Deep and Silent Waters (21 page)

London, 1997

Two weeks later a parcel arrived at Laura’s London flat. It was not very heavy, wrapped in brown paper, stamped with a London postmark.

Laura’s heart lurched with excitement. The script at last! She had been looking out for it ever since she got back from Venice. She tore off the brown paper and found a cardboard shoe-box. She took off the lid and peered inside, then made a high-pitched, keening noise.

It was Jancy, come back to her. Jancy, with her face smashed in, one bright blue glassy eye dangling on a spring, her nose a jagged crater, her pink rosebud mouth deliberately beaten down inside her head.

Her blue dress had been ripped down the front, her underclothes torn and dirty, as if she was a rape victim.

Pinned to her chest was another of those notes, printed in capitals.

YOU’RE NEXT
.

Within a week Sebastian had sent the script of
The Lily
; Laura found it heavy-going, too static, wordy, scenes telegraphed too far in advance, as though the writer believed the audience couldn’t follow the storyline without heavy hints about what was coming. One night he rang to ask what she thought.

Laura was truthful. ‘I’m sorry, but it stinks. It’s more like chunks from the book than a film script.’

‘Yes.’ He groaned. ‘I know. The trouble is, the book’s so long, so much happens over more than twenty years, and if we leave half of it out the audience will miss the nuances – and all the really important stuff goes on inside the heads of the characters.’

‘You need a narrator.’

‘That’s an alternative, but first I need a new writer. Each script I get is an improvement, believe it or not. You should have seen the one I did myself. The sets are finished now – all the pre-production stuff is going like a dream. I just can’t get the script right.’ He laughed. ‘So what’s new? Story of my life.’

‘How are you going to get a unit base anywhere near Ca’ d’Angeli?’ She had been wondering about that ever since he first broached the idea of using the palazzo. All the ancillary services would need to be set up near the location – catering, the master production computer, somewhere for everyone to meet and talk about work, the wardrobe, makeup, not to mention all the electrical capacity for cables, lighting, cameras.

‘We’ve managed to hire an old warehouse not too far away, which should take care of the heavy stuff, and we’re renting a house behind Ca’ d’Angeli, to take Wardrobe and Makeup.’

‘When do you plan to start shooting?’ She hadn’t yet allowed herself to believe this film was going to happen.

‘The early location work ought to be done in February, during the Venice Carnival – that’s the atmosphere I want. To re-create it for the film would cost a fortune in extras and costumes. I’ll set up cameras in the streets and just shoot what goes past – free and spontaneous action, as unpredictable as life itself, can’t be beaten.’

‘Won’t it be cold in February?’

‘Very. And wet.’

‘Cameras always seem to seize up in really cold weather. They’re more delicate than human beings.’

He laughed. ‘True, but Sidney has a few tricks up his sleeve to cope with that. We’ll have to live with it.’ A pause, then he asked her, ‘How are you?’

‘Okay.’ She took a deep breath, then plunged. ‘Although I miss Jancy.’

‘Who the hell is Jancy?’ His voice grew rough, as if he was angry. Or was it guilt?

‘You know. My doll.’

‘Doll?’ he echoed, his tone changing. ‘Oh, I thought this was some guy you were talking about. My God, that doll! I remember it. You’ve had it for years, haven’t you? What do you mean, you miss her? Have you lost her?’

‘In Venice.’ She could not believe him capable of the violence, the viciousness, that had destroyed Jancy.

‘Have you rung the hotel? They may have her in their lost-property box.’

‘I don’t need to. Somebody sent her back to me – with her face smashed in.’

She heard his sharp intake of breath. ‘Christ.’ There was a long silence, then he asked, ‘Was there a postmark? Was the parcel sent from Venice?’

‘No, from here, London. And whoever sent it knew my address, which isn’t common knowledge, is it?’

His voice was deep and harsh. ‘That’s worrying, Laura. Have you told the police?’

