On the Edge

by Michael Ridpath

  ‘No, leave it,’ said Bodinchuk. ‘The trail’s gone cold. He won’t find anything. Believe me, my man won’t leave a trace. He never does.’

  ‘But if he has linked the deaths with me then he has made some progress. I’m worried.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’

  ‘I really think we should do something.’

  ‘Listen, Martel.’ Again, that hint of menace. ‘I don’t have the time or the desire to start a war with a major investment bank over what should be just a straightforward investment. The more dead bodies that appear, the more likely the authorities are to notice. I’m your client, not your hired gun. If you’re worried, you sort it out. But be very careful how you do it. I don’t want any of this coming back to me.’

  ‘But, Mykhailo …’

  ‘Your problem, Martel. And you had better be right about that trade.’

  The phone went dead in Martel’s hand.

  Suddenly it was up to him. He was worried about this Alex Calder, no matter what Bodinchuk said. Should he try to do something about him himself? That seemed a lot more daunting than simply asking Bodinchuk to deal with it all. That had been death without responsibility.

  No, he had to take action. He would need to find someone else to help him. Vikram perhaps? Perhaps not.

  He checked his watch. Just about time to go to see Pohek.

  He took his Range Rover and drove out of Jackson, fifteen miles to the north, to Antelope Flats, the rendezvous he had arranged with the detective. He had wanted to avoid meeting in Jackson: despite its transient population, the place was a small town, and someone of his height was easily recognized. As he drove, clouds descended as if from nowhere, pressing down on the mountains and the valley beneath them. Tiny snowflakes appeared, scurrying across the road, never seeming to actually touch the ground. The weather in Jackson Hole was fickle. A day could start out beautifully and change in a couple of minutes.

  The meeting place was on a deserted road, just inside the Grand Teton National Park. He spotted Pohek’s rented Buick pulled over in a small turn-off, next to a broken-down timber hut. There was nothing but sagebrush and snow in all directions; even the mountains had disappeared. No antelope, and certainly no sign of another human being. Martel drew up next to the Buick, bowling over a stray clump of tumbleweed as he did so. Keeping the engine running, he opened the door for Pohek to jump in.

  Ray Pohek was in his late forties, thin with bad skin. According to his website he had been in the Denver Police Department before setting up his own detective agency. So far he had been businesslike in his dealings with Martel.

  ‘Well?’ Martel asked him.

  ‘Nothing yet,’ Pohek answered. Martel felt some of the tension release from his shoulders. ‘She had lunch with a female friend, went to your apartment on Riverside Drive alone, went on to the party in Chelsea, came back home, also alone, and went to bed. Next morning she took a walk in Central Park, stopped in a couple of stores on Fifth Avenue, collected her bags from the apartment and went straight on to the airport.’

  ‘So, you’re sure she didn’t see a man?’

  ‘Quite sure. I had back-up from a New York associate, and of course we’ve bugged your apartment. She might have spoken to some guys at the party, she probably did, we have no way of knowing. But I guess that doesn’t worry you?’

  ‘No. Any phone calls?’ Martel had had Pohek’s associate bug the telephone in the apartment and the cell phone as well.

  ‘She called her mother. She called you. She called a female friend – Bobbie Lawrenson. That’s it.’

  That was good news. If Cheryl was having an active affair it was highly likely that she would have called her lover, if not seen him, while she was in New York. But he still couldn’t be sure.

  ‘Here’s my report.’ Pohek handed Martel a brown envelope. Although he didn’t say it, Martel was impressed that the detective had already written it all up. ‘Do you want me to keep at it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Martel. ‘For another week, at least.’

  ‘In that case I’ll need more back-up here in Jackson,’ Pohek said. ‘I can’t watch her twenty-four hours a day alone.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ said Martel. He examined Pohek. He was clearly competent. He didn’t look entirely trustworthy, but that was a good thing for what he had in mind. Martel took a deep breath. ‘I might have something else for you.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘Yes. I have a problem relating to a business matter over in London. There is someone there who is creating difficulties for me. Serious difficulties. I wonder if you know anyone who might be able to help me deal with him?’

