by James Becker
Frankly, Bronson couldn’t care less about the three men. His only interest in them was as a possible route to finding Angela. The officer, who’d met Bronson at the Ospedale Civile and ensured his injury had been attended to as quickly as possible, had taken careful note of his description of Angela, and had radioed it to the dispatcher for immediate dissemination to all carabinieri officers in Venice and on the mainland.
‘We’ll find her, Signor Bronson,’ the officer said reassuringly, closing his notebook.
‘I’m sure you’ll try,’ Bronson snapped. ‘But what worries me is the number of young women who’ve vanished from the streets of Venice over the last few months, women who’ve left no trace, and who’ve never been seen again.’
The officer seemed surprised that Bronson knew what had been happening in the city.
‘That isn’t confidential information, is it?’ Bronson said sharply. ‘I checked the local newspaper archives, and about a dozen girls have disappeared over roughly the last eighteen months. And you can add another one to that total if you count the girl who vanished a couple of days ago, and one more if you include Angela. I want her found,’ he added, his voice cracking with the strain, ‘before some maniac dumps her body in a tomb on the Island of the Dead.’
The officer looked even more surprised. ‘How do you know about that?’ he asked.
‘I was the one who found them,’ Bronson said shortly. ‘Now, you know precisely where and when my partner was abducted. I know Venice has a lot of buildings, and a hell of a lot of places where a person could be hidden, but it’s also quite a small city. So please, please, do your best to find her for me.’
Bronson’s eyes had suddenly filled with tears, and it wasn’t just because of the doctor driving home the final staple into his scalp.
23
Marietta had barely touched the meal her captor had brought down for her at lunchtime. All she could think of were his last words. What lay in store for her that night? She felt physically sick with dread, her body numb with fear.
When the cellar door rumbled open some time later she absolutely knew that something out of the ordinary was going to happen. She still had no weapon to defend herself, nor any form of protection; all she could do was what she had done almost every time any of the men had entered the cellar: she sat very upright on the edge of the bed, staring towards the base of the spiral staircase, and waited to see who was coming towards her.
Whoever it was seemed to be carrying something heavy, because she could hear the confused sound of footsteps clattering down the stairs, rather than the measured tread she had grown accustomed to.
A sudden piercing scream, obviously a woman’s, tore through the still air of the cellar, and Marietta jumped. Then she heard a cracking sound that had become only too familiar — the sound of a taser being discharged — and the scream ended as suddenly as it had begun.
Moments later, the guard and one of the other men who’d abducted her stepped into view, dragging the unconscious form of a young woman between them. Neither man so much as glanced towards Marietta as they hauled the body past the end of her open room.
Because of her restricted view, Marietta couldn’t see where they took her, but the sounds she was hearing suggested they had entered the cell right next to her. There was a dull thud, which she presumed was the noise of the men dumping the unconscious girl on a bed, followed by a clanking sound and a click — the handcuff being secured around the girl’s wrist.
After a few seconds, the two men reappeared, and the guard stopped for a moment at the entrance to Marietta’s room.
‘You’ve got company at last,’ he said, an unpleasant sneer on his face. ‘She’s the one we’ve been waiting for. Now we can get started.’
24
For about twenty minutes after the men had left the cellar, the only sound Marietta could hear from the adjacent room was a dull moaning. The girl, whoever she was, had clearly reacted badly to being shocked by the taser, and was taking a long time to recover.
Eventually the girl’s breathing grew more regular as the effects of the high-voltage current she’d experienced subsided, and Marietta could hear her starting to move around on the bed. She left it another couple of minutes, then called out to her.
‘Who are you?’ The girl’s voice was tremulous, racked with fear and uncertainty.
‘My name is Marietta Perini. Who are you?’ She echoed the girl’s question.
‘I’m Benedetta Constanta. Where am I?’
‘Didn’t you see where they brought you?’ Marietta asked.
‘I was just outside my apartment when a man walked up and fired something at me. The next thing I knew, I was in some ruined church. I started fighting and struggling, and they shot me again.’
It sounded as if Benedetta had taken a lot longer to recover her senses than Marietta, or maybe the men who’d taken her had used a higher voltage in the weapon.
‘They snatched me in just the same way as you, but I was conscious for most of the time,’ Marietta said. ‘We’re on an island out in the lagoon, but I’ve no idea what it’s called. It’s not very big, and I think the only buildings on it are a house and the ruined church that you saw. We’re in the cellar under that church.’
‘But what do they want with us? Have they — you know — attacked you?’
Benedetta didn’t use the word ‘rape’, but Marietta knew that was exactly what she was thinking.
‘They haven’t touched me,’ she said, trying to keep her voice steady. ‘They’ve fed me regularly, and brought me warm water and soap so I can wash. But the nights are the worst — it’s very cold and dark, and I … I keep hearing things …’
‘How long have you been here?’
‘About two days. I think it’s Wednesday today, and I was on my way to see my boyfriend in Venice on Monday evening when I was attacked.’ Marietta wrapped her arms round herself to stop the shivering. ‘He’ll be wondering where I am. What happened-’
‘What do they want from us?’ Benedetta interrupted harshly.
