Fatal Error

by Michael Ridpath

  Guy didn’t answer.

  I went on. ‘How did that footprint get outside Dominique’s window?’ Guy was about to protest, but I stopped him. ‘Before you say anything, I know it’s twelve years ago, and I know what you told the police. But that night is etched in my brain just as it is in yours. I can remember every detail of it. And we went to the guest cottage together. The garden had been watered late that afternoon, which means that your footprint got there between the time we went to bed and the time the police started nosing around the next morning.’

  ‘Can I get you a drink, sir?’

  It was the flight attendant with the trolley. Guy was obviously grateful for the interruption. ‘Gin and tonic, please. A large one.’

  I waited while she prepared his drink. He took a gulp.

  ‘Another thing. When did you take the jewellery box from Dominique’s room? The one you gave to Abdulatif. The police cordoned off her bedroom as soon as your father called them. So you must have taken it before then. When?’

  Guy drank some more gin.

  ‘I’m waiting,’ I said.

  He turned to face me. ‘I didn’t kill Dad. And I didn’t kill Dominique.’

  ‘Then who did?’

  Guy swallowed. ‘I don’t know.’

  Now he was hiding something. He was hiding it well, but he was hiding it. ‘I don’t believe you.’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Guy. I’ve been thinking about this long and hard. I don’t want to believe that you killed Dominique. Or your father. I really don’t. But there’s something going on, something that I think you know about. And until I know what it is, I can’t trust you and I can’t work with you. When we get to London I will get off this plane and never go into Ninetyminutes again.’

  Guy studied my face. I knew he didn’t want to tell me. Although my departure from Ninetyminutes would be a blow, it wouldn’t be an insurmountable one. But he needed me just like I needed him. At that moment I realized that. And so, I think, did he.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I will tell you. But only if you give me your word not to tell anyone else. Not Mel, not Ingrid. And not the police.’

  I thought before I answered. I had no idea what he was going to admit to, or confess. What if he had murdered his father? I certainly wouldn’t work with him any more. And I’d have to tell the police.

  Guy saw my doubt. ‘If you do tell anyone, I’ll deny it. And there’s no proof of what I’m about to say one way or the other. Now, do you give me your word?’

  He knew that I would take giving my word seriously. He had known me as a well-brought-up public schoolboy and I hadn’t changed as much as I would have liked.

  ‘OK,’ I said.

  Guy breathed in. ‘All right. First, let me say I didn’t kill my father, and I have no idea who did. No idea whatsoever.’

  ‘What about Hydra? You were never there.’

  ‘No, I wasn’t. After I left the Elephant’s Head I got a cab to Mel’s flat in St John’s Wood.’

  ‘Mel’s?’

  ‘Yes. You saw her at my place last month, didn’t you? Well, I’d been seeing her for a while before that. On and off.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘The police checked it out. She had a friend staying with her who saw me as well. I didn’t want to tell you this when you asked me, because … well, you can understand why.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘So I don’t have any idea who killed my father, or why.’

  ‘Might it have something to do with Dominique?’

  ‘Ah, Dominique,’ said Guy.

  I waited.

  ‘I didn’t kill Dominique.’ He was definitely telling the truth this time. ‘Owen did.’

  ‘Owen did? But he was only fifteen!’

  ‘He was a big guy, even then,’ Guy said.

  ‘But why?’

  ‘He hated her. He was seriously messed up when my father walked out on us; you know that. He held Dominique responsible. That whole trip he became obsessed by her, the more he saw her the more he hated her. You remember he said he was always working on his portable computer?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, he wasn’t. Actually he spent a lot of time watching her.’

  ‘Which is when he saw her with the gardener.’

  ‘And you.’

  I took a deep breath. Even after all these years the consequences of that half hour reached out to tear at me.