  Pohek’s face remained impassive. ‘I know what you’re asking, Mr Martel. And the answer’s no. I don’t do that kind of work.’

  ‘Ah, you misunderstand me,’ Martel said, back-pedalling. ‘I didn’t mean that he should come to any harm.’

  ‘Of course not, sir,’ Pohek said.

  ‘But you will be able to continue watching my wife?’

  ‘Certainly, sir, I’ll be glad to. Here’s my invoice for what I’ve done so far.’ Another envelope, white this time.

  Martel opened it. His fee was steep, but Pohek was doing a good job. He wrote out a cheque for him there and then.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Pohek said, unable to suppress a grin. He stepped out of the Range Rover into the cold.

  ‘Meet me here this time next week,’ Martel said, and drove off.

  Pohek watched him go. He examined the cheque Martel had given him. He knew there were wealthy people in Jackson Hole, but this guy was seriously loaded. And Pohek needed the money. Somehow since his divorce he had never been able to climb out from underneath the mountain of debt he had accumulated during his miserable marriage, no matter how hard he worked. He was way behind on his alimony, and his ex-wife was being a real bitch about it, not letting Ryan fly over from Miami to see him during the spring break. Pohek loved his son. He was a good kid, honest, hard-working, wanted to be a doctor when he graduated from high school, and it looked as if his grades were good enough for him to do it, too. That would need more money, of course. Somehow the boy’s slut of a mother hadn’t ruined him yet, but Pohek didn’t know how long that would last. The kid was fourteen now, an impressionable age. If Pohek lost touch with him, God alone knew how he’d turn out.

  He thought about Martel’s request. Pohek hadn’t shot anyone since he left the Denver Police Department, and he was sure he had been right to deflect Martel’s enquiry. He had built up a good business over the last seven years and he didn’t want to jeopardize it. He had been seriously tempted once, only six months before. A jealous wife had been so incensed with what she had discovered her husband had been up to, that she had offered Pohek twenty thousand dollars to deal with him. After thinking it over, Pohek had said no. Twenty thousand wasn’t enough. But Martel would pay top dollar, there was no doubt about it. Pohek could catch up on the mortgage payments and the credit cards, and make sure he got to see Ryan this year. He could even start saving for college.

  But killing someone? The two men he had shot while he was a cop had been no good low-lifes, both of whom would have happily killed him if he hadn’t killed them first. But Martel’s target could be a harmless innocent. Innocent? Innocent hell. All these money men were crooks anyway. The only difference between people like Martel and the junkies and small-time criminals he had dealt with on the streets of Denver was that the law left Martel to get on with it. If you stole five hundred bucks from a liquor store you ended up in prison. If you stole five hundred million, you ended up in a ten-million-dollar ranch in Jackson Hole. Martel didn’t have to scramble about to meet mortgage payments or alimony; in fact he probably owned the bank that was putting the screws on honest, hard-working people like Pohek. If Martel had needed to fly his son out from Florida, he could fly him first class. Hell, he could use his own jet to do it. Pohek felt a surge of angry self-justification. People like Martel were screwing people like him.

&n
bsp; A bluebird darted from the roof of the broken-down hut into the sagebrush, a tiny speck of colour in the grim landscape. As Pohek sat in his car looking out over the bleak plain, an idea formed in his mind.

  Pohek decided to wait twenty-four hours before he made his move. He called Martel at the office from his motel in downtown Jackson. He used a new cell phone he had bought for the purpose. It took a little effort to get past Martel’s secretary, but then he heard the man himself.

  ‘Martel.’

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Martel. My name is Luigi.’ Pohek had disguised his voice, it was deeper, rougher, and he hoped it would fool a non-native English speaker. The name Luigi was a bit corny, but it had the right connotations.

  ‘Yes?’ There was a note of interest in Martel’s reply. He had picked up on those connotations.

  ‘I understand you gotta problem in London you need taking care of.’

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘I told you. Name’s Luigi. I’m a freelance.’

  ‘Freelance what?’

  ‘Well, that depends on what you’re looking for, Mr Martel.’

  ‘How did you know to call me?’

  ‘A little bird.’

  ‘Have you been speaking to Ray Pohek?’

