Bring Him Back (7 page)

‘Yes, that,’ Barberini said, turning pale. ‘It’s the helmet Mario Andretti wore when he won the South African Grand Prix in 1971.’

‘Really?’ Ben lobbed it casually across to him, like a ball.

Barberini leaped forward with a squawk to catch the helmet, and clutched it to his breast as if he’d just rescued a holy relic from the barbarian hordes. ‘Don’t mess with my collection,’ he muttered.

It was far from being the only holy relic in the room. On one wall was a giant signed poster of Ayrton Senna. A steering wheel was encased behind glass, with a photo of a beaming, goggled Jim Clark in the cockpit of a sixties’-era Lotus. A whole corner was dominated by a vintage twelve-cylinder Ferrari demonstration engine on a stand, part of its casing cut away to reveal its lovingly oiled innards. Pictures everywhere. Cars, cars, cars. You could almost smell the high-octane fuel and burning rubber and hear the shriek of high-performance engines revving sky-high.

Ben was putting it together in his mind. ‘Quite the racing car freak, aren’t you, doctor? You must spend a lot of time and money on this stuff.’

Barberini reverently replaced the precious helmet on its unit and turned angrily to face Ben. ‘Never mind what I am,’ he blustered. ‘You haven’t even told me who you are. You better show me some ID. What right have you got to come in here, asking me all these questions and manhandle my property like that?’

‘I never did think it was fireworks,’ Ben said.

‘Fireworks?’ Barberini snarled at him. ‘I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. But there’ll be some fireworks in a minute if you don’t get out of my house.’ He stamped over to a desk, yanked open a drawer and pulled out something small and black.

‘I wouldn’t do that,’ Ben said, eyeing the little Beretta .25 auto that Barberini was pointing at him.

‘And I wouldn’t come a step closer,’ Barberini said with a twisted smile. ‘Unless you want a keyhole in your belly.’

10

BEN STOOD VERY still, staring at the gun.

‘Not so tough now, are we?’ Barberini chuckled.

‘You can’t shoot me,’ Ben said.

‘Want a bet? Self defence. The cops will drag you to the morgue and give me a medal. One less scumbag in the world.’

‘No, I mean you can’t shoot me because the safety’s on,’ Ben said, pointing. ‘Let me show you how it works.’ In two steps, he’d walked up to the gaping Barberini and twisted the gun sharply out of his hand.

‘Aagh! You son of a whore! You broke my finger!’

‘You’re a doctor,’ Ben said. ‘You should know it’s not broken. Now
this
,’ he went on, holding up the tiny pistol, ‘is what we call a mouse gun. Probably wouldn’t have pierced my jacket. Not very accurate, either. I’ll bet I couldn’t even hit that signed Ayrton Senna poster from here. Let’s have a try.’ He flicked off the safety catch and took careful aim.

‘Please!’ Barberini cried out. ‘Not that! It’s irreplaceable!’

‘I imagine so,’ Ben said. ‘All right, then let’s see if we can put a dent in a Ferrari flat-twelve cylinder head. I doubt it, personally.’ He pointed the gun at the engine on the stand.

‘No! I beg you!’ Barberini was virtually crying.

Ben lowered the pistol. ‘Not that either? Then tell me, doctor. How was the Grand Prix?’

There was a moment’s dead silence in the room. Then Barberini, ashen-faced and trembling, said, ‘I know who you are now.’

‘You do?’

‘Yes, I do. You’re not searching for any missing kid. You’re a fucking private eye. Germana hired you, didn’t she? My darling wife. And I suppose you know all about Claudia?’

Ben shook his head. ‘I’m not interested in some pretty young thing you ran off to meet when you were pretending to be in Milan and getting one of your doctor buddies to cover up for you. The hotel bill – that was a nice touch, by the way. Fooled the police, at any rate.’

‘Then what do you want?’ Barberini moaned, nursing his twisted finger.

‘Not all your story was a lie, I’ll give you that,’ Ben said. ‘I believe that you were in a café. I believe you turned your back for a moment, and that the boy happened to be there and took the opportunity to use your phone. But you weren’t there by yourself, and you weren’t at any conference. While the boy was calling on your phone, there was a noise outside. Hard to tell what it was at first. It was a car crash, and no ordinary car, either. Sounded like quite a smash. Was the driver badly hurt?’

