It’s close to 10 pm. I’m sitting in the back of a police car. There are no sirens, no flashing lights. There is a police motorcade behind us. Ahead of us are four undercover vehicles that will move in first. We will wait a few blocks away for their call. They want to catch the abductor under the cloak of darkness. They don’t want to give him a chance to escape. A helicopter is on standby.
The roads between Lake Como and the Swiss border wind around the mountains. As we round a corner, you can’t see where the edge of the road drops off. My nerves are already at fever pitch, so the drive isn’t helping. We pass through long tunnels carved into the mountainside. Every now and then, the lights from an oncoming car illuminates a sheer cliff face. The roads are so terrifyingly narrow in places that I can’t believe they’re intended for two-way traffic. I think of the wide roads in Australia and how far I am from the only place I’ve ever called home.
I haven’t told Daniel that we know where Emily is. He thinks the detectives are interviewing me again. It’s better he doesn’t know until after Emily is safe. I couldn’t risk him confronting Marco or insisting on coming with us now. I don’t want him to carry more scars from this ordeal.
The static of the police radio on a secure channel comes through. My ears prick up as a man states that we are two kilometres from the waiting spot.
The officer in the passenger seat picks up the radio. ‘Ricevuto unita’ 6. Passo.’
The policewoman looks at me in the rear-view mirror. ‘How are you holding up, Signora Moretti?’
Terribly. I feel like my heart is going to stop beating. Like I will die before I get to see my daughter again. ‘I’m okay,’ I say instead. I hate my surname now. It connects me to Marco. ‘Please call me Sarah,’ I insist.
She turns her head to face me and smiles softly, as if she knows my answer is a lie. ‘This will all be over soon, Sarah.’
I assume they’ve put me in the car with the female officer because she is calm and kind, and they can’t afford for me to lose my mind and jeopardise the recovery. They have made a special allowance to have me there, but it comes with conditions. Once near the farmhouse, the police vehicle I’m in will be parked on the farthest end of the woodland and I am not allowed to get out of the car.
The officer pulls over beside a field along with the rest of the police motorcade. The engine goes off and the two officers who were in the car with me step out. Without the hum of the motor running, I can hear blood pounding in my ears. I’m suddenly aware of the tremor in my hands, the thump of my heart, the hairs on my arms standing up. They open the door for me to follow. The police gather round as Captain Palazzo addresses them for a final briefing. His voice is deep and resonant and commands attention.
‘The cell-phone triangulation has pointed to an area with a radius of three kilometres. Given that a van parked outside one of two farmhouses in that vicinity is registered to Stefano Gianno, a convicted drug dealer from Naples, we have strong reason to believe that is where Emily is being held. The perpetrator has committed a number of offences in the past including armed robbery, possession of a prohibited weapon, and drug dealing. He was recently released from a six-year stint in jail. Bail records indicate that he lives in Vele di Scampìa, in Naples, in the same tower Marco Moretti grew up in, so it is possible that they are well known to each other.’
The revelation is news to me. Marco never told me he grew up in the infamous Vele di Scampìa, known for the Camorra clans that ruled its corridors and the struggling families forced to coexist with them.
‘The offender could be armed, so NOCS will enter first. They will attempt to get him to surrender peacefully and release Emily without a fight, but he may not be acting alone. We have no indication that there is more than one offender, but Gianno is linked to a gang and has ties with drug traffickers. The only access to the farmhouse is via a dirt road. On either side is a field and then dense woodland.’ He holds up a floorplan. ‘The farmhouse is three storeys. We do not expect Emily will be on the ground level. There are two bedrooms on the first floor, which has a short corridor. Given both of these rooms have balconies, it would be unlikely that Emily would be concealed in either of these. The top floor has one bedroom and bathroom. It was converted from an attic into a bedroom, so there are no windows. We believe Emily could be hidden there.’
I picture the attic-style bedroom with no windows, and the heat from the European summer rising and becoming trapped within its four walls. There would be no way for Emily to tell day from night. I can feel her fear. It’s raw, visceral, choking.
‘There is one other area where Emily could be hidden, and that is in the original vaulted cellar, which has two access points – the kitchen stairwell and the garden.’
I don’t know which idea terrifies me more: the heat of a small attic or the cold, dark and damp confines of a cellar.
Palazzo continues to run through the plan for the search and rescue, noting where the different units will be placed.
I look over at the NOCS rescue team, an elite tactical unit trained to deal with hostage negotiation and rescue. They make imposing figures with their heavy armour and bulletproof vests. Under their helmets they wear balaclavas that reveal only their eyes, which remain focused and serious, almost robotic. They carry large assault rifles in their gloved hands, the kind I’ve only seen on the news or in movies, and below are things strapped around their legs. The sheer manpower and weaponry needed for the rescue brings home the terrifying gravity of the situation. Once they have been briefed, they get back into their vehicles and drive off. Other than the lead investigators, who head off with the tactical team, the rest of the police units are told to wait in their vehicles with their lights off.
Once I’m back inside the car, it’s so quiet that I can hear the officers in the front breathing. Even their radio communication goes silent.
