The Danger

EIGHT

'Viralto?' Pucinelli said doubtfully. 'It's a village off one of the roads into the mountains. Very small. No roads in the village, just alleyways between houses. Are you sure she said Viralto?'

'Yes,' I said. 'Is it one of those hill-top villages with houses all stuck together with red tiled roofs and blinding white walls without windows? Ail on slopes, shut in and secret?'

'Like that, yes.'

'Would it be an hour's drive from Bologna? From the house where Alessia was kept?

'I suppose so… If you knew the way. It is not on a main road.'

'And… er… would it have a bakery?'

After the faintest of pauses he said smoothly, 'My men will be up there at once, searching thoroughly. But Andrew, it would not be usual to take a kidnapped person there, In these villages everyone knows everyone. There is no room to hide a stranger.'

'Try Viralto on the kidnapper who told you about the first house,' I said.

'You can be sure I will,' he said happily. 'He has now confessed that he was one of the four in masks who abducted Alessia. He also sometimes sat in the house at night to guard her, but he says he never spoke to her, she was always asleep.'

He paused. 'I have asked him several times every day for the name of the man in the drawings. He says the man's name is Giuseppe. He says that's what he called him and he doesn't know any other name for him. This may be true. Maybe not. I keep asking. Perhaps one day he will tell me different.'

'Enrico,' I said diffidently, 'you are an expert investigator. I hesitate to make a suggestion…'

A small laugh travelled by wire from Bologna, 'You don't hesitate very often.'

'Then… before you go to Viralto, shall we get Paolo Cenci to offer a reward for the recovery of any of the ransom money? Then you could take that promise and also the drawings of "Giuseppe" with you… perhaps?'

'I will also take photographs of our kidnappers and of Alessia,' he said. 'Signor Cenci will surely agree to the reward. But… ' he paused, 'Viralto… was only a word in a dream.'

'A word which caused sweating and an accelerated heartbeat,' I said. 'It frightened her.'

'Did it? Hmm. Then don't worry, we'll sweep through the village like the sirocco.'

'Ask the children,' I said.

He laughed. 'Andrew Machiavelli Douglas… every child's mother would prevent us.'

'Pity.'

When we'd finished talking I telephoned to Paolo Cenci, who said 'willingly' to the reward, and then again to Pucinelli to confirm it.

'I am making a leaflet for photocopying,' he said. 'The reward offer and all the pictures. I'll call you if there are any results.'

'Call me anyway.'

'Yes, all right.'

He called me again on the following day, Friday, in the evening, while I happened to be on duty at the switchboard.

'I've been up in that damned village all day,' he said exhaust-edly. 'Those people… they shut their doors and their faces and their minds.'

'Nothing?' I asked with disappointment.

'There's something,' he said, 'but I don't know what. The name of Viralto was a shock to the kidnapper who talks, but he swears it means nothing to him. He swears it on his dead mother's soul, but he sweats while he swears. He is lying.' He paused. 'But in Viralto… we found nothing. We went into the bakery. We threatened the baker, who also keeps the very small grocery store. There is nowhere near his bakehouse that Alessia could have been hidden, and we searched everywhere. He gave us permission. He said he had nothing to hide. He said he would have known if Alessia had been brought to the village; he says he knows everything. He says she was never there.'

'Did you believe him?' I asked.

'I'm afraid so. We asked at every single house. We did even ask one or two children. We found nothing; we heard nothing. But…'

'But…?' I prompted.

'I have looked at a map,' he said, yawning. 'Viralto is up a side road which goes nowhere else. But if when one gets to the turn to Viralto one drives past it, straight on, that road goes on up into the mountains, and although it is not a good road it crosses the Apennines altogether and then descends towards Firenze. Above Viralto there is a place which used to be a castle but is now a hotel. People go there to walk and enjoy the mountains. Perhaps the Signorina didn't hear enough… perhaps it was at least an hour to Viralto, and longer still to wherever they planned to go? Tomorrow,' he paused, sighing, 'tomorrow I am off duty. Tomorrow I expect I will however be on duty after ah". I'll go up to the hotel and blow the sirocco through that.'

