Fatal Error

by Michael Ridpath

  With all this activity, there was scarcely time to think. And when there was time, I thought about Ninetyminutes. I didn’t hear any more from the police, nor did I discuss Tony’s death with Guy. But Patrick Hoyle’s words rankled. I tried to push them out of my mind, but they kept returning.

  It was too convenient.

  One morning I phoned the office to say I wouldn’t be coming in until the afternoon. Guy sounded a little surprised, especially when I told him I was going flying. He knew I hadn’t been since I had started working at Ninetyminutes nearly six months before.

  It was a sunny day in early October, with a fresh breeze to blow away any autumnal mist or London smog. It felt good to be at the controls of an aeroplane again, alone, a couple of thousand feet above the ground, with England stretching out like a carpet of green, gold and brown beneath me. I flew over the Hampshire downs to one of my favourite airfields, Bembridge on the Isle of Wight, and walked the mile or so up the steep hill to the cliff tops above Whitecliff Bay.

  It was cool up there in the breeze, but it was quiet and it was a long way from Ninetyminutes. I was hoping the distance would give me some perspective.

  It did.

  For the first time I faced up to the question I had been avoiding. Had Guy killed his father?

  On the face of it, it was possible. Ninetyminutes had meant everything to Guy and his father had threatened to take it away. Tony had a hold over Guy that was difficult for me to understand, but it was powerful and I knew Guy wanted to break free from it. The police had certainly thought of Guy as a suspect. Owen had stood by him, provided him with an alibi, but then Owen had always stood by Guy.

  But I had spoken to Guy on the day of the funeral. He had seemed genuinely upset about his father’s death. That was the thing with Guy. We were close. He could lay open his emotions to me. Over the last few months I had seen him in the good times and the bad. He trusted me with his feelings.

  But he had also been a professional actor once. Could I really trust him?

  I remembered when these same thoughts had invaded my mind, on Mull, when Mel had told me about Guy arranging to pay off Abdulatif. Both Patrick and Mel had seemed to suggest that Guy had done this to protect himself. That he had killed Dominique.

  There was one other loose end. The footprint Guy had left outside Dominique’s window the night she died. I had never received a satisfactory answer from him on that. I knew he hadn’t put it there when the two of us had gone to bed. So how had it got there?

  And then Abdulatif had himself been murdered. By Guy?

  Had Guy really killed three people over the last thirteen years? That went against everything I knew about him, against the trust and friendship we had built up over the previous six months, and against everything I had put into Ninetyminutes. Unless I was able to put my doubts about Guy behind me, they would undermine everything.

  I stared out over the sea. A fat ferryboat inbound from France was charging towards a sleek warship. It looked from my vantage point as if they were going to collide, but they passed each other without noise or fuss: it was only as they overlapped that I realized the warship was a couple of miles further away.

  The trouble was, the doubts weren’t going away.

  Until I knew for sure whether Guy was involved in these deaths, I wouldn’t be able to trust him. If I didn’t trust him, we couldn’t work together. If we couldn’t work together, ninetyminutes.com would fall apart.

  But this wasn’t just about Ninetyminutes. Guy’s friendship was vital to me. If I was ever to do something interesting or unconventional with my life, to become more than just a bean-counting accountant, it would be because of Guy.

  I had to convince myself that he was innocent.

  26

  I arrived in the office mid-afternoon to confront the usual pandemonium, the mixture of the very important and the entirely inconsequential, all of which had to be dealt with. Guy didn’t mention my morning off, although I could tell he was curious. He went off to a meeting at four, and never came back to the office.

  I left work early, which was still about seven thirty, and took the tube to Tower Hill. I followed my familiar path past the Tower of London, looming murderously in the darkness, and the bright lights of St Katherine’s Dock, to Guy’s building in Wapping High Street.

  He was in, working on a presentation.

  ‘What’s up, Davo?’ he said, seeing the expression on my face.

  ‘I want to talk to you. I need to talk to you.’

