Deep Waters (38 page)

He nodded. ‘I couldn’t ask for a better one.’

‘You get to work with all of those celebrities. And things must be getting exciting, with the final coming up. Tomorrow, isn’t it?’

‘That’s right. I’m practically run off my feet at the moment.’

Which begged the question of what he was doing in a pub, drinking Chardonnay, after having attended an inquest at the coroner’s court.

Time to cut this little game short, Lilith decided; time to put her cards on the table. If she was going to get her story written for tomorrow’s paper, she needed to get her skates on.

‘You rang me, didn’t you?’ she asked him bluntly. ‘And it wasn’t any accident that you were standing beside me outside of the court.’

Tarquin looked at her for a moment, then shrugged. ‘It’s a fair cop.’

‘So what is this all about?’

‘After I rang you, I was sure there would be a story in the
Globe
today. But there wasn’t anything. So I thought maybe you’d be here, at the inquest. And here you are,’ he added.

Lilith wasn’t complaining, though she still didn’t understand. ‘But…why?’

‘Publicity, innit? The more people who see Sam’s name in the paper, the better. Just think about it.’ He tapped his head with one finger. ‘All the people who read the
Globe
. If even a fraction of them picked up the phone and voted for her because they’d seen her name on the front page of the
Globe
, she’d win “Junior Idol” for sure, hands down. I’m just doing my job.’ He fixed her with an accusing glare. ‘So why haven’t you done
yours
?’

Callie had never been to the Italian church before; though she had the address, she almost walked past it. Unlike any Anglican church she’d ever seen, it wasn’t surrounded by any sort of church yard, or even an open space, but was flush with the pavement, attached to the buildings on either side. Admittedly it stood a storey higher than the flanking buildings, but that wasn’t immediately evident from the pavement. She hesitated outside, then went through one of the twin rounded arches and into the church.

The interior was darkened, but not empty: she could hear the murmur of voices some distance away. A sign just inside of the door told her what was going on: ‘Stazioni della Via Crucis: Venerdi alla Quaresima, 6 p.m.’

Between the smidgeon of Italian that she could understand, and her knowledge of the Church, she figured it out. Stations of the Cross. Fridays in Lent.

Callie crept into a pew at the back of the church and waited.

The stations were fixed at intervals along the walls; the
worshippers
were moving anti-clockwise round the church, stopping at each station for a prayer in Italian.

After the relaxing treatments Callie had enjoyed that day, the unintelligibly musical words acted as a soporific. She closed her eyes—just to listen, she told herself—and drifted off.

She woke with a start at the sound of her name at close range. The lights were on and someone was standing over her, peering into her face. ‘Callie?’ repeated the voice she’d first thought was part of her dream. ‘What are you doing here?’

It was, Callie realised with dismay, just about the last person she wanted to see: Grazia Lombardi. Marco’s mother. If she’d known Mrs Lombardi was here as part of the praying group, she wouldn’t have stayed.

Callie blinked. ‘Oh. Oh, I’m sorry. I must have dozed off. I was waiting for Father Luigi.’

‘Does he expect you?’

How silly of her not to have rung ahead, Callie told herself. But she’d come straight from the spa, hoping to catch him. ‘No,’ she admitted.

‘He’s gone to
la sagrestia
. To change from his robes. He’ll be back soon.’ Grazia Lombardi sat down in the pew in front of Callie and twisted round to face her.

So there was no escape, short of being rude.

‘We haven’t seen you for a few days,’ Mrs Lombardi stated.

‘Well…no.’

‘I thought you would come. To support Marco in our
family
’s loss.’

The implied criticism—unjust as it was—was too much for Callie; tears stung her eyes. ‘I’m…I’m sorry,’ she said.

Grazia Lombardi leaned closer. ‘Is something wrong? With you and Marco?’

How could she answer that? ‘We haven’t spoken for a few days,’ she evaded.

‘Something is wrong.’ Mrs Lombardi nodded, frowning. ‘I knew it. Tell me, if you can.’

Well, thought Callie, what did she have to lose? She took a deep breath. ‘It was to do with Chiara,’ she began. ‘She asked to see me, to talk about her father’s death. I went to her school, and we talked.’

