For a very British holiday…

When archaeologist Sam realises her relationship is as dead as the skeletons she’s exhuming, she knows it’s time for a girl to make a change. But with bills to pay and a surrogate cat to support, her options are limited… until a discovery on the mysterious Rock Island in Cornwall gives her a reason to escape the drudgery of daily life and seek sunshine somewhere new…

Head to the Cornish coast!

Down in Cornwall, new questions are thrown up at every turn: who is the glamorous, secretive owner of Rock Island – and why are the paparazzi so interested? How has irresistibly brooding, impossibly arrogant history professor James Courtney managed to get so far under Sam’s skin? And will it ever stop raining for long enough for Sam to lose the cagoule and sip a cool drink in the shade? One thing’s for sure: there’s never been a holiday quite like this one!

Enjoy a summer of romance and scandal with What Happens in Cornwall… the perfect retreat for fans of Fern Britton and Lucy Diamond!

Also by T A Williams:

Dirty Minds

The Room on the Second Floor

When Alice Met Danny

What Happens in Tuscany

What Happens in Cornwall

T A Williams

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2015

Copyright © Trevor Williams 2015

Trevor Williams asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © June 2015 ISBN: 9781474036580

Version date: 2018-07-23

TREVOR WILLIAMS

lives in Devon with his Italian wife. He lived and worked in Switzerland, France and Italy, before returning to run one of the best-known language schools in the UK. He has taught people from all over the world, among them Arab princes, Brazilian beauty queens and Italian billionaires. He speaks a number of languages and has travelled extensively. He has eaten snake, live fish and alligator. A Spanish dog, a Russian bug and a Korean parasite have done their best to eat him in return. He has written historical novels, humorous books and thrillers. His hobby is long-distance cycling, but his passion is writing. You can follow him on Twitter, @TAWilliamsBooks, find him on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/TrevorWilliamsBooks or visit his website: www.tawilliamsbooks.com.

With thanks, as always, to my lovely editors, Clio Cornish and Charlotte Mursell

To Mariangela and Christina with love. Thanks for all your support and patience.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Book List

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Epilogue

Extract

Endpages

About the Publisher

Prologue

‘They say you can tell the old married couples in a restaurant by the fact that they don’t talk to each other.’

‘Mmh.’

‘I said, couples who’ve been together for ages stop communicating.’

‘Is that so?’

Samantha took a deep breath. He was still shovelling curry into his mouth. She had finished eating ages ago, but he was still hard at it, to the exclusion of all else. She sat back and looked around the room in frustration. It seemed to her as if all the other tables were full of people talking, laughing and enjoying themselves. Everybody except Neil and her. Although they were neither old, nor married, this was the way their relationship had developed over the past year. She sighed inwardly.

Then he paused, laid down his fork and looked up. She felt pleasantly surprised until she saw him raise a finger and call the waiter over.

‘Another pint of lager, please.’ The waiter nodded and went off.

‘You could have asked if I wanted something.’ She knew she sounded petulant, but she was powerless to hide it.

Neil had already picked up his fork again by this time, but he hesitated, shooting her a glance. ‘Well, do you want something?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Oh for Christ’s sake…’ He returned to his chicken madras. She returned to her thoughts.

She and he were only thirty, but there were times when it felt to her like they were a couple of pensioners. They had been together now for almost four years, living in a microscopic flat while they both finished their postgraduate studies. She had another year to go until she finished her doctorate, but she was rapidly coming to the conclusion that their relationship would be over long before then. A thought crossed her mind.

‘Have you got your suit cleaned, ready for the wedding a week on Saturday?’ This, at least, caused him to interrupt his meal. He looked up and the expression on his face wasn’t happy.

‘A week on Saturday? You mean the seventeenth? But I’m supposed to be going to the races with the boys that afternoon.’ He caught her eye. ‘I told you about it weeks ago.’

‘You did? Well I told you about Moira’s wedding months ago. And I’ve been talking about it for days now. I only bought my dress this week and showed it to you.’ He was looking a bit shifty now.

‘Yeah, well, I didn’t know it was that Saturday.’ He gave up on the curry and laid down his fork. ‘But Guy arranged this races thing ages ago. Do I really have to go to the wedding?’ Now it was his turn to sound like a grumbling teenager.

‘Yes you do, Neil. We replied to the invitation saying we would both be going, so we both go.’

‘You replied to the invitation.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Neil, grow up, will you? We’ve been invited, we’ve accepted, and we’re going. And that’s the end of it.’

‘So who gives you the right to decide what I can and can’t do?’ His face bore the familiar stubborn, irritable expression she had been seeing more of lately. ‘It’s not as if we’re married, you know.’

‘So you’re saying that if we were married, I’d be able to tell you what to do?’

‘No bloody way.’

‘Well, don’t worry, that’s not going to happen.’

‘Damn right.’

The arrival of the waiter to remove the plates temporarily interrupted their argument.

‘Some ice cream?’ He was a friendly-looking man with terrible teeth. ‘Or some lychees, maybe?’ He balanced the plates on his arm and waited for a response.

Neil didn’t even glance across at Samantha. ‘No, thanks. Just the bill please.’

Chapter 1

‘You know, Sam, there was something really sexy about the Vikings.’

Samantha looked up from the tray of silt, gravel and slime before them on the table and smiled. ‘You really need to find yourself a boyfriend, Becky. And soon.’

