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Beppe grunted sympathetically. ‘I know, I know. That’s what I told them, but what can you do? The boss says go to England, so we go to England.’
‘But I don’t want to.’ Giancarlo hammered his fist down on the tabletop. It landed with a heavy thud that drew the attention of the other customers around them. In so doing, his knuckles caught the teaspoon lying beside his cup and sent it spinning across the terrace. The thwack as it caught the elbow of the matronly Dutch lady on the end table drew even more attention, as did her squeal of protest. Beppe screwed up his face in silent rage.
‘Giancarlo, would you please stop behaving like a little child. We’ve had our orders and that’s that.’ He waved apologetically at the Dutch lady who was huffing and puffing indignantly. ‘Now, I want you to book the tickets and rent us a car. Can you do that? There are flights from Fiumicino to a place called Bristol. That should only be a few hours’ drive from the island. Book us on a flight before the end of the month. I want to be settled in there when the target gets there, if she isn’t already there.’
Giancarlo sipped his espresso and nodded. ‘Yes, I can do that, if I must.’ He was still fuming. ‘I’m still going to speak to my dad about this.’
‘You do that, sunshine. You won’t get far, I can tell you.’ Beppe drained his glass of wine and beckoned to the waitress. She came over, but Beppe saw that her attention was on the boy, not him. His eyes followed hers across the table towards Giancarlo. ‘You want another coffee? No? OK,’ He looked up. ‘Just another glass of red.’
Giancarlo watched the waitress walk away, an expression of aesthetic appreciation on his face. He turned back to Beppe. ‘So what’s so special about this island? Rock Island?’
Beppe went on to tell him about the target. Giancarlo’s eyes widened as he heard the name of Ann Cartwright. ‘Now there’s one exceptionally beautiful woman.’
‘She’s English, Giancarlo. I thought you just said they were all horrible.’
‘The exception that proves the rule. Maybe she’s got Italian blood in her.’ Giancarlo grinned across at him. ‘Or maybe she needs a bit of Italian in her. Now I could think of…’
His musings were interrupted as the waitress returned with the glass of red wine for Beppe. As she set it down Beppe noticed that her attention was still quite clearly directed at Giancarlo. He picked the drink up and swallowed half, then set it down and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. ‘You smoke?’
Giancarlo shook his head. ‘No, and you shouldn’t either. They’re bad for your health.’
‘So’s spending the summer in England, but what can you do?’ He lit the cigarette, breathed in deeply and took a closer look at his companion-to-be for the next month. The boy was tall and slim, quite good-looking in a juvenile way. His clothes were expensive, but with his old man’s money, he could afford to dress in style. From the way he was studying the waitress’s bottom, he clearly wasn’t gay. ‘You got a girlfriend at the moment?’
‘Yes, have you?’
‘No, my wife might object.’ In fact, Beppe thought to himself, she would probably die of surprise. He reached down, undid the top button of his trousers then took another pull at the red wine. The boy was grinning as he leant forward in conspiratorial fashion.
‘To tell the truth, I’ve got a couple of girls on the go at the moment.’ Beppe looked at him with new respect. Giancarlo returned his attention to the waitress until she disappeared back inside the café. He was thinking about the forthcoming trip to England. This made him a bit more reflective. ‘I wonder what English girls are like. I’ve never met any. You’ve been there often enough. You must know.’
‘As far as I remember, you pour drink into them, turn on the charm and they’re anybody’s.’
Giancarlo studied the older man pityingly. ‘You really do have a very cynical attitude towards the opposite sex, you know.’
‘And you think their attitude towards me is any better?’
Giancarlo wasn’t listening. He was watching the waitress. Without taking his eyes off her, he returned to their conversation.
‘So, you ever have an English girlfriend?’
The waitress had realised by this time that Giancarlo’s eyes had zeroed in on her. To Beppe’s surprise, she didn’t seem to mind. She flashed the boy a smile that signalled interest and availability. Beppe was impressed. He glanced across at Giancarlo.
‘You ever have a waitress?’
‘Not until today.’
Chapter 6 (#ulink_04e8df03-4d07-5245-b0fd-fb97979bfb65)
‘Have you ever heard of Rock Island, Sam?’
