Deep Waters (19 page)

Neville turned to see a young woman smiling at him. A young woman with spiky, carroty red hair and a ring in her nose. ‘Willow,’ he said, returning her smile.

‘Buy me a coffee?’ she suggested.

He was about to beg off, citing the pressures of work, then changed his mind. He liked her. In spite of her eccentric
appearance
she was sensible; she’d given him good advice in the past. ‘Yes, why not?’

‘I’ll have a double latte,’ she said. ‘And a bacon roll, as long as you’re buying.’

Once again he went through the line, then joined her at a table. ‘So, Detective,’ she said, giving him an ironic smile, ‘what are you doing here? Arresting someone?’

‘Meeting a friend. And I might ask you the same question, young lady.’

She pulled a face. ‘Visiting. My boss at Planet Earth. She… well, it’s just too boring. She fell off a ladder yesterday and ended up in hospital. She broke a few bones, might have a concussion. They’re keeping her in for observation, so I thought I’d better come and see her. Bring her some grapes, that sort of thing.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ he said perfunctorily.

‘It’s a bore. I’ll have to work extra shifts until she gets better.’

Neville recalled that she had a job at a health food shop. Selling nuts and seeds and tofu, he imagined. That
would
be a bore.

He watched enviously as she tucked into the bacon roll. The pecan danish had taken the edge off his appetite, but the bacon smelled wonderful. ‘Do you want some?’ she asked. Without waiting for an answer, she pulled off the other end of the roll and handed it to him.

‘Thanks.’

‘I remembered, see. You’re a man who likes his meat.’

How uncomplicated she was, thought Neville with a pang as he ate his share of the bacon roll. How refreshing and enjoyable to be with. She liked Irish music; she could hold her Guinness. If only things had been different…

‘Did you take my advice?’ Willow asked. ‘That last time we met. I told you to go back to your girlfriend. Did you do it?’

‘Yes,’ he said, holding out his left hand to display the ring.

‘Neville! You’re married!’

‘And I suppose I do have you to thank,’ he admitted. ‘You gave me the push I needed to go after her.’

‘I’m glad I was good for something that night.’ Willow grinned at him. ‘Things could have been different, you know,’ she added, echoing his thoughts. ‘If you’d wanted me.’

‘I
did
want you.’

‘No, Neville,’ she corrected him. ‘You fancied me, maybe. Just a little. Like you’ve fancied lots of other girls. And broken a few of their hearts, I have no doubt. But there was only one woman you ever really wanted to be with. You know it’s true.’

It
was
true. How wise she was. He nodded in
acknowledgement
. ‘I didn’t break
your
heart, did I?’

Willow laughed. ‘You might have. But I didn’t give you the chance. It was pretty clear to me that I would have been on to a loser.’

That was a relief. He would have hated to have that on his conscience.

‘So—you’re ecstatically happy?’ she went on lightly. ‘Revelling in married bliss? Happily ever after?’

‘I wish.’

Suddenly Neville found himself telling her the whole story: the proposal, the pregnancy, the wedding. The honeymoon, disastrously curtailed. The brief reunion, Triona’s ultimatum, his frustration. ‘I just don’t know what to do,’ he concluded miserably. ‘I’ve tried every bloody thing I can think of.’

Willow just looked at him, shaking her head. ‘Oh, Neville,’ she said. ‘You really don’t see it, do you?’

‘What?’

‘It’s staring you in the face, man. She told you herself.’

What on earth was the woman going on about? He frowned at her, uncomprehending; she just laughed.

‘Buy her a house, Neville. If you want her back, that’s what you’ll have to do. What could be simpler than that?’

Once he’d finished interviewing the Betts family, Mark decided that there was nothing to be gained by remaining. Chazz had returned to Spiderman and Jodee to her magazine, whilst Brenda was there to keep things ticking over on the domestic front. ‘You could do some shopping for us,’ Brenda suggested. ‘We’re running low on a few things.’

Chazz, it transpired, wanted pot noodles and Jodee needed a fresh injection of magazines. Sliced bread, milk, cornflakes, instant coffee and PG Tips were also in short supply, according to Brenda. She wrote down the list for Mark on the back of an envelope, into which she tucked two twenty-pound notes. ‘You
should be able to carry this much from the Tesco Express,’ she said. ‘If not, get a taxi. That’s what I always do.’

‘I’ll be back as soon as I can,’ Mark promised.