‘I don’t mean this stuff here. I mean real muscle-bound, bearded, helmet-wearing Vikings with long blond hair blowing in the wind. You know, with horns, hammers and longships. They must have been quite something.’ She sighed at the thought. ‘Wouldn’t a big, hunky Viking appeal to you, too?’

‘I’ve already got my own Viking. I’m not sure I’d like another one.’ Samantha glanced down at her black fingernails and muddy hands. ‘Although somehow I don’t think Neil would have been up there wielding a sword in the vanguard. He’s not really a rape and pillage sort of guy these days.’ She caught Becky’s eye and sighed. There was no need to say more. Both of them knew the relationship was, like the Viking longboats, sailing up the proverbial creek. Samantha completed her sweep of the contents of the tray. ‘Nothing here. I’ll sling this lot if you want to get another bucketful.’

While Rebecca reached for the next load, Samantha picked up the tray and carried it across to the spoil pile. The heap was getting bigger and bigger, but all they had to show for their day’s work so far was what might have been a piece of belt buckle. She looked up at the sky. Grey clouds were building on the horizon and it looked very much as though the forecast rain was not far off. She knew all too well what that would mean. Tomorrow the site would be a quagmire, and the trench most probably half-full of water. She sighed. It was July, for God’s sake!

‘Sam, Becky, it’s five o’clock. Time to head for home.’

They both looked up at the sound of his voice. There weren’t many men on this particular dig and Andras, the visiting expert from Uppsala University, was far and away the most presentable. Becky made sure she sat next to him on the way back in the minibus. Sam took a seat alongside her supervisor, Virginia.

‘Exciting day, Sam?’

Sam nodded, but the truth was she hadn’t had a really exciting day for a long while. Her life over the past few months had settled into a fairly monotonous sequence of archaeological digs, study… and more study. Not forgetting regular visits to her mum which exhausted her mentally and emotionally. She and Neil rarely went out together and her days were highlighted by occasional runs along the riverbank or a visit from the next door neighbour’s cat. The arrival of a longship full of hairy Scandinavians would probably make a welcome break.

By the time she finally got back to their flat, the rain was just starting and it was almost half past six. She closed the door behind her and retrieved a letter from the gas company and a couple of circulars from the mat.

‘Neil. You there?’

There was no reply. She did a rapid calculation and realised it was Tuesday. Tuesday nights were rugby training, so she probably wouldn’t see him till late. She felt weary, dirty and lazy; so lazy in fact that she didn’t head for the bathroom for her usual post-dig shower. Instead, she went into the kitchen, washed the worst of the mud off her hands, and then opened the fridge. There was still the remains of a bottle of Pinot Grigio in there, so she pulled it out and poured what was left into a mug. The piles of dirty dishes, including all their glasses, were still waiting for somebody to wash them. Although it was Neil’s turn, she knew in her bones that if she didn’t do it, it wouldn’t get done. She took a sip of the wine and sat down at the laptop to check her emails.

Predictably, there was a long, rambling email from her mother. Since Samantha’s father had walked out of the family home without warning a year ago, her mum had been suffering bouts of deep depression. Sam and her sister had been taking it in turns to provide support and reassurance, but it wasn’t easy. The two weekends a month she spent with her mother reduced Sam to an emotional wreck by the time she got back home again. She took a deep breath and read the email all the way through, finding little to cheer her. As ever, it ended with the exhortation to study hard and always wear clean underwear. At the age of thirty, that somehow felt to Sam like an unnecessary intrusion into her private life, such as it was. She shot off a one line reply with a smiley face, telling her mum she would give her a call later on.

As the first flurry of rain beat against her window, she swallowed the last of the wine and headed for the bathroom.

Around nine o’clock she was interrupted by a familiar sound. She looked up from her reading as the noise came again. A glance across at the window showed her that she had a visitor. She saw the cat’s mouth open wide as it mewed a greeting. She smiled to herself. She had been looking forward to seeing him, although it had often occurred to her that when the highlight of your day is the appearance of a disdainful tabby in search of a free meal, you know there could be more to life. That said, she readily admitted to herself that the arrival of this little creature cheered her more than the appearance of Neil these days.

Tucking a card into the book to mark her place, she went over and opened the window. It was pitch black outside, but the rain appeared to have stopped, at least for the moment, and the cat was dry.

‘So you’ve come for some salmon, have you?’

All she got in return was another plaintive meow. Ignoring her outstretched arms, the cat jumped lightly to the floor and strode into the kitchen. Samantha headed for the cupboard and took the top tin of salmon from the stack. She tipped the contents into a bowl and set it on the floor. The cat wasted no time in setting about the fish.

‘There must be more to life than tinned salmon.’ It was just an observation, but the cat ignored it anyway.

She went over to the sink and filled the kettle. A cup of tea was what she needed. She took a seat at the little table while she waited for it to boil. She swilled the mug she had used for her wine earlier and set it down on the draining board. She noticed that the pile of Neil’s dirty laundry had overflowed the laundry basket by now. During their most recent argument she had told him she was no longer going to do all the washing. The exact expression she had used was that she wasn’t going to be his slave any longer. If he wanted clean clothes from now on, he would have to wash them himself. Since then he hadn’t touched the washing machine and she was beginning to wonder how long his stock of clean stuff would last.

