The Predator

by Michael Ridpath

  It was Duncan, splashing clumsily. Megan steered the boat over towards him. Chris leapt down to the cockpit and grabbed the lifebelt. Duncan had seen them and was waving. It was quite difficult to manoeuvre close to him, and it was a precious minute or so before Chris had tossed the belt to him and he had grabbed it. Chris pulled hard, dragging him through the water, and hauled him in. He left him, cold and gasping, in the bottom of the boat, and dashed up to the bridge to look for the others.

  'I think there's someone over there,' said Megan, and she pushed the throttle forward, accelerating towards something bobbing in the water.

  It was Eric. Within five minutes, he too was in the bottom of the boat, panting and shivering.

  'Did you find him?' he asked, between breaths.

  'No,' said Chris. 'Ian jumped in, too. We've got to find both of them.'

  By this time, Lenka had got a grip on herself, and she was up with Megan on the bridge. Chris and Eric joined them. They drove the boat around in ever-increasing circles from the point where they had picked up Eric.

  'Is Ian a good swimmer?' asked Megan.

  'I think so,' said Chris. He remembered Ian used to go to a pool after work in London sometimes. 'What about Alex?'

  'No idea,' said Eric.

  'Did you see him?' Chris asked.

  Eric was still gasping for breath, but shook his head. His teeth were chattering. 'Jesus, it's cold in there.'

  The circles became wider, until Chris wasn't sure they were still anywhere near where Alex had fallen in.

  'The coastguard!' exclaimed Megan. 'Shouldn't we call the coastguard?'

  'Haven't you done that yet?' asked Eric.

  'No,' Megan stammered. 'I didn't think of it.'

  'Channel sixteen,' said Eric. 'Here, I'll do it.' He grabbed the mike for the radio that was just by the wheel and put out a Mayday call. He looked around him. 'There's nothing else near to us,' he said.

  'How long will they be?'

  'I don't know. Ten minutes? Half an hour? No idea.'

  'There!' shouted Lenka, pointing ahead and slightly to the right of the boat.

  Chris peered into the gloom, and could just see an arm waving. Megan steered towards it. Just as they approached, the cloud at last drifted away from the moon. It was Ian. He was moving feebly, but still floating. They tossed the belt towards him, and he barely had the strength left to swim the few yards to grab it. Chris and Lenka hauled him into the boat. He was exhausted.

  'I saw you pick up Eric,' he mumbled. 'And I tried to wave and shout. But you didn't see me.'

  'We've got you now,' said Chris.

  They continued the search with increasing desperation. There was no sign of Alex. About ten minutes after Eric's Mayday call, a fast police boat sped towards them. After quickly ascertaining that someone was still in the water, the police told Megan to take the boat back to shore so that she could get the others warm and dry. Megan argued that they should stay and continue the search, but the police insisted. They said an ambulance would be waiting for them at Oyster Bay.

  Ian and Eric changed into their dry suits, which were still below. Duncan refused. They all huddled together on the bridge in silence, as the boat hurtled back to shore, with Megan at the helm. Now that the frantic activity had finished, the same thought bore in on all of them. Alex was gone.

  Duncan was slumped in a damp crumpled heap on the floor of the bridge. Lenka had her head in her hands next to him. Ian looked exhausted, staring vacantly into space. Chris felt stunned, in shock, unable to believe what he had seen over the previous half hour. It had all been a dreadful mistake. It must be possible to get Alex back, it simply must. Now that the coastguard were there, the authorities, the adults, they'd find him. Chris couldn't quite believe that he was an adult, that this wasn't a children's game, that he had witnessed one man knock another into the sea, and that that other, his friend, was probably now dead.

  'They're going to ask us how Alex fell in,' said Eric.

  'I'll tell them,' sobbed Duncan. 'I'll tell them I hit him.'

  'No, it was my fault,' said Lenka. 'I made you do it. I wanted you to get angry with me. With him.'

  Duncan shook his head. 'I killed him,' said Duncan. 'I killed him.'

  'They still might find him,' said Chris, feebly. But no one believed that. Even Chris didn't even believe that.

  'This could be very serious for Duncan,' said Eric.

  'I know it could,' said Duncan. 'I deserve it.'

  'I don't think you do,' said Eric. 'You were provoked. You didn't mean to kill him.'

  'I said it was my fault!' said Lenka. 'And I'll tell them that.'

