What Happens In Cornwall...

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?’