It was after nine by the time Ben found the third place on his list, a crumbling eighteenth-century apartment building that retained a certain elegance and could potentially have been the home of the Pietro De Crescenzo he was looking for. But when he knocked on the door, a stunningly pretty, dark-haired girl of about twenty-two answered and told him her boyfriend was at the office. She could have been a model.
De Crescenzo didn’t seem the type.
Three down. One left.
It was pushing on for ten in the morning and the sun was warming up fast when he stepped off the bus and made his way on foot through what looked like an even wealthier suburb than Tassoni’s. Tall cypress trees screened the houses from the road. As he approached the tall wooden gates, two things told him he was in the right place. The first was the enormous, sprawling white house he could see through the greenery. It was impeccably tasteful and refined: all the things he’d expect from a man of De Crescenzo’s artistic sensibilities.
The second was the metallic silver Volvo saloon that came speeding out of the gate, scattering gravel over the road in its wake. Ben instantly recognised the hunched, gaunt figure clutching the wheel. The count was going somewhere in a hurry – too much of a hurry to notice Ben standing there on the pavement watching as he sped off into the rising heat haze.
Ben walked in through the open gates before they whirred shut automatically, and made his way up to the house. The front door wasn’t locked. The entrance hall was cool and white, with frescoes on the walls and a tasteful arrangement of gleaming white nude statues. Wandering into a large white living room, he saw a blonde in a flimsy dress sitting on a sofa with her head in her hands. On the coffee table nearby was a fancy lighter set into a block of onyx, and next to it a bottle of vodka and an empty cut crystal tumbler. Both the level in the bottle and the woman looked as though they’d taken a fairly serious hammering the night before.
Ben was standing just a couple of metres from the woman by the time she registered his presence and squinted up at him through a morning-after haze. She looked about forty-five, but if the vodka was a regular thing she might have been eight years younger. Her hair was flattened on the right side where she’d been sleeping on it, and her mascara was smudged. She didn’t seem to care that the strap of her dress had slipped down her arm.
Ben took off his shades.
‘Do I know you?’ she slurred in Italian. Obviously too busy to keep up with the TV news, Ben thought.
‘I’m a friend of your husband’s.’
‘He’s not here.’
‘I know. I just saw him driving off. What’s got him leaving in such a hurry?’
She made a contemptuous gesture, and the dress strap slipped a little further. ‘What do you think?’ she muttered. ‘Numbnuts is only interested in one thing. Art. Always art.’
Ben sat down next to her. She smelled of Chanel No.7 and stale booze. She gazed at him unsteadily for a second, her eyes still bright from the vodka. ‘Who did you say you were again? This isn’t about that thing that happened, is it?’
‘Just a friend,’ Ben said. ‘The name’s Shannon. Rupert Shannon.’ He took out his pack of Gauloises. ‘Smoke?’ She nodded and plucked one out between long red nails. He lit it with the onyx lighter, and then one for himself.
‘Ornella De Crescenzo,’ she said through a cloud of smoke, and held out her hand for him to shake. She clasped his fingers for a few seconds too long, but that might have been the hangover fuzzing her senses.
‘Pietro’s told me so much about you,’ Ben said. ‘I feel as though I know you.’
She nearly choked. ‘You’re kidding, right?’
‘Did he say where he was going?’ Ben asked her. ‘It’s important that I speak to him.’
Ornella made a vague gesture. ‘Some guy called him late last night. Art dealer or something. I forget the name. It’s all the same to me. And this morning, he’s all in a rush packing up his shit, tells me he has to drop everything and go to Spain, some place near Madrid. Of course he won’t fly, wants to take my car, it’s faster than his. I said, touch that car and it’s divorce.’ She laughed giddily.
‘Madrid is long way away.’
‘So I won’t have to see the stronzo for a day or two. Leave me in peace to do my own thing.’
‘Like drink yourself to death?’
She snorted, took another long drag on the cigarette. ‘Sounds good to me.’
‘It can get expensive trying,’ he said. ‘I know.’
