The Armada Legacy

by Scott Mariani

  He was the man in her nightmare. The tall figure behind the light. The killer of Forsyte, and of Sam Sheldrake. Brooke couldn’t repress the shiver that ran from the nape of her neck all the way down her back.

  The man dismissed the guards with a curt wave. They seemed relieved to go. The door closed, leaving Brooke and the man alone in the magnificent room.

  He stepped towards her, his dark eyes still watching her intently. ‘My name is Ramon Serrato,’ he said, in the same studiously perfect English with that merest hint of an accent she couldn’t place. ‘It’s my pleasure to welcome you to my home, Dr Marcel. Or may I call you Brooke?’

  She forced herself to return his unflinching gaze. Working hard to mask the tremor in her voice, she said, ‘I see you’ve been going through the handbag you stole from me. Was that before or after you killed my friend and her employer, you murdering piece of shit?’

  Serrato’s composure remained unruffled. ‘Like many others, you may be ignorant of certain things about Sir Roger Forsyte. He was an evil man, and he surrounded himself with evil people. However, I deeply regret that you were made to witness that unpleasant spectacle. It was not for such beautiful eyes to see.’

  He motioned over to the little table. ‘Please. I wish to make your stay here as comfortable as possible. Would you care for some breakfast? The coffee is excellent. Actually,’ he added with a smile, ‘I export the brand myself.’

  ‘No coffee, thanks. How about a fucking explanation instead?’

  Serrato sat down at the table, picked up the silver coffee pot and poured himself a cup. ‘Explanation?’ he asked nonchalantly, tearing a croissant and dunking it into the coffee.

  ‘I have been kidnapped, haven’t I?’

  He looked at her with a wounded expression. ‘Have you been chained up in some filthy hole in the ground and been stripped of all human dignity? No. Has anybody made any threat against your person? Harmed you in any way? No. You are a guest.’

  ‘A guest!’

  ‘Yes, a guest. In my home. Are you quite sure you won’t have some breakfast?’ He raised the dripping croissant to his mouth and took a bite.

  ‘You’re insane. I don’t even know who you are! How did I get here?’

  Serrato shrugged. ‘If it pleases you to know, you were brought from the Irish coast in a fast motor launch. We touched at Brest in northern France, then on to the Spanish port of La Coruña. From there an aircraft took us to Casablanca, where we embarked upon my own private jet for the final leg of the journey. I’m sorry you were unable to appreciate its comfort. You were sleeping very soundly.’

  ‘You mean I was drugged.’

  ‘A very mild sedative. I felt you would benefit from it, after the disagreeable business to which you had been a spectator.’

  Brooke balked at the calmness in Serrato’s eyes. An image flashed up in her mind of the side of Sam’s head disintegrating in a cloud of bloody spray and her body collapsing limply to the ground. She swallowed back the bile and the hatred rising up in her throat. ‘So where am I? Brazil?’

  He looked at her approvingly. ‘You are as clever as you are beautiful. You have rightly observed that your maids speak Portuguese, as they themselves are in fact originally from Brazil. But your deduction is false. Consuela and Presentacion have been in my employ for some time. This is not Brazil.’

  ‘Then where am I?’

  Serrato laughed and spread his arms. ‘Where else but Paradise?’

  ‘Paradise with armed guards and barred windows. Do you imprison all your guests this way?’

  ‘I will do everything to make you feel at home,’ he said. ‘And to provide you with everything you could possibly require.’

  ‘Good,’ Brooke snapped back at him. ‘Then I require that you put me back on your private jet and take me home. Today. Right now.’

  ‘That is one request I regret I cannot grant you.’

  ‘What’s the idea? To hold me here for ransom? Why me, for Christ’s sake? I’m a single thirty-something freelance consultant with a savings account containing about twelve and a half grand, an eight-year-old Suzuki Vitara with bald tyres, and a flat that I don’t even own and couldn’t get a mortgage to buy. Wait a minute,’ she added as a new thought suddenly came to her. ‘Is this about Marshall Kite?’

  ‘Marshall Kite?’ Serrato asked with a look of wry amusement.

