"Of course! Of course! She loved him, damn it!" she exclaimed, pounding the table with her fists.
"Sara! Goodness gracious me! What are you on about?"
Her face as white as a sheet, Sara looked blankly at her companion.
"You wouldn't believe any of it. Let's finish quickly. I must get home."
From his expression, Sara sensed that she had hurt David's sensitive nature. He assumed that she wanted to get away from him, as quickly as possible. She put it right by explaining, if only partly, the reason for her outburst.
"Sorry. I just thought of something. It has nothing to do with you. I assure you."
She smiled reassuringly at him. Content to accept her explanation, David continued the description of his latest courtroom drama.
*********************
It was too late of course. There are some things in life that we are desperate to forget and others that we are destined to remember.
The conversation over dinner brought Gillane back. Sara spent the night trawling the Internet for information about the case David had spoken of. She found details of the famous case on the website of a Trinidadian newspaper. Trinidad, a country Sara had never heard of. The newspaper had posted its top stories over the last twenty-five years under the listing BACK IN THE OLD DAYS.
Sara clicked the mouse and travelled back to the good old days. The case had been big news in Trinidad which, she learned was where the murderers were from. Lawyers for the State had been jubilant with the verdict. Life imprisonment. The convicted men maintained their innocence.
Corpus delicti. The substance of the offence proven as an intent to harm.
The Inspector Jay may have suspected Gillane but could not prove his intent to harm.
Sara logged off the Internet and switched off her computer. She dialled the French, Spanish and Italian international telephone operators. Something in Gillane's history had led him to commit a crime. She must find out what it was. None of the operators could find a listing to match the strange name. In Italy, the nearest they could find was Giullani. In France, Gitane. In Spain, nothing came close.
Sara hung up the phone. She knew she was wasting her time. Gillane had lived at Old Henley's farm for over twenty years. Sarah Lunn had spent her entire life within walking distance of that farm.
But where had Gillane acquired the money to purchase the farm?
"Leave it alone. Damn it, leave it alone!" Sara repeated going downstairs to find a cigarette.
She had reneged on the oath she had taken that day in Glymeer. The day she had decided to leave and abandon her holiday. And then Gillane had come down the pathway and everything changed.
Those last days spent with him now seemed totally irrational. A huge folly. But they had also been the most wonderful days of her life. Half of her wanted to be condemned forever for the sake of those few precious moments. And the other half, to forget.
The terrible possibility that someone who she had been drawn to, whose hands had touched every inch of her body, that those same hands had taken a life.
"Each man kills the thing he loves..."
Gillane was capable of love. And by the same token, of murder.
**************************
Christmas was three and a half weeks away. Sara was busy preparing for the Maestro's annual jaunt to Switzerland where he would spend the holidays and be gone for six weeks.
When the Maestro was away on pleasure, not business, there was very little for Sara to do. The rest of the world had learned from experience not to even bother to try and reach the Maestro between mid December and January 31st. Sara sent everyone that mattered the dates of the Maestro's vacation along with the usual MERRY CHRISTMAS & A HAPPY NEW YEAR.
With the Maestro soon to be missing in action, Sara decided she would go back to Wales over Christmas. And this time, she would not go alone.
The man and his shadow are one. Instead of focussing on Gillane, where she had failed, she would turn her attention to another.
Sarah Lunn's memory had been kept alive by Mag. And by the two people who would not speak her name. Gillane and Sarah's mother.
"If my name is on someone's lips, I am still alive."
One day, those words should engrave Sarah's tombstone.
Sara called one of the Maestro's lawyers. Michael Twickenham had managed the Maestro's property portfolio for years. He was well placed to dig for information without arousing suspicion.
"Hullo, Sara. How can I help you?"
"Michael, we've got our eye on the most beautiful property in Wales. Angels Rest. Can you check it out? See if we can buy it? This is an ASAP job. The Maestro leaves in just under two weeks. Plus it’s Christmas. Sorry about the timing. I know I'm pushing hard..."