‘So are you coming to say thank you for your meal?’ The cat had finished the salmon, all bar a tiny piece that he left as if to say, I don’t need this food. I just come because I know you want to see me. Sometimes after eating he would make straight for the window and demand to be released. Tonight he decided he might grace her with his company, at least for a while. He arched his back into a long stretch and then jumped onto her lap, purring noisily. As she stroked him, he started the familiar bread-kneading action with his claws that was slowly ripping the knees of all her jeans. As always, she felt privileged to be chosen.

The kettle boiled, but she stayed seated for as long as the cat decided to stay on her lap. Within a few minutes, her phone started to ring. The cat raised its head and gave her an affronted look, clearly accusing her of being responsible for disturbing his rest. She picked it up and checked the caller ID. It was Becky.

‘Hi, Becs. Not out with Andras?’

‘No such luck.’ Becky sounded a bit despondent, but she rallied as she told Sam her news. ‘He’s got some work thing he’s got to do. Anyway, listen, Sam, I’ve just had a call from a friend. She asked if I fancied coming down to Cornwall for the weekend. She and a bunch of other girls from medical school in London have rented a house for a few days. Apparently two have had to pull out and there’s a spare room. And it’s all paid for so it would be free. How about coming with me?’

Samantha’s eyes strayed across the kitchen to the pile of dirty dishes and the bigger pile of Neil’s dirty clothes. It would be good to get away from here and away from him for a few days. She didn’t hesitate. ‘Becs, that sounds brilliant. I’m not sure what the weather’s going to be like, but a change of scene would be really good. I’m in.’

She was smiling as she put the phone down. She glanced at the cat who was purring quietly on her lap.

‘See, cat, there is more to life than salmon.’

As ever, the cat ignored her.

Chapter 2

The village of Tregossick was tucked onto the south coast of Cornwall, not far west of Plymouth. A jumble of slate-roofed houses, most of them with stone walls, squeezed onto the steep sides of the valley that descended into the sea alongside the tiny fishing port. The coastline consisted of tree-covered hillsides that sloped precipitously down, ending in vertical cliffs that dropped away to rocks, sand and shingle as far as the eye could see in both directions. Right in front of them, as the bus cautiously navigated the steep, winding and frighteningly narrow road into the village, was the beach, dotted with figures enjoying the evening sun. In spite of the weather forecast, the sky was clear and the sea calm, although a bank of clouds on the far horizon didn’t bode well for the next day.

The tide was out and a host of rock pools were dotted with hopeful children, equipped with nets and buckets, doing their best to catch little fish, crabs and some of the host of crustaceans that the sea had deposited there. Beyond them, a magnificent island stood out against the evening sky, the grey stone walls of a forbidding old building occupying the whole landward side of it. The huge construction stretched upwards from the sea in tiers, like a massive wedding cake. Its sheer stone walls culminated in a tower, making it look like a fortress, grafted onto the vertical cliffs. The closer they came, the more formidable it looked.

‘I wouldn’t want to have to scale that cliff face.’ Samantha caught Becky’s eye. ‘That’s quite a place, far more impressive than I imagined. And the village is sweet. Although I’ve been in the South West for years, I’ve never been down here before.’

Becky shook her head. ‘Me neither. Mind you, I’m from Nottingham and I know bugger all about Cornwall to be honest. Did you know they call it Kernow in the old Cornish language? Until I saw the Welcome sign, I had no idea. I hadn’t even heard of Tregossick until Clare called the other day. The island out there’s called Rock Island. You can see why. Woah…’

The bus driver jammed on his brakes and squeezed the vehicle terrifyingly close to the low wall that was all that separated them from a hundred foot drop to the beach. A large 4x4 pulling a caravan inched its way up the road and past them. The driver even had to open his window and fold in the wing mirror to avoid them touching. Low muttering came from two old men in the seat in front of the two girls. Sam and Becky listened carefully. The meaning was clear, even if some of the words being used were not. ‘Bloody emmets’ and ‘Stupid damn grockles’ were just a few of the more repeatable comments. Sam and Becky exchanged glances. Sam lowered her voice to a whisper.

‘The natives are unimpressed.’

Becky was unsympathetic. ‘Fancy bringing a caravan down a little lane like this. They’re bonkers.’

The caravan finally disappeared past them and the bus was able to continue down the hill. Sam transferred her attention back to Rock Island and the massive stone building.

‘The building’s an old abbey. They say it’s one of the best-preserved Cistercian abbeys in the country. But I only found that out by looking on the internet. You’d have thought it would be part of the Medieval Studies course, seeing as it’s just down the road from the university.’ She paused, admiring the sheer scale of the place. ‘But it’s privately owned. Maybe they don’t like visitors.’

Becky lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘Like some of our travelling companions!’

‘We’ll have to see if we can get closer to it tomorrow.’ The bus emerged onto a relatively straight promenade alongside the beach that terminated in a dead end with a mini roundabout. The bus swung all the way round and drove back up to the final stop, right outside a pub called the Smugglers Arms. The door hissed open and the driver turned off the engine. Becky pointed at the pub. ‘Well, that answers the question of where we eat tonight. Come on, Sam, the house should be just along the road from here.’

The next day dawned unexpectedly bright and sunny, although cloud cover was building from the west. The others in their party were all mad keen surfers and they had spent most of the previous night moaning about the lack of waves. Samantha didn’t mind. She had awoken early, after an unusually good night’s sleep, for once not disturbed by worry about Neil or her mum. She decided to go for a run along the promenade and up onto the cliff top. She was still very fit, and ten years earlier, she had even dreamt of being an Olympic athlete. She had given up everything for it; boyfriends, social life, a place at university – training almost every day of the year, running miles and miles every week. Then the accident had come along. A banal trip going down the stairs had broken her leg in two places and destroyed her hopes of glory in the 5000 metres. Her leg had long since stopped hurting and she was still running, but her Olympic dream was long gone.

