The Gwentian Chronicle of Caradoc of Llancarfan states that in 893 A.D. the Vikings burned and raided Llancarfan. However, some historians dismiss the Chronicle as a series of fanciful ramblings. That’s the wonderful thing about history – you can select the bits that fit your theory and discard the rest.
The Vikings were conspicuous by their absence when, later that afternoon, I drove to Green Meadow Farm on the outskirts of Llancarfan. I travelled through a patchwork of green fields to an isolated farmhouse situated ‘in the middle of nowhere’. The farmhouse was large and sturdy with grey stone walls, a grey tiled roof and two chimneys of red brick. Two storeys tall, the facade contained five large windows and a prominent porch. Ivy crept up one side of the building while a number of trees offered shade. The trees were colourful, abundant with white and pink mayflowers.
A long, straight drive led to the porch. However, a number of fields also surrounded the house and in one of those fields, I spied a woman and a horse. The woman was in her early forties. Of medium height, she had long, dark, silky hair – almost as long as mine – dark, almond-shaped eyes, olive skin and a full oval face. Her figure was voluptuous, oozing sensuality. Meanwhile, the horse was brown with long, spindly legs. As you might have gathered, I know next to nothing about horses. I blame Black Beauty. I read that book as a child and it saddened me, put me right off horses. Nevertheless, they are graceful animals to look at, noble beasts. On reflection, I did ride a donkey, once, on a beach at Porthcawl. To this day, I can picture the sun shimmering on the sea, hear the squawk of seagulls and taste the sand in the soggy tomato sandwiches. But I digress.
I wandered over to a five bar gate and watched as the woman rode the horse around the field, her silky hair streaming, the pleasure on her face evident and abundant.
Horse and rider completed another circuit of the field. Then the woman caught sight of me. She dismounted, led her horse to the stables and glanced in my direction again. Whether annoyed or curious, I couldn’t tell, but she walked towards me.
“I’m looking for Grant Osborne,” I said as the woman approached the five bar gate.
“Who are you?” she frowned. She was dressed in jeans and a simple woollen top. Her jeans were tight fitting and mud splattered, caked from the horse’s hooves as he kicked up the soft ground.
“My name is Sam, Sam Smith. I’m an enquiry agent. I’ve been hired to find a missing person.”
She frowned then pursed her generous lips. “My husband is not missing.”
“You’re Mrs Osborne?”
“Maya,” she said, flashing an automatic smile.
“And that’s your horse?” I glanced towards the stables.
“Folio; handsome isn’t he?”
“He is,” I conceded.
“Do you ride?” she asked, her question keen, loaded with interest. I sensed that Maya Osborne did not receive many visitors, and that she was grateful for my company.
“A bicycle, yes,” I smiled; “horses, no.”
“I love horses,” Maya said with childish enthusiasm. “I love to ride.”
I glanced towards the house and spied a Range Rover, covered in dry mud. Clearly, the vehicle had seen plenty of action in the local lanes and fields. However, the absence of any fresh mud suggested that neither Maya nor Osborne had driven it recently.
“Is your husband at home?” I asked.
“He is away,” Maya replied, her eyes following my gaze to the Range Rover, “on business.”
“Your husband is a businessman?”
“Finance,” she smiled.
“Is he away often?”
“Yes.”
“On business?”
Maya paused. She frowned at me. After a thoughtful silence, she replied, “Yes.”
“And pleasure?”
A longer pause. A deeper frown. Then, “He takes holidays, yes.”
“With you?”
“Sometimes.” Suspicion replaced her tentative smile. She gave me a guarded look, turned away, offered her profile. “What are you implying?” she asked, her tone now cautious, wary.
“Nothing,” I insisted. “Only, I’m keen to trace a young woman; I believe she might be in danger.” While Maya pondered that point, a raindrop fell on my head, followed by another. The rogue shower would doubtless drive the cricketers from the field; the shower also offered an opportunity to learn more about Maya.
