have been.
I began to shiver although it wasn’t cold.
I remembered the last time I saw Sophie, we were standing
on Via del Moro outside the restaurant where Laura and I
dined last night. We’d had an argument, nothing major, and
she seemed a little down. I almost asked her if everything
was all right, but Sophie brightened and the moment went
past. This was only a week before it happened, when it seems
certain she was already being stalked.
Why didn’t she say anything to me? Why didn’t I pick up
on the fact that she was afraid? I’ve asked myself often enough.
At the time I was preoccupied with work, under pressure,
putting the finishing touches to the deal that made me rich
enough never to have to worry about money again. She may
have felt I was too busy to bother with her problems I find
that hard to bear.
I reached a decision then, right there in that hell-hole where the horror caught up with her, which was as binding as a
solemn oath. After fourteen months, I didn’t need to analyse
my pledge or question its legitimacy. The police, who’d
achieved nothing in all that time, had as good as admitted
defeat, closed the case. The rage against injustice which I’d
suppressed for long enough had distilled into cold clear
resolve. I’ve always had drive, the voice inside you that will
never, never let you give up, but from now on, I decided, I
would devote all my energy and resources to avenging
Sophie’s death.
If it took the rest of my life I was going to find him.
I’d heard something: a soft, dry whirring sound that seemed
to come from above my head. Resisting the urge to snap on the torch, I held my breath and listened. The whirring noise
stopped, but for a moment longer I thought I could hear
breathing that I knew wasn’t mine.
By now my eyes had adjusted to the blackness. I was
conscious of a faint glow around the vent at the top of the dome. It came from a tiny segment of the night sky that had
just grown darker. A shadow had passed over it as if someone
had moved their head into the opening and was looking down
at me through the rusted grille.
Careful not to make any noise, I reached for the torch that lay on the floor beside me and closed my fingers around the handle. Then, in one swift movement, I swung it upward and, aiming at the centre of the ceiling, hit the switch.
The beam sprang onto the target. Blinking at the sudden
brightness, I squinted along the shaft of light. I can’t be sure
of exactly what it was I saw glinting back at me from behind the grille. Possibly the lens of a camera, or a pair of glasses,
or a refracting eye … it had a metallic bluish tint.
The next instant it was gone.
It took me at most thirty seconds to scramble from the grotto’s
inner chamber to the top of the mound. There was no one
there. My heart still racing, I shone the torch all around,
throwing the beam into the undergrowth, up into the trees – it revealed nothing unusual, no movement anywhere this
end of the garden.
Searching the bushes on the mound, I found the outlet for
the air-vent easily enough. It was capped by a heavy stone
cowl. The ground round about showed no sign of having
been disturbed.
Yet I knew I hadn’t imagined what happened, I knew I’d
seen something.
Just then I heard the explosive chatter of a motorino starting up the far side of the perimeter wall on Via della
Scala. I wheeled around, swinging the light up to the top
of the wall, when my mobile went off in my pocket like an
alarm clock.
Laura! I’d promised to call her before seven, and it had
gone clean out of my head. I answered without waiting for
her to speak.
'Sweetheart, I’m sorry . . . I’m on my way now. All well?’
There was a long pause.
'All well here. How you doing?’
It was a man’s voice, husky, lilting.
'Who is this?’ My first thought was that somebody was with Laura, but that made no sense. There was a sudden dull
thump from the other end of the line, followed by incoherent
mumbling.
I glanced at the
I began to shiver although it wasn’t cold.
I remembered the last time I saw Sophie, we were standing
on Via del Moro outside the restaurant where Laura and I
dined last night. We’d had an argument, nothing major, and
she seemed a little down. I almost asked her if everything
was all right, but Sophie brightened and the moment went
past. This was only a week before it happened, when it seems
certain she was already being stalked.
Why didn’t she say anything to me? Why didn’t I pick up
on the fact that she was afraid? I’ve asked myself often enough.
At the time I was preoccupied with work, under pressure,
putting the finishing touches to the deal that made me rich
enough never to have to worry about money again. She may
have felt I was too busy to bother with her problems I find
that hard to bear.
I reached a decision then, right there in that hell-hole where the horror caught up with her, which was as binding as a
solemn oath. After fourteen months, I didn’t need to analyse
my pledge or question its legitimacy. The police, who’d
achieved nothing in all that time, had as good as admitted
defeat, closed the case. The rage against injustice which I’d
suppressed for long enough had distilled into cold clear
resolve. I’ve always had drive, the voice inside you that will
never, never let you give up, but from now on, I decided, I
would devote all my energy and resources to avenging
Sophie’s death.
If it took the rest of my life I was going to find him.
I’d heard something: a soft, dry whirring sound that seemed
to come from above my head. Resisting the urge to snap on the torch, I held my breath and listened. The whirring noise
stopped, but for a moment longer I thought I could hear
breathing that I knew wasn’t mine.
By now my eyes had adjusted to the blackness. I was
conscious of a faint glow around the vent at the top of the dome. It came from a tiny segment of the night sky that had
just grown darker. A shadow had passed over it as if someone
had moved their head into the opening and was looking down
at me through the rusted grille.
Careful not to make any noise, I reached for the torch that lay on the floor beside me and closed my fingers around the handle. Then, in one swift movement, I swung it upward and, aiming at the centre of the ceiling, hit the switch.
The beam sprang onto the target. Blinking at the sudden
brightness, I squinted along the shaft of light. I can’t be sure
of exactly what it was I saw glinting back at me from behind the grille. Possibly the lens of a camera, or a pair of glasses,
or a refracting eye … it had a metallic bluish tint.
The next instant it was gone.
It took me at most thirty seconds to scramble from the grotto’s
inner chamber to the top of the mound. There was no one
there. My heart still racing, I shone the torch all around,
throwing the beam into the undergrowth, up into the trees – it revealed nothing unusual, no movement anywhere this
end of the garden.
Searching the bushes on the mound, I found the outlet for
the air-vent easily enough. It was capped by a heavy stone
cowl. The ground round about showed no sign of having
been disturbed.
Yet I knew I hadn’t imagined what happened, I knew I’d
seen something.
Just then I heard the explosive chatter of a motorino starting up the far side of the perimeter wall on Via della
Scala. I wheeled around, swinging the light up to the top
of the wall, when my mobile went off in my pocket like an
alarm clock.
Laura! I’d promised to call her before seven, and it had
gone clean out of my head. I answered without waiting for
her to speak.
'Sweetheart, I’m sorry . . . I’m on my way now. All well?’
There was a long pause.
'All well here. How you doing?’
It was a man’s voice, husky, lilting.
'Who is this?’ My first thought was that somebody was with Laura, but that made no sense. There was a sudden dull
thump from the other end of the line, followed by incoherent
mumbling.
I glanced at the
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