‘What? That somebody stole my doll and battered its head to pieces? It’s hardly a hanging offence, is it?’ It can’t have been him, she thought. He isn’t an actor, he sounds genuinely worried. ‘There was a note pinned on her, Sebastian. Now,
that
was scary.’

‘What did it say?’

She told him.

‘Tell the police, Laura.
You must
. And tell them about the notes you got in Venice, too. These days, you hear so much about stalking – that’s what this could be, some lunatic fixated on you in a very dangerous way. Tell the police at once and get some protection.’

‘I doubt they’d have time to give me a police guard night and day.’

‘Promise you’ll at least talk to them about this. I wish I could be around to keep an eye on you, but I’m off to South America early tomorrow morning to do some retakes.’

‘You’re still working on that film?’

‘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.’

‘But exhausted. That can be just as deadly.’

He felt the weight of her concern, her caring, and sighed. ‘I’ll be fine. Goodnight, Valerie.’

She watched him drive away, and he felt those dark eyes burning through his skull. One day he would have to do something about her. She was his right hand, he needed her, but she knew too much about him and never took her eyes off him day and night. He had to get rid of her. The question was: when and how?

It wasn’t until the start of December, after Laura had finished work on the thriller, that Sebastian sent her a new version of the script. She recognised the name on the front, that of a screen-writer with a high reputation, who commanded equally high fees. He was worth his money: the script was now faster, clearer, with shorter scenes and half the dialogue; a cinematic script that let the camera do a lot more of the work, and Sebastian had taken up her suggestion of a narrator, which gave the script an added depth, an elegiac feel that echoed the original book.

Two weeks later Sebastian rang her. The sound of his voice on the line made her heart turn over, but if hers affected him he didn’t show it.

‘Hi, Sebastian here,’ he said tersely. ‘Get the script?’

‘Yes—’

‘Read it? What did you think?’

‘It’s brilliant! What a difference! He’s terrific, Jack Novotni. I was riveted all the way through.’

Sebastian came in again before she had finished speaking, the way people do when they’re phoning from the other side of the world, an echo behind them.

‘He was the first writer I approached but he was too busy with other projects. Luckily, one fell through and he suddenly had a few weeks free so I snapped him up at once. I think he did a marvellous job, too. So, will you play Bianca?’

‘Yes—’ she began, and was interrupted again, before she could hedge her agreement with the proviso that he had to talk to Melanie first.

‘Good. This film is going to be important – for both of us.’ A pause, then he asked, ‘What are you doing over Christmas?’

‘What I always do. I’m going home. We always have a big family Christmas. What are you doing?’

‘Working, I’m busy editing at the moment – this film’s a pig to cut. I’ll probably have a nice quiet Christmas Day here, in my beach-house. A California Christmas, very different from yours.’ Then he said, ‘But the really good news is that I’ve got the money and we’re all set. I’ll be talking to that agent of yours tomorrow.’

Within a week, Melanie had had a meeting with the contract manager of Sebastian’s film company, who flew to London to talk to her and hammer out an agreement. Laura signed in early January, and was told that she would be needed in Venice within five weeks.

‘So soon?’ She was startled: that gave her a such a short time to get used to the idea of working with Sebastian again.

‘Apparently, all the pre-prod stuff is done, they’re ready to go. They’re shooting some key scenes during the Venice Carnival, and they have to have you there.’

‘And after that?’

‘The entire crew moves back to Los Angeles to finish the picture in the studio.’ Melanie shivered dramatically. ‘Brrr! Venice in February – Don’t ask me to come this time. You’ll need lots of warm clothes, and don’t forget your wellies! St Mark’s Square will be under water, even if it isn’t snowing. It’s amazing the place hasn’t sunk altogether.’

Venice, 1998

The snow started during the first week of February, a few days before the film crew were due to arrive. The Contessa stood at the high windows of Ca’ d’Angeli, watching great white flakes blowing past in the keening wind, dancing in the air, blinding her so that she could not see the snow-encrusted roofs on the other side of the Grand Canal.