The Forgotten Holocaust. Scott Mariani

      ‘You know, like a bodyguard, or something.’

      Ben looked at her. ‘Come on.’

      ‘I’m serious. You said you were at a loose end, so I was just thinking …’

      ‘That you’d hire the services of some guy like me?’

      ‘It crossed my mind.’

      ‘You only just met me.’

      ‘You’ve got an honest face.’

      ‘I was never a bodyguard,’ Ben said. ‘Besides—’

      ‘I understand perfectly,’ Kristen replied, making an effort to look jovial. ‘You’re in between things. Last thing you need is me messing with your life. Forget I mentioned it. Stupid idea.’ She blinked and shook her head. Her unfinished drink was cradled in her lap. ‘Oof. I’ve had a little too much of this stuff. My head’s spinning. Jesus, look at the bottle. We’ve almost polished off the lot.’

      ‘I think that was mostly me,’ Ben said, quite truthfully. ‘Listen, if you need help, I know people in the business. I could make a call.’

      ‘Really?’

      ‘But first you’d have to tell me more about this situation you’re in. You said this has something to do with your research.’

      ‘Let’s just say it’s connected.’

      Ben frowned. His own mind was becoming a little fogged from the Scotch, and he struggled to make full sense of what she was telling him. ‘How does the history of a dead woman stand to cause trouble for you a hundred and fifty years after the fact? Who might be threatening you? Why?’

      Kristen was about to reply when she suddenly seemed to remember something, looked at her watch and let out a sharp gasp. ‘I didn’t realise we’d been talking so long. I’ve absolutely got to make this business call at ten o’clock. Just got time to get back to the guesthouse.’

      Sunday evening seemed to Ben like a funny time to make a business call. ‘Use the phone here, if you like,’ he said.

      ‘Thanks, but …’ Kristen glanced out of the window. It had stopped raining and the sun was shining over the beach in a last orange-gold blaze before it plunged into the horizon and dusk fell. ‘Better if I go back. The call might take a while, and it’s, well, a little delicate. But I’d still like to take you up on that offer, if I can. And I promise I’ll tell you everything. Give me your number. I’ll call you.’

      ‘How about telling me in person tomorrow morning?’ he suggested. ‘Meet me on the flat rock.’

      She sighed. ‘Can’t. Taxi’s coming at seven thirty to take me to the airport.’

      ‘Forget the taxi,’ Ben said, jerking his thumb in the direction of the little lane behind the cottage, where his rented BMW was parked. ‘I’ll drive you. We can talk on the way.’

      Kristen seemed genuinely pleased and relieved. ‘If you’re sure …? It seems like an imposition.’

      ‘It seems important.’

      ‘It’s really kind of you.’ She glanced again at her watch. ‘Shit. I really have to go. I don’t want to miss this call.’

      She got up from the fireside seat and moved towards the nearby table to set down her whisky tumbler. A little unsteady on her feet, she lost balance for a moment and stumbled against the wooden chair over which she’d hung her fleece and her cloth bag. It toppled over. Nearly falling with it, Kristen reached out for Ben’s arm to steady herself, and in the process let her tumbler slip out of her fingers. It fell to the floor and smashed, glass fragments bursting in all directions across the bare floorboards.

      ‘Look what I’ve done,’ she exclaimed. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’

      ‘Don’t worry about it. My fault.’ Ben bent down and picked up the fallen chair. ‘I don’t think your computer’s damaged.’ But some of her other things had spilled out over the floor. Hairbrush, make-up, perfume. To someone like Ben, who travelled light everywhere he went, the quantity of assorted paraphernalia the average modern woman toted about with her was mystifying. Brooke had somehow always been the exception.

      Kristen was apologetic and flustered as she stooped down to retrieve her fallen things. ‘If you have a dustpan and brush, I’ll clear up the broken glass.’

      ‘Leave it,’ he said. ‘You’d best be heading back. Your phone call, remember?’ He thought she still looked a little unsteady as she stood up again, and reached a hand out to help her. ‘Are you okay? Sure you don’t want me to walk you back?’

      ‘I’m not completely plastered,’ she laughed. ‘I’ll be fine.’

      ‘See you in the morning, then,’ he said. ‘Say seven o’clock, outside the guesthouse? Then we’ll have more time to talk.’

      ‘I really appreciate this, Ben.’ She touched his hand. ‘Seven o’clock it is.’

      Then she was gone. Ben watched from the doorway as she hurried off. He closed the door and went back to his drink.

      ‘Now that,’ he said to the empty room, ‘was one of the strangest conversations of my life.’

       Chapter Six

      Kristen kept glancing at her watch as she headed quickly back towards the guesthouse, leaving the cottage out of sight behind the tall rocks. She felt giddy and light-headed from the rocket-fuel whisky. Sober up. Sober up. You have work to do. Just twelve minutes to get back, close herself in her room and get on the phone. She’d make it, just.

      She had to. There was a hell of a lot riding on this.

      If she hadn’t been in such a rush, she’d have paused to admire the sunset. This really was a beautiful spot. And so tranquil, not a soul in sight. Apart from the waves and the birds, the only movement was the faraway car she could see, a black Range Rover or something like it, tracking slowly along the lane running parallel with the beach in the distance.

      She hoped that Ben hadn’t thought that she’d made up her pressing business call as a pretext to get away. The fact was, the call really was every bit as important as the need for discretion. It was a chance that wouldn’t come again, and she needed to stick to her plan.

      Yet, she regretted having had to break away from Ben so soon. She’d gladly have stayed with him all evening. She pictured his face. A nice face. Not too craggy or butch. Thick blonde hair, blue eyes. Seemed a bit sad and lonely, which maybe accounted for the drinking.

      Single, too. And not gay, apparently.

      She was definitely interested. Question was, was he?

      She wished she could have hung around here for a few more days rather than have to rush back to Newbury. She might have got to know him better. The thought was exciting. But again, business was business. Right now was no time for amorous distractions. Maybe – just maybe – those could come later.

       Get your head straight, Kristen.

      She cleared all thoughts of Ben Hope from her mind and focused instead on the other man in her life right now, who was sitting by the phone half the world away, just waiting for her to call at the appointed time.

      This would be the second contact. The first, thirty-six hours ago, seemed to have gone perfectly according to plan. She’d had the element of surprise, had heard the total amazement in the man’s voice when she’d called him like that out of the blue.

      So far, so good. The sum of money involved made her ears pop. She tried to imagine it all sitting there in front of her, a mountain of cash. She couldn’t. But if all went smoothly, she wouldn’t have to imagine it. It would be there, real, all