The Ben Hope Collection: 6 BOOK SET

by Scott Mariani

‘I know how much it is.’

  Jeff gaped. ‘Are you out of your mind?’

  ‘I messed up,’ Ben said. ‘Now I have to pay the price.’

  ‘We’ll take this to court,’ Jeff protested. ‘Unfair dismissal. Steiner’s put us in this position.’

  ‘It can’t get to court,’ Ben said. ‘Even if we won, we’d never survive the bad publicity. And if we lost, we’d end up paying legal costs on top of everything else. There’s no other choice.’

  ‘This is nuts,’ Jeff muttered. ‘Absolutely nuts.’

  Brooke was watching Ben anxiously. Her drink sat cooling on the table in front of her.

  ‘You’re talking about an awful lot of money, Ben.’

  ‘More than the business can afford,’ he admitted. ‘I’ll have to take out a mortgage on Le Val, or go to the bank and beg for a loan. Scrape it together, somehow. Then we hand it over to Shannon, and we move on.’ He tried to smile and look optimistic. He knew it wasn’t a convincing act.

  ‘What if you can’t raise that much?’ Brooke asked.

  Ben shrugged. The answer was obvious, and the look on Brooke’s face told him that she’d known it even before she’d finished asking the question.

  ‘Then we’ll have to sell up,’ he said quietly. Hearing the words out loud was almost more than he could bear.

  The three of them sat there in silence. Jeff looked thunderstruck, and Ben knew what he was thinking. Le Val was just as much home to Jeff now as it was to him. If it had to go on the market, all the work they’d both put into it would be lost. And all just to pay off shit like Rupert Shannon.

  Jeff stood up. His face was tight.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jeff.’

  ‘It’s not your doing, mate,’ Jeff said. There was emotion in his voice. He turned to leave the room. ‘See you in the morning,’ he muttered.

  Then he was gone, and Ben and Brooke were left alone.

  ‘I think I’ll turn in too,’ she said, getting up. ‘Though I doubt if I’ll get any sleep tonight. Not now.’

  ‘I know what I’m going to do. I’m going to get pissed out of my mind.’

  She smiled. ‘Come to think of it, that sounds like a very good idea. Mind if I join you?’

  ‘Be my guest. There’s enough wine on the rack to kill both of us.’

  It was cold up in Ben’s quarters, and he arranged kindling sticks and a couple of dry logs in the fireplace while Brooke filled a couple of glasses of wine. She sat cross-legged on the big soft rug next to the hearth, watching him. ‘You’re a pretty good firelighter,’ she commented.

  ‘I ought to be.’ In a minute or so the blaze was crackling up the chimney, and he settled next to her on the rug. She handed him a glass.

  ‘What can you drink to on a night like this?’ she said.

  ‘Here’s to good old Saint Geneviève,’ Ben said, raising his glass.

  ‘Who’s Saint Geneviève?’

  ‘The patron saint of complete and utter disasters and fuck-ups. An old friend of mine.’ He downed his wine. Reached for the bottle and refilled the glass.

  They drank in silence as the rain lashed against the windows, and watched the flames curl and lick around the logs in the fireplace. Ben knocked the wine back hard and fast.

  ‘We need another bottle,’ he said. ‘Or two.’

  ‘So soon?’

  ‘I mean business.’ He started clambering to his feet. ‘I’ll go down for it,’ she said, putting her hand on his shoulder and standing up. ‘I’ve just had an idea.’

  ‘What idea?’

  ‘A brilliant one.’

  He tossed a couple more logs on the fire while she was gone, poked them around so that orange sparks flew up the chimney, and felt the heat on his face. After a few minutes Brooke returned, balancing two more bottles on a tray along with a plate and a covered platter.

  ‘So this is your brilliant idea,’ he said.

  She took the lid from the platter. ‘Marie-Claire’s famous chocolate gâteau.’ She sat down beside him, laid the tray on the rug in front of them. He quickly opened the second bottle. As he poured their glasses, she dipped a fork into the cake and ate some. Her eyes sparkled in the firelight.

  ‘God, this is good.’ She loaded up another forkful and carried it towards his mouth.