‘That’s good. I’m glad she talked to you. I did not know. I’m worried about Chiara,’ Mrs Lombardi added, in a confidential voice. ‘I came tonight, before
i stazioni
, to speak to Father Luigi about her.’

Thank goodness at least one member of the family was concerned about Chiara, Callie said to herself. It gave her the courage to continue. ‘Serena didn’t like it, though,’ she said. ‘She had Marco ring me and tell me to stay away.’

Mrs Lombardi drew back, her dark eyes wide with surprise. ‘Ah. So that is what happened.’ She shook her head. ‘My
daughter
. Sometimes she is not so
intelligente
—clever, yes?’

‘I’m sure Serena does what she thinks is best for her family,’ Callie stated, determined to be fair.

‘What is best? Yes, she tries, I believe. But sometimes she is foolish. Like with Chiara.’ Grazia Lombardi looked over her shoulder, as if making sure she wouldn’t be overheard, then lowered her voice. ‘She tried to keep it from us—her pappa and me—that she and Joe were having
i problemi
. Does she think we are
stupido
? Does she think,
veramente
, we would not know?’

Serena would be mortified, Callie thought, with a touch of guilty gratification. ‘I suppose she didn’t want to worry or upset you,’ she said in restitution.

‘Marco. He knew, didn’t he?’ Grazia asked. ‘And he told you.’

‘Yes,’ Callie admitted.

Mrs Lombardi’s next words were more in the nature of
thinking
aloud. ‘I do not know anything about their problems—just that there were some. Maybe I don’t want to know. Joe is dead now, I don’t think it matters any more.’

But it
did
matter. Callie wanted to tell her that, and found that she couldn’t. It certainly wasn’t up to her to spill Serena’s carefully kept secrets. And perhaps it would make things worse, especially for the girls. Instead she said, ‘I don’t think Serena likes me very much.’

Marco would have denied it, but Mrs Lombardi did no such thing. She reached over and patted Callie’s cheek. ‘No, of course she doesn’t. She is
molto geloso
of you and Marco. He’s always been special to her. If I had been able to have more
bambini
it would have been different. But there are just the two of them.’

Callie did understand about the special sister/brother
relationship
, but it was beyond her to comprehend the jealousy. Part of loving Peter was wanting him to be happy, in whatever way—and with whomever—he could find happiness.

‘And now,’ Grazia said, sadly, ‘she has managed to come between you and Marco. You must not let her do that.’

‘What can I do?’ It was a rhetorical question, not a plea for help.

Marco’s mother, though, was a practical person. ‘Do you love Marco?’ she asked bluntly.

Callie, not trusting her voice, nodded.

‘I thought so. And Marco loves you, I believe. You make him happy.
Felice
. Now he is not happy. And that makes me sad.’

A tear escaped and trickled down Callie’s cheek.

‘It makes you sad, too. Ah,
povero
Callie.’ Grazia Lombardi got up, came round to Callie’s pew, wiped the tear away with her finger, then took Callie’s face between her hands and kissed her on both cheeks. ‘Leave it with me,’ she said. ‘
Corragio. Abbi fede
. Have faith, my dear.’

And then she was gone.

On Saturdays, Brian’s day off, Callie had the responsibility of taking Morning Prayer by herself. She frequently had to rush to get there on time, but that was primarily a function of how late she’d been up the night before, on her own day off.

This week, getting up early wasn’t a problem. She’d had an early night, and in spite of the mediaeval torture device that was the vicarage guest bed, she’d slept soundly, still feeling relaxed from her ‘pamper day’; she woke naturally before seven, without the aid of her alarm.

Secure in the knowledge that Brian and Jane would be
enjoying
a lie-in, Callie allowed herself the luxury of a bubble bath rather than a hurried shower.

Soaking in the fragrant bubbles, she allowed herself to think back to her encounters in the Italian church—the almost surreal conversation with Marco’s mother, a wise woman if ever there was one, then her talk with Father Luigi.

