by T A Williams
The tea arrived very quickly, brought in on a massive tray by a young male waiter. Along with the tea was a huge chunk of freshly-baked sponge cake. The Labrador flopped down on the floor beside Sam’s legs, his eyes trained on the cake dish. Samantha sat down on the sofa and sipped her tea, glad to be here, glad to be alive and very, very grateful. She cleared her throat. ‘I can’t thank you enough for helping me. I’m so terribly sorry to put you to all this trouble. You see, I’m afraid I’ve just been really, really stupid. I set out in the kayak without telling anybody where I was going and I foolishly strayed too far out from the shore.’ She paused as the memory of her ordeal threatened to overwhelm her. She cleared her throat, finding it hard to go on. ‘And then I got into a really strong current.’ She couldn’t help herself, she suddenly burst into tears. With an effort, she rubbed her hands across her eyes and explained. ‘I’m sorry… I suppose it’s just the relief…’
‘You’re all right now. Here, use this.’ The woman with the black hair handed her a linen napkin from the tray. Her expression was warm and supportive. ‘It must have been a frightening experience.’
‘There are some nasty rip currents round here.’ Sam wiped her eyes and turned towards the voice. It was the man who had greeted her on the jetty, his expression now more sympathetic. ‘You’re very lucky you didn’t get washed out to sea. In this pea-souper, you would have been in real trouble.’ Sam noticed that he didn’t approach any closer, remaining on his feet against the far wall, while the maid, Julie, who had shown her to the bathroom, was now stationed against the opposite wall. It was very formal and a little overwhelming. Sam took a few breaths and did her best to smile back at him.
‘I know. I really don’t think I’d have been able to paddle much further.’ Suddenly she remembered her manners. ‘By the way, my name’s Samantha Squires. I’m a postgrad student at Exeter University.’
The man gave her a half-bow. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you. My name is Griffiths. I’m the steward here.’ Sam noticed that he didn’t introduce her to the black-haired woman. Sam turned her attention to her, but didn’t press her for her name. With those enormous dark glasses, it was pretty clear she wanted to keep her identity secret. Sam wondered if the hair might even be a wig, although it looked very convincing. She apologised once more.
‘I’m very sorry to burst in on you like this. You’ve been so very kind. I wonder if I could just use your phone to call somebody to send a boat to pick me up.’ As she spoke, she found herself wondering just how that was going to be possible. Maybe if she phoned Becky…
The woman smiled. ‘You’re very welcome. And don’t worry about a boat. We’ll get you back to dry land. Anyway, your visit gave me a bit of excitement for a change.’ There could have been a note of regret in her voice. ‘So, what are you studying?’
‘Archaeology. I’m doing a PhD.’
‘Oh, you lucky girl. I loved history at school and I was all set to go to university to do a history degree, but then…’ Her voice tailed off and there was an awkward pause before she continued. ‘But then I got sidetracked. But I’ve always kept an interest in it.’
Altogether, Sam stayed with them for over half an hour and she did most of the talking. By the end, she still knew next to nothing about the black-haired woman, apart from the fact that she was remarkably hospitable and generous. Also, if she owned the abbey and the island, she was patently mega rich. Even if she were just renting it, she would need very, very deep pockets to pay for a place like this. Finally, as the grandfather clock struck five, Sam realised she had better get back, before Becky started to get worried. She brushed the crumbs of cake off her lap and stood up. The dog made short work of vacuuming them up and she smiled at him, reaching down to stroke his ears. ‘I think I’d better get off now, if you don’t mind. I’m sure you’ve got far better things to do than listen to me wittering on about Vikings.’
‘Far from it. I can never get enough of history. To be honest, Samantha, I rather envy you.’ Again there was the rather plaintive edge to the other woman’s voice. She and Mr Griffiths accompanied Samantha to the glass lift, the young dog nudging her playfully as he trotted beside her. As the doors opened, Julie appeared with a plastic bag.
‘I’ve put your wet clothes in here, Miss. Is that all right?’
Sam suddenly remembered what she was wearing. ‘Of course, thank you. But, how do I get these clothes back to you?’ The black-haired woman smiled and laid her hand on Sam’s arm.
‘Keep them, Samantha. I’ve got more clothes than I know what to do with. I’m just glad you’re all right and we managed to warm you up again.’
