Deep Waters (4 page)

Neville made a heroic effort. ‘I’m on my honeymoon, Sir. Just halfway through…’ He listened to the voice on the other end, then sighed. ‘Yes. I see.’

With a withering look, Triona got up and went into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

After a few more minutes of a largely one-sided conversation, Neville pressed the button to terminate the call, threw the phone on the bed, and followed Triona to the bathroom. He tapped on the door. ‘Darling,’ he said in as conciliatory a tone as he could manage. ‘We need to talk.’

She flung the door open. ‘Don’t you “darling” me. I know what you’re going to say.’

‘You don’t.’

‘You’re going back to work, Neville. I’m not stupid. I’ve figured that much out.’

‘God, Triona. Let me explain.’

‘Explain?’ She crossed her arms over her chest. ‘What part of “honeymoon” do you and that bloody man not understand?’

Neville took a deep breath. ‘Listen, Triona. This isn’t an ordinary case. It’s a dead baby.’ He knew he wasn’t playing fair, but the bald statement had the desired effect.

‘Oh.’ Her eyes widened, her arms dropped to cradle her bump instinctively, protectively, and all the fight had gone out of her voice. ‘What happened to it?’

‘That’s what Evans wants me to find out.’ Neville took her arm and guided her to a nearby chair. ‘Sit down, darling. I’ll tell you everything I know.’

She sank into the chair, unprotesting, while Neville perched on the edge of the bed, knee-to-knee with her.

‘This is a high profile case, to say the least,’ he explained. ‘It’s Jodee and Chazz. Their baby.’

Triona stared at him blankly. ‘Who the hell are Jodee and Chazz?’

How, Neville wondered, could anyone in the civilised world ask a question like that? But Triona wasn’t like most of the people in the civilised world: she didn’t read newspapers, she didn’t even
own a telly. It never ceased to amaze him, the way she managed to travel through life without absorbing so much of the minutiae in which other people revelled. Her obliviousness to popular culture was, he realised, one of the things that made her so special, one of the things he found so endearing about her.

‘They’re only the most famous couple on the planet,’ he said. It was a slight exaggeration, perhaps, but not that much of one. He couldn’t actually think of another pair who had, within the past few months, been the subject of more column inches of tabloid verbiage. Not even Posh and Becks.

Jodee and Chazz. Where to begin?

‘You know about the programme “twentyfour/seven”?’ Neville ventured.

Triona shrugged. ‘Well, yes,’ she admitted. ‘The programme where a bunch of thick people get shut up in a house together with the cameras running. I’ve heard of it. A few people at work were hooked on it last summer.’

‘Jodee and Chazz were a couple of those thick people,’ he said. ‘They fell in love. And…let’s just say that they didn’t make any effort to hide their attraction to each other from the rest of the world. Or what they did about it, either.’

She narrowed her eyes. ‘You mean they…’

‘Yes. Live. On camera.’

‘Ugh.’ Triona shuddered. ‘And you wonder why I don’t have a telly.’

‘I didn’t see it myself,’ Neville assured her. ‘But millions of others did.’ He grinned. ‘Usually, on these programmes, it’s a question of “will they/won’t they?”. But with Jodee and Chazz it was more a question of when. And how often. Apparently they were at it like rabbits, all hours of the day and night. Mostly in the hot tub.’

‘So their baby…’

He nodded. ‘You’ve got it in one. The baby was, according to the tabloids, the first to be conceived on live telly, in front of the camera.’

Triona’s hands went to her bump. ‘How horrible. Didn’t people complain? About public decency?’

‘Thousands. The more complaints there were, the better for the ratings.’

‘It’s all so…cynical.’

‘And that was just the beginning,’ he continued. ‘Morning sickness. Jodee suffered from it terribly. The watching world saw her throw up, over and over again.’

‘I can relate to that,’ Triona said feelingly. ‘Though I’m glad no one was watching.’

He’d missed that stage, Neville realised with a pang. While she was experiencing morning sickness, he hadn’t even known she was pregnant. That was something he didn’t want to dwell on.

‘Anyway,’ he went on, ‘the baby was born a couple of months ago.’