When ten minutes have passed with no radio contact, I start to shift uncomfortably. ‘Why do you think we haven’t heard anything?’ I ask, in an attempt to stop myself from thinking the worst.
‘They’re being overly cautious so they can catch the perpetrator off guard,’ the male officer says. ‘I know it might seem like it’s taking a long time but they are just covering all the bases so that they can ensure that nothing goes wrong.’
‘We’d hear something through the radio channel, right, if anything had happened by now?’
The female officer turns to me, her eyes warm. I wonder if she has any children of her own and if she knows the mental torment I am going through. ‘As soon as anything happens, they’ll radio through to us. You’ll be kept in the loop every step of the way.’
The silence resumes. Searing rage comes over me as I wonder once again how my husband could have put our daughter through this. Right now, if they handed me a gun and put me in a room with Marco, I don’t know what I would do.
Suddenly, the radio comes alive. ‘Moretti e’ in movimento. Dobbiamo entrare adesso. Tutte le unita’ convergete. Ricevuto?’
I manage to quickly translate it to news of Marco being on the move and the need for all units to go to the location and enter now.
The female officer speaks into the radio. ‘Ricevuto unita’ 6. Passo.’
The radio buzzes with ‘ricevuto’, copy, followed by each unit’s vehicle number, and then ‘passo’, over.
The engine turns on and within a second they’ve pulled away from the roadside and are speeding down the dark streets. I hear the buzz of a helicopter overhead.
The car is turning corners so fast I lose my bearings. It veers off the main road and onto a dirt track. Dust flies up and small stones hit the windows. We speed beneath tall trees on either side and then suddenly emerge in a secluded area surrounded by woodland. The officers pull over beside the other police units in front of a rustic stone farmhouse that overlooks the mountain tips of the Prealps. I can see the tactical response officers moving into position.
One group of the NOCS team uses a battering ram to bash down t
he front door. Another group on the side of the villa have a large pole and crowbar and are breaking down a back door.
‘We need you to stay in the vehicle, Sarah,’ the male officer says abruptly as they jump out the car.
I watch them disappear into a blaze of red and blue flashing lights. The police cars have parked in a semicircle to block anyone from entering or exiting. The officers quickly gather outside the farmhouse with their guns raised.
I unbuckle my seatbelt. This is my daughter; there is no way I am staying seated in this car. I get out and run towards them. I scan every inch of the darkness, trying to see ahead of them, searching for Emily.
The police are so focused that they don’t even notice me watching behind them. I desperately try to get a closer look. As I near, I can only see the backs of the police, their guns aimed towards the front door.
There is a commotion and shouting.
I see the tactical officers descend and then disappear down what I assume is the garden entry to the cellar. I don’t know why I keep picturing them coming out with a body bag. I want to slap myself out of this tormenting mind play. As I stand back, holding my breath, I hear a voice come through one of their portable radios stating that the cellar is clear. Then there is another buzz on the radio and a different voice relaying that the attic is clear. If she’s not in the cellar or the attic, where is she?
I can’t see ahead but my gaze falls to the ground, where I notice a black garbage bag. The bag is large and full. I feel sick all over. I start trembling. My knees go weak. My heart races. I’m going to faint.
It’s not a body bag, I tell myself. Everything will be fine. This will all end peacefully. You will be reunited with Emily any moment now. She will be unscathed. The man will hand her over without a fight.
I repeat these lines to myself like a mantra, even as the police move in closer, even as voices get louder, even when the detectives rush through the broken door.
Everything will be fine, I repeat to myself.
And then I hear a gunshot.
EMILY
Emily stared at the door. She just had to open it and walk out. She crept quietly towards it, put her hand on the knob and turned it slowly, afraid it would squeak.
It opened to a narrow staircase and she realised she’d been kept hidden in an attic. She knew the stairs creaked, so she descended them slowly, tiptoeing on her bare feet. The house was so quiet that she couldn’t detect where he could be; she hoped he was outside at his car.
She reached a landing. It must have been the second floor, because she passed a bedroom and gazed out of the windowed door to the balcony. The lights were out but the moon glowed bright enough to illuminate a lake surrounded by dense woodland. So, he was telling the truth – she was somewhere remote.
She stopped at the staircase to the ground level and held her breath. Where was he?
She had an idea. She would hide in this bedroom and wait for him to go up the stairs to her attic, and then she would run out. She wished she had thought to close the door to the attic room behind her; it would have bought her more time. When he saw the open door, he would surely know she had escaped.
Emily crept behind the curtain in the bedroom and held her breath. I can do this.
Minutes passed in haunting silence when suddenly a loud crash reverberated through the house. It sounded like a door thumping down. It shook her whole body. He must have gone into a fit of rage having discovered that she was gone. Now, he was coming after her. This was it. Her life was about to end. Right now, in this house, before she even had the chance to make a run for it.
Emily froze, thinking about where she could hide next. It seemed like her only option was to jump off the balcony. She might break her legs in the fall, but what choice did she have? Broken bones or death?
With shaking hands, she quietly opened the door to the balcony.
It was only then that Emily heard a commotion outside. Raised voices. Shouting. What if the man who’d hired him had come and realised with fury that he was going to let her go?
