‘Quite sure,’ Maggie replied, longing for some time on her own.
When they’d disappeared from view she poured herself another drink. He had sounded poorly. She was inclined to believe him; she knew him so well, every intonation of his voice, and he’d always been a bad liar. And she didn’t like the sound of that weird cough. I wish I had a cigarette, she thought. I could do with one now even though I stopped smoking forty years ago!
There was no point in worrying Connie or Gill about any of this. They’d tell her not to go, that it was probably a trap and, if he really was as ill as he made out, then at least he wouldn’t be forever following them. But Maggie wasn’t so sure. What if he really was on his last legs? Could she live with herself if she ignored his plea and then found out that he’d died? After all, she’d been with this man for nearly forty years, they’d had some great times together and they’d loved one another once. She wasn’t sure that she still did love him, because in fact she was loving her new-found freedom even more. But that didn’t alter the fact that he might be dying in a foreign hospital and she was only a short distance away. She’d never be able to live with herself.
She’d sleep on it.
She didn’t, of course. She tossed and turned, tormented by her conversation with Ringer, and further disturbed by Gill snoring loudly underneath. Normally a tidy little sleeper herself, the top bunk had suited Maggie fine. Now, apart from her turbulent thoughts, she felt restricted by the noise and the heat.
Maggie crept noiselessly down the ladder and tiptoed towards the door. It was 4 a.m. and all around was silence except for the distant sound of a dog barking. She’d sit outside in the cool and try to gather her chaotic thoughts together. The glass of water was still half full on the table, so she drank that.
He’d given her the address of the hospital. If she left early she could claim sleeplessness, say she’d decided to take a taxi to St Peter’s, and that she’d meet up with them somewhere. The Trevi Fountain, perhaps. She’d keep in touch by phone. Later she’d phone Ringer to let him know she was on her way, that it would be a brief visit, that she was meeting friends. She might even be able to squeeze in St Peter’s as well, and pray for his heinous soul. She hoped that Connie wouldn’t ask too many questions.
‘I couldn’t sleep,’ she informed them a couple of hours later, ‘so I thought I might take a taxi to St Peter’s this morning and meet up with you later.’
‘Has she suddenly got religion or something?’ Gill murmured to Connie.
‘We can postpone the sightseeing until later,’ Connie said, ‘now that you’ve both got other plans for today.’
‘I’ll meet you by the Trevi later, after my visit to St Peter’s,’ Maggie said. She had a wad of money in her bra, as usual, but hadn’t taken much in her bag, just in case. She’d tell Ringer that she’d banked it all and that there had been no point whatsoever in him tailing them, although he probably wouldn’t believe her.
Half an hour later she phoned him from the taxi. ‘I should be with you in about ten minutes.’
‘Thanks, Maggie. It means so much to me.’ If anything he sounded even more feeble than yesterday.
The taxi driver said, ‘It beeootiful ’ospital, your friend lucky because I think I hear nearly everyone move out now.’
‘Hmm,’ said Maggie. ‘Have they indeed?’
It was a long way but nevertheless the fare still seemed exorbitant and, as she paid him, she wondered if he’d extended the journey. She’d used up most of the notes in her bag, so just as well she had a bra-full. She suddenly remembered she’d left her passport in the pocket of the jacket she’d been wearing last night, so hoped she wouldn’t need it, if she had to produce identification.
The hospital was situated behind large wooden gates and surrounded by well-tended lawns and flowerbeds. There was even a little fountain at the front. The building was large, square, and painted pale yellow with green shutters. It looked restful. So quiet, in fact, that she wondered if it was still open. The whole area seemed deserted. What had the taxi driver meant?
As she approached the gates Maggie was aware, from the corner of her eye, of someone racing towards her, holding something. It took a split second for it to register; she froze only momentarily, then turned and ran. She ran and she ran, having no idea where she was going, but only aware that he was catching up with her. There were few people around, but the ones who were stopped to look on in amazement at the two racing figures.
Maggie ran like her life depended on it, which it probably did, down a residential street with large imposing houses set behind walled gardens. She thought she could outrun him but he was moving surprisingly fast and rapidly gaining ground. She wished she had some sort of weapon.
