The Ben Hope Collection: 6 BOOK SET

by Scott Mariani

  Bringing up these lost memories was like trying to catch a sunbeam in her hand. Sometimes a half-formed impression would dart into focus, she’d try to concentrate on it and it would be gone. But other things were sharp and clear. The villa, for instance. She could picture it clearly. But the name of the island was lost to her. And what had she been doing there?

  In random flashes, she saw herself on a motorbike. Remembered the wind in her hair. Lights in her mirror, and the feeling of fear. She tried to piece it all together. She’d been chased. Then she could vaguely recall the horrible moment of falling. She must have come off the bike and whacked her head on the ground. She rubbed the bump. There was hardly any pain now.

  She tried to piece together what had happened next. She could remember the house she’d been kept in when she’d first been taken, and how she’d tried to escape. She shivered, recalling the fair-haired man. She wondered where he was now. The thought of him coming back, walking into her room, terrified her.

  She thought back to the journey here – wherever here was. The seaplane had carried her over islands and across the blue sea before the bumpy landing somewhere within sight of the mainland. She’d kept asking where they were taking her, but nobody would speak to her. A speedboat had come out to meet them, and taken her to shore with two of the men. They’d dragged her up the rocky beach to a deserted minor road where a van had been waiting. The men had shoved her into the back. She remembered how hard she’d screamed and kicked as they’d held her down, convinced she was about to be gang-raped and then murdered. But instead, they kept a grip on her arms as a third man took out a syringe from a black leather case. He’d stooped down and jabbed the needle into her. She’d cried out.

  The next thing she remembered was waking up on a hard bunk in a cold room with no windows. Bare concrete walls and just a single naked bulb hanging from the ceiling. She’d been kept there for four days – four more days of going slowly insane with frustration and terror.

  There’d been visitors to her cell in that time. One of them was a man who brought her food and water. She drank the water but left most of the food. A couple of times a day he’d let her out and walk with her to a stark, windowless bathroom at the end of a concrete corridor. He never spoke, never smiled.

  Then there was the man in the dark suit. He’d been to see her three times now, and she dreaded his visits. He was tall and lean, about fifty, with slicked-back hair. His face was craggy, and when he smiled that cold smile his teeth were uneven and fanglike. He had the look of a wolf.

  Wolfman just wanted to talk about one thing. Where was it?

  All she could reply was ‘I don’t know.’ It was becoming like a mantra. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.

  Wolfman obviously hated hearing it, even more than she hated saying it. The first time she’d seen the cold rage flash through his eyes, she’d thought he was going to start screaming and shaking her, like the fair-haired man had done. But Wolfman was more controlled. He just smiled and pressed on with the same line of questions. Where was it? What had she done with it? She only had to tell him what she knew, and everything would be OK again. They’d let her go. Take her home and make sure she got back safe.

  But however hard she tried, she just couldn’t remember, just couldn’t give him what he wanted. After hours of it, she’d break down and start sobbing, and he’d sit there staring impassively at her for a while, then leave without a word and lock the door behind him.

  The third regular visitor was the doctor in the white coat. He looked in his late forties, overweight, balding, bearded. From his first visit, he’d been kind to her, though there was something nervous about his smile. He’d checked her temperature and blood pressure, listened to her heart, examined the fading bruise on her head. He seemed sympathetic and genuinely anxious for her to get her memory back. He spent a lot of time asking her questions too, but his were gentle. Some she could answer and some she couldn’t. He noted her responses on a pad.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Zoë Bradbury.’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-six.’

  ‘What month are we in?’

  ‘June, I think.’

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  He never pushed harder than that, and never mentioned the things that Wolfman kept asking about. She wanted to open up to him. ‘I’m scared,’ she’d said to him again and again. ‘Where am I? What’s going to happen to me?’

  He never replied to her questions. Just smiled and told her everything would be all right. Her memory would return in time.

  But she could see behind the smile, and the look in his eyes was telling her that he wasn’t so sure everything would be all right.

  From the doctor’s second visit, two days ago now, she’d been aware of some kind of tension between him and Wolfman. There’d been angry whispers outside her door, and once there’d been an argument some way down the corridor outside that she’d strained to hear but couldn’t make out.

  Then, yesterday, the doctor had come to see her again. This time there’d been a woman with him. Not the woman from before. This one had dark red hair, not black. She was smiling, but when she leaned against the wall, Zoë saw the butt of the gun sticking out of the holster under her jacket.

  The doctor had sat by the bed. His voice was soft. ‘I have some good news for you, Zoë.’

  ‘I’m going home?’

  He’d smiled sadly and patted her arm. ‘Not just yet. But we’re moving you to a nicer room, where you’ll be more comfortable. I think you’ll like it there.’

  ‘I just want to get out of this place!’ Zoë had yelled.

  He and the woman had left then. She’d waited all day for their return, and fallen asleep thinking it must have been some kind of cruel trick.

  They’d finally come back that morning, along with two more men she didn’t recognise. The men acted like guards and said nothing. Zoë had been thankful that Wolfman wasn’t with them.

