Fatal Error

by Michael Ridpath

  ‘Ist Frau Jourdan hier?’ I asked slowly, in what I hoped was German.

  ‘Yes,’ the woman replied in English. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘David Lane. I’m a friend of Guy Jourdan’s. Tony’s son.’

  ‘Ein Moment.’

  The woman was suspicious, not surprisingly, so she left me at the doorstep while she disappeared inside. A moment later Sabina appeared wearing a sweatshirt, dark hair hanging loosely over her shoulders, long legs in faded jeans, bare feet. She was beautiful.

  She frowned for a moment and then recognized me. ‘I remember you. You’re Guy’s partner at Ninetyminutes. You were with him when he came to see us at Les Sarrasins?’

  ‘That’s right. I wonder if I could have a quick word?’

  ‘Of course. Come in.’

  She led me through to a large spotless kitchen. A baby was playing with a plastic contraption on the floor. ‘Do you remember Andreas?’ she asked.

  ‘Hi, Andreas,’ I said.

  ‘He doesn’t speak English,’ Sabina said firmly.

  ‘No, of course not.’ He didn’t look to me as though he could speak any language quite yet, but I didn’t want to argue the point with Sabina.

  ‘Would you like some tea? We have some Earl Grey. Tony always liked Earl Grey.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, that would be lovely.’

  She put the kettle on, and her mother said something rapidly to her in German, scooped up the baby and left us alone.

  ‘You haven’t flown all the way from England just to see me, I hope?’

  ‘No. We’re opening an office in Munich and since it isn’t too far away, I thought I’d come and see you.’

  ‘If you want to talk to me about the estate’s investments I’m afraid I can’t help you. Patrick Hoyle deals with all that.’

  ‘No. It’s not that. I want to talk to you about your husband’s death.’

  ‘Oh.’ Sabina sat down at the kitchen table. She clearly wasn’t excited about the subject, but she seemed willing to talk, for the moment at least.

  ‘I was the one who saw Tony just before he died. And I also saw the private detective who was waiting outside his flat. I understand from the police that he hasn’t been charged. I wondered what he was doing there?’

  ‘I hired him,’ she said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I was worried about Tony’s safety.’

  ‘Really?’ My eyebrows rose. ‘So he was a sort of bodyguard?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Sabina fiddled with a spoon on the table. ‘A bodyguard.’

  I didn’t believe her. If Tony needed a bodyguard he would have organized one for himself. It was obvious that Sabina had hired a private investigator to spy on her husband for the reason that wives always hire private investigators to spy on their husbands. She just didn’t want to admit it to me. Which was understandable.

  The kettle boiled. Sabina busied herself with the tea.

  ‘How long were you married to Tony?’ I asked as she handed me a mug.

  ‘Three years last April. We met five years ago at a party in Cannes. I was working for a film company. There was instant chemistry between us. I’ve never known anything like it. After the festival he flew over to Germany to see me: I was working in Munich at the time. We fell in love.’

  ‘I’m very sorry about what happened to him, by the way. Sorry for you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, biting her lip.

  ‘I only saw you for a few minutes this summer. But you seemed to be very fond of each other.’

  ‘We were,’ she said. ‘Then.’ She looked at me doubtfully. She wasn’t much older than me and at that moment she seemed young and vulnerable. She wanted to talk.

  ‘Then?’ I said quietly.

  ‘Yes.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Until I found out he was having an affair. That’s why I hired Leonard Donnelly. I overheard Tony talking to a woman on his mobile. I checked the last-numbers-called on his phone later when he wasn’t looking and got the number. It was British. London. So I contacted a private detective agency and asked Mr Donnelly to watch Tony next time he went there. It was a terrible thing to do, but I couldn’t stand the thought of him seeing another woman. I mean, what did he find wrong with me?’

  A very good question, I thought.

  ‘After Andreas was born I was convinced he didn’t think I was attractive any more. I wanted to know who this other woman was.’

  ‘Did you find out?’

  ‘Yes.’ Sabina looked crushed. ‘It was the wife of a friend of his. Mr Donnelly thinks she is forty-eight. I was humiliated. And very angry.

