– 28 –

‘But it’s perfect,’ Matthew raged, ‘just look at how sinister the place is like this.’

‘It’s not my fault the helicopter pilot refuses to go up,’ Stephanie countered. ‘I can’t make him risk his life in fog, can I?’

‘Have you offered to pay him more?’

‘Of course I have, but he turned it down, and quite frankly I don’t blame him.’

‘And quite frankly, neither do I.’ Along with everyone else who was standing on the hillside in the murky morning fog, they burst out laughing. ‘Well, there’s nothing else for it,’ Matthew went on, rubbing his hands together to try and keep them warm, ‘we’ll have to move the unit up to the swimming pool. I want a high shot, and if that’s the highest I’m going to get today, it’ll just have to do.’

‘It’s so good of you to compromise,’ Stephanie returned, then covered her ears as he yelled for Woody, and soon the crew were lugging their heavy equipment up over the treacherously steep path to the swimming pool.

Marian, huddled into her padded anorak and the woolly hat she’d borrowed from the wardrobe department, was leaning against the wall outside her cottage, watching them, when Madeleine crept up behind her and dug her in the ribs. ‘Boo!’ she cried, and laughed as Marian practically leapt from her skin.

‘I wish you wouldn’t do that,’ Marian complained irritably.

‘Oh honestly, you’re like a bear with a sore head these days. I suppose you were hoping it was Matthew.’

‘No, I know where Matthew is, thank you very much, and keep your voice down. Where’s Paul?’

Madeleine shrugged. ‘I don’t know, gone off somewhere to write, I expect.’

‘Are you seeing you-know-who again later?’

‘Yep. We’re going on a tour of Florence today – now won’t that be interesting.’

‘Maddy, I don’t expect Enrico much likes sight-seeing either, especially as he’s lived here all his life, but he’s bothering to do it to keep you entertained, so you could at least show some appreciation.’

‘All right, don’t bite my head off. I’ll let you into a secret, sight-seeing with Enrico is better than listening to Paul bore on about his book – he’s having problems with it and he keeps going on about them. I wouldn’t mind, but I don’t understand what he’s talking about half the time.’

‘I wouldn’t let him hear you say that if I were you.’

‘Oh God, no. Look, if you’re not working at the moment why don’t we go over to the kitchens and see if Gabriella’s got any hot soup.’

‘It’s supposed to be for the crew, Maddy.’

‘Oh God, you really are in a bad mood today, aren’t you?’

Marian managed a smile. ‘OK, soup it is,’ she said, ‘but we’ll take some up to the crew as well.’ And taking Madeleine’s arms she allowed herself to be led off down the steps, saying, ‘How are you getting down to Camaiore to meet him?’

‘Oh, someone will give me a lift, they’re up and down all the time.’

As the kitchen door swung closed behind them, Paul walked out from the narrow alley that ran between the cottages. At first he was tempted to go after them, to drag Madeleine out and beat her with all the savagery that was quaking in his body, but something inside him was telling him that wasn’t the way, and with a supreme effort he wrenched himself round and stumbled up the steps into the cottage. For several minutes he stood with his back against the door, his breath heaving in his lungs and a blinding rage pounding through his head. Tarallo, the bitch was seeing Tarallo. After everything he had done to stop it, now she was seeing him again. Did they think he was so stupid that he didn’t know who they were talking about? How dare they treat him as though he were an imbecile? His fists were clenched so tightly that as he banged them against the wall, his knuckles split and blood poured down his hands. Then, as he raised his face to the ceiling, his top lip curled back over his teeth and his nostrils flared like a wild animal’s. He had never known such purity in his hatred, such venom in his anger – all he had worked for, all he had sacrificed himself for, and now she was betraying him. She was slipping from his control, she was lying to him, cheating on him, laughing at him, and he felt such loathing, such uncontrollable jealousy that he wanted to kill her.

Eventually he staggered over to the stairs and dragged himself up to the bedroom. He had to think. He had to sit alone and think. He must forget the fact that even now his people were preparing his house for her, he must forget how he had planned to share his life with her, he must forget everything, and think. Concentrate on her betrayal, on the way she had ridiculed him, on her lies and deceit. He must decide what he was going to do. The anger would pass, he just had to wait and then he would know. Then it would all become clear.

By two thirty in the afternoon the fog was beginning to clear and the sun’s rays striped the hillside in a fan of defiant light; as a result, filming had come to a standstill. ‘Light won’t match,’ Matthew explained to Marian when she wandered out of the production office to find out what was going on, ‘and no one can find the helicopter pilot.’

‘So what are you going to do? Where’s everyone going?’ she asked, watching the camera assistants wheel their equipment down the lane on a trolley.

‘We’re going down to the autostrada to pick up some driving shots. The intrepid Hazel has managed to come up with a low-loader.’

‘You coming down in my car, guv?’ Woody called out as he zoomed past.

‘Be right with you,’ Matthew answered.

‘Christina’s costume for Day Twelve is still wet,’ Belinda wailed, coming up behind them.

‘Then put her in something else,’ Matthew barked. ‘Speak to Beanie, find out how her continuity is for another day.’

‘I’ve got my own continuity notes, thank you,’ Belinda retorted hotly.

‘Then use them, and we’ll shoot the scenes we can.’

Belinda threw him a resentful look and turned back up the steps.

‘Matthew! Do we need the car with the sun roof or the one without?’ the man from Action Cars called from down on the plateau.

‘Speak to Woody,’ Matthew shouted back, then rolling his eyes he took Marian by the arm and led her into the production office, saying, ‘You’d better pick up whatever you need pretty sharpish, or knowing Woody, he’ll go without us.’

‘Not without you, surely.’

‘I wouldn’t put it past him.’

‘Well, you go on, I’ll follow later with someone from make-up or costume. In fact, I don’t think I’ll come. Those car shots always take for ever, and it’ll be freezing standing on the side of the road.’

‘I can’t say I blame you, but we’re all going down. You don’t really want to stay here on your own, do you?’

‘Oh, I’ll be all right. Frank’s people are in the bar, and besides, I might try to get some sleep.’

‘Keeping you awake at night all this, is it?’

She nodded.

His face softened, and as he took a step towards her, her heart started to beat faster. ‘I can’t say I’m surprised,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Where’s Madeleine?’

‘With Enrico.’

‘Good.’ Then putting his head on one side and looking at her with mild amusement, he said, ‘You don’t think there might be something starting up there, do you?’

‘I don’t think so, she’s too besotted with Paul.’

‘I notice he’s not writing today. Has he finished the book?’

‘Not as far as I know. I thought he was in the woods somewhere, fighting it out to the bitter end.’

‘He wasn’t an hour ago because I saw him drive off down the hill in that little Panda they’ve hired.’

‘Really? I wonder where he was going.’

Matthew frowned. ‘He doesn’t know anything about Madeleine seeing Enrico, does he?’

‘Good God, no!’ Marian laughed. ‘We’ve been very careful to keep that a secret. We don’t even mention his name.’

He looked pensive for a moment, then turned his eyes back to hers. ‘It can’t go on like this, you know.’ Her eyebrows flickered, but then she smiled ruefully as she realised he was still talking about Madeleine and Paul.

‘You’re right, it can’t,’ she said, throwing him a look as she leaned across her desk to pick up a paperback.