The view was spectacular and, from the highest point, she found herself looking down onto the island in the bay. The water as far as the eye could see was an intense blue, worthy of a South Sea island, and gentle waves lapped against the rocky shoreline. While she watched, a helicopter approached, hovered and then descended out of sight behind the roof of the abbey. Less than a couple of minutes later, the roar of the engine told her the helicopter had left again. Presumably the owner of the island was wealthy enough not to need to take the bus.

After a late breakfast, Sam and Becky spent the rest of the Saturday morning walking round the village, taking in the scenery. While Becky paddled in a rock pool, Sam sat down on a rocky outcrop overlooking the beach and phoned her mother. She told her all about Tregossick and even detected a few sounds of interest on the other end of the line. As always, her mother asked how things were going with Neil and, as always, Sam told her everything was fine. She felt sure that the news that the relationship was struggling would be a massive blow to her mother, who constantly told Sam how well suited she thought they were. As she hung up, she reflected, not for the first time, that her fear of the effect this could have on her mum was just about all that was stopping her from dumping Neil and moving on.

Apart from the double yellow lines everywhere, telling drivers it was forbidden to park, the predominant colours were grey, white and blue. Most of the houses were white, the sea and the sky were shades of blue, and the roofs, the rocks and the sand were grey. There was only one shop in the village – a combined post office, grocery store and gift shop. It appeared to stock everything from Cornish ice cream to condoms, which was just as well as the nearest supermarket was at least twenty minutes drive away up over the cliffs. They decided against ice creams so soon after breakfast and went for a walk along the beach, before settling down in the garden outside the Smugglers Arms for lunch.

The others had decided to pile into a car and head for the north Cornish coast where the surf was supposed to be better and Sam and Becky were happy to let them get on with it. That afternoon, after a couple of beers at lunchtime, Becky decided she was going to have a lie down. As the temperature was quite warm, even if the sky was now almost completely covered by cloud, Sam decided to try her hand in the kayak that came with the house. She carted it down to the beach and set off at a gentle pace, gradually working her way round the bay. She was quite a long way from the shore when she realised she had got a problem. Or, rather, two problems.

The kayak was cutting through the water remarkably fast, considering she was only paddling gently. She was just beginning to work out that the reason for this was a strong current that had got hold of her, pulling her away from the shore, when the light changed. She glanced up and, to her horror, she saw a bank of sea mist rolling towards her. Frantically she turned the kayak’s nose towards the beach and started paddling hard as the fog closed in around her and she lost sight of the shore. In an instant, she found herself in a featureless grey world where the sea and the sky merged into each other, giving her the impression of being surrounded by cotton wool.

But her cotton wool surroundings were anything but cosy and comfortable. Suddenly, it felt as if the temperature had dropped by ten degrees. Looking down at the bubbles in the water beside her, she saw that the kayak was now moving backwards quite fast. Without being able to get her bearings on anything, it felt as though she was being drawn out to sea. She started paddling hard in the opposite direction, slowing the rate of backward movement, but not stopping it. She realised with a start that she was in a very dangerous situation. Nobody knew she was out here, so nobody was going to miss her until a lot later. She reached for her pocket and then remembered she had left her phone in their room, for fear of dropping it in the sea. She was all alone in the fog. God only knew where she would end up.

The sensation of isolation was so strong she felt a shiver of terror go down her back and tears spring to her eyes. With an effort, she dominated her rising panic and did her best to think logically. Just before the mist rolled in, she had probably been three, maybe four hundred metres from the beach. That wasn’t an insurmountable distance. If only she could get out of the grip of the current, she knew she easily had the strength to paddle back to the shore. In order to get out of the current, she had to go either left or right and try to cut across it, rather than face it head on. Acting on instinct, she swung the boat to the right and dug in.

She carried on paddling across the current for ages, losing track of time completely. Every now and then she had to stop and rest and, in spite of her exertions, she began to feel very cold. She knew she had to find land soon or she would be in big, big trouble. To make matters worse, a cold breeze was getting up and waves were beginning to slap against the side of the hull. She fought her fear and peered into the murk around her, unable to see more than a few metres. Then, she heard something. She stopped paddling and cocked her head to one side, concentrating hard. There was no doubt about it, she could hear waves breaking against the shore. Could it be she had got herself back to the beach? She dug her paddle in again with renewed energy, aiming the kayak towards the noise. Gradually, it grew louder and, as it grew, so did her hopes.

Then, abruptly, the mist before her thinned and she saw something, but what she saw was terrifying. She was heading straight for a rocky reef, around which the white waves hissed and sighed. She spun the kayak around and just managed to squeeze past the rocks without crashing into them. Looming high behind the reef was the dark outline of sheer cliffs. A wave of terror threatened to engulf her and she had to struggle hard to stop herself from crying out in panic. She was completely alone and totally lost. She gritted her teeth and took a few deep breaths. At least she now found herself away from the grip of the vicious current, so she allowed herself a few minutes’ rest, just dipping the paddle into the water from time to time to keep her out of reach of the rocks. However, within a very short time she began to feel very, very cold and this, more than anything else, spurred her into action once more.

