say what she wanted to say. âNo,â I said quietly. âIâm sure youâre right about that. Her father feels the same way.â
She detached herself from Press and turned to look out the window. âAs fathers go he seems to be all right. Carmel loved him.â
âDid she love anyone else?â
She shook her head. âNo, I donât think so.â
I looked at my notebook. âJan De Vries?â
She grinned. âWife and two kids. She fucked him but I donât think sheâd let a wife and two kids screw up her work.â
I pulled my legs up and got slowly to my feet. âThanks.â
âFor the wine?â
I emptied the glass and put it on the ledge beside the dead butt dish. âCome on, Judy. You donât have to be tough. Youâve lost your friend. Iâve lost a few in my time. It hurts.â
âSo what does her father want? Revenge?â
âPartly, itâs natural.â
âRight,â Michael Press said.
I told her about Leo Wiseâs wish to understand his daughterâs death. To see it as an accident. I mentioned the possibility of another child.
âOh, great!â she said.
âYou donât understand. Heâs older than you, older than me. My grandmothers had about nine or ten kids each. Maybe five or six of them survived. Your great-grandmothers probably did the same. They expected some wastage. My father was the last in the bunch. Your grandfather mightâve been in the same spot. You mightnât be here if they hadnât operated that way back then. It was healthy in a way. Donât knock it.â
She went very still and looked at me. âI never thought of it like that.â
âCan I have a look at her room, please?â
âSure.â She walked over and opened the door nearest the window. I went into a big room with plenty of light. Better view of the racecourse from here. The room held the usual thingsâdouble bed, chest of drawers, built-in wardrobe, bookcase. A big TV set and a VCR were on a trolley at the foot of the bed. A door led to an
en suite
bathroom. I glancedaround but rooms give off an aura like people; I sensed that there was nothing to be learned here.
Judy Syme stood in the doorway smoking again. âGo ahead. Look through her undies.â
âI donât think so.â I ran my eye along the bookshelf. Mostly titles to do with films, a few novels, a few left-wing political works. There was a cassette on top of the TV set and I picked it up. âBermaguiâ was hand-printed on a label stuck to the plastic case. âCan I borrow this? Her film?â
She shrugged. âSure. Iâd like it back. She gave it to me. It probably sounds sloppy but I was watching it in here the other day.â
âI understand. Did she ever keep cassettes here?â
âOh, sure. She had them all here at first. But they just got to be too many. They were everywhere so she asked her father if she could use that flat in the Cross.â
âDid you ever go there?â
âOnce. Creepy joint. This crazy old woman came to borrow sugar. Sugar!â
âWhat old woman?â
âFrom the flats across the courtyard. Weird old girl with purple hair. Carmel gave her some sugar.â
âHmm. Where did she do her work? I mean editing and all that?â
âVarious places. Studios. The equipment isnât exactly stuff you have around the house. Jan De Vries would know.â
We went back into the other room. Michael Press was flexing his muscles in front of his reflection in a window. He didnât seem to mind us catching him. I shook Judy Symeâs hand and gave her one of my cards.
âThanks for your help. Please call me if you can think of anything that might be useful.â
She held on to my hand a little longer than wasnecessary, as if I formed some sort of connection with her friend. âOkay,â she said.
I turned just before I