As Roxy found her way through the underground tunnel that led past the train station and towards the bay, her first instinct was to pull her hair out of its tight ponytail and adjust the strands around her face, brushing her black fringe down in the process. She wished now that she’d popped on a little lip gloss and maybe a fresh shirt before she’d set out. She was exhilarated by the thought that she might soon be face to face with the man she loved, and terrified at the same time.
What would he say?
How would he react?
Roxy’s steps began to slow down. A sinking feeling settled in her stomach and she wondered if she was about to make a complete fool of herself. Perhaps she would find Max relaxing in his hotel and he would be both shocked and appalled by her presence, by the way that she and Caroline had reacted to his disappearance.
Suddenly all the doubts she felt up at Mt Pilatus came rushing back and she wondered now if they had jumped the gun. Maybe Caroline had been right all along. Maybe Max’s mobile devices had simply run out of battery power and he had no idea his loved ones were frantically searching for him.
Would he laugh at her for that? Or be furious and disappointed?
She shook her head. So why, then, did he send her that text message? SOS.
As she strode through the underpass, riddled with doubt, something caught Roxy’s eye and she stopped. It was a familiar face, staring out at her from the arched tunnel wall and she stepped towards it to take a closer look. A crudely designed Missing Poster showed Candy Marlow smiling widely above the line, “Help! Tourist missing!” There were a few lines urging people to contact the police if they had seen her and a phone number provided at the bottom. There was a similar poster beside it, this one in Italian with phone numbers at the bottom that you could tear off to call. Not one had been taken.
Roxy stared at the posters for a few minutes and didn’t care suddenly whether she had overreacted or not. Two people Max had befriended in Europe were dead or missing. He hadn’t returned any of their calls or e-mails in five days. Who wouldn’t assume the worst?
Feeling emboldened, she turned away and continued quickly through the tunnel and up towards the jetty. There were a dozen brightly coloured wooden fishing boats piled on top of each other on the ramp, others secured by ropes and red buoys, bobbing about in the small bay which was now glistening gold from nearby lights. Two fishermen were enjoying a smoke on the side of one vessel while a small boy played in another, a toy gun pointing at an invisible enemy.
Nightfall had descended but the area was well illuminated thanks to the twinkling lights from several surrounding restaurants and bars, and the crowds were swelling again as they settled in for drinks and dinner. Bursts of laughter came from groups sitting at outdoor tables and there was the salty smell of fresh seafood in the air and a cool breeze that was not unwelcome. Roxy felt that pang of regret, of missed opportunity again.
She looked around but couldn’t see any signs for Ola’s Villas so stepped towards a trattoria called Ted’s where an oily haired waiter in a brown velvet vest and multiple gold chains was ogling the crowd, and asked for directions. He squinted his dark eyes at her and offered her a leering smile.
“You want-eh table first?”
“No, thank you, I just need to know where Ola’s Villas are.”
“Why, you no hungry? I make-eh you hungry tonight, yes?”
“No,” she said firmly. “I just want to find Ola’s Villas.”
He thought about this. “Okay, I tell you then you come back and eat-eh with me, maybe yes?”
She glared at him. “Maybe no.”
He gave a half shrug that seemed to indicate a guy’s got to try, and pointed her towards a narrow, darkened side street, which appeared to lead away from the jetty and into the rock face.
“Through there?”
“Si. Just keep-eh going, you find.”
Roxy did as suggested and followed a labyrinth-like pathway, past several closed doors and shutters and up a steep, winding set of stone stairs until she found herself in front of a crumbling stone building with a freshly painted, lit-up sign that read: “Ola’s Villas: No vacancy”.
That’s what she was hoping for.
Crossing her fingers, she knocked on the front door. There was no sound. She knocked again, then again. Feeling frustrated, she stepped back, peered up towards the closed windows and yelled out, “Maaaax!”
Her voice echoed up and down the street, a dog barked in response, but no one answered. She sighed and then stepped back towards the door about to start knocking again when a high window in a building directly across the path lurched open.
An elderly woman looked out. “You want Ola?!”
Roxy swung around, relieved, and yelled back, “Yes!”
The woman disappeared and a few minutes later her front door opened to reveal another woman, younger, prettier. She had long flowing hair that was bleached blonde and dark at the roots, and her voluptuous figure had been wedged into a tiny red dress. Just. She was chewing on some gum and batting eyelashes that were caked with mascara so chunky Roxy wondered how her eyelids didn’t stick together.
“Ola?” she asked hopefully and the woman shook her head.
“Ola no here. I Sofia. Ola ’ave-eh no room tonight.”
“Actually I don’t need a room. I’m looking for my friend who is staying at Ola’s.” Roxy produced the photograph. “Max Farrell. Australian man.”
The woman looked at the photo, then darted a quick look back at Roxy before giving her a shrug.
Well that was helpful. “Have you seen this man around?”
