Deep Waters (36 page)

It was undoubtedly the most unusual—and possibly the most difficult—police case Yolanda had ever worked on.

In the first place, she just couldn’t make Serena di Stefano out. Although she usually had an excellent instinct for people, when it came to Serena that instinct failed her. If Neville Stewart were to ask her for her reading on Serena—and she had no doubt that he would ask, sooner or later—she wouldn’t know what to say. Reserved and unemotional? In denial? Guilty? She didn’t know.

And she was desperately worried about Chiara. The girl was on the edge, not knowing where to turn. It had taken some time for Yolanda to get Chiara to trust her. Finally, last night, she’d gone to Chiara’s room to chat, and had broken through the wall of defence the girl had erected round herself. That, though, brought with it another problem. Chiara had told her, with every evidence of total sincerity, that she believed her mother had killed her father.

What was Yolanda supposed to do with that? She would have to tell Neville, of course. The fact that Chiara believed it
didn’t necessarily make it true, but it was pretty damning all the same.

In addition, there was the issue of Mark Lombardi. He’d been hanging round like a wet weekend, miserable and not too bothered who knew it. Yolanda could understand it: putting herself in his shoes, she realised how difficult it must be for him to stand by and watch her do his job. She wouldn’t have liked it any better than he did. At least today he was out of the way—helping out at the restaurant, she’d been told.

And Angelina was all right, thought Yolanda gratefully. She liked Angelina: she was sensible and down-to-earth, not in the least moody, and didn’t mind pitching in to help out where she was needed. Today Angelina was tackling the huge pile of
condolence
cards and letters that had flooded in over the past few days, writing personal answers to each one on behalf of her mother and the family, while Yolanda addressed the envelopes.

‘I’m glad Uncle Marco’s not here today,’ Angelina confided in between letters. ‘He’s like a bear with a sore head.’

‘Everyone’s a bit tense,’ Yolanda said in his defence.

‘But it’s not like Uncle Marco to be like that. Do you know what I think?’

‘What, then?’

‘I think he has love troubles,’ Angelina stated. ‘His girlfriend Callie. I expected her to be round here this week, giving moral support and all that. But when I asked Uncle Marco why she wasn’t here, he said she was busy.’

‘Maybe she
is
busy.’

‘Hmph.’ Angelina grunted sceptically. ‘Maybe
you
could talk to him, Yolanda. Tell him to sort it out, or get over it. He wouldn’t take it from a kid like me, but
you
can tell him.’

‘Maybe I will,’ said Yolanda. ‘Maybe I will.’

Callie’s state of unthinking bliss lasted through the whirlpool, the facial and the tasty lunch they were served. She even managed to get through the manicure without engaging her brain beyond the vital matter of choice of varnish colour—dusty rose, in the end. But as she and Frances sat side by side having their pedicures, she thought about Chiara, and her mellow mood evaporated.

‘Do you mind if I tell you something?’ she asked Frances.

‘Tell me whatever you like.’

‘I saw Chiara di Stefano yesterday. In spite of the fact that her mother didn’t want me to.’

Frances turned to look at her. ‘Was that wise?’

‘No, of course it wasn’t wise. But I had to do it.’ What if Frances thought she’d done the wrong thing? Maybe she shouldn’t have told her.

She needn’t have worried; Frances was smiling. ‘I knew you’d make a good priest,’ she said.

‘I’m not a priest yet,’ Callie felt compelled to point out, though she was greatly heartened by Frances’ words.

‘But you’ll be a good one. Sometimes ministry means making tough decisions like that.’

Callie contemplated her pristinely pink fingernails. How long would it be before they were chipped and unsightly? ‘She’s a really mixed-up girl,’ she said. ‘Chiara. I’m worried about her, Fran. She actually told me that she thinks her mother killed her father.’

‘But didn’t he die of a heart attack?’

‘Apparently the police have been making enquiries. Chiara’s put two and two together and got five.’

Frances gave an understanding sigh. ‘And you can’t ask Mark about it.’

‘No.’ Callie swallowed. ‘I haven’t heard from him. I suppose that’s that.’