  She stared at him. Was it possible that he’d figured out her family connection with the wealthy director of Kite Investments Ltd? Her sister Phoebe’s husband had already caused Brooke a great deal more trouble than he was worth by thinking he was in love with her and stalking her, leading to the whole breakdown with Ben, who’d been convinced they were having an affair.

  ‘If that’s what it is,’ she told Serrato, ‘you’re wasting your time. First of all, Marshall and Phoebe probably don’t even know what’s happened to me. They’ve been cruising around in the Bahamas on their boat for the last several weeks, far away from phones and TV and email, and they won’t be back for a while yet. Second, Marshall spends every last penny he earns on himself and his toys. He couldn’t pay out a ransom for me even if he wanted. So if you were looking to extort money out of someone, you should’ve kept Roger Forsyte alive. In fact you might as well let me go right this bloody minute, because there’s nothing whatever to gain by—’

  Serrato interrupted her with an explosion of laughter. His shoulders quaked for a few moments, then he took out a silk handkerchief and dabbed his eyes. ‘Such an imagination. Yet I’m afraid you are – what is it you English say? Far off the mark. Further off it than you can possibly imagine.’

  His mirth died away abruptly. His penetrating gaze wandered over her face, drinking in and savouring every tiny detail. ‘You must be very hungry. Can I not persuade you to eat something? I will have my chef prepare you whatever you desire.’

  ‘Maybe you didn’t hear what I said. All I desire at this moment is my freedom. You have no right to keep me here like this.’

  He sighed. ‘In time, you will see things differently. You will come to understand that you have nothing to fear from me. Nothing at all. Quite the contrary.’

  Brooke balked at his words. ‘In time? What are you talking about? Look, there’s some mistake here,’ she said desperately. ‘Whoever it is you think I am, you’re getting it all wrong.’

  ‘There is no mistake,’ Serrato replied. ‘I know what I can see with my own eyes.’ He drained the last of his coffee, dabbed the corners of his mouth with a crisp napkin, and glanced at his watch. ‘And now, you must excuse me, but I have some business to attend to.’

  The snap of his fingers echoed in the large room. The door opened, and the guards appeared. ‘My men will escort you back to your quarters,’ Serrato said. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you, Brooke. We will meet again very soon.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  One hour and forty-nine minutes after he’d had the call from Kay Lynch, Ben sped in through the gates of the Castlebane Country Club and crunched to a sliding halt on the gravel by the front entrance. He burst inside the busy foyer and crossed the red carpet to the reception desk in three strides.

  A different receptionist was on duty, a dark-haired girl who looked up at him in alarm as he demanded to see the manager. Ben was aware that he probably was a slightly alarming sight, haggard and unshaven and somewhat tousled from his encounter with Frank Flanagan and his boys. He guessed that not many of the country club’s genteel membership were much given to brawling in alleyways.

  The receptionist picked up a phone. ‘Mr Church, it’s Katrina at reception. There’s a …’ – she glanced anxiously at Ben – ‘a Mr Hope here to see you.’ Pause. ‘No, he didn’t say. Just that it was important.’ Pause. ‘All right, I’ll tell him. Mr Church will be with you in a moment,’ she said to Ben, putting down the phone.

  Ben paced the foyer for six drawn-out minutes, aware of the looks he was getting and the way the staff and clientèle were shying clear of him, until a beaky, offi
cious-looking man in a pressed suit and a bad wig appeared, introduced himself as Aidan Church, the country club’s manager, and invited Ben curtly to follow him to his office.

  As Ben followed Church down a corridor, they passed a young guy with a wild shock of curly hair who was half-heartedly mopping the tiled floor. Church paused to cast a disapproving eye on his work. ‘Do it properly, for heaven’s sake. You’re meant to clean it, not just get it wet.’

  The young guy shot a resentful glance at his manager, splashed the mop into his bucket and redoubled his efforts, muttering under his breath as he scrubbed the tiles. Ben caught the words ‘at least I have me own hair, wanker,’ and smiled to himself. He didn’t think he’d have much liked to work for Mr Church either.

