On the Edge

by Michael Ridpath

  Vikram could see only disaster looming. But perhaps Martel could see something else. Perhaps Martel would come through, yet again.

  The idea that Martel would once more make Vikram look a fool both angered and thrilled him. One day Vikram would learn. One day he would have his own fund and put Martel in the shade.

  The plane was approaching New York. Vikram had a meeting with some derivatives guys at US Commerce on Wall Street, for which he held out little hope, and then he was supposed to hop on to Martel’s jet and fly straight on to Jackson Hole. But what if he stayed, just for a few more hours? He had promised himself he wouldn’t, but what the hell? In dangerous times, live dangerously.

  Cheryl was getting ready to leave the apartment. She was planning to check out a new ceramics gallery which had opened in the Village. It was wonderful to get out of Jackson Hole and to experience the freedom of New York again. With stress taking an increasing toll on Jean-Luc and the deterioration of their relationship, the snowbound ranch was feeling more and more like a prison. Her trips were becoming more regular.

  She felt bad about Jean-Luc. His vulnerability, his many weaknesses, had been what had first attracted her to him. Where others either admired a wealthy playboy or sneered at an arrogant speculator, she had seen a small insecure boy in a six-foot-seven-inch body. His obvious need for her, the fact that she alone seemed to understand his insecurities, had pulled her to him, despite herself. When this giant of a man lay in her arms, totally surrendering himself to her, she couldn’t fail to respond. And although she affected to despise all the trappings of excessive wealth, she had to admit that she had been curious to see how the other half a per cent lived.

  But there had been a cost to marrying Martel, as she had always known there would be. Some might view the life of an accountant as dull, but she was stimulated by it. She liked turning numerical chaos into order and truth. The wife of Jean-Luc Martel could never again become a simple accountant. Even at the wildlife museum there were countless billionaires who were reluctant to leave the finances in her hands without adding their million dollars’ worth of advice.

  And now there was no sex. And without sex, no children. Cheryl was a healthy young woman with strong natural appetites, still decades away from the society wives with facelifts, boob jobs and HRT she saw around her. She was in the wrong place with the wrong man. But she had chosen that path, she had taken the vows, and now she should keep to them.

  The buzzer rang. She opened the door.

  ‘Vikram!’

  ‘Hi, Cheryl.’

  He was carrying a small bunch of orchids. He was smiling, but nervously. Not knowing how she would react. And she didn’t know how to react.

  ‘But I thought we agreed …’

  ‘I couldn’t help it,’ he said, stepping into the room.

  ‘But Jean-Luc will find out. He probably has a private detective tailing you right now.’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘Yes, but I do. I don’t want to get caught. I don’t want him to find out. I really think – ‘

  She couldn’t finish the sentence. Vikram dropped the flowers and slid his arms around her waist and pulled her towards him. He kissed her deeply, passionately. She tried to resist, she placed a hand against his broad chest and began to push him away, but something in her began to respond.

  Half an hour later she was lying on her bed, naked, Vikram’s pale brown body next to her. And what a body. Strong muscles, perfectly honed, full of vigour. She stroked his short black hair. He murmured something; she couldn’t quite hear what.

  Perhaps she had just made a dreadful mistake. There was a good chance that Jean-Luc would find out, and then she would be in all kinds of trouble. But it wasn’t just that. He would be hurt, dreadfully hurt. And while she didn’t love him – she wasn’t sure if she ever really had – she was fond of him, and she didn’t want to cause him pain.

  What she had just done was wrong. She had never been unfaithful to Jean-Luc before Vikram. Vikram and she had cut off their brief affair the moment Vikram had spotted the private investigator’s website on her husband’s computer. Jean-Luc must have suspected something when he had heard Vikram coughing in her bedroom, this bedroom. She had intended never to be unfaithful to him again, she truly had. And now here she was.

  She, Cheryl Dillon of Kington, Wisconsin, was a bad, bad girl.

  She smiled. And it felt wonderful. She rolled over and planted small kisses on Vikram’s chest, and then on his flat, hard stomach. She worked her way down. He chuckled. So did she.

  Boy, did it feel wonderful.

