The Forgotten Holocaust

by Scott Mariani

  ‘You okay?’ Ben said to the girl. She nodded timidly.

  ‘You can do better than this moron,’ Ben told her, pointing down at the groaning, blubbering heap. ‘Same goes for your friend. Find a couple of decent guys, all right?’

  More people were turning and staring, and a few had come out of the pub to check out the commotion. With a nod to the girls, Ben walked back to his table, picked up Kristen’s phones, shouldered his bag and drank the last gulp of his mineral water. The crowd parted to make way for him as he left before the Garda turned up.

  He was feeling a bit better now.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Police headquarters

  Tulsa, Oklahoma

  It was still just the three of them, Erin, Detective Topher Morrell and the intimidating shape of Chief O’Rourke. They’d moved from the little office to a larger room deeper inside the headquarters building. At the end of a long table flanked by plastic chairs was a stand with a DVD player and a large screen.

  ‘Is this the only copy?’ Chief O’Rourke growled in his gravelly voice as Erin handed him the disc from her backpack.

  ‘That’s the only one,’ she lied.

  ‘What about the phone itself?’

  ‘Right here,’ she said, pointing at her backpack.

  ‘I’ll need that as evidence, too,’ O’Rourke said, and took it from her. He motioned for her to sit, and she perched on the edge of one of the plastic chairs. Morrell sat near her, saying nothing. Erin’s mouth was dry and her neck and shoulders felt tense.

  The police chief fed the disc into the machine, grabbed a remote control from the stand and sat heavily across the table from Erin. ‘Now let’s see for ourselves,’ he growled, pointing the remote like a gun at the screen and pressing the play button.

  The screen popped into life with the opening moments of Erin’s video. She’d revisualised the scene so often in her mind during the last two days that she’d forgotten how poor the quality of the playback was. It was jerky and grainy, and where it wasn’t overexposed with the glare of the cabin lights, the murky shadows made it almost impossible to see what was happening.

  And on it went, for over two full and very long minutes during which Erin sat and dug her teeth into her lip and didn’t dare to glance at either of the two cops. She could sense Detective Morrell shifting about uncomfortably next to her, and wondered what he was thinking.

  Through a confusion of light and shadow, the horror on the veranda played out. For Erin, it was like reliving the scene yet again. But she wondered how much actually having been there was colouring her interpretation of the shockingly poor footage. What would someone make of it, seeing it for the first time? As for the sound, it seemed to her even more muffled and boomy as when she’d played it on her computer at home. The blasting gunshots had overwhelmed the phone’s tiny, sensitive mike, reducing nearly all the voices to a drowned garble.

  The video clip was reaching its climactic moment now, but it was a long way from what it had been in real life. The squirming shape of the victim on the veranda was just a blur. His executioner could be made out, but only just, and his features were still very unclear. As he fired the coup de grâce that had flattened his struggling victim to the floor for good, the bright muzzle flash and detonation of the huge revolver obscured everything else. In the second or two it took for the camera’s automatic exposure to readjust, it was barely possible to see the killer do that cowboy gun-twirl whose nonchalance had so chilled Erin at the time.

  ‘Stick this … in the … his … later,’ said the badly muffled voice. The three shadows moved away from the shadow on the floor. Next, a flurry of movement as Erin had scrambled away on her knees and elbows. Then the clip was over and the screen blacked out.

  There was a moment’s silence in the room. Slowly, Chief O’Rourke laid down the remote and turned his heavy gaze on Erin.

  ‘That’s it?’ he said.

  She shrugged. ‘That’s it.’

  ‘Then we have a problem,’ O’Rourke said. ‘I can’t see Mayor McCrory in this video.’

  Erin reached across the table and grabbed the remote before he could snatch it away. She pressed the rewind button, and the screen lit up again with the playback in high-speed reverse until it returned to just before McCrory had shot the bearded man on the veranda. From her vantage point at the top of the stairs, she’d got the mayor framed right in the doorway. Between his feet, the victim’s face and part of his body were visible as he crawled on his belly, his mouth open in a scream that sounded distorted and inhuman through the speaker. She hit play, then pause, and the image froze right where she wanted it to. She pointed. ‘What are you talking about, you can’t see him? That’s him right there.’

