the many museums and art galleries, to walk along the beach at Ipanema and taste the vibrant nightlife for which the city was famous.
Still, she wasn’t here as a tourist, she reminded herselfas the connecting flight from Rio to Porto Verde swept low over a high plateau, before descending with unnerving speed towards the coast. The small airstrip bordered the ocean; golden sand-dunes rippled beneath waving palms. In the distance, purple-fringed mountains looked remote and mysterious; nearer at hand the cliffs of the plateau gleamed white in the sinking rays of the sun.
Although Ben Goodman had never visited the Silveira villa, he’d told Isobel it was said to be very beautiful. She was a wealthy woman, he’d added without envy. A little arrogant perhaps, according to reports he’d heard, but also deserving of a little pity due to the fact that her only child, a daughter, had died when she’d been only twenty-two.
Not that her uncle expected Isobel to enquire into the woman’s personal life. Anita Silveira seldom gave interviews at all, and she had only agreed this time because Sam Armstrong had been kind to her when her first book had been published many years ago. She didn’t court publicity these days. She was a very private person. Isobel had been left in no doubt that she was extremely privileged to be given this opportunity.
The flight attendant passed along the aisle, informing passengers that they’d be landing shortly, and a few minutes later the small plane bumped down onto the runway. They taxied to where a cluster of iron-roofed buildings marked the terminal, the sea stretching away beside them, and no obvious security in sight.
There were only about a dozen passengers on the flight. This area of the country was popular with tourists, and judging by the shorts and backpacks, and the cameras slung about their necks, her fellow travellers were looking forward to their holiday. According to her guide book, the area offered trekking and climbing opportunities, while the huge Sao Francisco Lakes offered all kinds of water sports as well.
Once again, the heat struck her as she descended the steps from the aircraft. There was no jetway here, just a short walk from the plane to the reception hall. Then a rather longer wait for her luggage, and finally she grabbed the handle of her suitcase and emerged into the sunlight again.
There were taxis, and she had Anita Silveira’s address, but this evening she was going to check in at a hotel and relax after her journey. She would make arrangements to see her subject tomorrow, after she’d had a decent night’s sleep.
However, before she could approach one of the taxis, an elderly man dressed in a white shirt, a black waistcoat and baggy trousers came ambling towards her.
‘Senhora Jameson?’ he asked, showing a row of uneven teeth liberally stained with tobacco.
‘Yes,’ she said in surprise. ‘I’m Ms Jameson.’
‘Muito prezer, senhora.’ Which must mean, ‘pleased to meet you’, Isobel thought as the old man commandeered her suitcase. He led the way to where an old-fashioned limousine was waiting. ‘Entrar, por favor.’ ‘Please get in’.
Isobel hesitated. Although she knew a few words of Portuguese, there was no way she could converse with him in his own language. And, although he knew her name, no one had warned her to expect an escort to her hotel.
‘Um, who are you?’ she asked politely, hoping he could understand her, and the tobacco-stained teeth appeared again.
‘Manos, senhora ,’ he said at once, pointing a gnarled finger at his chest. ‘I work for the senhora , nao ? Senhora Silveira?’
‘Ah.’ Isobel was slightly relieved. ‘And will you take me to the hotel?’
‘Hotel?’ Manos gave the word a Portuguese inflection. ‘No hotel, senhora . You stay with Senhora Silveira, sim ?’
Isobel’s lips parted. ‘But I thought…’
She frowned. What had she thought? Her uncle had said Senhora Silveira would arrange
Still, she wasn’t here as a tourist, she reminded herselfas the connecting flight from Rio to Porto Verde swept low over a high plateau, before descending with unnerving speed towards the coast. The small airstrip bordered the ocean; golden sand-dunes rippled beneath waving palms. In the distance, purple-fringed mountains looked remote and mysterious; nearer at hand the cliffs of the plateau gleamed white in the sinking rays of the sun.
Although Ben Goodman had never visited the Silveira villa, he’d told Isobel it was said to be very beautiful. She was a wealthy woman, he’d added without envy. A little arrogant perhaps, according to reports he’d heard, but also deserving of a little pity due to the fact that her only child, a daughter, had died when she’d been only twenty-two.
Not that her uncle expected Isobel to enquire into the woman’s personal life. Anita Silveira seldom gave interviews at all, and she had only agreed this time because Sam Armstrong had been kind to her when her first book had been published many years ago. She didn’t court publicity these days. She was a very private person. Isobel had been left in no doubt that she was extremely privileged to be given this opportunity.
The flight attendant passed along the aisle, informing passengers that they’d be landing shortly, and a few minutes later the small plane bumped down onto the runway. They taxied to where a cluster of iron-roofed buildings marked the terminal, the sea stretching away beside them, and no obvious security in sight.
There were only about a dozen passengers on the flight. This area of the country was popular with tourists, and judging by the shorts and backpacks, and the cameras slung about their necks, her fellow travellers were looking forward to their holiday. According to her guide book, the area offered trekking and climbing opportunities, while the huge Sao Francisco Lakes offered all kinds of water sports as well.
Once again, the heat struck her as she descended the steps from the aircraft. There was no jetway here, just a short walk from the plane to the reception hall. Then a rather longer wait for her luggage, and finally she grabbed the handle of her suitcase and emerged into the sunlight again.
There were taxis, and she had Anita Silveira’s address, but this evening she was going to check in at a hotel and relax after her journey. She would make arrangements to see her subject tomorrow, after she’d had a decent night’s sleep.
However, before she could approach one of the taxis, an elderly man dressed in a white shirt, a black waistcoat and baggy trousers came ambling towards her.
‘Senhora Jameson?’ he asked, showing a row of uneven teeth liberally stained with tobacco.
‘Yes,’ she said in surprise. ‘I’m Ms Jameson.’
‘Muito prezer, senhora.’ Which must mean, ‘pleased to meet you’, Isobel thought as the old man commandeered her suitcase. He led the way to where an old-fashioned limousine was waiting. ‘Entrar, por favor.’ ‘Please get in’.
Isobel hesitated. Although she knew a few words of Portuguese, there was no way she could converse with him in his own language. And, although he knew her name, no one had warned her to expect an escort to her hotel.
‘Um, who are you?’ she asked politely, hoping he could understand her, and the tobacco-stained teeth appeared again.
‘Manos, senhora ,’ he said at once, pointing a gnarled finger at his chest. ‘I work for the senhora , nao ? Senhora Silveira?’
‘Ah.’ Isobel was slightly relieved. ‘And will you take me to the hotel?’
‘Hotel?’ Manos gave the word a Portuguese inflection. ‘No hotel, senhora . You stay with Senhora Silveira, sim ?’
Isobel’s lips parted. ‘But I thought…’
She frowned. What had she thought? Her uncle had said Senhora Silveira would arrange
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