'What did he say?'
'He said he took pains not to consider the question.'
'He's a good lawyer.'
'I've asked you this before, but I have to ask you again. Are you?' He leaned forward over his desk, his eyes like small brown balls through his thick glasses.
'Innocent?'
'Yes.'
'Yes,' I said, meeting his eyes. 'I've never seen that gun before in my life. I didn't kill Frank.'
Gil sighed. He looked tired. 'OK. I have to trust my judgement. I'm going to stick by you and I'll make sure the rest of the firm does too. But do the best you can to keep our name out of the press.'
'Believe me, I will.'
'Good.' He waited for me to leave.
I did so with mixed emotions. On the one hand, his obvious doubts hurt. On the other, he had been good to me. Revere's public image was everything to him, and I had tarnished it. The evidence against me looked damning, but he had still stood up for me. He had put loyalty to his employees, his trust in me and his own instincts, before what was rationally in the best interests of the firm, namely to dump me. I was grateful. I didn't want to let him down.
After lunch, I finished the Investment Memorandum on Tetracom, and circulated it to the partners. Then I told John I would be out for the rest of the afternoon at a meeting, and took a cab back to the apartment. Lisa had a key to her father's house, which she kept in a small bowl above the fireplace. I took it, walked the few yards to the Brimmer Street Garage, and drove the Morgan out to Woodbridge to the scene of the crime.
Marsh House stood alone under a large sky of gathering rain clouds. A strong breeze blew in from the direction of the sea, flattening the marsh grass, and rocking the trees behind the house. Everything was more or less as it had been the last time I was there, the day Lisa and I had discovered Frank's body. Except for the Mercedes, which had disappeared, presumably taken by the police. They had finished their polishing and scraping, taken away their tape and left the house alone and empty. I wondered what Lisa would do with it. Would she keep it for its memories of life with her father, or sell it for its associations with his death?
I let myself in. I wore gloves. Whilst I assumed the police had finished their study of the place, I didn't want to add any unnecessary fingerprints for them to find later. I was nervous about coming here. The last thing I needed was for the police to find out I'd been here, and draw the wrong conclusions. But it was more dangerous to sit at home and do nothing.
The house was cold. It was dead quiet: even the grandfather clock that stood against the living-room wall was quiet, unwound. The imprisoned air had a musty smell to it, and a thin layer of grey film covered some of the surfaces. There were scrapings on the wooden floor where I had found Frank. Although the house looked natural, I had the feeling that everything had been picked up and carefully put down again.
Most of Frank's stuff was still there. Books, magazines, photographs of Lisa and Eddie, and even one of his wedding. There were two books on a table next to Frank's beaten-up rocker. A bird book by Roger Tory Peterson, and a book about the X-Files. Seascapes and prints of birds hung on the walls, as they always had done. I went over to his desk. This had been emptied. There were no papers left, no notebook or diary that might have given some clue of his thoughts before he died. Just a flower-patterned pencil box that Lisa had made for him when she was a girl, itself thinly covered in the grey-white sheen of dust. There was no sign of Revere.
I climbed the stairs. All the beds had been stripped. Once again, there was no paper in sight. Out of Frank's bedroom window, I could see the clouds thickening and darkening over the brooding marsh.
I tried to imagine what the house must have been like twenty years before, with the noise and bustle of a family on holiday. A small Lisa and a larger Eddie running up the stairs, playing on the porch, returning from an afternoon's swimming along the walkway across the marsh, hair wet, limbs tired, skin browned by the summer sun. But for the last fifteen years this had been Frank's sanctuary. The place where he liked to come alone as often as he could. It was a beautiful, peaceful spot. Why had he given up his family, I wondered. He loved his children. He seemed to at least like his wife. It was a mystery that had haunted Lisa, and one that I couldn't solve myself.
As I descended the narrow staircase, something caught my eye. It was one of the pens that lay in the patterned pencil box. I recognized it from somewhere, somewhere away from here. I picked it up. It was a maroon ball-point pen, with an acorn logo and the words OAKWOOD ANALYTICS embossed in gold lettering along its side.