Sitting on her bed on the other side of the old stone wall, Marietta shook her head. ‘I don’t have any idea,’ she said, rubbing the tears from her eyes. Her voice broke as her mind vividly replayed the last words the guard had spoken. ‘But I think we’re going to find out very soon.’
25
Bronson had been discharged from the hospital, and was walking slowly back towards Cannaregio. He was conserving his strength, because the attack — both the physical assault and the sheer shock of the event — had left him feeling weak and unsteady.
And as he walked, he looked everywhere, desperately searching for some sign of Angela. He knew that what he was doing was essentially pointless, but he did it anyway. Whoever had snatched her, and whatever their motive, he was certain that she was now either hidden inside a building somewhere in the city or being held on one of the dozens of outlying islands. The chances of her still being somewhere on the streets of Venice itself were nil. But still he kept looking.
It took him well over an hour to get back to their hotel, because of his slow progress and the meandering route he’d taken. When he arrived and walked into the lobby, the receptionist gave him a somewhat startled look, her attention fixed on the white bandage and thick pad that covered one side of his head. Bronson ignored her and went slowly up the stairs.
He paused for a second in the corridor outside their room, hoping against all odds that somehow Angela had managed to escape and that she’d be waiting for him inside. But as he pushed open the door, he saw at once that the room was completely empty.
The rooms in that hotel didn’t have mini-bars, and he knew that consuming alcohol wasn’t a particularly good idea after what he’d been through that day, but at that moment all he really wanted was a good stiff drink. He put down the laptop bag, took another look round the room, locked the door and then walked back down the stairs to the hotel bar. He ordered a gin and tonic, and took the drink over to a corner tabl
e by one of the windows that offered a view of the street outside the hotel.
He took a long swallow of his drink, and gazed through the window at the pedestrians strolling by, at the Venetian businessmen mingling with the press of tourists, cameras raised to faces that were partially obscured by hats and sunglasses. Bronson stared at the throng, searching vainly for Angela.
After a few moments, he took out his mobile and stared at the screen for what felt like the hundredth time that day. There were no missed calls, no text messages.
His head told him that the Italian police would be doing everything they could to find Angela, and that the only thing he would achieve by calling them would be to raise their level of irritation. His head knew this, but his heart didn’t agree, and almost without thinking, he dialled the mobile number he’d been given — as a courtesy and simply because of his job — by the investigating officer.
The ensuing conversation was short and fairly brusque. Yes, all carabinieri officers in the area had been given a description of Angela and a copy of her passport photograph. Yes, an officer would leave Angela’s passport at the hotel reception desk later that day. And, finally, yes, he would definitely be the first to know if and when they found a trace of her.
Bronson ended the call with a sense of immense frustration. He wasn’t used to being on the other side of a police investigation, and the lack of any hard information was difficult to handle. He was sure that the Italian police were searching for Angela, but how many men had they deployed? Were they checking cars and trains leaving Venice? Had they detailed men to check the vaporettos and gondolas and the privately owned speedboats that buzzed up and down the canals and across the lagoon? Were they searching the outlying islands? He had no answers to any of these questions, and he knew that the carabinieri officer would refuse to tell him, just as he, Bronson, would be unwilling to answer similar questions from a member of the general public in Britain in the same circumstances.
He finished his drink and sat for a few moments, his head in his hands. Then he roused himself. Getting drunk wouldn’t help find Angela, and nor would moping around the hotel. Walking the streets looking for her would achieve nothing, because he knew she wouldn’t be there. But he had to do something, something constructive, something that might help the police effort. He toyed with the idea of visiting some of the quieter canals, just in case the abductors hadn’t yet smuggled her out of the city, but a moment’s thought showed him that that idea would also be a waste of time. Venice wasn’t that big a city, but there were miles of canals, and he wouldn’t be able to cover more than one or two of them.
That started a new train of thought. One thing he could do was to ensure that he was as mobile as possible.
Standing up, he walked out of the bar, and across to the reception desk. The pretty dark-haired girl who’d checked them in was on duty, and gave him a welcoming smile as he walked across the lobby.
‘Signor Bronson, what happened to your head?’ she asked, looking with concern at the bandage around his skull.
‘I had a bad fall, that’s all,’ he said, deciding not to tell the staff what had happened to Angela.
‘Can I help you with something?’
‘We’d like to explore the canals. Is it possible to hire a speedboat for three or four days?’
‘Of course. It will take me a little while to arrange, because this is a popular time of year in Venice, and I may have to try several hire companies. Will you be taking the boat outside the city — into the lagoon, I mean?’
‘I might do, yes. Does that make a difference?’
‘Only to the type of boat. If you’re going into the Lagoon you’ll need one with a more powerful engine. Please leave it with me, Signor Bronson, and I’ll see what I can find. Will tomorrow morning be soon enough?’