  ‘OK. Come in. Beer?’

  I nodded. He pulled two out of the fridge, handed one to me and opened his own. ‘What is it?’

  I hesitated, searching for the words. I wanted to know the truth. But I didn’t want to make it seem that I didn’t trust Guy. In fact, it was because I wanted to trust him that I was here at all.

  In the end, I looked him in the eye. ‘Did you kill your father?’

  Guy was about to protest. Then he thought better of it. He returned my gaze.

  ‘No.’

  We stayed like that for a few moments, his brilliant blue eyes looking steadily into mine. He used to be an actor. He was a professional at hiding his real self. Yet he was my friend. We had been through so much together.

  ‘Good,’ I said at last. ‘But do you mind if I ask you a few questions? Difficult questions.’

  ‘Do you feel you have to?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said firmly.

  Guy sighed. ‘OK. Ask.’

  ‘Where were you on the night he died?’ I asked, trying to make the question sound as dispassionate as possible.

  ‘I went out for a drink with Owen.’

  ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘The Elephant’s Head in Camden,’ he muttered, his impatience showing. ‘Near his place.’

  ‘What time did you leave?’

  ‘What is this?’ Guy protested. ‘I told the police all this. They checked out my story. Don’t you trust me?’

  ‘I want to trust you. But I can’t get Tony’s death out of my mind. I need to know who was responsible.’

  ‘Don’t you think I want to know too? He was my father.’

  ‘If I can start off by eliminating you it’ll make me feel much better.’

  Guy scowled. ‘All right. I’ll tell you what I told the police. And what they checked out. Owen and I went to the pub about seven o’clock. We left about nine. I was already half-pissed, but Owen hadn’t had much. He went back to his flat. I went on to Hydra, you know, that bar in Hatton Garden? I came home about eleven.’

  ‘And your father was killed at nine twenty-five, wasn’t he?’ I said, remembering my interviews with Sergeant Spedding.

  ‘Something like that.’

  Owen and Guy had left the pub at about nine. Just time to get to Knightsbridge if one of them hurried. It was such an obvious point, I didn’t need to make it.

  ‘Before you say anything,’ Guy said, ‘the police checked out the Elephant’s Head and Hydra.’

  ‘What about Owen?’

  ‘He stopped off at a Europa to buy some food on the way home. The CCTV got him. Timed at nine twenty-one. Can’t get better than that.’

  You couldn’t.

  ‘Anyway,’ Guy went on. ‘What about the man you saw in the car? The private detective. He has to be a better suspect than me, doesn’t he?’

  I nodded. ‘That’s true.’

  ‘Any more questions?’ Guy asked.

  I had gone this far. I may as well go the whole way. ‘Yes. I was thinking about what happened to Dominique and the gardener.’

  Guy looked angry again. ‘Why? What’s that got to do with anything? That was years ago, for God’s sake!’

  ‘I was talking to Patrick Hoyle about it. He’s convinced your father didn’t kill Dominique. And he told me how Abdulatif tried to blackmail you about paying him off.’

  ‘I don’t know who killed Dominique! Nor do I care. It was twelve years ago. And as for that bloody gardener, it’s true he tried to blackma
il us. But I’ve already told you we paid him off.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me about the blackmail.’

  ‘No. Because it wasn’t important. Anyway, he was blackmailing Hoyle, not me. So what are you saying here, Davo?’ Guy’s voice was laced with scorn. ‘I killed all three of them? Because if you are, you can just sod off out of here.’

  ‘No, no,’ I said. ‘I was just wondering whether there was any connection between what happened in France and what happened to Tony. Perhaps I should mention it to the police.’

  ‘For God’s sake, don’t do that. It’ll open up a whole can of worms. This thing is bad enough as it is.’ Guy got a grip on his anger. ‘Look, I’m sorry, Davo. It’s hard not to get worked up when a friend doubts you. You’re a mate. A good mate. You were with me in France. You’ve been with me this last six months. You should know I don’t wander around killing people.’

