Deep Waters (7 page)

‘You’re not…?’

‘Press,’ Brenda stated. ‘Lilith said not to answer.’

Mark was startled. ‘Lilith
Noone!
’

‘She was here earlier.’

‘You let her in?’ he asked incredulously.

Brenda raised the ghost of a smug smile. ‘Lilith is a friend of the family.’

‘Friend’ was not a word Mark would ever have imagined in the same sentence as Lilith Noone’s name. She was bad news on a legendary scale.

‘Jodee gave her an exclusive interview. For tomorrow’s
Globe
.’

Wait till Neville found out, Mark thought. He’d go ballistic. If there was one person Neville couldn’t bear, it was Lilith Noone, with her self-righteous posturing and underhand tactics. Just as well that Lilith had gone by the time they arrived. No doubt she was already labouring away on her front-page exclusive.

The subject of Lilith was best left unexplored, he decided. The phone was still ringing. ‘Maybe it’s not the press,’ he
suggested
. ‘It could be family. Jodee’s parents, maybe?’

Brenda shook her head. ‘Not likely. Jodee already spoke to her mum. She wasn’t much interested.’

‘Not interested?’

The phone stopped ringing and Brenda took a gulp of coffee before replying. ‘They don’t get on. Not for years. Jodee never knew her dad. Her mum’s got a boyfriend—a “partner”, she calls him—and a couple of little kiddies herself. Jodee don’t like her mum’s boyfriend—she’s never made no secret of that.’

‘That’s a shame.’

Brenda shrugged. ‘One of them things, innit? Families are funny.’

Weren’t they just, thought Mark, nodding in agreement.

The kettle boiled and he turned away to make the tea. ‘What about…Chazz’s dad?’ he asked. It was potentially a delicate question, but he didn’t really have much to lose. If Brenda Betts didn’t think it was appropriate, she’d probably tell him so.

But she didn’t seem to mind. With another shrug, she said, ‘Gone. Buggered off, to put not too fine a point on it. When I was in hospital, having the twins.’

‘Twins?’

‘Chazz and his sister Di. All them years ago.’ She swirled the dregs of coffee in her mug. ‘Any water left in that kettle?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Mark took the mug from her, rinsed it out, and spooned in some instant granules.

‘He said he’d stand by me when I fell pregnant. We got
married
.’ Brenda’s voice was weary, not emotional; this was all ancient history. ‘But he hadn’t bargained on twins. If it had been just one, he might have stuck it out. Maybe, I don’t know.’

Mark handed her the coffee wordlessly.

‘He came to see me in hospital, after,’ she went on. ‘Brought me a manky bunch of flowers. Half dead—probably got them off a skip or out of a rubbish bin, if I know him. Kissed me, kissed the babies. And that’s the last I ever saw of bloody Kev Betts. Good riddance to him, I say.’

‘But it must have been very difficult for you, with two babies.’

She blew on the coffee, took a tentative sip, stirred in a
spoonful
of sugar from the bowl on the table, and shrugged yet again. ‘Oh, it was. Me mum helped all she could, of course. Couldn’t have managed without her. I had to work all the hours God
gave. Cleaning. I’d drop the twins off with Mum first thing, then collect them in the evening. But they didn’t turn out too bad, for all that,’ she added. ‘At least they learned the value of hard work.’

‘Your daughter,’ Mark said. ‘Di? Where is she?’

‘Oh, she’s done well for herself. She always said she didn’t want to be a cleaner like her mum. So she got proper qualifications, like. Nursing. She loves it.’ She favoured Mark with a proud, motherly smile. ‘Chazz said he’d give her money so she could quit her job, but she wouldn’t take it. Not a penny.’

‘Chazz hasn’t done too badly, then.’ He didn’t mean it
flippantly
, but realised as soon as the words were out of his mouth that it probably sounded that way.

‘My Chazz was a hard worker before that “twentyfour/seven” lark,’ his mother said sharply. ‘As soon as he left school, he got a job with a removal company. You might not think it to look at him, but Chazz is dead strong.’