  ‘It tipped him over the edge,’ said Guy. ‘Not only had she stolen Dad away from us, but then she was cheating on him. He was angry. He watched her. Watched her fight with Dad. Watched Dad leave the house. Watched her shoot up with heroin. Watched her drink. Watched her finally pass out.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘He went into her room. He tried to talk to her. Tell her what he thought of her. I don’t know what he expected, whether he thought she’d just listen quietly to what he had to say and then let him go. But when she woke up and saw him, she was about to scream, so he put the pillow over her mouth. She tried to struggle. He kept it there. He kept it there a long time.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘Then he left her.’

  ‘God. But it was your footprint, not Owen’s, they found.’

  ‘Owen knew he’d done something badly wrong. At the time, I don’t think he intended to kill her. I think he barely realized he had. I don’t know what was going through his head. But he wanted to talk to me. He woke me up. We went out into the garden and he told me all about what Dominique and you had done, about what a slut she was, about what an evil woman she was. I was shocked about you and her, but I thought Owen was just ranting. Which was strange for him, you know how little he likes to talk.

  ‘Then I realized he’d smothered her with the pillow. I rushed up to her room, climbed in through the balcony. Dad wasn’t there. But she was. Lying there, not moving, her face still under the pillow.’

  Guy breathed heavily. There was sweat on his upper lip.

  ‘I looked for a pulse, but there wasn’t one. I had to take a decision there and then. I could either turn Owen in, or I could help him. I was shocked by what Dominique and you had done. I hated her too. And if Owen was screwed up enough to kill her, it was as a result of her actions. I know now it was all my father’s fault, but at the time I blamed her. I knew Owen had done wrong, but he was my brother and no one else was going to stand up for him if I didn’t.

  ‘So I crept back outside. Asked Owen exactly what he had touched. Came back and wiped it all down carefully with a cloth. I had to be quick; I had no idea when my father would get back. I took the pillowcase off the pillow. I grabbed the jewellery case to make it look as though a thief had been in there. I left through the balcony and dusted over our footprints, although I must have left one of mine. And then I went back to bed.’

  ‘I never noticed,’ I said.

  ‘You were out of it. Snoring. Loudly.’

  ‘Christ.’

  Guy shrugged.

  ‘I’m amazed the police didn’t discover anything.’

  ‘I was careful,’ Guy said. ‘While they were focusing on Dad, I was safe. I knew they would figure out he was innocent pretty soon, and I needed to give them someone else to worry about. Which is why paying the gardener to disappear was such a good idea. But then I got a real scare when they found my footprint. I’m eternally grateful to you for getting me out of that one. I’ve never quite known why you did that.’

  ‘I didn’t believe you’d killed Dominique,’ I said. ‘I was still a schoolboy. I was helping my innocent friend against the authorities. Or at least, that was what I thought I was doing.’

  ‘Well, thanks, anyway. Without that explanation they’d have found it harder to blame Abdulatif.’

  ‘Whew.’ I thought through what Guy had just told me. Owen had killed Dominique. At the age of fifteen! I shuddered. ‘What happened to Abdulatif?’

  ‘He died on the streets of Marseilles. It’s a tough place.’

  ‘You d
on’t think Owen killed him?’

  ‘No. I’m sure he didn’t.’

  ‘Oh, come on! His death was so convenient. So timely. Just when the blackmail was beginning to really bite.’

  Guy shrugged.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ I said. ‘I remember when Owen told us that Abdulatif had been murdered. It was just before we went to Mull. He’d been to visit your father in France.’

  ‘Hold on, Davo,’ Guy said, a note of anger in his voice. ‘I told you the whole truth just now, and I’m telling you the truth when I say Owen didn’t kill Abdulatif. Or Dad. I don’t think he really meant to kill Dominique. He was young then. And screwed up. He’s grown up now. He’s less impulsive. He’s straightened himself out.’

  ‘Huh.’ I wasn’t going to enter into an argument with Guy about Owen’s psychological well-being.

  ‘I mean it. He’s OK now. And I want you to leave him alone.’

  ‘Leave him alone?’

  ‘Yes. Leave him alone.’ Guy’s voice was firm. It was a command, not a request.