Samantha looked up in surprise. Virginia had been away at a conference for a few days so Sam hadn’t had a chance to tell her about the trip to Tregossick with Becky yet. It was quite a coincidence that she was asking about the island. Intrigued, Sam adopted a neutral tone. ‘Yes, only quite recently, actually. Why do you ask? What do you know about it?’
‘Not nearly enough. In fact, next to nothing.’ Professor Greenway looked across the table with a little grimace of frustration. ‘The Abbey of Saint Bernard on Rock Island is a mystery. In spite of it being just down the road from here, I’m afraid we know so little about it. So how come you know it?’
Samantha had decided not to mention that she had been rescued by the inhabitants of the abbey. She had made Becky promise not to reveal any details of her moment of peril on the high seas, so she searched for a suitable answer and found it in the book she had been reading since returning to Exeter. ‘Becky and I went to Tregossick last weekend, and you can’t miss the island, stuck right slap bang out there in the bay. Anyway, I was reading Delahaye’s History of the Cistercian Order the other night and I came across a reference to the place. It’s supposed to be one of the best-preserved medieval abbeys left in the country. And the abbey church is virtually unexplored. In fact, I couldn’t find a single photo of the inside.’ She glanced across the lunch table. ‘So why the sudden interest in Rock Island?’
‘I’ve never managed to set foot in the place. It’s not just us from Archaeology. Nobody from the university’s been allowed to see it, not even from Medieval Studies. It’s privately owned and they’ve steadfastly refused to let anybody in, even just to take a casual look.’ Virginia paused and looked up, a sparkle in her eye. ‘But things have changed. I did an internet search and found that it’s been sold.’
Sam did her best to look casual. ‘Sold? So who’s bought it?’
Virginia shook her head. ‘Nobody seems to know. It was sold at auction at the end of last year to an undisclosed bidder. There’s been talk of Branson, pop singers, even some Hollywood stars, but nobody’s got a clue. It went for millions and millions, apparently. Since then it’s supposedly had a major makeover and it’s been turned into some sort of super luxury millionaire’s retreat.’ Sam could see Virginia wince at the thought. ‘God knows what they’ve destroyed while they were doing all the building work. Anyway, I was wondering if maybe the new owner might give us access; maybe even let us do a dig.’ Virginia was sounding quite excited. Sam smiled to herself, reflecting that excitement and archaeology didn’t often go together.
‘So are you going to contact them?’ Sam felt pretty sure she knew what the result of any request was likely to be, but she thought it best to let Virginia find that out for herself.
Virginia nodded vigorously. ‘If there’s a chance of getting onto Rock Island, you bet your life. The only name I’ve got is of a firm of solicitors in Switzerland. They handled the sale, apparently. I’ll try them. I’ll send them a letter on university paper, asking if we could be afforded access. You never know; the new owners might be unaware of the historical significance of what they’ve bought.’
Sam felt like telling her that anybody who was going to shell out millions to buy a chunk of rock in the English Channel would surely have done their research first. Still, true to her promise to the mysterious Ann, she made no mention of what had happened on the island and let her get on with it.
‘In fact, I think I’ll go off and do that this very minute.’ Virginia stood up, waved absently, and headed back to her office. Samantha sat alone for a few minutes finishing her yoghurt.
‘Hi.’
She looked up in surprise. ‘Hello, Neil. What are you doing here?’ He was based in the Physics department and they had their own canteen up there. It was very unusual to see him down here.
He slipped into the seat vacated by Virginia. ‘I thought I’d just come and see if you’d changed your mind about tomorrow.’ He was trying and failing to look nonchalant.
‘Moira’s wedding? No, still the same. We go.’
‘Oh, Sam…’ He really did sound more like a teenager every day. ‘Do I have to?’
She took a deep breath. ‘Yes, you do, Neil. We both do. But why come and bother me on my lunch break? This could have waited.’
‘It’s just that I won’t be back till late tonight.’ In response to her raised eyebrows, he explained. As he did so, any remaining vestiges of nonchalance fell away. ‘We’re all going to a club. There’s a rugby night at the Green Bottle Club. All the locals will be there.’
‘When you say, all? Do you mean you want me to come too?’
He was quick to reply. ‘Oh no. Not at all. I mean local players. Tonight’ll be just blokes.’