He caught her hand and turned her back to face him. ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he murmured, ‘but you’ve got enough on your mind right now without me adding to it. But we will talk, and soon.’ He winced as Woody’s voice blasted from a loud-hailer, calling his name. ‘I think I’m wanted,’ he said, with a grin. ‘I’ll see you later, and no wandering into the forest.’

‘At least not in a red hood for the nasty big wolf to get me.’

Laughing and shaking his head, he turned and walked out of the office, leaving her with a storm of emotions hammering in her chest.

At the wheel of her hired Fiat Deidre drove slowly, looking out at the rugged countryside and bleakly wondering how much of it belonged to the Tarallos. Probably all of it, she decided, as she passed acre after acre of vineyards and olive groves; they were one of Italy’s wealthiest families.

When she reached the black iron gates with the Tarallo crest, she got out of the car and pressed the bell. A few seconds later the gates swung open, and it was only as she drove through them that she noticed the camera, almost hidden behind a gargoyle on top of the red brick wall.

The drive, which was shorter than she’d expected, was covered in autumn leaves, but the gardens on either side were immaculate: stone and marble statues, fountains and waterfalls, topiaried hedges bordering the flowerbeds. There were no flowers now, but it wasn’t difficult to imagine how exquisite it would all look in spring and summer. Deidre parked at the front of the palatial villa, and smiled cordially at the cheery-faced retainer who was waiting for her at the door, and who led her across the sparsely furnished hail towards a door that was already half-open. Deidre’s heels clicked on the marble tiles, and from somewhere very far away in the great mansion came the sound of children playing.

The first thing she noticed about the room she was shown into were the vast windows that opened onto a terrace, and then the superb paintings that hung on every wall. Smiling to herself, she walked towards one of them – she’d always wondered whose private collection included this particular Titian. She lifted a hand to touch the frame, then seeing the alarm wires, she pulled back.

‘Deidre.’

Starting at the sound of her name, she turned to see a diminutive figure swathed in black lace sitting at one end of an uncomfortable-looking sofa. Sylvestra. It had to be.

‘Buona sera, signora,’ Deidre said. ‘Piacere di . . .’

‘We speak English, please,’ Sylvestra interrupted. ‘I want no one to hear.’

For the first time that day, a tremor of anxiety shook the resolve Deidre had so painfully built up throughout the night. ‘I was expecting to see Enrico,’ she said.

Sylvestra shook her head. ‘It is not my grandson Enrico you wish to see, it is my grandson Arsenio, but I am afraid that is not possible.’

Deidre was confused. ‘But . . .’ She stopped as Sylvestra raised a bony hand.

‘Enrico cannot help you, Deidre, only I can help you. Please, sit down.’

Deidre sat on the more comfortable chair at the other side of the immense marble fireplace and waited patiently until Sylvestra was ready to continue.

‘In my heart I always know this day will come,’ she began, and her opaque eyes were brimming with sadness. ‘I know I cannot protect him forever because it is wrong. What I have done is wrong. Very, very wrong. We are all to blame, maybe me most of all.’ She stopped; but understanding that, for the moment, Sylvestra was not with her, Deidre merely looked into the pale, haggard face and tried to swallow her trepidation.

Finally Sylvestra’s eyes focused again, and she continued in her thin, heavily accented voice. ‘In few days Enrico will bring his brother from the asylum,’ she said. ‘I will not know him, Enrico tells me, for he has become old. My beautiful Arsenio is old man at thirty. Sergio Rambaldi make him old man. I hate Sergio Rambaldi for what he do to my family, I hate him, yet once I love him as a son. Maybe still in my heart I love him, but he must pay, always I know that one day he must pay.’

‘But what has he done?’ Deidre pressed, when Sylvestra’s attention seemed to drift.

Her answering laugh was more of a croak. ‘You wish to know what has happened to Olivia, do you not?’

Deidre’s surprise showed. When she’d spoken to Enrico the night before, she had mentioned only that she wanted to talk to him about Sergio Rambaldi and the bottega.

‘Olivia.’ Sylvestra repeated. ‘Sergio, he tell me what she do in America, how she took the children to the men who wanted them, how she take the drugs they give her for doing this. She take the drugs, and the men, they take the children. Then someone find out what she does, and she must be taken away from New York before she tells what she knows. You understand, for the drugs she will do anything, she will even confess what she has done. So Rubin Meyer, he ask Sergio to take her. He ask Sergio, because he knows of the work Sergio does at the bottega.’ She paused. ‘Always Sergio wait for this, for one day a woman to come to him this way . . . He took her, but now she is not enough for him, he must have Madeleine too.’

‘Why? Why Madeleine?’

‘Because of Paul O’Connell, of course.’

‘Paul!’ Deidre cried. ‘Why because of Paul?’

Sylvestra’s eyes darted to hers and there was a puzzled frown on her face. ‘You do not know? Sergio did not tell you?’

‘Tell me what?’ Deidre was now more confused than ever.

Slowly Sylvestra’s expression changed from disbelief to resignation. ‘Then I shall tell you,’ she said flatly. ‘Paul O’Connell is Sergio’s brother.’

Deidre was dumbfounded. ‘Brother?’ she repeated at last. ‘But he can’t be. Sergio is Italian.’

‘They have the same mother, but not the same father. I know not who is the father of Sergio; Helen, she never told me. She give birth to Sergio when she is only a child, before she was even sixteen, and then she leave him in Galleno with the Rambaldi family. She knew them a little, but not well. They take her son because I ask them to, but I raise Sergio like he is my own son. Not until Sergio is ten years old does his mother come to see him, and then she tells him he has a brother and that she is married now, she wants him to go to live with her in England, but Sergio has come to love my family and will not leave. So she come sometimes to visit him – not so often – but when she does, she take him to Florence to see her husband and her son, Paul, but Sergio is upset by her visits and he asks her not to come again. But she does not listen, she still come though she leave her husband and son at home. Then slowly Sergio grow to love his mother. He was gifted even as a child, we all knew so, and his mother, she want to help him with his art. She tell him stories of the great Michelangelo and tell him he is genius just like him. For a while Sergio believes, because she tells him, that he is Michelangelo, the, how you say, reincarnazione. Then one day Helen, she says she is to leave her family in England to come and live with Sergio here in Italy, to help him with his work, and because Paul does not want her to leave, he kills her.’

‘What!’ Deidre gasped. ‘But this is insane. It’s . . .’

‘Yes, Deidre, they are all insane, Paul, Sergio and their mother. Paul and Sergio, they inherit her beauty and they also inherit her mind. But in the sons the mind is a dangerous thing. And now Sergio wants to take revenge on Paul, so that is why he wants Madeleine.’

Deidre could feel herself shrinking away from this woman, telling herself that Sylvesta was the one who was insane. Yet in her heart she knew that, despite the unbelievable horror of it all, there was an undeniable truth in what the old woman was saying. She remembered the way Sergio had reacted when she first mentioned Paul’s name, she remembered his insistence on knowing what Paul was doing, on making certain that Paul and Madeleine stayed together . . .

‘But first,’ Sylvestra said, ‘I shall tell you of Olivia.’

Again Deidre felt herself pulling away. She could tell from Sylvestra’s manner that the story was only going to get worse, and she didn’t want to hear any more.

‘Everyone, they do not know where she is,’ Sylvestra said. ‘They do not know if she lives . . .’

‘She lives. Sergio told me. I know that she’s alive.’

