When the Siren Calls (14 page)

The place was buzzing with noise and with life, an abundance of food laid out on stalls for perusal and selection.

“How does this work?” asked Peter, who hated any form of disorganisation. “Do we try to secure some seating, and do I need to protect it while you order the food? Or do we just make a run for the food and take our chances we’ll be able to get seats?”

“I expect the thing to do is to ask,” she said, trying to disguise her impatience, “and as I’m the only one of us who speaks Italian, I guess on this occasion you have a valid reason for being reluctant to seek help.”

She engaged a handsome young man wearing an apron, intent it seemed on some urgent task. He was all too happy to help, but offered his guidance at a pace that Isobel doubted Italians themselves could understand.

“Not as simple as forming an orderly line then?” Peter smirked, as the man melted into the crowd, leaving Isobel perplexed.

“Peter, this is Italy,” she said in exasperation, “and anyway, forming a line is less fun than doing things the Italian way.”

“And what is the Italian way, exactly, in these circumstances?”

“First we need to do a bit of a tour to decide what we might want to eat. Then we buy different coloured vouchers at different prices, then we go and spend those vouchers at the various food stalls, then sometime later someone will bring the food and drinks. But before we do all that, we need to select a table number.” She folded her arms, daring him to contradict her understanding.

“They’re all full, in case you hadn’t noticed,” he said.

“Yes, but you are the one in the solutions business, I believe. I’ve done all the research work, so figuring out how we get space on one of these benches is down to you.” She had injured his weakest spot and he shrugged in assent.

“Well, we could just hover menacingly around someone who seems to be on the coffee course?”

Isobel burst out laughing. “I think maybe it’s better if you leave me to sort out the solution bit too. This way.”

Under her redoubtable leadership all the obstacles were quickly overcome, and the two found themselves seated alongside a family of Italians spanning four generations. A round woman with a nose like a potato turned to Isobel with a kindly smile and offered her some olive bread, entering freely and welcomingly into conversation once Isobel’s fluency became apparent. All was going smoothly until Isobel indicated their destination. The mention of the word ‘Capadelli’ in an English accent drew the attention of everyone at the table, and they swivelled their heads round like owls.

“Capadelli? Inglese? You go to Capadelli to see the Inglese?” asked the woman’s husband in broken and frantic English.

Isobel’s fluent reply drew him back into his native tongue and he launched into what seemed to Peter to be an animated warning of the perils of travelling to see the Inglese in Capadelli. He watched Isobel in concern as she nodded and laughed along, the man waving his arms in wild gestures and yelling “PAZZO” at the top of his voice.

“Uh, what’s a pazzo?” he asked his wife, as their food arrived and they were left to their own company. Isobel picked at her tagliatelle with dainty fingers and shrugged, her mouth full and her eyes unwilling.

“What was all that about?” he persisted. “Seems like he was giving us some kind of warning about the English, or about Capadelli, or about both. Have we stumbled into the Italian equivalent of Transylvania or something?”

“A bit melodramatic,” she laughed, “and I think the tagliatelle is heavy on the garlic, so I’m sure we will be ok. But it does seem like Capadelli has achieved some kind of celebrity status with the locals.”

“The locals? We are still ten kilometres from Capadelli, which is hard enough to find on a map as it is. Seems like there’s more to it than celebrity status.” His voice was ominous and she hated him for his automatic negativity.

“All he was saying is some English people a bit larger than life are living in Capadelli. Something like that. And, he also said that some famous Italian footballer from Sardinia is rumoured to be buying a house there, which I suppose would give it celebrity status around here.”

Peter looked unconvinced. “So what is a pazzo?” he demanded again.

“It means crazy,” she said, quickly continuing before he predicted their doom. “All sounds very exciting and quite intriguing, doesn’t it? We’ve never met anyone famous in five years in Provence, and here we are on our first trip to Capadelli and it seems we might be in the company of the next best thing to Italian royalty, an Italian football star. I can hardly wait.”

Peter made no reply, choosing instead to chew his pasta, and retreat into his own thoughts. Isobel gave an involuntary shudder, her eyes fixed on the distant hills.Sixteen

Jay walked past the gleaming glass door of Castello di Capadelli’s reception building, now kitted out with brass fittings and other highend finishing touches. The development had been a construction site when he last visited. It was now a tourist complex, and a beautiful one at that. The apartments and communal buildings, dull stone on his last visit, were now plastered and painted. They glowed in the morning sun, warm yellows and oranges against the blueness of the Tuscan sky; their colours already faded enough to blend in with the architecture that dotted the neighbouring hills. Beautiful details had been sprinkled liberally across the structures by his exterior design team, from carved stone horses on the walls to vines that twisted their way around doorways in intricate natural arches. What had been dirt and rubble in the surrounding landscape was now verdurous and green with winding gravel walkways replacing the paths trod out haphazardly by heavy boots. He turned the corner to the pool, a monstrous concrete hole on his last visit that would now be a veritable oasis, suitable for the most discerning of holidaymakers. He froze in shock at what he saw in place of his vision. The pool sat in a field of mud; its clear blue waters topped with a layer of dust that floated in brown waves across the surface, revealing occasional strips of blue that flashed out of the muck like escaping sky. Around the pool were neat stacks of teak decking, decking Jay had been assured had been laid weeks ago.

“What is this then, Eamon?” he asked his genial bag carrier, who had been following him around and absorbing his praise like a dry sponge.

“Well, boss,” Eamon replied, twisting his hands awkwardly in front of him, “those builders I told you about that we hadn’t paid — they came in last night and tore up their work, and they say they won’t redo it until they get all their money.”