Bronson would have preferred to get his hands on a boat straight away, but he replied, ‘Perfect. Thank you.’
He waited while the girl noted down details of his credit card, gave her a smile that was completely at odds with the inner turmoil he was feeling, then walked back up the stairs to their room. He hadn’t done much, but already he felt better, simply knowing that by the morning he would be able to navigate his way around Venice reasonably quickly.
He lay down on the bed for a few minutes, his eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. What could he achieve? he wondered. Yet again, he replayed the events of the day, trying to remember any clues or indications that might help the carabinieri narrow the search. But he came up with a blank.
Then something struck him. Because the gang of men had grabbed Angela, they would now have the vampire’s diary in their possession. Could there possibly be any information contained within it that might suggest where they were likely to go next? If, for example, the diary mentioned another grave, and if the people who’d snatched Angela were hunting for relics, he could suggest to the police that they could mount a watch on that location.
It was thin enough, but as far as Bronson could see, it was the only useful thing he could do.
He got up from the bed, took Angela’s laptop out of its case, and plugged the power cable into the wall socket. Angela hadn’t switched off the computer, and as soon as he opened the lid, the system resumed operating. A screensaver appeared, and when Bronson touched the space-bar to clear it, a dialogue box popped up requesting the input of a password. He hesitated for a few moments, then typed ‘SealChart’ into the space, and pressed the enter key. Angela always used the same password — the name of the church in Kent where they’d got married — and Bronson felt a sudden lump in his throat as the system accepted the password.
Angela, he thought. I can’t lose you now, not after everything we’ve been through. I’m going to find you if it’s the last thing I do.
26
Marietta jumped as the dull rumble echoed through the cellar: she knew what that noise meant. She moved to the edge of the bed and sat there, waiting. This time it sounded as though more than one person was descending the stone spiral staircase.
‘What is it?’ Benedetta sounded terrified, and Marietta didn’t feel much better.
‘It’s the door at the top of the stairs. Someone’s coming,’ she replied, not taking her eyes off the opening that marked the base of the staircase.
The sound of footsteps drew closer, and then two men stepped into view. Marietta could have wept with relief as she saw the guard approaching her carrying a towel and a metal bucket, the contents of which steamed slightly.
The guard went straight over to where Marietta sat, and placed the bucket on the floor in front of her.
‘Wash yourself,’ he instructed curtly, then turned and left.
The other man, who had presumably delivered a bucket and towel to Benedetta, followed him from the room.
‘What do we do now?’ Benedetta asked, her voice trembling with fear.
‘We do what they tell us,’ Marietta said.
Ten minutes later, the guards returned, carrying two bundles of white material, one of which they tossed onto Marietta’s bed, the other one on to Benedetta’s. One of the men removed a key from his pocket and the taser from another, and then stepped forward.
‘Give me your left hand,’ he said. ‘I’m going to release your handcuff so you can get changed. If you try anything, you’ll taste the taser again. Do you understand?’
Marietta nodded. ‘Get changed into what?’ she asked. ‘What for?’
‘You’re to put on that white robe I’ve given you, ready for the ceremony. Take off all your other clothes. All of them — your underwear as well. And then wash your whole body again. You have to be clean.’
Releasing her handcuff, he stepped back. ‘Now get on with it,’ he snapped. ‘We haven’t got much time. The ceremony must begin on time.’
27
Bronson was no further forward. He was unfamiliar with Latin, and had spent most of that time reading through Angela’s translations of the pages of the diary, looking for something — anything
— that might give him a clue about what had happened to her. He looked at the computer screen, his gaze unfocused, as he mentally relived the events of the previous two days, and the macabre mystery that they had become embroiled in. The desecrated tomb; the vampire’s diary; the dead girl in the cemetery; the three corpses jammed into the grave; the burglary of their hotel room, and, finally, the attack on Bronson himself and Angela’s abduction. Running through the sequence of events, two things immediately stood out.
First, the desecrated tomb and the vampire’s diary were clearly important, very important, to somebody in Venice. The only reason, he was convinced, that he’d been attacked was so that the group of men could grab the diary, and they’d needed to get him out of the way first. But what he still didn’t understand was why they had taken Angela as well.
Then he remembered his conversation with the carabinieri officer in the cemetery on San Michele. He’d mentioned to the Italian that Angela worked for the British Museum and, actually, that might provide some kind of a motive. Because of the burglary at the hotel, Bronson was fairly sure somebody in the Italian police force had leaked the information about where they were staying. Maybe her kidnappers had also learned that she was an archaeologist, and believed she could help them translate the text in the diary.
It was a stretch to reach that conclusion, but why else would anyone want to kidnap an English woman who spoke almost no Italian? Bronson immediately felt better, because it suggested an alternative to the only other reason why Angela had been kidnapped: that she’d been grabbed by a serial killer who was operating in Venice. And that was a possibility he simply wasn’t prepared to face.
The second factor that seemed obvious to him now was that the Isola di San Michele, the Venetian Island of the Dead, was inextricably linked with what had been going on in the city.