  ‘I don’t know no Ray Pohek,’ said Ray Pohek.

  There was silence. Martel was thinking. Pohek didn’t want to rush him. ‘I’ll call you back in five minutes, Mr Martel.’

  Pohek smiled to himself as he lay back on his bed in the motel room. He was pretty sure Martel would go for it. He dialled again. This time he was put straight through.

  ‘Well?’ he said.

  ‘I might have something for you,’ Martel said. ‘Can we meet?’

  ‘No way. That’s not how I work. You tell me the target, I deal with it, you pay me.’

  ‘How much?’

  Pohek took a deep breath. ‘A hundred thousand bucks.’ He knew the figure was way over the market price. But he doubted Martel knew it too. He also suspected Martel could afford it. Besides, Pohek was taking a big risk here. He wanted to be paid enough not just to keep his debts at bay, but to get rid of them. Maybe put something aside for Ryan’s college education.

  ‘That’s a lot of money, Luigi.’

  ‘I’m good,’ said Pohek. ‘It’s like anything else, you pay for what you get.’

  ‘But I don’t know anything about you,’ said Martel.

  ‘And that’s the way it’s gonna stay.’

  ‘Then how do I know I can trust you?’

  ‘You can’t trust guys like me. But you don’t have to. You pay me when the job’s done. If I don’t take care of your problem, you don’t pay nothin’.’

  Martel was thinking. ‘OK, but how can you trust me?’

  ‘I know you’re an honest guy. Also, I know where you live. Guys owe me, they pay, don’t worry about it.’ There was a pause. ‘Do you want more time to think it over?’

  ‘No,’ came the reply. ‘I’ll give you the details. But I need the job done quickly. Like in the next few days.’

  Pohek smiled and took out his notebook. ‘That’s no problem. Fire away.’

  25

  It was fucking freezing. The wind blew in from the North Sea and bit into his body, slicing through his clothes. Although in theory the temperature was above thirty-two degrees, it felt colder than the damn Rocky Mountains at ten thousand feet. Ray Pohek wished he’d brought his thermal underwear. England just wasn’t supposed to be like this.

  He was standing in a thicket a few yards from the old windmill, looking down on the cottage. He had followed Calder from his home to the airfield that morning and back again in the afternoon. His plan was to watch him for a day or so, and figure out the best time and place to strike. He wanted to avoid the cottage if possible. It was nicely isolated, but it might be locked at night, and there was too much chance of something going wrong as he broke in. There was also more chance of leaving forensic evidence in a building: outside somewhere was best.

  Pohek had been confident he could carry out the task Martel had set ‘Luigi’. After all, he had been trained to kill in the police department, and he had several years’ practice in tailing people. Doing the job in England had brought added cost and complications that he wouldn’t have faced in the States. The biggest difficulty had been a weapon. He didn’t feel comfortable using a knife, he obviously couldn’t take a firearm on the plane or even in his checked luggage with all the security at airports, so he had had to figure out where to buy one in the UK. A search of press reports had suggested Harlesden in north London. After two false starts, he had succeeded in acquiring a Smith and Wesson .38 and some ammunition from a Jamaican for five hundred pounds. He was sure he had been ripped off, but he didn’t care. Frankly, he was just pleased to get out of there alive.

  Hiring a car had been easier. He had a credit card and driver’s licence under a false name, and they didn’t ask for his passport. So, suitably equipped with weapon and wheels, he had driven up to Norfolk and found himself a hotel in Cromer, a town about twenty miles from Hanham Staithe.

  Now here he was, freezing in the gathering darkness, keeping an eye on the cottage through infra-red glasses.

  Suddenly he saw a figure emerge from the building. He could recognize Calder now by the way he moved, quick and efficient. The man was clearly fit. Calder walked straight past the garage that housed his Maserati and strode out on to the lane towards the village. Pohek’s pulse quickened. He decided to leave his car, and jogged along the parallel road on the ridge, keeping Calder in view. After about a mile Calder came to the village and a pub.

  Pohek smiled. Perfect.