'Send some of your men,' I suggested.

After a definite pause he said levelly, 'I have given instructions that no one is to act again in this case in any way without my being there in person.'

'Ah.'

'So I will telephone again tomorrow, if you like.'

'Tomorrow I'll be here from four until midnight,' I said gratefully. 'After that, at home.'

In the morning, Saturday, Popsy telephoned while I was pottering round my flat trying to shut my eyes to undone chores.

'Something the matter?' I asked, interpreting the tone of her hello.

'Sort of. I want your help. Can you come?'

'This instant, or will tomorrow do? I have to be in the office, really, by four.'

'On Saturday afternoon?' she sounded surprised.

"Fraid so.'

She hesitated, 'Alessia didn't ride out with the string yesterday because of a headache.'

'Oh… and today?'

'Today she didn't feel like it. Look,' she said abruptly, 'I'd say the idea scared her, but how can it, you saw how she rode?' The faint exasperation in her voice came over clearly, accompanying the genuine concern. When I didn't answer immediately she demanded, 'Are you there?'

'Yes. Just thinking.' I paused. 'She wasn't scared of the horses or of riding, that's for sure. So perhaps she's scared… and I don't think that's the right word, but it'll do for now… of being closed in, of being unable to escape… of being in the string. Like a sort of claustrophobia, even though it's out in the open air. Perhaps that's why she wouldn't go in the string before, but felt all right on her own, up on the Downs.'

She thought it over, then said, 'Perhaps you're right. She certainly wasn't happy yesterday… she spent most of the day in her room, avoiding me.'

'Popsy… don't press her. She needs you very badly, but just as someone there… and undemanding. Tell her not to try to go out with the string until she can't bear not to. Say it's fine with you, you're glad to have her, she can do what she likes. Would that be OK? Could you say that? And I'll come down tomorrow morning.'

'Yes, yes, and yes,' she said sighing. 'I'm very fond of her. Come to lunch and wave your wand.'

Pucinelli telephoned late in the evening with the news: good, bad and inconclusive.

'The Signorina was right,' he said first, sounding satisfied. 'She was taken past Viralto, up to the hotel. We consulted the manager. He said he knew nothing, but we could search all the outbuildings, of which there are very many, most used for storage, but once living quarters for servants and carriage horses and farm animals. In one of the old animal feed lofts we found a tent!' He broke off for dramatic effect, and I congratulated him.

'It was folded,' he said. 'But when we opened it, it was the right size. Green canvas walls, grey floor-covering, just as she said. The floor of the loft itself was of wood, with hooks screwed into it, for the tent ropes.' He paused. 'In the house in the suburbs, we think they tied the tent ropes to the furniture.'

'Mm,' I said encouragingly.

'The loft is in a disused stable yard which is a small distance behind the hotel kitchens. It is perhaps possible she could smell baking… the hotel bakes its own bread.'

'Terrific,' I said.

'No, not terrific. No one there saw her. No one is saying anything. The stores of the hotel are kept in the outbuildings and there are great stocks of household items there, also cold stores for vegetables and meat, and a huge freezer room… vans make deliveries to these storerooms every day. I think the Signorina could have been taken to the hotel in a van, and no one would have paid much attention. There are so many outbuildings and courtyards at the back… garages, garden equipment stores, furniture stores for things not in use, barns full of useless objects which used to be in the old castle, ancient cooking stoves, old baths, enough rubbish to fill a town dump. You could hide for a month there. No one would find you.'

'No luck, then, with the pictures of the kidnapper?' I said.

'No. No one knew him. No one knew the two we have in jail. No one knew anything.' He sounded tired and discouraged.

'All the same,' I said, 'you do have the tent. And it's pretty certain that one of the kidnappers knew the hotel fairly well, because that loft doesn't sound like a place you'd find by accident.'

'No.' He paused. 'Unfortunately the Vistaclara has many people staying there and working there. One of the kidnappers might have stayed there, or worked there, in the past.'