I turned it round in my fingers, trying to remember where I knew it from. But it wouldn't come.
I took one last look around, and left the house, closing the door carefully behind me.
I climbed into my car, and drove up the dirt track that led a mile back to the road. The clouds were upon me now, and it started to rain. A number of houses were scattered along the track, nestling among the trees, with glimpses of the marsh. The majority were only occupied in summer. None of them had a direct view of Marsh House, but I wondered whether the occupants of any of them had seen anything the day he died.
The first house I came to was clearly locked up for the coming winter. The second was little more than a shack. It was guarded by the giant Ford that had almost collided with me that day. I pulled up outside, climbed out of my car, and ran to the door. I knocked. It was raining hard.
The door opened a crack. I recognized the old lady as the driver of the Ford station-wagon. It was clear she recognized me too.
'Good afternoon,' I said in my most polite English accent. 'My name is Simon Ayot. I wonder if I can ask you a few questions?'
'I know exactly who you are,' said the woman with a mixture of fear and resolve in her eyes. 'I saw you on TV last night. And I won't answer your questions.'
She began to shut the door. I was soaking in the rain. I put my hand on it, to stop her.
'I just want to – '
'You let me shut this door, or I'll call the police!' she protested shrilly.
I realized I was only going to get myself into more trouble, and so I backed away. She slammed the door, and I heard the click of a lock. I dashed back to the car, and continued up the track.
The next two houses were empty, but the third showed signs of occupation. A small car was parked outside, and some lights blinked out into the gloom.
Once again I braved the rain, and knocked.
This time the door was opened by a pleasant looking middle-aged woman, her grey-streaked hair pulled firmly back from her forehead. She reminded me of the doughty ladies you see in the rose gardens and on the public footpaths of England.
'Yes?' she said doubtfully.
'Hello. I'm Simon Ayot, Frank Cook's son-in-law. Did you know Frank Cook? He used to live in Marsh House at the bottom of the road.'
'Oh yes. Of course I knew him. Not well, mind you. That was an awful thing to happen to him. And you're his son-in-law? How terrible for you.'
I smiled. 'I wonder if I could ask you a couple of questions. May I come in?'
'Of course. Get yourself out of the wet.'
She led me through to an open living space with a good view of the marsh through the trees. You couldn't see Marsh House, but with a slight surge of panic I realized that you could just see the end of the walkway down to the creek, and the dock, where Lisa and I had made love what seemed like an age ago.
'Coffee? I have some brewed.'
I accepted gratefully, and soon cupped my hands round a steaming mug. I sat down on an old sofa. The furniture was basic, but the room was clean and warm and very cosy.
'You're English aren't you?'
'Yes, I am. I'm Lisa's husband. Do you know her?'
'I thought I caught your accent. Yes, I do know Lisa. I've seen her around over the years. We bought this place about ten years ago. My husband works in Boston, but I like to spend time here, especially in the fall. I like to paint.'
My ey
es scanned the walls, and I saw some reasonable depictions of scenes I recognized from the area.
'They're very good. I like them,' I said.
'Thank you,' she said. 'My name's Nancy Bowman, by the way. Now, how can I help you?'
'I wanted to ask you about the day of the murder. Whether you saw anyone strange hanging around.'
'The police asked me this,' she replied. 'Anyway, didn't I see they'd caught the murderer?'
Nancy Bowman seemed an honest, helpful woman. I liked her. I decided to take a risk and tell the truth. 'They thought they had. But it turned out they had the wrong man. I know, because it was me.'
'You?' Her eyes widened.
'Yes, I'm afraid so. That's why I want to talk to you. I want to prove that I didn't kill my father-in-law.'
The woman looked confused for a moment, as though she was considering whether to throw me out. She spent a few seconds looking me over with shrewd eyes. Then she decided to trust me.
'Oh, I understand. All right, let me see whether I can help you. My husband and I were both here that weekend. I do like to walk along the marsh, and I often walk by Marsh House. Ray likes to stay indoors more.'