  ‘And then … Then he was killed. Can you imagine how bad I felt then? I hadn’t stopped loving him. In fact, it was because I loved him that I was so angry with him. It almost destroyed me. And now, whenever I think of him, I think of him and her. I wish I’d never heard that phone call. I wish I’d never hired Mr Donnelly.’

  ‘Do you have any idea who might have killed him?’

  ‘No. None.’

  ‘What about business enemies? I remember reading many years ago that he forced out his partner.’

  ‘That was many years ago. In fact, the man died last year. Cancer, I think. No, it’s a long time since Tony’s property days. He hardly ever spoke about them, and I never met anyone from then.’

  ‘What about in France? Had he made any enemies there?’

  ‘Oh, no. Or none that I’m aware of. No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘So what was this man Donnelly up to?’

  ‘Well, as you can imagine, the police had lots of questions about him. They thought I might have paid him to do it. But he’s not that kind of man, and they know that. Anyway, I was the one who first told them about him.’

  ‘He must have seen who did run Tony over?’

  ‘Apparently not.’

  ‘But I don’t see how he can have missed it?’

  ‘I don’t know the details. I don’t want to know the details.’ Sabina shuddered, her face pinched. ‘Why are you asking all these questions?’

  ‘Tony’s death was very close to home. I don’t know whether it had anything to do with Ninetyminutes. The police haven’t got anywhere. So I thought I would check, myself.’

  ‘I’m sure the police will find who killed him in the end.’

  ‘I hope so. What are you going to do now?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I’m not living in Les Sarrasins, that’s for certain. I’ll stay here with my parents until I decide what I want to do. According to Patrick, Tony left me quite well off. And, of course, he left me Andreas.’

  Her eyes began to fill with tears. I decided it was time to leave.

  27

  I caught the first flight to London the next morning, and was in the office by ten. Guy didn’t know and didn’t care that I had spent the night in a Munich airport hotel. I did some research on the Internet and soon located Leonard Donnelly. I phoned his number and spoke to a man who informed me he was Donnelly’s partner. I made an appointment to see Donnelly that afternoon.

  His office wasn’t far from Hammersmith tube station. There was a doorway right next to a bookmaker’s with a steel plate proclaiming AA Abacus Detective Agency. Not very imaginative, but it had snared Sabina. I pressed the bell and climbed the dingy stairs in front of me. AA Abacus was on the second floor, and I was greeted by Mr Donnelly himself. I recognized him, as much from the photograph Spedding had shown me as from when I had seen him in his car that night. He was thin, with small bright eyes that quickly moved over me. He was wondering whether he recognized me too.

  He led me into a small office with two desks, two computers and lots of filing cabinets. Both desks were empty. His partner was out on the streets. There was a funny smell in the place. Damp or drains or both.

  ‘Take a seat, Mr Lane,’ he said. ‘What can I do for you?’ He spoke rapidly in a clipped Irish accent.

  ‘We’ve met before,’ I said, sitting down. ‘Or, if we didn’t actually meet, we saw each other.’

&nbs
p; Donnelly nodded, and smiled a thin smile. In doing so he displayed protruding front teeth with a clear gap between them. I wished I’d seen them when I was describing him to Sergeant Spedding.

  ‘I saw you waiting in a car the night Tony Jourdan died,’ I began.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I was wondering if you could tell me what happened. What you saw.’

  ‘I told the police.’

  ‘I know. Now perhaps you would tell me.’

  Another smile. Those teeth again. ‘Doing a little detective work, are you, Mr Lane?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Now, why would it be in my interest to help you?’

  I had anticipated his question. I pulled out five twenties. ‘I believe you make your living by providing information for a fee. There’s the fee.’

  Donnelly glanced at me. I had no idea what the right amount to offer him was. He could see that. He could also see that I was keen to get the information.

  ‘That’s quite true,’ he said. ‘But I charge more than that.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Two-fifty. Including VAT.’

  I counted out another five notes. ‘Two hundred. That’s all.’