Ornella sidled up to him, and he caught a whiff of her vodka breath. ‘Rupert Shannon. That’s a beautiful name.’
Ben had borrowed it from the biggest, dumbest swinging dick of an ex-soldier he’d ever known, a brigadier’s nephew who’d miraculously held it together for three years in the Paras – and later, for a brief time, had somehow worked his way into Brooke’s affections. ‘Kind of you to say so, Ornella.’
She arched an eyebrow and moved closer. ‘Have you come to stay with me a while, Rupert?’ she said in a low purr.
Ben smiled. ‘I think maybe you could do with a coffee.’ The kitchen was a cavernous affair off the entrance hall, with a state-of-the-art cappuccino machine that looked as though it had never been used. Ben fired it up and made two strong black coffees, put the cups on a tray and carried them through to where Contessa Ornella De Crescenzo was lounging back on the sofa, still nursing her hangover. He made an excuse about needing to use the bathroom, and left her alone to sip the coffee as he trotted upstairs.
It was a big place, and it took a few wrong turns and a lot of doors to check before Ben found what looked like Pietro De Crescenzo’s home office. There was a good deal of art on the walls. The antique desk bore a framed snap of the count and countess in their younger days, somewhere alpine – Switzerland, maybe. He had more hair and looked less cadaverous; she obviously hadn’t discovered vodka back then. Happier times.
Next to the picture was all the usual desk stuff – a phone, a jar full of pens and pencils, a lined writing pad, an exhibition brochure and a pile of opened mail, bills and letters. Ben glanced at the one on top long enough to see it was from the director of a gallery in Amsterdam that had loaned De Crescenzo one of the grand masters for his exhibition. The words ‘destruction’ and ‘tragic’ and ‘severe consequences’ featured heavily in the text.
Ben picked up the writing pad. Its topmost sheet had been torn away in a rush, leaving a serrated ribbon of paper trapped in the wire binding rings. He angled the pad towards the light. Whatever had been hastily scribbled in biro on the missing page, the pressure of the pen had left faint marks on the paper under it.
Ben grabbed a pencil from the jar. Using the side of the tip, he carefully shaded over the pressure marks. The handwriting that appeared in white was the jagged scrawl of someone scribbling in a hurry while talking on the phone It took him a few moments to make out the name Juan Calixto Segura. Under it was an address in Salamanca, Spain.
Ben turned on De Crescenzo’s laptop and did a Google search on the name. Segura had no website of his own, but he came up in listings of European fine art dealers. It seemed he specialised in Spanish painting from various periods: El Greco, Velázquez, Zurbarán, Picasso. Ben’s eye skipped down the list, then stopped at a certain eighteenth-to-nineteenth-century Romantic painter and print artist called Francisco José de Goya y Lucientes.
‘Now we’re getting somewhere,’ Ben murmured. He remembered what De Crescenzo had said about not liking to fly. It was a long drive across three countries to Salamanca, which made it all the more interesting that the count would feel the need to rush off to see this Segura so suddenly. Whatever the guy had told him on the phone, it had to be worth hearing. Ben copied the address more clearly on another sheet of the writing pad, tore it off and folded it into his pocket, then burned the original in De Crescenzo’s fireplace. He erased the computer’s memory of the Internet search, then headed back downstairs.
Ornella had finished her coffee and half of his and
was up on her feet, only a little wobbly on her high heels. She’d cleaned up the smudged makeup. As Ben came into the room she teetered over to him with a big smile and ran her hand down his arm.
‘Will you stay for lunch, Rupert? I’m so lonely here, all by myself in this great big house.’
‘Lunch isn’t for two hours.’
Ornella De Crescenzo pouted innocently. ‘You’re right. However shall we pass the time?’
When the count’s away, Ben thought. ‘It was truly a pleasure to meet you, Contessa. I’d love to stay longer, but sadly I have a prior engagement.’
Her face fell. ‘Shame. You’ve been so sweet to me. There must be something I can do for you in return?’
‘Maybe another time,’ Ben said with a smile, and Ornella’s eyes sparkled like champagne. She thumped him playfully on the chest.