‘No, Deidre, Olivia is dead.’

Deidre stopped breathing. She stared at the old woman, a scream of denial ripping through her body. ‘But Dario . . . Dario and Sergio, they said . . . They said I would see her again.’

‘You will, but not the way you think. I know this because I know what happen at the bottega. That is why I see you now, not Enrico. I am very guilty woman, now I tell you why. You are in love with Sergio, no?’

Deidre nodded.

‘So you understand the way he, how you say, ipnotizzare?’

‘Hypnotise,’ Deidre mumbled automatically.

‘Sì, hypnotise with his eyes and with his charm. Everyone love Sergio and want to be with him because he is genius, all Italy knows. But like I say, he is matto. Insane. After his mother dies, Rosaria, Enrico’s wife, she try to persuade him that he is not Michelangelo, and he believes her, but still he work today how the great Michelangelo work yesterday. He do everything the same, and when he is at the bottega he even dress for the quattrocento. But he know there are many great artists and he want to be remembered. So, he is happy to take the daughter of very wealthy American man. Everyone know Olivia. And Madeleine he ask you to make her famous, sì?’

‘Yes,’ Deidre said, remembering the times when Sergio had insisted she do everything possible to put Madeleine in the public eye. ‘But he didn’t ask me to do it, I . . .’

‘It is no matter, she is the one Paul O’Connell loves, and that you make her famous is better for Sergio because not only does he have his revenge on Paul, but all the world will remember him because of what he do to Olivia and Madeleine. You see, he study them the way Michelangelo study the anatomy of man.’ She stopped, waiting for Deidre to grasp the magnitude of what she had just said. Then: ‘Do you understand what I am saying?’

Deidre’s voice was crushed by the horror of her knowledge. Yes, she understood what Sylvestra was saying.

‘Michelangelo, he sezionare, dissect, the bodies of men. Sergio Rambaldi, he dissect the bodies of women and then he make the great sculpture.’

‘No!’ Deidre was shaking her head. ‘No! You’re lying.’

Sylvestra continued as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘My grandson Arsenio, Sergio is his idol, he follow him he study with him, and when Olivia comes to Italy and the people in New York wish her to die, it is the chance Sergio has waited for to work as Michelangelo worked. The night before the bottega meets Arsenio is to give her the drugs – too many – so many they will kill her. But Arsenio, he fall in love with her and he want to save her. The night he give her the drugs he make love with her first, and then he give her too little of the drugs. She is unconscious but she is not dead. But he is afraid to tell Sergio, so that when the sezionare begin they hit the, how you say, arteria, and her blood pump from her heart. It goes in the eyes of my grandson and it blinds him – after, it is all he can see. He was in shock for many days, and then Enrico take him to the asylum because he cry out the name of Olivia. He should not be in the asylum, but I let Enrico put him there to protect Sergio. I protect him for the sake of Rosaria, because she love Sergio, but now Rosaria is dead and Sergio must pay for what he has done. And yes, you will see Olivia again, because she lives now in the marble that Sergio creates.’

Suddenly Deidre was on her feet. Her face was grey, her eyes burning with anguish. ‘Madeleine!’ she cried, and ran to the windows, rattling them, trying to get out. She twisted round. ‘Where is she? Tell me!’

Sylvestra too looked alarmed. ‘She is with Enrico,’ she answered. ‘They are in Firenze.’

For a moment Deidre seemed to relax, and then Sylvestra understood.

‘When does he want her, Deidre?’

‘Tonight.’

Sylvestra shook her head. ‘So soon. We must protect her and keep her with us. But there is not a way to reach Enrico. We must hope for him to bring her here before he return her to the village. You go to village and wait.’

‘Yes!’ Deidre gasped. ‘Yes, I’ll go to the village.’ And sweeping her bag from the chair, she ran out of the door.

At the very moment Deidre was driving through the gates of the Tarallo villa, Paul was pulling his car to a stop outside the café in Paesetto di Pittore. As he got out, it started to rain, but he felt nothing, not the cold, nor the wind, nor the wet. His only sensations were inside, locked in a ball of fury that burned hotter and more fiercely each time it was touched by the memory of Madeleine’s treachery. But despite the rage, despite the loathing and the gall, he felt pleasure – the kind of pleasure that comes when a decision has been made. Now, he had the solution to everything. He couldn’t imagine, now, why it had never occurred to him before, but then the Russian doll had never needed to be punished like this before.

He walked onto the terrace of the café, frowning as his memory stirred. It had been many years, but he remembered, he would always remember – and placing his foot on the edge of a table, he kicked it against the railings, revealing the trap door which led to the cellars. Before he opened it he looked around, casting his eyes over the mass of green foliage that clothed the mountains, the sorrowful cottages, deserted as always, the locked door of the café and the rain-spattered terrace on which he stood. A gust of wind suddenly lashed at his body, and he took a step back; but then, as if the wind had galvanised him, he tore open the hatch and lowered himself onto the ladder beneath.

He had not thought to bring a torch; and as he went lower he was engulfed in impenetrable blackness. But he knew that beyond the cellar, hidden behind the endless racks of dusty bottles, there was only one passage, one route which would lead him to his brother.

It took a long time, and many bottles smashed at his feet as he groped about in the darkness, but finally he found it, and pulling back the door, he walked into the tunnel beyond. His feet slithered in the mud, and once or twice he fell against the slime-covered walls, but he pressed on, knowing that soon he would reach daylight.

As he hauled himself from the bowels of the mountain and up into the seething mass of the forest, the rain slammed into his body, pushing him back to the ground; but using the gnarled fingers of tree roots, he dragged himself to his feet and plunged deeper into the forest. He had no more than ten yards to go, and the path was already cut. It was narrow, steep and winding, and lined with vicious brambles, but running alongside was a railing which he used to stop himself falling and to pull himself finally into the sheltered basin.

The cave was an old Etruscan tomb, the mouth concealed by nature, but he threw aside the heavy branches and walked inside.

Grotesque shadows roamed the candlelit walls as men in heavy cloaks paced about a marble slab that gleamed yellowy-white in the gloom, and on the floor and ceiling were strange, warped images of Roman gods. Damp oozed from the walls, dripping grime into a gully that ran along the floor. The smell was acrid, cold and earthy, and the wind outside whistled menacingly round the desecrated tomb. But Paul saw none of this, nor was he aware that the men had stopped and turned to look at him. His eyes were held by the magnificent sculpture at the rear of the cavern, which stood in a blaze of fiery torchlight. The rippling, golden glow animated the alabaster face in a way that made its beauty at once ethereal and demonic. The marble lips seemed to speak to him, coaxing him further into the cave, and her eyes looked upon him with blind adoration. He was spellbound, his breath trapped, but the ivory stone emanated such energy that it seemed to breathe for him; it was silently whispering to him, soundlessly threatening him. In his entire life he had never seen anything so sinister or so beautiful.

‘Olivia,’ he breathed.

‘That is right.’

The spell was broken, and as he turned to see Sergio standing beside him, a searing blade of emotion tore through his chest. Sergio, the son she had claimed to be a genius. The son she had wanted to be with, the son who had made him kill her – his own mother.

Sergio’s black eyes were soft and smiling, and as Paul studied that flawless face it was as though a soothing, icy hand was calming the fire of his rage. Slowly his eyes began to mirror his brother’s look of enquiry and the corner of his mouth lifted in a questioning, disdainful smile.