She started off again, doing her best to run parallel to the cliffs, loath to lose sight of land, but dreading the prospect of another reef in her way. She paddled on and on, becoming ever more desperate, and then, just as she was beginning to feel very, very tired, she sensed a lightening in the backdrop and she let the waves take her. Another rocky outcrop swept past her, close enough to touch and then, amazingly, she bumped up against a vertical wall and a flight of weed-encrusted stone steps; man-made wall and man-made steps.

She could have wept with relief. She reached out with her hands and grabbed at a metal ring set in the wall, as the kayak scraped against generations of barnacles. Never had the sight of a stone wall been so welcome.

She clung to the rusty iron with both hands and rested her head on her arms. She felt tears coursing down her cheeks; tears of sheer relief that she had reached land. Suddenly, all her worries about her sporting career, her studies, her mother’s mental health and, above all, her relationship with Neil, faded into insignificance. She was alive and that was all that mattered. That, and the minor problem of hauling herself out of the kayak and onto dry land.

It took her a long time to get out of the boat and up the steps. She felt as if she were a hundred years old; slow, doddery and so, so tired. She slipped into the water twice and was soaked to the skin by the time she reached the top, the kayak somehow tied to the iron ring below her. She crouched on all fours for several minutes, breathing deeply and shivering with cold before she managed to summon the energy to raise her head and look around.

She was on a small jetty, set within a tiny bay. The jetty ended abruptly only a few paces in front of her and another stone stairway led up a sheer cliff face into the mist. Above her, a host of seagulls were calling and screaming, but the fog shrouded them from sight. But, amazingly, just to one side of her was something totally unexpected. She hauled herself to her feet, wrapping her arms around herself in a vain attempt to conserve some residual heat in her body, and squelched her way across the flagstones. When she reached the cliff, she stopped and stared. Set into the sheer rock face was a shiny, modern stainless steel door. She didn’t need to read the sign that said Adler Elevators to know it was a lift. Beside it was a very modern-looking keypad.

She reached over and pressed the biggest button, but nothing happened. She tried the other, smaller numbered keys, without success, but even through her befuddled haze she realised the lift wouldn’t operate unless she knew the code. Without it, she was stuck out here in the cold. She tried again and again and then, finally, resorted to beating her fists against the steel doors, hearing her blows echo around the little bay. She was on the point of collapse when, wonderfully, she heard a humming sound. The lift was in operation. Seconds later, the doors slid open and she found herself face to face with a serious-looking man with grey hair that was just beginning to go white at the temples. He was wearing a dark suit, with a collar and tie, like a very classy maître d’hôtel. He looked about sixty, but slim and fit with it. His eyes flicked across her suspiciously.

‘What are you doing here?’ His voice was far from welcoming.

‘I… I was out in a kayak.’ Samantha’s words came out very slowly and her voice sounded to her like it belonged to somebody else. She did her best to summon what residual energy remained in her exhausted body and attempt an explanation. ‘It was the mist. I couldn’t see. I’m afraid I got lost. I was being washed out to sea…’ Her voice tailed off.

‘You look cold.’ His expression changed from suspicion to something else. Maybe relief. He hesitated for a moment before coming to a decision. ‘You’d better come in. Come along now.’ He stepped to one side and waved her into the lift.

‘Thank you. Thank you.’ Samantha could hardly recognise her own voice. She was trembling so violently by now that she bit her lip as she spoke and tasted blood in her mouth. She staggered forward into the lift and the man followed her in. She watched as the doors closed and the sound of the waves and the gulls was suddenly extinguished. A sign on the wall indicated that the lift had only been installed a few months earlier. Indeed, it was so smooth that they could barely get any sense of movement as it climbed. After only a few seconds the doors hissed open and she gazed wearily out. She caught the man’s eye.

‘Where are we, please? What is this place?’

‘This is the Abbey of Saint Bernard on Rock Island. Where have you come from? Tregossick?’ She nodded mutely, wiping blood from her lip with the back of her hand. Her fingers felt so cold against her face, they could have belonged to somebody else. The man stepped out and led her to a bench against the wall. His expression had softened and, while not yet friendly, was at least more welcoming. ‘I’ll have to ask you to wait here for a moment, while I go and speak to the owner. Here,’ He pulled a bulky jacket off a hook by the lift door and handed it to her. ‘Put this on. You look frozen stiff.’

He walked across to another lift, this time a futuristic glass bubble in one corner of the huge entrance hall in which Sam now found herself. As he stepped in and the lift doors closed, Samantha covered her shoulders with the jacket, slumped down on the bench and looked around. It was an awesome place and very, very ancient. The hall was huge, dark and hung with flags and tapestries. The ceiling was immensely high and she found herself looking up at the underside of the lift way up above her. It was like being inside an empty tower. The floor was made of flagstones, polished and worn by the passage of countless feet over the centuries. It was truly spectacular.

For a moment she had a vision of Dracula’s castle from an old horror film and it suddenly occurred to her that here she was, a girl on her own, in bizarre surroundings. And, she realised, as a wave of fear threatened to overwhelm her again, nobody knew she was here. In spite of her exhausted state, she was wondering whether to head back down and take her chances in the sea when the glass lift began its downward journey. As it reached the floor, she breathed a sigh of relief. There was a woman in it.

