by T A Williams
‘What the hell’s happened, Sam? Are you all right? You look dreadful.’
Sam walked over to her desk and put down her bag. She stood there for a few moments, trying to control her breathing before attempting an answer. ‘I’ve just seen Neil.’
Becky came across to her side. ‘And…?’
Sam looked up and caught her eye. ‘And he tells me he’s hooked up with another girl. He’s moved in with her, apparently.’
‘Moved in?’ Becky looked as amazed as Samantha. ‘But it’s only been a week. Where on earth did he find her?’
‘She works with him in Physics. He’s known her for a while.’
‘Ah.’ There was a pause. ‘That’s “known” as in worked alongside, or as in the biblical sense?’ Becky’s mind was working along the self-same lines as Sam’s.
‘What do you think?’
‘Slimy little toad.’
‘Devious bastard.’
‘That, too. Slimy and devious.’ For the first time Becky noticed Sam’s bleeding knuckles. Her jaw dropped. ‘Sam! Did you punch him?’
Sam glanced idly at her hand and managed a weak smile. ‘Now there’s a thought. Why didn’t I? I’m afraid I just caught my hand on the zip of my bag. Mind you, there was a moment back there when I would have enjoyed giving him a smack. But, no, no punch.’
Becky looked disappointed, but she knew what the situation called for. She headed for the kettle. ‘Tea?’
Sam slumped down onto a chair and did her best to analyse her feelings. She was furious at Neil for being a two-timing love cheat, but surely that was all there was to it. Little more than twelve hours earlier she had been entertaining James Courtney in her flat. She had known for weeks that she didn’t want Neil, so why the anger? In fact, if anything, this was the proof, the vindication if it were needed, for her having done the right thing in deciding to end their relationship, even if he had got there first. She sucked her knuckles and made a conscious effort to calm down.
‘Here. The answer to all life’s woes.’ Becky thrust a steaming mug of tea into Sam’s hand. She went off and reappeared with her own mug and the first aid kit. ‘Here, Rocky, let me do something about those bleeding knuckles. Next time you hit somebody, wear gloves.’
Sam sipped the tea and watched as Becky cleaned the cuts and applied sticking plasters to the two deepest ones. The tea worked its usual magic and by the time Becky pronounced herself satisfied with her efforts, Sam had recovered enough to deliver a logical verdict on her feelings.
‘I suppose it was just the shock, really.’ She caught Becky’s eye. ‘I don’t want him back, you know. Very much the opposite, really. It’s just that it’s not a very nice feeling to know that you’ve been cheated on.’
Becky nodded sympathetically. ‘Well, what you need is a holiday. Come to think of it, so do I. Remember, if all goes well, we should end up in sunny Cornwall, spending a few weeks on a lovely little island in the English Channel, surrounded by millionaires. That would take your mind off things, wouldn’t it?’
Chapter 22
It was not until Thursday that Dave, the fisherman, deemed the sea state calm enough to allow him to land the two paparazzi in the hidden cove at the far side of the island. Beppe and a very sleepy Giancarlo were waiting on the jetty at seven o’clock as arranged. Both photographers were wearing military-style camouflaged jackets. Each carried a heavy shoulder bag and they were sweating. The sun was already hot at that early hour.
‘Morning.’ Dave was a man of very few words.
At that time of the morning, after an energetic romp with Dave’s cousin, so was Giancarlo. He grunted for both of them. He climbed into the boat, thinking wistfully of the full English breakfast he would be missing. Beside him, Beppe’s mind was on the exact same subject.
‘Coffee?’ Dave’s mate was pouring boiling water onto coffee granules. Both men nodded eagerly. Their eagerness waned as the drinks were passed over. Both mugs had no doubt started life pristine white, one with I heart London on it, and the other World’s Best Dad. Now, after a lifetime of service on the fishing boat, the glaze had cracked and split. The surface of the china resembled a dried up river bed, the white gloss long gone. Instead, the mugs were a sinister parchment colour, punctuated by brown veins. The coffee inside them was a similar shade of unappealing beige. Beppe caught Giancarlo’s eye.