Again she shrugged, raising her fleshy shoulders high, her ample bosom almost lifting out of her dress.
Roxy tried not to scowl as she said, “Do you know where I can find Ola?”
“You come back tomorrow. She back tomorrow.”
This was not what Roxy wanted to hear. Time was flying by and she felt so close now, just inches from Max.
“Is there a police station here?”
Sofia looked surprised by the change of tack and stepped back a little behind her front door. “It closed. You come back tomorrow. Ola here tomorrow.”
“And Max?”
“I no see him.” Her tone had turned irritable, and Roxy knew how she felt.
She looked around. Where could Ola be? Surely she had to be in Riomaggiore somewhere. It was a relatively isolated village, chances were Roxy had just passed her eating her dinner at a café or restaurant.
She thanked the woman, for what she didn’t know, and threaded her way back down the path, Sofia standing by her door, chewing madly as she watched her go. Back on the main road, Roxy noticed that the sleazy waiter was now leering at a group of young, badly sunburnt women in insanely short shorts and tight tank tops. They looked like British backpackers and were making a beeline for a pizza bar at the other end of the jetty, much to his disappointment.
Roxy walked up to the waiter and asked about Ola. “I no see,” he said. “You want-eh table now?”
“No thanks.”
“We share one together, you and me. Not so lonely.”
You had to give the man points for persistence, she thought, and in different circumstances she might have found him amusing, but not tonight. Barely able to crack a smile, she made her way back to the main drag, through the underpass, up the stairs and towards Monty who was just closing up shop when she got there.
“You find-eh you boyfriend?” he asked.
“Friend,” she corrected, thinking, “What is it with these people?!” “Ola wasn’t there either. Do you know where she might be?”
“No at hotel?”
“No.”
He gave it some consideration. “One-eh minute.” He dashed back inside his shop for a few seconds, then returned with a key and finished closing up, giving the front door a good rattle to check it was locked. Satisfied, he waved Roxy along and began striding with determination back down towards the bay.
For the next half hour the two of them went door-to-door, from bar to restaurant to café to bar again. At each venue, Monty stopped and chatted in fluent Italian to whomever was in charge and each time he shrugged his shoulders, stroked his moustache and kept walking. Eventually, he held his hands up and open, as though he had exhausted all possibilities.
“Ola no here. You try again, tomorrow, no?”
Roxy’s heart sank. She did not want to try again tomorrow. She wanted to speak to Ola tonight. Now. This woman had seen Max Farrell, she was her closest link.
As they walked back to Roxy’s apartment, a young local man stopped to say hello to Monty, greeting him like a long lost friend, and they spoke in Italian for a few minutes before Monty must have explained Roxy’s quest. He turned to look at her then and suggested a few cafés they had already tried.
“What about parking station?” he said. “Maybe Ola go away. You ask there.”
Monty was looking dubious but Roxy was determined. “I need to find out,” she told him. “I won’t get any sleep tonight if I don’t.”
“It’s-eh big walk, no?”
“I’m happy to do it. Please, you get on with your night. I know how to find my way there.”
Monty seemed to hesitate, as though wrestling with his conscience and, Roxy guessed, his hungry stomach, before he said, “Okay, I show you.”
“No, no! Monty, really, you’ve done more than enough.”
He wasn’t listening, however, was already saying good-bye to his friend and heading back through town and up the hill towards the car park. Roxy had to race to keep up with him.
The parking station at the very top of the town was a busy place by day but at this hour was virtually deserted and for a moment Roxy wondered if she should have waited until tomorrow as everyone had suggested. Monty was certainly friendly but she couldn’t help wondering if she should be letting a strange Italian man lead her away from the village, away from Caroline and the crowds.
Caroline! Roxy had forgotten all about her, but before she could give her another thought they had reached the top of the parking station and Monty was deep in conversation with a skinny, middle-aged man behind the toll booth out the front. He was nodding enthusiastically and it was the first positive sign all night so when Monty turned back, Roxy was surprised to hear him say, “He no see Ola. She still in town.”
She stared at the man. “Really?”
He nodded.
“How do you know she’s still around? Maybe she left without you seeing?”
They looked at each other and chuckled at that. Monty explained, “Everyone park-eh their car here. Henri see everyone who come and go. He say, she no go. She must-eh be in Riomaggiore.”
Henri said, “Last Friday, she go away, I see.” He put his fingers to his eyes. “This week, she no go, car still here. You want see?”
“No, I believe you. What about the train? Maybe she took the train somewhere?”
That made the men laugh even harder.
“Ola never use train,” Monty explained, as though it were written in blood.
“You try piazza?” the parking attendant said then and Monty smacked a palm across his forehead.
“Naturalmente!” He turned to Roxy. “Come-eh!”
