The stakes were much lower for Ian. Sure he would have lost his job, but he would eventually have found something else. It was just that it was easier to go along with Eric's version of events, and once he had done so, it became increasingly difficult to change his mind.
He had been so stupid to tell Lenka about Eric. And he could never forgive Eric for killing her. Ian had always liked Lenka. They had had some very good times together in the weeks before she died. Until now, he had felt powerless even to protest at her death, because of his fear of Eric. Well, no longer.
Angrily, he left the café and walked towards the river. The rain had finally stopped and the streets were quiet on the Sunday morning, with the exception of the odd group of hung-over Welshmen lurching about after a long night's drinking. From the look of them, Ian assumed their team had lost.
What could he do? For an hour or so, he seriously toyed with the idea of killing Eric himself. It would be a just revenge for the murders of Alex and especially Lenka. And if Eric could so blithely murder his old friends, why couldn't Ian?
But he knew it wouldn't work. It wasn't that Ian had qualms. As far as he was concerned, the bastard deserved it. Ian just didn't have the guts. The practicalities of planning and carrying out a murder were beyond him.
He stopped at another café somewhere in the Marais for an early beer, a cigarette and a bite of lunch. The clouds began to divide, and thin snatches of watery sunshine broke through.
So, if he didn't kill Eric, what should he do? He couldn't continue to bury his head in the sand, pretending he didn't know anything. Chris was determined, and Ian didn't underestimate him. If Chris succeeded in exposing Eric, Ian wouldn't be able to claim he was an innocent bystander. He would be in deep trouble: he'd be lucky to escape prison. And even if Eric successfully managed to keep things quiet, it would be a messy process. More people would be hurt, or killed, possibly even Ian himself. Ian didn't want to spend the rest of his life under the shadow of that one event, which he had witnessed but for which he felt no responsibility.
He would do now what he ought to have done all those years ago. Talk. Crossing Eric would be dangerous. But things had reached the point where it was just as dangerous to do nothing.
He left the bar, and headed for the Île Saint-Louis. Swollen by the recent rain, the Seine rushed towards the sea, tugging at the feet of the bridges that obstructed its passage. There were more people out and about now, tempted by the feeble sunshine. Suddenly Ian felt better, better than he had for weeks. Possibly better than he had since the programme. Of course, it would be difficult to know whom to tell. He could try going into a police station in London. Or perhaps he should go to Prague, or New York. Maybe he should first get himself a lawyer. Or talk to a journalist. Actually, as he thought about it, the best person to talk to would be Chris. It was true that every time they had seen each other recently they had ended up swearing at each other, but Chris was basically a good guy. He was honest. He would do the right thing. They could give each other the moral support they would need to get through this.
The more Ian walked, the surer he became of his decision. Eventually, he made his way back to his hotel to book a flight back to London the next day, have a nap, and keep an appointment with charlie.
Three hours later, invigorated by his decision, his rest, and in particular the white powder he had ingested, he set off for a last night on the town in Paris. He visited a few bars on the Left Bank and bumped into two Danish girls in a place near the Pont Saint-Michel. He pretended to be French, and he thought he did a very good job of it. His own French wasn't bad, and his French-accented English was good enough to fool the Danes. He was having a good time and so were they. The evening passed very pleasantly as they all drank more. Then one of them began to look at him suspiciously. This didn't bother Ian, because the other one, the one with the larger breasts, still seemed to think he was great. She was getting drunk and very friendly. Then the suspicious one took her friend off to the toilet and they never returned.
After waiting half an hour Ian shrugged, finished another beer, and left the bar, confident that if he could pull once, he could pull again.
He was now very drunk. He walked for a few minutes without knowing where he was going. Somehow, he had drifted away from the bars and was now in a quiet residential street.
'Ian!'
He turned, his brain too fuzzy to register surprise that someone should know his name.
The knife plunged deep into his chest between his third and fourth ribs, piercing his heart.
