The Lost Relic. Scott Mariani

in sight.

      ‘Is that your house?’ Ben said to Gianni.

      No reply.

      ‘You don’t say a lot, do you?’ Ben asked, and when there was still no response he smiled and added, ‘That’s OK. You don’t have to.’

      They walked on, and a few metres further down the road came to a bend and then a gap in the wall. The iron gates were open and a winding private lane led up through the trees towards the isolated house.

      From the number of cars parked outside the building, and the two guys in suits hanging around near the trimmed hedge who seemed to be there in some kind of official capacity, Ben realised it wasn’t a residential property. It looked as if some kind of function or gathering was happening inside.

      ‘Are we in the right place?’ he asked the boy. Gianni gave a slight nod, resigned by now to the terrible punishment that was in store for him.

      Ben led the boy towards the building. As they approached, he could see people milling around inside the main entrance, smiling, greeting one another, hands being shaken and a great deal of excited chatter. There were no signs anywhere, nothing to indicate what the event was. Ben was nearing the door, still holding Gianni’s arm, when one of the official-looking guys in suits peeled himself away from the hedge and stepped up. Close-cropped hair, crocodile features, expressionless button eyes, arms crossed over his belly, the suit cheap and wrinkled: typical security goon. Ben had dealt with a million of them.

      ‘May I see your invitation, sir?’

      ‘I don’t have an invitation,’ Ben said, meeting his stony gaze. ‘I found this boy out on the road and I think his family are inside.’

      ‘This is a private exhibition, not open to the public. Nobody can enter without an invitation,’ the guy replied as if programmed.

      ‘I’m not interested in the exhibition.’ Ben didn’t try to hide the irritation in his voice. ‘Didn’t you hear what I just said? I need to return this boy to his parents, and I’m not leaving until I do. So either let me in or go find them. I don’t care which.’

      The security guard’s moustached colleague walked over. ‘Can I be of assistance?’

      Ben glanced him up and down. He didn’t seem quite as much of a specimen as the other, but Ben figured he could do better than this. ‘Who’s the manager here?’

      ‘Signor Corsini.’

      ‘Then I’d like to speak with Signor Corsini, please.’

      ‘He’s inside. He’s busy.’

      Ben was ready with a tough reply when a female voice cried out through the buzz of chatter inside the building. The crowd parted and a woman squeezed through in a hurry. She was maybe twenty-nine, thirty, dressed in a bright yellow frock, a fashionable handbag on a gold strap across her shoulder. Ben saw the resemblance to Gianni right away, the same blue eyes and sandy hair worn in a bob. She came running out, arms wide. ‘I was so worried! Where did you disappear off to?’ Her gaze switched across to Ben. ‘Signore, did you find him?’

      ‘Yes, and if I’d found him half a second later he’d have been plastered across the front of my car,’ Ben said.

      She glared at her son, hands on hips. ‘Gianni, is this true?’

      ‘Yes, Mama.’

      ‘What did I tell you about crossing the road?’

      ‘I know, Mama.’

      ‘Wait till I tell your father,’ she scolded, and the boy’s shoulders sagged further as though his worst fears had been confirmed. He was for it. But Ben could see from the light in the young mother’s eyes that she was more relieved than angry. She turned to him, overflowing with gratitude, pleading that he absolutely must come inside for a glass of wine. ‘I beg you, it’s the least I can do.’

      Ben thanked her, made eye contact with the first security goon who was still standing there and said pointedly, ‘It seems I don’t have an invitation.’

      ‘Nonsense,’ she protested. Turning to the security guys, she took a slip of paper from her handbag and thrust it at them. ‘My husband’s invitation. He’s allowed two guests. I’m one, and this gentleman is the other.’

      Ben hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. What the hell, he thought. It’s not like I have anywhere else to go right now. Plus, a glass of wine sounded like a decent idea at this moment. It wasn’t every day he almost flattened a kid, and the after-effects of the shock were still jangling through his system.

      ‘Well, if you insist,’ he said with a smile, and shouldered past the goons as she led him inside.

       Chapter Nine

      Richmond, London

      The grass prickled Brooke’s knees as she leaned over her flower bed, reached out with the can and sprinkled water on the amaranthus, careful not to drown it. She loved the cascading red flowers of the plant she’d nurtured from a seedling, but it needed a lot of care and wasn’t completely suited to the soil of her tiny garden in Richmond.

      Saturday, even a beautiful early autumn afternoon like this one, wasn’t normally a day of leisure for Brooke. She had a thousand other things to attend to that she knew she was neglecting, including repainting the kitchen of her ground-floor apartment in the converted Victorian red-brick house – but spending time in the garden relaxed her and that was something she needed badly right now.

      As she stood up, brushing bits of grass from her bare knees and gazing at the colourful borders, she couldn’t help but let her mind drift back, as it had been doing obsessively of late, to the event a month earlier that was the cause of all her troubles.

      Phoebe’s invitation to the fifth wedding anniversary party had seemed a wonderful opportunity to catch up with the sister Brooke was so close to but didn’t get to see often enough. Their schedules seldom allowed it: Brooke was either too busy with her London clients or off in France; or else Phoebe and her husband Marshall were away on one of the frequent exotic vacations with which an investment banker and a Pilates instructor to the celebs could indulge themselves. Skiing in Aspen, snorkelling off Bermuda, high-rolling in whichever of the world’s best hotels and restaurants were currently fashionable with the Serious Money Club. The couple had only recently moved into their latest acquisition, an insanely expensive eight-bedroom mock-Tudor house in Hampstead that Brooke hadn’t seen until the night of the party.

      And what a party. The huge house was milling. A trad jazz band were playing in the corner of one palatial room, people were dancing, champagne was flowing. If anyone there hadn’t been a stockbroker or a top barrister, a billionaire banker or a PR guru, Brooke must have missed it. All she’d really wanted was to get some time alone with her sister, but Phoebe was taken up with playing the hostess and they’d barely been able to snatch more than a few words by the time the champagne was going to Brooke’s head and she’d headed for the kitchen to get herself a drink of water.

      Not surprisingly, the kitchen was gigantic. Miles of exotic hardwood worktop and every conceivable cooking gadget known to man – despite the fact that Phoebe and Marshall ate out almost every night – but finding something as simple as a water glass wasn’t so easy. As Brooke was searching yet another cupboard, she heard the kitchen door open and turned to see Marshall come into the room, smiling at her. He clicked the door shut behind him, closing out the noise of the band and the party buzz. He’d walked up to her and leaned against the worktop, watching her. Standing a little close, she’d thought – but made nothing of it at the time.

      ‘I was just looking for a glass.’

      He pointed. ‘In there. Oh, there’s Evian in the fridge,’ he added as she picked out a tumbler and went to fill it at the sink.

      ‘Great party,’ she’d said, opening the