Out of the Ice (30 page)

Someone was definitely home. Lights were glowing on both floors. But if anyone was in the basement, I wouldn’t be able to see. I shivered at the thought of Snow doing awful things to vulnerable children; I still found it hard to imagine. The air was so cold it felt like icicles were forming in my nose. I went back to my car and huddled inside where it was only slightly less Arctic but I didn’t want to start the engine to put the heating on.

By midnight I was debating whether to go back to my motel when the gates swung open. I sank down into my seat, my pulse quickening. Here at last was a sign of Snow – or was it?

A black SUV crawled slowly onto the street and turned left, away from town. The gates swung firmly shut. I waited until the SUV was a distance down the road, and followed. I could see from the receding red lights of my quarry that we were heading for the private marina.

By the sea, the fog was rolling in again, hiding activity. I parked down the street and walked, the damp air chilling my bones.

The SUV had stopped by a boat that was moored in the canal. I arrived just in time to see six small bodies slip out of the car and move towards the boat. Boys. Teenagers. Dark-haired, in warm coats, scarves and gloves. The last one out of the SUV was Snow. He walked casually as he ushered the boys onto the mid-sized fishing vessel, which roared its engines to life and blasted a beam into the night. Snow stood on the dock and held one hand into the air, waving, as the boat cruised out through the fog into the breakers, finally disappearing into a grey–white soup.

My breathing was strained; I had nowhere to hide as Snow turned back to his SUV. Fearing I’d be caught in his headlights I sprinted to the nearest greenery on the other side of the car park. Had he seen me? It was impossible to tell as I crouched behind a prickle-filled bush. His car rolled smoothly out of the car park and went back up the street towards his house.

I waited for ages before I dared to get up. My knees were stiff and my shoulders ached from stress and the heavy, cold air. Should I call the police? But what would I say? It was more likely they’d ask me what I was doing rather than interrogate Snow. What I’d seen didn’t prove anything. My stomach wrenched. A group of boys, similar in age to the boy I’d seen in the ice, had just been sent out to sea. I felt I should have intervened, but the scientist in me knew I didn’t have anything of substance to back up my fears.

The US Coast Guard stationed at the lighthouse would be aware the boat had sailed. There was no doubt they’d have the most sophisticated equipment, but what I didn’t know was whether they would be tracking the children: it wasn’t against the law to take kids on a motor around the harbour at night.

I phoned Georgia but she didn’t pick up – it went straight through to messages. ‘Georgia, Snow’s just sent a boatload of boys out to sea. Please call me.’

I hung up, my head pounding as my frustration built.
Why
wasn’t Georgia getting back to me?

I phoned Kate, trying to work out what time it was on South Safety, but I was too frazzled. Would she still be at Alliance, or already down at Fredelighavn for the day? Her voice came on the line.

‘Leave a message and I’ll get back to you. Too busy with my penguins. Seeya.’

‘Kate, call me. It’s about Snow. It’s urgent!’

I waited.

And waited.

A rosy sunrise crept into the sky.

I was dizzy but realised I needed to get out of the marina. The boat hadn’t come back and workers would be arriving soon. As I drove slowly past Snow’s place I couldn’t see anything. There were no lights on.

At the motel, I looked up the US Coast Guard online. I desperately wanted to put through a call. Doing nothing was making me shivery, like I was coming down with the flu. I forced myself to be calm. Georgia must get back to me soon, and I’d be able to discuss everything with her.

I slept briefly, and then went down to a small dining area and rushed through a late breakfast, gazing at my phone, willing it to ring. I couldn’t stop thinking that there was a boatload of boys who could be taken anywhere and have indescribable things happen to them. The boy in the ice, boys put to sea under darkness . . . it was all too strange and I couldn’t stand by and do nothing. I could wait no longer – I hurried back to my room and called the Coast Guard. A man with a deep, stern voice picked up. I gave my name and explained my fears that a group of young boys had been put on a boat in the middle of the night. With some reluctance, I mentioned Snow’s name – and was met with stony silence.

‘Thank you, ma’am, we’ll look into it.’

‘Can I come down and make a statement?’

‘All maritime activity is monitored, ma’am, so there’s no need. Thank you for your call, Doctor Alvarado, we appreciate your vigilance. Please phone back if there’s anything else you’d like to report.’ He hung up.