‘Drop the bag!’ she heard someone shout. Emily looked ahead and couldn’t believe her eyes. Police had swarmed around the house. They were everywhere. Relief flooded her. This was over. She was going to be freed.
She could see the police with their guns poised, facing her abductor.
‘Drop your weapon and put your arms in the air,’ they barked. He reached into his back pocket and placed his gun on the ground, and then lifted his arms up. His hands were shaking.
‘Where is she?’ they shouted.
‘I should never have agreed to this. It was a mistake. He should have done his own dirty work. Not me. I was going to let her go now,’ he rambled incoherently. ‘I was just packing everything into the car to take her to a village.’ He started to cry. ‘See!’ he shouted. ‘This bag is full of the supplies he told me to take – sheets, clothes, food, water.’ He bent down as if he was going to show them the contents of the garbage bag, but he reached right next to where he had propped his gun. Emily knew they would mistake this as a move towards his weapon, so she ran to the edge of the balcony and screamed, ‘Don’t shoot him!’
But it was too late. She heard the loud crack of a gunshot.
And his body fell to the ground.
SARAH
The sound of the gunshot reverberates through my whole body. I sprint forward and push past the police. I don’t even recognise my own voice as I cry out, ‘Where is my daughter?’
Out of nowhere, two officers grab me and gently stop me from going any farther. One holds me by my chest, the other by my good arm. I start thrashing around, ignoring a searing pain that shoots from my fractured wrist. What don’t they want me to see?
As they pull me back, I notice blood pooling on the ground beside a full black garbage bag. Then I see the legs of a man. A ripping sensation pierces my chest as though I’m the one who has been shot and my heart is bleeding.
He’s killed my daughter, my baby girl, she’s in the bag and the police have shot the man as he attempted to flee.
I collapse into their arms and start screaming and howling like a maimed animal.
‘She’s okay. Your daughter is fine,’ the policeman tells me, but I’m light-headed and crying so loudly that I don’t hear him at first. He repeats himself and it’s only then that I manage to hold back the rush of raw fear and absorb what he’s saying.
‘She’s okay?’ I repeat through the fog of my tears. As I say it, a gloved forensics officer rips open the black bag to reveal bedsheets, clothes, bottled water and food.
‘He was telling the truth,’ the officer says to his superior. Two ambulances pull up and paramedics rush out.
‘Emily is unharmed,’ the policeman assures me. He reaches his hand out to help me stand up. I’m still trembling. It’s as if my body hasn’t yet processed what I’ve been told. I start running to the front door. ‘Where is she?’ I call as I run.
I step inside. ‘Emily. Emily!’ I yell, searching for her. ‘I’m here!’
Red and blue lights from police cars flash through the windows, illuminating the surfaces and then throwing them back into darkness again and again. I scan around desperately for my daughter.
And then finally I see her coming down the staircase. A blanket is draped around her and a tactical officer is supporting her weight as if she is about to collapse. She’s sobbing loudly and gasping as tears stain her ghostly pale skin. Her eyes are wide and luminous. She seems dazed and confused, overwhelmed by a flood of emotions.
I sigh with a relief and rush towards her. She’s alive. My daughter is alive. I feel the weights that I have carried in my heart and in my chest untether themselves.
She looks up and sees me. ‘Mamma!’ she cries out like a small child. She lifts herself off the officer and reaches for me. I take her in my arms and hold her tight, feeling her body beneath mine, her breath on my shoulder, her skin on my cheek, her beating heart.
She’s crying so much that she�
�s shaking. My love for her is so fierce that tremors go right through me until I can’t be sure which shuddering movements are hers and which are mine. My daughter is hurting.
‘It’s okay, sweetheart, you’re safe now,’ I whisper as I hug her close and pat her hair with my one good hand. ‘You’re safe now,’ I say again.
She’s holding on to me so tight that her nails dig into my skin. I feel an ache as she grips me and I don’t know if it is the remnants of my broken ribs, the pain resurfacing, or something deeper, something that strikes me right in the heart. ‘Did that man harm you?’ I ask, terrified to know the answer.
‘No,’ she says, shaking her head as the detectives stand close, listening to every word. ‘He said he was going to let me go now. He kidnapped me for the money so he could go to university. And now he’s dead. They shot him.’ She is sobbing so much that her tears have dampened my clothes where her head was resting.
I can’t understand why she would care about the man at all. He had kept her locked up for three days. Has she got some form of Stockholm syndrome?
Seeing her distress prompts one of the detectives to speak up. ‘He was shot in the leg. He should make a full recovery.’
I’m shocked to see that Emily seems genuinely relieved. She breaks free of my arms and runs barefoot to the door. I follow behind her. She stops and watches as the paramedics put her abductor onto a stretcher on wheels and push it towards the ambulance. He turns his head and meets her gaze. There is a sort of silent understanding between them while he is loaded into the ambulance. I try to imagine what incommunicable sentiments are passing between captor and captive – a note of apology in his eyes perhaps, forgiveness in hers, or relief for both that the ordeal is over?
The Perfect Couple Page 27