The doors opened and a dark-haired woman came out, accompanied by a young black Labrador. While the dog rushed over to make a fuss of the visitor, the woman stopped and took a good look at Sam’s bedraggled state. ‘Hello. It certainly looks like you could do with some help.’ She sounded very concerned for Sam’s wellbeing, and all Sam could do was nod forlornly. She looked up and caught the other woman’s eye. She read sympathy and the same air of relief she had read on the man’s face. It was as if they had been expecting an unwelcome guest and were pleased to find that their visitor was nothing more than a shipwrecked sailor.

Even through her weariness, Sam couldn’t help noticing what perfect teeth and skin she had, even though most of her was hidden behind a pair of thick-rimmed sunglasses and a mass of hair. ‘Here, come up with me and we’ll sort you out.’ The woman extended her hand and Sam followed her into the lift, the excited dog licking her fingers as he pushed in alongside them.

The lift rose silently to the gallery that circled round at high level. As they stepped out, Sam could see that the floor of the hall was now far below. The woman led her through a doorway into another massive room. It was magnificent, with rows of arched windows, some with stained glass that Sam, even in her numb state, recognised as clearly medieval. The walls were covered in tapestries, paintings and sculptures. The room was furnished with armchairs, sofas and low tables. A girl, dressed in a maid’s uniform, was on her knees at the enormous fireplace.

‘Tracey’s lighting the fire. We’ll soon have you warm.’ Samantha realised she had blundered into an environment very different to her own cramped flat with its piles of unwashed dishes. The dark-haired woman nodded approvingly at the maid by the fire. ‘Excellent, Tracey, thank you.’ She turned to Sam. ‘Now, if you want to get out of those wet clothes, I’ll go and find you some dry ones. You’re about my size so some of my things should be OK. Here, for the moment, wrap yourself in this.’ She pulled a tartan blanket off one of the sofas and handed it to Samantha before disappearing through a door at the end of the room. The young dog looked round uncertainly and then headed after her.

Samantha did as she was bidden and wrapped herself in the plaid. She couldn’t feel her fingers or her toes, but at least the shivering gradually stopped. The fire crackled as the kindling caught and by the time the black-haired woman came back, Samantha was beginning to thaw out a little. This time the woman in the dark glasses was accompanied by another maid, carrying an armful of clothes. ‘I think it would probably be a very good idea of you had a bath or a hot shower, you know. You’re still shivering, although maybe not so much as before, and the hot water should raise your body temperature. Julie, show this young lady to a bathroom, would you.’

Fifteen minutes later, Samantha emerged from the bathroom, feeling like a different person. She could feel her skin glowing as the heat of the shower had restored her to a more normal temperature once again. The clothes she had been given were an excellent fit, including some super soft leather pumps. Even through her exhaustion, Sam had noticed the designer labels on the jeans and the jumper. Even the underwear was Dior!

‘Hi, you’re looking better now. Come over here to the fire. Would you like some tea or maybe some hot chocolate?’ The woman with the black hair called her across and Sam came and stood in front of what had turned into a roaring fire, the heat reaching through the jeans to the backs of her legs.

‘Um, a cup of tea would be great, please.’ Sam was feeling quite overcome by this stage. She had never seen a place like this before. It was a riot of leather furnishings, polished wood and remarkable antiques. If the pair of china dogs on the mantelpiece were authentic, they were probably worth more than Sam’s whole wardrobe. In fact, she thought to herself, the clothes she was now wearing were probably worth almost as much.

The tea arrived very quickly, brought in on a massive tray by a young male waiter. Along with the tea was a huge chunk of freshly-baked sponge cake. The Labrador flopped down on the floor beside Sam’s legs, his eyes trained on the cake dish. Samantha sat down on the sofa and sipped her tea, glad to be here, glad to be alive and very, very grateful. She cleared her throat. ‘I can’t thank you enough for helping me. I’m so terribly sorry to put you to all this trouble. You see, I’m afraid I’ve just been really, really stupid. I set out in the kayak without telling anybody where I was going and I foolishly strayed too far out from the shore.’ She paused as the memory of her ordeal threatened to overwhelm her. She cleared her throat, finding it hard to go on. ‘And then I got into a really strong current.’ She couldn’t help herself, she suddenly burst into tears. With an effort, she rubbed her hands across her eyes and explained. ‘I’m sorry… I suppose it’s just the relief…’

‘You’re all right now. Here, use this.’ The woman with the black hair handed her a linen napkin from the tray. Her expression was warm and supportive. ‘It must have been a frightening experience.’

‘There are some nasty rip currents round here.’ Sam wiped her eyes and turned towards the voice. It was the man who had greeted her on the jetty, his expression now more sympathetic. ‘You’re very lucky you didn’t get washed out to sea. In this pea-souper, you would have been in real trouble.’ Sam noticed that he didn’t approach any closer, remaining on his feet against the far wall, while the maid, Julie, who had shown her to the bathroom, was now stationed against the opposite wall. It was very formal and a little overwhelming. Sam took a few breaths and did her best to smile back at him.

‘I know. I really don’t think I’d have been able to paddle much further.’ Suddenly she remembered her manners. ‘By the way, my name’s Samantha Squires. I’m a postgrad student at Exeter University.’

The man gave her a half-bow. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you. My name is Griffiths. I’m the steward here.’ Sam noticed that he didn’t introduce her to the black-haired woman. Sam turned her attention to her, but didn’t press her for her name. With those enormous dark glasses, it was pretty clear she wanted to keep her identity secret. Sam wondered if the hair might even be a wig, although it looked very convincing. She apologised once more.