‘Yes, I’m sure he is.’

‘He was lucky to win that show,’ Brenda allowed, ‘and lucky that all them modelling jobs have come his way since. I mean, he is a good-looking lad and all, if I say it myself. But if he had to go back to humping furniture about for them removal people, he could do it. My Chazz is a good lad,’ she added firmly. ‘Good to me, good to Jodee and the baby.’

At those words, her face crumpled, as if she’d managed to forget about Muffin for a few minutes and had only just remembered her.

Mark made an immediate effort to distract her. ‘What about Jodee?’ he asked, perhaps unwisely. ‘How do you get on with her?’

Brenda mastered her trembling lip. ‘Jodee is like a daughter to me,’ she stated. ‘Ask her—she’d tell you the same. Close, like family should be. Not like that useless mum of hers.’

‘It must be great for them to have you living with them, to help out with…’ Mark had been about to say ‘babysitting’, but changed it at the last moment to a limp ‘…everything.’

‘I do keep the place clean,’ she admitted, looking round the spotless kitchen with pride. ‘Mind, we could afford help. But it keeps me out of mischief.’

Then, to Mark’s astonishment, a whole range of emotions played over Brenda’s face. She dropped her mug, splashing herself and the table with hot coffee, put her hands over her face and sobbed. ‘It weren’t my fault,’ she wailed. ‘It weren’t nobody’s fault! Di said, and she’s a nurse. Di said it wouldn’t have made no difference. Muffin would of died, even if someone had been at home!’

‘Did I tell you that Maddie Fleming has a new grandchild?
Another
grandchild?’ The emphasis in Laura Anson’s voice was unmistakable.

Callie risked a quick look at her brother, expecting a roll of the eyes in her direction, but his eyes were wide, fixed on their mother’s face. She recognised the act of will involved. ‘You did mention it,’ Callie said, trying not to sound defensive.

‘Another boy. That makes three grandchildren.
So far
.’

‘How nice for Maddie,’ Peter said brightly.

‘It was Celia’s first, of course. I imagine she’ll have at least one more. Celia always struck me as such a
maternal
sort of girl.’ Laura played with her salad, turning it over with her fork, and addressed her next remark—a question, in fact—to Peter. ‘You remember Celia, don’t you?’

Callie held her breath, but Peter was on his best behaviour. ‘Of course,’ he said.

‘Such a lovely girl. That luncheon party a few years ago—remember?’

‘Yes, I remember,’ Peter confirmed. There was just the merest trace of irony in his voice; Callie heard it because she knew him so well, but trusted that their mother was typically oblivious.

Laura, characteristically, didn’t leave it at that. ‘I did think that the two of you would have made such a nice couple. She’s interested in the arts, and she’s very presentable. Knows how
to dress. And as I said, so maternal. Married just a year, and a baby already.’

Callie feared that Peter had now been pushed far enough. As he opened his mouth, she created a diversion by dropping her fork. It hit her plate with a clank, then bounced on to the floor.

Frowning, Laura turned her attention to her daughter. ‘I hope that fork was
clean
,’ she said sharply. ‘The carpet’s just been cleaned.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Callie’s voice was suitably meek and contrite.

‘You’ve always been clumsy, Caroline. I don’t know where you got it from—certainly not from me.’

Caroline. Laura always called her by her full name when she was more than usually peeved with her daughter. Or her son, or her life in general.

Why, thought Callie, did she and Peter put up with it? Why did they subject themselves, periodically, to the torture of being with a woman who didn’t seem to like them much? Who never approved of anything they did, or ever had a positive word to say?

She’d been worse since her husband died, a few years back—an act for which, perversely, she blamed him. Laura Anson hadn’t forgiven him for getting cancer, succumbing to it and leaving her on her own, and her bitterness poisoned everything in her life, including her relationship with her children.

Not that she’d ever been an easy mother. Not even when their father was alive. She’d always had the ability to see only what she wanted to see and ignore the things she disapproved of.

