that any of them could have reached out and touched her body. But clearly rape was not their objective, Marietta thought. That, at least, was a small mercy. Then even that assumption was shattered when the hooded man issued another quiet instruction to the man on his right, and he, in turn, pointed at two of the silent, robed men.
One of them bowed in response, handed his candle to the man next to him, then stepped out of the circle and pulled his robe over his head. Underneath it, he was naked apart from his sandals, and Marietta could see immediately that he was completely prepared for the act he was about to perform. He folded his robe to form a pad, placed it between Benedetta’s legs as a cushion for his own knees, pulled on a condom, climbed on to the stone table, lay on top of the girl and thrust himself into her.
Then the second man removed his robe as well, opened a small packet and took out a condom, clearly waiting for his turn on the table with the girl.
Marietta could hear Benedetta’s muffled howl even through the gag, but then her attention switched to the hooded man, who had moved for the first time since he’d joined the others at the table, and watched him walk over to the girl’s head. Behind him, another man followed, carrying what looked like a large white ceramic bowl. Marietta noticed that the attention of all the men around the table was not on the girl, but instead on what their leader was about to do.
She strained to see what was happening, but the old man bent down and his body completely blocked her view. What he did next provoked another agonized moan from Benedetta.
There was almost complete silence in the cellar, just the rhythmic pounding of the naked man riding Benedetta on the stone table, and her muffled cries of pain. Then Marietta heard a new sound, a kind of sucking noise.
And then, as the hooded man moved to one side and half-turned towards Marietta, she recoiled in shock. Even in the gloom of the cellar, illuminated only by the flickering light of the candle flames, she could clearly see the long pointed canine teeth gleaming white in his open mouth. They had to be false, inserted in his mouth for the ceremony, they just had to be. Marietta’s brain wouldn’t accept any other explanation.
For an instant she thought he had a beard, and then realized, with a further jolt of terror, that the dark, almost black, discoloration covering his chin and the sides of his mouth was fresh blood.
At last Marietta saw the appalling fate that awaited her. On the right-hand side of the other girl’s neck was a round wound, and her blood was flowing freely from it into the bowl beneath.
Marietta couldn’t help herself. She threw back her head and let loose a scream that was deafening in its intensity, a howl of absolute terror and utter dismay. The men turned as one to look at her, even the one lying on top of Benedetta, and their leader responded with an angry gesture.
One of the group walked swiftly over to Marietta, grabbed the front of her robe at the neck and ripped it forwards and down, the seams parting instantly to reveal her naked torso. He pulled out a taser from his pocket, held her around the throat so she couldn’t wriggle free, placed the electrodes of the device between her breasts and pulled the trigger.
A surge of current ripped through her body, sending her limbs into spasm, and a moment later she slumped backwards and fell to the ground unconscious.
31
Bronson had barely slept a wink. Every time he’d closed his eyes, a horrific full-colour image of Angela, blood streaming from a ragged wound in her neck, had flooded his consciousness. Just after six in the morning he gave up, climbed out of bed and got ready for whatever the day might bring.
He was keenly aware that there was nothing useful he could do. Angela’s fate was completely in the hands of the carabinieri, and what really bothered Bronson was that he was certain somebody in the police force was leaking information to whoever had taken her. But there was nothing he could do about that, either, because in Italy he had no official standing, and he was familiar enough with the labyrinthine ways of Italian bureaucracy to know that registering a complaint would achieve absolutely nothing, except to make any further cooperation with the carabinieri almost impossible to achieve.
As far as Bronson could see, the only thing he could do was again study the book Angela had retrieved from the tomb on the Isola di San Michele, and hope he could identify something in it, some clue, that would help him find her. He didn’t know much Latin, although he recognized that the Italian language he loved so much had been derived from it. But Angela had downloaded a Latin-English dictionary from somewhere on the web, and he supposed he’d be able to use that to translate some of the entries in the diary.
He switched on Angela’s laptop, checked the signal strength on his mobile phone, and left his room, locking the door behind him.
He was the first guest to step into the dining room for breakfast. He wasn’t hungry – he rarely had much of an appetite in the morning – but he knew he ought to eat something. He poured himself a cup of coffee and picked up a couple of croissants from the buffet, then carried them over to their usual table, and ate them while he stared through the window at the early morning bustle. Then he drank a second cup of coffee before returning to their room.
The first thing he did was to read all the notes and translations that Angela had already prepared. He’d done the same thing the previous day, but nothing of importance had struck him. Then he started looking at some of the Latin sentences on later pages in the book. As Angela had said, most of the text seemed to consist of diary entries, but towards the back of the book he found a separate section that looked rather different. There were no dates or times or places listed, only paragraphs of closely written Latin text.
Bronson looked at these paragraphs for a few minutes, picking out the odd Latin word that he recognized, then decided it probably was worth trying to make a reasonable translation of the text. But he’d barely even begun when his mobile phone rang.
For an instant his heart pounded with anticipation. Could it be Angela, calling him to let him know she’d been released by her captors?
‘Chris Bronson,’ he said.
There was a pause and then a heavily accented voice spoke to him in English. ‘Signor Bronson. My name is Filippo Bianchi, and I’m a senior Venetian police officer. I may have some bad news for you.’
‘Tell me,’ Bronson replied in Italian, sitting down heavily on the bed.
‘I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but a body has just been found,’ Bianchi replied, switching to his native language, ‘and it matches the description you gave of your former wife. We would like you to come to the police station in San Marco, which is near the mortuary, to identify the corpse.’
Time suddenly seemed to stop, and Bronson had the bizarre sensation of the room closing in around him, constricting his chest and driving the breath from his body. For a few moments his mouth opened and closed, but no sound emerged. A loud and continuous beep sounded in his ear.
Then he regained control and took a deep breath. He realized he was clutching the phone so tightly that his fingers were pressing down on some of the keys. He released his grip slightly, and the beeping sound ceased. He gazed at the wall opposite, a tumble of emotions coursing through him.
‘Give me the address,’ he said, and noted down what Bianchi told him. Then he ended the call.
For a few seconds, Bronson sat motionless on the bed, his mobile phone still in his hand. This really couldn’t be happening, he told himself. Angela simply could not be dead. Their week’s holiday in Venice – a simple break from the routine of England – had turned into a nightmare that seemed as though it would never end.
Then he roused himself. He didn’t want to go to the police station or the mortuary, but he knew he had no choice. Opening his map of Venice, he quickly found the location of the police station. He slipped the map into his jacket pocket and headed back down to reception.
Ten minutes later, Bronson stepped into the red-painted powerboat the hotel receptionist had arranged for him, started the engine, put it into gear and steered it away from the side of the canal.
It was still fairly early in the morning, and the water traffic was light, though as usual the streets around the canals were crowded with pedestrians, many of them obvious tourists. Less than a quarter of an hour after he’d set off from the hotel, he moored the boat in a canal about a hundred yards from the police station and walked slowly over to the building, subconsciously delaying the moment of his arrival there, as if that could possibly make the
