Deep Waters (34 page)

Waking on Friday morning, Mark spent some time convincing himself that he should get out of bed. To be honest, he couldn’t come up with any convincing reason why he should.

He was a man without a function.

No job to go to—that was forbidden to him.

Yesterday morning it had seemed a more attractive prospect, rather like an unexpected holiday. He could have a bit of a lie-in, wait till Geoff had left for work and take his time in the shower.

But the novelty had already worn off, and he wondered how he was going to fill the hours of the day.

Yolanda Fish. There she was, looking after his family the way he’d so often looked after other people’s families. How strange it was to watch her in action, intensely aware of what she was doing. By virtue of his position in the family he was involved—he had to be. He should be the one doing that job. Yet he was barred from it, forced to remain detached from the vital functions of a Family Liaison Officer. Too close to the situation. Neither here nor there.

Serena didn’t even need him. Maybe she never had. Now, though, with Yolanda Fish there, and Angelina at home to take up the slack, he was definitely surplus to requirements.

And Callie.

Today, he knew, was Callie’s day off. With him not working, it would have been a wonderful opportunity to have spent the
day with her. Yesterday had been a beautiful day, and today was supposed to be equally spring-like. They could have taken a long walk in Hyde Park; they could have gone to the zoo in Regents Park, for that matter. They might have had a picnic. Or they could have gone to a film or a play or a concert. They might have cooked an elaborate meal together—here at the flat, while Geoff was at work—and eaten the lot, or invited someone to share it with them. Peter, or Frances and Graham.

Just to spend a full day with her would have been bliss, whatever they did.

But he’d blown it. Comprehensively and spectacularly.

Callie would never speak to him again: he was sure of it.

And he couldn’t bear it.

Just a few days away from Callie had convinced him more surely than ever that he didn’t want to spend his life without her.

She made him feel whole, gave his life meaning. Being with her made him happy; being away from her made him miserable.

How could he have thrown it all away? In just a minute or two, he’d wounded her and destroyed any chance they’d had of a future together.

And for what?
La famiglia
. Serena, and her insistence that she knew what was best for her daughter. In his heart, Mark didn’t even agree with her: he didn’t see any reason why Callie shouldn’t talk to Chiara, if that was what Chiara wanted.

It wasn’t as if, he told himself, Serena was doing an
outstanding
job in dealing with Chiara.

Realising he was getting dangerously close to disloyalty to his sister, Mark tried to push the thought away. Chiara was at a difficult age; Serena was coping the best she could. They were both grieving, trying to come to terms with a loss that was almost too great to comprehend.

But the thought wouldn’t be completely banished. Serena’s treatment of Chiara, at the moment, was bordering on the insensitive.

And was Serena really grieving that much? It was hard to tell. Mark was accustomed to her character: her stoicism, her suppression of emotion, the impression she gave that nothing touched her. But he was also experienced in dealing with people who had been bereaved, and Serena’s behaviour didn’t fit in with any models he was familiar with. He hadn’t seen her shed a tear—not at any point.

Hating himself, for the first time Mark allowed himself a moment of doubt. Was it possible—remotely possible—that Serena had solved the problem of Joe with an ounce or two of anti-freeze?

He knew that was what Neville would be thinking, and he could understand why, even as he denied it in his own heart. Serena wasn’t a murderer. She couldn’t be.

But then…who?

Not his problem. Not professionally, anyway.

The phone rang, forcing him out of bed to answer it.

‘Marco?’

‘
Buon giorno
, Mamma.’

‘Marco, are you busy today?’ she asked. ‘Could you come to the restaurant? We could use your help.’

‘
Certo
, Mamma.’

At least, he thought gratefully, someone needed him.

In contrast to his friend Mark, Neville woke an extremely happy man, his wife beside him.

She was deeply, soundly asleep, a smile on her face and her hair loose on the pillow.

They
had
talked. They had. Over an extended meal of mezze, and no alcohol, they had been honest with each other—possibly for the first time—about what they expected of each other and their marriage. Neville had learned, to his surprise, that Triona disliked his job and felt threatened by it. And he’d spoken
honestly
about his fear of commitment and what a huge step it was for him to give his heart to her so completely. He’d admitted
that the responsibilities of fatherhood terrified him, but that he felt he was coming to terms with it, and by the time the baby arrived, he would be more than ready.

They would give it a go, they’d agreed. Not just for the sake of their baby, but for themselves. They recognised that it wouldn’t be easy, yet they both felt it would be worth the effort. After all, they loved each other.

And there was the sex: undeniably important for both of them, and something that would always, for better or for worse, be a big part of their relationship. They’d admitted that, and then—their appetite for it sharpened—they’d come back to his flat and made love, deliciously, into the night.

Squinting at the bedside clock with one eye, Neville realised that he hadn’t set the alarm, and was going to be shockingly late for work. With regret he abandoned his initial idea of waking Triona and making love to her again; instead he decided—as a good husband should—to let her sleep on as long as she wanted and needed to. He kissed her lightly, and when she didn’t respond he slipped out of bed, retrieved his scattered clothes and went for a quick shower.