  Donnelly pocketed the notes.

  ‘What do you want to know? I warn you I can’t divulge any private information relating to my client. That would be unethical.’

  ‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘Just tell me what you saw that evening.’

  Donnelly took a well-worn notebook out of a desk drawer and thumbed through it until he found the right day. The smell seemed to me to be getting worse. I glanced at the window. Shut.

  Donnelly noticed. ‘Got to keep it closed, I’m afraid. Street noise is pretty bad here. Can’t hear yourself think.’ He smoothed open the pages. ‘This is it. I had been following Jourdan on and off for two days, since he arrived at Heathrow on Sunday morning.’

  ‘Did you see him with a woman?’

  ‘That’s confidential to my client.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ I said. I didn’t think it was important.

  ‘At eight fifty-eight I saw you and Ms Da Cunha enter Jourdan’s flat. At nine twenty-one you left. A couple of minutes later, Jourdan left the flat as well. He started walking south, towards Old Brompton Road. This was a bit of a problem for me because of the one-way system round there.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It means that I couldn’t follow him by car if he walked south. The one-way pattern is north. So I had to drive north, go around the block and pick him up as he came out on to Old Brompton Road looking for a cab. I’d already done that a few times before, so I thought it would work this time.’

  ‘But it didn’t.’

  ‘It didn’t. I went around the block and waited on the main road. No sign of him. Then I heard the sirens. I drove back towards his street and as soon as I saw it was filled with police cars I drove on.’

  ‘Why didn’t you stop and talk to them?’

  Donnelly smiled. ‘Usually my clients don’t like me to do that sort of thing. I find things work more smoothly if I avoid the police. Although in this case that was a mistake. My client told them all about me. They weren’t impressed with my discretion.’

  ‘I imagine not. So you told them what you saw?’

  ‘I didn’t see anything. Apart from you.’

  ‘You must have!’

  ‘I didn’t. It’s true someone else must have been parked on that street watching Jourdan’s flat, but I didn’t see them. It was dark, I couldn’t tell whether any of the parked cars were occupied or not. It looks as though the second I’d driven out of sight round the corner, the other car started up and ran Jourdan down.’

  ‘Is that what the police think?’ I asked.

  ‘It is now. For a while they seemed to think I’d squashed him. They took my car apart, took me apart. But they didn’t find anything.’

  ‘So they let you go?’

  ‘Yes. They know I didn’t do it. Mrs Jourdan had picked me at random through the Yellow Pages. They know I’m not a professional hit man. I mean, look at this dump. I tell you, if I were a pro I’d be able to afford a better place than this. Also running someone down is about as hit and miss as you can get. A shot is much cleaner and quicker. They know I didn’t do it.’

  And so should you, he didn’t need to add.

  As I studied the weasel of a man in front of me, I couldn’t help but agree. He didn’t look like my idea of an underworld thug.

  ‘Have you ever met Guy Jourdan, Tony’s son?’

  ‘No. I did catch sight of him when I followed Jourdan to your offices in Clerkenwell. But I’ve never spoken to him.’

  ‘Do you have any theories as to who did kill Tony Jourdan?’

  ‘I’m sure I could find some if you retained me.’

  ‘No chance of that.’

  ‘No? Well I’ll give you my opinion for free. This was no professional hit. It was personal. Personal usually means family. And not my client. I’ve seen jealous wives before and frankly they come a hell of a lot more jealous than Mrs Jourdan.’

  ‘The sons, then?’

  Donnelly shrugged. ‘My fees are thirty-five pounds an hour plus expenses. I could find out for you.’

  ‘No thank you, Mr Donnelly. And thanks for the information.’

  ‘Thirty? And there wouldn’t be much in the way of expenses.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Donnelly.’ It was a relief to get out on to the pavement and taste the fresh Hammersmith air.

  Guy grabbed me as soon as I got back to the office.

  ‘There you are, Davo. I’ve been looking all over for you. You’ve got your mobile switched off.’

  ‘Have I? Sorry.’

  ‘Where were you?’

