The Nosferatu Scroll (9 page)

“Can you uncuff me so that I can wash?” Marietta asked, even though she knew her request was futile.

The guard shook his head. “Not a chance.”

In a couple of minutes, Marietta was alone again, but at least now she felt a little better. She’d eaten a decent breakfast and had enough to drink, and she was sure that once she’d washed her face and hands—and that was about all she was going to do—she’d feel a lot cleaner as well. And being able to clean her teeth was a bonus.

She dragged the bucket over to the bed and first brushed her teeth, while the water was still clean. Then she unbuttoned her blouse and slid it down her left arm and onto the metal chain so that it was out of her way. She unwrapped the soap and washed herself as best she could, her chained left wrist restricting her movements more than she had expected.

Then she retrieved her blouse and got dressed again. All she could do then was lie on the bed and wait for whatever the day might bring.

At least the cellar light was still on, and she’d not seen any sign of the cockroaches that she’d heard the night before. They were still there—she knew that, because she could hear an occasional rustling sound from the walls—but
for the moment the light seemed to be keeping them at bay.

There was another thing about her captors that surprised her. Despite the brutal way she’d been grabbed from the street in Venice, they had treated her quite well since she’d arrived on the island. She’d anticipated physical abuse, maybe even rape, but apart from being manhandled after they’d shocked her with the Taser, none of them had so much as touched her.

But that wasn’t all. What bothered her most was their air of superiority, of detachment. It was almost as if they felt they were above the law, as if they knew that the authorities wouldn’t, or couldn’t, touch them. She had the feeling that no matter what they subsequently did to her, none of the men believed they would suffer for it. And Marietta found this more frightening than her captivity itself.

Worse still, it suggested that she was a disposable asset in their eyes, a person of no consequence. Which meant that—short of a miracle—she was never going to get off the island alive.

A stocky, middle-aged man, his black hair showing the first subtle shadings of gray at the temples, walked out of the elegant building situated a short distance from the Piazza San Marco and turned north, heading for the Campo Santa Maria Formosa. It was a sensible place for a meeting, away from the more usual haunts of the tourists who still thronged the city, and with several cafés and bars where two men could sit together quietly and exchange confidences. In fact, Carlo Lombardi had not the slightest intention of saying very much at all: he was going to the square to receive information; important information, he hoped.

The call he’d taken in his office about a quarter of an hour earlier had been the first important break they’d received in the case—assuming, of course, that the man who had telephoned the police station really did know something of value about the multiple killings of young women that were currently plaguing the city.

Lombardi shook his head as he strode down the street, casting off his doubts. The caller was clearly well-informed, because he had already mentioned one fact about the series of murders that had never been released to the press, or publicized in any way at all. Whoever he was—he’d told Lombardi to call him “Marco,” a common enough Italian name and almost certainly not his true identity—he had at least one piece of information that was known only to the perpetrators and the police. If he hadn’t been involved in the killings himself, then it was at least probable that he had been a witness to them.

In any event, he was somebody that Lombardi, as the senior investigating officer in charge of the case, needed to talk to. “Marco” had told Lombardi that he would only meet him alone and face-to-face in a public area, and the Campo Santa Maria Formosa had seemed as good a spot as any. And Lombardi was going there alone and on foot, as he’d been instructed, just in case the man was mounting surveillance of the streets between the police station and the square. But that didn’t mean that their meeting would go unobserved.

Lombardi had already dispatched a dozen police officers to cover the eight or so exits from the Campo, and four more to position themselves with parabolic microphones and high-resolution still and video cameras in a couple of the buildings that lined the square, to record the meeting.

“Marco” would find it easy enough to get to the Campo
and to the café he’d selected, but he would find it much more difficult to leave afterward.

Lombardi’s orders had been absolutely clear: the man he was going to meet was to be arrested as soon as he left the café.

