When the Siren Calls (43 page)

He seemed to understand her question; he was good at reading signals, when he was minded to.

“Don’t worry, Rachel’s in the kitchen, making some coffee.”

“Make sure she uses fresh water,” said Isobel with malice, determined not to surrender the rights of her domain to the usurper.

Peter laughed. “Tell me how things went in Capadelli.”

She pushed from her mind as best she could the image of Rachel lying spread-eagled in her marital bed, and relayed the events of the morning. Peter listened with great interest, an interest that she had not sensed in him for years. He made sounds of encouragement at all the right times, asked questions when something was unclear, and was genuinely touched by her account of personal suffering. His response was lightening her mood, and easing her fears for what the afternoon held, when she was pulled back to reality with a bump, as Peter thanked Rachel for the coffee. She gritted her teeth remembering every time she had placed a coffee on Peter’s desk only for him to continue writing as if she were invisible to him.

Isobel’s temporary calm was destroyed when Peter took over the conversation. “There’s still some information I need, so I’ve had to send the accountants back in to Capadelli. I need you to go in this afternoon and see them.”

“This afternoon?” she said, desperately trying to master all emotion in her voice. “I really don’t think I can do that. Brooke will almost certainly be around, and me being there will only raise his suspicions.”

She bit at her thumb while Peter was silent in thought. “Do you know where Brooke lives?” he asked.

She heard her own intake of breath and belatedly clapped her hand to her mouth to muffle it. He gave no sign of having heard it. Isobel pulled her hand away, letting lies pour in a torrent from her mouth. “I’m not sure. Maybe San Miniato. Yes, I think Gina mentioned it.”

“San Miniato?”

“Yes, you remember, we had lunch there. A charming place on a hill. It’s about half an hour from Capadelli.”

“Couldn’t you call Brooke and ask to meet him there? That will keep him away if he’s at home, and if he’s already at Capadelli then he will probably pack up for the day and not return, leaving the accountants a free hand to dig around.”

“But if I did that, and I don’t know why he would agree, then it would tie me up too—” Isobel’s mind momentarily returned to the last time she was tied up with Jay, or rather by Jay “—so then I wouldn’t be able to see the accountants.”

Peter had already solved that problem in his head and he relayed the answer in triumph. “You are in Capadelli now but Jay doesn’t know it, right? Arrange to meet him in San Miniato for a late lunch, and slip in to the development behind his back when he leaves, and then shoot down to meet him!”

“This is not some west-end farce, Peter,” Isobel exclaimed, trying to channel her fear into anger, “anything could go wrong. Why can’t I just stay where I am, check-in with Gina every so often, and whenever Jay does leave, go in and see the guys from BB&T?”

She heard an impatient sigh on the other end of the line. “But I need you to see Brooke too; you’ve got to find out if he’s planning to do a runner, and if so, when. Now be a good girl, and give him a call.”Forty-nine

The morning sun had given way to dark clouds, and rain began to fall as Isobel turned off the main road and began the long ascent to Castello di Capadelli. The rain soon became relentless in its dullness, a grey drizzle that added no drama or poignancy to her mission. Everything seemed to droop beneath a film of moisture, not a single person was to be seen, and the white umbrellas outside the bars and cafés sagged in misery. The roads too were deserted and Isobel turned on the wipers, which rhythmically revealed the landscape and hid it again as she drove slowly and unwillingly towards her destination.

As she entered Capadelli village itself she pulled over onto the dark wet cobblestones, brought to a halt by a strange mix of fear and nostalgia. She pressed herself against the seat and took in the scene, almost alien in the greyness, with all its dirt and colours washing into the overflowing drains. Her eyes rested unconsciously on the local bar and she became lost in crushing and unforgiving memory of when she and Jay had stolen into the back room and he had kissed her and run his hands over her body, and she had enjoyed letting him. Isobel screwed her eyes tightly shut, fighting off the images, but they were unyielding. She saw him daring her to follow him into the toilet, and saw her laughter — so hard that she felt she would explode — when he reappeared after waiting for ages, convinced she would follow him. Isobel gripped the wheel until her hands lost all colour, as if forcing the memory from her body, but it was pointless. She saw him feign sadness and demand she go into the bathroom and remove her panties in punishment; she saw herself disappear and coyly reemerge, letting him caress her under the table with reckless abandon. Tears fell into her lap as she saw him drive home, the panties on his head in retribution for his forwardness. She restarted the engine and shattered the silence, wanting to break it and unable to bear the memory of her own happiness.

