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