it.
She’s shaken by her surprising outbreak of emotion.
She tells herself she’s a strong woman, a professional, used to fighting her way through things. She hasn’t cried for years and shouldn’t be sobbing her heart out now.
She palms away the tears and studies the streaks they’ve made on her dusty hands.
She has to pull herself together.
Make the best of the situation she’s in.
Mustn’t let anyone see that she’s frightened to death.
She doesn’t so much walk to the bucket as charge at it.
It’s not going to beat her.
They’re not going to beat her.
She grinds it into the dust, unbuckles her belt, slips down her two-hundred-euro trousers, squats and pees.
Job done.
She re-dresses, moves to the front of the cell and shakes the bars again. ‘Hey! Hey! In here! Someone! Hey!’
She carries on shouting and shaking until the purple-cloaked man reappears.
She reads his face.
He looks irritated that he’s been summoned by the noise she made. He’s human, that’s all. Nothing special. Beatable.
‘I’ve finished thinking,’ she says.
‘Good.’
‘I need a phone.’
His eyes say not a chance.
‘I need a phone so I can call work. I usually check in with my boss and my team when I’m not there. I confirm appointments and discuss cases. It already looks strange that I’ve not called for so long.’
He gives it some thought. ‘It makes sense. Wait and I will come back to you.’
Louisa watches him turn and walk away. She can’t believe he just told her to wait. Like she has a choice. Wait is not a word she’s ever liked, but in her current circumstance it’s been elevated to the top of the things she most hates and fears.
But wait she does.
Half an hour later, he reappears. With him are two more men, but their cloaks are scarlet.
Louisa steps away from the bars as Purple Cloak unlocks them. The others enter and Louisa has to do a double-take. Their faces are startlingly feminine, but their hands and feet are distinctly man-sized. Without talking, they grab her wrists and click on a pair of steel handcuffs.
‘Ow!’ Louisa looks down at the metal gnawing her wrist bones. ‘They’re hurting.’
‘You’ll get used to it,’ says Purple Cloak.
One of his henchmen – or hench women; Louisa’s now not sure – disappears behind her. She’s about to turn around when the other one jerks her by the wrists.
The stab of pain distracts her.
A black hood is pulled over her head.
A stretch of thin rope is looped around her neck and pulled tight.
Purple Cloak speaks. ‘Don’t scream. Don’t panic. You’ll only make things worse for yourself.’
Louisa struggles.
He holds her shoulders. ‘Listen! Nothing bad is going to happen. We can’t get any reception down here, so we’re taking you to a place where you can make your call.’
The reassurance doesn’t work.
Louisa is panicking. Panicking like she’s never panicked before.
The shock of the hood has triggered her claustrophobia.
She feels like giant balls of cotton wool are being stuffed down her throat.
She tells herself to stay calm, breathe through her nose.
Her chest aches.
Her heart is racing.
Thin streams of air trickle into her heaving lungs.
Her shoulder bumps against something.
They’re moving her.
‘Come on,’ says someone. ‘Let’s get her out of the womb.’
Womb?
She must have misheard. They must have said room.
Hands grip her elbows and tow her along.
She feels sick and dizzy.
There are other voices now. Women shouting to her, or maybe it’s children.
Louisa starts to hyperventilate. She needs to stop. Stand still. See light and space. Calm down.
But they won’t let her.
Her knees buckle.
She gasps for air.
Blackness is just a breath away.
89
Tom and Valentina eat at their hotel.
Federico stays with them for a glass of wine, but gets a call from his wife and says he has to leave.
Left alone, they leisurely pick their way through a platter of Tuscan prosciutto, before seeing off two small but delicious plates of mushroom risotto. A particularly fine and fragrant bottle of Vermentino di Gallura runs out during their main course of fresh lobster, pasta and salad.
‘More?’ asks Tom, holding the bottle aloft.
She pulls a face. ‘Would you hate it if we didn’t?’
‘Of course not.’
They both know what it means. The meal is heading to a close. Work is rearing its ugly head.
Tom mops a little of the lobster sauce with a piece of torn bread. ‘Are you starting to think about Anna?’
‘A little.’ She pins some pasta down and starts to twirl it on her fork. ‘Though I’m trying not to.’
‘And Louisa?’
‘Also.’ Her appetite’s gone now. Killed by hearing the names Anna and Louisa. ‘When I try to make sense of everything that’s happened – the murder, or murders, Anna’s death, and this latest development with Louisa – my head feels like it’s exploding.’
Tom understands. ‘I don’t know how you cope with such horrors as part of a daily job. I came upon death quite a lot as a priest, but nowhere near on the scale that you do, and there was seldom the same amount of violence involved.’
She untwists the speared pasta and uses her knife to scrape her fork clean. ‘You know, murder is usually straightforward. Wife kills cheating husband. Cheated-on husband kills cheating wife. Jealous jilted lover kills reunited husband and wife, that sort of thing.’
‘Plus the drug killings.’
‘Plus the drug killings. Then there’s not much more on the spectrum until you reach serial killers.’ She pushes her plate away from her. ‘Where do you think sociopathic cults or paedophile gangs fit in?’
‘Somewhere between the mentally ill and the spree killers? You want coffee or anything?’
‘ Non, grazie.’ She picks up her glass and swirls the last of her wine.
Tom tries to beckon a waiter to pay the bill, but has no luck. ‘You remember the number ten came up when
