When the Siren Calls (42 page)

“Fiddlesticks, woman!” shouted a Glaswegian voice. “Is it that you are besotted with the Irish buffoon or what? Can you nay see Devlin is no better than a snake oil salesman, and his master and mentor Mister Brooke likely as slippery.”

The woman leapt to her feet in outrage, but her protestations were drowned in a crescendo of voices, as each in the room voiced their view as to where guilt belonged, though no one in the room suggested they might be the victims of their own folly. It seemed to Isobel that Eamon’s defenders were carrying the day at the expense of Andy, with hardly a single shot fired in the direction of the miraculously immune managing director himself, Mr. Jay Brooke.

Isobel looked on in outrage and longed to raise her voice with the others now erupting into argument about her, to tell them who the real villain was. But as she listened, the certainty with which she entered the meeting was ebbing away. For all were either saints or sinners, depending on which voice was loudest. During the next thirty minutes her uncertainty was only increased as the room heard a catalogue of complaints, broken promises, and unfulfilled expectations — from kitchens being charged but not supplied to the removal of the Armani toiletries from the bathrooms. And to most in the room, the tight-fisted Andy was emerging as the prime suspect for turning the dream into a nightmare. It seemed the list of Andy’s crimes would never end, until an Indian man ascended the platform and silenced the room with a disappointed stare.

“All these problems are no doubt valid,” he said, his voice pleasant and melodic, “but the issue is not who makes the shampoo that is in the bathrooms; the issue is that individually and collectively we are owed a lot of money, and we need to agree what, if anything, we plan to do about it.”

The room fell silent in deference to his succinct wisdom and he continued with his speech. “Now if, as Mr. Barker suggests, we are not going to be paid the money we are owed, then we have been swindled. And if that is the case the people who have been feeding us false hope and lies for the last year or more are nothing better than cheap charlatans.”

“You are not seriously suggesting that the whole thing is a fraud?” cried the sallow-skinned lady. “Because Eamon has explained it all to me. He and his company are only intermediaries, agents really, doing what they are told to do by Skinner. Eamon is as upset about it as we are. He would never—”

“I’m not sure we know enough to say that it is a fraud,” continued the wise man, trying hard to disguise his irritation with the woman’s objections, “but I am confident that at some point we’ve all been cheated and lied to. I propose we withdraw our properties from the scheme that allows the company to rent them out when we don’t use them; that might bring them to their senses, and understand we will not be trifled with.”

There were murmurings of disquiet amongst some in the room at the thought of taking such decisive action, but Isobel was buoyed by his suggestion and tried to instil courage in the orator with her gaze as he was drowned out by a cacophony of arguments. Fortunately, he did not seem defeated and he raised his voice to continue.

“You do understand the law in Italy regarding property debts?”

From the silence that greeted this question it was clear that no one in the audience did.

“Well, in Italy, the law is different from the UK, but it is also clear. The owner of a property pays all its charges, regardless of whether it is being rented or not. In addition to service charges and utility bills, many other charges come with owning a property in Italy. You must even pay for rubbish collection.” Jaws were dropping as the man spoke. “And of course you have the annual property tax, plus several local taxes. And then again, even if you do not rent out your holiday property in Italy, the State assumes that you do, so you must also pay Italian income tax on the assumed rental income.”

Stunned silence swept the room. The decision whether to declare their Italian rental income — if they ever received it — to the UK tax man was worry enough; to know that they must also deal with the Italian tax authorities sent a shiver down the spine.

“So, if Mr. Skinner’s company has not been footing the charges — which I think we can safely assume they haven’t — then we are each liable for thousands of pounds worth of bills.”

A deadly silence fell over the room as the truth sank in. Several ladies in the audience began to quietly cry and Rosie Barker broke into a flood of noisy tears. Only one pallid face remained unaltered and it belonged to the bulging-eyed woman.

“It’s not true. It can’t be true. Eamon would never do this to me!”

The Indian gentleman’s face drooped in despair and he made his way silently back into the crowd with the slow and heavy footsteps of a father following the coffin of his only son. In his place rose an elderly lady with a spring in her step and blue eye shadow up to her eyebrows. Isobel’s heart leapt; it was Eileen Carragher who, regardless of her fondness for Eamon, would surely engender good sense and unity into the divided crowd.

“Hello everybody, I am Eileen Carragher from apartment sixtynine. Can I speak for a minute? I really don’t know what to make of everything I have heard today and I don’t understand a lot of what you have been saying, it all sounds like the movies to me. But I do have a suggestion, and I am sorry because it will probably sound silly to most of you.”

Isobel’s body relaxed as she saw how easily the woman won over the assembled owners. “Until we are sure of the situation,” she continued, “I think it would be wise to not be rash. And we must remember that three hundred members rent our apartments, and they have done nothing wrong, so it doesn’t seem right to spoil their holidays. Wouldn’t it be better if we just sat down with Mr. Skinner and listened to his explanation?”

Isobel had to restrain herself from running to the front as the old lady’s speech concluded. She wanted to scream, to yell at the top of her voice, “How can you do nothing?” But Geoff gave her no opportunity to do so. He jumped on Eileen’s suggestion, keen to have reached some resolution by the end of the meeting, and backed it wholeheartedly.

“It has been a long meeting but I hope you will agree worthwhile. I believe as a group we are all now much better informed on the situation at Capadelli.” The room nodded as he bumbled on. “Mrs. Carragher’s idea is a good one. If we are all in agreement, I will take responsibility for organising the meeting she has proposed. I will write to everyone, including to all the many owners who, unfortunately, couldn’t be here today in person. Is that ok with everyone?”

Isobel could have cried as she looked at person after person indicating their consent, their faces radiating temporary happiness and confidence in the knowledge that something was being done, and someone else was doing it.

