Deep Waters (39 page)

So although Callie read the words of the Office aloud, her mind was engaged elsewhere. When it came time for the prayers, she prayed fervently for Chiara, and for all of the di Stefano family. For poor Joe, whose life had been taken from him in a cruel and deliberate way. ‘Rest eternal grant unto him, O Lord, and let light perpetual shine upon him,’ she prayed. ‘May he rest in peace, and rise in glory.’

The time-honoured words brought some measure of comfort to her, as they were intended to do. She wondered, not for the first time, how people who had no faith managed to cope with bereavement and loss.

It wasn’t easy, even with faith. There was no simple way to get through it—only the promise of God that he would not desert his people in their pain.

She got to the end of the service, concluding with the words set for Morning Prayer during Lent: ‘May God our Redeemer show us compassion and love. Amen.’

Amen, Callie echoed in her heart, finding a crumpled tissue in her cassock pocket and dabbing her eyes.

Time to go back to the vicarage. With any luck, she could just drop off her cassock in her room and slip out to Frances’, without having to make any complicated explanations to Brian or Jane.

It was only as she approached the back of the church, though, that Callie realised she wasn’t alone in the building. There was a dark shape in one of the back pews, reading the copy of the
Globe
that she’d left there before the service.

He looked up, dropped the paper, and stepped out into the aisle, blocking her way.

‘Hello,
Cara mia
,’ said Marco.

‘You rat-bag,’ said Triona, fondly, as they walked along Holland Park Avenue towards Notting Hill. ‘When were you going to tell me about the house?’

‘I really was going to tell you this morning,’ Neville assured her.

‘And what if I hate it?’

‘You won’t.’

‘It’s right on Ladbroke Square Gardens?’

‘Facing it. Great views. And the sprog will have a brilliant place to play.’

Triona patted her bump, smiling. ‘The sprog thanks you for your consideration.’

‘Miss Harwood grew up in the house,’ Neville told her. ‘She says it’s a wonderful family home.’

‘And it’s practically just round the corner from Frances and Graham,’ Triona added. ‘That will be nice.’

Neville wasn’t quite as keen on that as Triona was; the next thing he knew, he reflected, she’d be talking about going to church. Having the baby christened as an Anglican.

‘That reminds me,’ Triona said. ‘I think I left my dressing gown hanging on the back of their bathroom door. Maybe we can drop by and retrieve it when we’ve seen the house.’

‘Yes, all right,’ he agreed.

He’d rung ahead; Rosemary Harwood was ready for them with coffee that was a great improvement over his earlier efforts, and another plate of her delicious shortbread biscuits.

But first there was a tour of the house, and he was quietly overjoyed to see the expression of delight on Triona’s face; it only increased as they went from room to room. She didn’t say much, yet her smile said it all.

As they drank coffee, making small talk, her eyes roved round the open-plan sitting room, exploring each corner. Her head twisted towards the kitchen, then towards the staircase. Rosemary Harwood must have noticed it as well; after a pause in the conversation she said ‘Would you like to explore the house on your own, my dear?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Triona said eagerly. ‘Yes, I’d love to.’

She got to her feet as nimbly as she could with her expanding waistline and changed centre of gravity.

‘I think she approves,’ Neville said, smiling, when Triona had disappeared up the stairs.

‘I’m so glad.’ Miss Harwood sounded sincere.

He could still scarcely believe it. ‘And you’re absolutely sure you want to sell us your house? I’d hate for her to get her hopes up…’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Rosemary Harwood, who had clearly taken to Triona. ‘I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have in my house. I can tell that it will be in good hands.’

‘If we could be in by the time the baby arrives…’ he said, almost thinking aloud.

‘That shouldn’t be a problem. All I have to do now is find my cottage by the sea.’

Neville settled back in the comfortable chair, content to wait for Triona. But Miss Harwood evidently had had a hidden agenda
in urging Triona to explore upstairs. ‘There was something I wanted to mention to you, Detective Inspector,’ she said.

His feeling of well-being evaporated abruptly with the use of his title. ‘Yes?’

‘About Miss Winter. Samantha. I said that her…liaison… with Dr di Stefano had ended a month or more ago. But I should have mentioned that I saw her recently. Just over a week ago, I think it was. Thursday or Friday.’

‘Where was that?’

She put her head to one side, thoughtfully. ‘In his office. She came to see him. It was the lunch-hour, so there weren’t many people about. But when I got back from my lunch, the door of his office was closed. I could hear raised voices. Hers, his. Then she came out, slammed the door, and walked past my desk, without so much as a word.’

‘What?’ Neville stared at her.

‘I didn’t mention it to him,’ she added. ‘I could see he was upset, and I didn’t think there was any point winding him up further.’

‘So that was the last time you saw her,’ Neville said slowly.

‘No, actually.’ Rosemary Harwood looked off into the
distance
. ‘She came back later that afternoon. Dr di Stefano was giving a lecture, so I told her he wasn’t in his office. But she said she’d left something in there and needed to fetch it. I didn’t stop her.’ She turned her eyes back towards Neville, frowning. ‘Should I have stopped her?’

Frances was surprised when she opened the door to find not just Callie, as she’d expected, but Callie and Mark.

