Deep and Silent Waters

‘You know how it is – it isn’t over till it’s over. I guess I rushed it, to get to Venice and see you.’

Her breath caught.

He went on, ‘Well, I still have to pack.

You must ring the police, Laura. You could be in danger. Promise me you’ll do it?’

‘Yes, I will. Take care, Sebastian, have a good flight.’

When he had rung off she stood for some time with her hand on the phone, trying to nerve herself to ring the police, but what was the point? They would listen politely, pretend to take her seriously, but until whoever had smashed Jancy came back to do the same to her there was nothing they could do.

A shiver ran down her spine. From now on she was going to keep looking over her shoulder, wondering who was behind her, what might suddenly spring out of the dark. She looked out of the window but the street below her flat was empty, except for parked cars; nothing was moving in the shadows or the yellow circles of light around each lamp-post. Not even a cat, although you often saw them walking along walls or sleeping on window-sills in the morning sunshine.

How many people did she know in this street? One or two neighbours in other flats whom she greeted when they got into the lift or when she was collecting post from the boxes downstairs. This was the anonymous London of small flats and single people, who led quiet, dull lives, ate out at local restaurants, perhaps, but shopped in supermarkets near their work, in their lunch-hour, not in any of the corner-shops near here unless they ran out of something. Faces changed frequently: you saw them for a few months then one day you realised you hadn’t seen them for a year.

She had never grown used to living in London – she still missed the quiet, windy green hills below Hadrian’s Wall – but she couldn’t go home. She was working on a three-part TV thriller throughout the autumn, too busy most of the time to be able to think about anything but work. Up at dawn on cold rainy mornings, collected by the taxi company the TV people used, and coming home the same way at night, too tired to do anything much. She always had a long hot bath, a light supper in bed watching TV, before reading through her script for the next day’s shooting. By ten every night her light was out and she was asleep.

Sebastian was busy all that time, cutting and rearranging scenes from his last film, but he still managed to stay on the tail of Jack Novotni, the scriptwriter he had hired to do a better job on The Lily. Jack had read the book several times when it first came out, and was enthusiastic about it, which was a plus. His experience and razor-sharp mind were what Sebastian needed. Jack wouldn’t hesitate to junk everything that wasn’t essential, cut down major scenes to make the film move faster, or even leave them out altogether. He wouldn’t let himself get bogged down in overlong dialogue. Respect for a text could go too far and film worked visually: what you saw mattered more than what you heard. In some ways, Sebastian hankered for silent film: words could get in the way.

In between editing sessions, he and Valerie worked on the plans for the Venice February shoot, which was coming uncomfortably closer as the year rushed onwards. He relied on her to do much of the booking and researching in Venice: she never let him down, her mind clear, cool and uncluttered. He had only to give her an instruction then leave her to fulfil it.

Late one night he leant back in his chair, yawning, and said, ‘Let’s stop, shall we? That seems enough. Thank God I’m almost at the end of editing. Tomorrow can you ring Jack and see how the script for The Lily is coming along?’

‘Oh, I spoke to him today. He says he’ll be finished by the end of the month.’

Sebastian’s tired face lit up. ‘That’s great. I can start work on that once I’ve finished here.’

‘You need a holiday,’ scolded Valerie, watching him with those intense dark eyes.

‘I’m fine. Being busy’s good for me.’

‘Huh!’ She snorted.

He looked at his watch. ‘Time for some sleep now or I’ll never have enough energy tomorrow.’

‘Have you read those notes yet?’ she asked, as he got up, stretching.

‘Notes?’ He looked blank.

‘On your mother’s death.’

‘Oh, that. Yes, I read them. You did a good job, but in the end what do we really know for sure? It could be suspicious, or it could just be incompetence on the part of the police, but it all happened too long ago. The trail’s cold.’

Carefully, Valerie said, ‘I think the trail ends in Ca’ d’Angeli, don’t you? After all, it wasn’t just your mother who died in that accident, it was the Count, too. Surely it’s more likely that he was the target, if it was an assassination. Who would want to murder a housekeeper?’

‘Why would anyone want to kill either of them?’

‘I suppose he wasn’t involved in the Mafia?’

Sebastian rubbed a hand through his tousled hair. ‘Poor old Mafia – they get blamed for everything that happens in Italy. No, the idea’s ludicrous. The family are wealthy and influential, with hundreds of years of history behind them. Why would they get involved in anything criminal? It must have been a simple accident. The police would have looked deeper if they had suspected murder.’

‘So you don’t want me to hire a private detective to sniff around some more?’

He hesitated. ‘Wait until we’re in Venice in February. I’ll let you know what I decide. God, I’m tired, I must get some sleep.’

She walked with him to his car. ‘Would you like me to drive you home? You’re in no state to drive yourself.’

‘I’m perfectly sober.’