Deep Waters (9 page)

Callie sat in the middle of the uncomfortable bed, holding Bella tightly. She felt like Dorothy in ‘The Wizard of Oz’, clinging
to Toto in the face of Miss Gulch’s determination to take him away. ‘You’re not going into kennels,’ she whispered into the dog’s ear. ‘I promise.’

But what else could she do? Jane was not going to be talked round, and Brian seemed to be taking his wife’s side on this one. And in spite of the recent storm, being scooped up by a tornado didn’t seem a likely scenario.

She looked round the dreary room, wishing she could be transported to Oz. Even the Wicked Witch of the West would hold no terrors for someone who had faced Jane Stanford over her ironing board.

Where could poor Bella go? Who could give her a temporary home?

Callie’s mother, of course, was an impossibility: Elvira Gulch would be a better custodian for a dog than Laura Anson, who wouldn’t consider it under any circumstances anyway.

If things had been different, Peter might have taken her. He got on well with Bella. But Peter—as of this afternoon, anyway—was still living with Jason, and Jason had a cat: a large, fluffy and very spoiled cat who would brook no competition from any other creature, especially not a dog.

With Peter, of course, there was always the possibility of a change of circumstances. Peter’s boyfriends were usually in the picture for a very short while, in spite of his persistent optimism, each time, that this would be
the
one. He’d been with Jason for over three months now, which was surely a record for Peter. He was probably due for another painful bust-up. Callie hoped not; Peter seemed very happy with Jason, and a bust-up wouldn’t happen quickly enough to do her any good.

Tomorrow. At the latest. Bella had to go.

Callie continued down her mental list. Marco. Another impossibility, with his long hours and his flatmate.

But what, she suddenly thought with a spurt of excitement, about someone in Marco’s family? His sister, for instance? His niece? Chiara was thirteen tomorrow—surely of an age to look after a dog for a few weeks.

She reached for her mobile and rang Marco’s number, glad for an excuse to hear his voice.

Unfortunately it wasn’t a good time; he was still working, and sounded distracted. ‘Can I ring you this evening,
Cara mia
?’

‘It’s important,’ Callie said, and explained her dilemma as quickly and non-emotionally as she could. ‘I know you can’t take her. But I was wondering about Serena,’ she concluded. ‘Just for a few weeks?’

Marco’s reply was immediate. ‘Serena’s allergic to dogs and cats.’

‘Oh,’ she said forlornly. That was her last hope gone, then.

‘What about Frances?’ suggested Marco. ‘She doesn’t have a cat, does she? I know she’s busy, but—’

‘Frances! Why didn’t I think of that?’

Frances. Her friend, her mentor. Not far away in Notting Hill. Callie could visit Bella there and even give her walks.

‘Oh, please,’ she breathed as she rang Frances’ number. Please let her be in. Please let her say yes.

She was in, and she answered after three rings, sounding a bit breathless.

Callie explained her dilemma. ‘I’d be so grateful if you could have her,’ she finished. ‘Though of course I’ll understand if you can’t. If Graham is allergic, or you don’t feel you could take her on for some reason.’

On the other end of the phone Frances laughed, and her voice sounded bemused. ‘Sure, Callie. Why not?’ she said. ‘The more, the merrier.’

Lilith Noone was up early on Saturday morning, and in spite of the spring drizzle she walked to the newsagent for the papers. She could have checked them online, but for someone who had grown up in the journalism business—her father and his father before him had owned a provincial newspaper—it just wasn’t the same. She loved the feel of crisp newsprint; the smell of newspaper ink was like a drug to her. So this was part of the ritual, especially on days when she knew that one of her own stories would be in print.

Not just in print on this occasion: front page news. Exclusive. She picked up a copy of the
Globe
from the top of a tall stack and feasted her eyes on the by-line. Lilith tended to be assigned to feature stuff rather than breaking news, so an appearance on the tabloid’s front page was rare indeed.

Jodee and Chazz had not emerged from their house all day on Friday, denying gathered photographers the opportunity for photos of them in distress; like the other papers the
Globe
had had to fall back on a file photo of the couple in happier times, emerging from the maternity hospital with baby Muffin swathed in a pink fleece blanket. The headline read simply ‘Jodee and Chazz: Baby Tragedy’, and the subhead said ‘Our reporter Lilith Noone speaks exclusively to the bereaved parents’.