The rain grew heavier as Castello di Capadelli came into view and, to her surprise, Isobel started to notice people on the side of the roads, a slow trickle at first but quickly turning into groups then crowds as she neared the gates. They all trudged doggedly through the rain, their heads bent beneath hoods and heavy hats. A white van screeched up behind the car and Isobel pulled over to let it pass; the letters on its side seemed familiar but she could not place them. As she turned the final bend, driving at a snail’s pace for fear she might hit someone, the lines became a crowd and she saw the familiar iron gates above their heads, swamped in a black mass of human beings.

Isobel peered through the mist at them, her windscreen fogged by the anxiety of her quick breath. The degree of the chaos became apparent as she wiped it aside; people shouting and holding placards, standing in regimented lines outside the gate whilst many others stood and watched. Isobel leant forward and squinted to read a sign. The words ‘ENGLISH PIGS OUT’ were blazoned across the cardboard in a bloody red. Anxiety now seized her and she tried to reverse but it was impossible, so she started to turn as the spectators shuffled grudgingly out of her way and the people with signs turned, moving in unison to converge on her car. Their faces were ugly with anger, the water sliding from their grimaces like sweat, and genuine fear gripped Isobel as they advanced. She turned towards the white van, her eyes drawn to its paleness amongst the mess of limbs and leering faces, and as her survival instinct took over her she recognised the painted letters — it was the TV station. She steered towards it as an attractive young woman brandishing a microphone ran towards her, hoping to be safe from harm beneath the camera’s lens. But she was overtaken by two hooded figures that rushed at the car, wielding their placards like staves. The first, a heavily built man with rabid eyes, struck his sign against the windscreen as Isobel screamed, desperately wrenching the steering wheel to complete the turn. An angry looking young woman, her hair bedraggled from the wet and her face contorted with contempt, was pulling at the door handle next to her. But Isobel accelerated and the woman let go, mouthing curses, as she sped off into the rain.

The car lurched and roared as Isobel tore down the winding roads, her legs and arms shaking as she struggled to hold the wheel steady. As soon as the last walker was out of sight she pulled over and threw herself from the car. She landed on her hands and knees on the verge, took a deep breath, and then vomited violently as her whole body contorted into inhuman shapes. She crouched on the grass for a moment, cold and shaking, before scrambling back into the car. She leant for a long time against the seat, waiting for the nausea to release its grip on mind and body and for her heart to stop racing. When some semblance of calmness finally returned to her she took out her phone and called Peter. She held on, imploring him to pick up, but the call went to voice message and she threw the phone at the back seat in terrified rage and cursed him for her aloneness. But as the rage subsided and Isobel dwelt on the owners’ meeting, an entire room full of useless wrath and worry, her spirit and courage seemed to rise up in her, and she was overcome by indignation and the injustice of everything. Resolution grew within her and she flung herself onto the back seat, scooped up the phone and rang reception, hoping to get hold of her old ally. When no one answered she left a message, asking Gina to meet her at the back entrance, hoping and praying that she received it in time.

Isobel put her foot down and carved a frantic and inefficient path through the side roads and their bewildering confliction of signposts. She had only been through the back gates once and that was in the dark, with Jay guiding her, his hand tight round hers as he led her into depravity beneath the stars. She shook him from her mind and drove by instinct, cautiously navigating the maze of roads until trial and error delivered her to her destination. She edged up stealthily, trying to appear innocuous in front of the few locals that milled around with their hands in their pockets, and they made no move to stop her.