  The doctor had led the way. The woman walked with her, and the guards followed quietly behind. Instead of turning left for the bathroom, they turned right and went all the way up the drab corridor to a doorway. Beyond it was another corridor, and then they’d come to a lift. The woman had pressed the button for the top floor.

  They’d stepped out into a different world. The walls were white, with sun streaming in through big skylights. At the end of another corridor they’d shown Zoë to the room she was in now. It was twice the size of the old one, with its own little bathroom. The bed was comfortable, and at the foot of it some fresh clothes had been laid out for her. In one corner was a table with some magazines and a little personal DVD player and a stack of movies for her to watch. She remembered what movies were, though she couldn’t recall having ever seen one. It was a strange feeling.

  ‘You rest a while,’ the doctor had said as they left her. ‘Tomorrow we’re going to start your therapy sessions. We’ll get your memory back.’ Then he’d winked at her and locked the door.

  Now, as she lay there waiting for tomorrow to dawn, she thought about what was in store. The doctor seemed kind, and her instinct told her she could trust him. But another voice in her head told her that the doctor wasn’t in charge of things here.

  Sleep was impossible. Her heartbeat wouldn’t settle. She sat up in the bed, ran her hands through her hair and over her forehead. Somewhere inside here, buried deep inside her mind, was the information these people wanted.

  And if it came back. What then?

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Corfu

  Ben left the cove and walked back towards Kérkyra, taking his time, deep in thought. He dumped the garbage sack with the remains of the duffel bag and his phone in a bin. In the centre of town he stopped to buy a couple of new s
hirts, a new pair of jeans and a canvas military-style shoulder bag. He stuffed the clothes in the bag, slung it round his neck and mingled with the crowds. In the aftermath of the bombing there was a subdued feeling in the air, a tingle of apprehension, shock and rage. The streets were noticeably emptier, and people looked tense. The carnage was on every newspaper front page. Police were everywhere.

  Ben bought a prepaid mobile phone from a market stall. He had a call to make. He sat on a low wall in San Rocco Square and dialled the Bradburys’ number. He wasn’t looking forward to talking to them, but sooner or later they were going to hear about the bombing, and Charlie’s death. He couldn’t afford to have them freaking out on him.

  The moment Jane Bradbury picked up the phone, he knew he was too late for that. There was a muted sobbing on the line, and then a rustle as she passed the phone to her husband.

  ‘Hello?’ Tom Bradbury’s voice sounded weary and strained. ‘Ben, where are you? I’ve been looking for you everywhere, all over College and in the library. I even went to your flat when you didn’t answer your phone.’

  ‘I’m on Corfu,’ Ben said. ‘You’ve heard what happened, then.’

  ‘Is she hurt? Was she involved?’ Bradbury asked urgently.

  ‘She wasn’t there,’ Ben said.

  Bradbury sounded relieved. ‘Thank God. But your friend – It’s terrible. I’m so sorry. What’s going on?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Bradbury was silent for a second. ‘Forgive me for saying this. I know it sounds terrible. But before he was killed – did your friend –’

  ‘Find Zoë? No, he didn’t. I don’t know where she is.’

  ‘But you’ll find her?’

  ‘Did she ever mention any connections in America?’ Ben asked.

  Bradbury sounded surprised. ‘Yes, she has a friend there.’

  ‘A lawyer called McClusky?’

  ‘No, I’ve never heard that name. Her friend’s an elderly lady she met while teaching a summer school course here two years ago. Her name’s Miss Vale. Miss Augusta Vale. We’ve been out to dinner with her, and Zoë’s been to visit her a couple of times.’

  ‘In Georgia?’

  ‘Yes. Savannah, Georgia. What’s this about, Ben?’ Bradbury sounded more and more anxious and confused. ‘Has something terrible happened to our daughter?’

  ‘What about the name Cleaver?’

  ‘Never heard of it.’

  ‘Or someone called Rick?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘One last question,’ Ben said. ‘Did Zoë ever talk about a prophecy?’

  Bradbury was quiet for a moment. ‘What?’

  ‘A prophecy that could make her rich.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Bradbury asked, anger rising in his voice. ‘What I need to know is if something’s happened to my daughter. I’m going to call the British Consulate in Athens. And the police. This could be a kidnapping, and all you’re doing is asking me about prophecies.’

  ‘I know it sounds crazy,’ Ben said. ‘I have reasons for asking. But if this is a kidnapping, and you start ringing alarm bells, it just raises the stakes and will put her in more danger.’

  The anger in Bradbury’s voice died away. He sounded distraught. ‘What do I do?’

  ‘Sit tight and wait. Let me do things my way. I’ll keep in contact. As soon as I know what’s happening, you’ll hear from me.’

  ‘What if there’s a ransom demand? We’ve no money left. What will they do to her, if we can’t pay?’

  Ben already knew there’d be no ransom demand. It was much too late for that. ‘Let’s just take this one step at a time, all right? You told me you trusted me.’

  ‘We do trust you,’ Bradbury said weakly.

  When the call was over, Ben shut the phone and sighed. He’d needed to sound in control for Bradbury’s sake. He wished he was so confident in reality.

