The Ben Hope Collection: 6 BOOK SET (76 page)

The lawyer nodded sadly. ‘And that’s all I have to tell you,’ he said to Ben. ‘If it wasn’t for Molly here, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation.’

Molly walked over to his chair and laid a hand softly on his shoulder. With the other hand she wiped away a tear. Skid stroked her arm. There was tension between them, but there was tenderness too.

‘I didn’t want her to go to meet you,’ Skid said. ‘It was her idea. She’s a brave lady.’

‘What are you going to do now?’ Ben asked.

‘What else is there for a broke-down, penniless drunken cripple to do? I’m stuck here.’

‘You can’t stay here for ever.’

‘I’ll stay here till Cleaver forgets about me. Or till I die, whichever happens first. I can’t go home, can’t go anywhere. They find me, they’ll kill me. Might as well drink myself to death right here in this chair.’ Skid glanced up at Molly, who was smiling down at him through her tears. ‘What can I say?’ he said. ‘The day I ran into Zoë Bradbury was the day I just screwed my life up into a little ball and threw it in the fire. I’ve lost everything. And I lost the best woman a man could wish for.’

‘You didn’t lose me,’ she whispered. She leaned down and kissed his clammy forehead.

Skid turned and stared at Ben. ‘What about you? What happens next?’

‘I think I should pay a visit to Miss Augusta Vale,’ Ben said.

‘I have the number,’ Skid said.

‘Good. And then I want to talk to Clayton Cleaver.’ Ben reached for his wallet. ‘But first there’s one more thing you can do for me.’

‘What’s that?’

‘You can sell me that big revolver of yours. I have a feeling I might need it.’

It was late by the time Molly drove Ben back to Hinesville. She squeezed his hand and wished him good luck. He smiled and watched her take off into the rainy night, then climbed into the Chrysler and headed for Savannah. In his canvas bag on the seat behind him was Skid’s Freedom Arms .475 Linebaugh hunting revolver and a box of hollowpoint shells.

Ben drove into Savannah and checked into a hotel. For a long time that night, he sat in his room pondering and staring out of the open window across the Savannah river. He was dead tired but sleep was impossible with a thousand thoughts swirling in his mind.

If things had seemed unclear when he was in Greece, the picture was fuller now. And uglier. Working through the pieces, he could see that the chances of finding Zoë Bradbury alive had just slipped further away.

So now he knew the name of the rich, powerful figure who’d felt threatened enough by her to take some kind of drastic action. A hundred million dollars and aspirations to the Governorship of Georgia – you
couldn’t get much richer and more powerful than that, without going all the way to the top.

He also knew now why the name Cleaver had been in her address book. How and why Zoë had been blackmailing him was still a mystery. But one thing was clear: she’d named too high a price. Ten million was easily enough to get him thinking about ways to avoid paying her. From his point of view, he had no way of knowing that he could trust her not to keep coming back again and again. He’d pay her the ten, then a year or two later, if what she had on him was really such a threat to him, she could pop up wanting another ten. And on and on, until she’d bled him dry. Once she’d tasted the money, she might never go away.

There was only one way to eliminate the threat properly and permanently. The logic was chilling, but Ben saw that it was the only answer to Cleaver’s dilemma. Zoë’s life was worth a lot less than ten million dollars.

That left Skid McClusky. From Cleaver’s point of view, the lawyer was just another loose end needing to be tied up. The first attempt had failed, but sooner or later Cleaver would get him, and McClusky knew it. He wasn’t going to stop until he’d silenced anyone who might know anything about this. First Nikos Karapiperis, then Charlie.

Now him. It all suddenly made very clear sense. If Ben didn’t go after Cleaver and put an end to this, Cleaver might very well put an end to him. A hundred million buys a lot of hitmen, and there would be no way to anticipate when and where one might turn up.

As he sat and worked his way through the mini-bar and his cigarettes, his thoughts turned to Tom and Jane
Bradbury. How was he going to tell them that their daughter was almost certainly dead?