  29

  Calder woke very early. There was a seven-hour time difference between Wyoming and London and it would take him several days to adjust. It was still dark in Jackson Hole when he called Sandy in London from his hotel room.

  She sounded pleased to hear from him.

  ‘Any luck?’ he asked.

  ‘I’d say so.’ Sandy told him all about her researches on the Mexicans and Mykhailo Bodinchuk. There was a note of pride in her voice. Calder couldn’t blame her; she had done well.

  ‘Excellent,’ he said, when he had heard her out. ‘With a stake that big in the Teton Fund, Bodinchuk might well have decided to help Martel. A man like that would have no qualms about killing Jen.’

  ‘Yes, but did he?’

  ‘You’re right. That’s just a guess. I need to find out more.’

  ‘What about Perumal? Any sign he was murdered?’

  ‘None yet. But the idea that he would take it into his head to ride off into the wilderness is difficult to believe. The guide who took him out the day before suggested he might have intended to kill himself. There could be something in that, I suppose.’

  ‘Another suicide?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m planning to check out where he was staying, and then go and see Martel himself.’

  ‘Is that a good idea? That guy sounds scary.’

  ‘I need to get him talking. Find out about Perumal’s visit. Maybe provoke him into saying something he doesn’t mean to.’

  ‘Well, be careful.’

  ‘I will.’ Usually Calder was irritated by people telling him to be careful. But this time he was pleased to detect the note of concern in Sandy’s voice.

  ‘I wonder how the awful Justin Carr-Jones fits into all of this,’ she said.

  ‘The more I think about it, the more I think he was telling me the truth. He’s a nasty piece of work, but he didn’t kill anyone. He was more scared than I was. The answer’s over here, in Jackson. How’s your deal going?’

  ‘Nearly there. I have what I hope is the final draft in front of me as we speak. I might even be out of here tomorrow.’

  ‘Will you go straight to New York?’

  ‘I should be able to take a few days’ vacation. I might even get to go skiing after all. But is there anything else I can do to help you?’

  ‘I don’t think so now. Thanks for all you’ve done. You’ve been a great help.’

  ‘No problem. Let me know what happens. And if I can help, just call.’

  Calder felt a tinge of disappointment as he put down the phone. It had been nice to know that Sandy was working with him, even if she was several thousand miles away. She would disappear to New York soon, never to be seen again.

  A shame, that.

  He checked in with Jerry at the airfield. Everything was under control. Mrs Easterham had called to say that Brynteg Global Investments had pulled their offer; Jerry said she was clearly disappointed about the money, but she sounded relieved not to be losing the airfield. Britain had been besieged by a series of cold fronts so there had been very little flying. That was bad for business, but at least it meant that Jerry could cope without Calder for a few more days. As Calder put the phone down, he hoped that his absence would only be for a few more days and not permanent.

  He brought his mind back to the matter in hand. Next call was to Nils. Calder explained what Sandy had discovered about Bodinchuk, and
asked Nils to see if he could find any signs of a link between the Ukrainian and the Derivatives Group. Nils sounded pretty doubtful–the Derivatives Group had clammed up as far as he was concerned – but he promised he would try.

  Finally, Calder called Radha Thiagajaran. He needed to find out where Perumal had stayed while he was in Jackson.

  ‘Oh, hello, Mr Calder, how are you?’ Radha said politely when she answered the phone.

  ‘I’m in Jackson Hole, seeing what I can find out about Perumal.’

  ‘Goodness. And have you discovered anything?’

  ‘Nothing yet. I’m afraid they still haven’t found the body.’

  ‘Oh dear, I feared as much.’

  ‘I’m not entirely happy about the explanation of Perumal’s death. I’d like to ask a few more questions. Do you have the name of the hotel Perumal was staying in?’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about that, Mr Calder. Don’t ask any more questions on my account. I have resigned myself to waiting until the snow thaws. They will find Perumal’s body in a month or two, isn’t it?’

  ‘But since I’m here, I may as well do what I can.’

  ‘It’s really not necessary.’

  ‘Do you know the name of the hotel?’ Calder persisted.

