Scott Mariani - The Armada Legacy

‘What I need to know,’ Ben said, ‘is whether he was carrying anything.’

Billy nodded. ‘Aye, he was carrying a case, so he was.’

‘What kind of a case?’

‘About so big. Black, thin, you know, one of them – what do you call them? – attaché cases. Nothing out of the ordinary, like. Wouldn’t even have noticed if it hadn’t been for the cuffs.’

‘Tell me about the cuffs, Billy.’

‘Like something out of a movie, you know? Like the dude in Ocean’s Eleven. I love that fillum, so I do.’ Billy affected a deep Eastern European voice. ‘ My name is Lyman Zerga. ’

‘You’re saying he had an attaché case cuffed to his wrist?’

Billy nodded. ‘Think it was the right wrist.’

‘And you’re completely sure about this?’

Billy nodded more emphatically. ‘I felt bad afterwards, that I didn’t say anything to the cops, in case it was important or something. Just I didn’t want any trouble. Under the circumstances, if you know what I mean.’

Ben thanked Billy, assured him that his secret was safe and asked him to show him the way between the buildings to the car park.

The evening was growing chillier and the stars were out. The BMW’s clock read 17.42. Brooke had been gone over forty-three and a half hours.

Ben dug Justin Maxwell’s business card out of his pocket and dialled his mobile number. After three rings, a tired and morose-sounding voice answered: ‘Maxwell’.

‘This is Ben Hope. I have a question. What do you know about the briefcase that Sir Roger had with him in the car?’

‘I don’t understand. No briefcase was found at the murder scene.’

‘But he had one when he left the country club.’

‘Maybe so. It’s not unusual for us all to carry a case around, you know. We’re businessmen.’

‘Are NME executives in the habit of cuffing their briefcases to their wrists?’

‘What are you talking about? Why would Roger do that?’

‘The usual reason people do those things. To make it hard for anyone else to get hold of whatever was inside. It was obviously something very important. Not just to him, but to the people who took it from him. The only problem was that he didn’t quite realise who he was dealing with.’

‘Hold on. You’re confusing me,’ Maxwell said. ‘How do you know all this? The police haven’t mentioned anything about it to me.’

‘I’ve just had it confirmed by an eye witness. Plus, Forsyte had the handcuffs key in his stomach. He swallowed it.’

‘He what? ’

‘That’s why they removed his hands,’ Ben said. ‘The right one, to free the case from his wrist. The left, just to cover their tracks.’

‘I can’t believe it. This just gets worse and worse.’

‘The question is, what was inside the case that he was so keen on keeping hidden? That’s what I need to find out.’

‘You think it’s connected to the murder?’

‘You think it isn’t?’ Ben said. ‘Like you said, the case was gone from the death scene.’

There was a long, appalled silence on the phone while Maxwell struggled to get his thoughts in order. ‘What can I say? I … I’m aware that in his speech that night Roger alluded to some other discovery from the wreck of the Santa Teresa that he wasn’t going to make public yet. I can only assume that’s what the case contained, or something connected with it. I didn’t have access to that information.’

‘You’re now the company’s top executive and you didn’t have access to that information?’

‘Look, Roger moves … oh, Jesus … I mean moved in mysterious ways. He was a very secretive man at times, but nobody questioned his way of doing things, because he always turned out to be right in his decisions and he’d made this company very wealthy indeed.’ Maxwell paused, reflecting. ‘If anyone might know more about this business, it’s Simon Butler. He was the one most directly involved with handling and itemising the artefacts, and he and Roger were close friends. It’s possible that Roger may have said something about it to him.’

‘Is Simon Butler still with you at Carrick Manor?’

‘Neither of us is at the manor any longer. What’s the point of hanging around sitting on our hands in the arsehole of nowhere? I’m back here at the company offices, fielding a million phone calls and trying to cope with this whole nightmare. Simon went home yesterday and I haven’t heard from him since. I can give you his address, if it helps. It’s his old family place a few miles from Southampton.’

As soon as the call was over, Ben was keying in the number Maxwell had given him for Simon Butler. There was no reply, no answerphone. Ben tried a couple more times before he put the phone away. He sat there in the darkened car, staring at the digital readout of the dashboard clock.

Forty-three hours and thirty-nine minutes since Brooke had been taken.

It didn’t take long to decide what he had to do next. He fired up the BMW, sped out of the country club car park and headed once more for the airport.

This time, he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be coming back.

Chapter Twenty-Five

It was ten-thirty in the evening by the time Ben’s rental Lexus IS F pulled up at the side of a quiet road on the village outskirts. The sky over southern England was cloudy and starless. He turned off the ignition, flipped on the little overhead light and checked the address Justin Maxwell had given him.

This was the place, all right. A nameplate on the wall by the gate read ‘Knightsford’. The large stone period house stood in the shadows some distance from the streetlamps, at the end of a long driveway.

Ben noticed the FOR SALE sign planted near the front gate and wondered what kind of mansion Butler must be planning to upgrade to from his old family home. NME obviously must pay well.

He stepped out of the car and breathed in the cold night air. He was wearing a newly-bought pair of black jeans and a black sweater and had cleaned himself up as best he could at the airport. There were fresh scuffs on his leather jacket that he couldn’t do much about, but he looked presentable enough for his purpose. He went in the gate and walked up the long driveway towards the house. The lawns were smooth and rolling. Most of the house’s windows were dark, but the new Mercedes sports coupé parked outside told him someone might be at home.

Ben rang the front doorbell and stood waiting for a few moments on the doorstep, running through in his mind what he wanted to ask Simon Butler about the contents of Forsyte’s briefcase. A minute went by. He rang the doorbell again, more insistently. This time he heard stirring inside the house. A light came on through the dappled glass; a figure appeared and the front door opened.

‘Yeah?’

It wasn’t Simon Butler, but a skinnier, acne-spangled version of him about twenty-five years younger. The teenager was experimenting with some kind of proto-punk look, lip-stud and nose ring and weird hair. His eyes were a little unfocused, which Ben reckoned might have to do with the smell of marijuana smoke that wafted out of the doorway. It looked as if Mum and Dad weren’t home, but Ben introduced himself and asked anyway.

‘He’s not here,’ the teen told him in a laconic drawl. ‘They’re letting him out tonight. She’s gone to fetch him.’

‘Letting him out of where?’ Ben asked.

‘Out of the hospital.’

‘Hospital?’

‘Yeah. Should be back soon. You want to wait inside? Might as well come on in.’

The house was warm, and even bigger than it looked on the outside. Everything was expensive. The carpets were thick and soft underfoot. Ben had expected to be shown into a living room or maybe the kitchen, but instead the punkish teenager led him through the house to a doorway at the end of a dark passage. The doorway led to a downward flight of steps and a dimly-lit, bare-brick basement. A couple of heavily made-up teenage girls were lounging on a sagging sofa, either side of a chubby kid of about the same age who was in the middle of some anecdote that nobody seemed particularly interested in. A young guy who was obviously the twin brother of Ben’s punkish host, but without the facial adornments or the chilled-out demeanour, was firing balls across a billiard table. Marijuana smoke drifted in the glow of the single naked bulb. Empty beer cans were strewn carelessly about and there was an overflowing ashtray perched on the edge of the billiard table. A giant Lesbian Vampire Killers poster was peeling off the brickwork. Ben guessed that Mum and Dad probably didn’t venture too often into their kids’ domain.