  We were silent for a couple of minutes, as I absorbed what Guy had just told me.

  ‘So now you know,’ he said.

  ‘Now I know.’

  ‘But you won’t tell Ingrid, will you? Or Mel?’

  I had given my word. I shook my head.

  ‘Or the police?’

  I hesitated.

  ‘It wouldn’t matter too much if you did. I’d deny we’d had this conversation. It’s a long time ago in a foreign country and the case was closed to everyone’s satisfaction. There would be no point. Would there?’

  I shook my head. ‘There wouldn’t.’

  ‘So will I see you at the office tomorrow morning?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  I lay in bed that night staring at the bands of light and shadow projected on to the ceiling by the streetlamps outside. I was shaken. Owen was a murderer. He had killed Dominique and I was pretty sure he had killed Abdulatif too. And Guy had helped him cover it up.

  Guy had given himself all kinds of justifications at the time as to why Owen had done what he had done. None of those counted for anything with me. I believed Owen was screwed up, but I also believed he was responsible for his actions. Perhaps it was right for a big brother to cover up for his younger brother, I didn’t know. I couldn’t even begin to imagine being related to Owen. I was now exceedingly glad that he no longer worked for Ninetyminutes. But what about me? What should I do? Should I just ignore what I knew?

  As a good citizen, I should tell someone. But I had also given my word. It was only on that basis that Guy had told me anything.

  I thought of the practicalities. Who would I go to? Would anyone in the British police help me with a case that was thirteen years old? Perhaps I should call the police station in Beaulieu. I’d have to go there. I’d have to talk to French officials who might or might not have any interest in what I was saying. I would have to start my own personal crusade for justice.

  And what would happen? It would be impossible for me to continue working at Ninetyminutes. It would make it difficult for Guy to run the company properly, especially if the French police decided to investigate further. I might screw the whole thing up. I’d certainly have to find another job, perhaps back in banking, or even worse, accountancy. And I would have lost Guy as a friend. Despite what Owen had done, that mattered.

  I decided to keep my word.

  Eventually I went to sleep. I was at my desk by eight thirty the next morning, ready for everything that Ninetyminutes could throw at me.

  PART FOUR

  30

  March 2000, three months later, Clerkenwell, London

  ‘A hundred and eighty million! You think Ninetyminutes will be worth a hundred and eighty million?’

  The American woman held Guy’s incredulous gaze. ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Pounds or dollars?’

  ‘Pounds.’

  ‘Wow.’

  I shared Guy’s sentiments. We were in the Ninetyminutes boardroom with Henry Broughton-Jones and two representatives from Bloomfield Weiss, a big US investment bank that was hot on technology in the States and was trying to transfer those skills to Europe. We had been besieged by bankers over the previous two months. They all wanted to take Ninetyminutes public through an IPO, or initial public offering. This would involve listing our shares on the London Stock Exchange and the Neuer Markt in Frankfurt and raising money from the investing public and institutions. We had decided to appoint Bloomfield Weiss to guide us through the process.

  The two investment bankers were about our age. One, the banker, was a smooth Brit with oiled-back hair and a permanent frown: he acted as the front man. The other, the well-groomed American woman who also wore a permanent frown, was an analyst. She had a record of boosting new-economy shares in the US and was beginning to do the same thing on this side of the Atlantic.

  ‘How do you come up with that number?’ I asked. ‘Last week you were talking about a hundred and thirty million.’

  ‘This market’s hot,’ said the analyst. ‘The smart US investors who’ve made a killing on the Internet in the States over the last twelve months have started looking over here for opportunities. Individual investors in the UK have gotten the internet bug, volumes are going through the roof, they’re all trading stock tips on electronic bulletin boards. Lastminute.com is coming to market in a couple of weeks with a valuation of three hundred and fifty million. Everyone’s clamouring for stock. A hundred and eighty million for you is doable. Very doable. Maybe we’ll get more.’

  ‘And how much new money can we raise?’