'Vistaclara… is that the name of the hotel?' I asked.

'Yes. In the past there were horses in the stable yard, but the manager says they no longer have them, not enough people want to ride in the hills, they prefer now to play tennis.'

Horses, I thought vaguely.

'How long ago did they have horses?' I asked.

'Before the manager came. I could ask him, if you like. He said the stable yard was empty when he started, about five years ago. It has been empty ever since. Nothing has been stored there in case one day it would again be profitable to offer riding for holidays.'

'Pony trekking,' I said.

'What?'

'Riding over hills on ponies. Very popular in some parts of Britain.'

'Oh,' he said without enthusiasm. 'Anyway, there were grooms once and a riding instructor, but now they have a tennis pro instead… and he didn't know any of the kidnappers in our pictures.'-

'It's a big hotel, then?' I said.

'Yes, quite. People go there in the summer, it is cooler than on the plains or on the coast. Just now there are thirty-eight on the staff besides the manager, and there are rooms for a hundred guests. Also a restaurant with views of the mountains.'

'Expensive?' I suggested.

'Not for the poor,' he said. 'But also not for princes. For people who have money, but not for the jet-set. A few of the guests live there always… old people, mostly.' He sighed. 'I asked a great many questions, as you see. No one at all, however Song they had lived there, or been employed there, showed any interest in our pictures.'

We talked it over for a while longer but without reaching any conclusion except that he would try 'Vistaclara' on the talkative kidnapper the next day: and on that next day, Sunday, I drove down again to Lambourn.

Alessia had by that time been free for nearly two weeks and had progressed to pink varnish on her nails, A lifting of the spirits, I thought.

'Did you buy the varnish?' I asked.

'No… Popsy did.'

'Have you been shopping yet on your own?'

She shook her head. I made no comment, but she said, "I suppose you think I ought to.'

'No. Just wondered.'

'Don't press me.'

'No.'

'You're as bad as Popsy.' She was looking at me almost with antagonism, something wholly new.

'I thought the varnish looked pretty,' I said equably.

She turned her head away with a frown, and I drank the coffee Popsy had poured before she'd walked out round her yard.

'Did Popsy ask you to come?' Alessia said sharply.

'She asked me to lunch, yes.'

'Did she complain that I've been acting like a cow?'

'No,' I said. 'Have you?'

'I don't know. I expect so. All I know is that I want to scream. To throw things. To hit someone.' She spoke indeed as if a head of steam was being held in by slightly precarious will-power.

'I'll drive you up to the Downs.'

'Why?'

'To scream. Kick the tyres. So on.'

She stood up restlessly, walked aimlessly round the kitchen and then went out of the door. I followed in a moment and found her standing halfway to the Land Rover, irresolute.

'Go on, then,' I said, 'Get in.' I made a questioning gesture to where Popsy stood, pointing to the Land Rover, and from the distance collected a nod.

The keys were in the ignition. I sat in the driver's seat and waited, and Alessia presently climbed in beside me.

'This is stupid,' she said.

I shook my head, started the engine, and drove the way we'd gone three days earlier, up to the silence and the wide sky and the calling birds.

When I braked to a stop and switched off, Alessia said defensively, 'Now what? I can't just… scream.'

'If you care to walk off along there on your own and see if you want to, I'll wait here.'

Without looking at me directly she did exactly as I'd said, sliding down from the Land Rover and walking away. Her narrow figure diminished in the distance but stayed in sight, and after a fair while she came slowly back. She stopped with dry eyes at the open window beside me and said calmly, 'I can't scream. It's pointless.'

I got out of the Land Rover and stood on the grass near her. I said, 'What is it about riding in the string which makes you feel trapped?'

'Did Popsy say that?'

'No, she just said you didn't want to.'

She leaned against the front wing of the Land Rover, not looking at me.

