Sacred Sword (Ben Hope 7) (22 page)

‘How can they print that stuff?’ Jude raged as they drove away. ‘How can they say those things?’

‘You know it’s not true,’ Ben said quietly. ‘That’s what matters.’

‘It does matter. It matters a lot. They said there was a witness. What witness?’

‘There was no witness,’ Ben said. ‘I told you. I was the first on the scene.’

‘These people can fabricate a witness and write a load of lies in the press?’ Jude punched the dashboard with such force that it cracked the plastic and left a smear of blood.

‘They can do whatever they want,’ Ben said. Like plant paedophile filth on an innocent man’s computer before hurling him off the world’s tallest bridge, he thought. He said nothing more. Jude raged on a while longer and finally flung himself back in his seat and lapsed into a simmering trance, nursing his torn knuckles. The dog hopped up onto Jude’s lap, sniffed at his hand and gave it a lick.

A gloomy dawn was beginning to break over the London skyline as Ben pulled up in the familiar quiet street in Richmond. ‘What is this place?’ Jude asked. ‘Hey. Where are you taking Scruffy?’

‘He’ll be fine. You stay here.’ Ben scooped the dog off Jude’s lap and got out of the car. He felt stupid and embarrassed as he walked up to the familiar red-brick Victorian house clutching the dog under his arm. Quarter to seven in the morning. He hoped Amal was an early riser. Ben barely knew the guy, and here he was about to lumber him with an unwanted temporary pet. ‘I should have left you on the moors,’ he muttered.

Scruffy looked at him and wagged his tail.

‘Just kidding,’ Ben said.

He was about to ring the bell when the door abruptly jerked open. He blinked as he found himself suddenly face to face with Brooke.

She stood rooted in the doorway, her tartan dressing gown wrapped tightly around her. Her unsmiling gaze pierced right through him. ‘I saw you out of the window. What are you doing here, Ben?’

‘I thought you weren’t here,’ he replied lamely.

Brooke crossed her arms. She gave a little snort. ‘Is that why you came?’ she asked. ‘Because you thought I wasn’t here?’

‘No,’ he said, flustered. ‘I came about this dog.’

Brooke stared at Scruffy. Her expression didn’t change. ‘What are you doing with that dog?’

‘He’s not mine.’

‘I know that, Ben. So you’re picking up strays now?’

‘I think I’ve kind of inherited him.’ Ben paused. ‘You look good, Brooke.’ In fact she looked spectacular. Her auburn hair was longer than it had been, and she was wearing it loose over her shoulders.

‘Thanks,’ she sniffed. ‘You look like someone who’s spent the night in a car.’ She glanced down at the dried spatters of Cornish mud that flecked the bottoms of his jeans. ‘Have you been wading in a mire or something?’

‘Or something,’ Ben said. This didn’t seem to be going too well.

‘What’s with the banger?’ she said, peering over his shoulder at the Vauxhall. ‘And who’s the guy with you?’

‘It’s a long story,’ he said.

‘It always is with you, isn’t it?’

‘So what about the dog?’ he asked.

‘What about him?’

‘I was going to ask Amal if he’d take him.’

‘Amal’s allergic to animals.’

‘Then would you? He’s Scruffy.’

‘Not as scruffy as you are,’ she said. ‘What is this, another present? I didn’t want the last one.’

‘I need the favour. It’s only for a little while.’

‘This isn’t the Brooke Marcel boarding kennel,’ she said.

‘Fine.’

‘Why don’t you ask your friend Darcey Kane?’

That hurt like a punch in the guts. Ben said nothing for a few moments, then turned to walk away.

‘All right. I’ll take the ruddy dog,’ Brooke said. ‘He’s not going to pee all over my flat, I hope?’

‘He’s a vicarage dog,’ Ben said, setting Scruffy down on the ground.

‘Oh, well, in that case. What does His Worship eat?’

‘I don’t know. Dog food, I suppose.’

‘That’s helpful. I have some stewing beef in the fridge.’ She paused, eyed the dog for a moment and then glanced back up at Ben with a softer expression. ‘I’m sorry for what I said before. It wasn’t fair of me to mention her.’

Ben didn’t reply.

‘It’s cold out here. Do you and your friend want to come inside for a cup of coffee or something? You can wash up in my bathroom.’

Ben paused a second, then shook his head. ‘I’d better make a move.’

‘Just like that?’

‘Just like that,’ he said with a shrug. ‘I’m sorry I can’t explain. I really appreciate this, Brooke.’