  He looked around the square and took in the scene. His mouth felt dry. He walked to a nearby café-bar and drank a couple of double Scotch on the rocks. The atmosphere in the place was sombre, a mixture of gloom and rage as people watched news reports of the bombing on a TV in the corner. After half an hour or so, Ben left and hung around like a tourist for a while. He bought a kebab from a hot food vendor. Munching as he went, he headed towards the west corner of the square and strolled down an arcaded walkway, gazing in shop windows. Then he wandered over to another bar, where he sat outside on the terrace and drank a couple of chilled beers and ate a bowl of olives.

  He spent a few hours like that, just wandering aimlessly around the town centre, thinking about Charlie and Zoë and all the things that were happening in his life. The sun was beginning to drop in the sky by the time he picked out a busy taxi rank and showed the driver the address on the key fob Spiro had given him.

  Fifteen minutes later, he was stepping inside the Thanatos family beach house a few kilometres south of Corfu Town. It was small and simple but welcoming, with whitewashed walls and cool tiled floors. The couple must have been expecting him. There was a vase of flowers on the table, and half a dozen bottles of local white wine chilling in the fridge along with spicy cold meats, a dish of stuffed vine leaves, a mountain of fresh green olives and a bowl of fruit.

  He grabbed one of the frosted wine bottles, pulled the cork and walked out onto the beach. The sound of music drifted towards him on the breeze, and he looked to see where it was coming from. About three hundred yards away across the white sand there was an open-air beach taverna shaded under a long canvas awning. He set out across the sand.

  By the time he reached the taverna the bottle in his hand was empty. He showed it to the bartender. ‘Another of these,’ he said, and the guy nodded. Ben pulled up a stool at the bar and slumped in it. The bartender left him the fresh bottle and a glass and went back to his chores. Ben turned on his stool, sipping the wine, and looked out to sea. The sun was dipping over the horizon, casting a red glow across the water.

  At the tables around him, a few people were drinking, talking, laughing. It looked as though mostly everyone was making an effort to forget the horror of the previous day. One or two faces were showing the strain. A little five-piece band were gamely plucking guitars and bouzoukis in the corner, churning out quick-time traditional dance music. Three or four couples were up on their feet, moving to the fast rhythm.

  At another table were two pretty girls. One of them kept glancing at Ben. She leaned forward and whispered something in her friend’s ear, and they both smiled at him.

  He ignored them and watched the spectacular sunset.

  After a few minutes a woman entered the taverna. She joined him at the empty bar, and laid her handbag on the stool between them. She was in her late twenties or early thirties and wore a low-cut, cream-coloured linen dress. Her hair was lustrous and black, curls tumbling over her bare shoulders. She spoke English to the bartender, talking with a warm Spanish accent. He served her a glass of mineral water and she sat sipping it, looking preoccupied. Ben watched her for a moment and then went back to the sunset.

  The woman’s phone rang. She tutted and fished it out of her bag. She answered it in Spanish. Ben knew the language well enough, and he couldn’t help overhearing. She was telling someone called Isabella that, no, she wasn’t having a good time and that no, she wasn’t staying here any longer. She was flying back to Madrid tomorrow.

  The woman shut the phone and looked apologetically at Ben.

  ‘Happens to me all the time,’ he said. ‘People phoning when all you want to do is get away.’

  She smiled. ‘You are English?’

  ‘Kind of.’

  ‘Tourist?’

  ‘Not really.’

  She smiled again.

  ‘You’re from Spain?’ he said.

  She nodded. ‘As you heard. I’m sorry. I hate people who talk on phones in public places. It was my sister. She’s concerned about me.’

  ‘You’re not having a good time here?’

  She frowned.
‘How did you know? You understand Spanish?’

  ‘¿Qué vas a tomar?’ he said.

  She laughed. ‘You speak it well. But I already have a drink, thank you.’

  He pointed at her water. ‘That’s not a drink. Have some wine with me.’

  She accepted, and he asked the bartender for another wine glass. She moved closer to him, lifting her handbag off the stool between them and taking its place. She laid the bag on the floor at her feet. ‘My name is Esmeralda,’ she said, offering her hand. He took it. It was soft and warm.

  ‘I’m Ben,’ he said. He pointed to an empty table in the corner overlooking the water’s edge. ‘Shall we sit over there?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Don’t forget your bag.’ He picked it up and handed it to her.

  They carried their drinks over to the table. He bumped into a chair, spilling some wine on the floor. ‘Whoops. Too much to drink.’

  They sat facing each other and talked until the stars were out and the moon was shining on the sea.

  ‘Why do you want to leave here?’ he asked her. ‘It’s beautiful.’

  ‘I’m freaked out by this bombing,’ she said. ‘So terrible. All those innocent people.’

  He nodded. Said nothing.

  ‘And other reasons, too.’

  ‘Like what?’ he asked.

  ‘You really want to know? My fiancé left me for my best friend. My sister thought it would be a good idea for me to get away for a while. But it’s not working.’ She smiled weakly, then looked down.

  ‘I can’t imagine why he would leave you.’ Ben reached over and gently stroked her arm with his finger.

  She flushed. ‘You are nice. So, Ben. What are you doing on Corfu? Vacation? Business?’