  There was silence at the other end of the phone. Calder didn’t know whether Radha was looking for the name or just thinking. Finally, she answered. ‘The Wort Hotel. I don’t have the address.’

  ‘I’ll find it. Did Perumal’s sister visit you?’

  ‘Yes she did. But she’s returned to Canada now.’

  ‘Did she say whether she had discovered anything?’

  ‘She did ask around. But no, nothing. I think there is nothing to find out, Mr Calder. We are better to let sleeping dogs lie.’

  ‘Have you got her address as well? I might want to exchange notes.’

  ‘OK,’ Radha sighed and read out an address and phone number in British Columbia. ‘But I really don’t think she can tell you anything.’

  As Calder hung up he pondered Radha’s change of attitude. It was as if she didn’t want to know anything more about Perumal’s death. Grief was a strange thing. Perhaps she had found comfort in reconciling herself to an accident, and she didn’t want to disturb that presumption. Calder felt a pang of guilt: what right had he to intrude upon a widow’s grief, especially when he had no proof that her presumption was false?

  The Wort Hotel was only four blocks away. Calder decided to take an indirect route along a quiet side street. He paused to tie his shoelace, glancing behind him as he did so. Fifty yards back, a man in a blue jacket turned on to a cross street. He was too far away for Calder to make out his features clearly. Calder paused twice more, but didn’t see the man again.

  The Wort was the oldest hotel in town and one of the smartest, more substantial than the place Calder had picked at random for his own lodgings. Unlike most of the other buildings in town, it was made of brick, but inside it was warm and comfortable and all wood – wood-panelled walls, a grand wooden staircase and a wood fire burning in the grate. It was still early and guests were checking out.

  Calder waited for a lull before approaching the woman at the front desk. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. Can I speak to the manager?’

  ‘One moment please.’ Calder waited while the woman shuffled papers into files. She was probably in her twenties, tall, gaunt with short purple-dyed hair, and small oval glasses. Calder thought he detected a Germanic accent. He saw her name tag read ‘Ilse’.

  He waited. She filed. He coughed. She ignored him. Eventually he repeated himself. ‘The manager?’

  Without acknowledging him, she picked up the phone and spoke a quick couple of words. In an instant a tall, clean-cut man with an open, friendly face appeared from an office behind the reception. There seemed to be a lot of open, friendly faces in Jackson.

  When he began to enquire about Perumal, the man, who said his name was Bill, ushered Calder back into his office, which was cramped with a surfeit of computer equipment. He left the door open.

  ‘It’s one of the least pleasant parts of this job, dealing with guests who have passed away. We had two last year, one in a car accident and one from a heart attack. Mr Thiagajaran is the only one so far this year, but we’re only in February.’

  ‘I was a colleague of Perumal’s,’ Calder said. ‘His widow has asked me to try to find out a bit more about what happened to him.’ A lie. Oh, well.

  Bill shook his head. ‘I spoke to her a couple of times right after the accident. Poor woman.’

  ‘And you probably saw Perumal’s sister?’

  ‘No.’ Bill thought about it for a moment. ‘No, I don’t believe I did.’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Calder. ‘Unfortunately, Perumal was in some trouble at home. Related to work. Did he act strangely while he was here?’

  ‘No. Not that I can remember. He wore a suit, so you could tell he was here on business. He kind of stuck out. We do get the odd banker swings by, but they usually try to blend in a bit. You get more stares wearing a coat and tie than a cowboy hat in this town.’

  ‘I can see that. I understand Perumal extended his stay by a couple of days. Do you have any record of when he decided to do that?’

  Bill frowned. ‘I don’t think there was any extension. But let me look.’ He swung on his seat and turned to his computer with obvious enthusiasm. ‘Everything’s on here. It’s a little tricky to tell when exactly a reservation was made, but I might be able to figure something out.’ He tapped and squinted for a couple of minutes. ‘You’re right. He did ask to extend his reservation. When he checked in.’

  ‘When he checked in? Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. Here, let me show you.’ Bill pointed to his screen.