She sighed. ‘Well, just don’t drink too much. The wedding’s tomorrow and we’ve got to be there early afternoon. I don’t want to have to prop you up during the ceremony.’
‘Couldn’t you go on your own and say I’m not feeling very well?’
‘Considering half the town’s going to see you looking fit and healthy out and about tonight, I would say that’s a definite non-starter. No, just accept the fact that we’ve said we’ll go and so we’re going.’
‘Oh, Sam, for Christ’s sake!’ He puffed with frustration, grunted and left the table.
Chapter 7 (#ulink_0bada561-9846-501f-babf-f67e3c590a5d)
Seeing as the sun was shining, Samantha chose to have her lunch outside in the university grounds the following Monday. Now that all the undergrads had left for the summer it was quiet on campus, and she had a whole bench to herself on the hillside. Behind her, the ever-growing sprawl of university buildings covered everything as far as the eye could see. Ahead of her lay the city of Exeter, the old cathedral standing proud in its midst. Beyond that was the estuary and she could just glimpse the sea in the distance. It was a sparkling clear day and the sun was warm enough to make her glad she had put sun cream on her nose.
Now, as July was drawing to a close, the weather had finally taken a turn for the better. At long last, the forecast was for sunshine. Sam reflected upon the irony of the fact that now that she and Becky had returned from their few days in grey, wet Cornwall, and were back at work indoors, the rain had stopped. She sighed into her sandwich, the fine weather unable to lighten her mood of depression. Things with Neil were going from bad to worse. Fast.
‘Hi, Sam. Room for one more?’ It was Becky.
‘Restaurant with the best view in town. Take a seat.’ Sam moved her bag to make space. ‘I thought you’d be lunching with your Scandinavian friend. Aren’t things working out with Andras?’
Becky shook her head ruefully. ‘We went out for a few drinks the other night and it was great, right up to the point when he pulled out the snapshots of his wife and three kids. Three kids! He’s only thirty-two as well!’
‘It’s those long, dark Nordic nights. What else is there to do?’
‘Well I wouldn’t mind doing a bit of it myself. Why the hell did I choose archaeology?’ As Becky grumbled on, Sam sat back and smiled in spite of herself. She was familiar with the rant to come. Becky was far from smiling. ‘If I’d done any kind of science I’d have been surrounded by men, and by the law of averages at least some of them would’ve been presentable. Instead, what did I do? Archae-bloody-ology, that’s what. And I find myself in the middle of a bunch of women and a handful of geeky men. Where’s an Indiana Jones when you want one?’
‘They’re not all geeky. Take Ryan for instance.’ That suggestion fell on stony ground. For months, years, Sam had been convinced that their fellow postgrad would be perfect for Becky, but she refused to see it. No response was forthcoming so Samantha changed the subject. ‘Has Virginia had any word back about getting access to Rock Island?’
Becky shook her head. ‘It’s been over a week now and still nothing. She’s fretting terribly. Oh I do hope they say yes, whoever they are.’ She shot Sam a sharp look. Although Sam had repeatedly told her that she didn’t know the identity of the woman called Ann, Becky clearly didn’t believe her. She had tried everything short of physical assault so far in her attempts to get Sam to spill the beans, but without success. ‘Wouldn’t it be great to be able to spend our summer out on an island? Especially one full of millionaires.’ Becky was looking a bit more cheerful now. Samantha took another mouthful of sandwich and relaxed. Her relaxation only lasted until Becky changed the subject.
‘So, Sam, I forgot to ask. How did the wedding go?’ Samantha’s heart fell. Her day had just got worse. She took a deep breath. Maybe talking about it might help.
‘Erm, not brilliant.’ Moira’s wedding had been in a fancy hotel on the outskirts of town. It had been every bit as bad as she had feared; not the wedding, but the behaviour of Neil, who had come back from the club very late on Friday night, reeking of beer. He had got up late on Saturday morning in a foul mood. He had at least managed to behave himself during the service, but he then did nothing but drink, moan and complain throughout the reception. Sam had finally accepted defeat and left with him immediately after the speeches, doing her best to excuse their early departure by explaining that Neil wasn’t feeling well. Worst of all, she had clearly read sympathy in Moira’s eyes. There was no getting away from it. Samantha’s failing relationship was on very public display and the clock was ticking.
