Bring Him Back

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.