Brooke reached down to pat Scruffy on the head, and he trotted inside the flat as if he’d lived there all his life. ‘You’re not in trouble, are you?’ she asked Ben. The flash of concern he thought he saw in her eyes made him feel strangely comforted.

‘Don’t worry about me,’ he said.

‘I’ll always worry about you, and you know it,’ she said. She stepped back into the hallway to where her handbag hung from a Victorian coathanger, took out her purse and produced a business card. ‘My new number’s on here. In case you need it,’ she added hesitantly.

Their fingers brushed as he took the card from her hand. They parted with a few more lame words. Ben felt her gaze on him as he walked towards the car.
Don’t look back
, he thought.

But he did. Brooke was still standing in the doorway. She gave him an uncertain wave as he opened the car door, and a drum began to beat triumphantly in his heart. He managed to conquer the urge to run back through the gate and take her in his arms. It somehow didn’t seem appropriate.

‘Who was that?’ Jude said as Ben got back in the car. ‘She looks nice.’

‘Never mind,’ Ben said, starting the engine. He glanced back towards the house and saw that Brooke had shut the door.

‘Your girlfriend?’

‘Leave it, Jude.’

‘What’s wrong? You two have a fight?’

Ben said nothing and sped away.

After managing to make a last-minute phone booking en route, Ben screeched the Vauxhall into the car ferry terminal at Dover with just minutes to spare before the 10 a.m. crossing. They were the last car to board.

A few days closer to Christmas than Ben’s outward journey from France, the ship was more crowded. As the cliffs of Dover sank into the leaden sea, he wandered out on deck and leaned against the stern railing. Jude came out to join him. ‘I still don’t understand why you didn’t want to take a flight,’ Jude said, gazing down at the ship’s wake.

‘I thought you liked the sea,’ Ben said.

‘I do. A lot. But you seemed in such a hurry. The ferry seems like an unnecessary hassle.’

‘Some things are worth the hassle,’ Ben said.

Jude frowned at him. ‘You’re a complete mystery to me, you know that? I always get the feeling you’re holding stuff back. Don’t you trust me?’

Ben didn’t reply. He took out his cigarettes.

‘We’re not going to make it through this, are we?’ Jude said, gazing fixedly down at the ferry’s broad white wake. ‘We’re going to get killed. I am, at any rate.’

‘You’re not going to get killed,’ Ben said. ‘A few weeks from now you’ll be back at university and getting on with your life.’

Jude shook his head sadly. ‘If I make it through this, I don’t think I’ll be going back there. I’d already kind of decided to quit. Dad and I argued about it a lot. I suppose you’re going to give me a hard time about it too?’

‘Not a bit of it. Quit to do what?’ Ben asked.

‘I don’t really know yet. I always wanted to do something to help the environment. Maybe I’ll join up with Greenpeace, try to get crew work on board one of their ships.’

Ben lit a cigarette and offered him one. Jude waved it away. ‘Don’t smoke.’

‘You mean you don’t smoke tobacco,’ Ben said.

Jude shot him a glance. ‘I don’t smoke anything else either, unlike a lot of the deadheads that hang around Robbie’s folks’ place. Not that it’s any of your business.’ He went quiet for a while, turned his back on the deck rail and gently rubbed his torn knuckles. They looked painful. Ben knew from experience how much it hurt to vent your anger against solid objects, like brick walls and car dashboards.

He knew how other kinds of pain felt, too.

‘If it’s any consolation, I’ve been there myself,’ he said, letting a stream of smoke blow away on the sea breeze. ‘I lost my parents, a long time ago. I was a bit younger than you when it happened. I know exactly what it’s like to be left all alone in the world.’

‘Did they die in an accident?’

Ben shook his head. ‘I almost wish they had. No, my mother killed herself. My father went soon afterwards. He couldn’t go on.’ He could talk about these things now, though it still pained him after so many years.

‘I’m sorry,’ Jude said. ‘So you’ve got no family either.’

‘I didn’t, for a long time. Until I found my sister Ruth.’

‘Found her?’

‘Ruth was kidnapped as a child, during a family holiday in Morocco. For years, everyone assumed she was dead. We all lost hope. It was what tore the rest of the family apart.’ Ben puffed out a cloud of smoke. ‘Except that she wasn’t dead at all.’

‘How come?’

‘That’s a long story,’ Ben said, and immediately heard Brooke’s voice in his mind.

It always is with you, isn’t it?

‘She lives in Switzerland now,’ he went on, ‘running her own mega-corporation. You’d like her. She’s another Greenie, like you.’