Before she could object, he was striding back towards town, all the way down towards the underpass. This time, however, he took a detour up a set of steps, which, Roxy guessed, led above the train tunnel. Just as Roxy’s legs were beginning to buckle and she was second-guessing herself all over again, they stepped out into a wide, paved terrace that served as a playground for the local families. There were over a dozen children running about, dolls in hand, balls at their feet, several on scooters and skateboards, and to one side, a group of mostly black-clad women ignoring them completely, deep in conversation beneath bright streetlights. It seemed late for the kids to be out and about, but then what did Roxy know? They’d probably had a two-hour siesta in the middle of the day, which she’d always thought was a rather civilised thing to do.
“Ola!” Monty boomed and from amongst the crowd a large woman turned around, mono-brow raised expectantly. “You come-eh!”
Roxy caught her breath. At last.
Ola was an elderly woman with scratchy grey hair and the faint fuzz of a moustache above her top lip. She had a no-nonsense look about her and strode swiftly across the piazza towards them, checking Roxy out the entire way.
“Che cos’é?” she said to Monty, her tone cranky, her eyes still on Roxy.
He spoke to her in Italian and then she raised her hands as if saluting the sky.
“Ahhh, you come-eh for Max!”
Roxy felt the same rush of relief. “Yes! You know where he is?”
The woman dropped her hands. Her mono-brow dipped a little. “Me? No!”
Roxy stared at her and then at Monty. He also frowned, then proceeded to speak to the woman again who returned fire with loud bursts of Italian and much hand waving. After several mystifying minutes he turned back to Roxy.
“Okay, so Ola say Max-eh stay with her, then go away.”
“Away? Where?”
He spoke to Ola again before saying, “She no know. He disappear-eh.”
No, no, no, no, Roxy thought. Not again! “When?!”
There was another loud exchange between the two locals and then he said, “Last-eh Friday. He go away-eh and no come back.”
This was more than Roxy could bear. She found her way to a low rock wall and dropped down, deflated again. Each time she got a little closer to Max, found someone who had seen him or knew something of him, he seemed to slip back out of her reach again. The two locals were talking in loud bursts, their hands gesticulating wildly as they spoke, and eventually Monty joined her on the rock wall. His eyes were downcast.
“Ola say, can you get-eh Max’s things. Pay his bill, no?”
“His things? You mean luggage?”
“Yes-eh.”
She felt a glimmer of hope. “Max’s luggage is still at Ola’s hotel?”
“Yes-eh, he go away, no pay, no take-eh the bag.”
Roxy felt her heart lift. She knew, logically, this was a worrying development. Disappearing without your luggage was not a good sign, yet she was buoyed by the revelation. If Max’s stuff was still in Ola’s Villas, perhaps there was a clue in there, too. Perhaps there was something that would shed light on where he’d gone and why.
It was something.
It also indicated that this had to be Max’s last stop. No matter where he was, what condition he was in—and she was not letting her mind go there—she knew that he had to be close. He had to be here, somewhere.
Encouraged, she stood up and pushed her glasses firmly into place. “Can you show me?” she said to Ola. “Now.”
********
Muffled voices woke Max from his sleep and he swung his head around with a start.
Everything was dark, musty, dank. He felt his heart drop all over again as he realised his predicament, and then tried to move but his hands had been tied firmly behind his back, his eyes covered with something, an oily tasting rag in his mouth. He strained to hear what was being said but it was as though they were speaking through water.
He caught what sounded like “polizia” and “riskio”, but that was all. Then, after a short silence, a loud creaking sound made his blood pressure spike as he realised someone was entering the room. He heard the crunch of boots approaching and felt his entire body stiffen, his nerves on edge as someone stopped and leaned in, a stale breath now hot against his face. The rag was suddenly ripped from his mouth.
“Come, eat.” It was a man’s voice, familiar yet not familiar. Gruff, impatient, angry.
Something was being shoved through his lips and he realised it was a piece of bread, dry and slightly stale. He wondered if it was poisoned but he was so famished he didn’t care, opening his mouth wider as the man thrust the pieces in, then chewing like his life depended on it, which it probably did. After several mouthfuls, there was a slight pause before something hard and plastic was being shoved against his lips and he resisted at first until he realised it must be a water bottle, luscious drops of liquid dripping through. He opened his mouth again and swallowed eagerly, some of it gushing down his neck and across his sweat soaked shirt. It felt good.
“Come!” the man said again, yanking him by the arms and dragging him to his feet. His legs felt weak and wobbly and he struggled to keep up as the man pulled him roughly across the room before halting, creaking something open, and shoving him forward.
Suddenly someone else was grasping at his belt buckle, undoing his jeans, and he flinched, trying to back away.
“You stay!” the man growled. “Toilet!”
He stopped writhing and let them help him. It was demoralising and mortifying but he was glad of it, too, and not just because he was desperate to relieve himself. It also gave him a tiny shred of hope. Whoever these people were, whoever had tied him up and locked him away for what seemed like forever now, had a little heart, a little consideration. They wanted him to stay alive. Or they wouldn’t bother with all this, would they?
It was enough for him to hold on to.