The Lost Girls of Rome Read Online Free

the tiles with his fingertips, trying to discover a crack. When he thought he had located one, he stood up again and searched for something to use as a crowbar. He found a pair of scissors that did the trick. He put his fingers into the opening and lifted the square, revealing a stone trapdoor.
    ‘Wait, I’ll give you a hand,’ Clemente said.
    They slid the lid to one side, uncovering a flight of time-worn travertine steps that went down six feet until it met what appeared to be a passage.
    ‘This is the way the intruder came,’ Marcus announced. ‘At least twice: when he came in and when he went away with Lara.’ He took out the little torch he always carried with him, lit it, and aimed it at the opening.
    ‘You want to go down there?’
    He turned towards Clemente. ‘Do I have any choice?’
    Holding the torch in one hand, Marcus descended the stone steps. Reaching the bottom, he realised he was in a tunnel that ran under the building in two directions. It was not clear where it led.
    ‘Are you all right?’ Clemente called down to him.
    ‘Yes,’ Marcus replied distractedly. In the eighteenth century, the gallery had probably been an escape route in case of danger. All he had to do was venture in one of the two directions. He chose the one from which he seemed to hear the distant noise of pouring rain. He went at least fifty yards, slipping a couple of times because of the wet ground. A few rats brushed against his calves with their hot smooth bodies before scurrying away into the darkness. He recognised the roar of the Tiber, swollen by days of persistent rain, and the sickly odour of the river, reminiscent of an animal in a headlong race. He followed it and soon came to a solid grille through which the grey light of day filtered. Impossible to go any further this way. So he turned back, went past the steps, and set off in the other direction. Almost immediately, he spotted something shining on the ground.
    He bent down and picked it up: it was a crucifix on a gold chain.
    The crucifix Lara had been wearing around her neck in the photo graph of her and her parents that she kept on the chest of drawers. It was the final proof that his theory had been correct.
    Clemente was right. This was his talent.
    Electrified by his discovery, Marcus did not notice that Clemente had come down to join him until he was right on top of him.
    He showed him the chain. ‘Look …’
    Clemente took it in his hands and examined it.
    ‘Lara might still be alive,’ Marcus said, excited by his discovery. ‘Now that we have a lead, we can find out who took her.’ But he realised that his friend did not share his enthusiasm. On the contrary, he seemed troubled.
    ‘We already know. We just needed confirmation. Unfortunately, we now have it.’
    ‘What are you talking about?’
    ‘The drug in the sugar.’
    Marcus still did not understand. ‘So what’s the problem?’
    Clemente gave him a solemn look. ‘I think it’s time you met Jeremiah Smith.’
    8:40 a.m.
    The first lesson Sandra Vega had learned was that houses and apartments never lie.
    People, when they talk about themselves, are capable of creating all kinds of trappings around themselves that they actually end up believing. But the place where they choose to live inevitably reveals all.
    In the course of her work, Sandra had visited many houses and apartments. Every time she was about to cross a threshold, she felt as if she ought to ask permission, even though, for what she had come to do, she didn’t even need to ring the doorbell.
    Years before taking up her profession, whenever she travelled by train at night, she would look at the lighted windows in the buildings and wonder what was going on behind them, what stories werebeing played out. Every now and again she’d caught a glimpse of one of these stories. A woman ironing while watching television. A man in an armchair sending up smoke rings from his cigarette. A child standing on a chair rummaging through a