Barberini knew there was no longer any point in pretending. ‘He walked away from it,’ he muttered. ‘A few cuts and bruises. He was lucky.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ Ben said. ‘Now, I can easily find out what Grand Prix took place this afternoon within driving distance of here. But you’re going to save me the trouble. Aren’t you, doctor?’

‘Monaco,’ Barberini groaned, shoulders sagging. The admission was obviously a lot more painful than his twisted finger.

‘You were in Monaco this afternoon?’

‘Yeah, yeah. You got me. I wasn’t in Milan. I never went to the conference. You were right, I got my pal Davide to cover up for me so I could spend some time with Claudia and catch the GP. We were at medical school together. I cover for him, sometimes.’

‘So he’s another one who cheats on his wife,’ Ben said.

‘Look, you don’t know Germana,’ Barberini protested. ‘She makes my life a misery.’

‘I suppose Davide says the same about Mrs Gagliardo,’ Ben replied. ‘The fact is, I really don’t give a shit about your domestic affairs. But I’m betting Germana would be interested to know what you’ve been up to. I know she’s at home, because I saw her at the bedroom window earlier. So unless you want me to go and wake her up and have a little chat with her, you’re going to tell me exactly where you were when the crash happened this afternoon in Monaco.’

11

IT WAS LESS than a three-hour drive from Turin to Monaco, especially the way Ben drove, and at that time of night the motorway was virtually deserted. He called Jessica’s number from the road.

‘Sorry to wake you in the wee hours,’ he said when she picked up.

‘I wasn’t sleeping anyway. I hardly do these days.’

‘Any more news?’

‘Carl hasn’t called again. Nothing from the police. What’s happening at your end?’

‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘Is Drew a race fan?’

‘Horses?’

‘Cars.’

‘No, he could never stand motor racing.’

‘What about Carl?’

‘Never expressed an interest. Why are you asking? Have you found something?’

‘Get some sleep, Jessica. You sound knackered.’ Ben ended the call and went back to wondering what the hell Drew Hunter was doing in Monaco. And how a kidnapped boy had been able to walk into a café and make a phone call to his mother. This case was getting stranger by the hour.

‘Fuck it,’ he muttered to himself as the car sped into the night. There was nothing for it but to keep pushing on and see where the trail led him.

*

The tiny principality of Monaco, all two square kilometres of it, went about achieving its enviable record as the safest and most crime-free corner of Europe, even of the world, by means of a virtual police state. The heavily armed cops didn’t tolerate vagrants, any more than they would look kindly on unshaven, slovenly-looking former British Special Forces soldiers kipping in their cars with the remnants of a flask of malt whisky between their knees and a “borrowed” .25-calibre semi-auto pistol in their pocket. Sometime before dawn, Ben found a secluded spot in the wooded hills overlooking the small city and its moonlit harbour, and settled back in his reclined driver’s seat for a couple of hours’ nap.

By the time he’d awoken, feeling none too refreshed, cleaned himself up as best he could, revitalised himself with the first Gauloise of the day and driven down into the winding streets of Monte Carlo to find a parking place, the place was already buzzing. Yesterday’s Grand Prix was now winding up, but in the aftermath of the huge annual event the streets were still crowded and crackling with the excitement of thousands of spectators from all over Europe and beyond. Crews of race personnel were busily dismantling the crash barriers that lined the streets; in just a few hours one of the most famous race circuits of all time would revert back to being simply one of the wealthiest and most fashionable resorts in the world.

Ben now knew the exact spot where the Argentinian driver Enrique Hernandez had spun off the track and totalled his McLaren, in what had been the only real dramatic incident of yesterday’s Grand Prix. Debris from the accident was still being gathered up and loaded onto a trailer as he walked by. The crash had happened on the approach to a hairpin bend at the end of a narrow straight that ran within sight of the harbour. Anyone living in the snazzy apartments overlooking the narrow street would get a stunning view of the race, if they could stand the din of the cars rocketing past below their balconies.

