last night. He quit after the fourth marriage went south. In any case, I assume he wouldn’t be travelling across America to visit Martha if he was married to her, would he? They’d be living together.’
‘You’re just old fashioned.’
‘Maybe I am,’ Ben said, ‘but not as old fashioned as Wesley Holland. I’m pretty sure of that much.’
‘Fine. Ex-wife, then.’
‘I’ve checked them all out. In order of appearance, they were Tabitha, Raine, Micheline, and the last one was called Giselle Rush.’
‘Hey. Not Giselle Rush the actress?’
Ben shrugged. ‘Perhaps, I don’t know. Never heard of her.’
Jude looked at him in astonishment that a living inhabitant of planet Earth could have failed to have heard of Giselle Rush. ‘Anyway, Martha could still be a girlfriend. It’s feasible they don’t live together, or even close.’
‘Then he’s managing to keep it quiet from all the obsessives online who spend their lives prying into the private affairs of the rich and famous. Not much escapes them.’
‘No girlfriend, then. Daughter? Sister?’
‘Never had kids. And his parents just had the one.’
Jude raised an eyebrow. ‘Must be a lonely kind of guy, rattling around all alone in some big old seaside house with nothing to do except stare at the waves. I mean, even I don’t love the ocean that much.’
Ben reflected for a moment. ‘That was strange, what Hillel said.’
‘Why strange?’
‘From what I read, Holland’s home is a place called the Whitworth Mansion, up near Lake Ontario, a few miles from Rochester. A long way from the coast.’
‘So maybe Hillel got it wrong, and he lives by a lake, not the sea.’
Ben shook his head. ‘I’ve seen pictures of the house. It’s not that close to the lake. Certainly not within sight of the water, and it’s surrounded by acres of woodlands. Meaning that he must have a seaside home somewhere else.’
‘The guy can certainly afford it,’ Jude said. ‘You think that’s where he’s gone? It would narrow things down a little.’
Ben grunted. ‘Down to any one of a million locations up and down the east coast of North America. That’s assuming he’s even headed there. Why would he refer to his own place as “Martha’s”?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe she spends more time there than he does.’
‘We’re rambling,’ Ben said. ‘This isn’t getting us anywhere.’ He went on wearily racking his brains. Nothing was coming to him.
Jude leaned back on the bed, then suddenly sprang up again. ‘Hang on a minute. I think I might’ve just figured this out. You said Holland was reported as heading towards Boston? Well, that tells us all we need to know, doesn’t it?’
Ben was about to ask him scathingly whether he’d even seen a map of the United States Eastern Seaboard and had any notion of the scale of the place, when he saw the look on his face. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘All right. Here’s my idea. What if Martha isn’t a person?’
‘Come on, Jude. I’m too tired to fuck about. What is she, an Old English Sheepdog?’
‘She could be a place.’
‘How could Martha be a place?’
‘Not Martha. Martha’s. You said he said he was heading for “Martha’s”. His exact word. Correct?’
Ben looked at him.
‘Now, you know I’m a shark fan, don’t you?’ Jude went on. ‘Diving with the great whites in New Zealand was something I’ve always wanted to do, since I was a kid. My favourite movie of all time is Jaws.’
‘Now you’re losing me completely. What’s that got to do with—’
‘Jawsfest, 2005,’ Jude said. ‘Robbie’s stockbroker uncle was a fan too, and he took us there. It was the thirtieth anniversary celebration, this great big festival that was held at the location where part of the movie was shot.’
‘And—?’
‘You’re slow, old man. All right, Spielberg filmed Jaws on the island of Martha’s Vineyard. Get it? Martha’s Vineyard. It’s off Cape Cod. We flew to Boston and took a bus to the ferry. It’s not far away. I was only fourteen, but I remember it really well.’
Ben felt his mouth hanging open.
‘Does that narrow it down enough for you?’ Jude asked with a grin.
Chapter Fifty
The cold and sleet of London was a far cry from the temperate climate of Capri, but Rex O’Neill was too excited to feel the slightest chill as he hurried from the taxi to the gate of his home in Belgrave Gardens, St John’s Wood. He carried his bags up the little footpath and paused at the front door to set down his luggage and rummage in his pocket for the key. He’d been smiling to himself all the way from Heathrow at the thought of seeing Megan again, and imagining her happiness at his unexpected return and the prospect of spending Christmas together.
‘You’re back so soon?’ she’d say, flying into his arms. ‘Why didn’t you call? I’d have prepared something special.’
‘I wanted to surprise you, darling,’ he’d chuckle as he held her and ran his fingers through her hair. And then he’d reveal his next surprise: that he wouldn’t be going away again to Europe, but would be staying right here in London from now on. Megan would be full of questions but knew not to probe too deeply into his work affairs. All he’d tell her was that he’d had enough of that job and had asked for a reassignment, which had been granted immediately, with permission to come straight home. He’d mention nothing of the situation he’d left behind.
He pictured the glow of delight in her eyes when he told her the news. He’d squeeze her tight and kiss her and swear that he’d never leave her on her own again. Then, if she was feeling all right and not too tired, he’d take her out for an expensive dinner at their favourite restaurant, a great little Armenian place in Soho.
O’Neill opened the front door and stepped into the hallway, elated to be home again. He dumped his luggage, took off his coat and hung it on the hook. ‘Megan! It’s me!’ There was no reply, but it was a large apartment and she probably hadn’t heard him. ‘Megan?’ he called again as he wandered through to the reception rooms. ‘Megan, darling? Guess what! I’m back!’
Silence in the apartment. Maybe she’d gone out, he thought as he pushed open the living room door.
She was sitting on a chair in the middle of the living room, looking up at him in horror.
‘Megan?’ he said, startled. His first thought was that something had happened, that she’d lost the baby, that there’d been a death in the family. ‘Darling, what’s wrong?’ he said, stepping into the room.
‘Hello, Rex,’ said a voice that he’d never wanted to hear again. He wheeled round.
Penrose Lucas was standing behind the living room door. He was wearing a long tweed coat and shiny shoes. The Coonan pistol hung loosely from his hand.
O’Neill boggled at him, anger quickly gaining ground over the initial shock. ‘What are you doing in my home?’
‘You left Capri in such a tearing hurry,’ Penrose said. ‘I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye. Nice little place you have here, by the way. So pleased to meet your wife at last.’
O’Neill glanced at the gun. ‘I’ve been reassigned,’ he