Then he shoved that thought behind him. He could worry about it later. For now, there was just one objective. Get Clayton Cleaver.

The next day dawned in a blaze of sunshine. Ben waited until just after nine, then called the number Skid McClusky had given him for Augusta Vale. A grave, solemn man’s voice answered with, ‘The Vale residence.’ Ben explained that he was a close friend of the Bradbury family, just happened to be passing through Savannah, and was hoping to pay Miss Vale a visit. In an even graver voice the man told him to hold on.

When Miss Vale came on the phone, Ben liked her immediately. She sounded like a strong, confident old lady. Her tone was formal, but there was a glowing warmth to it. She told him how delighted she was to hear from a friend of the Bradburys. Why didn’t he come over for coffee? She had some affairs to attend to, but she’d be free after eleven.

Ben used the spare time to explore the old town and buy some clothes. He went for smart, casual and simple – crisp black jeans, white shirt, black jacket. Then he went back to the hotel, and drove the Chrysler to the Vale residence in the Squares.

It was more than a house. The towering white colonial-style mansion stood away from the street, surrounded by verdant gardens filled with flowers and trees. He walked up to the front door and was met by
the solemn, deep-voiced man he’d spoken to on the phone. The butler ushered him inside the house, into a wide entrance hall with chequered marble floor and gilt-framed paintings on the walls.

‘May I take your bag, sir?’ the butler asked.

‘I’ll hold on to it, if that’s OK,’ Ben said.

A grandfather clock chimed eleven as the butler led the way to the drawing-room. He knocked, pushed open a set of polished walnut doors and announced, ‘Mr Hope to see you, ma’am.’

Miss Augusta Vale stood up and walked across the room towards Ben, smiling. She was tall, upright and very elegant, maybe seventy-five years old but radiantly beautiful. Her skin and teeth were perfect and her hair was more platinum than grey. She was wearing a string of pearls over a silk blouse and a black tailored skirt. She offered her hand, and a diamond glittered in the sunlight that streamed through the bay windows.

‘So pleased to meet you, Mr Hope.’

‘Please call me Ben.’

‘Ben. Is that short for Benjamin?’

‘Benedict,’ he said. ‘But everyone calls me Ben.’

‘But Benedict is such a very fine name,’ she replied firmly, as though deciding that that was what she was going to call him.

She invited him to sit down, and asked the butler to bring coffee and cake. She lowered herself daintily into what looked like a Louis XIV settee. Underneath it, a small Pekingese dog eyed him suspiciously and growled quietly.

‘You have a beautiful home,’ Ben said.

‘Thank you. It’s been in the family since the Declaration of Independence.’ She smiled. ‘So you’re a friend of the Bradbury family,’ she said, watching him closely.

He nodded. ‘Tom and Jane send their regards.’

‘Lovely people,’ she said. ‘And Oxford is a fine city. I mean to visit there again in August, for the summer school.’

‘I gather you have a great passion for archaeology.’

‘Indeed I have,’ she said. ‘That’s how I met Zoë. Such a talented young lady. Very intelligent. A little headstrong, perhaps. And rather wild, too.’

‘That’s what people say.’

‘Have you seen her lately?’

‘The last time I saw her, she was about this big.’ Ben held his hand three feet off the floor.

She smiled. ‘So you’re not one of her young bucks, then.’

‘No, I’m not one of her young bucks.’

She didn’t reply to that, but he thought he could see a look of relief and approval in her eye. ‘What do you do, Benedict?’ she asked sweetly.

‘Ben. I’m a student. In fact I’m Tom Bradbury’s student at Oxford.’

‘My, that’s wonderful. You’re a theologian.’

‘I was planning to be.’

‘Then you should really be using that beautiful name of yours. You know what it means, don’t you?’

He said nothing.

‘It means “blessed”,’ she said.

‘I think I’m more cursed than blessed.’

She held his earnest gaze for a second, then laughed. ‘You shouldn’t say things like that. Tell me, Benedict. Where are you staying?’

He told her the name of his hotel, and she shook her head and clicked her tongue. ‘I won’t have it,’ she said. ‘You must come and be my guest here.’