The senior police officer didn’t hurry as he walked up the Calle Drio la Chiesa, allowing his men plenty of time to get into position. He turned left past the Museo Guidi, still closed after proving too expensive to run, then right again, following the west bank of the canal toward the square.

Carlo Lombardi had been born in Venice and prided himself on knowing every street and alley and canal in the city, and he believed he’d covered every possible way out. He was quite certain that once “Marco” walked into the Campo Santa Maria Formosa, he would only leave the square in handcuffs. And, at last, they might finally have a break in the case that had been both puzzling and alarming Venetian police officers for the previous two years.

He still remembered that dreadful afternoon when he’d responded to a call from one of his senior inspectors, and had traveled in a police launch out to the Isola di San Michele. He had stood over a shallow pit behind a line of trees and looked down onto the white and waxy naked body of a twenty-year-old girl, apparently dumped there only a few hours earlier. Her eyes had been wide-open, though already discolored by the actions of insects, attracted by the faint smell of decomposition. As Lombardi
had stared down at the body, he’d heard a faint buzzing sound, and then a couple of blowflies had emerged from the girl’s open mouth, where they’d doubtless been laying eggs. Other flies were clustered around the left-hand side of her neck.

Lombardi had looked at the inspector, his eyes questioning, but the man had simply flapped a handkerchief beside the girl’s neck to drive away the insects. And then he and Lombardi had stared down at the fatal wound, its edges raised and ragged, which marred the perfect white skin of the corpse.

The results of the subsequent autopsy hadn’t been a surprise. The girl had died from loss of blood—exsanguination—which had pumped out of the wound on her neck. There was also clear evidence of restraints: the marks of ropes or straps around her wrists and ankles. And she’d been raped, raped violently, several times, her genital area marred by heavy bruising. The body had yielded no useful clues to suggest where the girl had died, or any indication of the identity of her killers. Despite the evidence of rape, traces of lubrication within her vagina meant that the rapist, or rapists, had used a condom; and the body appeared to have been thoroughly washed after death to remove any pubic hairs or other trace evidence.

The one slight oddity revealed at the postmortem was the contents of the stomach. Very shortly before she died, the girl had ingested about a quarter of a liter of milk.

That in itself was unsurprising, but extensive bruising to the lips and the inside of her mouth suggested she
might have been force-fed the liquid, which was unusual. But the analysis of the milk itself provided the biggest surprise, because the pathologist hadn’t been able to identify the animal from which it came. All he could tell Lombardi was that it wasn’t from a cow, sheep, goat or any other farm animal he was aware of, nor even from a human female. It simply wasn’t in the database.

There were, of course, a lot of animal species in which the female produced milk to nourish her offspring, and testing the samples removed from the dead girl’s stomach against every possible mammal would have been a lengthy and very expensive process—and probably ultimately pointless. So Lombardi had told the pathologist not to bother, because it was already clear that the milk hadn’t contained any form of drug, and had in no way contributed to the girl’s death. It was just a curious anomaly.

Lombardi was quickly convinced that she had been the victim of a kind of ritualized murder, and he’d vowed there and then that he would bring the perpetrators—and there were obvious indicators that several men had been involved—to justice.

Since then, there had been other disappearances of young girls, usually between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five. Some of the bodies had been found, but in other cases the girls had simply vanished without a trace. The recovered corpses bore the same indicators of a hideous death as the first corpse: evidence of multiple rapes and exsanguination through severe wounds in the neck.
And in every case, a small amount of the unidentifiable milk had been recovered from the victim’s stomach.

Lombardi mused on this as he walked along beside the canal. As was so often the case with investigations into serious crimes, the Italian police had been plagued by the usual crop of nutters who wanted to confess to the murders, or to produce convincing—to them—evidence that the killer was the man next door or the pope or the American president or even a visiting alien. They’d talked to most of them, just in case they were involved in some way, but they were quite satisfied that none of the people they’d interviewed had had anything to do with the crimes.