'It's nonsense,' she said. 'I don't know why. On Friday I got dressed to go. I wanted to go… but I felt all churned up. Breathless. Worse than before my first big race… but the same sort of feeling. I went downstairs, and it got much worse. Stifling. So I told Popsy I had a headache… which was nearly true… and yesterday it was just the same. I didn't even go downstairs… I felt so wretched, but I just couldn't…'

I pondered, then said, 'Start from getting up. Think of riding clothes. Think of the horses. Think of riding through the streets. Think of everything separately, one by one, and then say at what thought you begin to feel… churned up.' She looked at me dubiously, but blinked a few times as she went through the process and then shook her head. 'I don't feel churned now. I don't know what it is… I've thought of everything. It's the boys.' The last three words came out as if impelled; as if unpremeditated and from the depths. "The boys?' 'The lads.' 'What about them?' Their eyes.' The same erupting force. 'If you rode at the back they wouldn't see you,' I said 'I'd think of their eyes.'

I glanced at her very troubled face. She was taking me out of my depth, I thought. She needed professional help, not my amateur common sense. 'Why their eyes?' I said.

'Eyes…' She spoke loudly, as if the words themselves demanded violence. 'They watched me. I knew they did. When I was asleep. They came in and watched.'

She turned suddenly towards the Land Rover and did actually kick the tyre.

They came in. I know they did. I hate… I hate… I can't bear… their eyes.'

I stretched out, put my arms round her and pulled her against my chest. 'Alessia… Alessia… It doesn't matter What if they did?'

'I feel… filthy… dirty.'

'A kind of rape?' I said.

'Yes.'

'But not…?'

She shook her head silently and conclusively.

'How do you know they came in?' I said.

The zip,' she said. 'I told you I knew every stitch of the tent… I knew how many teeth in the zip. And some days, it would open higher than others. They undid the zip… and came in… and fastened it at a different level… six or seven teeth higher, ten lower… I dreaded it.'

I stood holding her, not knowing what to say.

'I try not to care,' she said. 'But I dream…' She stopped for a while, then said, 'I dream about eyes.'

I rubbed one of my hands over her back, trying to comfort. 'Tell me what else,' I said. 'What else is unbearable?'

She stood quiet for so long with her nose against my chest that I thought there might be nothing, but finally, with a hard sort of coldness, she said, 'I wanted him to like me. I wanted to please him. I told Papa and Pucinelli that his voice was cold… but that was… at the beginning. When he came each time with the microphone, to make the tapes, I was… ingratiating.' She paused. 'I… loathe… myself. I am… hateful… and dreadfully… unbearably… ashamed.'

She stopped talking and simply stood there, and after a while I said, 'Very often people who are kidnapped grow to like their kidnappers. It isn't even unusual. It's as if a normal human being can't live without some sort of friendly contact. In ordinary criminal prisons, the prisoners and warders grow into definitely friendly relationships. When a lot of hostages are taken, some of them always make friends with one or more of the terrorists holding them. Hostages sometimes beg the police who are rescuing them not to harm their kidnappers. You mustn't, you shouldn't, blame yourself for trying to make the man with the microphone like you. It's normal. Usual. And… how did he respond?

She swallowed. 'He called me… dear girl.'

'Dear girl,' I said myself, meaning it. 'Don't feel guilty. You are normal. Everyone tries to befriend their kidnappers to some extent, and it's better that they should.'

'Why?' The word was muffled, but passionate.

'Because antagonism begets antagonism. A kidnapped person who can make the kidnappers like her is much safer. They'll be less likely to harm her… and more careful, for her own sake, not to let her see their faces. They wouldn't want to kill someone they'd grown to like.'

She shivered.

'And as for coming in to see you when you were asleep… maybe they looked on you with friendship… Maybe they wanted to be sure you were all right, as they couldn't see you when you were awake.'

I wasn't sure whether I believed that last bit myself, but it was at least possible: and the rest was all true.

The lads are not the kidnappers,' I said.

'No, of course not.'

'Just other men.'

She nodded her smothered head.

'It's not the lads' eyes you dream about.'

'No.' She sighed deeply.

