The Nosferatu Scroll

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 slightest difference to the outcome.

The mortuary was in an adjacent building, and Bronson was led there by Bianchi himself, who’d been waiting for him near the reception desk in the station. Bianchi was a bulky, heavily built man in his mid-fifties, and Bronson recognized him at once – he’d been the senior investigating officer who’d appeared on the Isola di San Michele to investigate the three dead bodies that he and Angela had found in the tomb there.

It wasn’t the first time Bronson had visited a mortuary, though he’d never before been in the position he was in now. Normally, he was the presiding police officer, waiting for an anxious relative to confirm the identification of the body lying under a white sheet. He saw immediately that the Italians did things in much the same way as the British.

The viewing room was cold, much colder than the air-conditioned chill he’d experienced when they’d walked through the doors and into the mortuary, but it wasn’t just the chill in the air that made Bronson shiver. It was a small oblong space, three walls painted white and the fourth entirely invisible behind a deep purple curtain, behind which he knew would be the fridges that held the bodies. A large but simple crucifix adorned the wall beside the door, and a row of half a dozen uncomfortable-looking metal and plastic chairs lined the adjacent wall.

He registered all that as soon as he walked in, but what gripped and held his attention was the sheeted corpse lying on a trolley directly in front of him, in the middle of the room.

Bianchi strode across to one end of the body and positioned himself there, a mortuary attendant beside him. Bronson stepped closer to the trolley.

‘Are you prepared, Signor Bronson?’ Bianchi asked.

Bronson took a deep breath and nodded.

The police officer gestured to the attendant, who released a safety pin from the sheet covering the body, and gently pulled back the material that covered the face of the corpse.

Bronson noticed the hair first. Blonde and about shoulder-length, the way Angela normally wore it. Then his gaze moved slowly down her face, noticing the closed eyes, small nose and wide, generous mouth. He took a step closer to the trolley, to the midpoint of the dead body, and for a long moment stared down at the woman’s pale face, her skin white and waxy.

‘Signor Bronson, can you confirm whether or not this young woman is your wife?’ Bianchi asked quietly.

Bronson looked up at the police officer and the silent, unsmiling mortuary attendant standing next to him.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I can.’