On the Edge

by Michael Ridpath

  ‘Thanks,’ said Langhauser. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  Martel put the phone down and stared at the Tetons across the valley. How he admired their solidity, their strength, their permanence.

  He was still in with a chance.

  Martel’s ranch wasn’t quite as large as Calder had expected, but it nestled in a staggeringly beautiful location. The sunlight sparkled on the rushing water of the Snake River and on the flanks of the Tetons soaring high above. He was met at the door by a Hispanic maid who showed him through to a large room, with ceilings rising up thirty feet to the timbered roof. At one end was a seating area and at the other a sturdy dining table, with places set for three in the middle, and a vast bronze chandelier suspended above it. There were two fireplaces constructed of what looked like stones from a river bed, with fires blazing in each one. And then there was the view from the windows of the river and the mountains.

  He felt the first twinges of fear creep up on him. His neck and shoulders were tense and he felt a dull pain in his lower back. The day before it had seemed a good idea to confront Martel directly, to shake things up a bit, but now he was in Martel’s house, alone, at his mercy, the idea didn’t seem quite so brilliant. He took a deep breath. As long as he kept his wits about him, he’d be OK. But he was looking forward to reaching the relative safety of the public slopes.

  He was left alone for barely a moment before a door banged open and Martel appeared, accompanied by a not-quite-so-tall, square-shouldered man with light-brown skin, and a woman.

  ‘I am so glad you could come, Alex. This is Vikram Rana, who does my derivatives business for me. He will eat lunch with us, but sadly he has to work this afternoon. And this is my wife, Cheryl, just back from New York. She will join us just for a drink. She finds all this talk about the markets tedious, don’t you, mon ange?’

  Mrs Martel was wearing jeans and a white sweatshirt. Her blonde hair was tied back in a pony tail. Her cheeks glowed pink. She had a simple, guileless beauty that was surprising to see in the wife of a budding billionaire. She gave Calder a broad all-American smile and shook his hand. Calder felt safer with a woman around, especially this woman. She didn’t look like the type to be an accessory to murder.

  ‘Now, has Rita got you a drink?’ Martel said.

  Calder asked for a tomato juice, Vikram a Diet Coke, Cheryl a glass of white wine and Martel himself a whisky and ginger ale.

  ‘Did you find some skis, Alex?’ Martel asked.

  ‘I rented some from a shop in town this morning.’

  ‘Excellent. Are you a good skier?’

  ‘Reasonable,’ said Calder. He actually thought himself quite good, but he knew that Martel was probably an expert. Somehow he suspected that Martel would want to show off that fact, and Calder was determined not to rise to the challenge.

  ‘There’s glorious powder up there at the moment,’ said Martel, moving Calder towards the window. ‘The snowfall is so heavy here and the atmosphere so dry that you get much more powder than in the Alps, for example.’

  ‘It’s a beautiful view,’ said Calder.

  ‘I love the Tetons,’ said Martel. ‘Do you know where the word comes from?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘When some French trappers saw the mountains from the Idaho side, they called them “Les Trois Tétons”. “Tétons” means “tits” in French, in case you didn’t know.’ Martel laughed. ‘Chalmet raised a couple of eyebrows when I told them my fund would be called the Teton Fund. I love to annoy these Swiss bankers; they take themselves so seriously. But how could I call it anything else? Anyway, I think of them more as Titans. They have so much strength, so much power. Especially the Grand Teton. You know, after nine eleven a lot of people came here looking for strength and comfort. A lot of people.’

  Calder examined the tallest mountain, silent, overbearing. Its edges were rough, folds ‘and wrinkles and crags, sharp broken shards of rock slashing through the snow.

  ‘And then there’s the river. The fishing in the Snake River is some of the best in the country and we have a creek that runs through the property just on the other side of the house. Do you fly-fish?’

  ‘I don’t have the patience for it,’ said Calder. The idea of the hyperactive Martel quietly watching a fly drift down a stream was difficult to imagine.

  ‘Patience? You don’t need patience,’ said Martel. ‘It is totally absorbing. It is like you are hunting the fish. Did you know there is a species of cutthroat that exists only in this river?’