But the thing that had convinced Lombardi that “Marco” could help him with the murders was the single sentence the man had said during his telephone conversation: “I know about the milk.”

Nobody, apart from the pathologist and the senior carabinieri officers investigating the murders, had been told what had been found in the victims’ stomachs. Now they had a potential witness, or perhaps even a member of the group responsible for the killings, who was prepared to talk to them. This, Lombardi knew, could finally break the case wide-open.

By now he was walking toward the end of the street. The last part of his journey—a right turn over one bridge and then an immediate left turn over another—would take him into the southern end of the Campo.

Then somebody grabbed his arm and swung him
round, and Lombardi found himself looking into the hostile eyes of a man he was sure he’d never seen before.

“Who are you?” Lombardi demanded, casually loosening his jacket so that he could reach his pistol more easily.

The stranger smiled slightly and slid his hands into his jacket pockets. “I’m Marco.”

“But we were supposed—” Lombardi began.

The other man shook his head. “By now you’ll have plainclothes officers and uniformed police forming a nice tight circle around the Campo, and probably a surveillance unit or two watching the café. If I walk into the square with you, I’ll only leave it with my hands cuffed behind my back. And that’s not a part of my plan at all.”

“And what is your plan, Marco?” Lombardi asked, relaxing slightly.

“You don’t need to know that.” The man’s voice was almost haughty, his manner arrogant, as if he were talking to an inferior. “All I want to do is give you a message to take to your colleagues, because we think you’re getting a little too close to us. And that must stop.”

“So what’s the message?”

“This,” Marco replied. Shifting his right hand slightly, he pulled the trigger of the compact semiautomatic pistol he held concealed in his pocket.

The nine-millimeter bullet, fired at almost point-blank range, plowed through Lombardi’s stomach, driving him onto the ground, his hands clutching at the wound. The sound of the shot echoed deafeningly around the street, and the few pedestrians in the vicinity stopped dead and
stared in horror at the scene being played out in front of them.

Unhurriedly, Marco walked a couple of paces forward to where Lombardi lay writhing and screaming on the ground, and looked down at him.

“You should have stuck to what you’re good at,” he said, “which is catching common criminals, and left us to get on with our important work.”

He pulled the pistol from his pocket, and almost casually fired two further shots into Lombardi’s chest. Then he turned and strode away, tucking the pistol out of sight as he did so.

Behind him, Lombardi’s legs twitched a couple of times in his death throes. And then he lay still.

“Any luck?” Bronson asked, opening the door to their hotel bedroom. It was early afternoon, and Angela was sitting near the window in the pale sunshine, frowning at her computer screen.

“That really depends on your definition of luck,” she said. “Rather than trying to tackle the diary, which I thought might take me a while because my Latin is probably a bit rusty, I decided to do the easy bit first. I thought I’d start by trying to trace the family history of the woman in the grave.”

“And did you?”

“Well, you know that I photographed the slab that covered the tomb?” Bronson nodded: she’d photographed everything in sight the previous evening. “When I looked at the pictures, even blown up on the screen of my laptop, almost the entire inscription is illegible. Absolutely the only thing I can make out for certain is the date of the burial, which was eighteen twenty-five, and I
actually read that when we were in the cemetery last night.”

“That slab looked very badly weathered to me,” Bronson said. “In fact, I suggested to one of the carabinieri officers that you might be able to assist with dating the grave by looking at those shards of pottery we saw in the tomb.”

Angela shook her head. “No, you misunderstood me. The slab was weathered, I agree. That’s not surprising, bearing in mind it’s been sitting out there, exposed to the elements, for nearly two hundred years. But that wasn’t why I can’t read the name on the gravestone. The letters have actually been chipped off, probably with a hammer and chisel, because I can just about make out the marks of a steel tool on the stone.”

“You mean it’s been vandalized?”

“Unless Venetian vandals are better equipped than their British counterparts, probably not. To me, this looks like a determined attempt to obliterate the name of the woman in the grave.”