‘I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’

‘You won’t. You can have the old carriage house. It’s a special guest quarters adjoining the house. You’ll be no trouble to me, and I’ll be no trouble to you.’

‘It’s very kind of you,’ he said.

‘Not at all. I’ll have one of the staff collect your luggage from the hotel.’

He pointed to his canvas bag. ‘This is it.’

Miss Vale laughed. ‘You certainly like to travel light, Benedict. And of course, you’ll have dinner with us tonight.’

‘Us?’

‘With myself and Clayton. He is a regular visitor to the house.’

‘Would that be Clayton Cleaver?’

‘Why, you’ve heard of him?’

‘Who hasn’t?’ he said.

‘Then you must be familiar with his book,’ she said.

‘I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure of reading it yet.’

‘Then I’ll give you a copy right away.’ She rang a little bell, and a handsome black woman came into the room. Miss Vale smiled at her, and introduced them. ‘Benedict, this is my housekeeper, Mae.’ She turned to Mae. ‘Could you have one of the girls fetch down a copy of Mr Cleaver’s book from the library?’

‘Right away, Miss Vale.’ Mae nodded and left briskly.

Augusta Vale’s eyes sparkled. ‘You must read it,’ she said to Ben. ‘It changed my life. You know, Clayton personally received Divine illumination from the eternal Spirit of St John the Apostle.’

‘It sounds like quite a book,’ Ben said.

After a few moments a maid entered the room with a large hardback book in her hands. She handed it solemnly to Miss Vale. The old lady dismissed her with a kindly smile. She turned the book lovingly in her hands, and then passed it to Ben.

He thanked her and laid it in his lap. The heavily embossed gold script on the cover read, ‘JOHN SPOKE TO ME, by Clayton R. Cleaver’.

‘Clayton distributes it free to all the poor and underprivileged families,’ Miss Vale said, glowing. ‘He is truly a wonderful man.’

Ben opened the cover. Inside was a foreword by the author. He scanned it quickly.

‘So what do you think, Benedict?’ the old lady asked.

‘It certainly looks interesting,’ Ben said.

‘Take it,’ she said instantly. ‘I have many copies.’

‘That’s very kind, Miss Vale. I look forward to reading it very much. I’m looking forward to meeting the author too.’

She beamed at him. ‘I believe this must have been meant to happen. I just know you and Clayton will get along.’

Mae showed Ben to the carriage house. The guest quarters were situated at the back of the mansion, on the ground floor. It was a substantial apartment in its own right, with two bedrooms, a kitchen, bathroom, living room and even its own dining room. The furnishings were exquisite. Ben tossed his bag onto the four-poster bed and walked back to the living room. French windows looked out over a magnificent subtropical garden filled with palm trees and Spanish moss, and roses of every colour imaginable.

Looking around him at his elegant surroundings and thinking of his amiable, obviously very generous and charming hostess, he couldn’t help but wonder what she was doing with a thug like Clayton Cleaver.

He wondered what kind of man Cleaver must be. He looked at his watch. In a few hours he’d find out.

Far away, Zoë Bradbury was sitting up in her bed, her hands folded limply in her lap, gazing into the middle distance. At the bedside, sitting in a plastic chair, the doctor was making notes on his pad. It was just the two of them. As always, his questions were soft and gentle.

‘That’s a very nice bracelet you’re wearing, Zoë. Is it real gold?’

She held out her right arm and stared at the shiny link bracelet as though she’d never seen it before. ‘I suppose so,’ she muttered suspiciously. She knew that every line of questioning, however indirect and subtle, was a probe searching for a way inside her head. Part of her wanted to scream and run, to fight it until she dropped, to hate this man. But there was a soft look in the doctor’s eye that was genuine, and some part of her very much wanted to trust him, reach out to him. It was an inner conflict she was finding hard to resolve. She was a prisoner; she was kidnapped; yet this man seemed sincerely to want to help her.

‘It looks antique,’ the doctor said. ‘Where did you get it?’

