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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 (#ulink_5ecaa012-383c-5ab9-88cf-431d8ed1c7c8)
‘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 (#ulink_7729b7d2-1c38-5016-9f9a-d665419a8de9)
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 of 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.
They had a most enjoyable time in the Smugglers Arms. It was a very old inn with a low ceiling, supported by massive dark oak tree trunks. Between the beams, the plaster had probably once been white, but centuries of open fires and tobacco smoke had turned it a mustard yellow colour. The bar was so festooned with an amazing selection of objects plucked from the sea that the bar staff seemed in imminent danger of being submerged by them all. There were star fish, seashells, glass floats to hold nets, and huge chunks of the nets themselves, hung with an eclectic mixture of driftwood, stuffed fish and topped off with some unconvincing plastic lobsters. Casks of real ale with names like Old Thumper or The Pirate’s Revenge stood on a bench behind the counter, and more modern beers, wines and spirits lined the bar. Although most of the other customers were tourists like themselves, there was a fair sprinkling of locals, mainly bewhiskered fishermen types in heavy woollen jumpers or cotton smocks, like something out of a sepia photo.
The other girls returned from their surfing expedition in the course of the evening and regaled Sam and Becky, as well as half a dozen hopeful young men who had collected on the sidelines, with the tales of their day. By agreement, Becky and Sam made no mention of her exploits on the water. This was for two reasons; firstly because she felt rather ashamed at her foolhardiness and, secondly because she had got the distinct impression the woman over there had been trying to maintain a low profile. After her hospitality and kindness, the least Sam could do was to respect that. It was a pleasant evening but by about ten, she began to feel very tired and she left the others to it. On her way back to the house, she tried Neil again. This time he answered.
‘Yes, hi Sam. What is it?’ There was music in the background. It wasn’t heavy-duty disco music; more background lounge bar music. No doubt he had a pint in his hand. Sam was on the point of telling him all about her escape from disaster when she thought to herself, why bother? Instead, she just kept it to a few generalities.
‘I thought I’d just check in. Tell you I’m still alive. Having a good time. All that sort of thing.’
‘Yeah, well I’m alive too.’
‘What’re you doing?’
‘Down the pub with the boys. We’re going for a curry in a bit.’
‘Sounds like fun.’ In fact it sounded like what he had been doing every Saturday night for the last year. ‘Don’t overdo the beer.’
‘Me, overdo the beer? Bye.’ And that was that.
Next morning Sam didn’t get up early and, unusually, she didn’t feel like going for a run. When she awoke, she found she was aching all over and decided to go back to sleep until mid-morning. In the next bed, Becky showed no signs of life after presumably coming in late. Sam hadn’t heard a thing. She must have gone out like a light.
When she finally dragged herself out of bed it was almost eleven o’clock. Her hair felt stiff and unresponsive, now even lighter than its normal colour after all the salt. She searched her washbag for a bottle of shampoo and tottered into the shower. The good news, she reflected, was that she wasn’t suffering from the flu. It was just the muscles she had used to paddle with all her might that were complaining. By the time she emerged from a hot shower she was feeling more human. By the time she had let Becky persuade her to have a plate of bacon and eggs at the nearby café, she was back in the land of the living.
‘So what’s the plan for today?’ Becky was peering out of the window apprehensively. The mist had cleared, but it had been replaced by a persistent and uninviting drizzle. Sam’s eyes followed hers. Rock Island was just visible through the grey shroud and it looked a lot further out than she remembered. She reflected, as she had been doing for hours now, just how silly she had been and how lucky to find shelter over there.
‘I’ve got to do something to thank the people over there on the island; not just for the welcome and the clothes, but for saving my life.’ She caught Becky’s eye. ‘They really did, you know. I could be dead.’ Put like that, it would be almost impossible to find a thank you present that represented the gravity of the situation. Somehow, a box of chocolates wouldn’t do justice to what had happened. She mulled it over as she finished her breakfast, finally arriving at a conclusion. ‘They’ve got pots of money, so whatever present I buy won’t mean a thing to them. No, it’s got to be something more personal.’
‘You could try serenading them from the harbour side, but I’ve heard you sing, Sam, and it wasn’t pretty.’ Becky was doing her best to help. ‘You could try sex with the steward chap, but then you’ve still got the problem of the woman, unless she’s…’
‘I very much doubt it, Becs. Anyway, that’s not exactly what I meant when I said I wanted to do something personal. Forget sex, forget singing. What else have I got to offer?’
‘Sports coaching?’
Sam thought about it. ‘Well, they both looked very fit, but she’s most probably already got a personal trainer.’ They sat there for a few minutes before the same thought occurred to both of them at the same time.
‘Archaeology!’ Becky got there first.
‘Archaeology. Becs, that’s right. The island’s an amazingly historic place and she said she loved history. I could offer to come over with a team and do an archaeological survey for them.’ Sam was sounding more animated. ‘That’s what I’ll do. I’ll send them a card and make the offer. You’d be up for it, if they say yes, wouldn’t you?’
Becky nodded emphatically. ‘Helipad, luxurious furnishings, designer clothes… just try and stop me, Sam.’ She grinned across the table. ‘To be honest, the way I’ve been feeling lately, I would probably be prepared to take a stab at sex with the steward as well, if it helps.’