Peter’s decision to pursue a career as a freelance musician rather than follow his father into the Civil Service, for one thing. And then there was the small matter of his homosexuality. Laura Anson refused to believe in it, no matter how many times it was explained to her that Peter was not interested in being paired up with the daughters of her friends. That he was not going to marry a suitable girl, or give her grandchildren. She continued to be convinced that he just hadn’t met the right girl yet, and it remained her duty to push females of an appropriate age and social status in his direction until the situation corrected itself.

Callie had disappointed Laura Anson by leaving the Civil Service for the Church, and she hadn’t exactly done a great deal to please her mother in the grandchildren department, either. She’d be thirty in a few months, with no sign of settling down. No grandchildren on the horizon. And what if things continued to progress with Marco? ‘That policeman,’ her mother called him dismissively; he was obviously not the sort of son-in-law Laura Anson had in mind for the father of her future grandchildren.

Peter looked at his watch. ‘Callie,’ he said pointedly, ‘didn’t you mention that you had an appointment this afternoon? For an…urm…eye test?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Good old Peter, thought Callie as she pushed her chair back from the table. ‘That’s right. We’d better think about going.’

‘Eye test?’ Laura Anson frowned. ‘Is there something wrong with your eyes, Caroline? I hope you haven’t inherited your father’s short-sightedness. It got worse when he was in his
thirties
, you know. And you’re—’

‘Almost thirty,’ Callie finished for her. ‘Yes, Mother. I know.’

‘Tell me, Stewart. Tell me it’s all straightforward,’ commanded DCS Evans wearily. ‘Cot death, pure and simple.’

They were in Evans’ corner office; Evans was sitting at his desk and Neville was standing. He’d not yet been invited to sit, and reckoned that the invitation might not come at all. Evans, he was positive, was not going to like what he had to tell him.

‘I wish I could, Sir,’ said Neville. Evans’ quick intake of breath seemed to suck all the oxygen from the room, so Neville went on hastily. ‘It probably is. I’m sure we’ll find that it is, in the end. But there are just a few…issues.’

‘Issues?’ Evans raised his massive caterpillar-like eyebrows almost to his hairline.

‘Of course we don’t know what forensics will turn up. Or the post-mortem, for that matter. But there may be a case to be made for…’ He hesitated and chose his words with care. ‘Parental neglect, perhaps.’

Neville didn’t think it was possible for Evans’ eyebrows to go any higher; he was wrong. ‘Neglect? What are you trying to say, Stewart?’

‘It’s just something that the baby’s grandmother, Mrs Betts, said to DS Lombardi,’ Neville explained. ‘She said that Muffin would have died, even if someone had been at home.’

The pitch and volume of Evans’ voice went up a notch. ‘Meaning…?’

‘DS Lombardi asked her what she meant, of course. And it turns out that the baby was left at home on her own. Purely an accident, she said.’

‘How could it be an accident?’ growled Evans. ‘Either you leave the baby, or you don’t.’

Neville shifted his weight from one leg to the other. ‘She did explain, Sir. She said that the parents—Jodee and Chazz—went out to a club, assuming that she—Mrs Betts—was sleeping in the room next to the baby as usual. But she’d gone out without telling them.’

‘So the baby—Muffin; what a ridiculous name for a child—was alone in the house when she died? That’s what you’re telling me?’

‘That’s it exactly, Sir.’

Evans closed his eyes and exhaled in a gusty sigh. Neville waited, feeling it better to say no more until required to do so.

‘Good God,’ said Evans at last.

‘Yes, Sir.’

Before they’d even made it round the corner from their mother’s, Peter was dealing with the experience in the best possible way: with humour. He was a gifted mimic, and with years of practice he had their mother down to a T. ‘Oh,
dear
Celia Fleming,’ he drawled. ‘She would have made such a good wife for you. She would have warmed your slippers by the fire every night, and lit your pipe for you. And shagged you senseless, of course.’

‘Oh, don’t!’ Callie laughed.