The Italian priest had treated her like a colleague, not—as she’d feared—like an interfering busy-body. He was reassuringly on top of the situation with Chiara, and not at all averse to Callie’s own involvement. It was true that he hadn’t yet spoken to Chiara herself—she was still refusing to talk to him—but he was happy that she’d sought out Callie, and encouraged Callie to keep the lines of communication open. And he was planning to talk to Serena as soon as possible. ‘I can’t push it, you understand,’
he’d said. ‘Not just yet. But as soon as the funeral is over, I’ll be working to facilitate healing in that relationship.’

So Callie was cautiously optimistic—if not about herself and Marco, at least about Chiara and Serena. As long as nothing else horrible happened, and if Chiara could be persuaded to give up this nonsense about her father being murdered…

When she’d dressed, Callie still had a few minutes to spare, and was about to ring Frances to confirm her plans to stop by in the morning and give Bella a long walk, when her mobile rang.

It was Frances. ‘Hope I didn’t wake you,’ Frances said.

‘Not at all. I was just about to ring
you
, as it happens. I’d like to come round this morning and collect Bella for a walk, if it’s all right with you.’

‘Yes. Fine. I’ll be here.’ Frances went on, ‘Listen, Callie. I rang you for a reason. I think you need to go out and get a copy of the
Daily Globe
this morning. There’s a story on the front page that will interest you.’

Oh, no, Callie thought. Not something else about Jodee and Chazz? Why couldn’t the wretched press just leave them alone to mourn their baby in peace? ‘All right,’ she said. ‘But why would you be reading the
Daily Globe
? It doesn’t seem like your sort of paper, somehow.’

‘It’s not,’ Frances confirmed succinctly.

‘Then why…’

‘Don’t even ask.’ Frances rang off, leaving Callie intrigued and curious.

A growling stomach woke Neville; he tried to remember the last time he’d eaten, and realised he’d grabbed a sandwich after he’d interviewed Rosemary Harwood. A long time ago.

And if he was hungry, he thought, Triona would be even more so: she had to eat for two, and it was unlikely that she’d eaten any more recently than he had.

He eased himself out of bed, found his dressing gown, and went in search of something to eat.

The last visit he’d paid to a supermarket had been in the remote past—before the wedding. Ancient history. Since then he’d bought a few things at the corner shop, but even that hadn’t happened very recently. He still had a few eggs on hand that were probably not dangerously past their sell-by date, and a loaf of bread that was beginning to go a bit green round the edges.

Neville examined the bread and found a couple of interior slices which would do if he pinched the mouldy spots off. He bunged those in the toaster while he scrambled up the eggs and put the kettle on. It would have to be instant coffee, black, as there was no milk.

Once they were settled in their new home, he told himself, he would turn over a new leaf. He would make regular visits to the supermarket, not expecting Triona to do it. He would learn to cook in a less haphazard way. He would transform himself into a domestic god.

Their new home. That reminded him that he’d switched his phone off when he got back yesterday. He went and got it, then listened to the messages.

Needless to say, more than one of them were from Andrew. ‘The open house has been a huge success,’ he said. ‘Though I’m a bit concerned about Mrs Stewart. She didn’t seem totally on board with this. Ring me.’ Then, ‘I have eight sealed bids. Ring me.’ Finally, ‘I’ve opened the bids, Mr Stewart. They’re all well over the asking price. Ring me and we can discuss who’s in the best position to proceed. And have you had a chance to look at those details I left for you?’

Grinning, Neville went back to the kitchen to find the eggs were rather over-cooked. He scraped them out of the pan onto the spotty toast, dividing them between two plates, made the coffee, and put the lot onto a tray which he carried through to the bedroom.

Triona was sitting up in bed, the duvet tucked demurely round her. ‘The smell of the coffee woke me,’ she said. ‘I’m starving.’

‘It’s not very inspiring, but it’s the best I could do.’

‘It looks bloody marvellous to me.’

‘And you,’ said Neville, ‘look bloody marvellous to
me
.’

‘Food first, Stewart.’ Triona took the tray from him, settled it on her lap, and tucked in.

Callie made a dash for the newsagent’s before Morning Prayer, and had a few minutes to sit at the back of the church and read the front-page story.

Not Jodee and Chazz. Much worse.

