Scott Mariani - The Armada Legacy

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, officious-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.’