the woman breathed. ‘Why do they always make things difficult?’
‘Don’t let me fall,’ Julia implored them. ‘Help me. Please. Don’t let me die.’
‘Could just leave her,’ the tall man said. ‘She won’t hang on forever.’
The woman shook her head. ‘I want to see her go over.’ She thought about the options. Too risky to scramble down the slope towards the edge and kick her hands loose. A long stick would work, but there wasn’t one around. She saw a jagged stone and picked it up. Hefted it in her hand. It was about the right size and weight. ‘No,’ Julia quavered.
The woman lobbed the stone. It caught Julia on the cheekbone. She let go of the rock and went tumbling into empty space with a guttural shriek that died away as she spun and cartwheeled down to the rocks below.
Four long, drawn-out seconds later, the scream was cut short along with Julia Goodman’s life.
Then the killers returned calmly, quietly, to the van, thinking about what to do with the rest of the day.
Le Val Tactical Training Unit Near Valognes, Normandy Six weeks later
Ben Hope was sitting at his desk facing a mountain of papers, letters, contracts, insurance policies and bank statements, feeling impatience mounting up inside him and wanting to dash the whole lot to the floor when his radio beeped and Raymond on the security gate informed him that the first of the new clients had arrived.
A few seconds later, a gleaming black Porsche Boxster roared into the yard. It circled between the buildings and let out two long blasts of its horn.
‘Here comes Rollickin’ Holligan,’ said Jeff Dekker from his desk on the opposite side of the office and looking at his watch. ‘Right on time.’ Jeff was a former officer of the SBS, the Royal Navy’s Special Forces regiment, and Ben’s right-hand man at Le Val.
Ben threw a glance at his friend and felt like saying something about respecting clients, but kept his mouth shut. The truth was, he didn’t like Rupert Shannon any more than Jeff did, and had been glad that almost two months had passed without the guy turning up. But business was business, and the ex-Para and his new six-man bodyguard team had booked Le Val for an intensive two-day refresher course in VIP close protection after landing some new contract in Switzerland. That was what Ben did, pass on his special skills to men like Shannon, so that vulnerable people would be kept safe and protected. His opinion of the guy didn’t matter.
Ben and Jeff both got up from their desks and walked over to the window.
‘I was getting bored of paperwork anyway,’ Jeff said, rubbing his hands together. ‘Just think. This time next week I’ll be in Nice, basking on a beach with a frosted glass in my hand. You should come along. Five days of doing nothing but sitting watching the girls go by.’
‘And no paperwork,’ Ben said with a smile.
Jeff rolled his eyes. ‘Can’t bloody wait.’
‘It’s been a busy time. You deserve a holiday.’
‘So do you. The place is closing down for that week anyway.’
Ben laughed. ‘Only so that I can catch up on all the other things that need doing around here.’
They watched through the window as the Porsche parked up across the yard, near the small bungalow that Ben had built for Jeff next to the trainee accommodation block. The early evening sunlight glittered off the car’s sleek bodywork and tinted windows. The driver’s door swung open and Rupert Shannon climbed out wearing aviator shades, a shiny black leather jacket and a wide grin. The breeze ruffled his sandy hair and he quickly patted it back into place as he glanced around him.
Jeff shook his head in disgust. ‘Will you take a look at this guy? If the fucker was made of chocolate, he’d eat himself.’
Ben was about to head for the door to greet their new arrival, when the Porsche’s passenger door opened.
‘Shit,’ Jeff muttered. ‘I had a feeling she’d be with him.’
Ben followed Jeff’s gaze and saw Brooke Marcel get out and walk around the side of the car. Her thick auburn hair was tied loosely back from her face, and she was wearing jeans and a plain white T-shirt that hugged her slim figure. She looked as good as she always did, but today Ben thought he could see a frown on her face, a certain self-consciousness in her body language. She looked down at her feet a couple of times as she followed Shannon across the yard towards the office building. Seemed to be trailing behind, holding back. It wasn’t like her.
‘Why is Brooke here?’ Ben murmured. ‘She’s not needed for this course. This is purely practical. Shannon doesn’t need lectures in hostage psychology.’
Jeff didn’t say anything.
‘And what’s she doing with him?’ Ben added.
Jeff gave a derisory snort. ‘Can’t you tell?’
‘They’re—’
‘Yup. Looks like it. They’re an item.’
‘Since when?’
‘Not sure. Since the last course, I think. I’d noticed they were spending a lot of time together. I was going to tell you. Must have slipped my mind. Or maybe I just didn’t want it to happen. Denial, or something.’
Ben watched her approach. Dr Brooke Marcel. Expert in hostage psychology, with an alphabet of letters after her name. Based in London, she’d spent years as a consultant to specialised police and military units, but was recently spending more and more time lecturing at Le Val. She was thirty-five, maybe thirty-six. He suddenly realised that maybe he didn’t know her as well as he’d thought.
‘No reaction?’ Jeff asked, watching him closely.
‘Not my business,’ Ben said.
‘Come on. There’s always been something between you two. All those nights sitting together in the kitchen, drinking wine, listening to music. Going for walks. Don’t act like you don’t care.’
‘There’s never been anything going on between me and Brooke. Only in your head.’
‘I don’t know what she sees in that pumped-up twit, anyway. You’re more her type.’
Ben ignored that. ‘He is what he is, but he’s paying a lot of money for this course.’
‘I get it. You want me to be nice to the bastard.’
‘Too much to ask?’
Jeff kept his eyes on Shannon as he chewed it over. ‘It just might be, yeah.’
‘Remember what we agreed, Jeff,’ Ben said. ‘At Le Val we always respect our clients, no matter what. OK?’ But he didn’t like the lecturing way it came out.
‘Even the arseholes.’
‘Especially the arseholes.’ Ben walked over to the door, opened it and stepped out just as Shannon reached the building. Jeff followed him outside, muttering something that Ben didn’t catch.
Shannon’s grin broadened as he greeted them. He was a big guy. At six-three he was four inches taller than Ben, probably fifty pounds heavier, about five years younger. He raised his hand to his face and whipped off the shades.
‘Ciao, Jeff, ciao, Benjamin,’ he brayed at them. ‘How’s it going, boys?’
‘It’s Benedict, not Benjamin. And you can call me Ben.’ Not a great start, he thought.
Shannon grunted with a dismissive gesture. ‘Whatever. Benedict, Benjamin, Ben, it’s all the same to me.’
Ben