Page 62 of The Venice Murders

Suddenly, there were angry voices breaking through their stalemate. Young men quarrelling. The noises came from the floor immediately above.

‘Matteo and Luigi?’ she asked.

Jack held up a finger. ‘Listen!’

He might listen but all Flora heard was a babble of furious Italian.

‘What’s happening?’ she whispered. ‘Can you understand any of it?’

‘One of them,’ he said quietly, ‘I think it must be Matteo, seems in a major panic. He says that the police are looking for his aunt. And for the painting. And now thatwe’rehere, nowwe’reprisoners, everything is much worse. Or something like that.’

There was a pause while Jack screwed up his face in concentration. ‘He’s shouting again about the police coming here. What has Luigi just done? Things get worse and worse.’

Another burst of Italian followed. ‘Is that Luigi speaking?’

Jack strained to hear. ‘I think it is. He’s saying that it was you – he means Matteo – it was you who sent the ransom note. It was a stupid thing to do.It’syouthat’s made things worse.’

The voices were now very loud, angry and overlapping, leaving Jack struggling to understand. Another stream of invective and he shook his head. ‘I’m not sure…they seem to be shouting insults at each other. Oh!’

Abruptly, the voices had stopped and in their place, the sound of feet thumping across the floor. A crash of china? Of furniture?

‘They’re fighting?’ Flora’s anxious eyes met his.

‘Sounds like it. Oh!’ he exclaimed again.

‘What?’

‘Someone has a weapon. A knife? It must be Luigi. That was Matteo’s voice, telling him to put it down.’

Together, they stood motionless, locked in a kind of paralysis, as loud thumps continued to hammer through the ceiling. A crackle of splintered wood echoed loud and clear. Thudding feet, scuffling limbs, furious yells. But then, the most horrible cry.

The long drawn-out cry of death, Jack knew.

Flora’s face was ashen and, without another word, he took hold of her hand and tugged her towards the steps.

‘We have to go, Flora. You must trust me. I’ll see you safe.’

Pulling her after him, he slipped into the water before she could protest any further.

Holding on to the bottom stair with one hand, Jack held out the other. Mutely, Flora took it. She had tumbled into a nightmare she couldn’t escape but, forcing herself not to think, she was coaxed down the slippery stone, step by step. Whatever had happened in the restaurant above was bad, very bad, and she was desperate to get away. Filomena…she hated to leave her, alone and frightened, but there was nothing they could do for her while they were locked in this room. They must, at least, try to escape.

In the darkness, she sensed the water slither slowly up her ankles, then her knees, and now she was waist deep. She felt a rush of intense cold, a creeping penetration, an enemy closing in, and was terrified. She wanted to kick out, to scramble back into the room, but girdling her round the waist, Jack held firm. For a minute, he trod water with her until, satisfied that she had calmed sufficiently, he said, ‘Hang on to my shirt and let me do the work.’

Heart thumping, she followed as he launched himself forward, clinging to the clump of linen, a fragile lifeline. Water was splashing at them on either side and blurring what vision she had. Unable to see clearly, she nevertheless sensed that Jack was swimming further out into the canal – into the maelstrom of boats and water traffic. Why was he doing that? She wanted to yell for him to stop. But the water was lapping her ears, lapping her mouth, and she was bereft of breath. All her energy, all her wits, were focused on continuing to clutch the one piece of security she had, the ragged piece of shirt.

It seemed they had been in the water forever and a deadly numbness was taking hold, leaching strength from her limbs and turning arms and legs into pillars of ice. The water was creeping higher, too, then it was bubbling around her mouth and then – she was beneath the surface, floating downwards, her grip slowly loosening as she fell into calmness, into peace. Until…animal instinct, an innate desire to live, had her grab at the lifeline she had almost lost and pull herself closer to Jack. Forcing her head above water, Flora breathed air once more.

Jack was swimming in a different direction now, veering left towards the cobbled quayside. Over his head, Flora caught a glimpse of lights, of people. Her heart exploded with relief. They were only yards from safety.

Five minutes later, he was at the bottom of a flight of steps and reaching down for her.

‘We made it,’ he gasped, water streaming down his face, his hair plastered to his head. ‘And it looks as though we have a reception committee!’

She barely registered what Jack was saying.We’re safe, we’re safe, were the sole words her mind would form and it was not until they stood dripping and cold on the canal side, that Flora realised that the lights she’d glimpsed weren’t just those of the street lamps. They were far too bright and far too numerous, and coming from a succession of boats moored close by. Some of the lights were blue and swirling. Police! But how?

A man in uniform was approaching them, a frown on his face. ‘Cos’è questo?’ What is this? he’d asked. Then in English, ‘You go swimming?’

‘Not voluntarily,’ Jack replied, too exhausted to speak anything but his native language. ‘We have been held prisoners.’

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