I said, “I’m very keen to trace this woman. Can we talk inside? I don’t want you to get wet.”
A person with something to hide would have told me to skedaddle. However, I sensed that Maya was lonely, and grateful to find someone to talk with.
“Okay,” she said cautiously. “We can talk inside.”
I followed Maya across the field, to the rear of the house. There, we entered the building through the French windows, a recent alteration, to judge from the fresh plasterwork.
Inside the farmhouse, I spied a picture of Maya as a bride standing alongside Grant Osborne. At least, I assumed that the groom was Osborne. Another picture revealed a younger Maya, along with a burly man in a rugby kit. The man, maybe her father, offered a sunny smile, a smile imported from a South Sea island.
My prying eyes also noticed a small bookcase crammed with romances, along with DVDs for meditation. A sculpture sat on top of the bookcase, crafted from vine.
“You made this?” I asked, referring to the sculpture.
“Yes. I cut sections of vine from the trees, remove the bark, varnish them then mount them.”
“They are very effective.”
Maya bowed and offered a polite smile.
I nodded towards the wedding picture. “Your husband?”
“Yes.”
“How did you meet him?”
“At a presentation, for my father’s rugby team.” Maya glanced at the picture of her father. “That was fifteen years ago, though it seems like yesterday.”
“You’ve been married fifteen years?”
She nodded. “We married soon after we met; two months after we met.”
“The person I’m looking for,” I said, “Vittoria Vanzetti, does she know your husband?”
Maya frowned. She was on the defensive again. “I don’t know anyone called Vittoria.”
“Does your husband know her?”
“I don’t know,” she replied automatically.
“I’ve heard that Vittoria might be with your husband.”
Offering her back, Maya turned and stared through the French windows; her back was ramrod straight, firm with tension. “Are you suggesting that my husband has affairs?”
“Does he?” I asked.
Slowly, she turned to gaze at me. In a small voice she said, “Sometimes he has affairs.”
“And he conducts these affairs while away on business?”
“Sometimes,” she said in the same small voice.
“Where has your husband gone this time?”
“America. Boston.”
“When is he due back?”
“Soon. He will phone me to let me know.”
“You have no problem with this, with your husband taking women on business trips?”
Maya shrugged, a gesture of defeat or indifference. “He is my husband. It is my duty to be loyal, to stand by him.”
“Even though his behaviour upsets you?”
“He is my husband,” she repeated. “I do what a good wife must do.”
“And you’re a good wife in every aspect of your husband’s life?”
She nodded. “I try to be.”
I stared at the vine sculpture. Like clouds, the shape could suit your imagination. In my mind’s eye, I saw two people, in a loving embrace. Maybe I was being fanciful; maybe that image sprang from our conversation. However, if Osborne did have a series of mistresses, I was right about Maya – she was lonely. But where did that place Vittoria, in Boston, with Osborne?
I asked Maya that question, “Could Vittoria be with your husband?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“Why don’t you think so?”
“Because...because I think Gemma is with him this time.”
“You know Gemma?”
Maya stared down to the ground, to the highly polished wooden floorboards, to a colourful soft rug, to the tassels on her simple shoes. “I know Gemma, but only by name.”
“Will you phone me,” I asked, “when your husband returns?”
I offered Maya my business card and she accepted the card, with reluctant fingers.
“Will you make trouble for my husband?” Maya asked, her dark eyes studying the details on my card.
“I’m looking for Vittoria Vanzetti; I’m not looking to make trouble for anyone.”
Maya continued to study my card. Then she slipped it under her vine sculpture. “I will phone you,” she said, “when my husband returns.”
I thanked Maya. Then I gazed through the French windows, to the fields, to the stables, to the blue sky, clear again. “It’s stopped raining,” I said.
Maya gazed at the sky and frowned. She sighed then said, “It is always raining in some part of the world.”