The Nosferatu Scroll

55

Bronson made good time getting back to Venice. Water traffic in the lagoon had thinned out considerably, and he was able to hold the boat at more or less top speed for most of the way. And time, he knew, really was of the essence.

He moored the powerboat as close as he could to the police station in San Marco, remembering his meeting with Bianchi there and the body of the young woman he’d been asked to identify. As his thoughts returned to that scene, Bronson once again gave somewhat guilty thanks that the pale and lifeless body had been that of someone he’d never seen before, and not Angela. If it had been, Bronson knew he would never have been able to forgive himself.

But now, finally, he thought he knew where she might be. And even if she wasn’t on that particular island, he was quite convinced that the people there would know something about her, and might have been involved in her abduction. All he had to do was to convince the police to take action.

At the desk inside the station he asked to speak directly to Bianchi, but was told that the senior inspector was unavailable, which Bronson knew could mean almost anything. But he needed action quickly, and he certainly wasn’t prepared to be fobbed off by the Italian equivalent of a truculent desk sergeant.

‘That’s a shame,’ he said in Italian, ‘because I think I know the whereabouts of the men who’ve been killing all these girls in Venice.’

The sergeant told him to wait, picked up the internal phone and held a very brief conversation. Less than two minutes later, Bianchi strode into the station’s reception area.

‘Oh,’ he said, his step faltering as he recognized Bronson, ‘it’s you again. You have some information for us, I believe?’

‘Yes,’ Bronson said, and he began to explain how he’d seen two men vandalizing a grave on the Island of San Michele, and how, when he’d approached them, they’d shot at him.

Before Bronson got even halfway through his highly edited account of what had taken place on the Isola di San Michele, Bianchi began looking at him in what could only be described as a suspicious manner. But he waited until Bronson had finished – describing how he’d followed the men to an island out in the lagoon – before he responded.

‘And I suppose you know nothing about a man we found out on San Michele?’ Bianchi said. ‘He’s now in hospital, suffering from severe concussion, because somebody smashed him over the head with a lead-filled cosh.’

‘I only saw the two men I’ve told you about, nobody else.’ Bronson held Bianchi’s unblinking stare until the policeman looked down at the notes he’d made.

‘Very well,’ he said at last. ‘And are you sure you can identify this island again?’

Bronson nodded and showed Bianchi the chart of the lagoon he’d brought from the powerboat, on which he’d drawn a distinct circle around one of the islands at the southern end of the lagoon. He’d wisely left the pistol and the spare magazines locked up on the boat, having concluded that walking into a police station carrying an unlicensed semi-automatic pistol probably wasn’t the sharpest of ideas. But he definitely wanted to hang on to the weapon in case he did have to take matters into his own hands in order to rescue Angela.

And Bianchi’s immediate reaction when he looked at the chart suggested that this might be a possibility.

‘I know this island,’ he said. ‘Are you absolutely sure this is where the two men went?’

‘Yes,’ Bronson replied. ‘I didn’t actually see them moor their boat or get out of it, because they went around to the opposite side of the island, behind the house.’

‘You’re mistaken,’ Bianchi said flatly. ‘That’s a private island owned by a senior Italian politician. It’s inconceivable that a man of his stature and standing in the community could possibly be involved in anything like this. And,’ he went on remorselessly, ‘I still do not see any evidence of the link you’re suggesting between the men you followed out to the island and the abduction of your wife or, for that matter, the deaths of young women in this city. What, exactly, would be the connection between a vandalized grave on San Michele and either of these two crimes?’

Bronson just looked at him. ‘We’ve been through all this, Inspector. Even if you won’t admit it publicly, you know perfectly well that there’s a gang of people operating in Venice who’ve been snatching girls off the street and bleeding them to death. The men I saw earlier today were vandalizing tombs on the Isola di San Michele which contain the bodies of people who they believe were once vampires. Those are the facts as I see them, and that is your link.’

‘And your wife? Why was she had abducted? Does she think she’s a vampire as well?’

Bianchi’s face wore a slight smile as he asked the question, and Bronson resisted the temptation to plant his fist firmly on the man’s jaw.

‘No, Inspector. Like me, and I hope like you, she knows vampires don’t exist.’

‘Then why was she abducted?’

‘Because when we examined the first grave on San Michele, she spotted an old book at the bottom of the tomb, underneath the remains of the body, which she removed. That’s why our hotel room was burgled, and that’s why Angela was abducted.’

‘Why didn’t you mention this before?’ Bianchi snapped.

Bronson shrugged. ‘It didn’t honestly seem that important at the time. Now, I wish we’d just walked away from that first broken tomb and never spoken to a soul.’

‘Yes,’ Bianchi murmured, ‘hindsight is a wonderful tool.’

‘So this island…’ Bronson continued. ‘Are you going to send somebody to check it out?’

Bianchi nodded, somewhat reluctantly. ‘You’ve made a report, and I am duty-bound to respond to it, no matter how unbelievable your statement is, and despite my personal misgivings. I will order one of our police patrol boats to go out there now and make inquiries.’

This wasn’t quite the response that Bronson had been hoping for, but it was better than nothing.

‘Can I go with them?’ he asked. ‘That way I can make sure they go to the right place.’

‘Certainly not,’ Bianchi said. ‘If they find anything – which I doubt very much – I will call you at your hotel. You will be there, won’t you?’

The inference was obvious. ‘I might be out and about,’ Bronson said, lightly, ‘so it would probably be best if you called me on my mobile instead.’

Bianchi looked at him in silence for a few moments, and then nodded. ‘Very well, Signor Bronson. Just ensure that you stay out of trouble. I wouldn’t want our patrol officers to visit that island and find that you were already there. Do you understand what I mean?’

‘Of course,’ Bronson said. ‘I can promise you that they won’t see me anywhere near the island.’ Which wasn’t quite the same as saying he wouldn’t go there, of course, but it seemed to satisfy Bianchi.

Ten minutes later, Bronson was walking quickly back through the crowded streets to where he’d moored the powerboat. He started the engine, cast off the line, and motored slowly away, deep in thought.

The first thing he was going to have to do, he knew, was top-up the boat’s fuel tank, to ensure that he had enough petrol for whatever the night might bring.

He was also worried about Bianchi’s apparent reluctance to take his claim seriously. The island might be the property of an Italian politician, but Bronson couldn’t think of a single country anywhere in the world that didn’t have a large and successful crop of corrupt politicians – and in Italy being corrupt seemed to be a part of the job description for a career in government.

His second worry was that Bianchi was only apparently going to send a single patrol boat over to the island, where the officers would presumably ask politely if anybody in the house knew anything about the bunch of murdered girls. He could guess the probable answer. And that was assuming that Bianchi actually sent anyone at all.

Bronson had seen the fast, blue-and-white patrol boats in the Venetian lagoon – normally crewed by about three or four officers apparently only armed with pistols, though it was possible, Bronson guessed, that they might have heavier weapons inside the vessels. Even so, they were obviously more concerned with minor crimes, essentially traffic offences, committed on the waters of the lagoon rather than anything more serious.

But the thing that concerned him most wasn’t anything Bianchi had said. It was actually something the inspector hadn’t said. Specifically, it was a question the man hadn’t asked. It was, of course, possible that Bianchi had simply missed it, in which case it just meant he wasn’t a particularly good policeman, but Bronson doubted this. In his short acquaintance with Bianchi, the inspector had never struck Bronson as a particularly likeable character, but he had always seemed competent.

The other explanation was that Bianchi hadn’t needed to ask the question because he already knew the answer, and this was a real worry.