80

Bronson was never quite sure what happened next. He fired again as he was enveloped by the dark shape, then tumbled backwards, the back of his head cracking sharply against the seat as he fell.

When he came to, Angela was beside him, cradling his head in her hands in the stern of the boat.

‘Wake up, Chris, damn you. Wake up,’ she muttered. Then, as his eyes flicked open, she bent down and kissed him on the lips. ‘Thank God,’ she said simply.

In the distance, Bronson heard the rumble of another boat’s engine. A police launch was just drawing alongside, Inspector Bianchi standing in the stern and staring at the two boats, still locked together and rocking in the chop disturbing the surface of the lagoon.

‘Where is he?’ Bianchi called over to them.

Bronson looked up at Angela. ‘Where did he go?’

‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘I saw him jump at you after the boats collided, and then you shot at him. He seemed to fall right on top of you, but when I reached the end of the boat he’d gone, and all I could see was his robe. There was no body, and no blood. I didn’t hear him fall into the water, but he must have done.’

Bronson sat up, ran his palm over the tender bruise on the back of his head – it was already noticeably swollen and bleeding – and looked across at the inspector.

‘I don’t know,’ Bronson explained in Italian. ‘I banged my head when he leapt on to the boat so I didn’t see. Angela says he must have jumped into the water and got away.’

‘Right,’ Bianchi snapped, and turned to the police officer driving the boat. ‘Tell the other crew to start quartering the area. We’re probably looking for a body, but it’s possible the man is still alive. Either way, I want him found.’

With a throaty roar from its turbo-charged diesel engine, the second police boat swung away, two searchlights snapping into life as the crew started their search.

‘You shot him,’ Bianchi said, a statement rather than a question.

‘I shot at him, Inspector,’ Bronson replied, ‘and that’s not quite the same thing. He dropped his robe,’ he added, passing it over to the police officer.

‘You’d better get back to Venice, Signor Bronson. That looks like a nasty wound on your head, and you need to get it checked. We’ll stay out here until we find the body, and I’ll send somebody round to your hotel to take a statement in the morning. It’s been a long night for all of us. Oh, before you go, you’d better give me that pistol, unless you’ve managed to acquire a licence for it in the last twelve hours. And any ammunition you might have picked up as well.’

Bronson handed over the pistol, holster and spare magazines, then spent a couple of minutes separating his powerboat from the one the cult leader had been driving. Once he’d freed the gunwale, he waved a hand at Bianchi, started the boat’s engine again and motored away.

As they headed back towards the lights of Venice, Bronson slipped his arm around Angela’s shoulders and she nestled her head against him.

‘How’s your head?’ she asked.

‘I’ll live,’ Bronson said. ‘It feels like a bad bruise, but I don’t think it needs stitches. All I really want to do is get back to the hotel and lock the door against the world. It’s been a hell of a night for us all, and especially for you.’

Angela shivered. ‘Thank God it’s all over. I really thought I was going to die in that bloody cellar. I couldn’t believe it when I saw you there – and carrying a gun.’

‘Well, we’re safe now. Just don’t think about what happened tonight.’

Angela was silent for a few moments, then looked up at Bronson again. ‘Are you sure he’s dead? That foul creature?’

Bronson nodded. ‘At that range, I couldn’t possibly have missed. I fired four or five shots into him at a range of about six feet. If that didn’t kill him outright, he’d bleed to death in minutes. He’s dead, that’s for sure. Tomorrow, Bianchi will tell us he’s recovered the body, and that’ll be the end of it.’