‘If you’re going to throw it over the side, wait until nobody’s looking. I don’t want you to offend anybody. We don’t want to find ourselves swimming home.’ He risked raising the mug to his lips. He found that, as long as he didn’t think of it as coffee, it was almost drinkable. He began to sip it as the shore receded behind them.
The plan was simple. They had pored over the aerial view of the island the night before and decided where to conceal themselves. They had hit upon what looked like a ruin at the seaward end of the island, from where they should be able to get an unencumbered view of the sun terrace. The telephoto lenses they carried would show a plastic surgery scar at a hundred metres. Alas, the swimming pool was surrounded by high stone walls and offered no chance of success. Beppe nudged Giancarlo.
‘Ask him where he’s going to put us ashore.’
Giancarlo cleared his throat. ‘Mr Dave, where will we land on the island?’
The blond man turned towards him. ‘Just after Lizard Point there’s a sea stack. Behind it is a little cove. I’ll drop you in there.’ He took a mouthful of coffee. ‘And I’ll pick you up at five o’clock on the dot. OK?’
Giancarlo had no idea where Lizard Point was, nor did he know what a sea stack was. He did, however, get the general gist and he passed it on to the fat man.
‘He says he’ll pick us up at five.’
Beppe glanced at his watch. ‘That gives us nine hours.’ He looked up at the cloudless sky. ‘The weather’s on our side. We’ve just got to hope that she comes outside when the sun’s up. And once she’s outside in the sunshine, let’s hope the sun’s hot enough to get her stripping off.’
Ten minutes later, they were round on the seaward side of the island. The waves were a little bigger here, but compared to the past few days, the sea was once more calm. Both photographers scanned the cliffs for the hidden bay that Dave assured them existed. There was no sign of any break in the walls of rock. Suddenly, Dave swung the wheel and headed direct for the cliffs. The Italians exchanged apprehensive glances.
It soon turned out they were in good hands. With consummate skill, Dave eased his boat around a rough pillar of rock, through the narrow entrance, and into the hidden bay. Although they had cruised round the island numerous times in their inflatable, they had never noticed it. Dave pushed the boat into reverse as it touched the sand and they were able to climb out into barely knee deep water. He gave them a cheery wave, then held up five fingers to remind them of the pick-up time. He spun the boat around on its axis and nosed back out to sea. Peace returned to the beach, apart from the screams of sea birds disturbed by the sound of the diesel engine.
‘All we’ve got to do now is to climb the bloody cliff.’ After another seven pinter the night before, Beppe was not feeling at his most athletic. This morning he had been obliged to start using a brand-new hole in his leather belt. There weren’t many holes left.
Giancarlo pointed out the path. ‘It doesn’t look too steep, Beppe. Follow me and you’ll be fine.’
By the time they reached the top of the cliff, Beppe was seriously considering a change of career. Motorway toll booth attendant sounded good. Anything where he wouldn’t need to get up out of his seat. Finally, as they emerged onto the level grassy surface of the island, he leant back against a rock, mopped his brow and took stock. Giancarlo gave him a look of concern. The fat man’s breathing sounded like a steam engine.
The island was more or less flat, now that they had climbed the cliff. The abbey was less than two hundred metres away, the sun terrace clearly visible. Even better, the French windows had been opened and a table laid out in preparation for bre
akfast. Both men exchanged glances. This was very good news. Hopefully they would be able to get shots of their target or targets as they basked in the morning sunshine.
Beppe checked his watch. It told him it was now past eight. He twisted round and searched for the ruin they had earmarked. It was less than fifty metres away. ‘Come on, Giancarlo. Let’s go and get installed. The sooner we’re in hiding, the sooner we can get started.’
Five minutes later they were settled amongst low bushes on a waterproof ground sheet, hidden under a heap of camouflage netting. Beppe had lots of practice at concealment. From more than a few feet away, they were invisible.
Beppe emptied his pack onto the sheet in front of him. He picked up the beautiful new lens he had bought just before leaving Rome. List price was around €12,000. He had paid half that, but it was still a huge investment. He held it to his eye and peered through it. The terrace, table and even the cutlery on the table leapt into sight. As he twisted the focus, a figure appeared. It was a blonde waitress with an impressive bust. She was wearing a short black skirt and an apron. He breathed deeply.
