25

Bronson had been discharged from the hospital, and was walking slowly back towards Cannaregio. He was conserving his strength, because the attack – both the physical assault and the sheer shock of the event – had left him feeling weak and unsteady.

And as he walked, he looked everywhere, desperately searching for some sign of Angela. He knew that what he was doing was essentially pointless, but he did it anyway. Whoever had snatched her, and whatever their motive, he was certain that she was now either hidden inside a building somewhere in the city or being held on one of the dozens of outlying islands. The chances of her still being somewhere on the streets of Venice itself were nil. But still he kept looking.

It took him well over an hour to get back to their hotel, because of his slow progress and the meandering route he’d taken. When he arrived and walked into the lobby, the receptionist gave him a somewhat startled look, her attention fixed on the white bandage and thick pad that covered one side of his head. Bronson ignored her and went slowly up the stairs.

He paused for a second in the corridor outside their room, hoping against all odds that somehow Angela had managed to escape and that she’d be waiting for him inside. But as he pushed open the door, he saw at once that the room was completely empty.

The rooms in that hotel didn’t have mini-bars, and he knew that consuming alcohol wasn’t a particularly good idea after what he’d been through that day, but at that moment all he really wanted was a good stiff drink. He put down the laptop bag, took another look round the room, locked the door and then walked back down the stairs to the hotel bar. He ordered a gin and tonic, and took the drink over to a corner table by one of the windows that offered a view of the street outside the hotel.

He took a long swallow of his drink, and gazed through the window at the pedestrians strolling by, at the Venetian businessmen mingling with the press of tourists, cameras raised to faces that were partially obscured by hats and sunglasses. Bronson stared at the throng, searching vainly for Angela.

After a few moments, he took out his mobile and stared at the screen for what felt like the hundredth time that day. There were no missed calls, no text messages.

His head told him that the Italian police would be doing everything they could to find Angela, and that the only thing he would achieve by calling them would be to raise their level of irritation. His head knew this, but his heart didn’t agree, and almost without thinking, he dialled the mobile number he’d been given – as a courtesy and simply because of his job – by the investigating officer.

The ensuing conversation was short and fairly brusque. Yes, all carabinieri officers in the area had been given a description of Angela and a copy of her passport photograph. Yes, an officer would leave Angela’s passport at the hotel reception desk later that day. And, finally, yes, he would definitely be the first to know if and when they found a trace of her.

Bronson ended the call with a sense of immense frustration. He wasn’t used to being on the other side of a police investigation, and the lack of any hard information was difficult to handle. He was sure that the Italian police were searching for Angela, but how many men had they deployed? Were they checking cars and trains leaving Venice? Had they detailed men to check the vaporettos and gondolas and the privately owned speedboats that buzzed up and down the canals and across the lagoon? Were they searching the outlying islands? He had no answers to any of these questions, and he knew that the carabinieri officer would refuse to tell him, just as he, Bronson, would be unwilling to answer similar questions from a member of the general public in Britain in the same circumstances.

He finished his drink and sat for a few moments, his head in his hands. Then he roused himself. Getting drunk wouldn’t help find Angela, and nor would moping around the hotel. Walking the streets looking for her would achieve nothing, because he knew she wouldn’t be there. But he had to do something, something constructive, something that might help the police effort. He toyed with the idea of visiting some of the quieter canals, just in case the abductors hadn’t yet smuggled her out of the city, but a moment’s thought showed him that that idea would also be a waste of time. Venice wasn’t that big a city, but there were miles of canals, and he wouldn’t be able to cover more than one or two of them.

That started a new train of thought. One thing he could do was to ensure that he was as mobile as possible.

Standing up, he walked out of the bar, and across to the reception desk. The pretty dark-haired girl who’d checked them in was on duty, and gave him a welcoming smile as he walked across the lobby.

‘Signor Bronson, what happened to your head?’ she asked, looking with concern at the bandage around his skull.

‘I had a bad fall, that’s all,’ he said, deciding not to tell the staff what had happened to Angela.

‘Can I help you with something?’

‘We’d like to explore the canals. Is it possible to hire a speedboat for three or four days?’

‘Of course. It will take me a little while to arrange, because this is a popular time of year in Venice, and I may have to try several hire companies. Will you be taking the boat outside the city – into the lagoon, I mean?’

‘I might do, yes. Does that make a difference?’

‘Only to the type of boat. If you’re going into the Lagoon you’ll need one with a more powerful engine. Please leave it with me, Signor Bronson, and I’ll see what I can find. Will tomorrow morning be soon enough?’

Bronson would have preferred to get his hands on a boat straight away, but he replied, ‘Perfect. Thank you.’

He waited while the girl noted down details of his credit card, gave her a smile that was completely at odds with the inner turmoil he was feeling, then walked back up the stairs to their room. He hadn’t done much, but already he felt better, simply knowing that by the morning he would be able to navigate his way around Venice reasonably quickly.

He lay down on the bed for a few minutes, his eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. What could he achieve? he wondered. Yet again, he replayed the events of the day, trying to remember any clues or indications that might help the carabinieri narrow the search. But he came up with a blank.

Then something struck him. Because the gang of men had grabbed Angela, they would now have the vampire’s diary in their possession. Could there possibly be any information contained within it that might suggest where they were likely to go next? If, for example, the diary mentioned another grave, and if the people who’d snatched Angela were hunting for relics, he could suggest to the police that they could mount a watch on that location.

It was thin enough, but as far as Bronson could see, it was the only useful thing he could do.

He got up from the bed, took Angela’s laptop out of its case, and plugged the power cable into the wall socket. Angela hadn’t switched off the computer, and as soon as he opened the lid, the system resumed operating. A screensaver appeared, and when Bronson touched the space-bar to clear it, a dialogue box popped up requesting the input of a password. He hesitated for a few moments, then typed ‘SealChart’ into the space, and pressed the enter key. Angela always used the same password – the name of the church in Kent where they’d got married – and Bronson felt a sudden lump in his throat as the system accepted the password.

Angela, he thought. I can’t lose you now, not after everything we’ve been through. I’m going to find you if it’s the last thing I do.