“As regards the rental scheme,” Geoff concluded over the rising noise, “I will leave what people want to do as a personal decision. Rosie and I have made up our minds; we are particularly disappointed with some of the visitors who are being allowed to rent our apartment — not our type of people at all. So on Monday we will be writing to formally withdraw our apartment from the scheme. I personally encourage others to do the same, but that is your choice.”

“Yes, yes, that is what you all must do!” screamed Isobel, but it was only the voice in her head and even that seemed drowned out as the owners left the hall in noisy confusion, not much wiser than when they arrived, and she had no choice but to follow them. She glanced at her phone as she stood outside the hall to find seven missed calls — two from Peter and five from Jay. How she wished Peter were here to help now; to be cool and clearheaded, to see a solution without being blinded by the aura of emotions — pity, sadness, and fear — that lingered from the meeting.

She had been dreading her next encounter with Jay, and wracking her brains how best to avoid it. But now she was torn between anger and fear; the only right thing to do seemed to be to confront him with the litany of charges that had been laid against him and his cohorts. She needed to find out for herself whether he was the callous con man that some in the room alleged, or whether some case for the defence existed, that he was a victim as much as the rest, exploited by the miserly and ruthless moneyman Skinner, as the sallow-skinned lady from south London claimed. Whatever his other faults, she was certain that a streak of generosity ran through Jay as surely as the colours in a stick of candy. She imagined herself confronting him: she would hear him out, but if he was guilty as charged, she feared she would be unable to contain her anger, let alone feel his touch on her skin. And as she imagined the scene, of being again at the mercy of his powerful hands and hypnotic gaze, her resolve to confront him weakened.

Out of the corner of her eye she spotted Mrs. Carragher walking towards the square where the taxis gathered, and on a whim of mercy ran after her, intent on saving at least one innocent. But as Isobel closed in behind her and reached out her arm to say hello, the old woman held her phone to her ear. “Hello, Eamon dear,” she sang into the mouthpiece, “I do believe you will have to get me another bottle of your champagne, because you won’t believe what I’ve got to tell you.”

Isobel shrank back in shock. Was there no limit to the duplicity that she was caught up in like a fish in a net? She so wanted to call Peter, to hear his reassuring voice, and to ask to be allowed to free herself from the miserable task he had set her. But what reason could she give, that her detective work was exceeding his expectations? She looked again at the list of missed calls, hesitated, and then hit the speed dial button.Forty-eight

Isobel had already tried Peter’s mobile three times without success. “Please, please, please answer,” she said aloud, desperate to speak with him, to share her news from the owners’ meeting, but more importantly to have him resolve her dilemma, whether to see Jay or to continue to evade him. It would be so much easier to have Peter make the decision for her.

“Damn you,” she exclaimed as the automated message kicked in. She looked at her watch and began to wonder where on earth Peter could be. His phone was always with him, clipped to his belt like some miniature life-support machine when it was not being nursed in his hand or pressed to his ear. Exasperated and confused, she called the home number but with little expectation. Peter routinely let it go to voice message, as the calls were invariably for her. Just as despair took hold, the phone was answered. It was a woman’s halting voice.

“Hello?”

“Who is this?” demanded Isobel, half thinking she had somehow hit the wrong button, but trapped in the terrible knowledge that she hadn’t.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Isobel, it’s Rachel.” A discomforting silence followed as neither woman seemed to know what to say next; Isobel’s heart and mind raced, she saw her sprawled on her sofa across Peter in ownership. She sought to recover her composure; whatever was the shameless wretch doing in her home, answering her phone? She didn’t even work for Peter anymore. It was the younger woman who spoke next, offering no explanation for her presence.

“I suppose you’re after Peter, I’ll just get him.”

You suppose! And who the hell else do you suppose I could be after, the window cleaner? Isobel was ready to explode. And you will get him? Get him from where? From what? But she was unable to bring the avalanche of questions from her mind and into her mouth, and before she could say anything, she heard a tap as the handset hit the table. More questions flooded in. Why didn’t Peter just pick up another phone, why didn’t she take the handset and deliver it to wherever he was? What were the two doing, she wondered as she waited for what seemed an eternity, imagining them conspiring across the handset, their lips shaped like love and deception.

She wrestled her imagination under control, knowing it to be fed by her own guilt. Peter came to the phone. She searched his voice for some inflection, some nuance, some difference, but could detect nothing, only the bland, almost business-like tone in which he so often spoke to her on the phone.

“Sorry, darling, I was just in the bathroom. Everything ok?”

Isobel’s imagination immediately flew back into overdrive. Was Peter now in the habit of going to the bathroom without his trousers, without his belt that held his precious machine, and in the middle of the day? Isobel tensed herself as she sought to appear calm, unable to hold back the obvious question.

“Why didn’t you answer your phone?”

“Oh, that, I had it switched off.”

Isobel’s mind went to Florence airport, and her confusion that Peter had switched off his phone, and her pleasure that he had done so. It seemed wonderful then but was hollow now.

“And why is Rachel there?”

“I thought I mentioned it. She’s helping me organise the leaving do, and we’re just going over a few things together. Everything ok your side?”

She listened intently to every aspect of his speech, his tone seemed deadened, and she wanted to pounce on the inflection like a cat, to force him to unveil himself. She was becoming something of an expert in recognising such signs, but normally in her own voice. The thought struck her that Rachel might well be listening on the other line, that she in all probability was listening, if she were not lying next to Peter, tickling his privates and daring him to laugh, as she had once done when Jay had taken a call from Rusty.

“Everything’s fine,” she said, the lie falling from her lips both fluid and natural. “The horses and everything ok?” He told here they were. “Peter,” she said with emphasis, seeking to alert him to the possibility that they were being listened to, “is this a good time to talk about what’s happening?”