It was a London number. He looked down the list more intently.
‘Trace this number, per favore. You are very clever with such things.’
‘Si, Commissario. Nothing is secret nowadays. The mobile phone is an open book.’
Enrico phoned Emma. He was so sorry but he could not escort her to the office as his mother had been taken ill, and he had to go and see her in Mestra on the mainland. Emma assured him that she could manage on her own.
‘Don’t worry. I’m sorry your mother is ill. I’ll take the vaporetto and then a taxi to the office. No one will notice me. I’ll wear a scarf and glasses. I won’t walk anywhere.’
‘Shall I ask Rocco or Luka to escort you? They will arrive in the office soon.’
‘There’s no need. I can be in the office almost as soon as they arrive. I hope you will find your mother recovering. If there is anything you need, please phone and Marco and I will help you.’
‘Grazie, grazie, signorina. You are so kind.’
Emma chose another of Francesca’s elegant trouser suits. It was a navy and white pinstripe with big gold buttons. She teamed it with her own white polo-necked jersey and the trademark scarf, the one Marco bought for her. She wore it almost every day. A sort of personal talisman.
Maria helped her into her coat. ‘There is a water taxi waiting outside by the front steps, signorina. Did you order one?’
‘No. Perhaps Enrico ordered it to save me travelling on a crowded vaporetto. He’s so thoughtful.’
Maria tucked a folded packet into her coat pocket. ‘I have made some little almond biscuits for you,’ she said. ‘Better than ones bought in the shop.’
‘Grazie, Maria, that’s very kind.’
Emma went out onto the front step. Wavelets were washing over it and a water taxi was hovering nearby. A big man wearing a yellow, fluorescent plastic jacket jumped out of it onto the step with a rope in his hand. He twisted the rope into the ring on the wall, pulling it taut.
‘Signorina Chandler? I am here to escort you to the office.’
‘But I don’t know who you are,’ said Emma. ‘Who ordered this?’
‘Signor dell’Orto has account with me. He has used my service many times. Shall I help you into motorboat? There is much traffic this morning. The canal is like a freeway.’
His English was stilted but quite good. He was wearing a peaked cap to keep the mist out of his eyes. Emma was getting damp standing on the step, trying to make up her mind.
‘Si, grazie. It’s a busy morning. To the top of the Grand Canal, per favore. By the Statione Santa Lucia.’
‘Naturalmente.’
The driver helped Emma into the bobbing taxi. It was a sleek, white motorboat with a lot of polished wood. He led her towards the small cabin which gave her some shelter. She shivered as a fresh wind blew in from the sea. At least she would soon be warm in the office with the heaters on full blast.
She always enjoyed any ride along the Grand Canal, taking in the magnificent palazzos, the many domed churches, going under the Rialto Bridge. She had her favourite buildings and always looked forward to passing them. It took her several minutes to take in that the view was not the usual crowded thoroughfare. It was more open, fewer boats.
‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘But are you going the right way?’ It did not look the right way. The boat was heading towards the open sea.
‘This is a short cut,’ said the driver, his hand on the throttle.
Emma peered over the back of the boat. ‘No, no, you are wrong. Look, you are going away from Venice. I can see the Doge’s Palace and the twin columns of San Marco and San Teodoro. There’s the Campanile, the bell tower. They are getting smaller. Please turn back. This is not where I want to go.’
‘But it is the way I want to go, signorina. So please be quiet.’
‘No, I will not,’ said Emma, suddenly alarmed. She did not like the tone of his voice. There were still a few small fishing boats within hailing distance. ‘Help, help,’ she began shouting and waving her arms. ‘This taxi is taking me the wrong way. Help me, please.’
Suddenly she found herself being smothered in rough sacking. She struggled furiously but the second man was tough and strong. He was winding rope round her arms so that they were pinned to her sides. She fell onto the hard deck of the boat, unable to move or shout.
He was wearing the strangest clothes. A high-collared black cloak and the corno-horned hat that a doge wore. She had seen such paintings in the museums. He grunted as he fastened the rope. She saw his eyes. They were mean and narrow.