4
Chris had a busy Monday. It was good to lose himself in work; he had no time to worry about Megan or Ian or Duncan. Ollie was ecstatic to hear the news about Royal Bank of Kuwait. The market had sagged again, but they didn't care. It would mean Rudy's losses would be greater, but RBK would come into the fund at a lower price. Chris was relieved to get a call from Khalid; he had been worried that Duncan in all his agitation had forgotten. Khalid wanted to move immediately, so Chris and Ollie walked the quarter mile to RBK's office off Oxford Street, and made a presentation to Khalid and his Arab boss. Khalid asked some penetrating questions, but Chris was able to answer them. As the meeting progressed it was clear that Khalid and his boss had already made up their minds. They wanted to invest!
That afternoon, Chris made the call he had been looking forward to all day.
'Rudy Moss.'
'Morning, Rudy, it's Chris.'
'Yes?'
'Rudy, I'm afraid we have a problem,' said Chris, forcing the morning's euphoria from his voice.
'A problem? What kind of a problem?'
'It's the fund's price, Rudy. It's slipping badly. Eureka Telecom is still heading south. And these German jitters have seriously hurt our government bond positions. It doesn't look good.'
'It doesn't sound good.'
'I was wondering whether with these prices falling you wanted to reconsider your decision.'
'You know my decision,' Rudy snapped. He sounded angry. Good, thought Chris.
'If you can wait another month, maybe things will look better,' said Chris, ensuring that his voice carried no conviction.
'Wait a month?' protested Rudy. 'You've got to be crazy. I want out. I want out now!'
'But you still have another two weeks to go before the thirty-day notice period is up.'
'I don't care. I want you to get me out of this piece of crap now, do you hear me?'
'I'm not sure there's any way I can do that.'
'You'd better think of a way,' growled Rudy.
Chris let Rudy dangle on the line for a delicious few seconds. 'Well, there is one investor who I might be able to persuade to buy your stake,' he said at last. 'But I'd be surprised if they could move that quickly.'
'Try them,' snapped Rudy.
'If you're sure about this?'
'I'm sure. Now get on with it.'
Chris drummed his fingers for twenty minutes and then called Rudy back.
'We're in luck,' he said. 'I think I have found someone. And they might move quickly. If you can fax your instructions through this afternoon, you could be out by tomorrow.'
'Wait by the fax machine,' said Rudy, and hung up.
By five o'clock, Chris and Ollie had instructions from Amalgamated Veterans to sell their stake, with a matching order from the Royal Bank of Kuwait to buy it. The Kuwaitis were also committed to invest a further seven million euros. Zizka had sent a fax through that afternoon revoking his earlier instructions to withdraw from the fund. Eureka Telecom was still in the doldrums and the German economy didn't look too hot, but Carpathian would survive.
'I don't believe it,' said Ollie for the umpteenth time. 'I just don't believe it.'
Chris leaned back in his chair and smiled. He glanced over at Lenka's desk. She would be pleased with them, wherever she was.
'Ollie?'
'Yes?'
'Move your stuff over there, will you?'
'What, now?'
'No, n
ot now. Tomorrow morning. I'm going to buy you and Tina a bottle of champagne now.'
Marcus sat in his truck sipping Royann's coffee. He watched the occasional car pull up into the parking lot. He recognized most of the customers. Even the ones he didn't recognise he knew weren't Eric Astle.
Eric had called him from Burlington Airport. That was better than the other guy, who had just shown up unannounced. Marcus had refused to meet him at his house. He had suggested Royann's Diner at three fifteen. He had been very specific about the three fifteen, even though it meant that Eric would have to wait a couple of hours. At three fifteen, Carl always dropped by for a cup of coffee and a doughnut. Regular as clockwork. And Marcus wanted Carl there when he met Eric.
At three ten, a bland car with Vermont plates drew up. A man wearing a businessman's tan raincoat climbed out, looked around and trod carefully through the snow and slush to the entrance of the diner. He paused, checked the parking lot again, and went inside. He was a few years younger than Marcus: about the age Alex would have been if he were still alive. Eric. Marcus waited and watched, fingering the hunting rifle on the seat beside him. But Eric was alone.