He had almost caught up with her when, gasping for breath, she stopped, turned and swung her shoulder bag at him, hoping to catch him on the side of the head. With a deft movement, he grabbed the bag, but lost his balance and fell flat on the pavement. He’d dropped something that clattered on the pavement, but she didn’t wait to find out what it was.
Then she saw the bus. It was only a few yards ahead and had stopped to disgorge two elderly ladies. The doors were still open, and she leapt on board just as they began to close. She saw the driver hesitate, looking back at Ringer in his mirror.
‘Go, go!’ Maggie yelled. ‘Per favore!’ She was terrified he’d open the doors again.
The driver shrugged and moved on. Maggie, breathless and with her heart racing, collapsed onto the first empty seat, aware of the stares of amazement from the other passengers. She hadn’t got a ticket and she looked guiltily at the ticket-stamping machine. She should probably disembark at the next stop.
Ringer had got her bag but her mobile was in her trouser pocket. And thank God she’d left her passport behind! But he’d got her bankcards, her diary, her reading glasses and a very expensive lipstick that Connie had persuaded her to buy in Volterra. And thank goodness she’d spent most of the cash!
The bus stopped. People got off and people got on, all obediently stamping their tickets in the machine. They seemed to be getting closer to the city centre so Maggie decided to stay on for a bit, praying that no official would come round to check the fares. Two stops later she decided it was time to get off. Her luck couldn’t hold out much longer, and Ringer wouldn’t find her here. She found herself in a busy street full of shops, cafes and bars, and she badly needed to sit down with a coffee and something stronger. She stopped at the first bar she came to, resisted the temptation to sit outside, and instead settled for a dark corner in the interior. She ordered a coffee and a large brandy and, ensuring that no one was looking, lifted up her T-shirt and pulled some notes out of her bra, which she transferred to her pocket. It felt strange not having a bag.
Maggie couldn’t believe she’d been so stupid as to fall headlong into his trap. He’d taken advantage of her better nature, knowing she was a bit of a softie underneath. She remembered how he’d always laughed when she dabbed her eyes during sad films. ‘You’re not as tough as you make yourself out to be!’ he’d taunted her. ‘You’re just a wee softie!’
And today she’d been a bloody great softie and an even greater idiot. And he was a bloody good actor.
Twenty-Four
THE ETERNAL TRIANGLE
Connie could hear the sound of gushing water well before she arrived at the Piazza di Trevi where, as usual, there were crowds surrounding the fountain. She was entranced again by the magnificent rococo extravaganza of rearing sea horses and conch-blowing tritons cavorting below the wall of the Palazzo Poli. Then she spotted Maggie.
‘Hi! How was St Peter’s?’ Connie asked. ‘And where’s your bag? Maggie, are you all right?’ Connie could see that something was wrong. At this, Maggie dissolved into tears. This was unheard of – Maggie never cried. Connie delved into her bag and handed her a tissue. ‘Maggie…?’
Maggie gulped. ‘I got mugged.’
‘What, in St Peter’s?’
�
�No, no, on the way there.’ Maggie had practised her speech. ‘The taxi had to drop me a little way off. There was no one around, and this guy just appeared out of nowhere and ripped the bag off my shoulder.’ Well, that much is partly true, she thought.
‘Oh, Maggie! Have you been to the police?’
‘No, I haven’t. What’s the point? I didn’t see him properly so couldn’t describe him. And they’d never find him anyway.’ Maggie didn’t enjoy having to lie to Connie, but there was absolutely no way she could spoil Connie’s trip now. Perhaps she’d tell her when they reached their final destination. Perhaps.
‘But—’
‘But nothing, Connie. There wasn’t anything in my bag except a few bits and pieces, and my bankcards. Fortunately my phone was in my pocket and I had the bank details on there, so I rang up and cancelled all the cards while I was recovering with a brandy. It doesn’t matter, I’ve plenty of cash. I couldn’t actually face St Peter’s after that, so I’ll probably go tomorrow.’
‘Oh, that’s awful!’ Connie hugged her. ‘Are you sure you’re OK for a bit of sightseeing?’
