Читать книгу The Forgotten Holocaust - Scott Mariani, Scott Mariani - Страница 18

Ben didn’t return to the cottage for a few hours. The bus he took back from the hospital wound its unhurried way back through several villages and finally dropped him on the main road, quarter of a mile from Pebble Beach. From there, avoiding the guesthouse, he cut across a patch of wasteground and down a rocky slope that joined the coastal path where it curved around the headland. A short way further on was a little cove he’d discovered years ago. It was a place he knew he’d be alone, and solitude was what he needed.

He found a place to sit among a cluster of rocks overhanging the water, and took out his cigarettes. He lit one mechanically, shielding the Zippo flame from the wind with a cupped hand. He stared out to sea, watched the hissing foam boil around the foot of the rocks. The cigarette didn’t taste of anything much. He plucked it from his lips and tossed it into the surf where it fizzed briefly and then was gone.

He barely noticed the grey swell. All he could see was the choice that now lay in front of him.

It was a simple matter of two options. Left, or right. Black, or white.

The first option was to step back, yield to the police and trust them to deal with this. He’d meet with Kristen’s family, offer condolences and support. He’d hang around here for as long as necessary, do whatever he could to assist the authorities, but remain firmly in the background. He could be passive, patient and calm. Take a back seat and stay there.

But as he sat there, he knew in his heart that could never happen. He’d never been passive in his life, let alone supportive towards the authorities – two ingrained habits that right now didn’t seem a good time to start trying to break. That led him to the second option.

He thought again about Kristen, replayed one more time in his mind the brief period they’d spent together, and the way it had ended. He’d barely known her, and yet he couldn’t have felt the responsibility more heavily. Maybe it was because he felt so powerless to fix other things in his life that this pressed on him so much. He didn’t know why, and he didn’t care to ponder the reasons too closely. He just knew what felt right to him. In fact, he realised, there never had been a choice. This had to be finished his way, the way he’d always done things. The only way he really knew. No matter how hard he tried to stay off that road, it kept calling him back. Maybe it always would.

From the cove, he walked back along the beach. It was after lunchtime but he wasn’t hungry. He passed his cottage at a distance and barely glanced at it. He passed the crime scene, saw the police tape flapping in the wind and the Garda Land Rover parked on the shingle. Nearby, a pair of chunky, unfit-looking cops were scratching slowly about for whatever clues bare rocks could yield up. He had no doubt that pretty soon, they’d retire empty-handed to their vehicle and go trundling back to the comfort of the police canteen for their pie and chips.

Ben walked on towards the guesthouse. Inside, he found the reception desk unoccupied. While nobody was about, he grabbed the register and flipped it around on the desk to check for the names of the Belgian guests Healy had said had witnessed the attack. They weren’t hard to find. Monsieur and Madame Goudier had been staying for most of the week and were scheduled to leave tomorrow.

‘Room five,’ Ben said to himself as he headed for the stairs. Before he got there, what had once been the door to his office, now with a sign that said ‘STAFF ONLY’, swung open and Mrs Henry appeared in the passage. Her eyes were red and puffy. She stopped dead when she saw him, took one look at his battered face and instantly broke out blubbering.

I don’t need this now, Ben thought as the tears flowed and the words flowed faster.

‘That poor girl,’ Mrs Henry repeated over and over, though Ben got the impression that she was generally more concerned with the impact this would have on bookings. The media hadn’t stopped pestering her all morning, she complained, and they were whipping up a storm that their poor fragile business could surely never weather. What kind of reputation would they have now that it wasn’t safe to walk the beach with all these maniacs and killers lurking about the place? If things got any worse, Bryan might have to give up his golf club membership. It would be the end of him.

Ben briefly expressed his sympathies for Bryan’s imperilled sporting career. He pointed up the stairs. ‘Which is room five?’

‘That’d be the Goodyears’,’ Mrs Henry sniffed, mopping the corner of her eye with another tissue. ‘They’re in the conservatory, finishing their lunch. Though they could hardly eat a thing, poor souls, after the shock they’ve had.’ It didn’t seem to occur to her to ask why Ben wanted to speak to them, and he didn’t feel the need to explain. As quickly as he could, he detached himself from her and headed for the conservatory.

A gloomy pall seemed to have descended on the guesthouse, and the few guests having lunch in the conservatory were eating quietly, just a murmur of occasional conversation and the clinking of cutlery. Ben spotted the middle-aged couple from the unmistakably European way they were dressed. They were both lean, as if they did a lot of sports or hiking. The man’s hair was silvery and swept back from his high forehead, while his wife’s was an expensively coiffured bottle-blonde. They were sitting in silence at a table in the corner, drinking an after-lunch pot of coffee. Even at a distance, they looked obviously upset and shaken by the horror of what they’d witnessed yesterday. They didn’t notice Ben walk up to them.

