Well even if this turns out to be a journey to nowhere, Maddie thought with slight hysteria, as he inclined his head unsmilingly and opened the rear passenger door for her, at least I’ll have travelled in style.
She’d been right, she told herself, leaning back against the cushions, to opt for a trim navy skirt rather than her usual jeans, although her jacket, which had received a faintly disparaging glance from Camillo, was denim. But she was glad of it once the car moved off, and the air conditioning came into play.
In front of her was a square leather case, which on investigation proved to be a cold box, containing bottled mineral water and fruit juice.
Every comfort, in fact, she thought. However, it would all have been rather more pleasant if Camillo had only spoken some English and she could have questioned him about their route and Trimontano itself.
He might even have been able to tell her something about Floria Bartrando’s connection with this area, especially as the singer had been living and working far away in Rome just before her disappearance, and winning plaudits for her interpretation of Gilda in ‘Rigoletto’.
But perhaps this should be left to the Count.
The port and its environs were soon left behind, the car powering its way through heavy traffic on a broad, busy road. Then, after about fifteen minutes, they turned on to another much narrower road, and, as if someone had flicked a switch, the landscape changed. No more urban sprawl or industrial development, but chestnut trees, olive groves and scrubby pastureland covering the foothills of the mountains, and the occasional scattered hamlet, clinging to the slopes.
The traffic they encountered now consisted mainly of farm wagons, groups of hikers sweating under large rucksacks, and packs of red-faced cyclists pounding up the increasingly steep ascent.
Maddie, drinking some water from the silver cup provided for the purpose, was ignobly glad not to be of their number.
At the same time, she became aware that the brightness of the day had faded, and that heavy clouds were massing round the peaks in a frankly ominous way.
Bad weather would be disappointing, she thought with an inward shrug as the vision of sun-kissed villas and cypresses silhouetted against an azure sky began to fade, but, after all, she wasn’t here as a holidaymaker.
Nor had she expected Trimontano to be quite so remote—not when it was the centre of an annual opera festival. The audiences would need to be serious music lovers to make this kind of journey.
And what had possessed Floria Bartrando to forsake the world stage and bury herself among these mountains?
There had to be a real story here if only she could unravel it, she thought, impatient to get to her destination and make a start.
A few minutes later, the car reached a fork in the road, and Camillo turned off to the right and began to descend into a valley, shadowed by a group of three tall peaks.
And there, suddenly, was Trimontano, like a toy town cupped in the hand of a stone giant.
Maddie leaned forward, eagerly scanning the clustering red roofs below her, noticing how a tall bell tower rose out of the midst of them, startlingly white and pointing towards the darkening sky like an accusing finger.
And at the same moment, like a warning voice reverberating between the mountains, came the first long, low rumble of thunder.
Heavens, thought Maddie, sinking back in her seat. That’s a hell of an introduction. Good job I’m not superstitious, or I might just be having second thoughts.
It had already begun to rain when the car finally came to a stop in front of the massive portico of the Hotel Puccini in the main square.
A uniformed man, holding an umbrella, came down the steps to open the car door and shelter Maddie on her way into the hotel, while Camillo followed with her solitary bag.
Which should, of course, have been a matched set of Louis Vuitton, Maddie realised as she looked around at the expanse of marble, mirrors and gilded pillars which made up the hotel foyer. She turned to thank Camillo and found herself watching his retreating back.
He’s clearly used to a better class of passenger, she told herself ruefully as she walked to the reception desk.
But the receptionist’s greeting passed no judgement, and the formalities were dealt with swiftly and efficiently.
‘And there is also this, signorina.’ He handed her an envelope along with her key card.
‘From Count Valieri?’ she asked.
‘Naturalmente. On whose behalf, I am to welcome you to Trimontano.’ He smiled, making a slight bow. ‘You are in Number 205, signorina. The lift is behind you, and your luggage is already in your room. If you need further assistance you have only to ask.’
Rule one in a strange town—know the right people, Maddie thought as the lift took her smoothly to her floor.
Her bedroom was more modern than she had imagined, with an impressive range of fitted furniture in an elegant pale wood, together with the widest bed she had ever seen.
The bathroom was breathtaking too, tiled in white marble, streaked with gold. It had a large sunken tub with two cushioned head-rests, and a walk-in shower also big enough for dual occupation, and then some.
The ultimate in togetherness, Maddie thought, suppressing a pang of regret that she was there alone. But even if Jeremy was far away, at least she could talk to him.
She went back in the bedroom and retrieved her mobile phone from her bag, only to discover to her dismay that there was no discernible signal.
‘Let’s hope that’s because of the prevailing weather conditions and not a general rule,’ she muttered, as she dialled reception from the bedside phone and asked for an outside line.
But she had another disappointment when, after a struggle to get through, Jeremy’s voicemail informed her he was out of the office.
Sighing, she replaced the receiver without leaving a message. After all, she’d nothing to tell him about her trip that he’d want to hear. The important thing had been to hear his voice, even if it was only a recording. Crumbs from the rich man’s table, she thought ironically. Speaking of which …
She reached for the Count’s envelope and tore it open.
‘And if this is to say that Floria Bartrando won’t see me, then I’ll know bad luck really does run in threes,’ she said as she unfolded the single sheet of paper it contained. As she did so, another smaller, flimsier strip of paper fluttered to the carpet.
Maddie picked it up and found she was looking at a ticket for the opera that night at the Teatro Grande. ‘Verdi’s ‘Rigoletto,’ she whispered to herself in excitement. ‘Floria’s last appearance. This has to be significant.’
The accompanying note, written in the familiar black ink said only ‘Until later’, and was signed ‘Valieri’.
A man of few words, the Count, thought Maddie joyfully. But what does that matter, bless every grey hair on his probably balding head?
And she kissed the ticket and laughed out loud, because it had proved to be third time lucky instead and she was in business.
CHAPTER THREE
AS THE CURTAIN fell on Act Two, Maddie sank back in her seat with a breathless sigh. She had forgotten how dark the plot of ‘Rigoletto’ was with its curses, vendettas, seductions and betrayal, and the hunchback jester seeking vengeance on his lecherous master. But she’d certainly never forgotten Verdi’s glorious music.
And the beautiful aria ‘Caro nome’ where the doomed Gilda rhapsodises about her lover’s name was