‘I don’t remember where it came from. I don’t know how long it’s been there.’

‘Maybe it was a gift from someone close,’ the doctor suggested. ‘Someone who loves you, like a relative. Tell me about your family.’

‘I see faces in my mind. I think they’re my parents’.’

He nodded. ‘That’s good progress. Things are starting to come back to you, just like I said they would.’

‘Will it all come back?’

‘What you have is called post-traumatic retrograde amnesia,’ he said. ‘The memory loss is usually transient, depending on the severity of the injury. You had a nasty knock on the head. But I’ve seen a lot worse.’ He reached into his briefcase and brought out a book. ‘Now, I have something to show you.’

‘Where am I?’ she asked flatly, ignoring the book. She’d lost count of the number of times she’d asked him that.

He gave his standard reply. ‘A place where we’re going to make you better.’

She sensed his discomfort as he said it. ‘What’s going to happen to me?’ she asked, looking him in the eye. A tear rolled down her cheek.

He glanced away. ‘You’re going to get your memory back.’

‘But what about afterwards? If I remember, what next?’

He laid the book gently across the bed. ‘Let’s focus on this, OK?’

She looked at it. It was a book of dog breeds, filled with colour pictures. ‘What’s this for?’

‘You told me you thought you had a dog back home. Why don’t we see if we can find out what kind he is?’

‘Why?’

‘Because it might help jog other memories. That’s how the mind works, by unconscious association. One recalled detail can trigger another. So, if we can find your dog, we might remember his name. Then maybe some related incident will come back to you, like say a day at the beach. Before you know it, we might be able to start making all kinds of inroads into areas that are still blanked out. OK?’

‘OK,’ she whispered.

He started patiently flipping the pages, one by one. ‘Let’s see. Does he look like this?’ He pointed to a picture of a Labrador.

She frowned. ‘I don’t think he’s that big.’

‘OK, let’s look at some small dogs. Here’s one. King Charles spaniel. Does he look like this?’

She shook her head. ‘No.’

‘What about this one?’

‘I don’t think so.’

He flipped another page.

‘Stop,’ she said. ‘There.’

‘This one?’ He pointed. ‘West Highland White terrier.’

She recognised the picture. It was the small white dog from her cloudy memory. ‘That’s him. That’s my dog.’

‘Good.’ He smiled. ‘We’re making really good progress, Zoë.’

‘Can I go soon?’

‘Soon,’ he said.

‘How soon?’

‘I can’t say yet. It all depends on your recovery.’

‘What am I supposed to be remembering?’ she asked, her voice rising fast. ‘This isn’t therapy. I’m being held against my will. What’s so important that I’m being kept prisoner in this place?’

The doctor had no answer to that. ‘Let’s take this one step at a time, OK?’

When the session was over, he left her in her room. As the guard locked the door behind him, the doctor closed his eyes and sighed deeply.

You’re a doctor. You’re supposed to be helping people.
This is all wrong. What the hell did you get mixed
up in?

‘Jones wants to see you in his office,’ the guard informed him.

‘Later,’ the doctor said.

‘Jones says right now.’

The doctor sighed again. His shoulders drooped.

He got there three minutes later. Knocked on the door and walked in. The room was small and square. The walls were plain, the floor bare concrete. Jones’s desk was clear apart from a phone and a laptop. Jones was leaning back in his chair, smirking at him.

The doctor found it harder every day to hide his hatred of this man. He would have loved to smash that smirk off his face – but he knew what Jones would do to him. ‘What did you want to see me about?’

‘Got any good news for me?’ Jones demanded.

The doctor hesitated. ‘Not the news you want to hear, certainly.’

Jones grunted. ‘I didn’t think so. I wouldn’t say this so-called therapy of yours is getting us anywhere, would you?’

‘Yes, actually I would. Besides, it’s still early days.’

‘Maybe you don’t realise what’s going on here, Dr Greenberg. We’re on the clock with this.’

‘You can’t just click your fingers and make severe retrograde amnesia disappear overnight. Her GOAT results are improving steadily.’