But Peter was only just warming up. ‘Not that shagging is a
good
thing, necessarily,’ he went on in his mother’s voice. ‘Except for the purposes of procreation.’

Callie got a fit of the giggles and had to stop walking.

He stopped as well. ‘Grandchildren, you know,’ he trilled. ‘Sorry to say, it’s the only way.’ Then, as Callie’s giggles showed no signs of abating, Peter continued in his own voice. ‘Seriously, Sis. Can you imagine our parents in bed?’

‘Don’t even go there,’ she warned him.

‘It’s a wonder to me that they had two children.’

Callie put up her hand. ‘Do you mind if we change the subject?’

‘I’m not finished with Celia Fleming, actually.’ Peter pictured the young woman in question, her thin face burned into his memory from that long-ago luncheon party. ‘What a miserable cow she was. I mean, even if I was interested in girls, I would have run a mile from that one.’

‘Mum just never gets it,’ said Callie, stating the obvious.

‘It’s the bloody grandchildren thing,’ Peter said gloomily. ‘She’s so desperate to have them. Though I can’t see why—she’d be just as horrible to them as she is to us. They would be too noisy, too active, too badly behaved, never dutiful or appreciative enough.’

‘It’s competition,’ Callie said. ‘With her friends. They all have grandchildren, and she just can’t compete when the photos come out and they start on the boring stories. It’s
her
problem, and she keeps trying to make it
our
problem.’

He grinned and took her arm, leading her towards Kensington High Street. ‘Well, we’ve escaped for today. What shall we do now, Sis?’

‘I have an errand to run for Marco,’ Callie said, smiling as she usually did when she mentioned his name. ‘I need to find a CD. Have you heard of someone called Karma? A singer or something?’

‘Have I heard of Karma?’ Peter shook his head in disbelief; his sister’s ignorance on matters of cutting-edge popular culture never failed to shock him. ‘She’s only the hottest thing on the
charts right now. Next thing I know, you’ll be telling me you don’t watch “Junior Idol”.’

‘Well, excuse me.’ Callie’s huffiness was exaggerated for effect. ‘That’s why I keep
you
around. So I don’t have to fill my head with such ephemeral rubbish.’

‘It’s popular culture, Sis. The lifeblood of our society.’ For him, as a young gay man in London, that was no exaggeration but a statement of pure truth.

They were passing a row of shops; one of them was a
newsagent
, with a sandwich board out front inked with the latest headline. ‘Jodee and Chazz—Tragic Baby Death,’ he read aloud as they approached. ‘Oh, my God.’

‘How sad,’ said Callie.

‘You
do
know who Jodee and Chazz are, then?’ he tested her, stopping to buy a paper.

‘They were on “twentyfour/seven”,’ she said. ‘Everybody knows that. Not that I ever watched it,’ she added.

Peter glanced over a rack of magazines facing the pavement and pointed to several in succession. ‘That’s Jodee and the baby,’ he said. ‘And this one is just Jodee, and those two are Jodee and Chazz. Chazz,’ he sighed. ‘Lovely, lovely Chazz.’

‘You fancy him?’

‘Doesn’t everyone?’ Peter gave a soulful sigh. ‘I mean, have you ever seen a more gorgeous man?’

Frances Cherry, hospital chaplain, had spent the afternoon in the wards. She’d said a prayer with an elderly lady who was just about to go into theatre for a serious operation and was trying to put a brave face on things; later Frances had returned to make sure
everything
had gone well, finding the patient groggy but grateful. She’d also talked to a few anxious families and made an effort to jolly up patients who were frightened, in pain, or just plain bored.

It never ceased to surprise Frances how many of the latter there were at any given time. Fear she could understand; pain she could empathise with. But boredom was an insidious enemy,
afflicting people in strange ways. It came out in the form of stroppiness as often as it was demonstrated in lethargy. Bored patients were the ones who made life hell for the nursing staff, complaining about the food and demanding all sorts of
attention
. Frances was adept at identifying those people and always did what she could to alleviate their tedium and take a bit of the strain off the staff.