‘You’re a bad boy.’
‘You have no idea.’
On his way out the front door, Ben spotted a set of car keys in an ornate silver dish on a stand in the hall, and the shiny leather fob embossed with a distinctive trident emblem. Interesting.
Touch that car and it’s divorce.
Maybe there was something Ornella could do for him, after all. She wasn’t in a fit state to drive it, anyway. Ben snatched the keys and went out into the hot sun to look for where she kept it.
The ivy-clad three-door garage was around the back of the house. He used the remote bleeper attached to the key fob to open the middle door, and when it whirred up he let out a low whistle at what was inside.
Psychopathic SAS fugitive makes off in countess’s Maserati.
Silvana Lucenzi would lap it up.
As he jumped in behind the wheel of the sleek bronze GranTurismo, he was already planning his route. From Rome towards Genova, then passing by Nice and Marseille, through Andorra, then westwards through Spain to Salamanca. A twelve-hour drive, maybe thirteen. But when he twisted the ignition and the throaty roar of the 4.7-litre V8 filled the garage, he reckoned he could do it in less.
It was 10.34 a.m.
Ben slipped the shades back on, and hit the gas.
Chapter Forty-Five
Vila Flor
Portugal
Brooke’s flight had been dead on time, and it was only 11.45 a.m. when her taxi rolled up to the end of the country lane that was as close as it was possible to get to her cottage by car. She got her luggage out of the back, paid the driver and watched the car turn round and disappear in a cloud of dust.
It felt immensely liberating to be here again. The heat was intense and dry, and the air was filled with the chirping of cicadas. She set off down the rambling, rocky path that wound through the trees, across a small valley where butterflies flitted in vast numbers, and up a gentle slope to the grassy mound where her little cottage glinted white in the sunshine. As she walked, she heard the puttering motor of a quad bike in the golden fields and saw the small, wiry figure of Fatima Azevedo riding along with her dog in pursuit. Brooke waved. Fatima and Luis were her nearest neighbours. Their little organic farm a quarter of a mile up the road produced fruit, herbs and a tiny yield of wine that they kept mainly for themselves and their friends. When Brooke was around, the warm-hearted couple would sometimes pop over to visit her with a bottle and a box of fresh eggs.
The rocky path turned to fine gravel on the approach to the cottage. The old stone finca nestled comfortably among sprawling wildflowers and shrubs. After Ben’s place in France, it was Brooke’s favourite place to be. So peaceful here. No noise, no aeroplanes roaring overhead every ninety seconds the way they did in Richmond. Nothing could disturb it. Apart from the growth of the shrubbery, it looked exactly as it had last time she’d been here.
With Ben, she remembered with a smile. It had been the end of June, just a couple of weeks after their long-standing close friendship had developed into the full-blown relationship she’d secretly dreamed of for longer than she liked to admit. It had been a wonderful few days here together. They’d eaten out on the little terrace every day, and gone for long walks together through the surrounding woodland. No worries, no distractions, just their love and laughter. Ben had seemed so happy, happier than she’d ever known him.
She wished he were here with her now. Wondered what he was doing at that moment, and whether he’d got her message. She couldn’t wait to see him again. It was all the more infuriating that Marshall’s behaviour was forcing her to run and hide like this. She could only hope that a few days’ absence would help to cool him down and make the man come to his senses.
Fat chance.
No way was she going to let her troubles spoil the moment, though. An ancient dry-stone wall ran up the side of the path leading up towards the front door. Brooke paused to reach her fingers into the gap between two of the warm stones, where she kept the front door key. She unlocked the door and felt a surge of relief as she stepped inside the cool, fragrant hallway.
Chapter Forty-Six
Rome
Urbano Tassoni and his two bodyguards had long since taken up residence in the morgue downtown, but the villa was still swarming with police and forensics. Darcey and Buitoni left their car in the street and threaded through the cluster of vehicles parked up in front of the house.