  O’Rourke glanced at the screen, then turned back to face her. ‘All I see is a big guy in what might be a suit, with hair that could be any shade from blonde to white. You want me to arrest everyone in Tulsa who answers that description, then I’d have to arrest myself.’ He grinned at his own joke, but there was no humour in his eyes.

  ‘It’s not exactly Oscar material,’ Detective Morrell said, speaking for the first time. ‘Frankly, it’s pretty disappointing.’

  ‘But you can see enough, right?’ Erin protested. ‘And even if you can’t see his face that well, that’s the McCrorys’ cabin. His own place. Doesn’t that count for something?’

  O’Rourke was unmoved. ‘Could be anybody.’

  ‘Sure, with a key. And who knew the alarm code,’ Erin said, feeling her temper rising.

  ‘Miss Hayes, we deal with a hundred cases like this every year,’ O’Rourke said in an attempt at a reasonable tone that just sounded patronising. ‘Someone wants to get into a place, they’ll get in. Criminals adapt. They’re becoming more sophisticated all the time.’

  ‘Don’t give me this crap,’ she said. ‘The victim was invited to the place. McCrory set up a business meeting of some kind as a pretext, but it’s obvious that he meant to kill him there, because it was out of the way and he thought it’d be empty. How would some opportunist criminal have known that?’

  She turned to Detective Morrell, but he was shaking his head. ‘There might be a way our forensic techs can clean up the video—’ he began.

  ‘But for the moment, there’s nothing here to support your story, Miss Hayes,’ O’Rourke finished for him. The reasonable tone was gone again.

  ‘But you do agree that a murder was committed there, right? Surely there’s evidence at the scene?’

  ‘That footage could have been shot anywhere,’ O’Rourke said flatly. ‘I don’t see any goddamn thing that convinces me otherwise and we’re not making a move until we know better.’

  ‘But I witnessed it happening right there!’ Erin yelled, banging on the table.

  ‘Calm down, please,’ Morrell said.

  ‘Call Angela McCrory and ask if she didn’t give me the key to the place.’

  O’Rourke actually laughed. ‘Beautiful. You want me to call the first lady of Tulsa to ask if her husband, our city mayor, popped some guy in their lake cabin. Sure, I’d like to see that on Oklahoma’s Own.’

  ‘So what happens now?’ Erin asked, shocked. ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Let’s start with the video,’ Morrell said. ‘One step at a time. It might clean up. The technical folks can work wonders.’

  ‘What about me?’ she said. ‘I just put my neck on the block. These people are murderers. Don’t I have a right to police protection, or something?’

  ‘It’s a little early for that,’ Morrell said. ‘No formal charges have even been made. If it comes to it, you’ll be entitled to full witness protection.’

  ‘If it comes to it?’

  O’Rourke stood up, towering over the table and looking down at her with hard eyes. He handed her a card from his pocket. ‘My number’s there. Call me if you need to.’

  ‘That’s it?’ she said, amazed this could be over so soon. Her situation remained exactly the same as before.

  ‘Go h
ome, Miss Hayes. Speak to no one. Don’t leave town. We’ll be in touch.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  On his way back to the car, Ben checked Kristen’s BlackBerry for the missed call, and found a new voice message in the inbox.

  The man spoke hesitantly. Very educated-sounding, very crisp, more than a little guarded. There was a faint trace of an Irish accent mixed into those upper-class tones. ‘This is a message for, ah, Kristen Hall. Gray Brennan here, responding to your enquiry some time ago about Lady Stamford’s journals. I’m sorry I haven’t replied sooner, but I’ve been, ah, busy.’

  Ben thought, who was this guy?

  ‘Regarding the journals,’ Brennan’s message continued, ‘I fully appreciate your interest in viewing them for the purposes of researching your book, and they do indeed contain hitherto unseen material that I’m sure would be of, ah, significant interest to you. As a matter of fact, some of their revelations could be highly explosive to say the least … However, ah, I’m afraid that’s all the more reason why I’m reluctant to share them with anyone, least of all a writer – unless I could be fully persuaded that certain extremely sensitive information would be, ah, appropriately handled. Anyway, that’s my response. Contact me again if you so desire. Goodbye.’