I had no idea whether he’d taken me seriously. He’d given nothing away. It was a small place, and people knew each other. In my worst-case scenario, the man I’d spoken to could be in on whatever was happening. What if he told Snow that I was here, reporting on him? It would be easy to track me down at my motel. Growing increasingly paranoid and concerned, I couldn’t stop myself from phoning again. The same man picked up.

‘I was just wondering what you were going to do?’ I said.

‘Ma’am.’ This time his voice had an angry edge. ‘As I’ve said, thank you for passing on the information. We will be investigating. And may I ask you what you were doing at a private marina? Do you have a boat there?’

‘I couldn’t sleep, so I went for a walk.’

‘That’s private property. I don’t think you should go there again unless you have business. Thank you again for your vigilance, have a good day.’ He hung up and the skin on the back of my neck prickled.

Where
was Georgia? I needed to speak to her, badly. Without any evidence of wrongdoing, I was stuck. I only had my instincts, which I knew weren’t always right. It seemed I’d been wrong about Snow.

Exhausted, I lay on the bed to think, but quickly fell into a troubled sleep with feverish dreams of the boy in the ice. And now he wasn’t alone: Snow’s group of teenagers had joined him. In the ice cave sat a circle of men, and the boys stood naked in the middle. It was a witchcraft ceremony. There was a guitar-strum rhythm – incongruous, intrusive – as the men rose and walked slowly towards the boys—

I sat up covered in sweat and realised my phone was ringing. I snatched it up.

‘Laura it’s me, Georgia,’ said the familiar voice on the other end. My body slumped with relief. She sounded rushed, like she was running.

‘Thank God you rang,’ I said. ‘Did you get my messages?’

‘I certainly did. I can’t speak for long, I’m in Madrid, about to catch a connecting flight. I think the boy you saw in the ice is going to be arriving in Venice by boat. Laura, I’ve been working with David White and British detectives and now we’re getting the Italian police involved. We believe there’s a paedophile ring operating on South Safety Island. What you’ve just seen in Chatham is quite likely part of it. I need you to come to Venice and identify the boy you saw in the ice. Can you do that? You’re the only one who’s seen him, and that’s going to be crucial.’

Horror pulsed through me as my worst fears were confirmed. The boy flashed in front of me, his dark hair, pale face, mouth wide open screaming for help.
What were they doing to him?

‘I’ll catch the first flight out,’ I said, my heart thumping in my chest. I heard a loudspeaker crackle in the background.

‘That’s my final call,’ barked Georgia. ‘Meet me at my hotel – I’ll text the details.’ She hung up.

I tried to take in what I’d just heard. My head was splitting from stress and lack of sleep.
A paedophile ring
, Georgia had said. My poor boy. And the other boys – were they heading to South Safety Island? I should have stopped them. I should have pulled them off the boat. Whatever happened to them now was my responsibility. Fighting a wave of dizziness, I trawled through airlines to find flights to Venice.

I didn’t have time to check out of the motel. I left the key on the bed and hurried down the stairs with my luggage.

I hoped there weren’t traffic police about as I sped past every car on the road.

•  •  •

At Boston’s Logan Airport, I just made the plane. I was heading to New York, from where I would fly to Venice.

As we waited on the tarmac before take-off, I texted the motel to check they had my credit card number and to thank Wendy for my stay. Then I texted Nancy and explained that I couldn’t be back on Nantucket for a while but to be in touch if they found anything. I knew I should contact my mother, but I was too tired and preoccupied.

My hands were shaking, and as the plane taxied down the runway I braced myself. What had the boy in the ice been through? And what was happening to him now; why was he heading to Venice?

18

T
he Italian countryside spread below like a patchwork quilt in shades of lush green; the limpid grey sea came ever closer as we touched down at Venice Marco Polo airport.

It was 11am and there were crowds of tourists. I turned on my phone and saw that Georgia had texted her address: Hotel Leone Alato, her favourite place, nestled between St Mark’s Square and the Accademia Bridge.