‘Take a look, Giancarlo. See how the other half live. Would you like to be waited on by a pretty little maid like that?’
‘Looks a bit old for me.’ Giancarlo, unlike Beppe, could afford to be picky. ‘I like them younger than that. Twenty, that’s a good age.’
Beppe connected the lens to his camera and fired off a couple of shots. He checked the results in his viewfinder and grunted with satisfaction. One breast occupied the whole screen. The definition was good enough for him to make out the lace of her bra as she leant forward, setting napkins on the table.
‘If all goes well, Giancarlo, we might just get some marketable shots in the bag today. And as the temperature goes up, so their clothes should hopefully come off.’ He found himself wistfully remembering similar situations in the past involving scantily clad celebrities, warm sunshine and naïve insouciance. Just because they can’t see us, doesn’t mean we aren’t here, he thought to himself. He looked across at the younger man. ‘Top-e-less, that’s what we want, Giancarlo, top-e-less.’
Under their camouflage netting, Giancarlo was already heating up. ‘If it gets any hotter, I’ll be the first to strip off.’
‘Somehow I don’t think shots of you without a T-shirt will be big sellers.’
Giancarlo thought back to his amorous exploits the previous night. ‘I don’t know, Beppe. Some girls might pay good money for sight of a certain world famous Latin lover.’
‘Latin, eh? So I suppose it’s veni, vidi, vici?’
Giancarlo had done Latin at school. He grinned at the fat man. ‘Well, the first of the three anyway. Several times.’
They settled down to wait.
Chapter 23
Unseen from the abbey, a jet ski nosed into the little cove at the seaward end of the island. The person on board was wearing a black wetsuit with a hood and wrap-around sunglasses. He heaved the vessel up above the water line, retrieved a waterproof bag and set off up the path. He wasn’t heavily-built and he moved fast, but with caution, running lightly across the springy turf, still damp from the previous days’ rain. When he reached the top, he looked around carefully before heading for the shelter of the old ruin. He prowled round it, trying to decide the best course of action. After he disappeared from sight, there was a cautious movement from a clump of gorse.
Only five metres away from where he had been standing, Beppe and Giancarlo were lying as still as death. They had not been expecting anybody to appear from behind them, and they had very nearly been caught. Only the camouflage netting laid over them kept their whereabouts a secret. Beppe leant closer to Giancarlo so his mouth was by his ear.
‘Shit. That was close.’
Giancarlo nodded, doing his best to ignore the wave of nicotine fumes that threatened to engulf him. He kept his voice to a whisper. ‘But who the hell do you think that is? Underneath those shades, he could be anybody. It’s almost as if he’s trying to conceal his identity.’
Beppe had been thinking the exact same thing. ‘Giancarlo, I’ve got a bad feeling about this. Remember, one of the richest people in the world is only a two minute walk from here. I don’t like it one bit.’
‘But what do you think this guy’s doing in the old ruin?’
‘The same as us, maybe?’
‘What? Spying, you mean? Could he be a photographer?’
‘Or worse. A rifle, even without a telescopic sight, would make short work of anybody on the breakfast terrace.’
Giancarlo looked aghast. ‘What? You mean you think he might want to kill Ann Cartwright? But why on earth?’
Beppe shrugged. ‘Who knows? Kill, kidnap, frighten.’ This was not a good place for them to be. If the man in the wetsuit started shooting, he and Giancarlo might get blamed at best and shot at worst. He was in the process of turning back to tell Giancarlo they needed to get the hell out of it now, this very minute, when he heard a noise. Both of them ducked their heads and froze as the man emerged from the ruin.
Beppe glanced down at his forearm that was supporting his chin. He was unsurprised to see that the hairs all along it were standing on end. He couldn’t see a gun, but that didn’t mean the man wasn’t carrying one in the black bag. He fought his rising panic as the man stood stock still, only a few metres away from their hiding place.
Two full minutes passed until the person in the wetsuit came to a decision. He glanced at his watch, took a good look around and then set off at a fast pace towards the abbey.