‘Crazy shit,’ Jude said, gazing out to sea.

‘I suppose it’s been a crazy life,’ Ben said.

It was 12.30 p.m. local time when the ferry docked at the cold, sleety port of Calais and they disembarked and breezed through customs. ‘Are you sure we’ll make it to Paris in this thing?’ Jude asked uncertainly as Ben fired up the Vauxhall and a cloud of black smoke belched from its exhaust.

Once they were safely away from the watchful security officials at the port, Ben pulled into a side street and got out of the car. Ignoring Jude’s nonstop questions as to what the hell he was doing, he crouched down on the pavement to peer at the filth-crusted underside of the Vauxhall, produced a small clasp knife and slit the winding of duct tape that secured the two-foot-long plastic-wrapped item to one of the rusty chassis tubes.

‘I think I know what that is,’ Jude said suspiciously as Ben detached it from the bottom of the car, glanced quickly up and down the street and then slipped the object into his bag.

‘There,’ Ben said. ‘Now you know why we didn’t take a flight.’

‘You just smuggled a dirty great gun through customs!’

Ben shrugged. ‘Let’s hope the nasty terrorists don’t get the same idea. Now grab your rucksack. This car’s scrap. There’s a Hertz place two minutes’ walk from here.’

They picked up a silver Renault Laguna at the car rental office and quickly left the north coast behind them, cutting down through the Pas de Calais and Picardy towards Paris, three hours’ drive to the south. Ben pressed the Laguna on hard, carving through the motorway traffic and keeping an eye out for police.

Sometime after Amiens, he turned on the radio to escape the monotonous roar of the heater, only to find a classical music station playing Chopin’s
Marche Funèbre
. As if he needed a reminder that Simeon and Michaela’s funeral could be, for all he knew, taking place at that very moment. He quickly hit the tuner button, scanning through a jumble of music and talk until he landed on a jazz station and turned up the volume.

Nearly four hours had gone by since leaving Calais when Jude stretched, yawned and glanced at a passing road sign for Orléans. ‘My French geography isn’t exactly up to scratch, but as far as I can tell we seem to have passed Paris some time ago.’

‘Well spotted.’

‘Thought you were planning on leaving me there?’

‘That was the plan,’ Ben said. ‘But remember what you said before about me not trusting you?’

‘I remember,’ Jude said warily.

‘You were right. It seems to me that if I leave you in Paris, the moment my back’s turned, you’ll be haring after me across France. Correct?’

Jude threw up his arms in protest, then relented. ‘I’ve as much right to find out what’s going on as you have. They were my parents.’

‘I understand,’ Ben said. ‘But I’m serious. You stick close by me and do exactly what I say. No more messing around, or I’ll truss you up like a Christmas turkey and you can spend the rest of the journey shut in the boot.’

‘You’d do that, wouldn’t you?’

‘Like I said, we handle this my way. Promise?’

‘Promise,’ Jude said reluctantly. ‘Does this military regime extend to stopping anytime soon for a bite to eat? I’m starving.’

Lunch was a cold ham baguette and a bottle of mineral water at a motorway service station. They said little, and listened to the drumming of the freezing rain on the car roof. Ben used the Laguna’s sat nav to check his route southwards: the motorway would carry them straight down past Bourges and Clermont-Ferrand, cutting through the Auvergne region and the Massif Central, then finally into the Midi-Pyrénées.

Meanwhile, wheels were in motion and the powerful information-gathering machine that was the Trimble Group was doing its work, sucking in data from contacts most government agencies could only dream of, processing it at light speed and siphoning it directly through the appropriate channels. The encrypted email landed with a little
ping
on Rex O’Neill’s screen on his desk in Capri at precisely the moment Ben Hope was using his credit card to pay for the rental car at the Hertz office in the Port of Calais. O’Neill opened it and saw the names Hope and Arundel, together with the details and exact times of their clearing passport control into France.

He had a decision to make. He could either keep this information to himself, refuse to cooperate with the plans of a man he now believed to be a lunatic, or else he could do what his job required him to do and notify his boss that his current number one target had just reappeared on the radar along with a very interesting travelling companion.

O’Neill stared at the screen for a long time, undecided and wishing fervently that he had never been given this assignment. He reached across his desk, picked up the little framed portrait photo of Megan and gazed tenderly at it for a moment, thinking how beautiful she was and how much he longed to be back in London with her instead of stuck in this gilded cage serving the egomaniacal whims of a man like Penrose Lucas.