The Sanchez Tradition. Anne Mather

drove along the quay where the out-island boats were being unloaded. Rachel saw the tanks of live turtles and the piles of fresh fruit, and smelt the overpowering aroma of rum, the island’s favourite beverage. There was plenty of activity at this hour of the morning, and for a few minutes her interest in her surroundings made her forget her reasons for being here, and she began to wonder where Vittorio was taking her.

      Just as she was about to ask, however, the huge car drew to a halt beside a wharf where a sleek ocean-going launch was moored. Vittorio vaulted out of his seat on to the quayside and opening Rachel’s door helped her out too before either of his henchmen could bestir themselves. Cupping her elbow in his hand, he said:

      ‘Well? Beautiful, isn’t she?’

      Rachel looked at the launch. ‘Yes—beautiful,’ she echoed, rather doubtfully. She glanced at her brother-in-law. ‘Where are you taking me? I thought you said André wanted to see me.’

      Vittorio smiled and shrugged. ‘He does, he does.’ He glanced round at the two men. ‘Are you ready?’ and at their nod he guided her to the gangplank that led on to the vessel, but here Rachel halted firmly.

      ‘I have a right to know where you’re taking me,’ she averred stubbornly. ‘How do I know you’re really here on André’s behalf?’

      Vittorio spread his hands. ‘You don’t, of course. Nevertheless, I can assure you we are. Now won’t you go aboard? I’m taking you to Palmerina!’

      ‘Palmerina?’ Rachel frowned. ‘What is Palmerina?’

      Vittorio looked impatient. ‘My brother’s island. Now, will you go aboard?’

      Rachel sighed, but did not demur further. There seemed no point, and besides, he had told her her destination. What more did she need?

      There was another of the menservants aboard the launch which was equipped with the usual lavish accoutrements considered commonplace by the Sanchez family. A cabin was luxuriously furnished with soft banquettes that edged the panelled walls. There was a refrigerated cabinet for drinks, hi-fi equipment, and a portable Japanese television set. In a tiny alcove beyond she could see cooking equipment, and toilet facilities. The launch was powered by a motor that could achieve racing speeds, and in the stern was a pile of skin-diving equipment. It was the kind of luxury vessel one saw advertised in magazines, and Rachel thought it rather larger than life in many respects.

      Presently, when she had refused to sit in the cabin and had taken a seat on deck, the engine was started, and they moved away from the busy quayside. As the perspective of the wharf grew smaller she saw the larger vessels that used the Crown Dock, and thought that nowhere were the colours more brilliant or clearly defined than here. A vista of sea and sky, blue upon blue, blended with the white sails of ships and the luxuriance of the foliage. A faint breeze fanned her cheeks, and she slid sunglasses on to her nose to save her eyes from the glare of the sun. Reflected in the water it was a dazzling sight, and in spite of her apprehension she could not suppress the surge of euphoria that enveloped her. She looked down into the blueness of the water, wondering what it would be like to swim in its warmth again. André had taught her to water-ski and to skin-dive, and when he had been at home she had been content. But when he had gone away and left her on Conchera she had desired nothing so much as escape. She had felt like a prisoner, treated now and then to the company of the gods. That wasn’t what marriage was all about. She had wanted to share his life, not just be a small part of it, a part that had to be protected from the rest of the world. But André had been so adamant, and she had been so stubborn….

      Vittorio came to sit beside her, studying her thoughtfully. ‘What are you thinking?’ he queried gently. ‘You are so solemn.’

      Rachel sighed. ‘Is it far? Palmerina, I mean.’

      ‘No, not too far. It will take perhaps an hour. Are you so impatient?’

      Rachel grimaced. ‘You could say that. Do you know why he wants to see me?’

      ‘No. I merely received my instructions like everyone else.’

      ‘So André is still the dictator.’

      ‘He dictates the family, yes. But that is how it should be. He is the head of the family, after all.’

      ‘I know.’ Rachel bent her head. ‘Do you have a cigarette?’ When they were both smoking, she asked: ‘And your mother? How is she?’

      ‘My mother is very well, thank you.’

      ‘And does she live on Palmerina too?’

      Vittorio blew a smoke ring. ‘No. She lives with me and Irena on Veros, an island some short distance from Palmerina.’

      Rachel frowned running mentally through the remaining members of André’s family. He had three brothers and two sisters. Marcus was thirty-four, and the second eldest son. ‘What about Lilaine and Marcus?’ she queried automatically.

      ‘Marcus is married and lives in Rio de Janeiro,’ replied Vittorio dispassionately. ‘Lilaine is dead!’

      ‘Dead!’ Rachel was horrified. ‘But how?’

      Vittorio studied the tip of his cigarette. ‘She was kidnapped on a trip to the States.’

      ‘Kidnapped! Oh no! But…’ Rachel halted uncertainly.

      Vittorio’s dark eyes flickered over her. ‘You’re wondering whether a ransom was demanded and whether we paid it, aren’t you?’ Rachel bent her head and he went on: ‘The answer in both cases is yes. But the police were involved, and at the end they killed her!’

      Rachel shook her head disbelievingly. ‘But she was so young! How terrible!’ It was unbelievable. ‘Did—did they get the men?’

      ‘Oh yes.’ Vittorio sounded very certain. ‘André dealt with everything.’ And the way he said everything had a final ring to it as though André could be relied upon to do what was best for all concerned. But the news of Lilaine’s death had been a shock, and Rachel felt a fleeting anxiety, almost as though in some way Vittorio had revealed the vulnerability André had always been so conscious of; so overly conscious, Rachel had always thought. Shrugging these disquieting thoughts away, she tried to continue taking an interest in the islands they were passing, small atolls with little more than rock and sand to commend them, but a little of the brilliance had gone out of the day.

      Vittorio disappeared down to the cabin soon afterwards and when he returned he was carrying a tray on which reposed a gleaming coffee pot, warm rolls and curls of butter, and an apricot conserve. Rachel looked up into Vittorio’s face in amazement.

      ‘But how marvellous!’ she exclaimed. ‘Did you do this?’

      Vittorio smiled. ‘I helped,’ he commented lazily. Settling himself comfortably beside her, he went on: ‘Now, you talk to me. Tell me about yourself. What have you been doing these past five years?’

      Rachel flushed. ‘Just living, I suppose. Helping Father in the store, keeping house….’

      Buttering a roll she took a bite of the crisp crust, and Vittorio looked amused at her enjoyment. ‘Tell me,’ he said, suddenly, ‘didn’t you ever regret leaving? Didn’t you miss—well—all this?’

      Rachel lifted her shoulders eloquently. ‘To begin with, when I was still young and foolish.’

      Vittorio uttered an exclamation. ‘You are still young. What age are you now? Twenty-two—twenty-three?’

      ‘I’m twenty-five, and you know it,’ she retorted, with a smile. ‘How about you? Are you finished your schooling?’

      Vittorio looked indignant. ‘Of course,’ he retorted, impatiently. ‘I am almost twenty-two myself now. I spent two years at college in the States, but at last I am home for good.’

      ‘To do what?’

      He shrugged. ‘Who knows? I am in André’s employ until he decides I am old enough to act on my own initiative, as Ramon