Five minutes later, the white police cruiser arrived. Marcus smiled to himself and jumped out of the truck. 'Hi there, Carl,' he called to the scrawny policeman as he got out of his vehicle.
'How're you doin', Marcus?' replied the policeman. Marcus was sure that Carl didn't really trust him, but having lived in the area for nine years, he was confident he rated a greeting. And if he got into an argument with an out-of-towner, he was quite sure whose side Carl would be on.
Eric was sitting at a booth at the back of the diner, a crisp suit surrounded by jeans, dungarees and grimy T-shirts. He glanced up as Marcus walked in and seemed to recognize him, bringing home to Marcus how much like his younger brother he must look, even after ten years. Marcus sat at a booth near the counter, within a few feet of Carl's favourite spot, but just out of earshot. He caught Eric's eye and nodded. Eric picked up his cup of coffee and joined him, just as Carl took his place at the counter. Carl ordered a doughnut and a cup of coffee, and began his daily chat with Royann, who knew how to flirt with a regular. As far as Marcus could tell, Carl spent his day eating his way around the county, yet he never seemed to put on an ounce of fat.
Eric's eyes darted between the policeman and Marcus and he smiled. 'That's fair.'
Marcus didn't smile back.
Eric held out his hand. 'Eric Astle.'
Marcus didn't shake it. 'What do you want?'
'To talk to you.'
'So talk.'
Marcus was doing his best to unsettle Eric, but it wasn't working. Eric seemed unconcerned by Marcus's rudeness.
'OK,' he said. And then sipped his coffee, looking steadily at Marcus.
'I said, talk!'
'I want to talk to you about your brother.'
'I figured as much.'
'He was a friend of mine.'
'Sure. Just like he was a friend of that other guy's. That Brit. Well, if you were all so damned friendly with him, how come he's dead?'
Eric ignored him, and continued in a low, steady voice. 'As I say, he was a friend of mine. We met in our first week at Bloomfield Weiss. We got on straight away; we had a different attitude from most of the others. We were both looking for apartments. He found one, he needed someone to share it with, he asked me, I said yes.'
'You were his room mate?'
'Yes. As I said, he and I got along real well. We had a ball. Two single guys can have a lot of fun in Manhattan.'
The waitress came by, and Marcus curtly ordered a coffee. Eric waited until she had gone off to fetch it before he continued. 'I was devastated when he was drowned. I did what I could to help his mom organize the funeral and everything; she was too sick to do it by herself. I spent quite a lot of time with his mom, your mom, afterwards. But as you know, once he was gone, she lost her will to fight.'
'I know,' said Marcus, swallowing. Of course, he didn't really know. He hadn't been there. He had been thousands of miles away.
'I only knew your brother for nine months or so, but he made a big impression. He was different from the others. He had a great sense of humour. I've tried to remember the way he never took anything that happened at Bloomfield Weiss too seriously. When everyone is uptight and the crap is flying, I sometimes try to think what Alex would do. It kind of keeps me human.'
Marcus was watching Eric all the time as he spoke. He seemed calm, almost wistful. Not nearly as uptight as the Brit had been.
'I saw some of his paintings: they were really good. I kept one after he died. Your mom said it would be OK. He was wasting his talent in an investment bank.'
Marcus held his tongue. He didn't want Eric to see that he was getting through to him. But he was. This was the kind of thing Marcus had wanted someone apart from himself to say about his brother ever since he had died. Until now, no one had.
Eric sipped at his coffee.
'Go on,' said Marcus eventually.
'I thought what had happened to Alex was all in the past. But over the last few weeks, I've realized that it isn't. It all started soon after you tried to see me in New York. I'm sorry I didn't meet with you then, by the way. I was busy on deals, and I guess . . . No, it doesn't matter.'
'You guess what?'
Eric looked Marcus straight in the eye. 'I guess I was still mad at you because you weren't there when Alex died. Nor his mother.'