  Bit of an odd-bod, Ben thought. He listened to the message once more as he walked towards the car, then saved it and slipped the phone back in his pocket. A Garda patrol car sliced by in the opposite direction, two uniforms up front, one of them talking on the radio.

  Ben got back in the BMW and sped out of Glenfell, thinking about what Kristen had said about the private journals documenting Lady Stamford’s years in Ireland, and the historian in whose possession they were now. He’d been trying to figure out what could be so hot about her research; now here was this Brennan acting all cautious and secretive over ‘explosive’ material. What the hell was this about?

  Back at the cottage that evening, Ben used his own smartphone to go online and check the guy out. There was very little to be gleaned about the man, other than the fact that until about twelve years ago he’d been Emeritus Professor of History at Trinity College, Dublin. A photo in the university’s archives showed a thin, jaunty-looking man with combed-over greying hair and little wire glasses. Taking the number from Kristen’s BlackBerry, Ben dialled from his own phone.

  The same voice he’d heard in the message answered after a few rings. ‘Brennan.’

  ‘Professor Brennan, you don’t know me. My name’s Hope, Ben Hope. I’m returning your call on behalf of Kristen Hall.’

  ‘About the Stamford journals?’ Brennan said. ‘Yes, she left me a phone message a couple of weeks ago. But I don’t understand. Why are you calling on her behalf? Is something wrong?’

  ‘You might say that. Kristen can’t return your message personally, because she’s dead. She was murdered the day before last.’

  There was a pause on the line. ‘Oh, no. Murdered? Are you … were you a friend? A relative?’

  ‘She wasn’t my friend. I hardly knew her. We’d only just met. But I liked her and she didn’t deserve to die.’

  ‘This is awful. Just awful.’

  ‘Professor Brennan, I’m not going to beat about the bush. I think Kristen was killed because of something she discovered about Elizabeth Stamford. You said in your message that the Stamford journals were explosive. Your words. I need to know more.’

  ‘Aren’t the police investigating?’

  ‘They’re doing what they do,’ Ben said. ‘I’m doing what I do. Call it a parallel inquiry. Professor, apart from the men who butchered Kristen and cut her throat, I was the last person to see her alive. I mean to find out what happened and I’m asking for your help, because I think you know something about all this.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that,’ Brennan replied. ‘Lady Stamford’s journals were lost for over a century, until they were rediscovered among the ruins of Glenfell House. They’ve been part of my personal collection for sixteen years, going back to when I worked in Ireland. Now they’re locked in a safe here in my home. I live alone, and I don’t share my collections freely. Nobody but me in all that time has seen Lady Stamford’s journals or had any inkling of the revelations in them. So I can’t see how it’s possible that they’d have anything to do with this terrible tragedy.’

  ‘Someone knows,’ Ben said. ‘Someone who knew Kristen was on the trail and is prepared to do anything to keep whatever it is a secret. The best chance I’ve got of finding out who, is to know what’s in those journals. Which means that right now you, Professor Brennan, are the best chance anyone has of catching Kristen’s killers.’

  A pause. Then, ‘What did you say your name was?’

  ‘Ben Hope.’

  ‘Benjamin?’

  ‘Benedict,’ Ben said, fighting his impatience. ‘Can you help me, or not? Say no, and I promise you won’t hear from me again. Say yes, and I’ll meet you wherever you want. Please trust me.’

  There was more silence as Brennan thought about it. Ben gripped the phone tightly and held his breath, waiting.

  ‘Very well,’ Brennan said at last. ‘I’ll meet with you and show you the journals. But you’ll have to come to me. I don’t leave the island any more.’

  ‘What island would that be?’ Ben asked.

  ‘Madeira.’

