James Becker - The Nosferatu Scroll

‘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 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.’

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 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 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.