James Becker - The Nosferatu Scroll

As she finished translating this particular sentence, Angela shuddered at her recollection of the hooded man and the appalling smell that seemed to surround him like a miasma. Whoever he was, he was clearly the leader of this group of deranged men, and had presumably decided to make himself seem as much like an authentic vampire as he could. She guessed that somewhere under his black robe he was carrying a piece of decaying meat to produce the odour she had smelt.

She shook her head and returned to the translation.

The next few sentences dealt with the misguided and usually futile attempts to kill vampires, attempts that the text stated were frequently mounted by people who simply failed to appreciate the inherent nobility of the vampire. Then the only guaranteed ways by which the death of a vampire might be achieved were specified in some detail. The most effective method was for the heart of the creature to be removed from the body and buried separately — as far away from the vampire as possible.

Decapitation also worked, but driving a wooden stake through the heart was, in the opinion of the author, useless because the heart remained in place, and the heart of a vampire was so powerful that nothing short of its removal from the body would guarantee death. Similar derision was reserved for the idea of placing some object — a brick or a length of timber — in the mouth of the vampire, and the author cited two cases that he had known of personally where a body had been buried with a brick driven into the jaw, and where the vampire had risen effortlessly from the grave after biting through the offending object. Again, he failed to be specific about where and when these alleged events were supposed to have occurred.

What bothered Angela the most about the text was the author’s matter-of-fact acceptance of the existence of vampires. From the tone of his descriptions, he could have been talking about any natural phenomenon with which he would have expected most of his readers to be familiar. It was as if, at the time the author was writing, vampires were regular and accepted members of society who simply lived very different lives to most of the people around them.

Angela found such an attitude impossible to accept, and she repeatedly checked the text for any sign that the author was being less than completely serious. But there was no indication that this was the case. Whoever had created the original text was apparently absolutely factual in what he was describing — or, at least, he appeared to believe he was being absolutely factual. He was certainly convinced of the reality of the vampire as a living and breathing — albeit undead — member of the society in which he lived.

Again, Angela wished she had some idea who the author had been, and where and in which period he’d lived. She was still certain, from the Latin syntax, that the time period was roughly mediaeval, but beyond that she hadn’t been able to pin it down.

She read the English translation she had prepared for a second time, then held it up to Marco, who walked over to the desk and took it from her with a nod.

Then she sighed deeply, and read the first sentence of the Latin text that formed the third part of the treatise written on the scroll: the section of the document which she now understood contained detailed instructions on how anyone who wished to do so could become a vampire themselves.

Bronson cut the motor as he approached the entrance to the inlet. There was, he realized, no point in trying to sneak ashore. The island was too open to make any sort of covert approach feasible, so he allowed the boat to coast gently forward until it just nudged the end of the jetty, then stepped ashore, tying the rope around the heavy chain that barred the entrance to the inlet. As he did so, he noted that the chain itself was rusty, as was the padlock that secured it, and for the first time since he’d followed the two men, a scintilla of doubt entered his mind. It didn’t look to him as if anyone had unlocked the padlock or moved the chain for quite a long time, otherwise at least some of the rust would have flaked off.

He looked at the launch that was secured to the jetty. The water was quite clear and he could see the curve of the hull where it vanished beneath the surface. The dark paintwork was liberally covered in marine growth, which suggested that the boat had been sitting there for some time — boats that were used regularly tended to have much cleaner hulls.

But that, of course, might also mean that the owner tended to commute by helicopter. It was an alternative explanation, but didn’t do much to quell the doubts that were now nagging at him. The island really did look deserted.

He took out the Browning semi-automatic, removed the magazine and checked it, then replaced it in the pistol, pulled back the slide to chamber a round and cock the hammer, and set the safety catch. Then he walked slowly along the gravel path that led from the jetty and past the helicopter landing-pad to the house, looking all around him all the time as he did so.

He didn’t ring the bell, just pressed his ear to the wooden front door and listened. There was absolutely no sound from inside the property. With the pistol held ready in his right hand, he walked all the way around the house, checking each window as he went, and listening at both of the other doors. Finally he accepted the sickening truth: he’d got the wrong island.

He couldn’t understand it. This was definitely the place where he’d seen the two men in the blue boat disappear; although the restricted size of the inlet and the state of the chain that barred it suggested that the boat couldn’t have been tied up at the jetty.

At that moment, his mobile phone rang. It was an Italian number, and when he pressed the key to answer it, he wasn’t entirely surprised to hear the cool and indifferent voice of Inspector Bianchi in his ear.

‘I did as you requested, Signor Bronson,’ he said. ‘I sent a launch to the island where you think your wife is being held, and the officers found absolutely nothing. There was nobody on the island, and the house is shuttered and barred. All you’ve achieved is to waste valuable police time, which is an offence in Italy just as, I believe, it is an offence in Britain.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Bronson said. There really wasn’t anything else he could say. ‘I was certain that you would find her there.’

‘Well, we didn’t, and I suggest that now you stop interfering and leave the business of investigating this crime to the professionals.’

And with this, the phone went dead. Bronson looked at it for a moment, then slipped it back into his pocket. The one thing he wasn’t going to do was stop looking for Angela.

He replayed the sequence of events in his mind. He visualized the pursuit across the lagoon, and his decision to watch from the smaller island. He’d seen the blue boat slow down and then disappear from view. Then he remembered something else: there had been several other craft in the area, buzzing around the islands. Perhaps the men he’d been following, who’d clearly been checking around them as they approached the island — he remembered seeing them do this — had simply stopped the boat beside the chained-off inlet and waited there for a few minutes until the other tourist boats had cleared the area. And then they would have continued their journey, careful not to let anybody see their final destination.

Bronson groaned as the realization struck home. If these men were part of the gang responsible for the deaths of half a dozen young women in Venice, their caution was merited. The only encouraging fact was that there were so few islands any further south: their hideaway had to be somewhere nearby.

All he had to do now was find it.