Darcey was feeling tired, hot and ratty as they walked in through the entrance hall. A few snatched hours’ sleep, a cool shower and a change of clothes hadn’t done much to alleviate the smarting frustration of letting her target slip through her fingers the night before, and she’d just spent the whole morning in a fruitless attempt to get hold of the surveillance tapes that the Italian police had, according to some vague information from on high, taken from Tassoni’s place shortly after the killing. But now, after she’d bludgeoned Buitoni into chasing up a hundred people who either didn’t answer their phone or simply passed callers from this desk to that department to some other idiot who didn’t seem to know what day it was, it seemed that the whereabouts of the key evidence showing the assassin Ben Hope escaping from the scene of the murders were a complete mystery. It riled Darcey Kane to boiling point when things stood in her way like this.
‘I don’t know why you wanted to come here,’ Buitoni said at her shoulder. ‘They’ve already gone through the place.’ A large plaster covered the cut over his left eye where the falling timber had gashed him.
‘Same reason I wanted to see those bloody tapes,’ she told him without looking at him. ‘To pick up the details that other people usually miss.’
‘How lucky we are to have you,’ Buitoni muttered. He’d been testy all morning. She fired him a glance, but let it go and scanned the crime scene in front of her.
Three sprawled outlines on the floor and the stairs showed where the dead men had lain. Judging their angle and pos ition, Darcey walked over to where the shooter would have been standing when the shots were fired. A mirror on the far wall had been shattered by a bullet that had passed through one of the bodyguards. Behind the smashed glass, the round had chewed a hunk of masonry the size of a pineapple out of the wall. The same had happened with one of the shots fired at Tassoni himself. The bullet had travelled at an upwards angle over the stairs, done its work on the man and gone on to penetrate the plasterwork a metre or so behind where his head had been.
Darcey stepped over the police tape and climbed the stairs. Peering into the bullet hole in the wall, she could see daylight shining through from the other side. She walked across the landing to a door, nudged it open with her toe and found herself inside a brightly lit room that was all glossy wood panels and expensive repro antiques. After expending maybe two-thirds of its muzzle energy blowing out Tassoni’s brains, the bullet had punched through in here and finally come to a stop in the heart of an ornate grandfather clock that stood against the far wall. It looked like the forensics people had already been here to retrieve the bullet for testing and matching. There wouldn’t be much left of it, just a flattened, distorted mushroom of lead alloy bearing only faint traces of the rifling marks
from the gun barrel.
Darcey crossed the thick cream carpet and examined the dead clock. Its gold-tipped hands were frozen at precisely three minutes to six. The piece was dressed up to look like something from an eighteenth-century chateau, but through the splintered mahogany case she could see where the bullet had taken out a thoroughly modern radio-controlled quartz movement. The kind of clock that would lose maybe a second every couple of million years or so. Which meant its testimony could be pretty well trusted. Tassoni had met his maker at exactly three minutes to six.
But Darcey was less concerned with that than the fact that the bullet had made it as far as here in the first place. It didn’t fit Ben Hope’s profile to use such a weapon for this kind of job. It clashed with her instinctive understanding of the guy. A big, noisy, over-penetrative .357 Magnum hand cannon was more the kind of gun you’d expect to find stuck in the belt of a crass thug like Thomas Gremaj. A bad boy piece, for cocky little dickheads who modelled themselves on what they saw in bad action movies, holding the thing sideways and screaming ‘Fuck you, asshole!’ at their victims before spraying bullets all over the place with reckless abandon. That wouldn’t be the style of a man who had been through the SAS training mill. From the killing house at Hereford to the jungles of Borneo and the battlefields of Iraq and Afghanistan, the lessons were ground so deeply into these guys that they never forgot. Darcey would have bet her left thumb that Ben Hope’s instinctive choice for a killing like this, as second nature to him as brushing his teeth or tying his shoelaces, would have been a suppressed 9mm automatic using subsonic ammunition. Neat and discreet, clinical and professional. No excess noise, no hideous mess, no going up against three opponents with only six rounds in the cylinder.
The Lost Relic Page 20