  ‘I think we can go for forty million. We want to leave some investor demand untapped so the stock goes up on the first day. It’s important to get upward momentum. These days investors are buying stocks that are going up simply because they’re going up. It becomes a virtuous circle. And one that we want to get started.’

  ‘But none of my forecasts show we’ll ever be able to make enough profits to justify those kind of numbers,’ I said.

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ said the banker. ‘We’re not allowed to show the investors your forecasts anyway. Don’t worry. These guys are smart. They know what they’re doing.’

  ‘Are they? It doesn’t sound smart to me.’

  The banker’s frown deepened. ‘You’ve got a great story to tell, David. And you’re going to have to tell it many times. You’ll have to believe it. You’ve got to get with the programme or get off the bus.’

  ‘Come on, Davo, get with the programme!’ said Guy, poking just a little fun at the mixed American metaphors dropping so pompously from the mouth of the British banker.

  ‘David, we’re the sellers here,’ Henry said. ‘The higher the price we sell at, the more money we make. It’s as simple as that.’

  ‘He has a good point,’ said the analyst, matching her colleague’s frown. ‘We need management’s commitment to make this thing work. We’re going to be taking you to see investors right across Europe in three weeks’ time. Investors can smell uncommitted management.’

  ‘Oh, I’m committed to make Ninetyminutes work, all right,’ I said, offended. ‘I’m just not committed to a valuation of a hundred and eighty million quid.’

  ‘That’s fine, Davo,’ Guy said. ‘Let Bloomfield Weiss worry about the valuation. You and I will worry about the company.’

  ‘All right,’ said the banker. ‘Our current thinking is that we start off in Amsterdam on the twentieth of March, then Paris on the twenty-first and Frankfurt on the twenty-second. We’ll go on to Edinburgh the following day, and then down to London …’

  Ninetyminutes had recovered from its pre-Christmas wobble. Sanjay had taken Owen’s place and, together with Dcomsult, he had retailing up and running again in a matter of days. We shipped a respectable quantity of clothing before Christmas. The millennium came and went without blowing up our computer systems and we hit the New Year running. The German site was on-line by the beginning of March w
ith the French site due to join them by the end of April. We bought a small company based in Helsinki that specialized in Wireless Application Protocol or WAP technology. Eventually this would allow people to check our website from their mobile phones for the latest football scores and news. And the visitor numbers kept on going up and up. Advertisers loved this, and we had no trouble signing them up.

  This wasn’t enough for Guy: the more we achieved, the more he wanted. He had plans for even more rapid expansion. More advertising, more marketing, opening up several more European offices, a big ramp-up of the retailing operations. All this would need money. But now that didn’t seem to be a problem.

  The IPO got everyone excited. Orchestra Ventures was enthusiastic about the idea: although they wouldn’t be able to sell any of their own shares immediately, they would be able to mark them up to show a huge profit on their books. Bloomfield Weiss liked it because of the fees they could charge everyone. Guy liked it because it would give him as much cash as he could spend.

  And I liked it because it would make me a multimillionaire.

  It was a very strange feeling. Of course, I had gone into all this with the vague idea of making a lot of money. And, in theory, when Orchestra Ventures had committed their initial investment the value of my stake had increased considerably. But at that stage survival was all I was worried about. In a few weeks my shares would be worth silly money. Of course, it would all be paper profits, but at some time in the future I should get my hands on real cash. What would I do with it? Buy my own Cessna 182? Buy a house on the Corniche? Send my children to Broadhill? It would change my life. I would be a wealthy man, just like Tony Jourdan. Somehow, despite my ambition, I couldn’t imagine that.

  I realized that the money had little meaning for me in what it could buy. But it would mean a lot to me to know that I had made it.

  Not just me. There was a smile on everyone’s face. Everyone had some kind of stake in the firm, everyone was going to make money. There was a huge amount of work to be done and no time to celebrate, but the place hummed with suppressed excitement. People put in sixteen-hour days and never seemed to get tired.