Deep and Silent Waters

‘What’s going on?’ Laura asked, turned her head painfully to look after the nurse.

‘She is a silly girl. She goes to find someone to stop me asking you questions, but they have to be asked, you know. We have a man at the station. We need to know if he is the man who attacked you.’

Laura stared at him, eyes stretched so wide the skin around them hurt. ‘Who?’

The policeman didn’t answer, but she saw his eyes. What he was thinking leapt across to her. She bit her lower lip.

‘Sebastian? Is it Sebastian?’

Eagerly, the man leant forward, holding out the tape recorder. ‘Are you saying it was Sebastian Ferrese? Was it him, Miss Erskine? Did you recognise him?’

Sebastian was lying on his back, an arm across his eyes to shut out the electric light that stopped him from sleeping, but he still didn’t sleep. How could he when he didn’t know if Laura was alive or dead? Why wouldn’t they tell him?

That was obvious, wasn’t it? They were trying to trip him up, catch him out. If they kept him in suspense long enough they hoped he might make a mistake. Policemen were creatures of habit and routine, liked the obvious, played the percentages. They fixed on a prime suspect, the obvious one, the most likely one. Then they went through their bag of tricks to get him to betray himself. Because often enough the obvious suspect turned out to be the murderer.

And this time it was him. He was the obvious suspect. With his past, who else would they pick? He had never been charged, but everyone still thought he had killed his wife.

‘Your wife died in mysterious circumstances, didn’t she, Signore?’ he had been asked. ‘Tell us about that.’

‘Nothing to tell. She jumped out of a window and was killed. Nothing mysterious about it.’

‘You were in the room with her, though, weren’t you?’

‘Yes.’ They must know all this. ‘Haven’t you had the files sent over from the States yet?’

Bertelli didn’t answer that, but Sebastian saw his eyes shift. Yes, they had been faxed a report. He was sure of that. Well, of course, that was the first thing they would do, ask for information from the American police.

These days the Internet made the transfer of information simple, almost immediate. At the touch of a switch the stuff went speeding

down the line. Instant evidence, your past open to inspection. No hiding place any more. Your whole life was on a computer somewhere and Interpol despatched it to any police force that wanted to scan it.

‘Where were you standing when she jumped?’

‘I wasn’t standing. I was sitting, at a table, writing.’

‘Writing what?’

‘Notes.’

‘Notes for what?’

‘The film I was planning.’

‘And your wife was by the window? Was it open?’

‘She opened it.’

‘You saw her open it?’

‘I heard her.’

‘And you didn’t get up to find out what she was doing?’

‘I knew what she was doing. She told me. “I’m going to jump,” she said, and opened the window.’

‘And you didn’t try to stop her?’ The policeman’s voice was cold, critical; he stared at Sebastian with that look he had seen in the eyes of the policemen who had interviewed him after Clea’s death.

‘You don’t understand,’ Sebastian said wearily.