She related the full, sad story to Becky and saw the same expression of sympathy on her face. Becky caught her eye. ‘Think it’s time to call it quits?’
‘Oh, Bec, I don’t know. Last Saturday night I was on the point of moving out but I kept thinking of my mum.’ Becky knew the story of Sam’s father’s disappearance.
‘Sam, your mum wouldn’t want you to let this Neil business totally fuck your life up. She’ll understand; I’m sure she will.’
‘You haven’t seen her recently. She’s still terribly down about the whole thing. At least she’s off the anti-depressants, but I haven’t seen any great improvement in her mood. I’m honestly afraid another bit of bad news might push her over the top.’
Becky made no immediate reply. Sam watched her as she thought it through. When she did decide to speak, her tone was more positive. ‘It’s not up to me to tell you what to do, Sam, but what I would say is that the two of you were very happy together for a good few years. Might there be some way you could get over this little hiccup and get back to where you were?’
Samantha ran her hands through her hair wearily. ‘Some hiccup! I think it’s gone way past the hiccup stage. I think we’ve reached the full projectile vomiting stage now, to be honest.’
‘Well, ask yourself if you think it’s worth fighting for. Is the relationship worth saving? Neil’s ever so handsome and he’s ever so clever. And they say he may be up for an award for his research, you know?’
Sam nodded. ‘I know all that. The fact is that he and I just don’t get on any more.’ She breathed out in frustration and let her eyes roam. She caught sight of a figure coming along the path towards them. She followed him out of the corner of her eye as he approached and then passed them. As he went by, she murmured a friendly ‘hi’, and received only a slight nod of his head in return. For a second she caught his eye and, even in that short space of time, she couldn’t miss the grim look on his face.
He was a tall man with sandy-coloured hair, cut short. He was tanned and he looked fit. He was walking with a strange uneven gait, a bit like a cowboy, or a sailor just back from a long voyage. She wondered, idly, who he was and what he was doing there. He was probably a few years older than her, maybe mid or late thirties. That made him a bit too old to be a normal student. Of course, he could be a postgrad like her and Becky, or a member of staff. The university was so enormous now that she had no idea who half the people she met were. She was no psychologist, but it didn’t take Sigmund Freud to see that he was troubled by something. She found herself wondering what it might be and hoping, for his sake, that it would pass. His appearance matched her mood and she felt sympathy for him. Clearly she wasn’t the only one in Devon with problems.
‘Who’s that guy, Sam?’ Becky had also been watching him, and she had been watching Samantha watching him.
‘No idea.’
‘Oh, I thought you knew him, the way you were checking him out. He’s your type, you know. Looks studious, serious and fit. And, underneath that frown I reckon he’s quite a good-looking guy.’
‘Becs, I’ve got enough trouble as it is with Neil. I have no interest in hooking up with some random man. Got that? I’m very happy as I am, thank you.’
Becky wasn’t convinced. ‘You don’t look happy and you don’t sound happy.’
Samantha looked at Becky and conceded she had a point. ‘Probably a bad choice of word. Let’s just say I’m not looking for another man. Anyway, Becs, if you think he’s handsome, why don’t you run after him and ask him out.’
Becky treated that suggestion with the disdain it merited. ‘Not my type. He looked a bit too serious for me. I’m looking for a fun man with pots of money who can keep me in the manner to which I’d like to be accustomed. Oh yes, and he’s got to be devastatingly handsome with an awesome body, too.’
‘So, a pop idol maybe, or a film star? I know, how about a porn star?’ Samantha was cheering up a bit. Becky’s mass of dark hair was tied into an intricate plait today and she was wearing a new top. She looked good. Sam had often wondered why it was a pretty girl like her hadn’t been able to take her pick of the men on campus.
‘You’re on the right track. A pop star would be good.’ Becky paused for thought. ‘Didn’t I read that Chris Martin and Gwyneth Paltrow had split up a while back? That’s the sort of guy I’m looking for.’
‘Nobody could ever accuse you of setting your sights too low, Bec.’
Chapter 8 (#ulink_b5f19969-c2ac-5756-b00c-988b3f3cc6a5)
‘Shit! I’ve done it again.’