‘I didn’t want to ask,’ Frances admitted.

And Callie didn’t want to think about Marco. Not now. ‘I just don’t know what to do about Chiara,’ she said quickly. ‘She needs help. Professional help. I’m not sure how long I’ll be able to be of any use to her, especially if her mother finds out.’

‘Hmm.’ Frances was silent for a moment, then spoke. ‘Have you thought about talking to her parish priest?’

‘Her parish priest?’

‘At the Italian church. I’m sure he’d want to know about what’s going on. And maybe he could have a word with Serena.’

Callie remembered his name. ‘Father Luigi.’

‘That’s right,’ Frances confirmed. ‘Father Luigi. I’ve run across him once or twice at ecumenical things. He seems quite a reasonable man, from what I’ve seen of him. It would be good to get him on your side.’

How wise Frances was, Callie thought gratefully. And how lucky she was to have Frances for a friend. She would never have thought of it herself. But then, Frances did have years more experience.

‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘That’s a brilliant idea. I’ll go to see him. Maybe later today.’

The time for relaxation was over. Callie couldn’t wait for the technician to finish with her toenails so she could get on with what she needed to do.

The suicide scenario still seemed rather far-fetched to Neville, but he wanted to have a word with the pathologist before ruling it out.

Back at his desk, he rang Dr Tompkins.

‘Can it wait?’ Tompkins said tersely. ‘I’m in the middle of a post-mortem.’

‘Just a quick question,’ Neville assured him. ‘Joe di Stefano. Is it possible that he killed himself?’

There was a pause of a few seconds on the other end of the phone. ‘From a clinical point of view, it’s certainly possible. He could have deliberately ingested the ethylene glycol. How was it administered? Do we know?’

‘We found anti-freeze in his Lucozade bottle. The lab has confirmed it.’ Neville had the report on his desk, along with other findings from the SOCOs’ search of the di Stefano residence. ‘His prints were on the bottle,’ he added. ‘No other prints.’

‘Well, then. He could have done it. But it’s not a very tidy way to kill oneself. A bit painful, and prolonged. I wouldn’t do it, myself.’

Neville was tempted to ask Dr Tompkins how he
would
choose to kill himself, should he be so inclined, but didn’t think the doctor would see the humour in it.

‘Thanks,’ said Neville. ‘Thanks for your time. I appreciate it.’

Maybe Hereward Rice could shed some light.

His call to the coroner’s office was put through with little delay.

‘Dr Rice,’ he said, ‘in your experience, have you ever known anyone to kill themselves with anti-freeze?’

‘Not that I recall. It could be done, of course.’ Hereward Rice paused. ‘You’re talking about di Stefano, aren’t you? I have the papers here. It will be interesting to hear what you have to say at the inquest.’

‘Has it been scheduled?’ Neville asked.

‘You’re joking, right?’

Neville could feel his heart sinking towards his proverbial boots. ‘Um…remind me.’

‘This afternoon, DI Stewart. Three o’clock. You’re giving a statement, remember?’

Neville had absolutely no recollection that the subject had ever been discussed in anything but the vaguest of terms. He started shuffling papers on his desk, looking for his diary, and found a
piece of paper on which someone else had printed in large letters: ‘di Stefano inquest. Friday 3 p.m. Statement needed.’

Cowley’s writing, he thought. The little toe-rag. Hadn’t even bothered to tell him.

‘Dr di Stefano died on Monday. It’s Friday today,’ Hereward Rice said with exaggerated patience. ‘The family would like to plan a funeral. Some time before the last trump. I don’t think that’s an unreasonable expectation, do you?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘Then I’ll see you in court at three,’ said Dr Rice.

Neville slammed the phone down. ‘Bloody hell,’ he sputtered.

He’d better get busy: he had a statement to write.

And he would deal with Cowley later.

It was unusual, but Yolanda didn’t see any way she could prevent it: Mark Lombardi had declared his intention of
accompanying
her to the opening of the inquest, representing the family’s interests. It was Serena’s wish that he go in her place.

Perhaps it wouldn’t be a bad thing, she reflected. It would give her a chance to spend some time with him in a non-threatening way. Maybe she could break through his resentment and be of some positive help to him.