He waved to the few rather dispirited media people who clustered on the pavement in front of the house. They’d been waiting there for days, Mark realised, and as far as he knew the Bettses hadn’t ventured out of the door even once. ‘Will they be going to the inquest?’ one cameraman asked him hopefully.

Mark shook his head. ‘Don’t get your hopes up, mate,’ he said.

He knew the Tesco Express well; it was between the police
station
and Callie’s flat, so he often stopped off there after work for a bottle of wine or some cooking supplies. It was also, he realised as he approached it, just a few streets from the hospital.

It was where they’d brought Joe yesterday. He really ought to stop in and see him, since he was so near. Serena would most likely be there; she could probably use some support.

But…he didn’t really want to see Joe. Not sick in a hospital bed. Not at all, really. He would ring Serena later; he might even call by to see her at home or at the restaurant.

Would she be working later today? Monday wasn’t usually a busy day at the restaurant, so he supposed that Mamma and Pappa could manage it between them, even if Serena wasn’t able to make it. But what about Chiara? Maybe Serena would need him to keep an eye on her after school.

He really ought to find out what the situation was, and make the offer to look after Chiara. But he couldn’t ring her, he realised: if she were at the hospital, she would have to switch off her phone.

Mark went round Tesco quickly, filling his basket and
consulting
the list. The magazines took the longest; there were so many to choose from, so in the end he selected one of each of the celebrity titles and anything else that had a picture of Jodee or Chazz on the cover. That made a heavy bundle. He went through the check-out and filled several carrier bags.

The Bettses could wait a few minutes for their supplies, he decided as he paid for the shopping with the money Brenda had given him. He would feel so guilty if, this close to the hospital, he didn’t at least make the effort to find Serena. He might not locate her, but at least he would give it a try.

In the end it was much easier than he’d expected. Serena was standing outside of the hospital entrance, her phone in her hand, pushing buttons. When he was not much more than a few steps away from her, the phone in his pocket buzzed.

Ignoring it, he covered the distance between them. ‘Serena,’ he called.

She looked up at him, then down at the phone, puzzled. ‘Marco. You came. How did you know?’

‘Know
what
?’

‘He didn’t make it.’ Serena’s eyes were enormous, the pupils dilated. ‘He didn’t make it, Marco. He’s dead. Joe is dead.’

‘Buy her a house. What could be simpler than that?’

Bloody hell, Neville thought, walking back towards Paddington Green. Easy for Willow to say. But how on earth could he buy a house?

There was an estate agents’ office ahead of him on the other side of the street. Impulsively he crossed over, dodging the
traffic
, and perused the offerings in the window.

A million, a million and a half. Two million. Five million.

It was cloud cuckoo-land.

Still, he thought. It wouldn’t cost anything to ask. He pushed the door open and went in.

The receptionist was a girl so young she looked as if she ought to be playing with dolls’ houses rather than selling real ones. ‘Can I help you?’ she enquired.

There was no reason Neville should have been intimidated by her, but he was; this world was so alien to him. ‘Talk to someone about a house?’ he mumbled.

She glanced over her shoulder. ‘I believe Andrew is free,’ she said, indicating the man at a nearby desk.

Andrew, a fresh-faced young man in a white shirt and colourful tie, was certainly free. He bounded forward to meet Neville halfway with a vigourous—if somewhat damp—hand-shake, then escorted him to his desk. ‘Andrew Linton, at your service,’ he said. ‘How can I be of help to you, sir? Are you interested in buying or selling?’

‘Well, both, I suppose, but—’

‘Oh, excellent. Let me just take some details.’ Andrew
indicated
a chair in front of his desk for Neville, then sat down behind a large flat computer screen. ‘Name?’

‘Neville Stewart. But—’

‘Is that with an “e-w” or a “u”?’ Andrew was evidently an efficient two-fingered typist, and had soon tapped in Neville’s address, home phone, mobile, and e-mail. ‘And is this the address of the property you’re interested in selling, Mr Stewart?’

‘Well, yes. If you can just give me some idea of what it might be worth…’

‘I’ll have to see it, of course,’ Andrew said severely. ‘Do a proper valuation.’

‘Oh, I thought you might be able to tell me, roughly.’

He must have sensed Neville’s disappointment, because he gave him a wink and a nod as he called up another screen. ‘Well, let’s see, Mr Stewart. How many bedrooms?’

‘Two. But one of them is tiny,’ he felt compelled to add. ‘I just use it mostly to store rubbish.’

