start a whole new life.
After a quick check, the doctor determined that Ben was in a fit state to receive the visitors. The police detectives sat either side of the bed and a screen was pulled around the three of them to serve as a flimsy shield against the curiosity of the old guys on the ward.
The male officer, who introduced himself as Detective Inspector Healy, was a nervous, sallow little man in his fifties, with eyes that wouldn’t stay still and never seemed to blink. Ben took an instant dislike to him, but there was nothing so unusual about that. His female sidekick, Detective Sergeant Nash, was about twenty years younger and looked a little more human.
Ben knew why she was there. Send a woman officer in for the gentle touch when there’s bad news to break. Just in case the weaker ones break down.
‘Let’s have it,’ he said to them before they could state the nature of their visit. ‘Was she killed or was she kidnapped?’
‘Why would you think she’d been kidnapped?’ Healy said with a curious look.
‘We’ll get to that,’ Ben said. ‘Talk to me.’
‘I’m afraid Miss Hall was dead when we arrived on the scene,’ said Nash, as gently as it could be said. ‘She suffered very extensive wounding. It wouldn’t have been possible to save her. Next of kin have been informed and family members are on their way. I’m very sorry.’
Ben took a deep breath. He remained silent for a long moment as he absorbed the news. So now he knew. His worst fears were confirmed. He’d let her down, and now she was dead as a result. If he’d had all his wits about him and hadn’t been rat-arsed on Scotch, weak and unfit and softened up by weeks of wallowing in self-pity, the two killers wouldn’t have had a chance. Not if there’d been three of them, or even four. Kristen Hall would still be alive now.
‘What kind of extensive wounding?’ he asked, and saw DS Nash almost flinch at the question. When he looked at Healy, he could see the sudden pallor in the man’s face. He knew right away that they’d both personally seen the body; and that whatever injuries Kristen had sustained were like nothing either police officer had seen before.
Nash began, ‘Mr Hope, I think it would be best if we didn’t—’
‘I want to know.’
‘Miss Hall suffered, ah, multiple stab wounds to every major organ,’ Nash said with difficulty, after a pause. ‘Extensive lacerations to the face. They … they—’ She stopped, as if she couldn’t bring herself to say it. She looked pale, almost ready to throw up.
‘They punctured her eyes and slit her throat,’ Healy finished grimly. ‘The cut was so deep it almost severed her head. We don’t know whether she was still alive by that point.’
Ben felt something rip in his hands, and realised he’d been gripping the hospital bed sheet so tightly that he’d torn it. Now he understood why Nash looked so sick. He thought about Kristen, saw her face in his mind, heard her voice, her laugh. He wanted to be sick too. He swallowed hard and steeled himself.
Healy cleared his throat and went on, ‘We have two witnesses, a couple on holiday from Antwerp who are staying at Pebble Beach Guesthouse and observed a pair of men get out of a vehicle and pursue Miss Hall along the beach. They witnessed the whole thing: the attack, your intervention, you being struck over the head and knocked to the ground, after which one of the attackers produced a bladed weapon. The male witness got a detailed view of it all through binoculars. He’s, uh, what do you call it?’
‘An ornithologist,’ Nash filled in.
‘So he saw the stabbing take place?’ Ben asked.
Nash nodded. ‘Moments later, the two suspects retreated to a vehicle that had been reported stolen from Ballyvaughan earlier in the day.’
‘The car was found abandoned and on fire late last night, down the coast near Lahinch,’ Healy said. ‘A local saw the blaze and called the Garda.’
‘And no sign of the two men.’ Ben wasn’t asking.
‘Everything is being done to trace their whereabouts,’ Healy replied insistently. It was the usual line, designed to make it sound as though the authorities were in full control of the situation.
‘Doesn’t sound to me as if you have a lot to go on,’ Ben said. ‘They’ve covered their tracks pretty well so far.’
‘We’re hoping you can help us there,’ Nash said.
‘Meaning I’m the only one who saw them up close and personal. The only one alive, that is.’
‘Would you recognise them?’
‘I’d know their faces.’
‘Can you describe them?’
Ben shrugged. ‘Both white. Not young, not old. Maybe around my age, late thirties, early forties. Both physically fit, lean build, able to handle themselves. Neither of them spoke a word, so no telling if they’re Irish, or English, or what. One a little taller than the other, say six foot. Short hair, military style. Navy jacket, synthetic, maybe nylon.’
Nash had taken out a pad and was rapidly scribbling notes.
‘The other had a hoodie on,’ Ben continued. ‘It was green, a couple of shades darker than olive. I didn’t get such a good look at his face. He’s left-handed.’
‘How do you know that?’ Healy asked.
Ben looked at him. ‘It’s not rocket science, detective. That’s the hand he was 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