Sam babbled that she couldn’t possibly accept, but her protestations were just waved away.
‘Keep them, Samantha. And thank you for brightening up my day. Goodbye and take care.’ The Labrador and his mistress turned back into the glass lift as Sam and the steward entered the lower one. Sam watched her as the doors closed. In spite of her smiles, in spite of her obvious wealth, the woman looked and sounded just plain lonely.
Outside, the mist was as thick as ever, but nevertheless transport was waiting for her. The kayak was already in the back of the boat, which was a gorgeous-looking wooden motor launch, highly varnished and furnished with red leather seats. It looked as if it had just come off the Grand Canal in Venice. An immaculately-attired boatman was waiting to help her aboard.
‘Goodbye, Miss Squires.’ Mr Griffiths’ tone was cordial as he held out his hand to her. Sam wasn’t sure whether this was so she could shake it, or to help her into the boat, but she took it in both of hers, reached up and kissed him on the cheek anyway.
‘Thank you, Mr Griffiths. You saved my life.’
He flushed slightly and gave her a shy smile. Suddenly he looked ten years younger. ‘Glad to have been of service. Now, have a safe trip back.’
The trip back took barely fifteen minutes. The boatman kept apologising for having to go so slowly because of the sea mist. Sam just looked back at him in awe.
‘I’m amazed you’re able to navigate at all in this fog. I can’t see a thing. Have you got radar or something?’
He gave her a gentle smile and tapped the side of his head with a tanned finger. ‘I’ve got all the radar I need up here. I was born in Tregossick and I’ve been messing about in boats in the bay all my life.’ His Cornish accent was strong, but not impenetrable. ‘I’ll share one of my secrets with you, in case you decide to go kayaking again.’ He caught her eye and grinned. ‘Use your ears. Listen.’ He cocked his head to one side and pointed straight ahead. ‘If you concentrate hard, you can hear the waves breaking against the jetty. Two or three minutes and we’ll be there.’
Sam did her best, but it was another full minute before she, too, heard the waves. A short while later, the stone wall of the jetty loomed up in front of them, but the boatman had already turned the wheel and the launch came to rest against the steps with hardly a bump. He looped a rope around a bollard and held out his hand to her. ‘Home again. You’re probably not sorry to get off the water after what happened this afternoon.’
Samantha took his hand and smiled at him, before climbing out. ‘I’ve been very, very stupid and very, very lucky. This could all have ended much worse.’
The boatman handed the kayak up to her and smiled back.
‘All’s well that ends well, Miss. Now, you take care.’
Chapter 3
‘Ciao, Beppe. You all right?’ Bianchi stood up and closed the window before returning to his desk. The noise of the traffic coming down the Via del Tritone subsided to tolerable proportions.
‘OK, I suppose.’ Beppe lowered himself into a chair. It creaked in protest, but managed to take his not inconsiderable bulk. He leant back and mopped his brow. The temperature here in Rome in mid-July was in the high thirties.
Bianchi studied the fat man for a few moments. He looked awful. The bags under his eyes were bulbous enough to cast shadows down his cheeks. His stomach flowed out over
his belt like lava down the side of Mount Etna. His sulphurous breath further reinforced the impression as he ran his tongue over his tar-stained teeth before looking up at Bianchi and asking hopefully, ‘So, have you got something for me?’
‘Yes. I’ve got a really good target for you.’ In response to the expression of heightened interest on Beppe’s face, Bianchi explained. ‘It could take the whole of August. This one’s a very, very elusive customer. We’ve had a tip-off and we’re pretty sure we’re the only ones in the know, at least for now. And, if we’re lucky, she might even have a few celebrity friends around her. Hopefully, you’ll be able to kill quite a few birds with one stone.’
‘And the target?’ Beppe definitely looked animated now. ‘A big name, you say?’
‘Oh, yes. Very big. In fact, they don’t get much bigger.’ Bianchi saw the spark in the fat man’s eyes. ‘Does the name Ann Cartwright mean anything to you?’
‘Wow!’ It took a lot to impress Beppe, but he was looking positively awed now. ‘She’s got a new film out, hasn’t she? Her face is all over the buses and the metro at the moment.’ Beppe rubbed his hands together in glee. ‘Shots of her would be worth their weight in gold to the gutter press.’