‘I thought you would never come again,’ Sergio said.

‘I was never invited.’

‘You have been invited now?’

Paul lifted his eyebrows and, turning away, walked further into the cave. ‘I need your help,’ he said, looking across the marble slab at a man whose sharp, close-set eyes were fixed on him unblinkingly.

‘I see.’ Sergio nodded towards the cloaked man, and he and the other figures withdrew beneath an arch into the dark recesses of the cave. Now Paul and Sergio were alone, facing one another across the grisly cavern; two men whose beauty was almost appalling in its perfection, whose features were so alike and yet so different. They were opposite faces of a single coin, cast in the same metal, shaped by the same hand, two works of breath-taking artistry that were part of a single mould. As they looked at one another the power which radiated from Sergio’s eyes was matched by the power in Paul’s – as if there were a wordless battle between them. In the end it was Sergio who first relinquished the stare, but his manner suggested not defeat but victory, as if he had voluntarily withdrawn from the contest. Smiling, he folded his arms and leaned back against the wall. ‘Please, sit down,’ he said, indicating the slab of marble, and when Paul was seated he smiled again. ‘The last time you were here, you were little more than a child. You have done well to remember the way.’

Paul inclined his head, then lifted his eyes to the face of Olivia’s statue. ‘I should have known,’ he said, ‘that she would be here. Is this what you planned for Helen, if she had come?’

‘No.’ Sergio’s voice was flat.

‘Then what did you plan for her?’ Paul asked, still looking at the beautiful, evil face.

‘I had no plans, I wanted only to work. She wanted to be with me for that.’

‘So you did not need her. You carried on without her.’

‘Of course.’

Outside, the wind screamed through the trees, and the candles round the walls flickered in the chill air that broke through the branches at the cave entrance.

Sergio said in a soft voice: ‘It is in the past now. You did what you felt you must and I bear you no grudge.’ When Paul said nothing, he continued: ‘You say you would like to ask for my help?’

Paul scrutinised his brother through narrowed, suspicious eyes, calculating Sergio’s susceptibility to shock; but of course, even if he were to feel it he would not let it show. ‘I want to stand trial for murder,’ Paul said, finally.

Sergio’s expression remained resolutely impassive. ‘So you are to confess?’ he said.

‘If I did, I would be imprisoned for a long time, and that I wish to avoid. No, I want you to hide someone here, let it be known that I have murdered her, then release her after the trial is over.’

‘Oh? And who is this person you wish me to hide?’

‘Her name is Madeleine Deacon. I see you’ve heard of her. I want you to hide her and to testify that you saw me murder her.’

‘But if she is merely hidden there will be no body.’

‘I know, but if I admit to killing her and refuse to say where the body is . . .’ He shrugged.

For a long time Sergio examined the face that was turned towards him, disguising his hatred with a look of amused interest as the sweet taste of revenge rose in his throat. In the end he said, ‘And when the trial is over you wish me to bring her back into the world so that you may go free? How can you be sure I will do this?’

‘I can’t. I’m trusting you. But remember that whatever you say in court, nothing will change the fact that I have not killed her, that she is still alive. I shall know where to tell the police to look, and I shall also be able to tell them about Olivia Hastings.’

Sergio nodded. ‘Of course.’ He sighed, then pushing himself away from the wall, he strolled round the slab to stand behind Paul. ‘I will do it,’ he said, ‘but I wish you to bring her here tonight. Can you do that?’

‘Yes.’

‘How will you get her here?’

‘I’ll think of something.’ He twisted his body round and peered up into his brother’s shadowy face. ‘You’re afraid she might remember later?’

‘Yes.’ Sergio clicked his fingers and the man with the close-set eyes stepped into the light. Sergio spoke to him, then the man handed something to Sergio and went away again. ‘These are drugs to make her sleep,’ Sergio said, handing the small package to Paul. ‘You will have to carry her here. My men will be waiting in the café to help you.’

Paul stood up, slipping the package into his pocket.

‘Here,’ Sergio said, taking a torch from the ledge behind him, ‘I can see by your clothes that you came without one. Taking the torch, Paul cast a final glance at the radiant statue behind him, and left.

Sergio walked to the mouth of the cave, watching Paul as he hunched himself against the rain and made a careful journey back down the treacherous path. When he had disappeared from view, Sergio turned to the man who had come to stand beside him. ‘You heard?’ he said. ‘It is obliging of him, no, to make things so simple for me? We will, of course, do as he asks, but you, Giovanni, are to be the one to inform the police. You will give the evidence at the trial. Tonight you must not stay at the bottega, you must let your neighbours see you at home, then you must let them see you go for a walk along the mountain path. Do you understand?’

‘I understand.’

‘Go to the police early in the morning, tell them what you have seen, and then . . .’ Sergio’s eyes narrowed ‘. . . then my brother will have his wish – and I mine.’

As he turned to Giovanni his brows were raised, as if he was waiting for his companion to answer a question, and reading his mind, Giovanni said, ‘The film is being made on the autostrada today, Marian is at Felitto, alone. You would like for me to go there?’

Sergio smiled. ‘No, Giovanni, I will go myself.’

A grey mist was rolling into the hills. It wasn’t yet dark, but with the storm clouds glowering overhead and becoming thicker by the minute, it soon would be. The rain had stopped only moments ago, but it threatened to be a brief interlude, and Marian was surprised that the crew hadn’t returned long before now. Unless, of course, Matthew had decided that the rain would give more atmosphere; if that was the case, they could be down on the autostrada for hours yet.

She put another log on the fire, then curled back in the chair to continue reading her book. But after a few minutes she put it down, defeated. There was so much going round in her mind that she had read the same page at least half a dozen times, and she still didn’t know what it said.

She looked at her watch. Madeleine should have been back by now, and come to that, where was Paul? He could hardly write out there in the woods with the weather like this. But Matthew had said he’d seen him go off in the car. Maybe he’d driven into Lucca or Viareggio for something. Her mind turned back to Matthew, and she dropped her head in her hands as she started to think about him – then Stephanie, then Olivia, then Boris, then Sergio Rambaldi and Rubin Meyer, then Madeleine and Paul . . . Round and round and round . . .

She stood up and walked across the room, then back again. She stopped at the fire, stared down at it for several minutes, then fell back in the chair, wanting to cry and yet unable to. Maybe she should join Frank’s men in the bar, at least then she would have someone to talk to. But she didn’t really feel like talking, she didn’t feel like doing anything except curling up and pretending that when she opened her eyes, everything would be sorted out – that the mystery of Paul and Sergio would be solved, and she and Matthew would be together. She let her head loll back against the chair, then glanced at the window as the rain started again. Big fat drops, dripping from the vines that clung to the walls and forming a puddle on the ledge outside.

She started as the wind rattled the door, then closed her eyes with a half-laugh at her edginess. Maybe she should have gone with the crew, it might be cold and wet out there, but it would have been better than sitting in a mountain village driving herself crazy.

She got up again and peered anxiously out of the window. There was no one around, still no sign of the crew returning, nothing but the streaking rain and howling wind. She was about to move away when she saw someone coming up the lane. He wasn’t hurrying as one might expect someone to hurry in such weather; if anything, he seemed to be enjoying the elements. Her heart leapt as, for a moment, she thought it was Matthew, but then, as she recognised the tall, lean figure, her lungs turned to two pockets of ice. She jerked herself back from the window, pressing her body against the wall, her veins flooded with fear. What was he doing here? Who was he looking for? Perhaps it was Bronwen – yes that was it, he had come to see Bronwen.