Beppe waited until he saw the dark figure disappear into one of the private gardens, then he sat up.
‘Giancarlo, we’ve got to get the fuck out of here now. As soon as possible. Maybe he’s a paparazzo, maybe he isn’t. There could be anything in that bag he’s carrying. If he comes back and finds us, he might well kill us. If he kills the woman or kidnaps her, we may get accused of being accomplices. Either way, we are deep in the shit.’ Hastily he stuffed his camera and paraphernalia into the backpack and stood up. Beside him, Giancarlo was doing the same. Both men looked around wildly.
‘Where do we go?’ Giancarlo was no longer feeling confident.
Beppe pointed blindly towards the little cove. ‘Back down there. He must have come by boat. Maybe we can use that.’
Giancarlo reached out and grabbed Beppe by his forearm, turning the fat man towards him. ‘What if there’s somebody waiting for him in the boat? Don’t these people usually have a getaway driver?’
Beppe stopped dead. The boy was right. He cast around for an alternative. They couldn’t head for the cove in case there was somebody lurking down there. They couldn’t head for the abbey because that was where the bad guy had gone. They couldn’t set off across the featureless grassy field in full view of anybody who might be watching, including the man in the wetsuit. In the end he chose the only other logical course of action. ‘Let’s go the other way, then. Follow me.’ With that, he set off along the cliff top, heading away from both the abbey and the cove. As they ran, the cliffs grew steeper, the rocks far below more forbidding, and his heartbeat more erratic.
Even with Beppe wheezing along behind him, it didn’t take long for Giancarlo to get to the far end of the island. The landscape over here was featureless and their only chance of avoiding discovery was to crouch down behind some low rocks, right at the edge of the cliff. A frighteningly long way below them, the waves crashed and broke against jagged rocks. Beppe lay down and collapsed, his head in his hands, panting like a steam train, while Giancarlo did his best to ignore the peril behind him and kept his eyes trained on the low part of the old abbey, towards which the man in the wetsuit had disappeared.
Less than five minutes later, he heard a woman’s scream of terror, followed by a cacophony of barking. He watched as the slim figure in the wetsuit and shades appeared from the direction of the building. The man came running as fast as he could across the grass. Mercifully, he headed straight for the hidden bay. A few m
inutes after the intruder disappeared down the path towards the little cove, Giancarlo decided it was safe to move. He stretched and sat up. As he did so, something heavy, dislodged by his feet, slipped over the cliff edge behind him and plummeted downwards. The splash as it hit the water far below echoed around the cliffs, disturbing the birds even more. He felt sick. His heart was racing madly and he felt giddy. He felt a wave of nausea build up in his throat and fought desperately to control himself. He knelt on the damp grass for some minutes, doing his best to pull himself together. Finally, he roused himself and looked across at the fat man. He saw immediately that he had a problem. A serious problem.
The old paparazzo’s face was grey, his breathing laboured and his eyes closed. Absently, Giancarlo noted that the heavy object his feet had sent plunging into the sea must have been Beppe’s bag, containing thousands of euros’ worth of photographic equipment. He looked back over his shoulder to check that the man in the wetsuit really had left, then crouched down beside Beppe.
‘Beppe, Beppe.’ His voice was an insistent whisper. The older man made no move, so Giancarlo raised his voice and tried again. Finally, after a number of attempts, he saw the fat man stir. A wave of relief swept over Giancarlo. ‘Come on, Beppe. We’ve got to get you away from this cliff. Can you stand up?’ Slowly and laboriously, Beppe managed to twist his head until he was looking up. Giancarlo saw immediately that they were going to need assistance.
‘I can’t. I feel like I’m going to pass out.’ Beppe’s voice was weak, his whole demeanour frail and weak. Giancarlo had never seen him like this before. This, more than anything, spurred him into action.
‘Stay there. I’ll go and get help.’ He leapt to his feet and looked around wildly. There was nothing for it. The game was up; he would have to go to the abbey. He set off at a run and, as he approached the building, two men and a big black dog came charging out. He headed for them, shouting and waving his arms as he did so.