A water taxi whisked me over the lagoon, the crumbling buildings of Venice looming into sight, thrusting up from the water like a magical fairytale. The last time I was in Venice I’d been on my own, trying to reconcile myself to losing Hamish, and hoping to forget Cameron. Attempting to feel all right about being single, rather than surrounded by a happy young family. Slowly the city had calmed me, washing around, soothing; the soft, muted colours of the palazzos and dark winding alleys were a perfect environment in which to grieve. The locals had been friendly. Some of the men too friendly. I ended up spending time with an American woman. We toured galleries and islands, and even went on an exorbitantly expensive gondola ride, serenaded under a star-filled sky. I had felt lonelier that night than ever before. The next day I’d left for Naples and had never been back.

The water taxi stopped at the tiny wharf of Hotel Leone Alato. I paid the driver and he grabbed my hand and hoisted me up onto the deck, then passed my luggage.

Two glass doors slid open and I walked into a gloomy lobby.

‘
Buon giorno
,’ called a throaty woman’s voice. ‘Can I help you, signora?’

‘I’m Laura Alvarado. I’m meeting Georgia Spiros.’

‘Ah, welcome, welcome.’ As my eyes adjusted to the light, I saw the woman behind the counter was in her late fifties, with flowing brown hair and silver jewellery draped artistically around her throat and chest. Huge rings adorned every finger. She jangled towards me and shook my hand.

‘I’m Silvia. I have a beautiful room for you with a view of the canal.’

‘I might just go straight up and see Georgia.’

‘Georgia? No.’ Silvia looked concerned. ‘She is not in.’

‘Did she say when she’d be back?’

Silvia shook her head and quickly, efficiently, checked me in, then took my case and led me to a tiny lift. We just fitted, squashed together like sardines. It was slow and creaky but we finally made it up to the second floor.

My room was decorated with sumptuous Venetian fabrics and through double glass doors twelve feet high was a tiny stone balcony.

‘We are in an old palazzo, so please, you tell me if you need heating or air, and I switch on from downstairs. We keep the temperature adjusted for the murals.’ Silvia pointed to the ceiling, where a beautiful colourful fresco showed angels leaping in all four corners. ‘Sixteenth century,’ she said.

As soon as Silvia left I phoned Georgia but was diverted to voicemail. ‘I’ve arrived,’ I said. ‘Can’t wait to see you.’ It hadn’t occurred to me that Georgia wouldn’t be here. Perhaps events had moved faster than expected but I was surprised she hadn’t left a note.

I stepped out onto the balcony. Sleek black gondolas full of tourists floated beneath, the gondoliers serenading in their blue and white striped tops and wide-brimmed hats. Two middle-aged women waved up at me, sending memories flooding back. I blocked them and retreated inside, firmly closing the doors.

In the silence, the piercing shrill of the hotel phone startled me. I picked up.

‘Laura,
prego
. There is a man to see you.’

‘I’ll come straight down,’ I replied, wondering who it could be.

In the dark lobby a tall, thin man in his sixties, with silky white hair, intense amber eyes and tanned skin, stood waiting. He spoke with a rolling accent and a soft, deep voice.

‘Doctore Alvarado?’ He shook my hand. ‘I’m Professor Fabio Natuzzi from Venice University. I’m very pleased to meet you. Georgia’s told me everything. But I was expecting her to be here, no?’

‘So was I. She’ll be back soon, I’m sure.’

Professor Natuzzi frowned, deep lines etching his brow. He took me gently by the elbow and led me away from the reception desk. ‘But Silvia says that Georgia didn’t come home last night. Is this like her?’

I stopped and stared at him. ‘Absolutely not.’

‘She not play with the men?’

‘She has a husband and two beautiful kids. Never.’ I grabbed my phone and looked at when Georgia had texted me the address. It would have been early evening here, last night.

‘Silvia,’ I called. ‘When did you last see Georgia?’

‘Before dinner yesterday. She went out.’

‘When did she come back?’

Silvia shrugged awkwardly. ‘I don’t think she did. Her bed’s not been slept in.’

My blood turned to ice. ‘Can I see her room?’

‘Normally no, but . . .’ Flustered, Silvia grabbed a key from its pigeonhole and led me to the lift. We squashed in.

‘I’ll follow. Which room?’ said Fabio.

‘Room three-eleven,’ said Silvia as the doors closed.

The lift clunked up. ‘Did she ever do this before when she stayed?’ I asked.

‘No, never. Georgia’s my friend. I’m very worried.’

I followed Silvia down an ornate passage on the top floor. Georgia’s room was grander than mine with a view over rooftops to St Mark’s Square.