She listened for his footsteps, terror crackling over her skin like fire. Then, as his shadow darkened the window, a whimper escaped her lips and she fell to the floor. He knocked, several times, and then, just as she thought he was going away, she heard the latch lift. Her heartbeat exploded in her ears, but as the cold air blew into the room and smoke billowed from the fire, she remained paralysed, lying on the floor in the corner behind the arm of the sofa. She screwed up her eyes and prayed to God that he wouldn’t see her. She heard him walk up the stairs, his footsteps heavy on the ceiling above her. Then he came down again, and after a silence that seemed to drag on for a lifetime, she heard him walk to the door, then the door close behind him.

Relief surged through her, relaxing the tension in her limbs, but she lay where she was, her eyes still closed, her body as yet too weak to move. Why had he come? What did he want? Oh dear God, please let Matthew come back now. But she wasn’t going to wait, she had to go down there, to the autostrada and find him. She had to get out of this village where the wind was like the mewling cry of a baby and the rain was like the drum of doom.

Opening her eyes, Marian reached her hand over the arm of the sofa; and then, as she looked up, every muscle in her body screamed with the agony of terror.

‘No, oh no, no,’ she whimpered as she fell back against the wall.

‘But Marian, what is the matter?’ Sergio said, his exquisite face creased with concern. ‘Why are you so afraid? I am not going to hurt you. Please, let me help you up.’ But when he held his hand out towards her, she flinched and cowered further into the corner.

‘Please, leave me alone,’ she wailed.

‘I am not going to harm you,’ he repeated. ‘You must not be afraid. I only want to talk with you.’ He smiled, using only his eyes. ‘I need your help, Marian. Now please, come and sit by the fire, you are shaking so.’

Trying to swallow the bitter bile of panic, she somehow managed to stumble to her feet, and this time when he put a hand under her arm to help her across the room, she let him.

‘What do you want?’ she asked as he lowered her into the chair.

‘I want you to do something for me. It is something very important that will maybe put your name in the history of my country, maybe even in your own.’

Her eyes rounded like saucers and he chuckled, a warm sonorous sound that seemed to drive out the chill in the room.

‘It is a great thing to be in history, no?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ she nodded, watching him closely and deciding it would be better to humour him.

‘I am glad you think so. But still you are afraid, I can see. How can I convince you that I mean you no harm?’

Her eyes shot to the door, and he laughed.

‘You would like me to go, I know. But I would like for you to come with me, Marian. I would like to take you where my work is, and to show you how it is done. I want that you should record it, so that all the world will know and understand the way Sergio Rambaldi creates his magnificent art. Only you will know, only to you will I tell the story of my life, of my family, of my art. Please say you will come, please say you will do this for me.’

‘But, but I can’t,’ Marian stammered. ‘I – I, well, I’m not qualified, I’m not a writer.’

‘Ah, but you are. You write the scenes for this film, no? Bronwen, she tell me how very talented you are, that you have a great future ahead of you. That is why I ask you to do this for me. Please, it is only to ask you to come to my workshop, to listen as I tell you about my life and my methods. I have for you already the pencils and paper you will need. If you prefer I will give you a typewriter. It is up to you, Marian, you must work how best it suits you.’

She stared at him, unable to think of a word to say. She knew that in his mind he was doing her a great honour by choosing her to write his biography, that the life and work of Sergio Rambaldi was already a mystery and a wonder in Italy, and that to write such a book would change her life. But she didn’t want to do it, she wanted only to get as far from him as possible. Yet she could think of nothing to excuse herself from it – except to tell him that she was mortally terrified of him.

‘I am thinking that you are going to refuse me,’ he said. There was no menace in his voice, only sadness, and her confusion deepened as for one earth-shattering moment she thought she might have got it all wrong about him, that he might have been speaking the truth when he said he knew nothing about what had happened to Olivia. As she gazed into his eyes, it was as if he was willing her to understand, willing her to believe him.

‘Maybe, if you come to my workshop and see what I do, then if you no like it, if you feel that you do not wish to write the story, then you can leave. Just as you walk in, you can walk out again. I will not make you feel an obligation to me, I want that you do this from choice. All I ask is that you come with me now and allow me to show you some of my work. And as we drive to the workshop I can tell you about myself when I was a child. I can tell you about the Tarallo family . . .’

‘You mean Enrico?’

‘Sì,’ he nodded, smiling encouragingly. ‘I mean Enrico. He is like my brother. And Sylvestra, she is more dear to me than my own mother.’

‘I didn’t know you knew the Tarallos.’

‘Why should you? I no longer live with them, my work is in Florence. Enrico’s brother, Arsenio, he was with my workshop before he became ill. It is very tragic about Arsenio, it caused us much grief when he had to go away. But Sylvestra, she knows about my work, she understands, just as Rosaria, Enrico’s wife, once did. She come to the workshop often to see me. So you see there is nothing to be afraid of. I know they are your friends, too.’

‘Will they be there? Now, today?’

He shrugged. ‘Perhaps, but they do not come so often now. Maybe Enrico will bring Madeleine. They are in Florence together, no?’

‘Yes,’ Marian said, the tension starting to ebb from her body. Only Enrico could have told Sergio that he and Madeleine were going to Florence, and if the Tarallo family often went to the workshop . . . But there was something not quite right, it was as if a doubt had become trapped somewhere in her mind as though a door had closed upon it before it had quite dispelled itself. If only Sergio would stop looking at her like that, she would be able to see things more clearly. She felt as though she was swaying, as if her head was filling with dreams and her dread of him was . . .

‘Come,’ he said, picking up her coat from the sofa. ‘It is cold today, you must keep warm.’

‘Your workshop,’ she said, as she slid her arms into the sleeves, ‘is it in Florence?’

‘Sì,’ he lied. ‘And we start now by calling it the bottega, which is the Italian word for workshop. I should prefer for it to be called that.’

‘The bottega,’ she repeated.

‘Sì, la bottega.’ He held up her scarf, but when she made to take it from him, he laughed softly and threw it around her neck himself, pulling it up round her ears, then tucking it into her collar.

‘Shall we run to the car?’ he said, as he pulled open the door and they stood facing the storm.

The cold wind seemed to blow into her veins, as if waking her from a deep sleep. ‘The car?’ she said, confused.

‘Sì, we cannot walk to Florence.’

‘No,’ she said. Then, looking up at him, she wondered what she was doing, why she felt so apart from herself. Somewhere in the deep recesses of her mind she knew she was afraid of him, yet somehow her fear no longer rang true. And Frank’s men were here in the village, once she got into his car they would follow her, so she would be safe.

Smiling, Sergio took her hand. He closed the door behind them, and asked her if she was ready. Then they ran through the rain, splashing in the puddles and sliding in the mud as they dashed along the footpath to the plateau.

‘It is here,’ he said, pulling open the door of a red Volkswagen. ‘It is not my car, I borrow it from Enrico while mine is in the garage.’

At the mention of Enrico’s name, Marian felt her confidence return, and she slid into the passenger seat.

