James Becker - The Nosferatu Scroll

This time, the hooded man didn’t share the cabin with her, instead he remained at the rear of the boat with Marco and the others, and Angela was able to stare out of the window, back towards Venice. The afternoon was bright, but patches of mist drifted across the water, giving the lagoon a ghostly and ethereal appearance. Her view was partially blocked by the island of Giudecca, lying just to the south of Venice, but what she could see of the eastern end of the old city seemed almost to float, the mist obscuring much of the lower levels of the buildings. But even over the bulk of Giudecca, she could still make out the top of one of the most enduring images of Venice: the Campanile di Marco, the huge bell tower in the Piazza San Marco.

She remembered when she and Chris had joined the thousands of other tourists and walked around the square, looking up at the huge brick structure. The original, she remembered, had been built in the sixteenth century, but then collapsed unexpectedly in 1902. The people of Venice had rejected every new design produced by hopeful architects, and simply had the tower rebuilt to exactly the same plan as the original.

They’d been happy, that afternoon, despite the crowds milling around them, and had even thrown caution to the wind and ordered a coffee in one of the cafes that lined the piazza, wincing at the price but revelling in the atmosphere. Now, Angela pondered, as she stared back through the small cabin window towards Venice, she had no idea where Chris was, what had happened to him, or even whether he was alive or dead. And Marco had made it perfectly clear that her own lifespan was now measured in hours rather than years. She had no future, but without Chris beside her she realized she wasn’t actually sure she wanted one.

For a moment, she felt like giving way, letting the tears flow, tears of utter and complete despair, but she steeled herself. If Chris was alive, she knew that he’d be tearing Venice apart looking for her, and she owed it to him, as well as to herself, not to give in without a fight.

There was nothing she could do in the bouncing speedboat, no way to attract attention, but once they got back to the island, maybe she could escape from the men, perhaps even try to swim to another island. She shivered at this prospect, not from fear, but at the simple realization that if that really was her last, desperate resort, then she’d be far more likely to die from hypothermia in the cold waters of the lagoon.

But even that might be better than whatever fate Marco had planned for her.

Bronson made good time getting back to Venice. Water traffic in the lagoon had thinned out considerably, and he was able to hold the boat at more or less top speed for most of the way. And time, he knew, really was of the essence.

He moored the powerboat as close as he could to the police station in San Marco, remembering his meeting with Bianchi there and the body of the young woman he’d been asked to identify. As his thoughts returned to that scene, Bronson once again gave somewhat guilty thanks that the pale and lifeless body had been that of someone he’d never seen before, and not Angela. If it had been, Bronson knew he would never have been able to forgive himself.

But now, finally, he thought he knew where she might be. And even if she wasn’t on that particular island, he was quite convinced that the people there would know something about her, and might have been involved in her abduction. All he had to do was to convince the police to take action.

At the desk inside the station he asked to speak directly to Bianchi, but was told that the senior inspector was unavailable, which Bronson knew could mean almost anything. But he needed action quickly, and he certainly wasn’t prepared to be fobbed off by the Italian equivalent of a truculent desk sergeant.

‘That’s a shame,’ he said in Italian, ‘because I think I know the whereabouts of the men who’ve been killing all these girls in Venice.’

The sergeant told him to wait, picked up the internal phone and held a very brief conversation. Less than two minutes later, Bianchi strode into the station’s reception area.

‘Oh,’ he said, his step faltering as he recognized Bronson, ‘it’s you again. You have some information for us, I believe?’

‘Yes,’ Bronson said, and he began to explain how he’d seen two men vandalizing a grave on the Island of San Michele, and how, when he’d approached them, they’d shot at him.

Before Bronson got even halfway through his highly edited account of what had taken place on the Isola di San Michele, Bianchi began looking at him in what could only be described as a suspicious manner. But he waited until Bronson had finished — describing how he’d followed the men to an island out in the lagoon — before he responded.

‘And I suppose you know nothing about a man we found out on San Michele?’ Bianchi said. ‘He’s now in hospital, suffering from severe concussion, because somebody smashed him over the head with a lead-filled cosh.’

‘I only saw the two men I’ve told you about, nobody else.’ Bronson held Bianchi’s unblinking stare until the policeman looked down at the notes he’d made.

‘Very well,’ he said at last. ‘And are you sure you can identify this island again?’

Bronson nodded and showed Bianchi the chart of the lagoon he’d brought from the powerboat, on which he’d drawn a distinct circle around one of the islands at the southern end of the lagoon. He’d wisely left the pistol and the spare magazines locked up on the boat, having concluded that walking into a police station carrying an unlicensed semi-automatic pistol probably wasn’t the sharpest of ideas. But he definitely wanted to hang on to the weapon in case he did have to take matters into his own hands in order to rescue Angela.

And Bianchi’s immediate reaction when he looked at the chart suggested that this might be a possibility.

‘I know this island,’ he said. ‘Are you absolutely sure this is where the two men went?’

‘Yes,’ Bronson replied. ‘I didn’t actually see them moor their boat or get out of it, because they went around to the opposite side of the island, behind the house.’

‘You’re mistaken,’ Bianchi said flatly. ‘That’s a private island owned by a senior Italian politician. It’s inconceivable that a man of his stature and standing in the community could possibly be involved in anything like this. And,’ he went on remorselessly, ‘I still do not see any evidence of the link you’re suggesting between the men you followed out to the island and the abduction of your wife or, for that matter, the deaths of young women in this city. What, exactly, would be the connection between a vandalized grave on San Michele and either of these two crimes?’

Bronson just looked at him. ‘We’ve been through all this, Inspector. Even if you won’t admit it publicly, you know perfectly well that there’s a gang of people operating in Venice who’ve been snatching girls off the street and bleeding them to death. The men I saw earlier today were vandalizing tombs on the Isola di San Michele which contain the bodies of people who they believe were once vampires. Those are the facts as I see them, and that is your link.’

‘And your wife? Why was she had abducted? Does she think she’s a vampire as well?’

Bianchi’s face wore a slight smile as he asked the question, and Bronson resisted the temptation to plant his fist firmly on the man’s jaw.

‘No, Inspector. Like me, and I hope like you, she knows vampires don’t exist.’

‘Then why was she abducted?’

‘Because when we examined the first grave on San Michele, she spotted an old book at the bottom of the tomb, underneath the remains of the body, which she removed. That’s why our hotel room was burgled, and that’s why Angela was abducted.’