Marcus felt a flash of anger. Who was this guy to criticize him? But Eric held up his hand in a calming gesture. 'I'm sorry. I know that's unfair. Especially since I now know how much you've been doing to find out what really happened to him.'
Marcus grunted. At least the guy understood that he was trying to do something now. But he was still suspicious of Eric. He was, after all, an investment banker in a suit.
The investment banker continued in his slow, reasonable voice. 'As I think you know, Alex's death wasn't straightforward. It wasn't an accident. Someone drowned him. And then someone killed Lenka, whom I think you've met. And last night, someone else was murdered. In Paris.'
'Someone else?'
Eric nodded. He pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and passed it to Marcus. It was the printout of a Reuters report that Ian Darwent, a thirty-two-year-old British investment banker, had been found stabbed in the streets of Paris the night before.
Marcus hadn't met Ian, but of course he knew who he was. 'Do you know who did this?'
'I think so. And I do know who killed your brother.'
Marcus could feel his heart beating faster. He was about to find out what had been eluding him for so long.
'Who?'
'Duncan Gemmel.'
'Duncan Gemmel?' Marcus snapped in irritation. 'I know it wasn't him. Lenka told me. Someone drowned Alex after Duncan had knocked him into the sea.'
'Duncan did,' said Eric quietly.
'Duncan did?'
Eric nodded. 'When Alex fell in, Ian and I dived in right after him. Duncan saw us and then jumped in himself. The water was choppy and it was difficult to see anything. Ian and I lost your brother. But Duncan didn't. Duncan found him and drowned him.'
'How do you know?'
'Ian saw him,' Eric said.
'Ian?'
'Yes. He told me last week. I was in London and we met up to talk about what had happened to Lenka. He was a real mess. He said that he'd seen Duncan drown Alex ten years ago, but he had kept quiet. Then he'd let it slip by mistake to Lenka. Lenka said she was going to tell people, including you, which, by the way, I assume she didn't?'
Marcus was careful not to react to this question. 'Go on,' he said.
'So, Ian told Duncan, and before he knew it, Lenka was dead. By the time Ian saw me, he was scared. I mean, really scared. He thought he was next. He said he was going to Paris on business, and he didn't want to come back.'
'And then this?' Marcus nodded at the news report in front of him.
Eric nodded.
'So who killed Ian? Duncan?'
Eric frowned. 'Well, that's the thing. I don't think it was Duncan. I think it was Chris Szczypiorski.'
'The Brit who came to see me?'
'That's right.'
'Why do you think that?'
'Because when I was at the airport coming back here, I saw him at the check-in for flights to Paris. I would have gone over to say hi, but I didn't want to lose my place in line. By the time I'd checked in, he was on his way to his gate.'
'So he was on his way to Paris. So what's the big deal?'
'It could just be a coincidence. But I'd spoken to him on the phone that day, and he said that he was spending the weekend in London. So he lied to me. Why would he need to do that?'
Marcus looked doubtful. 'Look,' said Eric. 'I'm not sure about Chris. I don't know what his deal with Duncan is, and I can't be sure that he killed Ian. But I'm sure as hell suspicious.'
Marcus tried to take it all in. It all added up, apart from one thing. 'If Duncan did drown Alex on purpose, then why did Lenka tell me that he wasn't responsible for Alex's death?'
'I don't know,' said Eric. 'Perhaps she meant that Duncan didn't kill your brother by accident. But I do know what Ian told me. He saw Duncan push your brother under.'
Marcus leaned back and rubbed his temples. This was getting complicated. 'Do you have any proof?'
Eric sighed. 'No. If I did, I would go to the police. As it is . . .'
'So I'm supposed to just believe you?'
Eric smiled. 'You can believe me if you want. Or not, it's up to you. I just know you have a right to be told. But please don't tell anyone I told you. Especially don't tell Duncan or Chris. They don't know Ian spoke to me, so I hope I'm safe. But you're not.'
The Predator Page 27