‘So,’ he said, as he reversed the car into the trees, ‘where shall I begin with my story? Of course, when I was born.’ He inched the car slowly round the hairpin bend and kept his foot on the brake as they skirted the edge of an open precipice. ‘I tell you about my mother only, because I never knew my father. I do not even know his name, she never tell me, she never tell anyone.’ And as he continued with the story of his childhood, his growing-up in Galleno with Enrico and Arsenio, Marian sat back in her seat, listening to his rich, melodic tones and smiling at the pictures of the hot, dusty Italian village he conjured up for her.

After a while, as they were nearing the foot of the mountain, he pulled into the side of the road to let a car pass. Marian wiped her hand across the steamy window and watched the blue Fiat as it flew past. ‘That was Deidre,’ she said, turning to look at him. ‘Madeleine’s agent.’

‘She will kill herself, driving at such a speed on an evening like this and on roads such as this,’ he remarked, as he eased the car back onto the road.

‘She must be looking for Madeleine,’ Marian mumbled. ‘I wonder what’s so urgent?’

‘I cannot say,’ he answered smoothly.

The little blue Fiat squealed to a halt, skidding in the mud and narrowly missing Christina Hancock’s winnebago. Deidre leapt out, not even bothering to dose the door, and raced up the lane towards Felitto, heading straight for Marian’s cottage. When she knocked there was no answer, but when she tried the door it opened, and she ran inside, screaming Madeleine’s name.

She ran up the stairs, falling and yelping with pain as she banged her shin on the hard wooden steps. ‘Maddy!’ she yelled. ‘Maddy! Where are you?’ There was no reply.

She dashed outside again, the rain streaming over the unruly mass of her auburn hair and the wind rushing through her coat, billowing it like a balloon. ‘Have you seen Madeleine?’ she yelled as a man ran towards her.

‘No,’ he shouted back. ‘Who are you?’

‘I’m her agent. Where’s Marian?’

‘Isn’t she in the cottage?’

‘No! There’s no one there.’

The man stared at her as though he didn’t believe her, then suddenly he threw her to one side and ran into the cottage. Even over the howling wind she could hear him swearing, and for a moment she forgot her own panic and watched as he tore up the stairs to check the bedroom.

‘Get down to the bar!’ he shouted out to her.

‘Why?’

‘Just do as I say.’ In two strides he was back down the stairs and grabbing her arm, he dragged her through the herb garden, over the flagstones and into the bar.

The warmth of the fire wrapped itself round her, but she was too dazed to notice. ‘What is it?’ she cried as the man started shouting at a sleeping figure.

‘Get up!’ he was yelling. ‘For Christ’s sake, she’s gone!’

‘What? What!’ the other man said, sitting bolt upright. ‘Who’s she?’ he said, looking at Deidre.

‘The cousin’s agent.’

‘What’s she doing here?’

‘What are you doing here?’ the first man echoed, turning to Deidre.

‘I’m looking for Madeleine. She’s . . .’ She stopped as the door crashed open and Woody all but fell in.

‘Fuck me, it’s bloody cold out there,’ he cried. ‘Tell Manfredo to get the grog ready, the unit’s on its way back and we’re all in dire need of it. What’s going on? Why are you all staring at me?’

‘Where’s Matthew?’ barked the man who was standing up.

‘Here I am,’ Matthew answered, as he came in through the door. ‘Phew! Am I glad to get out of that.’ Then he suddenly fell back against the wall as Deidre charged past him and out into the rain.

‘What is it?’ he said, his eyes darkening with alarm as he turned to look at the two men.

‘She’s looking for Madeleine,’ one of them told him.

‘Madeleine? Why? And why is she in such a panic?’ But before either of them could answer, he turned and followed Deidre out of the door.

‘Wait!’ he shouted, as she plunged her way down the lane. ‘Deidre! Come back!’

He ran after her, closing the gap between them in no time at all, but as he caught her she tore herself from his grasp and stumbled on to her car. ‘For God’s sake!’ he yelled. ‘What is it? What’s happened?’

‘I can’t tell you, it’ll take too long. But I’ve got to find Madeleine.’

The rain was coming down in torrents now, but she pressed on, battling against the wind, trying to reach her car.

‘You’re going to tell me,’ Matthew said, catching her and spinning her round again. ‘What is all this? Has it got something to do with Paul?’

‘Yes!’ she cried, as if suddenly realising it herself. ‘Yes, it’s got everything to do with him. Where is he? Have you seen him?’

‘No. We haven’t been here this afternoon. Maybe Marian’s seen him. Now, why don’t you calm down and come . . .’

‘Marian’s not there.’

His face turned suddenly pale, and his grip on her wrists tightened so painfully that she squealed as she tried to twist herself free. ‘What do you mean, Marian’s not there?’ he growled, closing his fingers even harder so that the blood was trapped in her veins.

‘She’s not there!’ Deidre screamed. ‘I’ve been there. They’re looking for her, those men back at the bar.’

‘Oh my God!’ he cried. Then pulling her after him, he dragged her back up the lane to the village.

Madeleine was standing beside a taxi in the main street of Camaiore, trying to hang onto her pink plastic hat to stop it blowing away in the wind, while at the same time waving goodbye to Enrico as he drove off round the corner.

‘Can you take me up to Felitto, per favore?’ she called in through the window of the taxi, her voice almost drowned by the sudden crash of thunder overhead.

‘Sì, sì. Felitto,’ the driver nodded, and leaned over the seat to open the back door.

‘It’s all right, I’ll take her.’ And to Madeleine’s dismay Paul’s hand closed over hers, removing it from the door of the taxi.

‘Hello,’ she said nervously.

‘Hello,’ he smiled. ‘Fancy bumping into you like this. I’ve just come down to get a newspaper. Where have you been?’ he added, looking at the shopping bags she was holding.

‘Into Florence,’ she answered, truthfully, ‘doing a bit of shopping.’

‘Come on, let’s get out of this rain,’ he said, and taking her arm, he steered her into a café.

She didn’t know if he’d seen Enrico, though from his manner it seemed unlikely, but nevertheless she was watching him cautiously as he ordered two coffees then asked the waiter where the ladies’ room was.

‘Why did you ask him that?’ Madeleine said, once the waiter had gone. ‘I don’t want to go to the loo, or have you turned kinky?’

He laughed. ‘I just thought you might like to go and sort yourself out a bit. You look like a scarecrow.’

‘Oh, thanks very much,’ she said, pulling a face at him, and playing straight into his hands she got up from the table and went off to brush her hair.

While she was gone the coffee arrived, and Paul slipped the two pills Sergio had given him into Madeleine’s.

‘You’re looking mightily pleased with yourself,’ she smiled as she slipped back into her seat, certain now that he hadn’t seen Enrico.

‘I ought to be,’ he answered. ‘I’ve as good as finished the book.’

‘No!’ she cried. ‘But that’s fantastic. We should be celebrating.’

‘We shall,’ he said, ‘but not until it’s absolutely complete. Come on now, drink your coffee and tell me how much you’ve spent in Florence this afternoon.’

‘A fortune,’ she giggled, picking up her cup and taking a sip. ‘I’ve bought something for you too, but it’s a secret for your birthday.’

‘Aren’t you going to give me a hint?’

‘Nope! You’ll have to wait. And I got something for Marian. It’s a lighting-up Leaning Tower of Pisa. It’s so naff she’ll probably throw it at me, but I can’t wait to see her face when I first give it to her. I’m going to pretend I like it and see what she says. You know what she’s like, she’ll do anything to avoid hurting someone’s feelings and I know already that she’ll hate it.’