‘Now you will not see where you are going,’ he said in a low voice. ‘It will be a nice surprise.’
Emma did not move. She didn’t waste her energy. She could smell salt in the air. They were heading out to sea. Thank goodness, she still had her shoulder bag which was crushed against her body but her briefcase was somewhere on the deck. Her phone was in the briefcase.
‘No more screaming, signorina,’ said the driver. ‘Buon. I do not like screaming women unless they are under me. Un momento and you will be able to scream all day and no one will hear you.’
The motorboat was slowing down. Emma felt the tug of the sea as it buffeted the boat against the waves. The bow seemed to plough forwards into a mudbank and then lurched to a stop. She was lifted up shoulder-high by both men and manhandled off the boat. She was tossed like an old parcel and landed on something that felt like sand. It might have been wet. It was not moving.
‘Veneto is often called the lagoon of a thousand islands,’ said the man in the black cloak. ‘This is one of the thousand. Arrivederci, signorina.’
She heard the engine go into reverse as the motorboat lifted itself off the mudbank and back into deeper water.
Emma took several deep breaths. At least she was still alive. Those thugs had not killed her. Not like Pia or Brad.
The office was alarmed. Emma had not arrived. Enrico phoned through. His mother was not ill and she was annoyed at being delayed from her morning’s shopping. It had been a fake call. Rocco phoned Maria. Enrico was questioned about the taxi. He had not ordered a water taxi. Maria was distraught.
‘I saw her go into the water taxi. Two men. It looked all right. It was normal,’ she wailed. ‘How could I know?’
Professor Windsor was gaunt with worry. ‘They’ve taken her. They think Emma knows something. But she doesn’t. They will use her as a hostage. Or kill her. These people are crooks, criminals.’
Commissario Morelli felt his blood run colder than ice. He needed more information. The London number was a mobile phone but there was now no signal. Probably a mobile used once then dumped into the Thames. He needed a name.
‘But I need a name,’ he said.
‘Shall I trace the phone number to banks? Find a link?’
‘You are a genius.’
Emma rolled over on the sand. The thick rope had not been tied, only twisted round her and the end tucked in several times. The rough, Hessian sacking was tightly wrapped but she managed to wriggle out of it. She sat up, rubbing her arms and legs. Everywhere was numb. She was creased and dirty, her coat sodden.
All she could see was sea. Venice was nothing but a smudge in the distance. She could smell the sea and the faint whiff of sewage. But she was on reasonably dry land although the sand was being washed with wavelets. She crawled further back into a thick growth of gorse and saplings. At least she was still alive. But for how long? How long could she last?
She staggered to her feet. It was obvious that she was on one of the many unnamed islands that scattered the lagoon. The big ones were named and encouraged the tourist industry. But this one? It was very small, and way, way out to sea.
Emma needed to find out as much as she could about the islet before the light faded. Surely, by now, they would know that she had not arrived at the office.
She pushed her way through undergrowth, glad that she was wearing boots. She came across some fallen masonry, stones, almost overgrown with creep
er. It was a small ruin. Not a monastery or anything grand. It was more like a hovel, maybe a hermit’s sanctuary or a place where they left plague victims. She hoped she wouldn’t find bones or any other relics.
Emma tramped the overgrown islet several times, finding nothing. Her watch had stopped working. The islet was no bigger than an irregular netball pitch, circled with wet sand. She had played netball when at school. She was their best shooter.
She sat down on one of the ruined walls. There was a crevice full of water. It was rainwater. She cupped her hands and drank the water. She ate two of Maria’s almond biscuits. They would have to last. She would ration herself.
The light was beginning to go. Dark clouds interlaced with the night. She heard the symphony of 6 p.m. bells tolling from Venice. Surely, soon, they would start looking for her? There was nothing in her shoulder bag of any use.
As the light faded and it began to get cold, Emma dragged the Hessian sacking towards the ruins and found the most sheltered spot. The sacking made some sort of bedding place. Her coat was thick and warm. She rested her head on her leather shoulder bag, tried to sleep. The night sky was no consolation. The twinkling star-scattered night was of no reassurance. She heard an early dawn chorus of birds but knew she would never be able to catch or eat one.