‘One reception? One bath? Kitchen?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Is it a kitchen/diner?’ Andrew asked. ‘Can you eat in it?’

‘I
do
eat in it.’ To call it a kitchen/diner might have been
stretching
the point a bit, but this was not the time to split hairs.

‘And is the flat in reasonable order?’

That was a matter for some debate; Triona certainly wouldn’t have said so. ‘Revolting’ was the word she’d used, if he
remembered
correctly. ‘Well,’ Neville admitted, ‘it probably needs some decorating or something.’

‘Cosmetic,’ Andrew pronounced triumphantly. ‘A lick of paint. Buyers can see past that. As long as it’s structurally sound.’

‘I’m sure it is.’ He wasn’t sure at all, but by now he was
entering
into the spirit of things.

‘And the location? Close to local amenities?’

‘Lots of local amenities,’ Neville confirmed. Not least the pubs. ‘There’s the market—Shepherd’s Bush market, and it’s very near the Tube station.’

‘Excellent,’ said Andrew. He concentrated on the screen for a moment, tapping a few more keys, then smiled triumphantly. ‘This is subject to personal valuation, of course. But I do think you might be able to get in the vicinity of a quarter of a million.’

‘
Pounds
?’ gasped Neville, astonished. He’d had the flat for nearly fifteen years; it had cost him next to nothing in those days and in all the intervening years he hadn’t spent more than a few quid on fixing it up or maintaining it. His mortgage was negligible, so he was looking at a great deal of pure profit.

‘We’d ask a bit more, of course. Maybe two seven five. But I think two fifty would be achievable.’

‘Bloody hell.’

‘That’s only half the story, though,’ Andrew reminded him. ‘What sort of property were you looking to buy?’

‘A house,’ said Neville. ‘A family house. Two bedrooms, minimum. Maybe three.’

Andrew frowned. ‘You do realise that you won’t be able to buy a house for that amount? Not in London. Are you in a position to take on a large mortgage?’

‘There’s another flat,’ Neville said. ‘I’ve recently married. My…wife…has a flat in the City.’ It still seemed strange to him to think in terms of having a wife. ‘If we sold that as well…’

‘Oh, well.’ Andrew smiled, relieved, and called up another screen. ‘That makes a difference.’

Neville gave him the address. ‘It’s just a one-bedroom flat.’ He wasn’t sure how much of a mortgage Triona had on it. Probably not a large one, given the divorce settlement she’d had. ‘It’s very nice, though,’ he added. ‘Really well kept.’

‘And centrally located in the City.’ Andrew tapped away for a moment. ‘Half a million, minimum. I’d put it on the market probably at six. Subject to personal valuation, of course.’

‘Of course.’

Neville had never been outstanding at maths, but even he realised that he was looking at a rather tidy sum of money. ‘So three-quarters of a million, maybe? For both of them?’

‘That’s right,’ Andrew confirmed smugly. ‘Possibly a bit more.’

‘And can I buy a house in London for that?’

‘Certainly. Not a mansion,’ he cautioned. ‘But a nice terraced house, maybe a semi. Depending on where you want to be, of course. North of the river?’

‘Definitely. Somewhere not too far from here. And close to a Tube station for access to the City.’ For Triona, assuming she would continue with her job.

‘Notting Hill, perhaps,’ Andrew suggested. ‘Or maybe Maida Vale, if you want three bedrooms. I’m sure I can find something that ticks the boxes for you, Mr Stewart.’ He put out his hand. ‘Leave it with me.’

‘Tea,’ said Mark. ‘Sweet tea. Let’s go to the cafe. We can talk there.’

Consciously or unconsciously, he slipped into professional mode. This was, after all, familiar territory. Yet the ground felt shaky under his feet.

Joe. Joe was dead. Impossible, unbelievable.

He’d seen enough people in shock to recognise the signs in himself.

Best to put it out of his mind, to forget that it was his own brother-in-law who was dead, his own sister who was bereaved. Best to treat this like part of his job.

‘I don’t like sweet tea,’ said Serena.

‘Neither do I. Lots of people don’t, I’ve found. But it’s the best thing.’

She raised her eyebrows, unbelieving. ‘Isn’t it an old wives’ tale?’

‘Trust me,’ said Mark.

He followed the signs to a coffee shop just inside the main entrance to the hospital: an Italian chain coffee shop, he was pleased to see. ‘I’d rather have a coffee,’ Serena stated. ‘Espresso. Double.’