‘I’m very sorry to burst in on you like this. You’ve been so very kind. I wonder if I could just use your phone to call somebody to send a boat to pick me up.’ As she spoke, she found herself wondering just how that was going to be possible. Maybe if she phoned Becky…

The woman smiled. ‘You’re very welcome. And don’t worry about a boat. We’ll get you back to dry land. Anyway, your visit gave me a bit of excitement for a change.’ There could have been a note of regret in her voice. ‘So, what are you studying?’

‘Archaeology. I’m doing a PhD.’

‘Oh, you lucky girl. I loved history at school and I was all set to go to university to do a history degree, but then…’ Her voice tailed off and there was an awkward pause before she continued. ‘But then I got sidetracked. But I’ve always kept an interest in it.’

Altogether, Sam stayed with them for over half an hour and she did most of the talking. By the end, she still knew next to nothing about the black-haired woman, apart from the fact that she was remarkably hospitable and generous. Also, if she owned the abbey and the island, she was patently mega rich. Even if she were just renting it, she would need very, very deep pockets to pay for a place like this. Finally, as the grandfather clock struck five, Sam realised she had better get back, before Becky started to get worried. She brushed the crumbs of cake off her lap and stood up. The dog made short work of vacuuming them up and she smiled at him, reaching down to stroke his ears. ‘I think I’d better get off now, if you don’t mind. I’m sure you’ve got far better things to do than listen to me wittering on about Vikings.’

‘Far from it. I can never get enough of history. To be honest, Samantha, I rather envy you.’ Again there was the rather plaintive edge to the other woman’s voice. She and Mr Griffiths accompanied Samantha to the glass lift, the young dog nudging her playfully as he trotted beside her. As the doors opened, Julie appeared with a plastic bag.

‘I’ve put your wet clothes in here, Miss. Is that all right?’

Sam suddenly remembered what she was wearing. ‘Of course, thank you. But, how do I get these clothes back to you?’ The black-haired woman smiled and laid her hand on Sam’s arm.

‘Keep them, Samantha. I’ve got more clothes than I know what to do with. I’m just glad you’re all right and we managed to warm you up again.’

Sam babbled that she couldn’t possibly accept, but her protestations were just waved away.

‘Keep them, Samantha. And thank you for brightening up my day. Goodbye and take care.’ The Labrador and his mistress turned back into the glass lift as Sam and the steward entered the lower one. Sam watched her as the doors closed. In spite of her smiles, in spite of her obvious wealth, the woman looked and sounded just plain lonely.

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

‘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

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

‘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.’

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

‘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

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

‘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?’

Well, it’s not Schnitzel the dachshund, that’s for sure, Beppe thought to himself as he watched the door continue to vibrate ominously.

A few seconds later they heard footsteps. There was a sharp command from within and the barking ceased. The door opened inwards a few inches and two faces peered out through the crack, one above and one below the security chain. The lower of the two was a hostile, hairy beast showing a lot of teeth. The one further up had noticeably less hair and fewer teeth. Nevertheless, it looked scarcely less hostile.

‘Yes?’

Beppe gave Giancarlo a nudge.

‘Good evening, Madam. We are just arrived from Italy. We have a reservation for two rooms.’

There was a pause for thought from the inside of the door. Then, abruptly, it slammed shut. There was a sinister rattling of chains before it reopened to reveal an elderly lady of generous proportions and a huge mongrel dog. Although the dog’s greying fur testified to its considerable age, its hackles were standing on end and its teeth were bared. His female companion looked more welcoming now, if you could ignore the teeth on the dog.

‘You must be Mr Peruzzi and Mr Scogna… Scognamill..?’

Beppe put her out of her misery. ‘Scognamiglio.’ He extended his hand. The dog’s growl deepened with menace, but Beppe gritted his teeth and waited for one of the two to grasp it. Fortunately for him, it was the woman who got to it first.

‘I’m Mrs Pendennis. Welcome to Island View. Doris, be quiet!’ The dog sat back on its haunches and stopped growling. The menace in its eyes, however, remained ever-present. ‘I expect you’d like to see your rooms. Do come in, now, won’t you?’

She stepped aside, firmly grasping the dog’s collar as the two men squeezed past her into the hall. Beppe’s stomach only just made it. ‘Straight on down the corridor. The rooms are through the glass door. You’ve got rooms one and two. The others are empty tonight.’

They followed her instructions and found themselves in an unexpectedly large extension that jutted out of the back of the bungalow. There was a lounge with a television and five bedrooms. Beppe opened one of the doors with trepidation, but was relieved to find a solid-looking bed and a modern en suite bathroom. It all looked very clean. He went back out to check on how Giancarlo was doing.

‘My room’s fine. How’s yours?’ The boy had to admit, grudgingly, that his room was not as bad as he had feared. Beppe took that as a seal of approval. ‘Good. Now, you’re the linguist. Ask her where we can get a meal tonight.’

‘Excuse me, Madam. Is there a restaurant near here?’ Mrs Pendennis had abandoned the dog elsewhere in the house and had followed them in. A sullen growling and occasional barking could still be heard in the distance. The old lady sat down at the table in the lounge and indicated that they should join her.

‘There’s the Smugglers Arms down in the village. That’s only a few minutes’ drive. If you want more choice, you have to go to one of the bigger towns, like Polwenton. You’ll find details of what’s available in the area in the brochures in the rack.’ Sure enough, a well-stocked selection of local information was on display on the sideboard. ‘Now, will you be wanting the full English breakfast tomorrow?’