She ate two more biscuits and a few crumbs. She was miles from anywhere. There was no tree she could climb or wave her bra from.
Marco was out of his mind with worry. Everyone had phoned him. Rocco, Luka, Enrico, Maria and Commissario Morelli.
‘We will find the signorina,’ assured the Commissario. ‘They haven’t contacted us. It is a hostage situation, I’m sure. Their demands will come soon.’
‘They may have killed her,’ Marco shouted.
‘No, I think she has more value alive. They do not know what she knows.’
‘I am distraught. What can I do?’
‘Wait until we get a demand. We are patrolling the Lagoon. Someone will have seen or heard something.’
Marco had his hands full consoling Maria. She felt guilty, responsible for putting Emma in the water taxi. She wailed into her apron.
‘How could you know?’ he said, his own distress now calming. ‘Please make some good food for the Commissario and myself. Your best soup and hot. We shall be up all night.’
‘Si, signor,’ said Maria, wiping her eyes. ‘I hope we find the young lady soon. She is like a daughter to me. I am so fond of her. Ver’ special lady.’
And special to me, thought Marco. Not a daughter, but a wife, a lover, my soulmate. I want her back. Safe and secure, close in my arms.
Emma awoke at dawn, stiff and damp from the morning dew. She could barely move her neck. She drank more water from the crevice, ate two more biscuits. The rainwater ran down her arms and into her sleeves. There were only two biscuits left and a few more crumbs. She had to save them.
She must use today to be rescued. She doubted if she would survive a few more nights in this cold. What could she do? No point in screaming: as the driver said, no one would hear her. The sun rose, wintry but warm. She gazed into the sun’s rays, wondering if they were her salvation.
In her shoulder bag was a small mirror. She was often checking her lipstick.
She flicked open the mirror and caught the sun’s rays in its reflection. She stood on the ruined wall and sent the sharp light out into the Lagoon, towards where she thought Venice would be. It was a pinprick of light.
To be noticed, the flash had to be consistent in movement. Waving the beam all over the air would mean nothing. The only Morse she knew was the traditional SOS code, dot, dot, dot, dash, dash, dash, dot, dot, dot. Then a repeat. She did a quick north-to- south movement for the dots, then long sideways flashes for the dashes. It was pretty basic. She hoped that there were some Girl Guides or Boy Scouts on a holiday trip to Venice who did not have their noses in guidebooks or were too busy texting each other.
It was tiring. The day was wintry and the sun was soon lost in clouds. Emma was numb with cold. She couldn’t start a fire. No matches or lighter. No dry wood or tinder. There was nothing in fact to draw attention to the tiny island. She was in a balloon of stillness and creeping cold. Emma was a good swimmer but the sea was icy and she knew she would not get far before the temperature claimed her.
twenty-one
The downstairs office of the Questura was busy, phones ringing, computers tapping. Several tourists had had their wallets stolen, a youth had been knifed outside a nightclub and now it was a red alert for some missing English woman. They thought she had probably gone off with an Italian lover.
‘And another stolen boat,’ the poliziotto groaned. ‘Those damned kids. Joyriding, causing accidents. The canal has enough traffic problems.’
‘We’ve a report of a flashing light out to sea.’
‘Those damned kids,’ the officer repeated. ‘They are having a barbecue on a beach, lighting fires, setting off fireworks. Let them spend the night out there. Let them see if they enjoy a cold night in the open. It’ll teach them a lesson.’
‘Should we report the flashing light to the Commissario?’
‘Don’t bother. He’s too busy with this missing woman. She’ll turn up. Probably drinking champagne in the Cipriani Hotel on Lagoon Island.’
‘He said to report anything unusual.’
‘So what is unusual about kids larking about?’
Commissario Morelli stared at the information in front of him. The mobile phone number had been linked to several London banks but all the accounts had been closed and the money transferred. He tried to talk to the manager of each bank but they refused to talk to him. Customer confidentiality, they said. He was running up a big phone bill.