‘Less of the gutter press, please, Beppe.’ As the cover of this week’s edition of CiaoCiao magazine featured a collage of Italian celebrities before and after breast enhancement surgery, Bruno Bianchi knew he was on thin ice. ‘Remember, we’re providing a service. If the public didn’t want the stuff we print, they wouldn’t buy the magazine.’
Beppe made no comment. This was an argument he used himself whenever people commented upon his chosen career of paparazzo, or celebrity photographer, as he preferred to be known.
Bianchi flicked through the pile of papers on his desk. ‘Here, this is the last photo we got of her and it was over a year ago. I’ve always thought Ann Cartwright was one of the most beautiful women in the world. I’m counting on you, Beppe.’
‘So where’s all the action going to be next month?’ Beppe’s spirits rose. ‘Somewhere smart, I bet. I could do with spending August somewhere sunny and classy. I work too hard.’
The verb Bianchi would have chosen was drink, but he refrained from commenting. He scrabbled around amid the chaos of his desk until he found the file. He ran his thumb down the inside page. ‘Rock Island.’
The old paparazzo looked blank. ‘Never heard of it. Where’s that? British Virgin Islands, maybe? Somewhere in the Caribbean, I bet.’
‘You would lose your bet. It’s a lot closer to home.’ He saw Beppe’s face fall as the realisation dawned.
‘Oh, shit, it’s in bloody England, isn’t it? Why does she have to be English, for Christ’s sake? Now I’m going to have to spend the summer on that cold, wet, nasty little island.’
‘So you do know Rock Island?’
‘I’m talking about England, not this other godforsaken place. Awful country, awful people and truly terrible food.’ A shudder went through his body. Bianchi clearly saw the paparazzo’s pendulous jowls shake. ‘So, what’s the place called again?’
‘Rock Island. It’s off the coast of Cornwall. I think I know where that is. Do you?’ Beppe shrugged his shoulders so Bianchi turned to the computer. A quick search showed them that Cornwall was down in the west of England, and Rock Island a rocky islet a few hundred metres out from the south Cornish coast. A close-up of the aerial view revealed a formidable stone structure, a helipad and little else.
‘It looks like bloody Alcatraz.’ Beppe felt his heart sink. ‘Mind you, Alcatraz would have a damn sight better weather.’ He extended his hands, palms upwards, towards the editor in vain supplication. ‘Why does she have to go to such an awful place? Call that a holiday? I want sun.’
Bianchi hadn’t had a summer holiday for over a decade, so he had little sympathy. ‘Who knows? Anyway, we just have to hope that the sun shines at least part of the time. I want photos of any ladies in the sea, on the beach and, if at all possible, topless.’
Beppe’s command of English was next to non-existent, but some words were unavoidable in his business. ‘Top-e-less?’ His pronunciation was unmistakably Roman. ‘No chance over there. They’ll be wrapped in furs and waterproofs more likely.’
‘Well, just you start praying for sunshine.’ Bianchi paused. ‘So how’s your English?’ He knew the answer already. In consequence, he was unsurprised when Beppe pressed his fingers together and raised his hands towards his chest in indignation. ‘Me speak English? You must be joking.’ His tone said it all.
Bianchi soldiered on. ‘Well, in that case, you’re going to need an interpreter.’ He lowered his eyes in preparation for the outburst. ‘I want you to take Giancarlo with you.’
‘Giancarlo?’ Beppe exploded into a bout of coughing. It was a while before he was in a fit state to continue. ‘Not Giancarlo. You don’t mean it, surely? The lad’s nothing but a playboy. He’s only interested in cars and women.’
Bianchi hesitated before replying. He chose his words carefully. He was talking about his employer’s firstborn, after all. ‘He’s not a playboy; he works hard, too, you know. You mustn’t say things like that, Beppe. OK, so maybe he’s a bit wild from time to time.’
‘Wild?’ The paparazzo was on his feet by this time. Bianchi raised his eyebrows, impressed that the fat man had managed to extricate himself from the chair. ‘He drove his BMW through a shop window last week.’