  As they were admiring the view, a flash of movement in the reflection of the window pane caught Calder’s eye. Behind him, inside the room, Vikram stepped behind Cheryl to fetch some ice for his drink from a side table. As he did so he seemed to let his hand drift over her behind. Cheryl flicked it away and gave him an admonishing glance, but it was a glance tinged with something else, something unmistakable.

  Vikram and Cheryl were lovers.

  Calder glanced quickly towards Martel, but he seemed oblivious to what was happening behind him, in fact he probably couldn’t see the interior of the room reflected from where he was standing.

  Calder turned, slowly. ‘You must like it here, Mrs Martel.’

  ‘Oh, I do,’ she said. ‘I’m from Wisconsin. We’ve got the cold and the snow but we don’t have the mountains. Mind you, I have to get out of here every now and then or I’d go crazy.’

  ‘Cheryl spends a lot of the time in her studio,’ said Martel, with a note of pride. ‘You see all the ceramics in this room? All her work. I keep telling her she should open a gallery in town, but she won’t listen.’

  Calder examined a tall multicoloured vase standing on a plinth by his elbow. It reminded him a little of a Henry Moore sculpture in clay, except more sensuous. ‘I like this one.’

  ‘Do you want it?’ Cheryl asked him.

  ‘No, I couldn’t possibly take it,’ said Calder, surprised.

  ‘Mon ange, that is one of your best pieces!’ Martel protested.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, honey. I can always make another.’ Cheryl picked it up off its plinth. ‘I’ll just go put it in bubble wrap for you. You don’t want to break it carrying it around.’

  ‘But Cheryl!’ Martel’s brows were knitted in anger.

  Calder realized that Cheryl was playing some kind of game with her husband. He didn’t know whether she knew of the enmity between himself and Martel, or she just sensed it. Either way, he couldn’t resist playing along.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Martel. I shall treasure it.’

  ‘Cheryl, please,’ she said in a manner that was all friendliness and no flirtation. ‘I know you will. I could tell by the way you were looking at it. To an artist, that look is the greatest kind of praise.’ With that, she took the vase and left the room.

  ‘Let’s sit down,’ said Martel, unable to hide the irritation in his voice.

  Although he was happy to needle Martel, Calder wanted to get him talking. So he changed the subject. ‘Tell me about the Italian trade last year. You caught me on the wrong side of that a couple of times. In the end, I just gave up.’

  Martel recovered from his anger instantly, and launched into a lengthy discourse about the Teton Fund and the euro. Calder encouraged him, gently stroking his ego at the correct points. But he wasn’t faking his interest. Martel’s stories brought back some of the excitement of the markets that he had tried not to think about over the preceding year, but that he so sorely missed.

  Eventually, after the soup and a salade Niçoise, Martel ran out of steam. ‘But how can I help you? What brings you to Jackson Hole?’

  This too was a game. Both he and Martel knew exactly why he was there, but Calder still wasn’t sure why Martel wanted to play. Calder knew what he was looking for, but what was in it for Martel? Why didn’t he just refuse to talk to him and send him packing? It worried him.

  Still, best to keep playing. ‘I was a colleague of Perumal Thiagajaran’s. I’ve been in touch with his widow in London, and I�
�m trying to find out a bit more about how he died.’

  ‘That was a tragic accident, wasn’t it, Vikram?’ Martel said. ‘He and Vikram did a lot of business together.’

  ‘So I understand,’ Calder said. ‘Presumably that’s why Perumal was here?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Vikram. ‘He and I discussed some ideas for new trades. I enjoyed working with him. He was a smart man: one of those people you can share ideas with and generate something that’s new to both of you.’

  ‘How long did he spend at your offices?’

  ‘Oh, we had dinner, and then we spent a morning together. It was scarcely worth him coming all this way, but I appreciated the effort. I think his boss had put him up to it. I guess we must be one of Bloomfield Weiss’s top derivatives accounts.’

  ‘What kind of derivatives business do you do? As you can guess, the bond guys and the derivatives guys don’t talk much.’

  ‘With Bloomfield Weiss it’s mostly structured notes – deals that can express a view on a range of different markets at once. And we do them in large size.’

  ‘You mean, they allow you to take on bigger positions when the credit lines from your brokers are full?’