‘For God’s sake, boy, the gear lever’s on the other side. Use your left hand. If you keep bashing your right hand against the door, you’ll damage it. And slow down, will you?’
‘Stupid damn country. Can’t even drive on the right side of the ro…’
‘Go left, go left! It’s a roundabout. Left!’ Beppe’s scream of terror was deafening. He dug his fingernails into the top of the dashboard as his whole life and an irate Ford Transit passed before his eyes. Miraculously, Giancarlo managed to swerve back into the right direction, and total annihilation was avoided. Beppe sat back, ran his fingers through his hair and reflected upon the fact that the final image to flash before him had not been of his wife or any of his children. It had been of Schnitzel, his old dachshund. Not for the first time he thanked his lucky stars that he did not have a psychoanalyst. What a shrink would have made of that did not bear thinking about.
‘Just stay on the left side of the fucking road, will you?’
‘If you think you can do it better, you’re welcome to drive.’ Giancarlo’s voice was tremulous. He had frightened himself that time. ‘It’s crazy. And they’re in the bloody EU as well. They should be forced to change over.’
Beppe made no reply. He reached into his shoulder bag and pulled out one of the bottles he had bought at the airport. He tipped a large measure of grappa down his throat and felt life begin to return to normal. He replaced the bottle and took out a map.
‘Once we get onto the motorway, we head west. We go past Plymouth, over the bridge into Cornwall and then Tregossick should be signposted a few kilometres beyond.’
‘Tregossick? I thought we were going to an island.’
‘The island’s private property. That’s where our targets are. We’re staying on the mainland in a little town called Tregossick. It’s the nearest I could find to Rock Island.’ He glanced down at the printout of the hotel reservation. ‘Island View Guest House. Why can’t they call it a hotel? That’s the same in any language.’
‘Guest house?’ Giancarlo didn’t like the sound of that. ‘What does it say about the place? How many rooms has it got?’
‘How the hell do I know? It’s all written in English. It’s a hotel, isn’t it? It’ll be fine. You’ll see.’
Island View Guest House was not a hotel. As they pulled into the narrow gravelled drive, Beppe and Giancarlo realised that at once. It was set halfway up the hill above the village and it was a bungalow. And it didn’t look like a very big one either.
‘What the hell have you brought us to?’ Giancarlo looked and sounded horrified. Beppe was equally perturbed, but managed to keep the concern out of his voice. He was just glad to have got here after getting lost more than once in the narrow lanes. Their main problem had been their inability to locate a town called Kernow that was signposted all over the place.
‘At least they weren’t wrong about the view.’ In the dying rays of the sun, Rock Island stood out clearly against the red horizon. It looked lovely, but imposing. ‘That isn’t going to be easy to get to.’ Beppe murmured to himself, but then he shelved that particular problem until the next day and concentrated on their current predicament. ‘Well, let’s go and see what sort of establishment we’re booked into.’
‘I can tell you now. It’s an armpit of a place.’ Giancarlo climbed out of the driving seat and stretched his legs. Beside him, the little car swayed as Beppe heaved himself out. Giancarlo was still grumbling. ‘I’m not taking my bag out of the boot until I see what this place is like. If it’s as bad as it looks, I’m not staying.’
‘And just where might you think of going?’ Beppe had been harbouring similar misgivings, but he was a realist. ‘Midsummer on the coast; do you think there are going to be lots of empty rooms in smart hotels just around the corner? Just keep a civil tongue in your head and try to be polite. Even if it’s awful, we may have to stay here for tonight and hunt around for something better tomorrow. OK? Polite, got it?’
Still protesting, Giancarlo led the way across to the porch. Huge, vicious-looking cactus plants either side of the door would no doubt pose a serious challenge in the dark. The plastic front door showed signs of age and the damage caused by the salt-laden air. Once shiny white, the finish was now matt, with a greenish tinge at the edges. A wire container stood on the doorstep, half full of empty milk bottles. A wooden contraption, not dissimilar to a clock face, indicated that five pints would be required the next morning.
Giancarlo located the doorbell and rang it. A sudden cacophony of barking from within told them that it worked. The barking became rapidly louder until there was a heavy thump against the inside of the door. The whole thing, frame and all, shook violently. Both men took a surreptitious step backwards.
‘What the fuck’s that?’