Morelli went into the office of the Vice-Questore, Pietro Lombardo. ‘I have a problem,’ he said. ‘We need the help of the FBI in London. Have you a contact at Scotland Yard?’
Pietro Lombardo was nearing retirement. He did not want to rock the boat. He was looking forward to the summer, gardening at his villa in Veneto, eating his wife’s good cooking, doing nothing. He was tired of police work.
‘This would have to go through Milan,’ said Lombardo, passing the buck.
‘I will phone Milan.’
‘Let me know what happens.’
‘Naturalmente, Vice-Questore.’
‘One of the fishermen has reported hearing a woman shouting for help. It was yesterday morning, out at sea where they fish. He thought it was a bit strange.’
‘How did he know she was shouting for help? She could have been screaming in enjoyment.’
‘Si. I had not thought of that.’
‘Many women have a strange way of showing their enjoyment.’
‘Si.’
‘Go back to your work. There may be a hundred screaming woman in Venice this evening.’
‘Si.’
Commissario Morelli was soon leaving his office. It had been a fruitless day. Milan did not want to know. He was no nearer finding Emma Chandler. This would be her second night wherever she was. He was beginning to feel sick.
‘Commissario?’ It was one of the new recruits, well-pressed uniform. Claudio did not even know his name. He was tall, had a good face, clear eyes, crew-cut hair.
‘Si?’ he said abruptly. Claudio was tired and so hungry. He wanted to go home, put his feet up, get some sleep.
‘It may be nothing. But it’s been reported, some flashes seen coming from an island. There was a pattern. Also, a fisherman heard a woman screaming.’
‘Why did you not tell me this before?’
‘I did not think it was important.’
‘You are a fool.’
‘Si.’
‘But grazie. Take a patrol boat out to the islands. Flash the head- lamps. Call her name. Emma Chandler.’
‘I’ll go immediately. I’ll take rugs and food and water.’
‘On second thoughts, I’ll come with you. She will only respond to someone she trusts. She knows me.’
/>
‘I will get waterproof jacket for you.’
‘Grazie.’
All his tiredness had vanished in a moment. Claudio did not ring Marco in case it was a false alarm. He would not wish to raise his hopes for nothing.
Emma was exhausted. She had been flashing the Morse pattern every time the sun came out. She had nothing more to eat but enough rainwater to drink. She could last a few more days. She would lose some weight. She remembered all the lovely pasta she had been eating. How many days could she survive with only water to drink?
The night was coming. She wondered if she would ever see Marco again. The man that she loved so much with every fibre of her being. Maybe this was the end of her life. So many people died young. It was nothing new.
She made up her rough bed, wrapped herself in her coat. It was not looking so good now. This was her second night in the open on the islet. Darkness was looming, clouds blotting the sinking sun and no stars. She had a feeling it was going to rain. There was nowhere in the ruin that would shelter her from the rain.
She was too cold to sleep. She chanted Marco’s name to herself, sending thought waves to him, hoping he would hear them. Italian men were sensitive. He might understand her message, know she was still alive.
Marco stood at the tall upper window of his palazzo, seeing the rain clouds gathering, praying that his Emma had shelter. He felt sure she was still alive. She was strong and resilient. He felt so helpless, just waiting around, doing nothing.
Suddenly he could bear it no longer. He put on big boots, a thick jersey, and took his waterproof jacket from behind the kitchen door.
‘I am going out,’ he said to Maria. ‘I’m going to find her, even if it takes my last breath.’
‘Si, signor. I have a flask of coffee for you and some tramezzini, cheese and salad. You must eat or you will not be strong enough to find the signorina.’
‘Grazi mille, Maria. I have my phone with me so you can pass on any news.’
Marco went out the back door onto the street and over the bridge, buttoning the waterproof and pulling up the zip and the hood. It was already starting to rain, a thin cold drizzle. He was sending Emma thoughts, praying she was all right. Be strong, he thought, I will find you. I will search for you till my dying day.
The Prosecco Fortune Page 19