To Frances’ practised eye, Callie seemed a bit nervous, and so did Mark: nervous with each other, rather than with her. ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ Callie said. ‘We’d like to take Bella for a walk.’

Bella duly appeared, and was gratifyingly enthusiastic to see both of them. ‘Well, so much for me,’ Frances said drily. ‘I’m just the one who’s been feeding her for the past week.’

Callie and Mark were both on the floor with Bella, receiving slurpy kisses.

‘Would you like something to drink first?’ Frances asked. ‘Coffee? Or even some breakfast? I’ve just finished giving Graham his Saturday fry-up, so it wouldn’t be any trouble. The frying pan’s still warm.’

‘I haven’t eaten anything,’ Callie admitted.

‘Well, then. Come on through and I’ll make you some breakfast.’

Mark stayed on the floor with Bella for a few minutes, which gave Frances a brief opportunity to query Callie in the kitchen. ‘What’s going on?’ she whispered.

Callie lifted her shoulders. ‘I’m not sure yet,’ she said quietly, looking over her shoulder towards the door. ‘He turned up at the church after Morning Prayer. He said he thought we needed to talk. So I invited him to come with me, to walk Bella. But on our way over, all we talked about was Joe. Oh, Fran—it’s horrible! I can’t believe he really was murdered!’

‘Mark’s confirmed it, then? It’s not just a fantasy by Lilith Noone?’

‘Oh, it’s true, all right. They’ve launched a full investigation, with Neville Stewart in charge. And Marco’s been put on leave until they solve the case. It’s awful for him.’

Frances could see that. ‘I assume they’re looking at the family first? Serena?’

‘Yes. And of course Marco doesn’t think Serena could have done it.’ Again Callie glanced towards the door. ‘But what I want to know, Fran, is how you happened to find out about the article in the
Globe
. Very mysterious.’

She should have known she’d have to admit it, sooner or later. Frances made a wry face at her friend. ‘It’s Graham,’ she said. ‘His guilty little secret.’

‘That he reads the
Daily Globe
?’

‘No,’ said Frances. ‘That he’s a secret “Junior Idol” addict! I can’t tear him away from it on a Saturday night. And he’s got
a real thing about Samantha. I think he’s even rung up to vote for her once or twice.’

‘Good grief,’ said Callie, with feeling.

‘So when he went along to the newsagent’s to get his papers this morning, he saw the headline on the
Globe
and couldn’t help buying it.’ Frances put a finger to her lips. ‘But for heaven’s sake, don’t say anything. He’d kill me if he knew I’d told you.’

Neville wasn’t keen to make the stop at Frances’, as he was
anxious
to follow up on what Rosemary Harwood had revealed to him, but since it was so close he couldn’t very well say no to Triona. He was determined, though, to refuse offers of
hospitality
and to get away as quickly as possible.

It didn’t quite work out that way.

Triona explained her errand to Frances, and was waved upstairs to search out the missing garment. ‘Come on through to the kitchen,’ Frances said to Neville. ‘Breakfast is on offer, if you’d like some.’

She turned and walked away so he followed her, stopping in his tracks in the doorway as he saw who was sitting at the table, tucking into a cooked breakfast. Mark Lombardi, with his girlfriend Callie.

‘Hi there, mate,’ Neville said, hoping he didn’t sound as awkward as he felt.

Mark, his mouth full of sausage, nodded.

Frances gestured at the frying pan. ‘I can give you eggs, sausages, bacon, and tomatoes. And toast, of course. The
mushrooms
are gone, I’m afraid.’

‘I love mushrooms,’ Callie apologised, her fork poised over a plate of mushrooms on toast.

He wanted to say no. He wanted to turn around and leave. But his treacherous stomach betrayed him, his mouth watering like Pavlov’s dog at the very words ‘egg’, ‘sausages’ and ‘bacon’. ‘All right, then,’ he said, pulling out a chair.

Callie looked at him quizzically. ‘Did you get my message? I left it a couple of days ago, but you didn’t ring back.’

‘Message? No.’

‘They said they’d make sure you got it. I said it was important.’

‘A phone message?’ Something tickled the back of his mind. ‘Important? What was the message, exactly?’

‘I just asked her—the woman who answered the phone, that is—to tell you to ring Callie.’

Then he remembered the pink post-it—the one he’d lobbed at the rubbish bin—and the penny dropped. ‘Callie!’ he said. ‘The dozy cow wrote “Cowley” on the message slip. My sergeant, you know. He denied making the call, and I thought he was just trying to wind me up.’

Callie looked confused, then said, ‘Oh…I see. Callie—Cowley. Must have been a bad line.’

‘So what did you want to tell me? What was important?’

She looked at Mark, then at Frances’ back as she laboured at the cooker. ‘It’s about Jodee and Chazz,’ she said.

So it was confidential, then, if she didn’t want her boyfriend or her friend to hear. ‘Can we use the front room for a minute?’ he asked Frances, casting a regretful glance at his breakfast in the making.

‘Of course,’ said Frances. ‘This will be ready for you when you get back.’

Callie was admirably concise as she told him about a
conversation
she’d had with Jodee—a conversation in which Jodee admitted that Muffin had been left alone with Chazz’s father for something like an hour. More than enough time for the damage to the baby’s fragile head and spinal cord to be done.