  He clamped his lips shut, shook his head. ‘I don’t like sweets much. You eat it.’

  ‘Help you soak up all this booze.’

  ‘I don’t want to soak it up. Defeats the object. What I want is for it to get into my bloodstream and circulate round to my brain, as quickly and efficiently as possible. What’s the point otherwise?’

  ‘Come on, Ben. You really must eat some of this. It’s a secret family recipe. People round here have gone to war for it. To have it offered to you and not eat it is a sacrilege. An insult to the gods.’

  He smiled and put down his glass. ‘OK, you persuaded me. It wouldn’t do to offend the gods.’

  ‘Definitely not.’ She held the fork up to his mouth. He opened it, and she fed the cake to him. He drew away, sliding the piece off the fork with his teeth. Chewed once, paused, chewed again and swallowed. It tasted rich and creamy. Cognac and almonds and home-churned butter. A hint of coffee in there somewhere, and traces of flavours he could only guess at.

  ‘You’re right. It is pretty damn good.’

  ‘Have another bit,’ she said. ‘It’s the ultimate in comfort eating.’

  ‘In that case, maybe just another bit.’

  ‘Let’s just chocolate ourselves to death,’ she said. ‘Right here, right now.’

  He threw up his hands in a gesture of resignation. ‘Fuck it. Why not?’

  She fed him another forkful, and then had another herself.

  ‘You were right,’ he said. ‘This was a brilliant idea.’

  They sat in silence for a moment, watching the flames. Then Brooke turned towards him to say something.

  ‘Hold on,’ he said, interrupting her. Raised his finger and moved it towards her face. ‘You’ve got a bit of cream right there.’ He gently wiped it from the corner of her mouth, then carried it back towards his own mouth and licked his finger. ‘You were about to say something,’ he said.

  She looked blank. ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘You’re drunk.’

  ‘Getting there.’

  But it didn’t matter that they didn’t say much. Ben was thankful for the companionship. Brooke was someone he felt relaxed around and could comfortably share a silence with. Her presence made him feel better. He could smell her subtle perfume, and the fresh apple scent of shampoo when her hair brushed near his face. It made him think of sunshine, summer meadows, nice things that seemed to belong in some inaccessible parallel world.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ he said eventually. The chocolate cake was finished now, the empty plate and the fork between them on the rug.

  ‘What don’t you get?’

  ‘You and Rupert Shannon.’

  Brooke sighed.

  ‘What do you see in the guy?’

  ‘You mean, what did I see in the guy?’

  ‘Past tense?’

  ‘Very past tense. It’s over.’

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘Since when do you think? Since all this happened. I don’t like the way he’s behaved. I think it’s disgusting, and I told him so at the hospital.’

  Ben paused for a moment. ‘OK, what did you see in him?’

  ‘Why d’you want to know?’

  ‘Fine. It’s none of my business. Forget I ever mentioned it.’

  She shrugged. ‘He seemed fun, and exciting to be with. He made me laugh. And he’s never been this obnoxious before.’

  ‘He’s a gobshite.’

  She laughed. ‘Definitely a gobshite. That’s something I’ve come to realise.’

  ‘I could have told you before.’

  ‘Some psychologist, eh?’ She paused, and her smile fell away. ‘It’s not that easy sometimes, you know. Being me, I mean.’

 
‘Being you is hard? I can’t imagine why.’

  ‘I’m a professional woman living on her own. I work strange hours, I’m often not around. It’s difficult to meet guys. Especially the right guy. You don’t come across very many of those.’

  ‘You’re saying you’re lonely.’

  She thought about it, then nodded. ‘I do get lonely, sometimes. London can be a very lonely place.’

  ‘I don’t understand why. You could get any guy you wanted.’

  She snorted. ‘Somehow I don’t think so.’

  ‘I mean it. You’re fun to be with.’

  She looked at him. ‘Really? You think?’

  ‘Absolutely. And you’re smart.’

  Her lips curled into a bitter smile. ‘And opinionated.’

  ‘Maybe. But I like that about you.’

  ‘It drives most guys away.’

  ‘Only the arseholes. Think of it as a kind of filter. Quality control.’

