He’d no real idea what he was looking for, but searching made him nervous. There was a lingering anxiety at the back of his mind that no amount of rational denial could completely erase: the fear of uncovering some evidence that Nick had been in the kind of trouble from which only suicide offered a refuge — irredeemable debts, maybe — or signs that the depression had returned.
What if — just what if — Nick really had ended his own life? The thought made Ben’s mind swim. Then what had happened to Hilary? Was her death some bizarre coincidence? Like the fact that someone on this island obviously didn’t like Ben going around asking questions? And if Nick hadn’t killed himself, then what was the alternative? For all the hours Ben had spent going over and over it in his mind, he could think of nothing.
There was nothing in Nick’s desk, either. No demands from the bank, no nasty letters threatening litigation, no doctor’s prescriptions or empty pill bottles, no telltale Prozac capsule rolling loose in the bottom of a drawer. All Ben found among Nick’s business documents were routine bits of paperwork and correspondence that gave the impression that CIC wasn’t just solvent, it was booming. Inside a Manila file were some preliminary architect sketches for a major extension to the office buildings at West End, and a letter giving an estimated completion date in eight months’ time. Ben studied the sketches and shook his head. Did people suffering from chronic depression make plans like this?
The bottom drawer contained Nick’s private papers. Ben went through them guiltily. No sign of a Last Will and Testament. A cheery letter from Hilary, dated six months ago, with a few snaps of her on holiday somewhere with a girlfriend. An assortment of receipts and product guarantees. A handwritten list of forty or so names, headed ‘party guests’.
A man contemplating suicide, planning a big get-together?
Ben put everything back as he’d found it and started going through the address book by the phone. Again, he could find nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing, except for the somewhat cryptic phone number at the back of the book. It had no name next to it, only a capital letter T that had been heavily circled as though it had some special significance.
Ben used his own phone to dial the number, and got straight through to an answering service. He switched off before the message prompt.
That was when he heard the click of a key turning in the front door lock, followed by the padding of tentative footsteps in the hallway outside the study. The beam of a torch swept by, shining under the crack in the door.
Ben turned off his Maglite. He crouched behind the desk, completely still and silent in the darkness.
The footsteps stopped right outside the study. Someone reached out and nudged the door half open. Torchlight shone inside the room.
And from the source of the brilliant white beam, there was the unmistakable metallic click-clunk of a well-oiled revolver mechanism being cocked, ready to fire.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The footsteps moved closer inside the room. The torch beam swept from side to side. Ben tucked himself in tightly behind the desk, but he knew that he had zero chance of remaining hidden for long.
The torch beam flashed across the desk. Ben saw his own shadow appear on the floor. He had a split second to react before the intruder did.
Nobody, not even a trained SAS soldier, really wants to launch themselves, unarmed and blind, at someone holding a cocked and loaded revolver. But under the circumstances, Ben didn’t have a lot of choice. Surprise was his only advantage, and he used it. With a roar he burst out from behind the desk, shining his own torch straight back at the intruder’s face. And hurled himself at the guy in a flying leap.
There was no deafening gunshot while he was in the air. Ben’s shoulder connected with what felt like the intruder’s midriff, driving him violently backwards against the wall. The intruder let out a grunt of pain and shock. The torch beam slashed upwards to point at the ceiling, then fell towards the floor. There was the distinct thump of a chunky revolver landing on the rug.
Pinning the wildly struggling intruder down hard with a knee to the throat, Ben reached for the switch of the side lamp.
And with a shock, recognised the face staring up at him as that of Mrs Martínez, Nick’s PA.
He instantly relaxed the pressure on her neck before she blacked out. She was wheezing and clutching her throat as he hauled her to her feet and set her down in a chair. ‘I wasn’t expecting to meet you again so soon, Mrs Martínez,’ he said.
‘How did you get in here?’ she gasped, rubbing her neck.
Ben stooped to pick up the fallen revolver. It was a Smith & Wesson Model 28, the ‘Highway Patrolman’ version of their large-framed .357 hand cannon. Four inch barrel, blue steel. Enough firepower to stop a Freightliner truck. The US Highway Patrol had used them to stop runaway vehicles by blasting holes in the engine blocks.
‘That’s a lot of handgun for a nice lady like you to be carrying around,’ Ben said. He eased the hammer down. Pushed the knurled catch behind the recoil shield and flipped out the cylinder to see the six bright brass cartridges stamped FEDERAL .357 MAGNUM. He tipped the rounds out into his palm, dropped them in his pocket and laid the unloaded pistol on the desk. He could see her eyeing it. ‘Did I hurt you?’ he asked.
‘I’m fine.’ Her throat and jaw were turning a fine red, but it would fade in an hour or two. He wasn’t so sure the pain in his side would ease as fast. His little altercation with Beard’s boys earlier hadn’t done his healing wound too many favours, and leaping up from behind the desk just now had added an unpleasantly sharp new dimension to the discomfort that had him worrying about busted stitches.
‘You want to know why I broke into Nick’s house, Mrs Martínez, and I’ll level with you,’ Ben said. ‘I’m here because people aren’t answering my questions and I get the feeling my presence on this island is less than welcome in some quarters. I don’t think Nick would have minded me coming to check out his place. Now, you level with me. I’m wondering why someone with a key to the front door would come armed with a flashlight and a Magnum.’
‘What questions?’ she said.
‘Ones that would help me understand the truth of what really happened out there that day.’
She hesitated. ‘I’ll answer your questions if you’ll let me go over to that bookcase.’ She pointed across the other side of the study.
‘What’s that? The old “hidden weapon in the bookcase” trick?’
‘Please. I’m not that stupid.’
‘What’s in the bookcase?’
‘You’ll understand.’
‘Slowly,’ he said.
Avoiding his eye, she crossed the room, stopped at the bookcase and gazed along the rows of titles. Most of Nick’s collection seemed to be aviation-related. She plucked at the spine of a big, thick leather ring-bound book, slid it out and held it tight against her chest.
‘Now set it down on that table and step away from it,’ Ben said.
She did as he said. Ben approached the table and flipped open the leather cover. It was a photo album, nothing more.
‘I need to see something,’ she said. ‘It’s important.’
‘Be my guest,’ Ben said.
Mrs Martínez flipped through a few pages of the album. She stopped, pressed a finger to one of the pages, stooped a little to peer at it more closely, then flipped another page and did the same again. She looked up at Ben, studying his face with the same careful scrutiny he’d noticed that afternoon at the CIC offices. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Now I know for sure.’