The scent of a large fee was too strong an incentive for Michael to refuse. He agreed to get on the phone to his associates in Wales, right away.
"Give me a week, Sara. Max. I'll be in touch."
Sara hung up the phone, pleased at having found such a willing accomplice. A hunch had inspired her to ring Michael. Sarah's parents could not have bought Angels Rest outright. The farms in Glymeer were too small and remote to command a high price. When John had bought theirs, it could not have been worth very much. Perhaps they were caretakers on Angels Rest and it belonged to someone else.
Chapter Fifteen.
With one week left before the Maestro beamed himself off to Switzerland, Sara was frantic with worry. There were all sorts of silly things to see to, in order for the Maestro to extract himself albeit, temporarily from London.
Stressed and irritated, she had just got off the phone with David. She had cancelled their dinner that night, complaining to him that she was in a bad mood and would be rotten company.
The phone rang again as soon as she put it down. Madame Colvin, the Maestro's housekeeper at the Swiss chalet, was desperate for Sara to come over "ahead of time."
Sara reassured her that she would fly over in a couple of days. She resumed the series of calls she was forced to make every single year at the same time.
She rang the traiteur near Gstaad. Don't forget to deliver 250 grams of pâté de campagne, flavoured with armagnac, not cognac, daily. Next, the boulangerie for a daily delivery of pain de campagne, baguette, pain complet and pain de mie. And the croissants, must, must, must arrive warm from the oven. Then onto the flowers. Lots of them, large bouquets to be replaced every two days.
Two hours later, Sara was still on the phone. This time to Frédéric in Bordeaux who was responsible for shipping a colossal amount of grog over to Gstaad. French reds only, champagne, cognac and every other imaginable alcohol. Gallons of it. Frédéric assured her that as per the usual, the shipment was all on consignment. Sara insisted on this to save a few pounds. Why she bothered, she didn't know. She calculated that the six weeks holiday cost over one hundred thousand pounds. Neither did the Maestro eat 250 grams of pâté de campagne every day. He just wanted it there. Like the bread and the flowers.
What the Maestro actually did in the chalet no one would dare say. But judging from the desperate phone calls she normally received from Madame Colvin, just having the Maestro around was a hell-raising nightmare.
Sara understood a thing or two about that. The last couple of days before the Maestro left, were to put it mildly, insufferable. Forced to make numerous trips to purchase a new skiing outfit or thicker socks or whole boxes of chewing gum, Sara began to contemplate murder.
At last, the moment came when the Maestro could find nothing else for her to do. All that was left to be done was for him to get on the Goddamn plane.
Sara rushed to the airport to catch a flight for Geneva.
"Bastard!" she thought, boarding the plane. "I told him I wasn't working late or doing overseas trips."
Madame Colvin was waiting anxiously for her on the doorstep as the taxi drew up alongside the sprawling chalet. A chauffeur then drove them both on, to visit each of the shopkeepers whom Sara paid in advance. Madame Co
lvin babbled on incessantly about how she hoped everything would be to the Maestro's liking. She hoped.
The two women returned to the chalet which Sara looked over. She praised the housekeeper warmly as she completed her tour. The supply of alcohol had been delivered. Sara took a copy of the inventory and left the original with Madame Colvin, instructing her to do a final count of what was left after six weeks.
Afterwards, the two women dined together quickly in the kitchen before Sara caught a late plane home.
She arrived back in London at midnight. Exhausted, she climbed into bed and fell asleep straight away.
She woke up at ten o'clock the next morning, cursing as she opened her eyes at the late hour.
Within half an hour, she was in the office and cheered by the sight of an A4 envelope addressed to her from Michael Twickenham.
The Maestro surfaced at noon and promptly threw a temper tantrum. Sara ignored him, reminding him that his flight was in three hours and he should get a move on. She accompanied him to Heathrow Airport and checked his bags in while the bodyguards fought off a swarm of lissom nymphs.
The bodyguards were accompanying the Maestro to Gstaad and should keep him out of trouble. They hustled the Maestro on to the waiting plane with seconds to spare.