  ‘I know I should,’ I said. ‘But …’

  ‘But what?’

  The truth was, I didn’t know what. There was circumstantial evidence against him, so some suspicion was natural. But he was my friend. He did have a comprehensive alibi that the police had investigated thoroughly. It was Patrick Hoyle’s doubts against Guy’s word.

  I considered asking him about the footprint, but I knew that he would only say what he had always said: that he had gone to relieve himself in the bushes. More than ten years on I wouldn’t be able to get him to change that story, even though I knew it was wrong.

  I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry. You’re absolutely right. But I had to ask those questions just to clear things up in my head. And you’ve answered them. I ought to go.’

  ‘No. Have another beer,’ Guy said. He dug a couple out of the fridge and handed one to me with a smile of friendship. My suspicions were forgiven. ‘Now, how are we going to get a Munich office off the ground in three months?’

  We chatted amicably about Ninetyminutes for an hour or so. But as I sat in a taxi making its way west towards my flat, I realized that although Guy had made me feel better, I still wasn’t one hundred per cent sure of his innocence. The question was whether I could live with ninety per cent.

  The following afternoon I had a meeting with the people who were going to administer the credit-card payments once customers started buying from us on-line. We had chosen this particular company because they had assured us that the process would be straightforward. It wasn’t. It was one of those meetings where more problems emerged than were solved. Frustrated, I returned to the office. I turned on my computer and checked my e-mails. There was one from Owen. I opened it, preparing myself for an obscure techie rant.

  You’ve been asking questions about Guy, haven’t you? About Dominique and our father.

  I looked up sharply to where he was hunched over his machine only a few feet away. Jerk. I hit Reply.

  So? If you have a problem with that, come over and talk to me. Better still, tell me what really happened.

  I glanced up. Owen’s fingers were flying over the keyboard. Whether he had read my response or not, I couldn’t tell.

  Forget it. Forget Dominique. Forget our father. See attached.

  I opened the file attached to the e-mail. My computer whirred and ground, then an animation appeared of a man about to take a swing at a golf ball. Except the golf ball was a head. The image zoomed in on the face. It was mine, taken from a photograph on the corporate section of the website.

  The club was a driver, a wood. It swung back, then sliced down, making contact with my head, exploding it in a mess of blood and brains, to the amplified sound of cracking eggs. Despite myself, I flinched. It was only an animation, but it made me feel sick. I glowered over at Owen, who refused to meet my eye.

  I looked back at the screen that was now displaying the message:

  A Fatal Error has occurred. Press CTRL+ALT + DEL to restart your computer. You will lose any unsaved information in all applications.

  I swore, did as I was bid and drummed my fingers for a full minute while my machine ground and beeped itself to life again. I opened my e-mail program and typed furiously.

  That wasn’t funny.

  The reply came back in a moment.

  It wasn’t meant to be.

  I closed down my e-mail in disgust. What a sicko. What a twisted deviant.

  When I left the office that evening, Owen was still working. I stopped at his desk. He ignored me. Sanjay, sitting next to him, gave me a nervous smile.

  I bent down. ‘I’ll ask as many questions as I like,’ I whispered.

  Owen paused for a moment. His screen was full of code. Then he began fiddling with his mouse.

  ‘No more threats,’ I said. ‘No more funny little e-mails. Let’s just stay away from each other.’

  Owen looked up at me. His black eyes seemed to pierce right into me. Then he turned back to his screen.

  I stretched my foot under his desk and flicked a switch with my toe. His screen went blank. All his work lost.

  ‘What the fuck?’ he muttered.

  ‘Whoops,’ I said and left him to it.

  Owen’s threats just made me more determined to ask questions. The next day Mel and I were at my desk working on how we could secure the Ninetyminutes domain name in Spain and Italy. Guy was in Munich, talking to someone we might hire to start a German office. There was no one else within earshot. Mel was gathering her papers together to leave when I stopped her.

  ‘Have you got a minute?’

