The Girl in the Fog Read online

  Donato Carrisi was born in 1973 and studied law and criminology. Since 1999 he has been working as a TV screenwriter. He lives in Rome.

  Also by Donato Carrisi

  The Whisperer

  The Lost Girls of Rome

  The Vanished Ones

  The Hunter of the Dark

  Copyright

  Published by Abacus

  ISBN: 978-0-349-14261-6

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 Donato Carrisi

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Translation copyright © Howard Curtis 2017

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  Abacus

  Little, Brown Book Group

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.littlebrown.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  About the Author

  Also by Donato Carrisi

  Copyright

  23 February

  25 December

  26 December

  27 December

  30 December

  31 December

  1 January

  23 February

  22 December

  23 December

  25 December

  27 December

  31 December

  3 January

  5 January

  6 January

  9 January

  10 January

  11 January

  16 January

  23 February

  17 January

  21 January

  22 January

  23 February

  31 January

  22 February

  23 December

  23 February

  Acknowledgements

  23 February

  Sixty-two days after the disappearance

  The night everything changed for ever began with a phone call.

  It came at 10.20 on a Monday evening. Outside, it was minus eight Celsius, and the countryside was shrouded in an icy fog. At that hour, Flores was snug and warm in bed beside his wife, enjoying an old black-and-white gangster film on TV. Actually, Sophia had dozed off a while earlier, and the ringing of the telephone didn’t disturb her sleep. She even appeared oblivious of her husband getting out of bed and dressing.

  Flores put on a pair of baggy trousers, a polo neck sweater and his heavy winter jacket to face that damned fog, which seemed to have wiped out all of creation, and got ready to go to Avechot’s little hospital, where he had worked as a psychiatrist for more than forty of his sixty-two years. In all that time, he had seldom been dragged out of bed for an emergency, let alone by the police. In this Alpine village, where he had been born and had always lived, almost nothing happened after sunset. It was as if in such a place even criminals chose to lead a sober existence, regularly spending their evenings at home. That was why Flores wondered what could necessitate his presence at such an unusual hour.

  All the police had told him over the phone was that a man had been arrested following a road accident. Nothing else.

  The snow had stopped falling in the afternoon, but it had got colder during the evening. Flores left the house to be greeted by an unearthly silence. Everything was still, motionless, as if time had stopped. He felt a shudder that had nothing to do with the outside temperature – it came from inside. He started his old Citroën, and had to wait a few seconds for the diesel engine to warm up properly before he set off. He needed that sound to wipe out the monotony of the menacing quiet.

  The road surface was icy, but it was the snow more than anything that forced him to keep his speed below twenty kilometres an hour, both his hands firmly gripping the wheel, his back stooped forward and his face a few centimetres from the windscreen so that he could make out the sides of the road. Luckily, he knew the route so well, his mind told him where to go before his eyes could.

  Coming to a crossroads, he chose the direction that led towards the centre of the village, and at last saw something through the milky blanket. As he advanced, he had the sensation that everything had slowed down, as if in a dream. From the depths of the white mantle, intermittent flashes of light appeared. They seemed to be coming towards him, even though it was he who was approaching them. A figure emerged out of the fog, making strange, broad arm movements. As he drew nearer, Flores realised it was a police officer warning passing motorists to be careful. Flores passed him and they exchanged a fleeting wave. Behind the officer, the intermittent flashes resolved themselves into the flashing lights of a patrol car and the rear lights of a dark saloon car that had ended up in a ditch.

  Before long, Flores reached the centre of the village. It was deserted.

  The faded yellow street lamps looked like mirages amid the fog. He drove through the whole of the built-up area and out the other side before he reached his destination.

  Avechot’s little hospital was unusually animated. As soon as Flores walked in through the front door, a local police lieutenant came up to him, accompanied by Rebecca Mayer, a young prosecutor who had been making a name for herself lately. She looked worried. As Flores took off his heavy jacket, she updated him on the identity of tonight’s unexpected guest. ‘Vogel,’ was all she said.

  Hearing the name, Flores understood the reason for all this concern. It was the night everything changed forever, but he didn’t know that yet. That was why he hadn’t yet quite grasped his own role in this business. ‘What exactly do you want me to do?’ he asked.

  ‘The doctors in Emergency say he’s fine. But he seems in a confused state, maybe due to the shock of the accident.’

  ‘But you’re not sure, right?’ Flores’s question had hit the target, and Mayer didn’t need to reply. ‘Is he catatonic?’

  ‘No, he reacts when stimulated. But he has mood swings.’

  ‘And he doesn’t remember any of what happened,’ Flores said, completing the case history for himself.

  ‘He remembers the accident. But we’re interested in what happened before. We need to know what happened this evening.’

  ‘You think he’s pretending.’

  ‘I’m very much afraid he is. And that’s where you come in, Doctor.’

  ‘What are you expecting of me?’

  ‘We have enough to charge him, and he knows it. That’s why you have to tell me if he’s fully aware of his actions.’

  ‘And if he is, what’ll happen to him?’