Relieved to see the back of him, Sara instructed the chauffeur to drive her home.
********************
Michael Twickenham began his letter to Sara, by apologising profusely for the delay in sending her the coveted information about Angels Rest. The letter went on to explain in detail, the history of ownership of the property.
Angels Rest, as the 2000 hectares were known, had been passed from the Guillani family to the Welsh Council in 1978. Certain conditions were to apply. No part of the 2000 hectares could be subdivided or sold. The cottage, also known as Angels Rest, could not be demolished or removed. The family had provided a trust fund to be administered by their lawyers, for the ongoing maintenance of the building. A caretaker would reside in the cottage and be paid a monthly stipend of one hundred pounds sterling. No other edifice was to be erected on the land. The terms of the bequeathal applied for fifty years until the year 2028. On expiry, complete ownership would revert to the Council whereupon, none of the above terms and conditions would apply. Until then Angels Rest would remain a "place of peace."
A place of peace. Sara was struck by the wording. It was as if the place were to be preserved, albeit for only fifty years, as a shrine.
Michael ended his letter by stating the obvious: "The property cannot be sold."
Sara examined a copy of the deed attached to the letter. Roberto and Sylvia Guillani of V. Milano, 50047 Prato, Florence, Italy and Les Mireilles, Chemin de Suzon, Pessac, Bordeaux 33000, France.
"Gee-llany? G-wee-lany?" Sara said aloud, rolling the name over her tongue.
Gillane had told her vaguely that his name was the anglicised version of the Italian. It could well be that Roberto and Sylvia Guillani were his parents. But that did not explain how Sarah Lunn's family had come to be living at Angels Rest.
Sara reread the deed several times. The two addresses, one in France and one in Italy, intrigued her. If these were Gillane's parents, then he had told the truth about living in three countries: France, Italy and England.
Sara telephoned the French and Italian operators. There was no corresponding number under Guillani at either address.
Without a telephone number, she would be forced to go personally to both places. Instead of going to Wales.
She now knew that Sarah's parents were living legitimately at Angels Rest as the resident caretakers. If indeed, Roberto and Sylvia Guillani were Gillane's parents, then, she decided, she would go to Wales. Any connection between Gillane and the Guillanis would re-enforce her suspicion. That Gillane and the Lunns had conspired to conceal a secret.
Sara rang the travel agent who handled the Maestro's itinerant happenings. A flight to Bordeaux was possible. One to Florence was out of the question. It was Christmas, after all. Sara would have to decide quickly, the flight for Bordeaux, left in four hours.
The decision made for her, Sara asked the travel agent to proceed and to get a confirmed reservation at the nearest hotel to Bordeaux Airport. The travel agent hung up, promising to ring her back in half an hour.
Exactly half an hour later, the phone rang. Sara's bags were packed and ready to go. The Sofitel Hotel had just one room available and the agent had taken the liberty of passing on her credit card details to confirm the booking. Sara cringed at the thought of her unlimited American Express card number falling into the wrong hands.
As she waited for the minicab, Sara checked her bag for the deed and the notes she had taken in Glymeer. She had not looked at them since her return but thought it might be useful to take them along.
The doorbell rang. She went to tell the minicab driver to wait for a few minutes. She wanted to call her mother. She was not due to see her mother until New Year’s Day, which was still ten days away. But at least her mother should know where she was going.
"Hello darling! Will we be seeing you over Christmas?"
"No, Mother. I'm leaving for Bordeaux. On my way out the door actually. Write this down Mother. Hotel Sofitel, Bordeaux Airport. You can find the number later from the operator...."
"Yes, dear but what's in Bordeaux?" Henrietta interrupted.
"Just a last minute decision. Look I must go. Have a nice Christmas."
"Sara....dear..."
Sara did not wait for Henrietta to finish. She hung up the phone before a stream of regrets and recriminations sounded in her ear. Henrietta did not approve of her daughter abandoning Christmas dinner, despite the fact that it would not be the first time.