He smiled, and gazed tenderly into her eyes as she prattled on about everything she’d bought, and how fantastic it was to be here even though the weather was terrible. As he watched her, he felt his insides falling apart. His Russian doll was whole at last, and in the effort of creating her he had destroyed himself. He had closed himself inside her innermost shell, wanting to be the fire that burned in her soul, but in so doing he had stifled his own. He wanted nothing now but her. He wanted her devotion, her love, her laughter, her sorrow; he wanted her life, because he needed it to continue his own.

But they would be together again one day, when all this was over, when Sergio brought her back to the world and he was set free. She would understand why he had done it, and she would love him again.

He waited until she had finished her coffee, then leaning across the table towards her, he whispered, ‘You know what I would like to do now?’

‘What, here, in the middle of a café?’ she yawned.

He laughed. ‘Not that. I’d like to go for a drive.’

‘We can. Back up to Felitto.’

‘No, further than that. Let’s drive far, far up into the mountains and pretend we’re the only people alive on this God-forsaken night.’

‘OK,’ she shrugged, ‘if that’s what you want. But don’t let’s be too long, I’m starving.’

‘Wait here,’ he said. ‘I’ll go and fetch the car.’

‘Kiss?’ she said as he passed her, but he only looked at her through narrowed, teasing eyes and told her to wait.

‘I think you’re nuts,’ she said half an hour later, as they swung round the mountain’s death-bends in the teeming rain. ‘But it’s quite romantic in a way, with us all cosily tucked up in our little car, safe from the storm. I just wish you’d drive a bit slower.’

He didn’t answer, his eyes were fixed rigidly on the road ahead as he steeled himself against her, not wanting her to puncture his resolve.

‘We should have popped back and told Marian where we were going really,’ Madeleine went on. ‘Still, as neither of us is there she’ll guess I’m somewhere with you so she probably won’t worry.’

When still Paul didn’t answer, she reached over and gave his leg a squeeze. ‘So you’ve finished the book.’

When his silence persisted, she started to become nervous. Maybe he had seen Enrico – but if he had, he would have said something by now, surely? Besides, there wasn’t anything to find out. It wasn’t as if she was sleeping with Enrico. But he’s angry, she thought as she stole a quick look at him, I can tell.

‘Have you got any idea where we are?’ she joked, after a while.

‘Yes.’

‘Good, because I’m totally lost. Don’t you think we should be heading back now? I think I’m about to fall asleep.’ She leaned back against the head-rest and closed her eyes. ‘God, I’m shattered,’ she mumbled. ‘All that shopping has worn me out.’

Paul drove on, pressing the car into the deep, cavernous shadows of the winding road. Overhead the thunder drew ever closer, and jagged flashes of light cut a swathe through the black sky and down through the black, blustering mass of trees. The violence of the storm matched the turbulence of his mind as he struggled with the vileness of his rage. He was aware only of an all-consuming need to punish her, to teach her that she must never, never ridicule him, that she must only ever love him. While she wasted and withered in the gloom of Sergio’s bottega, he would write to her from prison and explain this to her; he would explain that he would come back for her – but only if she swore never to mock him again, if she swore to give herself to him, completely. He struggled then to fight back the flaming tentacles of his rage, he knew they were strangling his reason, destroying his detachment. But he had thought this through, he knew what was going to happen, he understood the logic of it – it all made perfect sense, and as long as he remained calm . . . A sudden bolt of thunder crashed through the heavens and he hit the brakes, plunging the car into a ditch.

As he turned off the engine the windscreen-wipers stopped, and apart from the wind and rain everything was suddenly quiet. He reached up to turn on the overhead light.

‘Are you asleep?’ he said.

‘Mm,’ Madeleine answered.

‘Then wake up!’ And grabbing her by the hair, he twisted her round to face him.

‘What! What’s happening?’ she said drowsily. ‘Why are you pulling my hair?’

His eyes glittered unnaturally and his teeth were bared in a savage snarl. ‘I loved you,’ he spat. ‘You were an ignorant, vain, greedy little whore, but I was going to give you everything.’

‘What? Paul, what’s happening?’ She could barely lift the lids of her eyes.

‘Enrico Tarallo!’ He hissed the name. ‘You are fucking with Enrico Tarallo.’

‘No, no. It’s not true,’ she mumbled.

‘You’re a liar.’ He slapped her face and her head cracked against the window, but still she couldn’t shake off the sluggishness that was weighting her brain.

In the rearview mirror he saw car headlights sweep across the road, then disappear; letting her go, he reached across her and threw open the door. ‘Get out,’ he growled, and when she didn’t move he pushed her and she rolled awkwardly into the ditch.

By the time he walked round the car, she was unconscious. Paul stared down at her, loving her and hating her, and feeling his head burst and crack with the torment of it, like the sky overhead exploding with its thunder. From here he would carry her, holding her in his arms and letting the rain beat down upon them. He would miss her, and already he could feel the ache in his body, the emptiness of his heart, the slackness of his limbs. Without her he would be nothing – but while he languished in a cell, waiting for his trial, he wanted to be nothing. He wanted to live only for her, for the glory they shared, and the glory they would have on the day he was set free – the day they were reunited.

The bewildering remoteness from reality Marian had felt as Sergio was driving her here had vanished. Now, as she stood at the mouth of the cave, blind terror was pinching her face, racking her body, crawling over her skin and thudding great jolts of panic through her heart. Her shoulders were heaving with the effort of steadying her breath, but as she stared at the ungodly sight of Olivia Hastings quivering in a nimbus of torchlight – so perfect, so majestic, so proud yet so obscene – the petrified weight in her stomach erupted in a bitter rush of vomit.

Sergio was standing behind her, and as she fell against the wall he nodded to someone who came forward from the shadows, took her by the shoulders and led her to the back of the cave.

‘I want to leave,’ she sobbed. ‘Please, let me go.’ But as she peered into the face of the man holding her, she knew the futility of her cries.

‘What are you going to do to me?’ she whispered, turning to Sergio, knowing already that he couldn’t let her go, not now that she had seen Olivia.

He smiled, sorrowfully. ‘Please, Marian, do not be afraid. As I told you I do not wish to harm you. But it is necessary for you to remain here now, with me, until my work is complete – I am sure you understand.’

‘But Olivia,’ she mumbled, hardly aware of the saliva that was running from her mouth, ‘what did you do to her? Where is she now?’

‘But she is here,’ Sergio said, as if surprised by the question. ‘Do you not see her?’

‘Oh no!’ Marian sobbed, squeezing her eyes shut and trying to block out the stench of damp, mouldering earth which, mingled with the smell of candlewax, was turning her stomach over again. ‘But is she alive?’ she choked.

‘She had to die, Marian. The people in New York wanted her to die, so they send her to me for my research.’

‘Sergio,’ she pleaded, ‘I can’t do this. I can’t help you. Please let me go.’

‘But I have already explained, cara.’ He paused as a bolt of thunder boomed overhead. ‘I have chosen you. You are the one to document for history what happens here at my bottega.’

‘But it’s . . .’ She was about to say ‘insane’, but stopped herself, suddenly realising that this was the literal truth. ‘You can’t do this, Sergio. Someone will come to find me.’

‘They will never find you, Marian.’

