Читать книгу The Lost Relic - Scott Mariani, Scott Mariani - Страница 12

Ben headed roughly south-southwest with the rising sun behind him, aiming more or less in the direction of Naples with the intention of veering slowly towards Italy’s west coast. From there, he’d follow the coastal road through a hundred seaside towns and villages until eventually he reached Rome.

For a man who’d been running this way and that for most of his life, always with a precisely calculated plan in mind, always battling the clock, it felt strange to be at something of a loose end. Strange, yet welcome too – because, for the first time, he wasn’t looking forward to his trip to visit Brooke in London. A month earlier, he’d have been racing to get there.

What had changed? That was the question in his mind as he drove. For the hundredth time he raked back in his mind through all their conversations, things he might have said to upset her, anything he might have done wrong. He couldn’t think of a single reason. There’d been no arguments between them. No falling out, nothing to explain why things should be less than deliriously perfect. Almost three months of what he’d thought was a happy, loving, warm relationship.

So what had gone wrong? What had been eating her lately? She’d seemed to withdraw from him, obviously preoccupied but refusing to talk about what was on her mind. Not so long ago, they’d taken every opportunity to be together, whether it was him travelling to London or her coming down to see him at Le Val. But suddenly she’d seemed less interested in leaving her place in Richmond, even cancelling the last couple of lectures in hostage psychology she’d been due to give for his clients. All of a sudden she was hard to get on the phone, and when he did manage to get through to her, he was sure he could detect a tone in her voice that hadn’t been there before. Nothing had been said. It was as though she was hiding something from him.

What exactly he thought he was going to achieve by springing this surprise visit on her in London, he wasn’t quite sure. Did he mean to have it out with her? Challenge her? Level with her about how much he cared for her and ask her to be straight with him in return?

Maybe the problem wasn’t with her, he thought as he drove on. Maybe it was with him. Wasn’t he the one who’d come to Italy looking for ways to get out of his situation at Le Val? Wasn’t he the one who wanted to walk away from the stability he’d worked so hard to build? Maybe Brooke had sensed something in him, some change in him, or a lack of commitment. That thought hurt him, and he asked himself over and over again whether there was any truth in it. Was there? He didn’t think so, but maybe there was.

A Paris cop called Luc Simon had once said something to Ben that had stayed with him ever since:

‘Men like us are bad news for women. We’re lone wolves. We want to love them, but we only hurt them. And so they walk away …’

Ben stayed on the minor roads, trying to hold himself down to a steady pace but finding the car’s speed constantly creeping up on him. After a while he just settled back and let it go as fast as it wanted. The blast from the open windows tore at his hair, and he found a radio station that was playing live jazz – hard-driving, frenetic, with shrieking saxes and thunderous drums that suited his mood.

In the few hours it took him to reach the west coast, passing through the sun-soaked hills of the rich Campania region, he’d managed to mellow somewhat. It was early afternoon when he caught his first glimpse of the blue Tyrrhenian Sea, boats and yachts dotted white on the glittering waters. He meandered on for a few more kilometres and then found an ancient fishing village just a little to the north of Mondragone, unspoilt by the tourists, where he pulled over. He checked his phone for any messages from Brooke. There were none.

After a few minutes of wandering the crumbling streets he found a restaurant that overlooked the beach – a quiet family-run place with small tables, chequered tablecloths and a homely menu that almost compared with the delights of Casa McCulloch. The wine tempted him but he drank less than a full glass before moving on.