  ‘No, that’s OK.’ But this information didn’t tally with the idea that Perumal had suddenly changed his mind during his trip, as he had suggested to Bloomfield Weiss. And to his wife. When Perumal had arrived in Jackson Hole, he had known he would take those extra days to go snowmobiling. Odd.

  ‘You didn’t happen to see anyone following Perumal? Perhaps asking questions about him?’

  ‘No, sorry. The cops have already asked me.’

  ‘Did you have any Ukrainian nationals staying here?’

  ‘Ukrainian? Is that a country?’

  ‘It is now.’

  ‘Let me check.’ With alacrity Bill interrogated his computer. ‘No, nothing. We had three from the UK, but that’s no good to you. Turkey? France? Argentina? Nothing from the Ukraine.’

  Calder let him stare at his computer screen a little more for inspiration, but when it was clear none was coming, he got up to leave. Bill ushered him past the reception desk and its guardian.

  ‘I think I know who you mean.’

  Both men turned towards the purple-haired receptionist. ‘Yes?’ said Calder.

  Ilse flashed a smile so quick Calder wasn’t sure he had seen it. ‘The Turk. Or he said he was Turkish. I don’t believe he was.’ She spoke fast in good English.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘You work in hotels in Germany, you meet a lot of Turks. Half the workers there are Turkish. And I don’t think he was one. I think he might have been Russian. Or possibly Ukrainian.’

  Bill and Calder exchanged glances. ‘And how do you know that?’ Calder asked.

  ‘I heard him talking on his mobile phone once. It was in the parking lot – I was just leaving work. He was speaking some kind of Slav language. I thought it was Russian, I studied a little at school and I recognized some words. But it could have been Polish, or Bulgarian. Or Ukrainian. I thought it was very strange for a Turk to be speaking Russian.’

  ‘Do you know what he said?’

  ‘No. As I said, I only understood one or two words and I can’t remember what they were.’

  ‘Do you remember what this man did while he was here? Did he act strangely? Did you see him follow Perumal?’

  ‘If he did, I didn
’t notice him. But he did hang around in the lobby a lot, trying to look inconspicuous. I only noticed him because I’d heard him speak Russian or whatever it was and I was curious. That’s what people do when they’re following someone, don’t they, hang around?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Calder. ‘What did he look like? Do you remember that?’

  ‘Certainly. About fifty, maybe older. Well-dressed. White, or Caucasian, don’t they call it? Black hair brushed back. And a thin moustache.’ Calder felt a surge of excitement. The description was too much like that of the man Jen had bumped into in Chelsea to be a coincidence.

  ‘You don’t remember his name, do you?’

  ‘No, but we can look it up.’ Ilse beat Bill to the computer in his office, and within seconds had brought up the relevant booking.

  ‘She’s smart, that girl,’ Bill murmured into Calder’s ear. ‘Scary but smart. We keep her away from the guests if we can, but we were short staffed today.’

  ‘Here we are,’ Ilse said. ‘Esat Olgaç. Or at least that’s what he said his name was. Arrived January twenty-sixth. Checked out Friday the twenty-eighth.’

  ‘The twenty-eighth?’ On the twenty-eighth Perumal was out on a snowmobile with Nate. It was the next day, the twenty-ninth, that he was killed. What had Mr Olgaç been doing checking out then? ‘Do you know where he went?’

  ‘The airport,’ Ilse said.

  ‘That’s not on the computer,’ Bill protested.

  ‘I remember,’ Ilse said, giving him a withering look. ‘He got the airport shuttle for the last flight to Salt Lake. He was concerned whether he would make it. Also I remember he was carrying an Indian doll.’

  ‘Native American,’ Bill corrected her.

  Ilse ignored her boss. ‘A squaw. I asked him about it. He said it was for his granddaughter.’

  Calder left the Wort Hotel in good spirits. It seemed highly likely that Bodinchuk had had a man in Jackson Hole following Perumal. But it looked as if the man had left Jackson Hole the day before Perumal disappeared, which didn’t quite make sense. Perhaps they changed their plans. Or perhaps it was some kind of ruse. When the Sheriff’s Office eventually recovered Perumal’s body Calder was willing to bet that they would find evidence that he had been murdered.