‘What the hell is a goat?’ Jones snapped.

‘Galveston Orientation and Amnesia Test,’ the doctor said, trying to preserve his calm.

‘Don’t bullshit me with medical jargon. She’s lying.’

‘You saw the polygraph result.’

‘The lie detector isn’t reliable. You know that as well as I do.’

‘Listen to me,’ the doctor hissed. ‘We’re close. Really close. A few more days, a week. Maybe two, and it’s my guess that her memory will come back completely.’

Jones shook his head. ‘Why is it I get the feeling that you’re stalling me?’

‘I’m not stalling.’

‘Yes you are. You sympathise with the bitch. Buying her time. Let me tell you something. You’re not paid to sympathise. You’re paid to get results, and you ain’t getting them. I’ve given you all the leeway I’m prepared to give. We even redecorated the whole goddamn upper floor so we could move her to a nice little room, because
you said the gentle approach would help. But I’ve had it with gentle.’

The doctor looked down at his feet and balled his fists at his sides. ‘So what are you suggesting we do?’

‘Apply more pressure. There are ways.’

‘What kind of pressure?’

Jones shrugged. ‘Whatever works. I don’t give a shit.’

‘You’re talking about torture.’

Jones shrugged again. ‘Like I said, whatever gets the job done.’

The doctor stared. ‘You’ve got to be kidding.’

Jones said nothing. His eyes were steady and cold.

‘You apply any kind of severe stress to her, and all you’ll do is drive the memories deeper,’ the doctor said. ‘She’ll regress dramatically. And I won’t have anything to do with torture. That isn’t what you hired me for.’

‘You’ll do what I tell you to do,’ Jones said. ‘And this is where we’re going to start.’ He grabbed a sheet of paper from his desk and brusquely handed it across.

The doctor scanned it quickly. There was just one name scrawled on the sheet. It was the name of a chemical. He looked up in alarm. ‘You can’t give that to her. You’re not authorised to use it. It’s experimental. And illegal.’

‘I can give anything I want to her,’ Jones said softly. ‘Now tell me. This shit goes a lot deeper than sodium pentothal, right?’

‘I’m not happy with this.’

‘Like I give a fuck. Answer the question.’

‘It’s designed to repress higher cortical functions and remove all inhibitions,’ the doctor muttered. ‘In
theory, potentially, it’s the most powerful truth serum ever developed. But –’

‘That’s what I heard too.’

‘The only people who ever used this drug are terrorists and mass murderers,’ the doctor said. ‘This is America, not Sierra Leone.’

Jones just smiled, showing yellow teeth.

‘You’ve heard about the side effects?’

Jones didn’t answer.

‘Ninety-five-plus per cent chance of complete, irreversible psychosis. Those are the stories, and there are lab results on chimps to confirm it. That’s what you want to do to this girl? Fry her brain down to the size of a peanut so she has to spend the rest of her life in a mental hospital?’

Jones nodded slowly. ‘If I can get what I need from her first, yes.’

‘Just so you can get this information from her. You’re willing to make that trade?’

‘Absolutely. This matters a great deal to the people I work for.’

‘Then you can find someone else to help you. I won’t be party to this.’

‘Think you have a choice, Greenberg?’

‘I don’t answer to you.’ The doctor turned to go. But the metallic sound of the gun being cocked behind him stopped him in his tracks. He turned back to face Jones.

The man was aiming a pistol right at his head. In his other hand he was holding a phone. ‘You’re going to make a call, doc. You’re going to get me some of
that serum. And then you’re going to administer it to our little patient in there, and we’ll see who’s right.’

The doctor hung his head. He was powerless here. They had him. ‘All right. I have a contact. But I can’t just write out a prescription for this stuff. It might take a few days.’

‘Too slow,’ Jones said. ‘My employer isn’t a patient man.’ He checked his watch. ‘You get it for me by tonight.’

‘Tonight!’

‘Fail me, and you’ll watch me torture the girl before I put a bullet in your eye,’ Jones said. ‘Your choice.’