  There was another silence, just the crackle of the fire and the rain against the window panes. The wind was up, gusting down the chimney.

  ‘You know, Rupert wasn’t my first choice,’ she murmured.

  Ben didn’t say anything. Took another deep sip of wine, then reached in his pocket for his cigarettes.

  ‘Of course, I couldn’t have my first choice,’ she added in an undertone.

  But he didn’t seem to hear her as he flicked his lighter and lit up.

  Brooke watched him, studied his face, the firelight throwing shadow into the lines bunched up on his brow as he sat quietly smoking. He’d always been a pensive man, she thought. But tonight he seemed unusually preoccupied, and something told her that there was more to it than what had happened with Steiner. Even more than the fear of losing Le Val and everything he’d worked for. There was something else.

  ‘What is it, Ben?’

  He shrugged, took another drink. ‘I know you,’ she said. ‘I can see something is troubling you.’

  He said nothing.

  ‘What happened in Switzerland?’

  ‘You know what happened. I—’

  ‘No,’ she cut in gently. ‘Not that. I’m asking you what really happened. You might have convinced Jeff with that story you told earlier on, but you didn’t fool me. There’s something else. Something you didn’t want to tell.’

  He didn’t answer immediately. ‘You’re right,’ he said finally.

  ‘Then tell me.’

  ‘It’s hard to explain. I still don’t really know what happened. I think I saw someone.’

  ‘Someone?’

  ‘Someone I used to know. Someone I wasn’t expecting to ever see again. But I’m probably wrong. In fact, I’ve got to be wrong. It’s impossible any other way.’ He picked up his glass again and drank some more wine.

  ‘Why? What’s impossible? Stop drinking and talk to me.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Who did you see?’

  He was quiet for a long moment.

  ‘Come on, Ben. Who was it? You know you can trust me.’

  ‘It was a woman.’

  ‘Oh.’ She dropped her hands in her lap, fidgeting.

  He glanced at her, seeing the look in her eyes. ‘Not that kind of woman,’ he said.

  ‘What kinds are there?’

  ‘Not an old flame. Nothing like that.’

  ‘A former colleague?’

  ‘Not that kind either.’

  ‘An old friend?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Let’s have another drink.’

  ‘Let’s not. Let’s talk about this. Why don’t you want to tell me the rest of it?’

  ‘Because I can hardly believe it myself,’ he said. ‘Because I think it must mean I’m going crazy.’

  Brooke was quiet, watching him. She reached out and touched his cheek, tenderly. ‘You’re not crazy,’ she whispered. ‘You’re the least crazy person I’ve ever known.’

  He grunted. ‘People change. People lose it.’

  ‘Not you.’

  ‘What makes me any different?’

  ‘You’re a lot different, Ben Hope. So tell me.’ He leaned forward, elbows on knees, ruffling his hair with his fingers. ‘I think I saw my sister,’ he said quietly. ‘Your sister?’

  He nodded, slowly. ‘My sister Ruth.’

  She looked baffled. ‘I didn’t know you had a sister.’

  ‘That’s exactly it,’ he said. His voice was just above a whisper, and she had to lean close to hear him. ‘I didn’t think I had, either. Not any more. Not for a long time.’ Then he turned his head slowly and looked Brooke in the eye.

  ‘Ruth’s been gone for more than twenty years,’ he said.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  ‘I told you it was crazy,’ he said when Brooke just stared at him. ‘Someone lost and gone, someone who’s just been a memory to me for most of my life, just turned up and is out there somewhere.’

  ‘I don’t understand any of this,’ Brooke said, shaking her head.

  ‘You’ve known me a long time,’ he said. ‘Remember when I quit the regiment?’

  She nodded. ‘It was such a surprise to me. I heard it through the grapevine that you’d just upped and left. Nobody could understand why. Then I didn’t see you again for four years.’

  ‘And you asked me then what had happened, and why I’d started up in kidnap and ransom work. Why I wanted to help look for people who’d been snatched. Especially kids.’

  ‘I remember you didn’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘I couldn’t talk about it. Not to anyone, not for a long time.’

  ‘Are you going to talk to me about it now, Ben?’

