The Forgotten Holocaust. Scott Mariani
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though Ben got the impression that she was generally more concerned with the impact this would have on bookings. The media hadn’t stopped pestering her all morning, she complained, and they were whipping up a storm that their poor fragile business could surely never weather. What kind of reputation would they have now that it wasn’t safe to walk the beach with all these maniacs and killers lurking about the place? If things got any worse, Bryan might have to give up his golf club membership. It would be the end of him.
Ben briefly expressed his sympathies for Bryan’s imperilled sporting career. He pointed up the stairs. ‘Which is room five?’
‘That’d be the Goodyears’,’ Mrs Henry sniffed, mopping the corner of her eye with another tissue. ‘They’re in the conservatory, finishing their lunch. Though they could hardly eat a thing, poor souls, after the shock they’ve had.’ It didn’t seem to occur to her to ask why Ben wanted to speak to them, and he didn’t feel the need to explain. As quickly as he could, he detached himself from her and headed for the conservatory.
A gloomy pall seemed to have descended on the guesthouse, and the few guests having lunch in the conservatory were eating quietly, just a murmur of occasional conversation and the clinking of cutlery. Ben spotted the middle-aged couple from the unmistakably European way they were dressed. They were both lean, as if they did a lot of sports or hiking. The man’s hair was silvery and swept back from his high forehead, while his wife’s was an expensively coiffured bottle-blonde. They were sitting in silence at a table in the corner, drinking an after-lunch pot of coffee. Even at a distance, they looked obviously upset and shaken by the horror of what they’d witnessed yesterday. They didn’t notice Ben walk up to them.
‘Monsieur and Madame Goudier?’ he said.
They looked up at him, startled. ‘I am Bernard Goudier,’ the man said in accented English. ‘This is my wife Joelle. And you are …?’
‘Hope, Ben Hope. I’m sorry to interrupt your coffee,’ Ben said, switching to French. In the amazed silence, he motioned at the empty chair at their table. ‘May I join you for a moment? This won’t take long.’
‘What won’t take long?’
‘I’d like to talk to you about yesterday,’ Ben said. ‘A few questions, and I’ll leave you in peace.’
The Goudiers both stared, too taken aback to say no as he pulled out the empty chair and sat down. ‘You’re not from the police,’ Joelle Goudier said. She had perfect teeth and smelled of Chanel.
‘No, I’m the man you witnessed trying to stop the attack.’
‘I see you were hurt,’ Bernard Goudier said, glancing at Ben’s cut.
‘I’ll survive. But as you might have noticed, I didn’t get to see all that happened. I’m just trying to flesh out the picture.’
The Belgian gave a dry smile. ‘Is it normal in Ireland for civilians to conduct their own inquiry?’
‘It’s not normal for a young woman to be murdered on this beach, either. You’re the only witnesses. Please. Is there anything else you can remember about the incident?’
‘We told the police everything,’ said Joelle Goudier. ‘Bernard and I had spent the afternoon walking and we were returning towards the guesthouse when we heard an engine revving loudly, and turned to see a big, black car—’
‘A Range Rover V6 Sport,’ her husband filled in for her.
‘—veer off the road and drive very fast towards the beach. We soon realised who they were chasing. The poor woman began to run as they got out of the car and chased her. She dropped the bag she was carrying, and one of the attackers picked it up. For a moment I thought that would be the end, that they would leave her alone now that they had stolen from her. But no, they continued chasing her. Then we saw you come to help her. You were very brave, Monsieur.’
‘I have an interest in birdwatching,’ Bernard Goudier explained, ‘and I’d been hoping to get a close sighting of a sandwich tern that afternoon, as they’re around at this time of year. I use excellent binoculars, Zeiss Victory HT ten-by-fifties, which is why, even though the sun was setting, I had a very good view of the man who took out the knife.’
‘Was it the one in the green hooded top, or the one in the navy jacket?’ Ben asked.
‘Jacket. I thought he looked like a soldier. And it was a military-issue knife.’
Ben looked at him. ‘May I ask how you would know that?’
‘It happens that another of my interests is collecting militaria,’ Goudier said. ‘Insignia, medals, also items such as bayonets and knives. The weapon used was a United States Marine Corps fighting and utility knife. Seven-inch blackened blade, clip point, leather handle.’
‘A Ka-Bar,’ Ben said, and the Belgian nodded. ‘You told the police these details?’ Ben asked him.
‘Naturally,’ Goudier said. ‘Anyhow, when the man produced the weapon, the woman was in extreme terror and tried to get away from him. That was when she disappeared out of my sight, behind a large rock. The man in the navy jacket stepped after her with the knife in his hand. He seemed very calm, deliberate. I soon lost sight of him too, but I could see the other man, the one in green, watching. I knew what was happening. It was sickening. The man was smiling.’
‘Smiling,’ Ben said, his fists tightening.
‘As if he was enjoying the spectacle of the woman being butchered. As if it was just an amusing game for them. And I could do nothing but watch. I was so shocked that I was simply paralysed for several moments.’
Goudier looked as if he could spit into his coffee. ‘Then the man in the navy jacket reappeared. He still looked very calm, like someone who does this every day. He began to walk towards where you were lying unconscious, and I knew that his intention was to kill you too, in cold blood. That was when I regained my wits. I had to do something, so I started running towards them, waving my arms like a lunatic and shouting at the top of my voice. The men saw me and ran back to their car.’
‘Then I have you to thank for saving my life,’ Ben said. ‘But you risked your own. You might have regretted it.’
‘What I regret is that I didn’t act sooner,’ Goudier said. ‘I won’t ever forget the look on that poor girl’s face.’
Joelle Goudier reached across and clutched her husband’s hand. ‘Then we called the police,’ she said. ‘But of course it was too late. What a terrible, horrible thing to happen.’
‘And I apologise to you both for making you relive it,’ Ben said, getting up.
‘Can we buy you a drink, Monsieur Hope?’ Bernard Goudier asked.
‘No, thanks. Have a safe journey home.’
As Ben walked back along the beach, the wind blew more dark clouds in from the sea and the gusting curtains of rain soaked him to the core. He didn’t try to hurry out of the weather. He was too busy thinking about the knife.
Bernard Goudier seemed to be a man who paid attention to details. The exact type of Range Rover. The precise model and magnification of Zeiss optics. Maybe he was a little anal-retentive. But maybe that wasn’t always a bad thing. In this case, it meant Ben could be fairly certain the Belgian was being accurate when he’d said that the killing tool had been a USMC Ka-Bar.
Which might possibly be a significant detail. It was a weapon Ben had come across many times, and personally used on several occasions to do things he didn’t really want to remember. Light and handy at just over a pound in weight, with a murderous seven-inch Bowie-style blade and grippy handle made of stacked, hard-lacquered leather washers, the American-made knife had been in military service since World War II. Along with