Lilith breathed deeply, her chest literally swelling with pride. For a moment she savoured the sensation, then moved on to
the other papers, collecting quite a stack of them in her arms. Almost all of them featured Jodee and Chazz on the front page, but none of the others had anything in the least original, let alone exclusive. The higher-toned papers focused on the medical aspect of the tragedy, quoting experts on SIDS, while the tabloids
rehashed
the public romance. Lilith would take them home and digest them at her leisure, saving the best for last.

World exclusive. Lilith Noone, the only member of the press who had talked to Jodee and Chazz. Face to face.

Neville Stewart, too, was at a local newsagent’s shop quite early. He needed to find out what the papers were saying about the case; for one thing, DCS Evans would want to know, and Evans’ admirable secretary, who would usually take care of this side of things, didn’t work on a Saturday. Furthermore, Neville had a strong feeling that before the day was over, he would be facing the press himself. As soon as the post-mortem results were available, Evans would want to call a news conference, and Neville would be the one taking the questions. It was important for him to be prepared.

Too bad it was Saturday. The Saturday papers were
cumbersome
things, engorged with special supplements and adverts, and these days with free DVDs and other rubbish. Neville stopped at the nearest bin and dumped all of the extraneous bits,
retaining
only the front page sections of each paper. These he carried to the nearest greasy spoon cafe, where he took over a booth, spread out the papers, and ordered a cup of coffee.

Most of the papers, he discovered, had very little information to go on. The only one which did was the
Globe
; that accursed woman Lilith Noone seemed to have wormed her way in to talk to Jodee and Chazz, and she provided an eyewitness account of their distress. It was a heart-wrenching story, dripping with sympathy. And what the other tabloids lacked in factual content, they more than made up for in the emotive language of grief. Muffin’s death was a ‘tragedy’; her parents were variously ‘
agonised
’, ‘heartbroken’, ‘anguished’, ‘desolated’, and ‘gutted’.

If the lack of hard facts had sent the tabloid journalists
scurrying
to their thesauruses, it seemed to have sent the mainstream journalists to their medical dictionaries. As he sipped the strong, bitter coffee, Neville learned more about SIDS than he’d been able to discover from the taciturn pathologist. He learned that though SIDS was the commonly used descriptor for cot death, the actual medical term was SUDI, or ‘sudden unexplained death in infancy’. And although there was no medical consensus about what caused SIDS, there did seem to be a number of risk factors which might or might not be relevant in this particular case, including the sort of bedding used and the position of the sleeping baby. Even the mother’s prenatal use of alcohol or cigarettes could be implicated, as well as premature birth, low birth weight and failure to breast-feed.

Whatever the factors involved, SIDS seemed to be an
indiscriminate
killer of babies, and their parents were not held culpable.

Unless…

Unless there was something else. Some unnatural
intervention
. A pillow held over the baby’s face to stop it crying, or…

Or neglect. A baby dying alone, its parents in dereliction of their duty of care.

Neville realised that none of the papers—not even the
Globe
—had mentioned anything about the potential
complication
he’d shared with Evans: the fact that Muffin had seemingly died alone in an empty house. That was a huge relief.

It might not have made any difference. As the baby’s
grandmother
had said to Mark Lombardi, Muffin probably would have died anyway.

If the pathologist—and the coroner—found that Muffin Angel Betts’ death was a straightforward case of SIDS, then Neville’s part in it would be over. Case closed.

He could go home and forget about it.

Yeah, right.

Home.

That brought him, inevitably, to the thing he had been
avoiding
thinking about.

His wife. Triona.

He didn’t even know where she was. She wasn’t at her flat or at his. She wasn’t answering his calls.

Where the hell was she?

Mark woke on Saturday morning to the enticing smell of coffee. Geoff was up, then, and at home.

He wasn’t at all sure about the shape his own day would have. He was determined to deliver Chiara’s birthday present at some point, and that meant that he would get to see Callie. Whether she came with him or not—and Mark hoped that she would—she had the CD in her possession.

Mark was missing Callie. It had been less than three days since he’d seen her, but it felt to him much longer than that. He didn’t usually discuss his cases with her; now, though, he wanted to talk to her about Muffin Betts.

This wasn’t like other cases, and he was finding it profoundly disturbing.

