It hadnt been an easy transition. Jude had only learned the truth in the devastating wake of Simeon and Michaelas deaths in a car smash. Just as Ben was finding it alien and awkward coming to terms with sudden parenthood, not to mention the loss of his friends, Jude had had a difficult time adapting to the knowledge that his whole upbringing had been a lie, and that the man hed called his father for most of his life hadnt been at all. Hed gone through every shade of emotion, from outright denial and disbelief, to furious resentment, to simmering rage and finally a brooding acceptance.
But out of all the friction, a fledgling relationship was slowly developing between Ben and Jude not so much that of a father and a son, but more like two friends, or even two brothers, one of whom just happened to be twenty years older than the other. The fact that Ben had recently rescued Jude from the hands of a secretive and ruthless government agency called the Trimble Group, who were blackmailing Ben into acting as their gun-for-hire, had helped more than anything to forge their friendship.
When Jude had visited Bens French home and place of business, an old farm called Le Val, in mid-January while Ben was still convalescing from his injuries, the two of them had had their first real chance to sit down and talk. Among other things, theyd discussed Judes growing disenchantment with his Marine Biology degree course at Portsmouth University. Ben, whod cut his own Theology studies short twenty years earlier and often wished he hadnt, had encouraged him to see it through to the end.
Jude wasnt so sure where his future lay. There were times when Ben could see in his newfound son the same restlessness of spirit that had driven him in his own headstrong, sometimes foolhardy younger days, and wished the boy had taken more after Michaela than himself.
Those worries aside, Ben had deeply enjoyed Judes visit. When it was over and hed driven him back to the ferry port at Cherbourg, hed suddenly realised how much he was going to miss Judes company until the next time theyd meet.
Then it had been back to business. The Le Val Tactical Training Centre was still overbooked with people wanting to acquire the specialised skills it had to offer, skills that only men like Ben, his business partner, ex-SBS commando Jeff Dekker and their team of instructors were qualified to teach. The training schedule at Le Val had never been so busy, which made a Sunday morning getaway like this one all the more welcome.
With a final heave, Ben hauled himself up onto the cliffs summit. He knelt in the grass, dusted his hands and looked down. The moored kayak was a tiny red sliver far below.
There, that wasnt so difficult, he murmured to himself. His heart rate was steady and he wasnt out of breath. Not in disgraceful shape for an old man, he thought. He mightnt have bet on still being able to fly through sickeners, the gruelling SAS selection tests hed endured long ago, but he was pretty sure that hed give young squaddies half his age or less a decent run for their money.
Ben stood up, unzipped a compartment of his waist pack and took out a small bottle of mineral water. He cracked the seal and drank, then spent a few moments gazing out to sea, the breeze ruffling his thick blond hair, as he considered whether to take the long, easy footpath back down to the shore or descend the way hed come.
The phone buzzed inside his waist pack before he could decide. He answered, expecting the call to be from Jeff Dekker with some work-related query or other.
It wasnt Jeff.
Am I talking to Ben Hope? someone said on the other end.
A mans voice, shaky, uncertain. Ben was certain hed heard the voice before; but where?
Who is this? Very few people had this number.
My names Amal, the voice replied. Amal Ray. We met once, around Christmas time. Brookes upstairs neighbour.
Ben remembered him perfectly well, and if it hadnt been for the tension and anxiety he could hear in the guys voice, he might have responded with something like, Hi, Amal, its a pleasure to hear from you. Instead he frowned and stayed silent.
Somethings happened to Brooke, Amal said. Something terrible.
Chapter Seven
A constant thin drizzle was slanting down out of the dark afternoon sky as the Ryanair flight from London Stansted touched down at City of Derry Airport, a few miles east of the border between Ulster and the Irish Republic.
There was a hard set to Bens face as he strode from the plane. Outwardly, he was calm, but a violent storm was raging inside and he fought to contain his impatience going through passport control and customs. His only luggage was the battered and well-travelled old green canvas army bag into which hed thrown a few things before dashing away from Le Val, leaving everything in the hands of Jeff Dekker.
Jeff had been as shocked as Ben to hear the news of Brookes disappearance. Just call if you need me, hed said. Ill be there.
Amal was waiting nervously for Ben near the airport entrance. His eyes were red-rimmed and he looked several years older than when Ben had last seen him.