‘Well, yes, his record at the wheel isn’t great. I’ll give you that.’ Bianchi was doing his best to be diplomatic. ‘But his father tells me he’s studied English for ten years. And, anyway, he needs to get out of the office and to get more experience.’ And, he thought to himself, that will get him out of my way for a whole month.
‘And there was that incident with the photocopier a few days ago.’ Beppe wasn’t giving up without a struggle. ‘How the hell do you overturn a photocopier? And what were they doing with it? It’s a miracle the girl wasn’t hurt.’ Beppe adopted a tone of supplication. ‘Please don’t do this to me, Bianchi. Send the boy on holiday in August. Most of Italy’s on holiday then. He’ll be expecting it.’
‘That’s partly the problem. His father doesn’t want him holidaying with them this year. He told me to find him something to do as far away from them as possible.’ He looked Beppe square in the eye. ‘And if the boss says he doesn’t want him, he doesn’t want him. Got it?’
‘So I’m the lucky one?’ Beppe recognised the expression on the editor’s face. He gave a deep, heartfelt sigh of exasperation and accepted his medicine. ‘All right, then, but you’ll owe me after that. Big time.’
‘Talking of owing people, I don’t want you going overboard with expenses in England either. No flashy hotels and no gourmet dinners.’
‘Gourmet dinners? Chance would be a fine thing.’
‘Now, why don’t you take Giancarlo out for a drink somewhere?’ Bianchi knew Beppe so very well after all these years. ‘He should be down on the second floor at the moment. That way you can break the news to him that he’s heading for England.’
Beppe grunted and turned for the door.
Chapter 4
Samantha got back to the house just after half past five and dumped the kayak in the back garden. She walked back into the house, the bag of wet clothes in her hand, to find Becky watching the TV, blissfully unaware of the seaborne drama that had played out that afternoon. It was sobering for Sam to reflect that if she hadn’t been saved by the people on the island, she would most probably by now be way out in the English Channel without anybody being aware of what had happened. She really had been amazingly lucky.
‘Been shopping?’ Becky’s eyes almost popped out of her head as she saw Sam’s cashmere jumper. ‘Bloody hell. Have you won the lottery?’
‘A present from the people who just saved my life.’ Seeing Becky’s eyes open even further, Sam sat down and related the events of the afternoon. Becky’s expression went from surprise to terror to amazement. By the end o
f the tale, she was shaking her head in disbelief.
‘Wow! Talk about jammy! Christ, Sam, you could be dead. Instead, you’ve been treated like a queen and dressed like a celebrity.’ She settled back in the armchair. ‘So, who do you think she was?’
Sam had been thinking hard along those lines for the past hour. She had no doubt at all the woman was very, very wealthy. That was a given. And underneath the camouflage she was also clearly very beautiful. ‘I don’t know, Becs. Probably a film star or something. I reckon she’s about my age, give or take a few years. Her skin’s amazing, her teeth like an advert, and her nails immaculate. She was dressed in jeans and a blouse, very smart, no visible designer label, but screaming quality. The more I think about it, I’m pretty sure the black hair was a wig. She’s somebody all right. I’m quite sure about that.’
‘I wonder if anybody round here knows who she is.’ Becky glanced at her watch. ‘Come on, let’s go across to the pub. Somebody there might know.’
Sam took a moment to throw her soaking clothes into the bath tub and then walked up the road to the Smugglers Arms with Becky. On the way she pulled out her phone and tried calling Neil, more out of a sense of duty than for any other reason. He didn’t answer and, somehow, she wasn’t surprised or, for that matter, bothered. After her ordeal that afternoon when she had almost lost her life, it seemed ridiculous to struggle on in a moribund relationship. The more she thought about it, the more she realised there was nothing left between them worth saving.
They soon discovered that nobody in the pub knew anything about the owner of the island, but there was no shortage of suggestions. What was certain was that it had been sold at auction less than a year before to an undisclosed buyer. It had gone for an inordinate amount of money and it was clear that only the richest of the rich would be able to lay their hands on that sort of cash. Samantha didn’t disclose that she had been on the island and had met the probable owner, even if she didn’t know who she was. She listened with amusement as the suggestions ranged from Hollywood stars to Middle Eastern potentates. A particularly inventive suggestion was the theory of it being used as a training camp for Islamic terrorists.