3

The western Irish coast, four days later

Ben woke up with a start. For a few moments he lay there, disorientated and confused as reality slowly pieced itself together. Next to him, on the bedside table, his phone was shrilling. He reached out his arm for the handset. Clumsy from his long sleep, his groping hand knocked over the empty glass and the whisky bottle that stood by the phone. The glass smashed across the wooden floor. The bottle hit the boards with a heavy clunk and rolled away into a heap of discarded clothes.

He cursed, sitting up in the rumpled bed. His head was throbbing and his throat was dry. The taste of stale whisky was still in his mouth.

He picked up the phone. ‘Hello?’ he said, or tried to say. His hoarse croak gave way to a fit of coughing. He closed his eyes, and felt that unpleasantly familiar feeling of being sucked spinning backwards down a long, dark tunnel, making his head feel light and his stomach queasy.

‘I’m sorry,’ said the voice on the other end of the line. A man’s voice, clipped English accent. ‘Have I got the right number? I’m looking for a Mr Benjamin Hope.’ The voice had a note of disapproval that irked Ben immediately despite his fuzzy head.

He coughed again, wiped his face with the back of his hand and tried to unglue his eyes. ‘Benedict,’ he muttered, then cleared his throat and spoke more clearly. ‘That’s Benedict Hope. Speaking…What time do you call this?’ he added irritably.

The voice sounded even more displeased, as though its impression of Ben had just been confirmed. ‘Well, ten-thirty actually.’

Ben sank his head into his hand. He looked at his watch. Sunlight was shining through the gap in the curtains. He began to focus. ‘OK. Sorry. I had a busy night.’

‘Evidently.’

‘Can I help you?’ Ben said sharply.

‘Mr Hope, my name is Alexander Villiers. I’m calling on behalf of my employer Mr Sebastian Fairfax. I’ve been instructed to tell you that Mr Fairfax would like to retain your services.’ A pause. ‘Apparently you’re one of the very best private detectives.’

‘Then you’ve been misinformed. I’m not a detective. I find lost people.’

The voice went on. ‘Mr Fairfax would like to see you. Can we arrange an appointment? Naturally, we’ll collect you and pay you for your trouble.’

Ben sat up straight against the oak headboard and reached for his Gauloises and Zippo. He trapped the pack between his knees and plucked a cigarette out. He thumbed the wheel of the lighter and lit up. ‘Sorry, I’m not available. I’ve just finished an assignment and I’m taking a break.’

‘I understand,’ said Villiers. ‘I’m also instructed to inform you that Mr Fairfax is willing to offer a generous fee.’

‘It’s not the money.’

‘Then perhaps I should tell you that this is a matter of life or death. We’ve been told you may be our only chance. Won’t you at least come and meet Mr Fairfax? When you hear what he has to say, you may change your mind.’

Ben hesitated.

‘Thank you for agreeing,’ said Villiers after a pause. ‘Please expect to be picked up in the next few hours. Goodbye.’

‘Hold on. Where?’

‘We know where you are, Mr Hope.’

Ben went for his daily run along the deserted beach, with just the water and a few circling, screeching seabirds for company. The whispering ocean was calm, and the sun was cooler now that autumn was on its way.

After his mile or so up and down the smooth sand, his hangover just a faint echo, he picked a path down to the rocky cove that was his favourite part of the beach. Nobody ever came here except him. He was a man who liked solitude, even though his job was seeking to reunite people with those they’d lost. This was where he liked to come sometimes when he wasn’t away working. It was a place where he could forget everything, where the world and all its troubles could slip out of his mind for a few precious moments. Even the house was out of sight, hidden behind the steep bank of clay and boulders and tufty grass. He cared little for the six-bedroomed house–it was far too large for just him and Winnie, his elderly housekeeper–and he had only bought it because it came complete with this quarter mile stretch of private beach, his sanctuary.

He sat on the same big, flat, barnacled rock as he always did, and idly flung a handful of pebbles one by one into the sea as the tide lapped and hissed at the shingle around him. With his blue eyes narrowed against the sun he watched the curving drop of a stone against the sky, and the little white splash it made as it disappeared into the roll of an incoming wave. Nice going, Hope, he thought to himself. It took that stone a thousand years to reach the shore, and now you’ve thrown it back. He lit another cigarette and gazed out to sea, the gentle salt breeze stirring his blond hair.

After a while he reluctantly got up, jumped down off his rock and made his way back up towards the house. He found Winnie pottering about in the huge kitchen, making him some lunch. ‘I’m going to be leaving in a couple of hours, Win. Don’t fix me anything special.’

Winnie turned and looked at him. ‘But you only got back yesterday. Where are you off to this time?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘How long will you be away?’

‘I don’t know that either.’

‘Well you’d better eat something,’ she said firmly. ‘Running about all the time, never in one place long enough to draw a breath.’ She sighed and shook her head.

Winnie had been a faithful and stalwart companion to the Hope family for many years. For a long time now, Ben had been the only one left. After his father had died, he’d sold the family home and moved out here to the west coast of Ireland. Winnie had followed. More than just a housekeeper, she felt like a mother to him–an anxious, often exasperated, but always patient and devoted mother.

She abandoned the cooked lunch she’d started making for him and quickly prepared a pile of ham sandwiches. Ben sat at the kitchen table and munched a couple of them, far away in his thoughts.

Winnie left him and carried on her other chores around the house. There wasn’t much for her to do. Ben was hardly ever there, and when he did come home she would barely notice his presence. He never talked about his work, but she knew enough about it to know that it was dangerous. That worried her. She worried about the drinking, too, and the cases of whisky that arrived a little too regularly by van. She’d never spoken of it openly to him, but she fretted that, one way or another, he was going to put himself in an early grave. Only the good Lord knew which one would get him first, whisky or a bullet. Her greatest fear was, she didn’t think it mattered to him either way.

If he could just find something to care for, she thought. Someone to care for. He kept his private life a closely guarded secret, but she knew that the few times a woman had tried to get close to him, to make him love her, he’d cut her off and let her drift away. He’d never brought anyone back to the house, and many phone calls had gone unanswered. They always stopped phoning in the end. He was afraid to love anyone. It was as though he’d killed that part of himself, hollowed himself out emotionally, made himself empty inside.

She could still remember him as a youngster full of bright optimism and dreams, with something to believe in, something to give him strength that didn’t come out of a bottle. That had been a long, long time ago. Before it happened. She sighed at the memory of those terrible times. Had they ever really ended? She was the only person, other than Ben himself, who understood what it was that secretly drove him. Knew the pain that was in his heart.