'Did you see anyone?'
'As I told the police, there was one strange man I saw a couple of times that weekend. He seemed to be some kind of photographer, or perhaps a bird watcher. I saw him on the road out there, and down behind Marsh House. He seemed to be waiting for a bird or something. He had an expensive-looking camera.'
'What did he look like?'
'Young. In his thirties I should think. Short, but quite big, if you see what I mean. Not fat, just broad.'
'I see. And what was he wearing?'
'A T-shirt and jeans. I remember thinking he must have been cold standing still in just a T-shirt, but he looked like a tough fellow.'
'Have you seen him before or since?'
'No. Just that weekend.'
'And you told all of this to the police?'
She nodded. 'Oh yes. They seemed quite interested.'
'I'm sure they were. Did you see anyone else?'
'No. Not that I can remember.'
'You didn't see me, for instance?'
'No. But come to think of it, the police asked me whether I had seen a tall fair-haired young man. And they mentioned an old convertible. That must have been you, mustn't it?'
'I expect so,' I said. I stood up. 'Thank you very much, Mrs Bowman. That's very helpful. And thanks for the coffee.'
'Not at all. I do hope you manage to persuade the police they have the wrong man.'
'Thank you,' I said. I was touched. It was encouraging to have a stranger show such faith in me, even if it was just because I had an English accent and an honest face.
I left her, and rushed through the rain to my car.
I drove round Route 128 to Wellesley. Nancy Bowman's description was unmistakable. Craig.
Craig had been in Woodbridge the day Frank died. Craig knew Frank was opposed to further investment in Net Cop. I remembered that when I saw him just before Frank was killed, he had been smiling, as though he had found a solution to his problems. Was he already planning to murder Frank? Could he have been dumb enough to have murdered Frank in the hope that Revere would change its mind about Net Cop? With a shudder I realized that it was just conceivable that Craig when very angry might kill someone.
I knew how absolutely determined Craig was to make Net Cop succeed.
For a moment I considered contacting Mahoney. But I couldn't be certain that Craig had killed Frank. I liked him, and we had supported each other. I had to give him a chance to explain himself.
I turned off 128 in Wellesley, and drove down into Hemlock Gorge. I leaped out of the Morgan, and hurried into Net Cop's building. Gina, the secretary-cum-receptionist, smiled when she saw me and told me Craig was in New York. He would be in tomorrow. Impatiently, I drove back to Boston.
I was sitting at home at the computer, idly scanning the Chelsea web-pages, when I heard the key scrape in the door.
It was Lisa, and she looked angry.
I leaped to my feet, with a rush of joy at seeing her again, immediately tempered with worry by her expression. 'Lisa!'
'Can you help me with some cartons?' she muttered, scarcely looking at me.
'OK.' I followed her outside, where a man and a small truck waited. A dozen or so collapsible cardboard cartons lay in their collapsed state on the sidewalk. I took half of them and Lisa took the other half. The man promised to return in an hour.
'I take it you're not moving back in, then?' I said, tentatively.
'No I am not, Simon. I'm going back to California. Roger has offered me a job.' Roger was Roger Mettler, her old professor. He had been trying to entice her back to Stanford for years.
'California! But that's thousands of miles away!'
'A geographic genius,' she muttered.
I felt a rush of panic. At least when Lisa was with Kelly, I knew she was only a couple of miles away. But California! She'd be really gone. Once the time was right, it would take days, not minutes, to see her, to get her back.
'What about Boston Peptides?' I asked.
'Oh, don't pretend you don't know,' she spat.
'What do you mean? What's happened?'
'I've been fired, that's what's happened,' she said as she wrestled with the first of the cartons.
'No! I don't believe it! Why would Henry do that? It makes no sense.'
'Henry didn't do it, although I would have expected him to stand up for me. No, it was Enema.'
'But they need you, don't they? I mean you're responsible for BP 56. Boston Peptides isn't worth much without you.'