Though she would usually have driven the car, she let him do it.

‘I know this must be difficult for you,’ she said, trying not to sound patronising.

Mark was noncommittal. ‘Mm.’

‘I’d hate it, if I were you.’

‘It’s not much fun,’ he admitted. ‘I feel…surplus to
requirements
. Pretty useless, to be honest.’

‘But you’re helping Serena by going to the inquest,’ Yolanda pointed out. ‘And you helped your mother at the restaurant earlier.’

Mark shook his head. ‘They didn’t really need me. Mamma just asked me to give me something to do. I’m sure of that.’

Taking a deep breath, Yolanda plunged in. ‘Maybe this
weekend
you can spend some time with your girlfriend,’ she said, as innocently as she could manage.

He kept his eyes on the road, but she could feel the tension radiating from him. ‘Probably not,’ he said.

‘Oh, is she away?’

‘No.’

Yolanda waited. Sometimes, she’d found, that was the best way. Once you’d asked the question and got the ball rolling, patience was often the thing required.

They’d travelled a good distance before Mark spoke again, sounding strained. ‘I did a really stupid thing,’ he said. ‘
Molto
stupido
.’

‘Oh?’

It was like a dam collapsing then, as it all poured out: how he’d passed on a message from Serena and thus put himself between his sister and his girlfriend. ‘I didn’t think it would come out sounding like that,’ he said. ‘I suppose I didn’t think, full stop. Stupid, stupid. I’m sure she’ll never speak to me again.’

‘And how does that make you feel?’ Yolanda asked quietly.

‘Unbearably awful. First of all because I’ve hurt her, and secondly because I love her. I don’t want to lose her.’

‘And right now is when you need her the most,’ Yolanda pointed out, thinking about how often Eli had been there for her when she’d been down, and what a difference it made.

‘I do,’ Mark admitted, as though it was the first time that had occurred to him.

‘Well, I don’t think it’s too late. Not at all,’ Yolanda said. ‘You love her, right?’

‘Very much.’

‘And she loves you?’

‘I think so. She says she does.’

‘Then what are you waiting for?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Mark miserably.

She shook her head so hard her braids bounced. It was a good thing all men weren’t as backward as Mark Lombardi, she said to
herself. What was the matter with him? He was a good-looking man, in that Italian way; he was intelligent, and he had a kind heart. Yet here he was, at his age—over thirty, he had to be—an unreconstructed mamma’s boy and more concerned with what his sister thought of him than he was with winning his woman and keeping her happy. Were all Italians like that? Thank God that West Indians weren’t.

It was going to be difficult—she had no illusions about that. He was going to have to make some changes in his life, in his priorities. He was going to have to grow up a bit. But he could do it if he really wanted to. Yolanda knew him well enough to believe that he had it in him.

‘You go to that girl,’ she said in her bossiest West Indian voice—the one Eli pretended to hate. ‘You tell her you love her. You hear me, boy?’

‘I hear you.’

‘If you don’t,’ she went on, ‘you’ll be sorry for the rest of your life. And what’s worse, Yolanda’s gonna come and give you a smack the side of your head that’ll make your teeth rattle.’

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Well, thought Yolanda, that was something. She’d managed to get half a smile out of him. It was a start.

Lilith had her brain wave after lunchtime.

She’d been round and round the problem, looking at it from every conceivable angle. How could she get more information about the di Stefano case, short of ringing the family and asking them straight out? They weren’t any more likely to talk to her than Neville Stewart was.

She went back to the Met web site, hoping for something additional, and realised it had been there all along.

‘An inquest has been scheduled for Friday,’ the news release said.

Today.

It was a mixed blessing, of course. She wouldn’t be the only journalist at the inquest. Even if no one else had any suspicions that there was mileage in this case, it would be covered as a matter of routine. If something sensational were to come out, everyone would know about it.

But there was always a chance that she would pick up
something
that could lead to other things.

She rang the coroner’s office and asked for confirmation of the time, hoping she wasn’t too late already.

Three o’clock.

Lilith would be there.