  She noticed the seriousness of my tone. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I want to ask you something about France.’

  Mel frowned. ‘Surely it’s best to forget all that, isn’t it?’

  ‘I know. I’d like to. It’s just, I can’t. I only have one question. That night on Mull when we were walking to the bed and breakfast, you told me you thought Guy might have killed Dominique. Did you mean that?’

  ‘You’re not serious?’ said Mel.

  ‘I am,’ I said. ‘I haven’t been able to get the question out of my mind. Partly because of what you told me that night. Which was confirmed by Patrick Hoyle, by the way.’

  ‘Well, you should. I was angry with Guy and that whole France episode left me feeling guilty. Blaming him was a way of sharing the guilt with him. I certainly didn’t mean it. I can’t even remember exactly what I told you.’

  I could. ‘So you don’t think Guy was covering for himself when he got Hoyle to pay Abdulatif to disappear?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I see.’ That was clear enough.

  Mel hesitated. ‘I have a question for you. Just as awkward.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  Mel swallowed. ‘Do you think there’s anything going on between Guy and Ingrid?’

  I looked at her. ‘Now you’re not serious.’

  ‘They seem to spend a lot of time together.’

  ‘We all spend a lot of time together. If you work fifteen hours a day in the same office, you’re quite likely to.’

  ‘So you’re sure there’s nothing going on?’

  ‘Quite sure.’

  Mel looked at me doubtfully. ‘I don’t trust that woman,’ she said, and walked off.

  I stared after her. Although I had meant what I had said, Mel’s suspicions about Guy and Ingrid echoed around my brain long after she had gone.

  I wanted to find out more about the private detective. Guy was right, he did seem the most likely person to have run Tony down. Although if he had, he was being paid by someone. Sabina, according to the police. But perhaps it was someone else? I called Sergeant Spedding. He sounded pleased to hear from me.

  ‘I wondered what progress you’re making in your investigation?’ I asked.

  ‘We still have some leads,’ Spedding said, ‘but nothing solid. Why? Have you got something for me?’

  I felt uncomfortable. The last thing I wanted to do was tell him my suspicions about Guy. Nor did I want to mention France.

  ‘No, not really. It’s just, we’re curious here.’<
br />
  Spedding’s tone changed, became more formal. ‘If we have anything concrete to report, we’ll inform the family.’

  ‘Yes. I see. I just wondered whether you’d arrested the private detective. Since I might have to identify him in court you can probably understand my curiosity.’

  ‘We’ve ruled him out as a suspect, although he might be a useful witness.’ A pause. ‘Is there anything else?’ I could tell from Spedding’s voice that he suspected there was something other than curiosity behind my questions.

  ‘No, no, nothing,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’

  I put the phone down. I hadn’t even got the private detective’s name.

  I needed to talk to Sabina Jourdan. I knew she had gone back to Germany, but I couldn’t really ask Guy for her address, so I rang Patrick Hoyle at his office in Monte Carlo. He took a little persuading, but he gave me an address in Stuttgart.

  Our plans to open an office in Munich were gathering pace, which meant that Guy and I were making frequent trips there. On my next one of these I engineered a gap in my schedule. I finished a meeting at three in the afternoon and drove my hired car west out of the city along the autobahn.

  It was only an hour and a half’s drive from Munich to Stuttgart. It was a grey October day with a fine drizzle obscuring the German countryside. I fought through the industrial outskirts of the town, wondering why anyone would want to give up the clear blue sea and sky of Les Sarrasins for this. But then the stern factories gave way to suburban streets lined with trees dressed in autumnal golds and browns and neat, large houses with high-gabled Germanic roofs. Prosperity, order, tranquillity, security. Perhaps this was a good place for Sabina after all.

  I found the address Hoyle had given me and rang the bell. The door was answered by a tall middle-aged woman with grey hair and finely sculpted features. For an instant I panicked that I had got the wrong house. Then I knew who she was. Sabina’s mother.