  Church marched up to a door with a brass name plaque, swung it open and ushered Ben impatiently into his drab office. He didn’t close the door or offer Ben a seat, as if he wasn’t expecting the interview to last very long. He glanced at his watch. ‘Now,’ he said in a haughty tone that instantly rankled Ben. ‘I’m taking it that this concerns recent tragic events.’

  ‘Yes, it does,’ Ben said.

  Church eyed Ben’s scuffed jeans and jacket with distaste. ‘And I’m also taking it that you, Mr Hope, are not with the police.’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ Ben said. ‘I’m conducting my own private investigation.’

  ‘Look, I’m a busy man. I can assure you that we are cooperating fully with the authorities and that everything is being done—’

  ‘Not quite everything,’ Ben said. ‘Some new information has just come to light that I believe could be of huge importance. With your permission I’d like to speak to the staff about it.’

  Church balked. ‘Speak to the staff? About what?’

  ‘About who might have seen Sir Roger leaving the club. More specifically, about what anyone might have seen him carrying.’

  ‘But everyone has already given their statements to the police.’

  ‘Not about this,’ Ben said.

  ‘It’s out of the question,’ Church replied flatly. ‘You obviously have no idea what it takes to keep an establishment of this size running smoothly.’

  ‘Five minutes of their time,’ Ben said, feeling his temper rise. ‘I’ll talk to each in turn, so as not to interrupt the running of your club. It isn’t much to ask. This could be a matter of life or death, do you understand?’

  Church shook his head. ‘Uh-uh. No way.’ He glanced at his watch again and gave a sharp wince. The UN General Assembly was waiting. ‘I think we’re done. I would like you to leave now, Mr Hope, and to stay away from Castlebane Country Club in future. I can’t have you coming in here like this and frightening the employees and the customers. I mean, look at you. This is a reputable—’

  ‘Listen to me, you beaky little turd,’ Ben interrupted. ‘The woman I … a very close friend of mine is missing. Her life is at stake here. I’m not going to ask you again.’

  Church glowered at him in righteous indignation for a second or two, then snatched the phone from his desk and began stabbing keys. Ben heard the dial tone and a voice on the line. ‘Put me through to Detective Inspector Hanratty, please,’ Church said, with a smirk.

  In his mind’s eye Ben saw Church somersaulting backwards through the air and crashing headlong into the filing cabinet behind him, the phone spinning away in one direction, the wig flying off in the other – then he collected himself and unballed his fists. That wasn’t the only scene he could visualise. He could just as well picture the one with Hanratty taking great delight in bundling him into the back of a police car and making him cool his heels overnight at the cop shop in Letterkenny pending an assault charge.

  ‘Forget it,’ Ben said to Church, and walked out of the office leaving him standing there with the phone in his hand.

  Outside in the corridor, the young guy with the shock of hair was still mopping the floor. He nodded at Ben with a half-smile. Ben returned the nod, and was about to walk by him and head back towards the foyer when the young guy whispered, ‘Psst.’

  Ben paused and looked at him. The young guy put down his mop and pointed up the corridor to a fire exit.

  ‘You got something to say to me?’ Ben asked.

  The young guy nodded, threw a furtive look back at Church’s door and motioned for Ben to follow him out of the fire exit. It opened out onto a narrow passage between the buildings. A stack of crates was piled against one wall; a ratty old motorbike leaned against the other with a helmet dangling from its handlebar.

  ‘Name’s Billy,’ the young guy said. ‘Billy Johnson. Heard what you said to that gobshite Church.’ He spoke with a pronounced Derry accent; as if by way of explanation he pointed at the motorbike and added, ‘I come over the border to work. Cash in hand, you know? Doing the double, like.’

  Ben knew what he meant by ‘doing the double’. Some benefit scroungers were more enterprising than others.

  ‘Need the extra money for the missus and the weans,’ Billy said. ‘Can’t afford to lose it. That’s why I didn’t say too much to the cops, in case the fuckers started, you know, asking questions. Anyway, thing is, I was here, so I was.’

  Now Ben understood where this was leading. ‘The night of the kidnap?’

  Billy nodded. ‘Your wife that’s missing, is it?’

  ‘Close enough.’