  Calder stood at the edge of the small group of drinkers as Stuart, the vet, told an involved story about the vicar’s dog swallowing his teenage son’s condom. Calder wasn’t listening. His thoughts were on Jen and Perumal. It was now clear to him that Carr-Jones had arranged for both of them to be killed. It was also clear that he didn’t have the evidence to prove it. Without Tessa’s support he didn’t have nearly enough to go back to the police.

  He had to find that evidence. Jen and Perumal had been killed, but he was the only person in the world who knew that fact and cared about it. If he didn’t do anything, no one else would. He had spent a year trying to escape from the memory of Jen’s death, but he realized that he had succeeded only in suppressing it, not eradicating it. Now, with what he had learned, he had to face up to the fact that she had been murdered. He could walk away, or he could do something about it. If he was going to be able to live with himself, there was no choice.

  There seemed to him to be two options. Go to Jackson Hole, or confront Carr-Jones directly.

  Confronting Carr-Jones would achieve little. He would smoothly deny everything, and continue with his plans to buy the airfield. Calder had managed to get Mrs Easterham to agree to delay her response for another ten days. And Calder had spoken to some lawyers about the situation if Brynteg Global Investments did buy the land. It wouldn’t be easy for them to refuse to renew the lease, but it would be possible for a landowner to make life extremely difficult for an airfield operator. The Civil Aviation Authority was very strict about airfields: it would only take a fence or two erected in the wrong place for them to revoke the licence. Aircraft could land and take off from an unlicensed aerodrome, but training wasn’t permitted there, and training was at the core of the flying school, and indeed the whole operation. If Brynteg Global Investments did buy the airfield, Calder would fight them. Calder just had an unpleasant feeling that he would lose.

  So that left travelling to Jackson Hole to see if he could find out more about Perumal’s death and the Teton Fund’s shenanigans with derivatives. But how would the flying school cope without him for two weeks? He’d have to cancel lessons, losing valuable income for the school. There were countless things on his to-do list, from trying to recruit an assistant for Colin, the maintenance engineer, to dealing with the Civil Aviation Authority’s latest directive on emerge
ncy planning. And he would be absent when Mrs Easterham accepted Carr-Jones’s bid for the airfield. Then there were the innumerable minor crises that popped up from day to day. It seemed unfair to dump all that on Jerry.

  But if there was to continue to be an airfield to worry about, he had to prove that Carr-Jones was a criminal. And do it quickly.

  He felt a touch on his elbow.

  ‘Are you OK?’ It was Jess, the vet’s wife and a teacher at the local primary school. ‘I know Stuart’s stories are pretty boring, but you seem more than usually distracted.’

  ‘Yeah, sorry.’ He returned her concerned smile. ‘Problems at the airfield.’

  ‘They must be serious.’

  ‘They are.’ Calder drained his glass. ‘Sorry, Jess, I think I’ll be off.’

  ‘Good luck,’ she said. ‘With the problems.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Calder as he slipped out into the night and the walk back to his house.

  The wind had died down, but not before blowing away the scraps of cloud from the night sky. The stars were emerging and there was half a moon hanging over the parish church. Calder usually walked to the pub. Spending all day at the airfield, he didn’t get as much exercise as he would like and the two-mile stroll there and back refreshed him. He enjoyed the isolation of the darkness, the marsh illuminated in the moonlight, and beyond that the blackness of the sea. Although he frequently met walkers along the lane in the summer, he scarcely ever did so in winter, especially after dark. But in front of him were a woman and a dog, both of whom he recognized.

  ‘Evening, Mrs Mander. Hello, Curly,’ he said, bending down to pat the young fox-terrier who had trotted up to greet him.

  ‘Ooh, it’s raw out tonight,’ said Mrs Mander, pausing to urge on her dog. ‘I went into Norwich this morning, and poor Curly hasn’t been out yet today.’

  ‘He doesn’t seem to care about the cold. Or the dark,’ Calder said.

  ‘He’d be out here all night if I’d let him.’

  They parted and Calder continued on his way. Half a minute later he heard a commotion behind him. He turned to see the fox-terrier yelping around the legs of a man walking alone. They were about fifty yards away. Mrs Mander scolded the dog and dragged him away, apologizing as she did so.