‘After I’ve bought myself another bag!’ Maggie replied with a ghost of a smile.
Rome was hot, vibrant, crowded. After Maggie bought her bag she followed Connie towards the Piazza di Spagna and gazed in disbelief at the crowds thronging the Spanish Steps. She said she remembered Gregory Peck and Audrey Hepburn sitting there in splendid romantic isolation on their ‘Roman Holiday’; they wouldn’t stand a chance of finding a few spare inches today.
Then, a stroll down the Via Condotti to gaze at the displays of (almost) unaffordable clothing in the designer shops, before heading back towards the Via Nazionale.
‘Tomorrow, the Pantheon,’ Connie promised. ‘And the Piazza Navona with its lovely fountains. And we really need another day to go to the Vatican.’ She cast a glance at Maggie. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’
* * *
Maggie knew she was in a world of her own. She was looking at all these famous landmarks but they weren’t registering. Her trip lay in ruins amongst the ruins of this amazing city. Not only that, she hated lying to the other two, but she didn’t want to worry them. Why spoil their visit too? They’d want to move on, go to the police.
She should have left Ringer some of that money; it might have calmed him down sufficiently to keep him at home. He obviously had plans for it or he wouldn’t be following them so manically. Perhaps she should phone him, split the remaining cash with him and get him off their backs. Then she remembered she’d heard the crash of whatever it was he had in his hand when he hit the pavement. Could it have been a gun? She knew for sure now that she could never trust him again and, for the very first time, she was beginning to wish that this trip was over. And now she was fearing for the safety of her two friends. Because, against the odds, they were friends. She’d really come to love them both and she’d miss them like hell when this was all over.
Perhaps she should leave them here in Rome and let them head south on their own? But he’d still tail the motorhome if he thought she, or any of the cash, was in it. And Connie was so keen to have them both with her on this final lap of their journey.
She’d think of something.
* * *
Gill looked round nervously. She’d arrived at the marina five minutes early and she’d no idea who might be coming to meet her. She hoped she looked good, and sufficiently jetsetter-ish, having chosen her pink cotton trousers and the nice white filmy top she’d bought in Nice. And she wore her one and only pair of flat sandals, because she remembered the fuss that poncy Pietro, or whatever his name was, on the yacht in Cannes, had made about high heels and decks. And then she saw someone who looked just like the poncy fellow in Cannes, still wearing tight white jeans with a billowing blue shirt knotted just above the waist to display a taut brown belly. And he was heading towards her!
He stopped and stared.
Gill stared back.
After a moment he said, ‘You are here for Signor Moroni?’
‘Yes,’ Gill said, ‘I am.’
He continued to stare at her. ‘We have met before?’
‘Yes,’ Gill replied drily, ‘in Cannes. There was a chef problem.’
He clapped his hand to his forehead. ‘Mamma mia!’
‘Yes, quite. Are you working here now?’
He didn’t bother to answer her, just saying, ‘Come this way.’
She followed him for some distance along the jetty and then she saw it, Il Delfino! The yacht from Cannes! What an unbelievable coincidence! She wondered if that old biddy was still the chef, but it had been on hire in Cannes so they probably had an Italian crew now.
Pietro had stopped.
‘This is quite a coincidence,’ Gill said, ‘this boat, and you being here too.’
‘This,’ Pietro said, ‘is the boat of Signor Moroni.’
Gill was dumbstruck. This was more than a coincidence! Fabio was the owner of the boat she’d boarded, supposedly as a chef, in Cannes! This must be fate! And now, here she was, the guest of Fabio Moroni and not a bloody cook! And time this lackey showed her more respect.
‘Well, thank you, Pietro,’ she said graciously. ‘Now be so kind as to take me to Signor Moroni.’ She wanted to add ‘and then you may go’, but perhaps that was overdoing it. Poncy bloke, poncy shirt.
Without meeting her eye he led her across the gangplank onto the boat and into the salon, where she remembered quaffing champagne with Lord-what’s-his-name while they headed back to the marina. It had been full of people then, but it was empty now.
‘You wait,’ he ordered and then promptly disappeared.