‘On telly?’

‘Thankfully, no. We were denied that pleasure,’ he said
ironically
, ‘because they’d done a deal with one of those celebrity magazines. The birth was a photo exclusive. A big cover story. Though,’ he added, ‘someone in the delivery room apparently shot a bootleg video on their camera phone and put it up on YouTube. It’s been viewed by millions of people.’

Triona lowered her head for a moment, her eyes closed, then straightened up and looked at him levelly. ‘So what’s happened? To the baby?’ He could tell that she was struggling to keep control of her voice.

‘That’s what we need to find out. Evans said that she was discovered dead in her cot early this morning. The doctor was called in, of course, and he notified the police.’ Neville pressed his fingertips together and looked at them rather than at his wife; he was surprised at how her distress was affecting him. ‘It’s being treated as a suspicious death. Evans says there’s no evidence so far that it’s anything other than cot death, but we can’t afford to cut any corners with this one.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I understand that.’

‘The world will be, quite literally, watching.’

‘But why,’ Triona added, with a bit of her old spirit, ‘does it have to be
you
? DI Neville Stewart, and no one else? Doesn’t Evans have someone there who’s
not
on his honeymoon?’

He shrugged. ‘He says he doesn’t trust anyone else. There will be quite a lot of involvement with the media, obviously, and I’ve had experience with that sort of thing before.’ Neville admitted to himself, though he wasn’t going to say it to Triona, that he was just a bit flattered by Evans’ confidence in him. ‘I mean, can you imagine what a disaster someone like Sid Cowley would be?’

Triona chose not to speculate on that; instead she changed the subject to the practicalities. ‘Our plans,’ she said. ‘We can’t just leave. What about our non-refundable aeroplane tickets?’

‘Evans said it will be taken care of. We’re just to go to the airport, and everything will be sorted.’

‘Not everything,’ Triona said quietly. She got up and went to the window, pulled back the curtain—‘beach view’, just as the brochure had promised—and stood with her back to Neville. ‘I wish you wouldn’t,’ she said, in a voice that was little more than a whisper.

‘I’ll make it up to you,’ he heard himself saying. ‘Another time. We’ll come back.’

She turned to face him; her voice sharpened. ‘And how would things be different? How could I be sure the same thing wouldn’t happen again?’

Neville shrugged, then sighed. He knew there was no answer he could give Triona that would satisfy her, and it was all his fault. Was this how it was going to be from now on? Twenty minutes ago, he’d been deliriously happy. He should have known it couldn’t last.

Mixing wine and spirits—not to mention a healthy dose of confession—had not been a good idea.

Once he’d heard Geoff leave the flat, Mark got up and went in search of paracetamol. The packet wasn’t in its usual place in the bathroom cabinet; he found it sitting on the edge of the basin,
which indicated to him that perhaps Geoff was also suffering more than a bit. It certainly wasn’t like tidy Geoff to neglect to put something away.

Mark downed a couple of tablets, then took a long shower.

‘Coffee,’ he said to himself, then ‘Serena’.

Mark made pretty good coffee himself, but next to his mother, Serena made the best coffee in the world. A cup of her
concentrated
caffeine would quickly sort him out.

If he left soon, he would have time to call in and see her before he was due in court. She should be at home this time of the morning—after getting Chiara off to school, and before going to La Venezia, the family restaurant, to supervise the lunch shift. He had a good excuse, apart from the coffee: he needed to have a word with her about Chiara’s birthday.

Chiara, his younger niece, would be thirteen tomorrow. A teenager! Not a little girl any longer.

Mark reflected on this as he walked from the flat—
conveniently
located off High Holborn—through Holborn and Clerkenwell to the di Stefanos’ house. How ancient it made him feel: he so clearly remembered himself, as a teenager, holding the tiny baby when she was just a few hours old.

He wondered how Serena felt about her baby reaching such a milestone, especially with all the other things that were going on in her life.

Serena wasn’t likely to tell him. Close as they were, she kept her feelings to herself—apart from the extraordinary occasion when, under exceptional stress, she’d poured out to him her heartbreak over her husband’s infidelity.

