He finds Louisa’s address behind a large iron security gate, which, not surprisingly in Italy, has been propped open solely for convenience.
The courtyard is breathtaking.
A long and deeply gravelled drive opens up to reveal a quadrangle of ancient, ivy-clad houses that are amongst the most expensive in the city. Some have been turned into select offices for high-earning local professionals and the rest are rented out to cash-rich foreigners.
Tom walks past terracotta fountains and abundant flower beds before he finds Louisa’s block.
Behind a clear-windowed oak door he sees a red-faced, middle-aged man bawling out two maids.
Tom raps on the door pane.
The man breaks from his thundery attack, puts on a sunny smile and opens up for him.
‘Si?’
Tom is hit by a backdraught of alcohol fumes. ‘I’m looking for Louisa Verdetti.’ He steps in from the rain without being asked.
‘And you are?’
‘Tom. I’m her friend from America.’
‘Wait.’ The man points to the two maids. ‘You wait too. I haven’t finished with you.’ He picks up a phone and hits some numbers.
Tom smiles sympathetically at the two women, who are now talking to each other in what he thinks is either Polish or Russian.
The man puts the receiver down. ‘She is not there. You want to leave a message?’
Tom searches for a pen in his pocket and picks up a yellow Post-it pad off the small desk. ‘Sure. Do you have any idea where she is?’
‘Ospedale.’
‘No, she’s not at work.’ Tom writes down his name and cell number.
‘Not working, being treated. She has some problem with her ankle, I think.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Some neighbours just called by to see if she was all right. They saw her earlier being helped into a car by a man and a woman.’
Alarm bells ring with Tom. ‘Why?’
The man seems puzzled. ‘Because she couldn’t walk properly. They were concerned and went out to help. The driver waved them off and said everything was okay and not to worry. It seems she had twisted her ankle and fainted and they were taking her straight to the hospital.’
Tom doesn’t buy it. ‘What time was this?’
He shrugs. ‘Not long ago. About an hour or two.’ He points to the waiting maids. ‘I was inspecting the rooms. They would be cleaner if I did them myself.’
‘Can you tell me the name and address of these neighbours you mentioned?’
The man looks at him suspiciously. ‘I’ll come with you.’ He turns to the maids. ‘You two do not move. That should be easy for you.’
87
Federico is leaning in a shop doorway, smoking and watching the rain fall, as Tom puddle-splashes his way back to the car. ‘No luck?’ the lieutenant calls as he steps from his shelter and flicks the last of the cigarette into the potholed road.
Tom shakes his head and slips into the back seat, behind Valentina. ‘Damned weather! I look like a drowned cat.’
She turns and weighs him up with a smile on her face. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I quite like the wet look. It reminds me of when you’ve just showered.’
Federico grumpily grunts his way behind the wheel, ending all possibility of further flirtation. ‘So what’s the story?’
Tom struggles out of his wet coat as he answers. ‘Louisa was at home just a short while ago. Some neighbours saw her being driven off by a man and woman they’ve never seen before.’
‘Did you speak to them?’ asks Valentina.
‘Only the man; his wife was out. He said he came out of his apartment after hearing a lot of noise on the gravel. At first he thought Louisa was drunk, because she was held up between the couple.’
‘Drugged?’ asks Federico rhetorically.
‘The neighbour says they were virtually carrying her. The man waved him away. Gave him some story about her passing out after she twisted her ankle and fell on the stairs. He said they were taking her to hospital.’
Valentina turns to Federico. ‘Is there anyone you trust at work who can do a check at the clinics, see if she was admitted somewhere?’
‘Si. I know such people. I can get it checked, but I don’t think we’ll find anything. If someone’s fainted, you sit them down, give them air and maybe some water. She would have been well enough to have talked to her neighbours.’
Valentina knows he’s right. ‘Anything else?’
Tom wipes drips of water from his face. ‘No. The door guy at her apartment is a jerk. Probably overworked and drunk most of the time. He said he hadn’t seen anything suspicious.’
Federico runs the palm of his hand back and forth across the top of a steering wheel that’s grown shiny from years of hard Italian driving. ‘I’m trying to think why anyone would want to drug and abduct a psychiatric clinician.’
‘The usual reasons are sexual, financial or emotional,’ observes Valentina. ‘Some sleazy creep has been stalking her?’
Federico asks the obvious. ‘Sure, but what’s the link to Anna?’
Valentina’s trying to figure it out. ‘Maybe she’s been taken by someone who blames her for Anna’s death?’
Federico’s nicotined fingers drum a heavy bass on the wheel. ‘I hope not. I really hope not.’
Valentina explains to Tom: ‘If it’s a revenge kidnap, then we’ve got no chance of getting her back. They’re going to kill her.’
88
They’ve left a dented steel bucket in the corner of the cell for her to use as a toilet.
But Louisa can’t.
Her body is desperate for relief, but her brain is screaming no.
She stands and stretches.
Paces.
Leans against the cold and rusty iron bars, then shakes them until the noise echoes down distant tunnels.
But nothing takes her mind off the bucket and her bladder.
Thank God she’s only drunk a little water, and not the vast amounts of coffee she usually does.
She stares at the bucket.
They’ve not even left a bowl of water or any soap to wash her hands with.
Suddenly the severity of her situation crushes her.
An unexpected cry leaps from her mouth. Once out, it seems to drag several uncontrollable sobs behind it.
She’s shaken by her surprising outbreak of emotion.
She tells herself she’s a strong woman, a professional, used to fighting her way through things. She hasn’t cried for years and shouldn’t be sobbing her heart out now.
She palms away the tears and studies the streaks they’ve made on her dusty hands.
She has to pull herself together.
Make the best of the situation she’s in.
Mustn’t let anyone see that she’s frightened to death.
She doesn’t so much walk to the bucket as charge at it.
It’s not going to beat her.
They’re not going to beat her.
She grinds it into the dust, unbuckles her belt, slips down her two-hundred-euro trousers, squats and pees.
Job done.
She re-dresses, moves to the front of the cell and shakes the bars again. ‘Hey! Hey! In here! Someone! Hey!’
She carries on shouting and shaking until the purple-cloaked man reappears.
She reads his face.
He looks irritated that he’s been summoned by the noise she made. He’s human, that’s all. Nothing special. Beatable.
‘I’ve finished thinking,’ she says.
‘Good.’
‘I need a phone.’
His eyes say not a chance.