eyes and saw the look that left him in no doubt: here was someone who would not hesitate to saw his head off if he didn’t talk, and fast.
‘Who sent you?’ Ben demanded. Over the shrilling of the alarm came the sound he’d been afraid he’d hear any moment. Saturday night in Dover with little to do, the cops were on the prowl. The siren wasn’t too far away. They’d be here in a minute.
‘I said, who sent you?’ A little more pressure with the blade. Another layer of skin. The thin trickle of blood looked black in the street light.
‘Hunter!’ the man wheezed in panic, desperately trying to pull back from the touch of the blade.
Ben frowned. ‘Drew Hunter?’
‘Yeah—’
‘Where’s the boy?’ Ben rasped, his eyes just inches from the guy’s. He ground the blade’s edge harder against his throat. Any more, and it would sink in so deep that he wouldn’t ever talk again.
‘Aagh! I don’t know!’
The howl of the siren was drawing close. Ben took his eyes off his captive for an instant and saw the swirling blue halo and the blaze of headlights at the end of the street. Time to leave. He let the guy slide down the wall and slump bleeding to the pavement. Picked up his bag and slipped away round the side of the building just as the police car came tearing into sight. There was a little fenced yard at the back, a screen of conifers between it and the neighbouring property. Ben tossed the knife, vaulted over the fence. Without a sound, he merged into the shadows and was gone.
8
BACK IN HIS digs across town, Ben threw open the window, leaned out and lit a Gauloise. He washed the first deep draw of smoke down with a sip from his whisky flask to quell the last of the adrenaline rush still pumping around his system. There was a small shard of glass in his hair. He picked it carefully out and laid it on the windowsill, gazing thoughtfully at it and trying to understand what the hell was going on.
The anomalies were stacking up. There were more questions than answers, but one thing was for sure: this case was about more than just a kidnapping. If Drew Hunter had sent in a bunch of heavies to take Ben down, it could only be for one reason: to stop him from finding out too much about whatever business Hunter had had with the private detective. But what, and why?
Ben was as expert at following people as he was at telling when he was being followed himself – and he was certain he hadn’t been. Yet somehow, Hunter had known where to find him. The man was full of surprises. Was he also behind Paul Finley’s death? It was a worrying thought. If Hunter was a killer as well as an abductor, then Carl might be in more danger than anyone, even Ben, had anticipated.
More certain than ever that the files of Finley & Reynolds held an important key to all this, he resolved not to leave Dover until he knew more. And when he returned there the following night he’d be ready for the unexpected.
Ben awoke the next morning knowing that today was going to be a waiting game. He gulped down breakfast and then spent a while in his room, going over his case notes in an attempt to make sense of them. Around lunchtime, he returned to the beach, biding his time, quietly smoking, watching the tide. Waiting was a skill he’d perfected in the SAS. He’d learned how to remain still for long periods, outwardly so calm that an observer might think he was in a trance – while mentally he was ultra-alert, aware of everything around him and analysing a thousand details at once.
It was afternoon when his phone rang. It was Jessica, sounding in a high state of agitation. ‘Where are you?’
‘Still in Dover,’ he replied. ‘Something came up.’
Strange that she didn’t seem interested to ask what, he thought. In the next moment, he understood why.
‘We heard from Carl.’
Ben’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean, heard from him? When?’
‘He phoned us. Just half an ago.’
‘You talked to