When he was about halfway there Mark rang ahead on his mobile to let Serena know he was coming, so when he arrived she answered the door promptly.

‘The coffee’s nearly ready,’ she said with a smile, kissing him on both cheeks.

‘Not a moment too soon.’

They went through to the cosy kitchen and Mark pulled a chair up to the table while Serena poured the coffee. ‘Not at work this morning?’ she asked.

‘Court,’ he said. ‘The Old Bailey. I’m meeting someone there in about an hour. An old case from last year.’

His sister nodded. Mark’s job as a Family Liaison Officer often involved long-term contact with bereaved families, and that meant accompanying them to court to provide moral
support
during trials.

Mark accepted the coffee gratefully and took a long,
appreciative
sip. ‘Thanks, Serena. You’re wonderful.’

She produced a rather brittle smile. ‘I’m glad someone thinks so.’ Then she shook her head and frowned. ‘Sorry, Marco. I shouldn’t have said that. It’s not fair to dump on you.’

‘Dump on me all you like.’ There wasn’t anyone else for her to let off steam to, he knew: she had to keep the girls from finding out that anything was wrong. Not to mention
i genitori
, their parents. Mark could only imagine the strain it must be on Serena.

‘That’s not why you came,’ she said, decisively changing the subject. ‘You wanted to talk about Chiara’s birthday?’

‘I just wondered what the plans are. Since it’s on a Saturday.’ Saturday was inevitably the busiest day of the week in the
restaurant
trade, so Mark assumed that Serena, as front-of-house manager of La Venezia, would be tied up at lunch time as well as in the evening.

Serena shrugged. ‘We’ll have to celebrate it on Sunday.’ Sunday was the one day of the week that La Venezia didn’t open its doors, and it was traditionally a big family day for the Lombardis and di Stefanos. ‘With
la famiglia
, at lunch. And I’ve told Chiara that she can invite a few of her friends round later in the afternoon, for some cake. Mamma’s baking it.’

‘Is Angelina coming?’ Chiara’s older sister was at university in Birmingham.

‘I doubt it. Term’s not over yet. Though,’ Serena added, ‘she might just surprise us and turn up.’

Mark finished off the small, strong cup of coffee and held the empty cup out for a refill. ‘What I really need to know is what I should get her. For a present. Something she’d really like.’

Serena twisted her mouth in a wry smile as she poured out the last of the coffee, then got up to start another pot. ‘It used to be so easy, didn’t it? Dolls, stuffed toys, coloured pencils and boxes of watercolours. Socks with cute animals on them, and hair ribbons.’

‘But those things are too babyish for a teenager?’

She sighed. ‘These days it’s all pop singers and earrings.’

‘Chiara doesn’t have pierced ears, does she?’ Mark frowned, trying to remember. His niece had always worn her hair long, over her ears, so he hadn’t particularly noticed.

‘Not yet. But she’s wild to have them done. So we’re going to pay for that, and we’ve bought her some nice gold earrings.’

‘I suppose I could get her some earrings as well?’ He’d need Callie’s help, Mark realised; he wouldn’t have the first idea what sort of jewellery would be suitable. ‘Or is there an album she really wants?’

Serena wrapped her hands round her own coffee cup and looked thoughtful. ‘She keeps talking about the new album by that singer Karma.’

‘Karma who?’

‘Just Karma.’ Serena shook her head. ‘I’m sure you’ve heard of her, Marco. She won the last “Junior Idol” competition. Chiara thinks she’s wonderful.’

‘Vaguely,’ Mark admitted. He was not a follower of “Junior Idol”. ‘Well, that does sound like a good idea, then. If that’s what she wants.’

‘It would make her very happy.’

‘Consider it done.’ That, realised Mark, would make his life much easier—he could just walk into any record shop and ask for it. ‘I’d like to give it to her on her actual birthday, though. If I come round tomorrow evening, will she be here?’

Serena got up and retrieved the coffee pot from the hob, topping up Mark’s cup. ‘Absolutely. Saturday night is “Junior
Idol” night. Wild horses wouldn’t drag Chiara away from the telly on a Saturday night.’