The thought of being held indefinitely and experiencing unimaginable horrors made tears instantly well in her eyes. She was afraid that the sound of her sobbing would alert her kidnappers that she was awake. So she held her hand over her mouth, trying to keep her gasps quiet. She thought of her mother and father, and how afraid they would be for her. How she longed to fold herself into her mother’s arms, sheltered from the world, and be under her father’s protective gaze. More than anything, Emily just wanted to hear her parents tell her everything would be okay.
She thought now of how overbearing she’d found her mother and father at times, and how she’d had her brattish moments. What she would give now to take back any bad words she’d thrown at them, to tell them how much she loved them. Another wave of tears hit her as she thought that she might never see them or her brother or her friends again. When she had exhausted herself from crying and her breath began to come evenly again, she stood up and listened out for any sounds beyond the door, knowing that at any moment her life could be over.
The room was probably five metres by four with no windows or natural light. She didn’t know if it was day or night, or for how long she’d been unconscious. She took in every detail around her. Against one wall, there was a desk and a chair. She quietly opened the drawers to find paper and pens, neatly placed, which seemed strange to her. There was a TV on the desk too but she didn’t dare turn it on. On the farthest end of the wall was a curtain. Fear caught in her throat. She was terrified to pull it open, afraid of what would be on the other side. But Emily knew that if there was any chance of an escape passage behind the curtain, she needed to act quickly. Her heart was beating so loudly that she thought anyone beyond the door would be able to hear it. She slid her fingers down the side of the fabric and peered behind it. When she did, she was astonished to see another door. She placed her hand on the cold metal knob and turned it slowly, her breath quickening. Expecting it to be locked tight like the other door, she was shocked when it slid open with ease to reveal a bathroom with a shower and a toilet. It was clean, and there was a fresh roll of toilet paper, a toothbrush and toothpaste, unopened hand soap, and shampoo and conditioner in the shower. There was even a pile of white towels. Again, it struck her as incredibly strange. If someone had been an opportunist and had grabbed her as she ran alone down the deserted alleyway, they wouldn’t have had time to prepare supplies like this. Unless, she thought with a shiver, they had been waiting months or years even, for the exact right moment to snatch an unsuspecting girl off the street. There was something about the orderliness of her confinement that just seemed so odd.
There was no key on the bathroom door and no windows in there either. She walked out of the bathroom and back into the main room, and now that her initial panic was subsiding she was able to take in details she hadn’t noticed before. On the wall opposite the bed was a dresser. She pulled out the drawers and felt sick all over when she saw what was inside. The first drawer held packets of unopened underwear and socks. The next drawer had T-shirts and shorts. And in the last one she found cardigans, pyjamas and long pants. All of the clothing still had tags on. Panic rose up again. Whoever took her had to have planned this. The thought made her queasy. She swallowed bile at the back of her throat and looked at her trembling hands.
It seemed far too coincidental that the clothes were for a girl of her size. Someone had to have been watching her, waiting for her.
Maybe her captor was a sociopath and a clean freak. Maybe there had been a girl before her, right here in this room; maybe he’d grown tired of her and Emily was to be the replacement. She shuddered at the thought of what could have become of her possible predecessor.
She had to escape, and fast, and to do that, Emily knew she needed to push away the panic and think rationally. She got on her hands and knees and felt along the surface of the hard wood flooring, searching for any anomalies, perhaps a floorboard out of place that might be an escape route or an exit to a cellar. Then she crawled under the bed and felt each board until she cut the edges of her fingers trying to pry them up. When that didn’t achieve anything, she frantically ran her fingers along the walls, which were covered in floral yellow wallpaper. She was searching for a gap, a crack, a peephole, a window into what lay beyond the walls – anything that might tell her where she was. She had the feeling she was running out of time, so next she turned her gaze to the ceiling and spun around, searching for any way to escape. But there was no skylight in the vaulted ceiling, which had exposed wooden beams running across it.
Emily went to the bathroom and did the same, opening all the cupboards, feeling the tiles to no avail. Deflated and with terror overcoming her again, she sat on the bed, her body shaking with fear.
The room smelled damp and mouldy. Perhaps she was underground, like in a cellar, but what if she wasn’t? What if she was in some sort of underground bunker, trapped in a small cell, a world without night or day, no way to measure the passing time.
It occurred to her that she could scream for help until her lungs hurt but then that would only alert her abductors and maybe make them so angry that they would duct-tape her mouth shut or tie her up. And surely, if they’d gone to the trouble of preparing the room the way they had, it would have some sort of soundproofing.
Emily knew that at any moment the lock could click and the door handle could turn, and she would be faced with her worst nightmare. She looked around the room for anything she could use as a weapon, but all she could find were a few pencils, which wouldn’t do any harm.
How would she survive another minute in this confinement? Any form of torture could be awaiting her. She cursed herself for running alone and for turning down the quiet laneway. When she was running with her music blaring through her headphones, she had felt invincible. Now she realised that she had been stupid, naive, an easy target. If only she could wind back the clock and turn around at the piazza and go back to the villa. If only she could have her time again.