  ‘I’ll be able to charge him and proceed with a formal interrogation, without fearing that some lawyer will later contest it in court on a stupid technicality.’

  ‘But it’s my understanding that nobody died or was injured in the accident, is that right? So what would you charge him with?’

  Mayer was silent for a moment. ‘You’ll understand when you see him.’

  They had left him waiting in Flores’s office. When Flores opened the door, he immediately saw Vogel sitting in one of the two small armchairs positioned in front of the cluttered desk. He was wearing a dark cashmere coat. His head was bowed, and he gave no sign of noticing that someone had come in.

  Flores hung his jacket on the coat rack and massaged his hands, which were still numb with cold. ‘Good evening,’ he said, going to the heater to make sure it was on. In reality, this was
only a pretext to take up a position facing the man, to get an idea of his condition but, above all, to understand what Mayer had meant.

  Beneath the coat, Vogel was elegantly dressed. A dark blue suit, a powder-blue silk tie with a floral design, a yellow handkerchief in the breast pocket of his jacket, a white shirt and oval cufflinks of rose gold. Everything looked creased, though, as if he had been wearing these clothes for weeks.

  Without replying to the greeting, Vogel raised his eyes to him for a moment. Then he looked back down at his hands lying in his lap.

  Flores wondered what bizarre trick of fate had brought them together. ‘Have you been here long?’ he began.

  ‘What about you?’

  Flores laughed at the joke, but Vogel remained grim-faced. ‘More or less forty years,’ Flores replied. During that time, the office had filled with objects and furniture until it was cluttered. To an outside observer, he knew, the whole effect must seem chaotic. ‘You see that old couch? I inherited it from my predecessor. The desk I chose myself.’ On the desk were framed photographs of his family.

  Vogel took one and studied it. There was Flores surrounded by his numerous progeny, having a barbecue in the garden on a summer’s day. ‘Nice family,’ he commented with vague interest.

  ‘Three children and eleven grandchildren.’ Flores was very fond of that picture.

  Vogel put the photograph back where he had found it and looked around. On the walls, along with his degree, the various testimonials he had received and the drawings given to him by his grandchildren were the trophies Flores was proudest of.

  He was an enthusiastic angler, and the walls displayed a large number of stuffed fish.

  ‘Whenever I can, I drop everything and set off for a lake or a mountain stream,’ Flores said. ‘It’s my way of getting back in touch with nature.’ In a corner was a cupboard with fishing rods and a drawer containing hooks, baits, lines and other equipment. Over time, the room had ended up looking nothing like a psychiatrist’s office. It had become his den, a place of his own, and he was dreading his retirement, due in a matter of months, when he would have to clear everything out.

  Among the many stories those walls could have told, there was now a new one: the story of an unexpected consultation late one winter evening.

  ‘I still can’t believe you’re here,’ Flores admitted, with a hint of embarrassment. ‘My wife and I have seen you so many times on TV. You’re a celebrity.’

  Vogel merely nodded. He certainly seemed to be in a confused state – unless he was a consummate actor.

  ‘Are you sure you feel all right?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Vogel replied in a thin voice.

  Flores moved away from the heater and went and sat down behind the desk, in the armchair that over the years had taken on his shape. ‘You were lucky, you know. On my way here, I passed the scene of the accident. You ended up on the right side of the road. True, there’s quite a deep ditch, but on the other side there’s a ravine.’

  ‘The fog,’ Vogel said.

  ‘Yes, a freezing fog. You don’t see them often. It took me twenty minutes to get here, usually it’s less than ten by car from my house.’ Then he put both his elbows on the arms of his chair and sank back. ‘We haven’t yet introduced ourselves: I’m Dr Auguste Flores. Tell me, what should I call you? Special Agent Vogel, or just Signor Vogel?’

  Vogel seemed to give this a moment’s thought. ‘You choose.’

  ‘I don’t think a police officer ever loses his rank, even when he stops practising his profession. So for me, you’re still Special Agent Vogel.’

  ‘If you prefer it that way.’

  Dozens of questions were crowding into Flores’s mind, but he knew he had to choose the right ones to start. ‘Frankly, I wasn’t expecting to see you around here any more. I thought you went back to the city some time ago, after what happened. Why have you come back?’

  Special Agent Vogel slowly passed his hands over his trousers, as if trying to remove non-existent dust. ‘I don’t know.’

  That was all he said. Flores nodded. ‘I understand. Did you come alone?’

  ‘Yes,’ Vogel replied, and it was clear from his expression that he hadn’t understood the meaning of the question. ‘I’m alone.’

  ‘Does your presence here have anything to do with the missing girl?’ Flores ventured. ‘Because I seem to remember you were removed from the case.’

  These words evidently awakened something in Vogel, who seemed to Flores to get on his high horse, as if his pride were wounded. ‘Why are you detaining me? What do the police want with me? Why can’t I leave?’

  Flores tried to summon up all his reserves of patience. ‘You had an accident this evening, Special Agent Vogel.’

  ‘I know that,’ Vogel replied angrily.

  ‘And you were alone when it happened, is that right?’

  ‘I already told you that.’

