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.’
‘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