'Don't ride with the string until you feel OK about it. Popsy will arrange a horse for you up on the Downs.' I paused. 'Don't worry if tomorrow you still feel churned up. Knowing the reason for feelings doesn't necessarily stop them coming back.'

She stood quiet for a while and then disconnected herself slowly from my embrace, and without looking at my face said, 'I don't know where I'd be without you. In the nut-house, for sure.'

'One day,' I said mildly, 'I'll come to the Derby and cheer you home.'

She smiled and climbed into the Land Rover, but instead of pointing its nose homewards I drove on over the hill to the schooling ground.

'Where are you going?' she said.

'Nowhere. Just here.' I stopped the engine and put on the brakes. The flights of hurdles and fences lay neat and deserted on the grassy slope, and I made no move to get out of the car.

'I've been talking to Pucinelli,' I said.

'Oh.'

'He's found the second place, where you were kept those last few days.'

'Oh.' A small voice, but not panic-stricken.

'Does the Hotel Vistaclara mean anything to you?'

She frowned, thought, and shook her head.

'It's up in the mountains,' I said, 'above the place called Viralto, that you told me about. Pucinelli found the green tent there, folded, not set up, in a loft over a disused stable yard.'

'Stables?' She was surprised.

'Mm.'

She wrinkled her nose. 'There was no smell of horses.'

'They've been gone five years,' I said. 'But you said you could smell bread. The hotel makes its own, in the kitchens. The only thing is…' I paused, '… why just bread? Why not all cooking smells?'

She looked forward through the windscreen to the peaceful rolling terrain and breathed deeply of the sweet fresh air, and calmly, without strain or tears, explained.

'At night when I had eaten the meal one of them would come and tell me to put the dish and the bucket out through the zip. I could never hear them coming because of the music. I only knew they were there when they spoke.' She paused. 'Anyway, in the morning when I woke they would come and tell me to take the bucket in again… and at that point it would be clean and empty.' She stopped again. 'It was then that I could smell the bread, those last few days. Early… when the bucket was empty.' She fell silent and then turned her head to look at me, seeking my reaction.

'Pretty miserable for you,' I said.

'Mm.' She half smiled. 'It's incredible… but I got used to it. One wouldn't think one could. But it was one's own smell, after all… and after the first few days I hardly noticed it. She paused again. 'Those first days I thought I'd go mad. Not just from anxiety and guilt and fury… but from boredom. Hour after hour of nothing but that damned music… no one to talk to, nothing to see… I tried exercises, but day after day I grew less fit and more dopey, and after maybe two or three weeks I just stopped. The days seemed to run into each other, then. I just lay on the foam mattress and let the music wash in and out, and I thought about things that had happened in my life, but they seemed far away and hardly real. Reality was the bucket and pasta and a polystyrene cup of water twice a day… and hoping that the man with the microphone would think I was behaving well… and like me.'

'Mm,' I said. 'He liked you.'

'Why do you think so?' she asked, and I saw that curiously

she seemed glad at the idea, that she still wanted her kidnapper to approve of her, even though she was free.

'I think,' I said, 'that if you and he had felt hate for each other he wouldn't have risked the second ransom. He would have been very much inclined to cut his losses. I'd guess he couldn't face the thought of killing you… because he liked you.' I saw the deep smile in her eyes and decided to straighten things up in her perspective. No good would come of her falling in love with her captor in fantasy or in retrospect. 'Mind you,' I said, 'he gave your father an appalling time and stole nearly a million pounds from your family. We may thank God he liked you, but it doesn't make him an angel.'

'Oh…' She made a frustrated, very Italian gesture with her hands. 'Why are you always so… so sensible?'

'Scottish ancestors,' I said. 'The dour sort, not the firebrands. They seem to take over and spoil the fun when the quarter of me that's Spanish aches for flamenco.'

She put her head on one side, half laughing. 'That's the most I've ever heard you say about yourself.'

'Stick around,' I said.

'I don't suppose you'll believe it,' she said, sighing deeply and stretching her limbs to relax them, 'but I am after all beginning to feel fairly sane.'