi,’ she said. ‘I got your message last night. It was…sweet. Thanks.’

‘I meant it,’ Neville said.

After a pause, Triona spoke again. ‘I was wondering if you were free this evening.’

‘Absolutely free. I can come and collect you, and—’

‘I fancy a middle eastern meal,’ she cut across him. ‘I’ve been craving hummus for days. Are you interested?’

‘Interested? Triona, you don’t know how—’

‘There’s that restaurant in Notting Hill, or Bayswater. Westbourne Grove. Remember, we ate there once?’

He remembered. ‘Shall I come and collect you?’ he repeated. ‘Say, seven o’clock?’

‘I think it’s better if we meet there.’ She paused again, and this time he waited for her to clarify herself. ‘Listen, Neville. I’m not making any promises. But I do think it’s about time for us to talk. And I do mean
talk
,’ she added wryly. ‘Not just go to bed, like that last time we were supposed to be talking.’

‘Whatever you say. I want to make it work.’

‘Well, we’ll see.’

He felt he had to say it again. ‘I love you, Triona.’

‘Don’t go soft on me, Stewart. It’s unnerving.’ But she had a smile in her voice. ‘Seven o’clock, then.’

‘Yes!’ he shouted as he heard the click that signified she’d hung up.

Fortunately there was no one else in the stairwell as he
clattered
down, grinning like an idiot.

He would win her back—he was sure of it. He’d tell her about selling his flat, and…

No, he decided in the next instant. He wouldn’t tell her. He’d wait till it was all sorted, then surprise her with a
faît accompli
.

Back in his office, he threw himself into his chair with a happy sigh.

On top of all the clutter on his desk was a pink post-it: a phone message slip, of recent vintage.

‘Call Cowley,’ it said. ‘Important.’

‘Oh, God,’ he said aloud.

He punched the speed-dial on his phone. ‘Sid?’ he said. ‘What’s up?’

‘Nothing. Nothing new, Guv,’ said a slightly puzzled-
sounding
Sid Cowley.

‘Then why did you leave a message to call you?’

‘I didn’t.’

‘Okay, then. Have it your way.’ Neville rang off; this was, he supposed, Sid’s juvenile way of getting back at him for the ‘Mr Grumpy’ comment.

He scrunched the pink post-it into a ball and lobbed it at his rubbish bin.

Sid could play all the childish games he wanted. Neville wasn’t going to let it get to him.

He had a date. With his wife.

To Jane’s surprise, the first cheque to compensate the Stanfords for accommodating Callie had arrived in the morning’s post. She hadn’t expected the insurance company to be quite so prompt—or so generous.

It had put her in a good mood, and sent her to the shops feeling rather generous herself.

So dinner that night was something above the ordinary: her special chicken casserole and dumplings, made not with Tesco Value chicken but with a lovely, plump free-range bird from the butcher shop. And there was trifle for pudding, an even rarer treat; much as Brian enjoyed puddings, and none more so than Jane’s trifle, they were usually reserved for Sunday lunch. If they had pudding at all during the week, it would be tinned fruit or at best a dish of ice cream.

Tonight, though, Jane felt like pushing the boat out. And it was worth it. Brian was appreciative—vocally so—and though Callie didn’t seem to have much of an appetite, she made a point of telling Jane how delicious everything was.

Brian pushed himself back from the table with regret. ‘Lovely meal, Janey,’ he said. ‘I’d have seconds on the trifle, but I’d be late for my meeting.’

‘Meeting?’ Jane didn’t remember him mentioning a meeting.

‘School governors,’ he said. ‘I’m sure I told you.’

So he would be gone for the evening, and Callie would undoubtedly make some excuse to retreat to her room, or go out herself. Jane didn’t really feel like spending the next few hours on her own.

‘Would you like to watch a film?’ she asked Callie almost shyly, expecting to be rebuffed. ‘I have a DVD of
All About
Eve
. Bette Davis, you know. Charlie gave it to me for Christmas.’

It seemed to Jane that Callie hesitated for a micro-second, before smiling at her. ‘That sounds nice,’ she said. ‘I don’t much fancy being on my own this evening.’

Jane started clearing the table, and Callie pitched in to help with the washing up.

‘I’ll be out tomorrow,’ Callie said. ‘My friend Frances—she’s invited me to go to a spa. For a “Pamper Day”, no less.’

Jane suppressed a niggle of envy. It wasn’t just the pamper day she envied—it was the comfortable way Callie spoke about her friend.

Friends hadn’t been much a part of Jane’s life—not since her school days—and it wasn’t until the boys had left home that she’d begun to realise what she might have missed. She’d always, at least in the last few years, thought of the twins as her best friends. But the boys were…gone.

It wasn’t easy, as a vicar’s wife, to have close friends: getting too intimate with people in the parish was neither advisable nor suitable for a variety of reasons, and it was difficult to meet other people—women—who might become friends. How nice it would be to have someone she could accompany to a spa—or even just have a cup of tea with. Was it too late for her?

To her surprise, Jane enjoyed the evening. The film was wonderful, and Callie was a good, if quiet, companion. Maybe, Jane told herself as they shared a cup of cocoa after the movie, she had misjudged Callie.

Before going off to her room, Callie thanked her. ‘I needed the distraction,’ she said. ‘Thanks for inviting me. And I have some good news for you,’ she added, smiling. ‘You won’t have to put up with me for much longer—not nearly as long as you
thought.’ She went on to tell her that the roof repairs would begin the following week, and be completed a week or so after that.

Jane had expected to feel delighted at the news. To get rid of Callie, to have their house back to themselves…It was what she wanted.

Didn’t she?

Why, then, did she feel unsettled by the prospect?