The role of a Family Liaison Officer was a delicate and
sensitive
one at the best of times, requiring a special set of skills. Mark liked to think that he usually achieved the proper
balance
between empathy and objectivity that the job demanded, conveying warmth and caring to the family while never
forgetting
that he was there among them as a police officer, not as a counsellor or a social worker.

Part of the problem with this case was that they weren’t at all sure what they were dealing with. It wasn’t the usual homicide, clearly defined, and that changed things. Mark had never worked a case involving SIDS before; he had no idea at what point his own involvement would end. If it were ruled, by the coroner, to be a non-suspicious death in which the police need not take an interest, could he just walk away from people with whom he had already engaged?

And at the end of the day this was about a dead baby. He hadn’t seen Muffin Betts; the body had been removed before he arrived. But he’d seen her in his dreams—still, white, like a tiny wax doll—and that had been bad enough.

Mark looked at his bedside alarm clock. Callie would be at Morning Prayer, so ringing her would have to wait.

He needed to talk to a sane human being; fortunately there was one close at hand. Yanking on his dressing gown, he headed for the lounge, forgetting that twenty-four hours earlier he’d gone to great lengths to avoid Geoff. Quite a lot had happened in that twenty-four hours.

Geoff was in weekend mode, sprawled on the sofa surrounded by bits of the Saturday papers, a mug of coffee in one hand. He looked up from the papers and raised the mug in Mark’s
direction
. ‘I made a pot,’ he said. ‘Help yourself.’

‘Good man.’ Mark went through to the kitchen, retrieved a mug from the draining rack, and poured himself a cup, filling it close to the brim then taking a sip. It almost burned his mouth, but it was worth it.

He carried the mug back into the lounge and sat down across from Geoff. Suddenly his awkwardness of the previous morning returned; apart from the whisky-fuelled confidences of the other night, he had no history of intimacy with this man. Mark blew on his coffee and sipped it carefully.

‘Well,’ said Geoff, raising his head from the papers. ‘This is really something, this story about Jodee and Chazz. Poor sods, eh? I never thought I’d say that.’

Mark’s stomach lurched sickeningly as the coffee hit it.

‘It says the police are involved,’ Geoff went on. ‘SIDS, see? They have to treat it like a suspicious death until they know for sure that it wasn’t. Suspicious, I mean.’

‘I know,’ Mark said quietly.

Geoff stared at him, comprehension dawning. ‘You…you’re involved in this?’

‘Afraid so.’ Now he
didn’t
want to talk about it. Didn’t want to trivialise it, engage in flippant banter.

‘You actually met them? What are they like, then? Jodee and Chazz?’

Mark never would have suspected his flatmate of an interest in celebrity gossip. He chose his words with care. ‘They’re like any parents who have found their baby dead in its cot. Gutted.’

He wasn’t sure how he would describe them, actually. Jodee’s grief had been theatrical, almost operatic, in its expression, while Chazz—less demonstrative by nature—had been more understated but clearly no less devastated. There was no doubt in his mind that their anguish was real.

Geoff was looking at him, waiting.

Mark heard his mobile phone ring, faintly, from the bedside table where he’d left it. ‘I’d better get that,’ he said, and made his escape with his coffee.

He was hoping for Callie; instead it was Neville Stewart.

‘Listen, mate,’ Neville said. ‘I don’t know what your plans are, but you need to get back over there as soon as you can.’ He didn’t need to explain where ‘over there’ was, but he did go on to tell him why: the pathologist was rushing through the post-mortem results and the report would be available by that afternoon. The coroner would then decide what the next steps—if any—would be. And Neville had already had a call from Brenda Betts to tell him that they were virtual prisoners in their home; the press were out in their numbers, and had been joined by the paparazzi. ‘It’s getting ugly,’ Neville said. ‘They need you.’

Back at her flat, Lilith savoured the moment: not just the papers, now adding to the clutter in her habitually untidy sitting room, but an e-mail from the editor of the
Globe
. A congratulatory e-mail from the legendary Rob Gardiner-Smith. She’d never had one of those before. Sitting in front of the screen of her computer, she grinned in a most uncharacteristic manner.

Grinning wasn’t Lilith’s style. Lilith was elegant,
well-groomed
, a cut above the average tabloid journalist. Lilith knew how important appearance was in achieving the results she
wanted, and that included control of her facial expressions. But there were moments, in the privacy of her own flat…