Gill looked around at the sumptuous sofas, the polished mahogany, the cocktail bar. This surely was the life she was destined for!
She heard someone approaching. What would he look like now? she wondered. He must be in his late seventies. Gill ran a hand over her hair, pulled in her tummy and took a deep breath as the door opened to admit a very attractive elderly lady, slim, tanned, elegant, bracelets jangling on her wrist.
She smiled at Gill. ‘You have come to see my husband?’
Gill felt everything drop and droop: her hopes, her spirits and probably her face. She rearranged her mouth into a smile. ‘I met Fabio in London many years ago and he said to get in touch if I was ever in Rome.’ She cleared her throat, feeling more idiotic by the minute. ‘And here I am!’
‘And remind me of your name?’
‘Gill.’
‘Piacere, Gill. I am Silvana. I assume you were working for our company in London?’
Gill nodded mutely. How else could she explain it? There was no escape now.
‘You will see a difference in my husband. You know, of course, Fabio has been retired for some years. It will be interesting to see if he remembers you.’
It certainly will, Gill thought, wondering if she could make some excuse, any excuse, to get out of here. But there was no way out, and she could only hope that Fabio would play along with this charade. All at once she felt shabby and sweaty next to this graceful, charming woman.
‘He will be with us shortly,’ Silvana continued, bracelets jangling. ‘Would you like a drink?’
It was far too early in the day, but God, she needed a damned drink. ‘Oh yes, please! Could I have a gin and tonic?’
‘Of course.’ Silvana headed towards the door and called out, ‘Pietro!’
Immediately Pietro appeared. ‘Signora?’
‘Could you do this lady a gin and tonic, please? And just a glass of wine for me – the Pinot, I think.’
‘Certo, Signora!’ He slid, snakelike, behind the bar and began to make a big production of shovelling ice into a silver bucket, slicing lemons and perusing the array of gin bottles.
‘I think, perhaps, the Bombay Sapphire, Pietro,’ Silvana said. ‘Our guest is English and the English like Bombay Sapphire – no?’ She looked enquiringly at Gill.
‘Oh, lovely, yes,’ Gill muttered.
&
nbsp; With a flourish Pietro placed the glasses on a tray and presented them to Silvana.
‘Our guest first, please,’ she ordered, indicating Gill with more jangling of bracelets.
Without meeting her eye, Pietro thrust the tray in front of Gill.
‘Thank you, Pietro,’ Gill said as grandly as she could. Conversation was becoming more and more difficult as, apart from anything else, her lips had now stuck to her teeth with nerves. She needed a sip badly.
They waited until Pietro retreated and then Silvana raised her glass. ‘To old acquaintances!’ she said.
‘Oh yes,’ mumbled Gill, taking a welcome gulp.
Still no sign of Fabio. Perhaps he was doing business in his office. They were bound to have an office on board this thing and, after all, these old executives – or whatever he was – never really retired. He was plainly still in constant touch with the company because they’d known exactly where to find him. Then Gill heard more footsteps approaching.
After what seemed like an age, the door opened and a small, withered old man shuffled in, leaning heavily on the arm of a white-clad woman who was obviously a nurse. Gill stifled a gasp.
‘Come, Fabio,’ Silvana said, ‘and meet our guest.’
Fabio stood shakily in the middle of the salon, still leaning on the nurse’s arm and staring down at the floor. This was Fabio! Dear God! Gill could see little she recognised. A minute passed in total silence and then he lifted his head and stared at Gill blankly. No sign of recognition whatsoever.
‘I’m Gill; remember me? We met years ago in London.’
He ignored her outstretched hand and continued to stare blankly at her, then lost interest and let his gaze drop to the floor again.
Silvana sighed. ‘I wanted him to see you as I so hoped you might, how you say, jog his memory. Sometimes a face from the past will get through to him and he will come alive again for a few minutes.’
Gill had no idea what to say. That the gorgeous Fabio should end up in this unbelievably cruel state! And it was fortunate that Silvana thought she was a business colleague because she could hardly say, ‘Remember me, Fabio? We shagged non-stop for five days and you told me I was the sexiest woman you’d ever met!’
The Getaway Girls: A hilarious feel-good summer read Page 23