“The ambulance boat will be here soon,” one of the men said. “You need to have that wound examined.”
Bronson shook him off. His head ached, but already the bleeding seemed to have diminished, and he was fairly certain there was no serious damage. In any case, he had other priorities.
Until that moment, he had thought they’d been dealing with two unrelated sets of incidents. A person or group of people obviously wanted the vampire diary that Angela had lifted from the tomb on the Isola di San Michele, and there appeared to be a serial killer operating in Venice. Now the appalling possibility hit Bronson like a hammer blow: suppose, just suppose, that the serial killer and the man looking for vampire relics were one and the same.
And now Angela might be in his clutches.
Bronson knew that scenario didn’t really make sense. Virtually all documented cases of serial killers showed quite clearly that they invariably worked alone, or at most as a pair. And the attack that had just occurred had involved three people—the decoy, the man who’d opened the door right in front of them and distracted Bronson, and then the two men who’d emerged from the building behind them.
The much more likely probability was that Angela had been grabbed because she had the diary, and once they’d taken that from her, the chances were that they’d let her go. Rationally, Bronson knew this made sense, but that didn’t help calm his almost frantic worry for her safety.
Now that he was on his feet, and able to talk, several of the people in the group started to drift away. But a
couple of the men remained behind. For the briefest of instants, Bronson wondered if they’d actually been a part of the attack, but then he dismissed the idea as ridiculous. If they had been, there was always the chance that he might recognize one of them.
Again, Bronson shrugged off their concerns. He needed to call the police and find Angela. The sound of an approaching ambulance siren on the canal galvanized him into action. He knew his head wound needed treating, but this was very much a secondary concern. He picked up the padded bag containing Angela’s laptop—at least he still had that—which had dropped from his shoulder when he was attacked, and walked away from the scene as quickly as he could. The moment he was around the corner, he took his mobile phone out of his pocket and called the police.
Ninety minutes later, Bronson was at the Ospedale Civile—the local hospital in the Castello district—sitting on a hard chair, his hands gripping the armrests, as a young Italian doctor closed the cut on the side of his head with metal clips. When he’d arrived at the hospital, his wound had been cleaned, the hair around it cut off and that section of his scalp shaved. A couple of shots of local anesthetic had been pumped into the torn and bruised skin, and then the metal sutures applied. Stitches, apparently, were rarely used these days, the metal staples—at least, that was what they looked and felt like to Bronson—being the preferred way of closing up a wound.
The emergency operator had been more interested in the attack Bronson had suffered than in Angela’s disappearance, but Bronson’s insistence and concern had finally convinced her to connect him with an officer in the carabinieri. Bronson had given the man a brief description of Angela, and had explained the circumstances of the attack.
It helped that Bronson knew the ropes. He’d provided the best possible description he could of the man who had stepped out in front of them in the street. Unfortunately, though, he had seen him for only a matter of seconds, and his description—a man of medium height, average build, with dark hair, wearing glasses and dressed in a light gray suit—would probably fit several hundred men in Venice. And as for the men who had carried out the attack, he could offer no description at all, except for his impression that they were both about his height—around six feet tall—with dark hair.
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.
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 sometime 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 toward the base of the spiral staircase, and waited to see who was coming toward 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 toward 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 hers. 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.”
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 around 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.”
Bronson had been discharged from the hospital, and was walking slowly back toward 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 minibars, 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 table 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 dialed 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 under 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, 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.