  ‘Howles Marriott. With Mel,’ I said too quickly.

  Guy looked at me sharply. ‘No you weren’t. I phoned her there half an hour ago.’

  I didn’t tell him where I had been. And beyond looking at me strangely, he didn’t ask. We trusted each other not to skive off. Which made me feel guilty: I had abused that trust.

  ‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘I want to go over the stuff I was planning to talk to Westbourne about. I won’t be able to see them tomorrow, you’ll have to do it.’

  I pushed my conversation with Donnelly out of my mind and focused on Ninetyminutes.

  Things were coming together. Ninetyminutes now had a profile as one of the up-and-coming internet companies everyone had heard of. This was partly to do with the efforts of our PR firm and partly to do with Tony’s death, which had provided an unlooked for and unwanted hook for the press. But it was mostly to do with Guy. He was excellent with journalists. He had a good story to tell, which he told well. His vision of what the Internet was all about sounded original and made sense. He had an interesting background and he looked very good in a photograph. The November issue of one of the leading business magazines carried a picture of him on the cover, and inside a write-up of ninetyminutes.com as one of the top-ten internet businesses to watch out for in Europe. As a result of all this we were now better known than many of our longer-established rivals. This wasn’t just good for the ego: it was vital if Ninetyminutes was going to overtake the other soccer sites.

  Derek Silverman was a real asset. He knew many of the top club chairmen and, more importantly, he seemed to be well respected by them. Guy and he developed deals with a number of clubs where they would pass on visitors to us who were interested in the football world beyond their official club site, and we would integrate our club zone with theirs. It was difficult to do: the areas of overlap had to be carefully dealt with, but for us it was very powerful. Die-hard club supporters would always look at their own club’s site first. This was a way of capturing at least part of their attention.

  More work.

  Owen was a problem. Not because of his understanding of the technology. That had worked brilliantly: the architecture of the site had proved totally scalable, as he had insisted it should be. It was his
inability to communicate. He insisted on using e-mail. His messages were terse, often insulting and frequently meaningless. As the company grew, this mattered. He angered the consultants we had hired to put in place the e-commerce system so badly that they quit. That set us back three weeks. Guy was furious, Amy apoplectic. But Owen was untouchable. He was Guy’s brother.

  We were planning to launch the on-line retailing site at the beginning of December. It was a tight deadline. Too tight. After the fracas with the consultants, Guy agreed to move it back another week, but that was all. We were all nervous we wouldn’t hit it and Owen wasn’t inspiring us with confidence.

  Ingrid, though, was doing a brilliant job. For someone who knew very little about football, she picked it up fast. Not that she ever interfered with Gaz’s views on the substance of what was written. But she was constantly asking herself and anyone who would listen why a visitor would spend time on different parts of the site and what each visitor wanted. She didn’t believe we had a ‘typical’ visitor. Each was different, each wanted different things. Ingrid wanted to provide as much as possible for everyone as seamlessly as possible. We didn’t want to be a niche player, we wanted to be the soccer site for everyone. Not easy.

  I spent a lot of time with her and I enjoyed it. She was fun to work with. She never became too uptight and in the whirlwind that was everyday life at Ninetyminutes, she was a voice of sanity. Although I knew she took Ninetyminutes desperately seriously, she never showed it, and she was always ready with a joke to defuse tense situations. We all trusted her to have the right answer to difficult problems and she nearly always did.

  I found my relationship with her slowly changing. I began to miss her when she was out of the office. I would go and talk to her about issues that I should have been able to deal with by myself. I would watch her in meetings. And when I was alone at the end of the day, or when I was travelling, I would think about her.

  This all crept up on me. When I did finally realize what was happening, it unsettled me. I wasn’t sure what to do about it, if anything.

  I had hoped talking to Mel about Guy would clarify things, but it had just made them more opaque. I wasn’t sure what Mel’s real views on Guy and Dominique were. And although I had been firm in my opinion that there was nothing going on between Guy and Ingrid, Mel’s suspicions had stayed with me. They nagged at me and raised another question I had wanted answered for a long time.