Sam grinned back at her. ‘I don’t think that’ll be necessary, thanks. Now, where do you think I can buy a card in a little place like this on a Sunday morning?’
Becky reached into her bag. ‘Here, I bought these yesterday afternoon while you were being fished out of the sea. There’s only the little shop down by the bus stop, but I bet it’s closed today.’ She slid a paper bag across the table. ‘As you can see, I haven’t got round to writing any of them yet. Take whichever you like.’
‘That’s brilliant. Thanks, Becs.’ Sam flicked through the cards and chose one with a photo of ducks flying across the sunset. She pulled out a pen and started writing. As she was composing her message, another thought occurred to her. ‘How in the hell do I get the card to them? Do I just address it to “The Occupier, Rock Island”?’
‘What about the boatman? He must come across to the mainland from time to time to pick up supplies. In fact, I bet he picks up the mail.’
Sam looked up. ‘That’s an idea. Keep your eyes peeled. You can’t miss the boat. It’s a gorgeous polished wooden launch, like the one in Some Like it Hot.’ They had recently watched the classic black and white movie so Becky was familiar with the vessel.
‘Sort of like that one out there?’ Sam’s eyes followed Becky’s pointing finger. Sure enough, the launch was just visible, nosing out of the little harbour on the island, headed for the jetty at Tregossick.
‘That’s it all right. Keep your eyes on it and let me know when he’s getting near land.’ Sam returned to her writing, occasionally looking up to check the progress of the launch. She managed to finish the message and scribble her name before the boat reached the jetty. She added her address and phone number and sealed the envelope. ‘Becs, will you settle up for breakfast and I’ll pay you back?’ Becky nodded and waved her away. Sam picked up her jacket and made a run for the jetty, arriving just as the launch got there.
‘Hello, good morning. Remember me?’ Sam looked down into the boat and saw that there was only the boatman in there.
‘I certainly do, Miss. And I’m delighted to see you fit and well after your adventures yesterday.’ With an experienced hand, he looped a mooring rope around a bollard and tied it off. After securing a second rope, he climbed onto the quayside. ‘I’ll tell everybody on the island the good news that you’re all right again.’
Samantha held out the card. ‘Please could you give this to the lady. It’s just a thank you note.’
He took it from her and smiled. ‘Of course I will. Now, you take it easy, you hear?’
That evening, after a far less exciting day than the previous one, Sam and Becky returned to the pub with the rest of their party of girls. In spite of the traditional surroundings, the place offered a surprisingly varied menu. Sam reflected that the days of Cornish pubs only selling Cornish pasties were long gone. Apart from anything else, the pasties here came with a choice of filling, not just the classic potato, onion, swede and mince. On the Smugglers Arms menu there were smoked fish and scallop pasties, and even vegetarian gluten free pasties. Times had definitely changed. And, apart from pasties, there was everything from tagliatelle alla carbonara to a selection of curries. Curry reminded her briefly of Neil, but the thought didn’t last long. After her dice with death the previous day, relationship problems seemed so much less important.
It was around eight o’clock and they were just finishing two monster portions of cod and chips when Sam’s phone rang. She checked the caller ID, but didn’t recognise it. The group of men who had been circling around their group the previous night had now doubled in size, and the noise of the chatter all around was deafening. Sam took the phone outside.
‘Yes, hello.’
‘Samantha?’ It was a woman’s voice.
‘Yes. Who’s that?’ Something in the woman’s voice was familiar.
‘It’s Ann, from the island.’ There was a slight pause. ‘We met yesterday.’
‘Oh, yes, of course. Thanks a lot for calling. I hope you got my note. I really don’t know how to begin to thank you for what you did.’
‘Yes, thanks. Ronnie gave me your card. That was very sweet of you. That’s what I’m ringing about. Are you still in Tregossick, or have you returned home?’
‘I’m still here. We go home tomorrow. In fact I’ve been in the pub having fish and chips. Would you like to come and join us? It would be lovely to see you again and the least I can do is buy you a few drinks.’
There was a pause before the woman, Ann, answered. The regret in her tone was clear. ‘I would really love to, Samantha, but I can’t.’ She didn’t go on to offer an explanation, but Sam had already worked out that she valued her privacy and anonymity above all else. ‘Anyway, I just wanted to thank you for the offer of the archaeological survey. That sounds really fantastic, but it just isn’t feasible at present. But I’ll keep your contact details and I promise to be in touch if I ever decide to go for it.’
Sam thanked her once more for her kindness the previous day and they both hung up. On impulse, she saved the phone number under the name ‘Ann Island’. As she walked back into the crowded pub, Sam found herself wondering just who Ann was and whether she lived all alone over there.
Chapter 5 (#ulink_2c67a817-c8c9-569e-86d7-3979d724e501)
‘England, Giancarlo, that’s where we’re going.’
‘But, I thought they said New England.’ His tone was that of a petulant teenager. His pouting expression supported the illusion, although he would be twenty-four that October. ‘I like the States. I want to live in the States. I don’t want to go to England. It’s cold and wet and the people are arrogant and horrible.’