Sara adjusted her watch one hour ahead as the plane touched down in Bordeaux. Summoning a taxi outside the airport, she felt faintly nostalgic. The last time she had been in Bordeaux was with Carl.
To celebrate her 21st birthday, they had planned a cycling trip around Aquitaine. Young and idealistic. A long time ago. Experience had taught her otherwise. She had paid her debt to her youth.
Reminiscing about Carl had cost her fifty francs in a taxi ride that would have taken five minutes to walk. She had forgotten that she was staying in a hotel at the Airport.
Sara checked in at the reception desk. A perfectly coiffed receptionist greeted her.
"Bienvenue Meez or Madame Perrins?"
"Sara Perrins." Sara replied, a tad sarcastically.
"Thank you. Meez Perrins, how long...may I....you will be staying with us?"
"Maybe a couple of days. Maybe more. Can I let you know later?"
The receptionist shook her head disapprovingly.
"Ah Meez Perreens, Chreezmas, Noël, is a Bordeaux spécialité. Dinde aux marrons, huîtres, vacherin. You should try them. Stay for the veille de Noël..."
Sara could not stop herself from smiling. In true French fashion, the receptionist was waxing on about food.
"Please, that's enough," she interrupted, smiling, "I know all about French food. It’s the best in the world. Is my room ready?"
"Of course. Of course." replied the receptionist, her lips in a Bardot-esque pout as she turned the large leather-bound register for Sara to sign.
"Perhaps you can help me with something." Sara pulled the deed out of her bag and pointed to the address. "Is it far, Pessac?"
"Pessac is next to Bordeaux. How do you say...a banlieue?"
Sara guessed she meant "suburb".
"Will a taxi be available to take me there tomorrow, say, ten o'clock?"
"Yes. Yes. There are always taxis outside. There will be one for you," replied the receptionist waving to a porter, whom she instructed to show "Mademoiselle" to her room.
The following morning, Sara ordered breakfast from room service. She picked her way through the brioche, croissants, jam and hot chocolate, which had been expedited swiftly to her room. Again, she was thinking of Carl and how together, they had made a big joke a
bout the French idea of breakfast.
At ten sharp, she was in the lobby, handing in her key. A different receptionist from the one the night before greeted her, gushing "Merry Chreezmas" exuberantly.
Sara climbed into the taxi, announcing to the driver that she was not prepared to be ripped off and could he please give her an estimate of how much the ride to Pessac would cost.
A hundred francs lighter, Sara was deposited outside "Les Mireilles." She got out of the taxi and ordered the driver to wait while she found out if she was in the right place.
True enough, the sign said this was "Les Mireilles" but what she saw was not the grand residence she had expected. Sara hesitated before going any further then decided she might as well take her chances. She walked back to the taxi and told the driver to leave.
Sara pushed open the wrought iron pedestrian gate. From what she could see, "Les Mireilles" was not a single residence but rather a series of apartments built around a main courtyard. Confronted by twenty doors to choose from, Sara began knocking on each one. The only one to answer was number twenty-two.
A harmless-looking, diminutive elderly woman answered the door.
"Oui?" she asked, her blue eyes twinkling.
"Excusez-moi Madame. I'm looking for the Guillani family."
Sara struggled in her rudimentary French, well aware that she sounded like an idiot. She kicked herself for not having asked the taxi driver to stay.
Her French and her accent needed no introduction. The woman smiled gaily and banged on the door.
"Maîté! Maîté! Come and see! An English!"
She grabbed Sara by the arm, ensuring that she stayed where she was. Another elderly woman emerged from the doorway.
"An English," said the first one triumphantly, still holding on to Sara's arm tightly. Both women looked Sara up and down, smiling cheerfully.
Sara repeated her question nervously. The women appeared surprised, looked at each other, then back at Sara.
"Come in. Come and have some coffee."
Four arms instead of two pulled Sara into a tiny room. They led her to a wooden dining table, too grand for such a small space, and made her sit down.
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