  Flores opened a drawer in his desk, took out a little mirror and placed it in front of Vogel, who didn’t seem to take any notice. ‘And you emerged unscathed. No injuries whatsoever.’

  ‘I’m fine, how many times are you going to ask me that?’

  Flores leaned towards him. ‘Then explain something to me. If you’re unscathed, whose blood is that on your clothes?’

  Suddenly, Vogel didn’t know what to say. The anger evaporated, and his eyes came to rest on the mirror that Flores had put in front of him.

  Now he had to see them.

  Little red stains on the cuffs of his white shirt. A couple of bigger ones over the stomach. A few darker ones, less visible because of the colour of the suit and the coat, but noticeable from the thicker texture. It was as if Vogel was seeing them for the first time. But part of him knew they were there, Flores was sure of that. Because Vogel wasn’t unduly surprised and didn’t immediately deny their presence.

  There was a different light in his eyes now, and his confused state started to fade as if it were fog. But the real fog was still there, outside the window of the office, hanging over the world.

  The night everything changed for ever had only just begun. Vogel looked Flores straight in the eyes, suddenly lucid.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘I think I owe you an explanation.’

  25 December

  Two days after the disappearance

  The fir woods clung to the mountain slopes like the serried ranks of an army preparing to invade the valley. The valley was as long and narrow as an old scar, and through it ran a river. The river was an intense green, sometimes placid, at other times treacherous.

  That was where Avechot was, bang in the middle of this landscape.

  An Alpine village a few kilometres from the border. Houses with protruding roofs, a church with a steeple, a town hall, a police station, a small hospital, a school, a couple of bars and a sports stadium.

  The woods, the valley, the river, the village. And a huge mine like a monstrous futuristic scar on the past and on nature.

  There was a restaurant just outside the built-up area, by the side of the main road.

  From the window, you could see the road and the petrol pump. Over it was a neon sign wishing passing motorists HAPPY HOLIDAYS. Inside, though, the letters were the other way round, which resulted in a kind of incomprehensible hieroglyphic.

  In the restaurant, thirty-odd blue Formica tables, some hidden inside booths. They were all laid, but only one was occupied. The one in the middle.

  Special Agent Vogel was alone, eating a breakfast of eggs and smoked pancetta. He was wearing a lead-grey suit with an olive-green waistcoat and a dark blue tie, and hadn’t taken off his cashmere coat to eat. He sat bolt upright, his gaze fixed on a black notebook in which he was writing with an elegant silver fountain pen that he put down on the table every now and again in order to take a forkful of food. He alternated the gestures at precise intervals, diligently respecting a kind of inner rhythm.

  The elderly proprietor wore a grease-stained apron over a red and black c
hecked shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He left the counter and approached with a newly made pot of coffee. ‘To think I didn’t even want to open today. I said to myself: Do you really want to come here on Christmas morning? This place used to be full of tourists, families with children … But ever since they found that fluorescent crap, things have changed.’ He uttered these words as if regretting a distant, happy era that would never return.

  Until just a few years earlier, life in Avechot had been quiet and uneventful. People lived off tourism and selling craftwork. But one day, someone from outside had come in and speculated that beneath those mountains lay a fair-sized deposit of fluorite.

  The old man was right, Vogel thought: ever since then, things had changed. A multinational had arrived and purchased the lands above the deposit, paying the various owners handsomely. Many had become rich overnight. And those who hadn’t been lucky enough to own one of the lots had found themselves suddenly impoverished because the tourists had disappeared.

  ‘Maybe I should make up my mind to sell this place and retire,’ the man continued. Then, shaking his head irritably, he topped up Vogel’s coffee, even though he hadn’t been asked to. ‘When I saw you coming, I thought you were one of those salesmen who come in every now and again to try and flog me their cheap rubbish. Then I realised … You’re here because of the girl, aren’t you?’ With an almost imperceptible movement of his head, he indicated the flyer on the wall next to the front entrance.

  On it was a photograph of a smiling teenage girl with red hair and freckles. Then a name, Anna Lou. And a question: Have you seen me? followed by a telephone number and some lines of text.

  Vogel saw that the old man was trying to peer at his black notebook, so he closed it. Then he put the fork down on the plate. ‘Do you know her?’

  ‘I know the family. They’re good people.’ The man pulled one of the chairs out from under the table and sat down opposite Vogel. ‘What do you think happened to her?’

  Vogel put his hands together under his chin. How many times had he been asked that question? It was always the same story. They seemed genuinely apprehensive, or made an effort to appear so, but in the end there was only curiosity. Morbid, pitiless curiosity. ‘Twenty-four hours,’ he said. The old man didn’t seem to understand the meaning of this reply, but before he could ask for clarification, Vogel went on, ‘On average, teenagers who run away from home can only stand keeping their mobile phones switched off for twenty-four hours. Then, inevitably, they have to call a friend or check if people are talking about them on the internet, and that’s how they’re located. Most come home after forty-eight hours anyway … So, for two days after their disappearance, unless they run into someone nasty or have an accident, there’s a strong possibility that things will end happily.’