'Well that's not what Enema thinks. He thinks the company can do perfectly well without me. He says I don't fit into the BioOne way of doing things. And frankly, I think he's right. Damn this thing!'
She was folding the flaps of the box together in the wrong order.
'Here, let me,' I said.
'Leave me alone!' she snapped.
I left her alone. 'What happened?'
'I asked too many questions.'
'About neuroxil-5?'
'Yep.'
'What's wrong with it?'
She threw the half-constructed box to the floor. 'Simon, the drug stinks, BioOne stinks, and Revere stinks. If you're too stupid to see that, that's not my problem. Now let me pack my stuff and get out of here.'
'Lisa,' I said, taking her arm.
She pushed my hand away.
'Lisa, sit down. Let's talk for a moment. We should at least do that. Then I'll leave you alone and you can pack up.'
Lisa hesitated, and then sat in the chair. Her face bore the stony expression of misery it had worn since just after Frank died, the corners of her mouth pulled downwards, her eyes dull. A tear ran unchecked down one cheek. She sniffed.
I took hold of her hand and crouched beside her. This could be my last chance to keep her, but I tried to keep the desperation out of my voice, to sound controlled, sensible. 'Listen, Lisa. I know things have been tough for you. Very tough. But I love you. I want to help you. You must let me.'
Lisa didn't answer. She sat still and straight, the tears now streaming down her face. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand.
'We work well together, Lisa. We understand each other. Your life must have been hell over the last few weeks. You need me. Let me help you.'
'I need the old you,' Lisa said, her voice trembling. 'I need the old you so bad.'
'But you've got me.'
Lisa shook her head. 'I don't know who I've got, Simon. I don't know whether you killed Dad. I don't know whether you used me to sell out my company and get me fired. I don't know whether you've been unfaithful to me. I don't know whether you've lied to me. I don't know you. I don't know you at all. And it scares me.'
'Of course you know me, Lisa. I haven't changed. Ever since we met, you've known me all the way through. We are so good for each other. I love you, and you love me.'
>
Lisa shook her head. 'I don't know whether I love you or I hate you. I don't know anything these days. I just want to go back to California and leave all this behind.'
'Don't. Please stay.'
Lisa took a deep breath, fighting to regain control. 'If I stay here, I'll go crazy. I need to try to rebuild my own life, Simon. Now let me go. I'll come back and do all this tomorrow morning. Please make sure you're not here.'
She stood up, and headed for the door, leaving the mess of cardboard all over the floor.
Then she walked out.
20
The Red Hat was full. Someone was leaving as I arrived, and so I acquired a beer and a stool and started to drink.
Lisa was going. Really going. Not just across town but to California, two and a half thousand miles away.
She had said that I had changed, that she didn't know me any more. But she was wrong. I was sure that it wasn't me that had changed, but her. It worried me, but it also made me angry. She was holding me responsible for so much, when all I had done was try to help her. I hadn't killed her father. I hadn't cost her her job; in fact I had risked my own to warn her about the take-over. She had lost her own job by being difficult. And I certainly hadn't slept with Diane.
I drained my glass and tapped it for a refill. The barman was running a tab. He knew I was here for the long haul.
All this was so unlike her. The pressure was too much for her, and she wouldn't let me near her to help. It was so frustrating. I felt myself being torn, between anger and concern, a desire to let her go and sort out her own problems, and a stronger desire to keep her.
She had threatened to leave once before. Then everything had been so different. We had known each other for about six months, in a relationship that we both thought was fun but casual. Then, out of the blue, Roger Mettler had asked her to return to Stanford. At the time, Boston Peptides was going nowhere, and so she decided to fly out there and talk to him. She came back full of enthusiasm. We had dinner together. We were both bright on the surface, but underneath, I felt a deep gloom creeping up on me. I realized, almost to my surprise, that I didn't want her to go. But I couldn't tell her that. Her life was her own, we had made no commitment to each other, it wasn't up to me to disrupt her career.
Final Venture Page 20