  Chris saw what Eric was thinking. 'There's no need for anyone to get into trouble. We all know it was an accident. All we need to say was that Alex was drunk and he fell in.'

  'But I punched him,' said Duncan.

  'You know that and I know that,' said Chris. 'But we also know you didn't mean to kill him. For whatever reason, you were provoked. But if we tell the police, they might arrest you for manslaughter, or murder or something.'

  'He could be charged with second degree murder, I think,' said Eric. 'Whatever the charge, it would be serious.'

  'I can't believe you can talk like this,' Duncan said. 'Alex is dead! Don't you understand that? Alex is dead.'

  Lenka had stopped crying. She moved closer to Duncan. 'Alex might be dead. But Chris and Eric are right. This could ruin your whole life.' She touched his arm. 'I don't want to be responsible for that, too.'

  They were silent, crouched together in the crowded bridge.

  Eric spoke. 'What do you say? We have to decide in the next couple of minutes. Chris?'

  'I say it was an accident. Alex was on the foredeck, he came back for another beer, he slipped and fell in.'

  'Lenka?'

  'I think so, too.'

  'Duncan? It's your life.'

  'It was Alex's life.'

  'Yes, but it's yours we're talking about now.'

  He bit his lip and nodded. 'OK.'

  'Ian?'

  Ian was still in a trance. He didn't move, just stared up at the sky.

  'Ian? If we're going to use this story, we all need to go along with it.'

  Ian's stare snapped to Eric. Chris suddenly wondered how selfish Ian was. Would he risk lying to the police to help Duncan? It looked as though this was something Ian was trying to decide for himself. Eventually he nodded. 'All right.'

  'We're all agreed, then.'

  'No, we're not.'

  It was Megan.

  Eric turned to her in surprise. 'Do you have a problem?'

  'Sure, I have a problem. We should tell them the truth.'

  'But you don't think Duncan pushed Alex in on purpose?'

  'No. But that's not up to me to decide. That's up to the police.'

  The boat was approaching Oyster Bay. They could see the flashing lights of at least two vehicles waiting at the waterfront.

  Eric spoke to Megan softly, as she cut back the throttle. 'I know you hate to lie. I can't force you to lie. But this is a friend of mine. Can you do this for me?'

  They all watched her. It was clear in Chris's mind that it was best to claim that Alex had fallen in by accident. He didn't like to lie to the police, but there was nothing to be gained by telling the truth apart from throwing Duncan into the jaws of the American criminal justice system. The result would be impossible to predict. As it was, he knew Duncan would suffer for the rest of his life for what had happened. Lenka probably would, too. Chris respected Megan for taking the honest line, but he hoped she would change her mind. As Eric had said, Duncan was their friend.

  Megan watched Eric, took a deep breath, and nodded. 'OK. But I'm not making anything up. I'll just say I didn't see any of it.'

  'That will do fine,' said Eric. 'Now, let me steer the boat into the dock.'

  The first blow had hurt Alex. The second damaged something in his brain, some mechanism of the nervous system that kept him upright and balanced. He
felt his legs buckling underneath him, as he was forced back by the power of Duncan's punch. He felt his thighs touch the railing, and he tried to lean forward, but whether because he was drunk or because the boat was lurching at the most impossible of angles, he couldn't manage it. He felt his body spill backwards, and a second later he was underwater.

  The water was very cold, and it seemed to squeeze the breath out of him, but somehow he managed to retain something in his lungs. It was dark, and the weight of his clothes was pulling him down, so he couldn't tell which way was up. He kicked his legs in panic and waved his arms. His lungs hurt, but somehow he managed to keep his mouth closed and the water out. Then, somehow, his face emerged into the open air and he took a large gulp, just as a wave broke over him. The seawater stung his lungs and made him choke. He kicked frantically with his legs and managed to keep his face above water long enough to cough and splutter the water clear of his airway. He took another gulp of air, and was submerged briefly under another wave.

  He could just keep himself above the water if he worked hard with his arms and his legs. His clothes were so heavy, and it was so cold. He looked around him, and caught a glimpse of the bridge of the boat speeding away through the waves. He raised his arm to catch their attention, and promptly sank, swallowing more water. More choking.

  He was in big trouble; he knew it. He wasn't a strong swimmer, and he knew he was drunk. The boat was impossible to see in the waves.

  Alex didn't want to die. He was too young. He had so much more he wanted to do with his life. He wasn't going to die.