‘“Idol” Sexy Sam Questioned in Anti-Freeze Murder,’ screamed the headline. The by-line, of course, was Lilith Noone.

‘Sexy Samantha Winter, one of the competitors in tonight’s “Junior Idol” final, has been questioned by the police in
connection
with a grisly murder, this reporter has learned exclusively.

‘Giuseppe di Stefano, known as “Joe”, died on Monday in St Mary’s Hospital, Paddington. It was initially thought that he died of a heart attack, but a nurse’s suspicions led to a
post-mortem
, where it was discovered that di Stefano was poisoned with A
NTI
-F
REEZE
.

‘Yesterday an inquest was opened into di Stefano’s death by HM Coroner Hereward Rice. Detective Inspector Neville Stewart, the Senior Investigating Officer, read out a statement in which he revealed that di Stefano was given the anti-freeze in a bottle of Lucozade. The inquest has been adjourned until April.

‘Di Stefano, aged 44, was a professor of sociology at the University of London. Samantha Winter was reading sociology at that university until she was picked from thousands of
aspiring
singers under the age of twenty-one to compete in “Junior Idol”. The top-rated programme concludes tonight, and sizzling Sam is a hot favourite to take this year’s “Junior Idol” crown. Bookmakers are currently giving odds of 6/4 for blond stunner Sam, 20, to win over fellow finalists Taneesha and Raj. Last year’s winner, Karma, went on to a lucrative recording contract and is currently at number one in the charts.

‘Police questioned Sam at the “Junior Idol” studios on Thursday, sources have revealed.

‘Reality Bites, who produce “Junior Idol”, the Metropolitan Police, and the di Stefano family were unavailable for comment.’

It hadn’t taken them long to polish off their breakfast.

‘That’s better.’ Triona sighed happily and took a gulp of coffee, emptying her mug. ‘The coffee is foul. Can I have another cup?’

Neville jumped off the bed and bowed at the waist. ‘Refills on foul coffee, coming right up. Would you like seconds on mouldy toast as well?’

‘I’ll give that a miss, if you don’t mind.’

He returned a few minutes later with two fresh mugs of coffee. ‘And I have news for you, as well,’ he announced. ‘Andrew left several messages last night. Eight people want to give you in excess of six hundred thousand pounds for your flat. Isn’t that brilliant? All you have to do is decide which one you want to sell it to.’

Triona reached for the mug. ‘Aren’t you forgetting
something
?’

‘What’s that?’

‘One little detail, Stewart. Just exactly where are we supposed to live, now that you’ve sold both our flats out from under us and made us homeless?’

‘Oh, didn’t I mention that?’ Neville contrived to look
innocent
. ‘I’ve found us the perfect house.’

‘
What
?’

‘A nice terrace in Notting Hill,’ he said, grinning. ‘Ladbroke Square. Three bedrooms. Private sale, practically signed and sealed. I promise you, Triona—you’ll love it.’

She set the mug down on the bedside table and threw back the duvet. ‘Then why are we wasting time drinking foul coffee?’ she demanded.

Neville took that as an invitation, and a welcome one at that, given the alluring sight of flesh that the displaced duvet had been concealing. He slipped out of his dressing gown and into bed. ‘I thought you’d never ask,’ he said. ‘Not that I need asking.’

‘Forget about it!’ She gave him a shove that sent him
sprawling
onto the floor. ‘I want to see my new house. This morning. Right now!’

Joe really had been murdered. Callie couldn’t take it in. She hadn’t believed Chiara; she’d told herself that the police’s
involvement
must be routine.

But who? And why?

And poor, poor Chiara. Callie hoped, fervently, that Chiara wouldn’t see the
Globe
—that somehow the family would manage to keep it from her. She hoped that the scurrilous implications of Lilith’s story wouldn’t go any further, and wouldn’t have to impinge on a young girl’s feelings about her adored father.

She went into her stall in the church and opened the prayer book that resided there. Fortunately, considering her state of mind, this was one of the mornings when no one else had turned up for the service, not even the dim young man who hardly ever missed a day. It was such a beautiful morning; presumably every one else had better things to do with it than attend Morning Prayer at All Saints’ Church.