  Martel laughed. ‘I can assure you the Teton Fund has access to all the credit it needs. We are one of the most sophisticated investors in the world. Sometimes we need something a little more complex than a simple government bond to achieve what we want. For example, Bloomfield Weiss came up with the IGLOO notes when we had a view that Italy would drop out of the euro. They were responsible for a large part of our profit on that trade.’

  Why do you trade with London and not New York?’

  ‘The IGLOO notes were a European deal,’ Vikram answered. ‘Bloomfield Weiss’s European derivatives business is run out of London. Once we’d done a few big trades, and they worked, we decided to stick with the London office. We do get the odd call from salesmen in New York fishing for business, but we tell them where to get off.’

  Typical Bloomfield Weiss, Calder thought. Starting a turf war over a big client. ‘And you did all these trades with Perumal?’

  ‘Yes. Just him.’

  ‘And did Perumal revalue the trades?’

  What do you mean?’ asked Vikram.

  ‘I mean, didn’t Bloomfield Weiss have to revalue the trades on a regular basis, if only to determine how much the notes were worth as collateral?’

  ‘I guess so,’ said Vikram. ‘I really don’t remember.’

  What about now? Do you have any of these notes outstanding at the moment?’

  ‘Come now, Alex,’ Martel interrupted. ‘You can’t expect us to talk about our current trading positions.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ Calder said. ‘But I wonder whether Perumal’s death caused you any difficulty. Or whether there was someone else at Bloomfield Weiss willing to take a lenient attitude towards revaluations. Justin Carr-Jones, perhaps?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Do you, Vikram? I don’t know this Justin Carr-Jones.’

  ‘He’s the head of the Derivatives Group at Bloomfield Weiss in London,’ Vikram said. ‘And to answer your question, I do miss Perumal. He was a smart guy and a good person to deal with. But I’m not aware of any difficulties in revaluing our portfolio of structured notes, either now or in the past.’

  ‘I see,’ said Calder. ‘Have you ever heard of Jennifer Tan?’ Both Martel’s and Vikram’s faces were blank. ‘She used to work for me at Bloomfield Weiss, and before that for the Derivatives Group. She fell out of a window last year. The police think she killed herself. I think she was pushed.’

  ‘And you think this might have something to do with Perumal’s death?’ Martel asked, with what seemed like genuine curiosity.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘But surely that was an accident?’

  ‘Was it?’

  Vikram and Martel exchanged glances. ‘We think so,’ said Vikram.

  ‘Do you know why he decided to stay on in Jackson Hole a couple of days?’

  ‘No,’ said Vikram. ‘I thought he was travelling back to London on the Friday; at least, that’s what he told me he was doing.’

  ‘So he didn’t mention going snowmobiling?’

  ‘No. He didn’t really look like a snowmobiling kind of guy to me.’

  ‘I hate those things,’ Martel interrupted. ‘Noisy, filthy, disgusting, driven by idiots. You know they let them into the National Parks now? They ruin the peace for everyone else. There’s nothing you can’t see on a good pair of cross-country skis.’

  ‘What do you think, Vikram?’ Calder asked.

  ‘I’ve never been on one.’

  ‘Vikram doesn’t even ski,’ said Martel. ‘He comes to a mountain paradise like this and he won’t even put on a pair of skis.’

  ‘I work out,’ said Vikram defensively. ‘And in the summer I take out my mountain bike. I like the mountains.’

  Calder decided to continue the dance. He now realized what they were doing: letting him talk to see how much he knew. He was willing to play that game, in the hope that one of them might make some tiny slip that he could pick up on. ‘Do you know Mykhailo Bodinchuk?’ he asked.

  Martel looked at him with interest. ‘Yes. Yes, I do. He’s an investor in the Teton Fund. A large investor.’

  ‘How large?’

  Martel smiled. ‘You know I can’t answer that.’

  ‘I think that someone who works for Mykhailo Bodinchuk killed Jennifer Tan and Perumal. Someone who pretends to be a Turkish citizen named Esat Olgaç, but who is actually Ukrainian. Middle-aged, dark hair brushed back, thin moustache.’