It sounded so like a death threat that she staggered against the man beside her, who, catching her, pushed her gently to the floor. Then she saw Rubin Meyer emerge from the shadows; but he didn’t look at her as he stooped beneath an arch and disappeared into the gloom.

Sergio was still standing at the mouth of the cave; he looked more striking than Marian had ever seen him, but as he moved towards her, his large though slender frame casting grotesque shadows across the walls, his presence seemed almost demonic. His black eyes glittered in the flickering light, and the shadow of his long nose fell over his mouth so that when he smiled, it blackened his teeth. Marian recoiled, closing herself into a tight ball and crossing her fingers as if to ward off the evil he emanated.

But then he stopped, and sitting on the marble slab, he leaned towards her. ‘Tonight you will witness my work,’ he told her in his mesmerising voice. ‘You will see with your own eyes the method I employ – the method of the great Michelangelo. This,’ he went on, patting the slab he sat on, ‘is the marble from which it will spring. On here she will lie, and as I begin the research and open the veins, the marble will receive her life-blood. Then we will explore her bones, her muscles, the shape of her body, and from it we shall make the sketches, the maquettes to carve the marble.’

Marian only stared at him. She knew now, beyond any doubt, that he was insane, and she knew too that there was nothing she could do – except pray. Lowering her head, she started to mumble the Lord’s prayer. Then, to her horror, Sergio joined in, and when she looked at him his eyes were closed, and she could tell from the crease between his brows that he spoke the words in earnest. The profanity was absolute, as was her revulsion. Then her eyes shot to the mouth of the cave as the branches were swept back and a man dressed in a long black cloak, the hood almost covering his face, spoke to Sergio in Italian.

When he had finished, Sergio turned again to look at her, and his expression was tender and concerned. ‘You must prepare yourself, Marian,’ he said quietly. ‘The woman is shortly to arrive, and it will be a great shock to you when you see her. But maybe when you see her, you will understand why it was that I chose you, for I know that you will write this from the heart.’

Marian was shaking her head, staring at him with wide, agonised eyes; she knew who the woman was going to be. ‘No,’ she whispered, ‘no, you can’t do this, Sergio. Please, you’ve got to get help. You can’t do this, it’s butchery, it’s evil. Oh please, Sergio, don’t kill her. I’ll do anything, please . . .’

‘Ssh!’ he soothed. Then, as the branches at the door parted again, he turned away, and Marian’s horror was compounded by the figure standing before her, rain dripping from his hair, mud spattered over his face, and in his arms the lifeless form of Madeleine.

‘Paul!’ she gasped. ‘Paul! You can’t let him do this. You love her. You . . .’ But a hand closed over her mouth, cutting off her words.

‘What’s she doing here?’ Paul said, looking from Marian to Sergio.

‘She knows about Olivia,’ Sergio explained.

Paul nodded, then walking to the marble, he laid Madeleine’s body down. When he had arranged her hair he stooped to kiss her, placing his mouth tenderly over hers. Again Marian felt her stomach churn.

‘You must go now,’ Sergio told him. ‘Your wishes will be carried out, you will be arrested in the morning.’

As Paul rose to his feet the two men stood facing one another, and Marian’s heart stood still as she saw, for a fleeting moment, the resemblance between them. She saw also the strange power that seemed to emanate from them both – the air around them was suddenly thick with it – so that again she started to pray in a desperate attempt to ward off the evil. Her eyes remained closed as she willed herself to break free of the nightmare, for surely it could only be that this whole bizarre dream had stolen upon her in some dark hour of the night and was now refusing to let go. But when she opened her eyes again Madeleine was still lying on the slab, and Sergio was standing over her. Marian looked around for Paul, but he was no longer there. Then Sergio turned to look at her, and bent to touch her face as if to say he was sorry, but when she gazed up at him with imploring, beseeching eyes, he shook his head sadly and moved away.

It seemed to Marian as if many hours passed before he came back into the cave, and dimly she wondered what was beyond the arch behind her. She could hear nothing, even though the storm had lessened. She would have tried to run for help, but the man who had come to her when she was sick was still sitting with her. She glanced at him; he was staring sightlessly into the shadows, and when she spoke, pleading with him to let her go, he merely looked at her with round, uncomprehending eyes. She attempted to stand up, to go to Madeleine, but he pulled her back, shaking his head, and as she stumbled to the floor hot, bitter tears of rage and frustration sprang to her eyes. This was a nightmare, it had to be. Things like this didn’t happen in real life, they belonged in the realms of fantasy. She began to sob; if this was only a fantasy, why couldn’t she shake it off? Why didn’t Matthew come? If only she’d gone with the unit . . . Why did Madeleine look so pale? What were they going to do to her? Her eyes flew to Olivia’s face, and her breath heaved violently in her lungs.

When Sergio finally came back into the cave, he was dressed in the black cloak she had seen the others wearing, and beneath it she saw garments that were shabby and stained with white dust. She tried to speak, but the words were a dried mass in her throat. Her limbs were heavy, her eyes were aching, and her mind was slowly going numb. A few minutes later she counted seven figures moving into the cave, and she followed them with her eyes as they positioned themselves round the slab. Sergio walked to a stone ledge that was strewn with the tools of a sculptor’s trade; his back was turned, so she was unable to see his face. Then there was movement round the slab, and she watched as three of the cloaked figures started to remove Madeleine’s clothes while two more came to bind her hands and feet.

‘I apologise,’ Sergio said, ‘but once the dissection begins, we cannot run the risk of you getting in the way.’

Marian was too stupefied to answer, and she put up no fight as two women, whom she had first thought were men, wound wire about her wrists and ankles; not tight enough to stop the blood, yet secure enough to cut into her skin if she tried to break free.

And then, one by one, the candles were doused, so that only the candle on the ledge beside Sergio flickered in the cold air blowing in from the hills. Marian knew she should do something, try again to persuade him to let them go, but she was paralysed, rooted in shock and fear.

Sergio began to chant in Italian, or perhaps it was Latin, moving his hands slowly over his implements as if sanctifying them. The others remained silent, all of them now standing over Madeleine’s naked body. Then, as Sergio moved to the head of the slab, Marian saw the blade glint in his hand, and as he raised it high in the air above Madeleine’s head there was a chorus of voices: ‘Lunga vita alla donna! Lunga vita al nuovo rinascimento!’

And then, as the knife plunged towards Madeleine’s body, Marian screamed. Screamed and screamed. And suddenly the nightmare of Pittore was with her, and she understood again, as she had on her first night in Felitto, that it had been a premonition: the screams had always been hers. She carried on screaming as she saw Madeleine’s blood flow onto the marble, as the silver blade was plucked from the gaping wound in her chest and moved steadily to her face, where it sank deep into the soft pink flesh of her lips.

Someone was holding her down, and the wire bit savagely into her wrists as she struggled to break free. They were speaking to her, soothing her, chiding softly in her ears, but she carried on screaming, her voice hoarse and stricken as she begged Sergio to stop.

Then there was another voice, booming through the silence, arresting Sergio’s hand, and Enrico was standing at the mouth of the cave.

‘He’s killed her!’ Marian sobbed, and her head fell to her chest. ‘It’s too late, Enrico. It’s too late.’

‘Marian!’

She looked up, and there was Matthew, pushing past Enrico and running towards her. ‘Matthew,’ she cried, ‘Matthew! She’s dead. He’s killed her.’ Then, before he even had time to reach her, she passed out.