The Nosferatu Scroll

59

Bronson cut the motor as he approached the entrance to the inlet. There was, he realized, no point in trying to sneak ashore. The island was too open to make any sort of covert approach feasible, so he allowed the boat to coast gently forward until it just nudged the end of the jetty, then stepped ashore, tying the rope around the heavy chain that barred the entrance to the inlet. As he did so, he noted that the chain itself was rusty, as was the padlock that secured it, and for the first time since he’d followed the two men, a scintilla of doubt entered his mind. It didn’t look to him as if anyone had unlocked the padlock or moved the chain for quite a long time, otherwise at least some of the rust would have flaked off.

He looked at the launch that was secured to the jetty. The water was quite clear and he could see the curve of the hull where it vanished beneath the surface. The dark paintwork was liberally covered in marine growth, which suggested that the boat had been sitting there for some time – boats that were used regularly tended to have much cleaner hulls.

But that, of course, might also mean that the owner tended to commute by helicopter. It was an alternative explanation, but didn’t do much to quell the doubts that were now nagging at him. The island really did look deserted.

He took out the Browning semi-automatic, removed the magazine and checked it, then replaced it in the pistol, pulled back the slide to chamber a round and cock the hammer, and set the safety catch. Then he walked slowly along the gravel path that led from the jetty and past the helicopter landing-pad to the house, looking all around him all the time as he did so.

He didn’t ring the bell, just pressed his ear to the wooden front door and listened. There was absolutely no sound from inside the property. With the pistol held ready in his right hand, he walked all the way around the house, checking each window as he went, and listening at both of the other doors. Finally he accepted the sickening truth: he’d got the wrong island.

He couldn’t understand it. This was definitely the place where he’d seen the two men in the blue boat disappear; although the restricted size of the inlet and the state of the chain that barred it suggested that the boat couldn’t have been tied up at the jetty.

At that moment, his mobile phone rang. It was an Italian number, and when he pressed the key to answer it, he wasn’t entirely surprised to hear the cool and indifferent voice of Inspector Bianchi in his ear.

‘I did as you requested, Signor Bronson,’ he said. ‘I sent a launch to the island where you think your wife is being held, and the officers found absolutely nothing. There was nobody on the island, and the house is shuttered and barred. All you’ve achieved is to waste valuable police time, which is an offence in Italy just as, I believe, it is an offence in Britain.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Bronson said. There really wasn’t anything else he could say. ‘I was certain that you would find her there.’

‘Well, we didn’t, and I suggest that now you stop interfering and leave the business of investigating this crime to the professionals.’

And with this, the phone went dead. Bronson looked at it for a moment, then slipped it back into his pocket. The one thing he wasn’t going to do was stop looking for Angela.

He replayed the sequence of events in his mind. He visualized the pursuit across the lagoon, and his decision to watch from the smaller island. He’d seen the blue boat slow down and then disappear from view. Then he remembered something else: there had been several other craft in the area, buzzing around the islands. Perhaps the men he’d been following, who’d clearly been checking around them as they approached the island – he remembered seeing them do this – had simply stopped the boat beside the chained-off inlet and waited there for a few minutes until the other tourist boats had cleared the area. And then they would have continued their journey, careful not to let anybody see their final destination.

Bronson groaned as the realization struck home. If these men were part of the gang responsible for the deaths of half a dozen young women in Venice, their caution was merited. The only encouraging fact was that there were so few islands any further south: their hideaway had to be somewhere nearby.

All he had to do now was find it.