Ben walked on. It was warm. The scintillating morning sunshine glared off the white buildings. Blue sky, blue water, lazy yachts and whispering palm trees. The place must have had some real allure once, he thought, before it had become a haven for the self-consciously rich who lived only to flash their toys, their tans and their starvation-diet bodies, immaculately groomed and preened down to the last designer thread. He knew he stood out like a sore thumb here among the beautiful people. Every second vehicle was a Rolls or a Lambo. Perhaps inspired by the thrill of the Grand Prix, all the moneyed young bucks were out in force, cruising the drag in their aviator shades, arms dangling from the windows of their gleaming red sports cars and trying to look all aloof and studly for the preternaturally large numbers of attractive young females on the street.

Fifty metres up from the crash site, right on the hairpin bend for which Hernandez had been braking when he lost control, was the café from where Carl Hunter had made his brief phone call home. Scantily clad women in sunglasses and men with gold watches the size of wagon wheels were taking their morning coffees and champagne breakfasts at parasol-shaded tables on the pavement outside.

Ben flicked his unfinished Gauloise into a vacant ashtray, strolled into the bustling café and glanced about. He approved of the John Coltrane jazz playing in the background; other than that, the place was way too glitzy for his tastes, but he hadn’t come here to appreciate the decor. Second alcove on the right: that was the table where Gianni Barberini had been necking distractedly with his girlfriend when Carl had managed to snatch the mobile phone from the table for a few moments.

‘Can I help you, sir?’ asked a waiter.

‘Maybe,’ Ben said. ‘Were you working here yesterday?’

‘Sure. It was crazy.’

Ben took out the photo of Carl to show him. ‘Did you see this boy? He may have dark hair now.’

The waiter peered closely at Ben. ‘Police?’

‘Scotland Yard,’ Ben said, and flashed an old military pass at the guy. ‘What about this man?’ he asked, taking out the photo of a slightly younger and much slimmer Drew Hunter that Jessica had given him. ‘Again, dark hair now. We think he may be living locally.’

‘What’d he do, default on his taxes?’ the waiter asked with a grin.

‘Terrorist bomber,’ Ben said.

‘No shit.’ The waiter studied the pictures for a moment, then shook his head. ‘Can’t say they look familiar to me.’

‘Think I might show these to a couple of your other staff here?’

‘Sure, no problem. See Valérie over there? Go ask her.’

But Ben drew a blank with Valérie and the other three members of staff he quizzed. He downed a quick espresso at the bar, then walked back out into the sunshine and gave a sigh.

‘Fine,’ he murmured aloud. ‘Then we do this the hard way.’

The hard way was to go hoofing it door-to-door, and just keep trying until, with any luck, someone recognised either Carl or Drew from the photos. It was gruelling and time-consuming work, but Ben didn’t have a lot of choice. The only question was where to start. He glanced left, glanced right, and began making his way back down the busy street towards the apartment buildings near the crash site.

He walked briskly, deep in thought. He passed a boutique. Then a little charcuterie. Next door was a bakery, emanating the wonderful odour of fresh baguette still warm from the oven. A man stepped out of the bakery, dressed in Bermuda shorts and a white polo shirt. He was slim and clean-shaven, with dark glasses and a Panama hat. He had a shopping basket in one hand and a couple of baguettes wrapped in brown paper tucked under his arm. His son followed him out of the bakery, a pre-teenage boy who looked like any other Mediterranean kid: tanned, black hair.

They were Drew and Carl Hunter.

12

BEN BARELY PAUSED in his stride, even though every nerve in his body was jangling like an alarm bell at the sight of them. Covering his reaction perfectly without a flicker of emotion showing on his face, he walked on a few steps and then paused and gazed in the bakery window, ostensibly to admire hungrily a rack of ornate chocolate-laced delicacies on display.

Drew and Carl passed within just a couple of feet of him and then went walking on up the street. Ben waited a few tantalising seconds, watching them from the corner of his eye as he allowed a little distance to come between himself and the pair, then moved away from the window and began to follow them.

They didn’t seem to be in a hurry, just ambling along at a pace that allowed Ben to merge into the slow-moving crowds about twenty yards behind. Watching them, they could have been any father and son on earth. Nothing whatsoever in Carl’s body language suggested any of the unease or distress Ben would have expected to see in a kidnap victim. What was going on?

But he didn’t have long to dwell over the matter. Because without warning, Carl turned, picked Ben out of the crowd of people and looked right at him.

Ben’s heart skipped a beat. Again, he managed to cover up his reaction, avoiding eye contact and pretending to be gazing at something across the street. For two seconds that felt like minutes, he could feel the boy’s eyes on him.