  He nodded. Stubbed out his cigarette, lit another and tossed more logs on the fire. And then, deep into the night, he told her the story.

  * * *

  It was one that he’d barely spoken of to anyone in twenty-three years, an episode in his life that only a handful of people knew about. And yet one that had marked him more deeply and shaped his world more decisively than any of the wars and adventures, loves and losses, ups and downs that he’d known.

  He talked in a low voice, relating it to her almost matter-of-factly, though the pain stabbed him with every word.

  He’d been sixteen years old when his whole life had changed. It had been a tradition in the Hope family to take turns choosing their annual holiday location. That year had been Ben’s turn. He’d opened up an atlas, flipped a few pages and found himself looking at the great wide golden-coloured spaces that were North Africa. Thought about forts in the sand and heroic tales of Beau Geste and the Foreign Legion. Jabbed a finger down on the map and said ‘Morocco’.

  So Morocco it was. Springtime in Marrakesh had been hot and dusty and filled with amazing sights and sounds for the teenage Ben. Nine-year-old Ruth had loved it too. They’d always been close, but that spring they’d become inseparable companions. Ben had lost endless games of table tennis to her, taught her to dive in the hotel pool, sat up with her in the evenings reading Lord of the Rings out loud while their parents drank gin and tonic and played bridge with the other guests in the bar.

  On the third day, Ben had spied Martina in the lobby. Just a year or so older than he was, she’d seemed infinitely more sophisticated and grown up, almost like some kind of movie star. It had been the first real infatuation of what had, up until then, been a pretty sheltered life. He’d never thought a girl like that would look at him twice, so when she’d coyly sidled up to him the next day and asked if he’d take her to visit one of the local souks, he’d hardly been able to believe it.

  There was one problem. His parents had asked him to stay in the hotel with Ruth that afternoon while they went to a museum Ben’s mother wanted to see without the encumbrance of kids. The solution had seemed simple: wait until they were gone, then meet up with Martina and bring Ruth along too. He’d felt a little guilty about disobeying his parents, but the lure of Martina had been too powerful a temptat
ion.

  It had been a heady couple of hours, basking in the glow of Martina’s beauty and the way she’d wanted to hold his hand as they wandered round the crowded souk looking at all the stalls. There had been exotic crafts and jewellery, snake charmers and performers, amazing tapestries and spices, a whole other world. He’d bought a gift for Martina, and she’d hugged him. For a boy from his over-protective middle-class background, it was intoxicating.

  That had been it. The moment that clinched everything that was to follow.

  Because in that moment, when he’d taken his eyes off his little sister for maybe ten seconds, maybe even just five seconds, too long, he’d turned around and she was gone.

  ‘And you never found her,’ Brooke said softly now. There were tears in her eyes.

  He shook his head. ‘Everything possible was done, looking back. Embassy, police, the works. My parents even hired private detectives. It was two years before we finally admitted to ourselves that it was pointless carrying on with it.’

  ‘White slavers?’

  He shrugged. ‘Probably. Nobody knows. But it had all the hallmarks, we soon found out. They whisk people away in seconds, and they can move them across enormous distances before anyone’s the wiser. There’s no telling where the victims can end up. They get sold into harems, or into prostitution. A lot of them wind up as junkies. Most of them don’t live very long.’

  He let out a long sigh. It was still hard to think about, even harder to talk about.

  Brooke was silent for a few moments. ‘You told me once that your mother had killed herself.’

  ‘Was I drunk?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘It’s true. She did.’

  ‘Was it because of what happened to Ruth?’

  ‘She never got over it. And she never forgave me. Neither of them did. By the time I was nineteen, they were both dead. Her from an overdose, him from what I think was a broken heart. I drifted for a while, then joined the army. The rest is history.’

  He took a long slug of wine, then went on.

  ‘The worst thing wasn’t losing Ruth. It wasn’t even knowing that I’d let it happen. It was not knowing what was happening. When I used to think about the things those men might be doing to her, I used to catch myself wishing that she could have been run over by a car or something. At least then it would have been over. Then I’d hate myself even more for thinking that way.’ He paused. ‘Years went by. And one day, I woke up and it hit me that my sister was dead. She just had to be.’