The Forgotten Holocaust. Scott Mariani
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holding the baton in. Both of them were wearing boots. Steel toecaps. I know that because I can still feel them.’
‘This is good information,’ Nash said.
‘You think?’
‘Anything else?’ Healy asked.
‘The one with the green hoodie smelled of mint,’ Ben said.
Nash paused in her scribbling. ‘Mint?’
‘Gum. But not ordinary gum. Particular smell.’
‘Particular how?’ Healy said, narrowing his eyes.
‘Nicotine gum,’ Ben said. ‘You know what that is, detective? The disgusting stuff people chew on when they want to give up smoking.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘I tried it once. You don’t forget.’
‘Okay,’ Nash said, resuming her note-taking. ‘Anything else?’
‘Just general impressions,’ Ben said. ‘These men are no strangers to violence. They know what they’re doing.’
‘And you’d know that because …?’
‘Because I’m no stranger to violence either. You might be dealing with a couple of psychopaths here, but they’re trained, professional psychopaths. By trained I mean army trained. I recognise one when I see one.’
Nash and Healy glanced at one another. ‘We’re aware of your background,’ Nash said.
‘Only what you’d be allowed to know.’
‘Then perhaps you could fill in the blanks for us,’ Healy said.
Ben shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t consider that appropriate. Neither would the Ministry of Defence. With respect, detective, that information is way above your pay grade.’
‘I see,’ Healy said, clearly stung. ‘You’re on file as being the director of something called the Le Val Tactical Training Centre. In France, I believe.’
Ben nodded. That part of his history was open record. ‘Normandy. I don’t work there any longer.’
‘And what is it you do now?’
‘Nothing,’ Ben said.
‘Nothing,’ Healy repeated, with an eyebrow raised. ‘But we can assume that you yourself are highly trained in certain, ah, skills?’
The question hurt. ‘I used to be.’
‘I thought training like that stayed with a man forever.’
‘I drink,’ Ben said. ‘I’d been drinking when the attack happened. It slowed me down. Otherwise, you’d have had two dead men to clear up off the beach instead of one dead woman.’
Nash stared at him. ‘You’d have killed them, is that what you’re saying?’
‘You’d have had to pick them out from between the cracks in the rocks.’
‘See, now, that’s the kind of talk we don’t like,’ Healy said, staring at him closely.
Ben stared back. ‘Join the club. I’m not wild about your line of questioning, detective. It sounds as if you’re trying to connect me with the attack.’
‘That’s not what we’re saying,’ Nash cut in, with an anxious glance at her superior.
But Healy was on a roll. ‘And let me tell you how seriously concerned we are when members of the public take it upon themselves to “do something”.’
‘You think it would be a better society if people stood by and did nothing?’ Ben said.
‘I think nothing good ever comes of citizens intervening with undue force in situations that can all too easily become aggravated.’
‘Undue force,’ Ben repeated. ‘You think that’s what I used? Kristen is dead.’
Healy nodded. ‘Absolutely. Under different circumstances, this incident might not have escalated into a life-threatening situation. What may start as a minor crime can sometimes get out of hand. Especially when there’s alcohol involved.’
‘It looked a little out of hand before I got there,’ Ben said. ‘And I didn’t see any of your goons stepping in to save her, either. They’d have run a mile.’
‘Seems to me you have a bad attitude, Mr Hope,’ Healy said.
‘You have no idea,’ Ben said.
Healy glowered. Ben glowered back. The cop would never know how close he’d come to having his teeth smashed down his throat that morning.
‘Let’s talk about your relationship to Miss Hall,’ Nash said, very deliberately changing the subject with another nervous glance at Healy. ‘You and she were seen on the beach together some time before the incident.’
Ben let his gaze slowly trail away from Healy. ‘No relationship to speak of. We’d only just met. I’m sure Mrs Henry at the guesthouse has already confirmed that.’
‘So you didn’t know her previously.’
‘We’ll be here an awfully long time if I have to say everything twice,’ Ben said.
Nash pursed her lips. ‘According to the eyewitness account, the killers took a bag from Miss Hall. Can you tell us anything about that?’
‘It was a cloth shoulder bag,’ Ben said. ‘It was colourful, red and yellow. Ethnic kind of style. She had a computer inside, a small laptop, along with a notebook, couple of mobile phones, and some personal items like a hairbrush, make-up, and so on. That’s all I can tell you.’
‘You seem to know a lot about the victim’s personal effects,’ Healy cut in.
‘I’m observant,’ Ben said. ‘You should try it some time.’
‘We’re just trying to put together a picture here, Mr Hope,’ Nash said.
‘That’s a start,’ Ben said. ‘That’s what I’d be doing, too. I’d be trying to figure out why a crime like this happened on my turf when there hasn’t been a murder here for over thirty years. I know, I lived here. Most of the local Gardaí spend their days snoozing in their patrol cars or sitting in the pub. Which is where the talents of DI Healy here would be much better employed, rather than sitting here on his arse making veiled accusations against someone like me to hide the fact that he can’t do his job.’
‘Now listen—’ Healy began, pointing a finger.
‘No, Healy, how about you listen?’ Ben said, staring him down. ‘If it was me, I’d be thinking that two professional crooks didn’t go to all the trouble of arming themselves with a pair of illegal batons, then steal a top-of-the-range car and cruise out to the arsehole of nowhere just on the off chance of finding some solitary easy victim they could mug and rob before cutting her to pieces for the fun of it. I’d be thinking about a motive for what’s very obviously a planned killing, and I’d be looking into the connection with Kristen’s work.’
Healy lowered his finger and slumped a little deeper in his chair, visibly fuming.
Nash was frowning, thinking hard. ‘Her work?’ She glanced at her notes. ‘According to her self-employment records, she was a writer. The proprietor of the guesthouse says she was working on a novel. No clear motive there, is there?’
‘She wasn’t that kind of writer,’ Ben said. ‘She was doing historical research here in Ireland.’
‘So?’
‘So, in the course of that research, she said she’d accidentally discovered something. Information. Secrets. She believed that discovery had placed her at risk.’
Nash frowned. ‘What kind of risk?’
‘We