There was no time for greetings. Anything new? Ben asked, and Amal morosely shook his head. They left the terminal in silence and went outside into the gathering dusk. The drizzle had intensified, and Ben turned up the collar of his scuffed leather jacket. He motioned at the smattering of vehicles in the car parking area. Which is ours? His final instruction to Amal over the phone earlier that day had been to hire the fastest car he could find locally.
That one, Amal said, and bleeped a key at a dark blue BMW saloon. Hope its okay. It was the best I could get.
Ben tossed his bag into the back of the car. Ill drive, he said, taking the keys. Amal didnt argue, and climbed into the passenger side. Before hed shut his door, Ben was already gunning the car backwards out of its parking space. The tyres squealed on the damp concrete as they took off for the exit. Ben aimed the car westwards, heading for the N13. Now tell me everything, he said.
Amal closed his eyes and let out a sigh. What more is there to say? I already told you everything on the phone.
Lets go through it again. Starting from the beginning.
Amal miserably recounted the whole thing: Brookes idea for getting him out of London; the media event at Castlebane Country Club; how hed got too drunk to go on to the party afterwards and shed reluctantly gone off without him; how that had been the last hed seen of her. Ben listened and pushed the BMW on hard and fast as Amal talked, overtaking traffic and keeping an eye on the mirror, on the lookout for police. He didnt want anyone slowing him down.
Its all about this Forsyte guy, isnt it? Amal said, interrupting himself. Surely it must have been him they were after?
Ben had used every moment of his journey from France to plough through all he could find online about Sir Roger Forsyte, the company hed founded, Neptune Marine Exploration, and its various highly lucrative exploits over the years salvaging sunken treasures around the worlds oceans. Despite the wealth of material available, from reams of newspaper articles to spreads and interviews in National Geographic and other publications, Ben had noticed that the details of Forsytes past career, prior to NMEs founding in 1994, seemed just a little hazy. As his flight had crossed westwards over England, hed wondered why that might be.
Hed also been pondering over where hed heard the name Roger Forsyte before. The bell it was ringing in his mind was distant and faint, but it was ringing nonetheless and he was frustrated that he couldnt make more of it.
Seems that way, he replied to Amals question. Successful businessman, just made a killing and splashing it all over the media. Hes the primary target for a kidnap and ransom job. The others just happened to be there. Wrong place at the wrong time.
Its a nightmare, Amal said, on the edge of panic. Oh, God, its a nightmare. It isnt really happening. Tell me it isnt happening.
Its happening. Take a breath. Focus, keep talking.
Amal took several deep breaths to compose himself. What more is there to say? I got up this morning, saw the news and realised Brooke hadnt come back, so I called the cops. They call them the Garda here.
Yeah, I know that. Go on.
It took ages for them to send a car out. When they finally got there, they gathered some of Brookes personal things and sealed them in these plastic pouches
For DNA sampling.
I cant believe they even have that kind of technology in this backwater.
They probably have to send them to Dublin. Go on.
Well, then they put me in the police car and drove me miles to the nearest proper town, a place called Letter-something
Letterkenny.
They took me into this tiny room with no windows. I spent over an hour there giving my statement to this angry, racist little bastard whos in charge of the case. Felt like I was being interrogated.
Border signs flashed by as the speeding BMW passed from Northern Ireland into the Republic. When Ben had first known the place as a young soldier the border had been thick with heavily-armed checkpoints, and vehicles passed through under the stern eye of a British Army GPMG gunner with his finger on the trigger. Those days were all but over now, but the memories of the Troubles were soaked like blood into the land.
Whats the name of the detective in charge? Ben asked.
Hanratty. Detective Inspector Hanratty. Real charmer. Needless to say, theyd never heard of Brooke being in the car until I told them. At first, I reckon they thought I was some kind of crank. Next thing you know theyre grilling me as if it was me who was under investigation. Anyway, when I finally managed to get away from the police station I wandered up the road and found this café where you can actually go online. Thats when I thought about looking you up. Brookes told me a little about what you used to do for a living, and the business you run now in France. God knows how I remembered the name of it. I called and spoke to a guy named Jeff who gave me your mobile number. Amal shrugged wearily. Thats it. We should never have come to this bloody place. Its all because of me and that stupid play