Now, she would never finish school. She would never fall in love or get married or have children. She would die here in this windowless room.
A sense of sheer hopelessness overcame her and this time Emily had no strength to keep her sobs quiet. She cried and cried, until her throat burned, until her sobs became loud choking gasps for air, until her eyes felt heavy and swollen.
And then suddenly Emily heard a noise from beyond the door. She crawled behind the bed and ducked down, holding her breath. She waited with terror for the sound of the door opening but nothing came. And then there was silence again.
She stood up slowly and peered over the bed. A typed letter had been slipped under the door. She went to it cautiously and then held it up in her trembling hands.
Emily, you will not be harmed in any way. Your life is not in danger. We are holding you for ransom. As long as your parents comply with our demands, you will be released. You will be fed and there are clean clothes and bathroom necessities. There is also a TV in your room. If you open the desk drawer, there are pens and paper. Use these if you need to communicate with us by slipping it under the door. Do not scream or try to escape. You will receive your first meal shortly.
Even after Emily re-read the letter several times, she wasn’t sure if what she felt was relief or dread. They wrote her name, so now she knew for certain that it wasn’t a random abduction. But why did they choose her parents? They weren’t rich. Perhaps the abductors had seen her father’s many television appearances and had assumed they were wealthy.
Emily was immediately comforted by the fact that they weren’t going to rape or kill her. Although, who knew? Maybe saying she wouldn’t be harmed was simply a ploy to keep her calm as long as possible.
If her parents knew she had been abducted for ransom, they would do everything they could to secure her release. They would find the money somehow. And she knew they would act quickly. So, for the first time since she woke up in the terrifying room, she felt a grain of hope. As long as her parents complied, she
would be released. Until then, Emily had to keep her mind occupied and not let herself collapse into panic. If she let the claustrophobia and confinement and helplessness rule her thoughts, she simply wouldn’t be able to endure it.
She would observe everything she could – any sounds, any descriptions of the room that would help the police catch the guys who took her once she was released. And she had to believe she would be released. Because the alternative would kill her before they did.
DANIEL
If the police thought they could keep the media at bay, they were wrong. Daniel looked through the windows of his bedroom out to the end of the long driveway and beyond the villa gates: there were television crews, reporters holding microphones, long-lens cameras, media vans with tall antennas, and tripods lined up beside each other.
Daniel had been in his room for the past two hours and had made the foolish mistake of researching kidnap-for-ransom cases on the internet. Sure, there were some stories where the extortionists’ demands had been met and the hostages had been returned unharmed; but frighteningly, there were too many cases where money had been paid and the person had never been returned despite the promises made. In some haunting accounts, the bodies were found days or months later, and in others they remained missing, leaving their families to suffer without answers indefinitely.
So, Daniel was not going to pretend that he believed the abductors’ assurances that Emily wouldn’t be harmed. He knew that anyone who took a child for the purpose of profiting from the crime could never be trusted. Of course, Daniel could never say this to his mother. Instead, he kept reassuring her that this would all be over soon and Emily would be returned to them safe and well.
Daniel wished that the abductors had taken him instead of his sister. Would they have snatched him first if they’d had the opportunity, or had they deliberately chosen her? His sister would have been more easily overpowered, no weapons required, but they would have needed force to take him.
The most terrifying part of the abductors’ demand was that they hadn’t asked for money. If it was money, Daniel was sure his parents would find a way to deliver the sum. What these kidnappers were asking for was an ancient antiquity worth hundreds of millions of euros. A rare – unique – piece of history. And now it had vanished, just like his sister. So, how could you trade something that was missing for the life of a person who was missing? It was an impossible bargain. Their only hope of getting Emily back was to find the necklace.
There was no doubt in Daniel’s mind now that the theft of the necklace and his mother’s car accident were linked. Of course, it didn’t help that his mother remembered nothing of that night. If she could recall anything – a car that might have been trailing her or a description of a person who may have caused her accident, there would at least be some trail to follow. So, what next? Did they go public and plead with one set of criminals to return the necklace so that another set of criminals would return his sister?
There was a knock on the door and Daniel looked up to see a detective standing outside. He was a tall and imposing man, with a dimple in the centre of his chin and an expressionless face. ‘Hi Daniel, do you have a few moments?’
Daniel stood up and nodded.
‘Do you mind coming to the dining room? I just wanted to ask you a few questions. It’s standard procedure that we interview everyone close to Emily to make sure we don’t miss anything.’
Daniel followed him downstairs. The shutters on all the windows were closed and those without had been covered with black fabric, which Daniel assumed was to block the media from seeing inside. The dining room was now a sort of interview room. The table remained and on it was a recording device. The detective gestured for him to sit down and offered him a glass of water. Daniel declined, but he poured himself and Daniel one any way.