Mark wasn’t prepared to argue with her about it. ‘All right.’ He dropped his Tesco carrier bags at a table in a corner, as
private as possible, and went to the counter to get coffee for both of them.

‘Do you want to tell me about it?’ he invited, when they’d had a few reviving sips. ‘You were with him?’

Serena closed her eyes for a second or two. There were no tears, just a quiet statement of facts. ‘I was there. It wasn’t
pleasant
, Marco. He started having convulsions. His breathing was really rapid. I called for the nurse. She got the emergency team there. They worked on him for a long time. But…they couldn’t save him. They did everything they could, but he died.’

‘A second heart attack.’ Mark knew that it often happened like that: a weakened heart succumbing some twenty-four hours after the first heart attack, in spite of being in hospital with the best medical care available. ‘How awful for you.’

What a silly, inadequate thing to say, he thought as soon as it was out of his mouth. Awful wasn’t the word. Serena had seen her husband die, and her life would never be the same.

‘Did he have the last rites?’ Mark asked to cover his
self-disgust
. He knew how important that would be to Serena, if not to Joe. And important to Mamma.

She nodded. ‘The nurse sent for one of the Catholic
chaplains
. Paged him on his beeper. Father somebody—I can’t remember. He was Polish. He came right away.’

Mark hoped the priest had been able to provide some spiritual comfort for Serena. ‘Did you talk to him…after?’

Serena’s laugh was without mirth. ‘To be honest, his English wasn’t very good. And his Italian was non-existent.’

An idea occurred to him. ‘I could get someone to page Frances,’ he said. ‘Callie’s friend—she’s one of the chaplains here. I’m sure she’d come. She’s C of E, of course, but she’s very sensible and nice, and she’d be someone for you to talk to.’

‘No.’ One syllable, one word. Quiet, yet firm.

‘Father Luigi, then. I’ll ring him. He might come here. Or I’ll take you to St. Peter’s.’

Serena put a hand on his sleeve. ‘Listen, Marco. I know you’re trying to help, and I do appreciate that. But don’t bother. Really. I don’t need to talk to anyone.’

‘But you
do
. You will. Maybe not this minute,’ he
acknowledged
, reminding himself that she was still in deep shock. ‘But there are so many things you’ll have to think about, that you’ll need help with. I’ll do what I can, of course. Anything. And Mamma and Pappa…’

She shook her head. ‘There’s only one thing I’m worried about right now, and it’s something I have to face on my own. No one else can do it for me.’

Mark waited, unable to imagine what she meant.

For the first time her voice faltered, just a little, and she closed her eyes. ‘Oh, Marco. How am I going to tell Chiara?’

Monday, for Callie, was a day for doing parish visits. In her early days in the job she and Brian had gone together; now, more often than not, he left the visiting to her. She had a regular list of
housebound
parishioners who appreciated receiving the Sacrament, and there were always people with special needs. For the most part, Callie enjoyed this part of her job: it seemed to her that ministry—in its truest sense—was all about dealing with individuals on a one-to-one basis. Usually she found it satisfying, if occasionally frustrating. Sometimes the frustration was with the people she was visiting, in all their human imperfection; more often it was with herself, for some perceived failure of empathy.

She was learning one truth the hard way: some people are more difficult to like than others. Much as she prided herself on seeing the best in people and meeting them where they were, Callie was discovering that with some of her parishioners it took a much greater effort than with others.

One of the difficult ones was Mildred Channing, an elderly widow who lived in one of the gracious squares off Sussex Gardens. She was on her own in a large house, with just a daily home help to see to her needs. Although she seemed to be in
perfectly good health, Mildred Channing complained incessantly of her aches and pains. In fact, Callie had found, she complained about everything, from the late delivery of her post to the
government
’s shocking policies on immigration to her children and grandchildren’s failure to visit regularly. Although Callie offered sympathy on all complaints, when it came to the last one in particular she was in secret agreement with the children and grandchildren. Her own mother was bad enough; if she’d had the misfortune to be one of Mrs Channing’s offspring, she would have stayed as far away as possible. Mildred Channing made Laura Anson seem like Mother of the Year by comparison.

Mrs Channing was prevented by her aches and pains from attending services at All Saints’; they didn’t, however, seem to keep her away from the shops, and today her laments centred round the number of coloured people who had served on her when she’d gone out to do her shopping. ‘I can’t understand what they’re saying,’ she stated. ‘Don’t these shopkeepers realise how important it is for their employees to speak proper English?’