Giancarlo rarely had more than a cappuccino for breakfast and he had no idea what Beppe might want, but he said yes anyway. The lady gave him an approving look. ‘Very good. So many folk go for the low fat option these days. It’s good to find people with an appetite.’ She looked across at Beppe, clearly approving of his expansive waistline. ‘Now, what time would you like your breakfast?’

‘What did she say?’ Beppe had been studying a series of photographs on the wall. They were of Rock Island in the thick of a terrible storm. The waves were crashing halfway up the cliff face and spray almost obscured the old abbey from sight. Once again he found himself thinking about the difficulty they were likely to face getting over to the island.

‘What time for breakfast?’

‘I don’t know. Say, eight o’clock.’ Giancarlo relayed the message and Mrs Pendennis nodded. ‘Did she say we can eat somewhere round here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Fine.’ He hesitated and then, as the old lady was still sitting there, he added. ‘You could ask her if there is somewhere round here where we can rent a boat.’

‘A boat?’ Giancarlo followed Beppe’s eyes to the photographs. ‘Of course, the island.’ He translated the question.

Mrs Pendennis knew the answer immediately. He relayed it back to Beppe. ‘She says there’s a place down by the harbour. They’ve got everything from canoes and jet skis to deep sea fishing boats.’

‘Excellent.’ Beppe glanced at his watch. ‘Nine o’clock Italian time. That means it’s eight o’clock here. Either way, it’s time for dinner. Let’s head for the restaurant.’ A sudden thought struck him. ‘How do we get back in without being eaten by that bloody dog?’

Mrs Pendennis had already anticipated the question. ‘Here you are.’ She laid two sets of keys on the table. ‘One for each room and a key to the back doors.’ She pointed to the French windows. ‘You can come and go quite independently through here. That way you won’t bother poor old Doris. She doesn’t like being disturbed when she’s sleeping.’

Giancarlo translated her instructions. Beppe heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Thanks be to God for that. I hate big dogs. The idea of letting myself in the front door and being confronted by that evil old beast would have put me off my food.’

‘Nothing puts you off your food, Beppe.’ Giancarlo knew him so well already.

Chapter 9

‘You’re not looking your normal sunny self this morning, Virginia.’ Samantha dropped her bag on her desk and came across to her head of department. She wasn’t feeling very sunny either, after a weekend of rows and raised voices with Neil. As usual, the archaeology lab smelt of decay. Virginia also looked pretty rotten this morning. ‘Something wrong?’

Virginia Greenway handed her a sheet of paper. At first, Sam couldn’t make head or tail of it. The letterhead belonged to a firm of solicitors in Zurich, Switzerland. As she started to read down through, Virginia supplied a précis.

‘No way we’re going to be allowed onto Rock Island.’

Samantha scanned the letter, noting the reference to our clients, whose identity we are not at liberty to reveal. The last words of the final paragraph were unequivocal: We are therefore unable to grant access to the Abbey of Saint Bernard or any part of Rock Island. Unsurprised, she sighed and looked up.

‘Bugger.’

‘Bugger, indeed.’ Virginia was glowering. She reached out and took the letter back from Sam and threw it onto her desk. ‘Bloody Swiss. Who do they think they are?’

Samantha decided to leave her alone to vent her spleen and returned to her own desk. As she did so, the door opened and Becky came in. Seeing the look on Virginia’s face, she flicked a glance across to Sam. ‘Trubble at t’mill?’

Sam gave a brief explanation. Becky looked disappointed. ‘What a shame! I was checking it out the other day. It really does look like the most amazing place. It must be heaving with millionaires. And, coincidentally, here’s me on the lookout for a millionaire.’

‘Still no sign of Chris Martin or any other rock star?’

Becky shook her head despondently. ‘Not many of those around the university. And what about you? Any improvement on the home front?’

Samantha shook her head sadly. ‘The opposite, I’m afraid.’ Rather than get drawn into a post mortem of her awful weekend, she decided that mugs of tea were in order, so she headed for the electric kettle. She caught Virginia’s eye and raised a mug in the air, receiving a distracted nod in response. She made the tea and distributed the mugs, returning to sit down beside Becky again. She glanced across at her. ‘So, if there aren’t any rock stars, any other men on the horizon?’

At that moment, the door opened and Ryan came in.

‘Hi, Ryan, how was your holiday?’ Once again, Samantha reflected that he would make an ideal boyfriend for Becky, but for some reason, she never seemed to respond to his advances. He was a tall boy, a few years younger than Sam, closer to Becky’s age. He had red hair and the sort of pale skin with freckles that seems to cry out for factor fifty sun block. Still, he was quite good-looking and he was clearly infatuated with Becky. He waved to Virginia and came over to take a seat next to Becky. As the water in the kettle was still hot, Sam got up to make him a cup of tea. When she got back, he was still recounting his adventures in Turkey. She glanced out of the window. The sun was still shining brightly over the city, so she settled down to listen to his tale without wanting to throttle him out of sheer jealousy.

‘Anyway, I’ve got a load of photos. Why don’t we meet up in the pub this evening and I’ll show them to you?’ Sam caught Becky’s eye. She read complete disinterest. Before Becky could say anything unfortunate, Sam leapt in.

‘Can’t manage tonight, Ryan. Becky’s coming running with me.’

‘I am? I mean, oh yes.’ Becky hastily corrected herself. ‘Of course I am. I’m on a fitness campaign, Ryan. Maybe some other time.’

Sam noted the look of disappointment on his face and sighed for him.

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