He had thick eyebrows and sideburns, and a penetrating gaze, the kind that made Daniel uncomfortable. After small talk, the detective jumped straight in. ‘So, Daniel, to start, is there anything more specific about the man you saw facing the villa with his binoculars that you can recall?’
Daniel scanned his memories once more and shrugged. ‘Only what I told the first officer. That he had a cap and sunglasses on and dark-coloured clothing.’
‘What about his build?’
‘He was average height, I guess. And stocky.’
The detective scribbled on his notepad ‘Anything else you think we should know? Anyone close to you or your family who’s been acting out of character?’
Daniel thought for a moment. There was something troubling him, a niggling feeling, but he couldn’t put his finger on exactly what it was.
Daniel rubbed his clammy palms on his jeans and looked up to see the detective watching him closely. ‘No. There’s nothing.’
MARCO
When you haven’t exactly had a glowing role model for a father, the idea of becoming one yourself is a terrifying prospect. Two years after we were married, Sarah told me her cycle was late. She wasn’t on the pill, so we were careful, most of the time. The thought of an accidental pregnancy never really occurred to me. I was too preoccupied with my studies to even entertain the idea. I’d never wanted to be a father, because I didn’t want to ruin my offspring the way my dad ruined me.
It was hard to imagine an alternative way of child rearing when I’d only known my father’s form of parenting, if you could even call it that. Growing up, it had been a normal occurrence for me to scavenge for food or to sleep resting against the front door to our unit because my father had passed out drunk and locked me out.
I had one good schoolfriend, Luca, who lived in a nice neighbourhood and was fortunate enough to never have stepped inside Vele di Scampìa. I went over to his house as often as I could. In his home, I got a window into a normal father–son relationship that to me seemed so foreign. Luca used to play basketball most afternoons with his papà. When I came over, the three of us would shoot hoops and play two-on-one. Afterwards, his dad would make us mozzarella in carrozza. Once, when I was over, Luca told his dad that he had got a D in a maths test. I instantly felt my shoulders tense and I ducked lower in the chair, waiting for his father to explode into a fit of rage and yell taunts at him like my father did to me. But in a kind voice Fernando told Luca that he needed to work harder for the next test and that they would go through the paper together and see what areas he needed to improve on. Fernando must have registered my fear or seen my jaw lock because he told me he could help me too, an offer I accepted even though I had got an A on the same paper.
When I got home later that evening, my father was lying on the couch, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, an empty bottle of rum at his feet. I quietly went to my room and pretended that Fernando was my real father. I closed my eyes and pictured Luca’s room and imagined I was there now, safe and secure, with a warm and loving father who cared about me.
‘Vieni quí stronzo e versami un whisky,’ my father yelled at me, snapping me out of my make-believe world. Come here, arsehole, and pour me a whisky.
That was the thing about getting swept up in your imagination: reality eventually smacked you in the face.
I arrived at Lake Como train station and received a brutal reality check when I glanced at the cover of a discarded newspaper with the headline 16-YEAR-OLD GIRL KID NAPPED IN MENAGGIO.
It was accompanied by a photo of Emily smiling on a bridge over the Arno River with the Ponte Vecchio behind her. I picked it up and before I got the chance to read the article, I looked up to see an officer waiting for me.
‘Signor Moretti, I’ve come to escort you to the villa in Menaggio,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘My name is Lieutenant Antonio Abbiati.’
‘Thank you.’ I half-smiled.
He was wearing the traditional uniform with a red stripe down the side of his black trousers and a white shoulder belt. ‘It’s on every cover,’ he said, glancing down at the newspaper in my hand.
He had beady eyes and thick black hair, which was tucked
under his cap.
‘Are there any updates?’ I asked as I followed him to his vehicle.
‘The magistrate will provide you with further updates.’
He led me to a carabinieri car, easily recognisable by its dark blue paint, white roof and red stripe along the side. I was grateful that he didn’t attempt to make small talk and instead drove in silence along the winding and narrow lakeside streets towards Menaggio.
I’d never been to James’s villa so I was caught completely off guard when we turned into the lane and I saw media camped outside the gates like a swarm of locusts. A reporter turned to see us approach and rushed forward, and then, like a domino effect, the rest ran towards the car, swivelling their tripods and gripping their microphones and video cameras. Carabinieri stationed at the gates ushered them away so we could pass, but one journalist slid through and banged on the car window, yelling. ‘What do you think happened to your daughter? Do you believe she’s still alive?’
The words ‘still alive’ made my stomach do a backflip. I had always befriended reporters and journalists, using them to maintain my public profile, but now a vile hatred towards them rose within me. How dare they taunt me with such a vitriolic question?
Thankfully, it was a long driveway to the villa, which kept their prying eyes at a distance. A bubble of guilt and cowardice rose in my chest as I prepared to face my wife and son.
Antonio opened the boot and I took my luggage and walked inside. I was immediately overwhelmed by the huge police presence. In the first room, a team of officers were typing furiously at desks with computers, while phones rang.
The Perfect Couple Page 18