  ‘Sorry to hear about that, mister. Hope they get her back, like.’

  ‘Thanks, Billy.’

  ‘She got reddish kind of hair, has she?’

  Ben showed him the photo from his wallet. Billy scrutinised it. ‘Aye, that’s her.’

  ‘You saw her?’

  ‘Saw him, too, what’s-his-name.’

  ‘Forsyte?’

  Billy nodded. ‘Church gave him the staff lounge to use as his dressing room. We were all told not to go near it, like he was the friggin’ Pope or something. Door was locked and he had that driver standing guard outside the whole time he was giving his speech.’

  ‘Lander,’ Ben said.

  ‘Aye, that was him. Anyway, afterwards auld Church had me lugging empty champagne bottles out to the back when I see this Jag waiting, with Lander at the wheel. Then I see this other guy Forsyte come out of the staff lounge exit, looking like he wanted to make sure none of the photographers were around. The place was hotching with them, so it was. He goes over to the Jag, gets in the back. Then the car drives round to the side entrance over there and I see these two women get in the back with him, this blonde and this other woman in a black outfit, with reddish hair. That’s her in the photo, no mistake.’

  Ben tucked the picture carefully back into his wallet. ‘The man in the back of the car. You’re sure it was Forsyte?’

  ‘It was him all right. Saw him on the telly after, and the driver. Saw the blonde, too. Who’d go and shoot a pretty lady like that, eh? Christ, I hope they get the bastards who done it, like.’

  ‘What I need to know,’ Ben said, ‘is whether he was carrying anything.’

  Billy nodded. ‘Aye, he was carrying a case, so he was.’

  ‘What kind of a case?’

  ‘About so big. Black, thin, you know, one of them – what do you call them? – attaché cases. Nothing out of the ordinary, like. Wouldn’t even have noticed if it hadn’t been for the cuffs.’

  ‘Tell me about the cuffs, Billy.’

  ‘Like something out of a movie, you know? Like the dude in Ocean’s Eleven. I love that fillum, so I do.’ Billy affected a deep Eastern European voice. ‘My name is Lyman Zerga.’

  ‘You’re saying he had an attaché case cuffed to his wrist?’

  Billy nodded. ‘Think it was the right wrist.’

  ‘And you’re completely sure about this?’

  Billy nodded more emphatically. ‘I felt bad afterwards, that I didn’t say anything to the cops, in case it was important or something. Just I didn’t want any trouble. Under the circumstances, if you know what I mean.’

  Ben thanked Billy, assured him that
his secret was safe and asked him to show him the way between the buildings to the car park.

  The evening was growing chillier and the stars were out. The BMW’s clock read 17.42. Brooke had been gone over forty-three and a half hours.

  Ben dug Justin Maxwell’s business card out of his pocket and dialled his mobile number. After three rings, a tired and morose-sounding voice answered: ‘Maxwell’.

  ‘This is Ben Hope. I have a question. What do you know about the briefcase that Sir Roger had with him in the car?’

  ‘I don’t understand. No briefcase was found at the murder scene.’

  ‘But he had one when he left the country club.’

  ‘Maybe so. It’s not unusual for us all to carry a case around, you know. We’re businessmen.’

  ‘Are NME executives in the habit of cuffing their briefcases to their wrists?’

  ‘What are you talking about? Why would Roger do that?’

  ‘The usual reason people do those things. To make it hard for anyone else to get hold of whatever was inside. It was obviously something very important. Not just to him, but to the people who took it from him. The only problem was that he didn’t quite realise who he was dealing with.’

  ‘Hold on. You’re confusing me,’ Maxwell said. ‘How do you know all this? The police haven’t mentioned anything about it to me.’

  ‘I’ve just had it confirmed by an eye witness. Plus, Forsyte had the handcuffs key in his stomach. He swallowed it.’

  ‘He what?’

  ‘That’s why they removed his hands,’ Ben said. ‘The right one, to free the case from his wrist. The left, just to cover their tracks.’

  ‘I can’t believe it. This just gets worse and worse.’

  ‘The question is, what was inside the case that he was so keen on keeping hidden? That’s what I need to find out.’