But, as she approached the final few yards to the gates, a man in a hooded anorak stepped out before her, the palm of his dirty hand held towards her. He was wearing some kind of plastic ID badge in an attempt to convey authority, but his shabby dress belied the effort and she wound down the car window with confidence, looking down her nose imperiously with a condescending ‘yes?’

“Who are you?” he demanded, pushing his stubbled face almost into Isobel’s.

“I beg your pardon,” said Isobel, startled and pulling back from the smell of alcohol and garlic.

“Who is she?” someone shouted from the rag-tag onlookers behind.

“Are you Italian?” asked the man. “Media?”

“It’s none of your business who I am,” said Isobel, “now let me pass.”

“You are a very pretty lady, but I am an official from the workers council, and we are checking everyone before they go through,” he said. His eyes raked over her body as he spoke.

“My name is Isobel Roberts, now kindly let me pass.”

The man stood his ground, his elbow pressing down on the open car window. “You must wait,” he said drawing on all his assumed authority and without explanation, turning to his friend. “Signora Isobel Roberts, English I think,” he shouted over his shoulder. “Is she on the list?”

The list? thought Isobel, fear and fury building within her. Am I to be put against a wall and shot like Mussolini and his mistress? A man with a clipboard stepped forward and pressed a phone to his ear.

Isobel’s heart raced as she waited; the atmosphere of intimidation was overwhelming and it was taking all her self-control not to drive away. She slipped the car into reverse, ready to shoot back at the first sight of a placard, or a firing squad.

The young man with the clipboard came off the phone, and let out a gruff sounding laugh.

“It is only the English meretrice, let her through.”

The dialect was strong, but Isobel was sure she understood it. The man pressing down on the window leant in and took her cheek between his thumb and forefinger, squeezing it hard.

“My name is Gianni, you ask for me in Capadelli, when you want a big man.” He cupped his crotch and leered at her. Isobel pulled in her elbow and struck him a fierce blow on his arm with all her force.

The man stepped back laughing and waved her through. “The meretrice has balls!” he shouted to his friend, who guffawed like a donkey in response.

Isobel sped through the gates as Gina opened them, and pulled to a shuddering halt, spraying gravel behind her into the rain-filled air. She slumped over the wheel, pressing her fists into her eyes to hold back the tears. Is this what its come to? she asked herself silently. The English whore?

Gina pulled open the car door and, almost kneeling, extended an arm around her, her face full of worry and pity.

“Do not be upset, Isobel, it means nothing, what they say, they are feccia; I’m sorry I do not know the English word.”

“Scum,” said Isobel with a poor attempt at a smile.

“Yes, scum, they are scum.” Gina nodded vigorously. “Today I am ashamed to be Italian. They said the same to me when I arrived. Please, I apologise for them. We are safe in here; security men are inside, and they have guns. No one will come past the gates. Mr. Skinner arranged it.”

Isobel’s anger at the physical assault, and the insult, was subsiding. But she was not sure she believed Gina, that her looks alone provoked the goading. The taunt was too specific, too direct. She sensed something spiteful in the way it was gleefully uttered.

“What is going on, Gina?” she asked, dropping her voice to a low whisper as they began to walk.

“You do not know? It is very bad, Signora. Yesterday appeared a story in the local paper that the English developers have been operating here illegally. The picture of Signor Skinner was in the paper. The one on the brochure. The police were here earlier too. They asked for Signor Skinner. They said they would be back later. I think they plan to arrest him.”

Isobel had never seen Gina so ill-composed, her eyes were wild and a smudge of her carefully applied lipstick faded into her cheek.

“What else did the newspaper say?” Isobel asked, trying to control her own nerves.

“That the English have no money to pay anyone. Signor Mancini is speaking several times in the story. And now this morning the staff has learnt that they have not received their salary. They believe it is because of Signor Skinner, and they have been told that today he will sack everyone.”