under the tape, took several close-up shots of the tomb from all sides, then finally stepped closer still and took several more shots of the interior through the gap in the slab.
‘Why don’t they just take the slab off the top?’ Angela asked.
‘They will do, of course, but first they’ll want to gather as much information as they can about the scene. There might be footprints around the grave, though that’s a bit unlikely on this surface. They’ll want to dust the slab for fingerprints, and thoroughly examine the immediate vicinity of the tomb for any possible clues – objects the perpetrators might have dropped, fibres from their clothing, tool marks on the slab, all that kind of thing. They’ll probably just be wasting their time, in my opinion, because they’ve no idea how many other people might have passed this way since the bodies were dumped here, and of course last night was the Festival of the Dead, when the number of living on the island probably outnumbered the dead.’
‘You think those poor girls were left here before the festival yesterday, then?’
‘Judging by the condition of their bodies, I do. And I think if there are any clues to be found they’ll be inside the tomb, and probably on the corpses themselves. But until the officer who’s been appointed to lead this investigation arrives here, they certainly won’t open the grave.’
The carabinieri sergeant walked back to where Bronson and Angela were sitting, a uniformed constable following behind him.
‘This officer will now take a written statement from you, Signor Bronson, and from your companion,’ he said.
About ten minutes after Bronson had read and signed his own statement, and had translated into Italian Angela’s much shorter statement – which basically corroborated what he had said – and she had signed it in her turn, another half-dozen men arrived at the scene, one of whom was immediately approached by the sergeant.
The two men talked together for a few minutes, then the sergeant pointed towards Bronson and Angela. The other man followed his glance, and nodded. Then he walked across to look closely at the tomb, the sergeant following. Even from where Bronson was sitting, perhaps twenty yards away from the tomb, the smell of putrefaction was unpleasantly strong, and he wasn’t surprised at the expression of distaste on the senior officer’s face as he moved forward to the hole in the slab and peered inside, a small but powerful torch in his hand. Then he stepped back and walked briskly away from the grave.
Bronson and Angela seemed to have been temporarily forgotten, and although Angela wanted to get back to the hotel, Bronson was keen to stay, at least for a few minutes more, and watch the recovery of the bodies. And, as he pointed out, they hadn’t yet been told that they could leave.
The Italians were working in much the same way as English police officers would have done in the same circumstances. Once the tomb was opened, the photographer moved forward again to record the scene. He was followed by several of the investigating officers and a man Bronson thought was probably the pathologist. Only then was the first body lifted out of the grave and transferred immediately into a body bag.
Bronson used Angela’s digital camera to record the operation.
‘What are you doing?’ she muttered in disapproval.
‘I’m making a record of what’s happening,’ he replied. ‘Just in case.’
‘Just in case what?’
‘I don’t know, but this is a peculiar situation we’re involved in, and having a photographic record seems to be a good idea.’
With the first body removed, more photographs were taken, and then the operation was repeated to lift out the second corpse, and then the third. Once all three body bags had been closed, the unpleasant smell began to dissipate, and several of the Italian officers removed their face masks. Further checks were run on the tomb, and it was carefully searched for any other possible clues.
‘I’ll ask the sergeant whether we can go now,’ Bronson said at last.
With Angela beside him, he walked around the taped-off tomb and approached the investigating officers.
‘Is there anything else you need from us?’ Bronson asked in Italian.
The sergeant glanced towards the more senior carabinieri officer. ‘Inspector Bianchi?’
The officer glanced at Bronson and Angela, looked as if he was going to speak, and then shook his head.
‘You’ve both made statements,’ the sergeant said, turning back to Bronson, ‘and we know where you’re staying, so that’s it. Just try to keep away from graveyards for the rest of your time in the city. We really don’t need any more bodies.’
‘I’ll try,’ Bronson promised.
On the way out of the cemetery, they passed the vampire’s tomb and Bronson noticed immediately that the position of the ropes had changed. Obviously the site had been disturbed.
Motioning Angela to wait, he stepped across to the grave and lifted the base of the tarpaulin so that he could see inside the tomb. The few bits of wood from the coffin that had survived the passage of time were scattered around. There was even evidence of digging in the soil around the grave, and marks on the stone that suggested it had been hit by some hard metallic object, perhaps a hammer or a chisel.
Bronson dropped the tarpaulin back into place, and then rejoined Angela.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘Somebody has searched that tomb,’ Bronson replied. ‘And I think we both know what they were looking for.’
20
The hotel management had been most apologetic. They had no idea when the thief had broken into their room, or how he had managed to get past the reception desk without being challenged.
Actually, Bronson thought that getting past the receptionist desk would be the easiest part of the operation, but he hadn’t said that to the duty manager who’d met them in the lobby with the unwelcome news.
They couldn’t stay in their original room, obviously, because the door would no longer lock, or even close, so they’d been given a slightly larger room on the floor above instead.
The following morning, at breakfast, Angela was subdued, but clearly angry.
‘Yesterday was horrible,’ she announced, as they finished the meal. ‘Do you really think that it was a random break-in?’
Bronson shook his head. ‘No, and nor do you. I think most robberies in hotels are carried out by the staff, because they’re the people who’ve got access to the room keys. Breaking down the door is rare, and it seems far too coincidental that our room was the only one in the building to be targeted.’
‘So you think they were looking for the diary?’
‘That seems the simplest explanation, yes.’
‘So what are we going to do about it? Should we give the book to the police?’
‘Definitely not. They’ve got their hands full, according to what I read in the local paper this morning. One of their most senior detectives was killed yesterday, gunned down in the street on his way to meet an informer. And in any case I’m not sure how interested the carabinieri would be in a two-hundred-year-old diary written by some woman who thought she was a vampire. In fact, I’m not sure why anybody, apart from perhaps a social historian, would have the slightest interest in it.’ Bronson shook his head. ‘But the reality is that somebody seems desperate to get their hands on it.’
‘Do you think it could have anything to do with the bodies of those three poor girls you found in that tomb?’
‘Frankly, no,’ Bronson replied, ‘apart from the coincidence of the two graves being quite close together. I don’t see what link there could be between a woman who’s been dead for two hundred years and a serial killer operating in Venice today.’
He drank the last of his coffee. ‘So what would you like to do today?’ he asked. ‘And, before you tell me, we’ll be sticking together. I’m not prepared to risk you being targeted because somebody wants that diary.’
‘That’s what I was going to suggest as well,’ Angela said. ‘We’ll take the diary and my laptop with us again. And something else struck me about this attempted robbery-’