Yes, he would be late. But there were, Neville told himself, more important things than work.

He had his wife back, and he was determined to keep her.

Even before she got to work, Lilith was feeling frustrated.

She’d stopped by the newsagent’s near the Earl’s Court Tube station to pick up a copy of the
Globe
to read on her journey, fully expecting a front page by-line beneath a headline reading something along the lines of ‘Sizzling Samantha Questioned in Anti-Freeze Murder’.

Instead the lead story was about the weather. ‘Spring Has Sprung?’ it said.

By the time she reached the office, her frustration had
morphed
into anger. She didn’t stop at her desk, but went straight to the editor’s office, knocking sharply on the door.

‘Come in.’

Lilith waved the paper at Rob Gardiner-Smith. ‘What do you call this?’

‘I call it today’s paper,’ he replied with a sardonic smile. ‘What do you call it?’

‘I call it rubbish! “London had a taste of spring yesterday, along with most of the country.” What happened to my story about Samantha? I thought you were going to run it on the front page.’

He pushed his chair back from his desk and looked up at her, shaking his head. ‘Change of plan.’

‘But why? It’s a fabulous story. No one else has it.’

‘Exactly.’ He picked up a pencil and tapped his cheek with it. ‘That’s why we can afford to wait a day or two to run it.’

She still didn’t understand. ‘Why?’ she repeated. ‘Why wait?’

‘Let me put it this way, Lilith. I ran it by our legal people, and they advised waiting. They’d like you to do some more digging, provide a bit of corroboration. Facts, Lilith. Not speculation. Anonymous tips are all very well, but they don’t give us much to fall back on from a legal point of view.’

Lilith snorted. ‘Since when does the
Globe
worry about facts?’

‘Since last year, when we ran a story about one of the “Junior Idol” contestants, Luke de Brun, and claimed he was a drug addict,’ he said bluntly. ‘Remember? We got taken to the cleaner in the courts on that one. They dropped Luke from the
programme
, so he sued both us and the producers. After he won damages, the producers sued us as well. I don’t want that
happening
again. When it comes to “Junior Idol”, I’m not prepared to take chances.’

‘But Luke de Brun is a drug addict,’ Lilith pointed out. ‘Everyone knows that.’

Rob Gardiner-Smith gave an exaggerated sigh and rolled his eyes. ‘Of course the bastard’s an effing drug addict. But that’s not the point, dear girl, as you know very well.’

‘What exactly
is
the point?’

‘The point is that we couldn’t
prove
it. Any more than you can prove that Samantha was involved in this anti-freeze murder. Unless you can get the police to confirm that she was questioned…’

As if Neville Stewart would do any such thing, Lilith fumed to herself. And Samantha Winter wasn’t likely to admit it, either. Even if she could get through to her to ask.

She would have to find some way round it. That story was too good to die a premature death. Or, worse yet, to be picked up by another paper.

There had to be a way.

Neville usually tried not to pre-judge the people he interviewed, but he had unconsciously built up a mental picture of Miss Rosemary Harwood, the university departmental secretary, as a sort of a version of Evans’ secretary Ursula: middle-aged, plain, shapeless. Probably hopelessly in love with her boss—though that was something one would never say of Ursula, whose perspective on Evans was mercilessly clear-sighted.

With that picture in his head, during his journey he worked out a scenario in which the smitten secretary, insanely jealous of her beloved’s affair with a young and beautiful woman, decides that if she can’t have him, no one will. Seeing the Lucozade bottle on his desk, she nips out and buys a bottle of anti-freeze…

It wasn’t impossible.

Approaching Miss Harwood’s house in Ladbroke Square, Notting Hill, Neville wondered whether Ursula lived
somewhere
like this: genteel terraced houses facing onto a huge, park-like green. He’d never thought about Ursula having a home before.

This was lovely—just the sort of place he’d like to live himself, Neville thought. Conveniently located in the heart of the city, close to a couple of Tube stations, yet overlooking green grass as far as the eye could see. The trees were still leafless, of course, but in a few weeks’ time this would be lush with vegetation.

He located the house, in the middle of a long line of period terraces—white on the ground floor, greyish brick above.

He’d rung ahead to tell her he was coming, in case she’d decided to go in to work that morning, so she was waiting for him, answering the doorbell within a few seconds.

‘Miss Harwood?’ Neville said. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Stewart.’

‘Please come in.’

She was nothing like Ursula, of course. Rosemary Harwood was older—well over sixty, surely—and as willowy as Ursula was solid. She had a fine-boned face, high-cheekboned, and
translucent
skin that would be the envy of many a young woman. Her hair, pure white, was swept up and coiled elaborately on her head. Her clothing, too, was nothing like Ursula’s sensible plaid skirts and twin sets; she wore a pair of loosely-cut dark trousers and a soft pink polo-neck tunic which looked like cashmere.