Jay turned to Eamon unfazed. “Get the maintenance guys to somehow make it useable, at least so people can get to and from the pool without sinking up to their arses in mud. I’ll speak to Davide about settling the problem with the builder later.” He made to move on, aware that the pile of bricks stacked by what should by now have been a vine-covered wall needed his attention too.

“Are you sure that’s wise, boss?” asked Eamon, making no move to intercept his path but lacking too much of his normal jollity to be ignored. “If we do something quick and dirty it’s hardly likely to be safe. What if someone breaks an ankle or something? A child even?”

Jay wheeled around and smacked the heel of his hand into his forehead in an exaggerated gesture of frustration. “Look around you. Do you see any lifeguards? Any safety belts? Any warning signs? I think we can take the risk of some kid twisting their ankle, seeing as we are clearly not too bothered about them drowning.”

Eamon fought back a smile and nodded with his best impression of a devoted employee and a serious man. “I’ll ask the maintenance guys to do what they can.”

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to catch up with Davide,” said Jay, striding past the wall-turned-rubble with the jaunty steps of a man who couldn’t care less.

Davide was at his desk in the poky studio apartment that was being used as the accounts office. Box files were stacked all around the floor and covering the surface of the desk, a sea of paper engulfing the room. But the accountant welcomed him warmly, clasping his palms around the hands of his visitor. Jay marvelled how the diligent and industrious Italian was so unruffled by the disorder in which he was working; when Jay asked for the paperwork he had requested the evening before, the man merrily sifted through the papers, tossing them over his shoulder like confetti as he attempted to find them.

Jay tucked the papers into his folder; reading them could wait. “Your presentation for the board meeting, how’s that coming on?”

Davide beamed at the question, and from somewhere under the mountain of clutter he produced a professionally bound set of overhead slides, its pristine condition in contrast to the surrounding chaos. “Everything is ready,” said Davide, eager to be stroked for his herculean efforts.

Jay began thumbing through the deck, each slide a wall of numbers like a bingo card, effusing praise as he went. “Excellent, Davide, excellent. Very thorough.”

“I try my best, signor, I hope you agree it is complete,” said Davide, unaware of the blow that was about to fall.

“It most certainly is,” said Jay, “it most certainly is. But the thing is, Andy Skinner is not a numbers man. He likes to see the big picture. And also, these numbers are backward looking.”

Mystification reigned on Davide’s face. “But how else can I present the financial situation, if not from the past accounts?”

“What Andy has asked for,” said Jay, authority and command in his voice, “is not a history of the past, but a view of the future, a sense of where the business is going. And that is a very healthy future, is it not?” continued Jay, with menace in his words. “Five or six slides, Davide, that is what we need, nothing more, without all these confusing numbers. We must believe in the future,” said Jay, like some born again preacher, his body rising from his seat with his words. “Do I make myself clear?”

Davide nodded, his chin falling and his shoulders drooping. “Yes, signor,” he affirmed as Jay held him with a laser-like gaze, before turning on his heels.

Jay set off for the car park at some speed, anxious to avoid anything or anyone that might delay him from meeting Andy in the village, the situation with the pool only adding to the urgency and importance of his mission. But as he turned the corner onto the long straight path to the car park, two figures came into view, two horribly familiar figures. He squinted into the sun as they approached, sure that fate could not have been so unkind as to send them his way today. But his eyes had not fooled him and it soon became clear that he was on a direct collision course with Geoff and Rosie Barker, the couple that Eamon had warned him about in the hotel and who he had been steadfastly avoiding for almost a year. They were closing in like two forlorn birds of prey and directly blocking the path to his car; he had no choice but to engage them.

“Geoff, Rosie, great to see you!” he called out, as he quickened his pace towards them. “I’ve just been looking around down by your apartment, hoping to catch you.”

“Well, Mr. Brooke, you have caught us now,” said Geoff, his wife close to his side and sharing his facial expression, one of unadulterated dislike.

“I was wondering if you were both free for lunch today?” he continued, smiling brightly. “I know you have some important matters to discuss, and there’s someone very important on site today who is keen to meet with you.”

Their faces lost their unity as they tried to process this turn of events. Rosie’s had already broken into a smile as his charm took its toll and even Geoff, the stronger willed and less gullible of the two, was struggling to maintain his icy demeanour.

Jay continued, his acting buoyed by his success. “That’s assuming you can do lunch today, of course? Needs to be a late one, at least by English standards. Can you be in your apartment at two today? I will have you picked up. Stay off the latte this morning, so you have a good appetite. It’s somewhere special and it’s on me, of course.”

They both nodded, words failing them; like all honest and everyday people, they were simply no match for a master craftsman like Jay, and by the time they had collected their thoughts they were looking at the back of his car as it exited the car park.

As Jay turned out of his parking space he was already hitting the speed dial on his mobile to call Eamon.

“What do you have on this morning?” he asked as soon as Eamon had picked up, forgoing niceties in favour of a brutally quick exchange.

“Same as what we discussed earlier, boss,” he replied, “why, do you want me to do something else?”

“What are your lunch plans?” came the reply, ignoring his question.

“Bit too busy for lunch,” he sighed, “what with everything that’s going on here today. I’m probably going to grab something quick in the wine bar around one o’clock. But I need to be ready for the Roberts’ arrival around four-thirty, and I have other deals to close this weekend…” He tailed off.

Jay pushed these concerns aside with a dramatic exhaling of breath.

“Ok, here’s what I need you to do. About two, go over to the Barkers’ apartment and pick them up, take them out somewhere local, nothing too flash, and get as much house wine into them as you can. Enough to make them so ill tomorrow that they can’t leave their apartment.”

“I guess they are expecting to see you then?” said Eamon.

“Yes, they are. But there’s no way I can do lunch. I have to see Andy today. But tell them I’ll try and come for a coffee at the end of lunch.”