  ‘Give me your address,’ Ben said. ‘I’ll be there.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  The quickest and earliest flight Ben could find to Madeira was direct to the island’s capital, Funchal, leaving at just after seven the following morning. But the flight departed from Dublin, meaning a two-hour drive eastwards across Ireland, coast to coast.

  By nine that evening it was booked and Ben was packing a few spare clothes into his green bag. After grabbing a couple of hours’ sleep, he jumped into the BMW and raced away from the cottage under a pitch-black starry sky.

  Hours later, as he sat in the departure lounge at Dublin sipping scalding coffee, he wondered what he was going to find in Madeira. After giving him the address and directions to his countryside villa, Brennan’s last words on the phone had been something strange. ‘Don’t arrive before dark. I can’t meet people during daylight.’

  Either the guy was a vampire, or he was more than a little weird. It wouldn’t be the first time that Ben had had dealings with an eccentric recluse, but that didn’t make it any less frustrating that most of the day would have to be wasted before they could meet. Nightfall wouldn’t be until around ten.

  By mid-morning, Ben was one and a half thousand miles away from Dublin, exchanging the hard, cool, unpredictable beauty of Ireland for the vibrant lushness of the Portuguese archipelago they called the Garden of the Atlantic. The plane overflew clear blue ocean and pristine beaches. Black volcanic cliffs rose sharply up from the sea, their craggy base rimmed with the foam of breakers visible even from afar. Thousands of boats crammed the island’s main port, dwarfed by giant pearly-white cruise liners that crawled majestically in and out of the sun-spangled harbour waters.

  Beyond, Ben gazed from the aircraft window across a landscape of towering mist-shrouded mountains and sweeping forested valleys of a near-tropical verdant green. Crowded by sheer cliffs on one side and the ocean on the other, Madeira’s airport was famed for being one of the most dangerous for even skilled pilots to land at, despite – or maybe partly because of – the extended runway that stretched precariously over the water on massive concrete pillars.

  Still alive forty-five minutes later, Ben stepped out into the heat haze from the small single airport terminal and found a Europcar rental place where he picked out a black VW Touareg four-wheel-drive. When they handed him the key, he flicked the rental agreement casually onto the front passenger seat, flung his leather jacket and bag in the back, cranked the air conditioning to beer chiller levels and sped northwards. He skirted Funchal, heading towards the island’s forested and mountainous heartland, according to the directions Brennan had given him.

 
It was a spectacular landscape, but Ben was too preoccupied to enjoy it as he wound his way deeper into the countryside, increasingly irritated at the delay caused by the man’s strange insistence that they couldn’t meet during daylight hours. Stopping at a village nestling up in the hills, he found a quiet little restaurant with a shaded, flowery garden high over the valley, where he hungrily refuelled himself on grilled limpets followed by a dish of the local speciality espetada, chunks of beef roasted over wood chips. Instead of wine, he drank a jug of iced water. Dessert was four Gauloises end to end, which he lingered over for as long as he could, letting the smoke trickle from his lips as he gazed down across the lush valley below. He’d sworn off drink for as long as he needed to get the job done. In the meantime, he’d just have to smoke twice as much.

  Back in the Touareg, he meandered along empty, winding roads thickly overhung by trees and listened to a jazz station that played a lot of Art Blakey and McCoy Tyner until, at last, the day began to cool and evening started to fall. In the purple-blue haze of twilight, Ben was finally able to home in on his target and drive the last of the way to Brennan’s secluded villa.

  The place was four kilometres from the nearest village, encircled by a high white stone wall spilling over with foliage. He drove slowly around the perimeter, searching for the way in, until he came to a tall gateway framed by stone pillars.

  The gate was closed. As he got out of the car he could see no latch or handle to open it, but there was an intercom box on one of the pillars. He pressed a button and announced his arrival into the metal grid. There was no reply. He was beginning to wonder if the intercom was working when there was a click and the gates whirred open.

  Driving into the courtyard in front of the villa, even in the falling light it was plain to see that the place was well beyond the means of the average retired university professor. Evidently, its owner was not only independently wealthy but highly security-conscious, too. As soon as Ben was inside, the gates whirred and clicked shut behind him.