‘Monsieur and Madame Goudier?’ he said.

They looked up at him, startled. ‘I am Bernard Goudier,’ the man said in accented English. ‘This is my wife Joelle. And you are …?’

‘Hope, Ben Hope. I’m sorry to interrupt your coffee,’ Ben said, switching to French. In the amazed silence, he motioned at the empty chair at their table. ‘May I join you for a moment? This won’t take long.’

‘What won’t take long?’

‘I’d like to talk to you about yesterday,’ Ben said. ‘A few questions, and I’ll leave you in peace.’

The Goudiers both stared, too taken aback to say no as he pulled out the empty chair and sat down. ‘You’re not from the police,’ Joelle Goudier said. She had perfect teeth and smelled of Chanel.

‘No, I’m the man you witnessed trying to stop the attack.’

‘I see you were hurt,’ Bernard Goudier said, glancing at Ben’s cut.

‘I’ll survive. But as you might have noticed, I didn’t get to see all that happened. I’m just trying to flesh out the picture.’

The Belgian gave a dry smile. ‘Is it normal in Ireland for civilians to conduct their own inquiry?’

‘It’s not normal for a young woman to be murdered on this beach, either. You’re the only witnesses. Please. Is there anything else you can remember about the incident?’

‘We told the police everything,’ said Joelle Goudier. ‘Bernard and I had spent the afternoon walking and we were returning towards the guesthouse when we heard an engine revving loudly, and turned to see a big, black car—’

‘A Range Rover V6 Sport,’ her husband filled in for her.

‘—veer off the road and drive very fast towards the beach. We soon realised who they were chasing. The poor woman began to run as they got out of the car and chased her. She dropped the bag she was carrying, and one of the attackers picked it up. For a moment I thought that would be the end, that they would leave her alone now that they had stolen from her. But no, they continued chasing her. Then we saw you come to help her. You were very brave, Monsieur.’

‘I have an interest in birdwatching,’ Bernard Goudier explained, ‘and I’d been hoping to get a close sighting of a sandwich tern that afternoon, as they’re around at this time of year. I use excellent binoculars, Zeiss Victory HT ten-by-fifties, which is why, even though the sun was setting, I had a very good view of the man who took out the knife.’

‘Was it the one in the green hooded top, or the one in the navy jacket?’ Ben asked.

‘Jacket. I thought he looked like a soldier. And it was a military-issue knife.’

Ben looked at him. ‘May I ask how you would know that?’

‘It happens that another of my interests is collecting militaria,’ Goudier said. ‘Insignia, medals, also items such as bayonets and knives. The weapon used was a United States Marine Corps fighting and utility knife. Seven-inch blackened blade, clip point, leather handle.’

‘A Ka-Bar,’ Ben said, and the Belgian nodded. ‘You told the police these details?’ Ben asked him.

‘Naturally,’ Goudier said. ‘Anyhow, when the man produced the weapon, the woman was in extreme terror and tried to get away from him. That was when she disappeared out of my sight, behind a large rock. The man in the navy jacket stepped after her with the knife in his hand. He seemed very calm, deliberate. I soon lost sight of him too, but I could see the other man, the one in green, watching. I knew what was happening. It was sickening. The man was smiling.’

‘Smiling,’ Ben said, his fists tightening.

‘As if he was enjoying the spectacle of the woman being butchered. As if it was just an amusing game for them. And I could do nothing but watch. I was so shocked that I was simply paralysed for several moments.’

Goudier looked as if he could spit into his coffee. ‘Then the man in the navy jacket reappeared. He still looked very calm, like someone who does this every day. He began to walk towards where you were lying unconscious, and I knew that his intention was to kill you too, in cold blood. That was when I regained my wits. I had to do something, so I started running towards them, waving my arms like a lunatic and shouting at the top of my voice. The men saw me and ran back to their car.’

‘Then I have you to thank for saving my life,’ Ben said. ‘But you risked your own. You might have regretted it.’

‘What I regret is that I didn’t act sooner,’ Goudier said. ‘I won’t ever forget the look on that poor girl’s face.’

Joelle Goudier reached across and clutched her husband’s hand. ‘Then we called the police,’ she said. ‘But of course it was too late. What a terrible, horrible thing to happen.’

‘And I apologise to you both for making you relive it,’ Ben said, getting up.

‘Can we buy you a drink, Monsieur Hope?’ Bernard Goudier asked.

‘No, thanks. Have a safe journey home.’