  Martel looked surprised, and rather pleased, Calder thought, a reaction Calder wasn’t expecting. If Martel was involved in Jen’s death, then he should be concerned about Calder discovering a link to Bodinchuk.

  ‘That can’t be true,’ Martel said, maintaining his composure. ‘I know Mykhailo has a reputation as a tough customer, but he wouldn’t kill people in cold blood, would he? Besides, why would he want to kill Perumal and the woman you mentioned?’

  ‘I hoped you might be able to tell me. I thought it might have something to do with the derivative trades you do with Bloomfield Weiss.’

  Martel laughed. ‘I can assure you that isn’t the case.’

  Calder gave him a small smile. ‘That’s good to know. Now what about Ray Pohek? Do you know him?’

  This time Martel was genuinely surprised. He looked over his shoulder, and then glanced quickly at Vikram. What’s he got to do with any of this?’ he said in a whisper.

  ‘That’s what I was wondering. But he does work for you, doesn’t he?’

  Martel recovered and sat up straight. ‘That’s really something I’d rather not discuss. It’s personal.’

  ‘Personal?’

  ‘Yes. It has nothing to do with Perumal, or Bloomfield Weiss, or you.’

  ‘Nothing to do with me? Then why has Pohek been following me since I arrived in Jackson Hole? And why did he try to kill me back in England last week?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I caught Mr Pohek following me yesterday. I think I scared him pretty badly. I’ve lodged some papers somewhere safe which suggest that if something happens to me, the police should look very closely at Ray Pohek. And at his employer. You.’

  ‘Oh, no, no, you don’t understand. I am employing Pohek in another capacity altogether.’

  Calder glanced at Martel: the Frenchman’s concern seemed to be sincere. Vikram didn’t seem to know what was going on either, but he looked very interested in finding out.

  ‘I do understand,’ Calder said. ‘I understand that a week ago he chased after me waving a gun and firing real bullets.’

  Martel was stumped. No denial. No explanation.

  They were interrupted by the approaching whump-whump of a helicopter. Calder turned to see a Bell 407 landing on the lawn in front of the ranch. Martel seemed relieved by the interruption. ‘Ah. Time to get your skis, Alex. We will be off in a m
oment.’

  ‘In that?’

  ‘Absolutely. It’s much quicker than driving. I’ll see you outside in five minutes.’

  Lunch broke up and Calder made his way out of the house to the driveway where he had parked his Bronco, still sporting a dent from Pohek’s car.

  He was nervous about joining Martel in a helicopter. The prudent thing would be to cry off, get in the Bronco and drive away. For a moment Calder was tempted. But as long as Martel remained free, Calder’s life was in danger, unless of course he gave up entirely and went back to Norfolk. He had come too far to do that: he would never forgive himself if he quit now. And anyway, once he got on to the crowded slopes he would be safe.

  He stopped by the car, hesitating. He looked from the helicopter, rotors still turning, to the mountains. He took a deep breath. What the hell. He’d stick with Martel.

  He did fish out the gun he had taken from Pohek and zipped it into an inside pocket of his coat, which would have to double as a skiing jacket. Then he put on the hired boots, gathered his skis and clomped round the house to the chopper on the lawn. Martel was waiting for him in his own flash equipment: red high-tech boots, orange jacket and fat yellow skis bearing the name of a manufacturer Calder didn’t recognize. Vikram was still in street clothes, happy to miss the mountain and go back to the office. Martel folded himself into the helicopter, Calder squeezed into a back seat and the pilot stowed the skis and hopped in.

  As the pilot went through his pre-take-off checks, Martel turned to Calder and grinned. Calder didn’t smile back.

  31

  The helicopter lifted off, watched by Vikram, a diminishing figure on the snow-covered lawn. To Calder’s surprise, it turned south, following the Snake River downstream for a few miles, and then gained altitude. It soared high over a ranch and was soon above the mountains. Calder looked down on a wilderness of trees, snow and rock. Quite a lot of rock. Teton Village and the Jackson Hole skiing area were now several miles behind them.

  He tapped Martel on the shoulder. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘You don’t want to mess around with the lifts, do you? Unfortunately they don’t let helicopters into the Tetons, but there are some nice runs I know in the Snake River Range. The only way to get to them is by helicopter. It’s not far.’