  He struck out towards the direction he had last seen the boat. He tried to keep his strokes steady, but it was difficult. He was swimming too fast, tiring himself. Slow down. Swim slowly. As long as he was afloat, they would find him. Already they would have turned back. They'd be with him in a second.

  He saw something dead ahead! Someone was swimming towards him. Alex raised a hand, shouted, pulled harder.

  The swimmer came closer. Thank God, thought Alex. 'Here!' he shouted. 'I'm over here!'

  He grabbed the arms as they reached out towards him. He tried to hold on to the sleeve. He wanted to cling on and never let go. He couldn't believe it! He was safe!

  Suddenly he felt strong hands on his head, pushing him downwards. He was so surprised he failed to take a breath before he went under. What the hell was happening? He was too weak. He couldn't fight. He reached out to grab the swimmer, to pull him down with him, but already his lungs were filling with water. He could feel himself slipping into the darkness, into the embrace of the cold, cold sea.

  Alex's body was found the following morning, dashed against some rocks a few miles further along the coast near Eatons Neck. Chris, Ian and Duncan were delayed in New York for a week to talk to the police and attend Alex's funeral. Questions were asked, lies were told. Then the Brits flew back to London, Eric and Lenka went on to their jobs at Bloomfield Weiss, and Megan returned to Washington.

  But Alex was still dead. And the memory of how he had died would stay with all of them.

  PART THREE

  1

  Chris returned to Carpathian's office in London determined to ensure that the firm survived. It would be difficult: Carpathian was much more Lenka's creation than his. He knew all the details: the administration of the funds, the individual securities in the portfolio, the accounts, the computer maintenance contracts, the people who managed the building and so on. But the vision was Lenka's. And so were the relationships with investors.

  Lenka's murder had torn at Chris from many different directions. There was the horror of the act itself. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her pale face beneath him on the street, felt the warmth and stickiness of her blood on his hands, watched her die. Then there was the guilt that he hadn't been able to stop it. In his waking moments, he replayed the attack again and again. If only he had reacted a second sooner to the sound of footsteps, if he had grabbed the arm half a second earlier. He fantasized about how he could have caught the attacker, thrown him to the ground and overpowered him. All pointless, he knew. If he had been quicker, he would probably have been stabbed too.

  There was also straightforward grief at the loss of a friend, of someone who had helped him when he really needed it, of someone to whom he owed a debt, of a genuinely good person. He missed her laughter, her hoarse voice teasing him, the immediate rush of vitality that she brought to a room when she entered it.

  And lastly, there was the worry about her company, their company. She had put so much of her energy into Carpathian over the last couple of years. It had become the most important thing in her life. He found, after the initial shock wore off, that Carpathian became the focus for all his feelings about her. He couldn't prevent her murder, he couldn't bring her back, but he could make sure that her creation survived.

  First, he had to deal with the two remaining members of the team, Ollie and Tina. Ollie was a wreck. Chris and Lenka had picked him the previous year from the collapsing investment-banking arm of a British bank. He was twenty-four, very bright, but very shy. He seemed to live his life in permanent terror. Lenka, in her more wicked moments, had taken cruel advantage of this. But both she and Chris had liked him, and thought that he would mature into a real asset. In the meantime, he didn't cost much, and he made the coffee without complaining. Until that week, Ollie's worst nightmare was screwing up on the settlement of a trade and having Lenka scream at him. But this was so much worse than that. He seemed incapable of the simplest task; he was barely able to speak. When Chris talked to him about Lenka's death, he cried. Chris felt sorry for him, and in a strange way he was pleased that Lenka had meant something to Ollie, despite her occasional mocking of him. Chris let him collapse for five minutes, but only five minutes. Chris needed Ollie: he was bright, he was familiar with how Carpathian worked, there was no one else. Ollie was going to have to grow up. Immediately.

  Tina was made of sterner stuff. She was a fiercely competent nineteen-year-old from Ongar who could fix the photocopier when Ollie broke it, and who would not stand any nonsense from pushy brokers. During the couple of days Chris had been away, it was she who had fielded calls from the market. She had little experience or knowledge of finance, but Chris had to rely on her too. She seemed to sense his determination to ensure Carpathian's survival, and to share it.

  The four of them all sat in an open-plan room, with Lenka and Chris's desks overlooking the square outside. The entire office consisted of this room, a reception area, a boardroom, which doubled as a conference room, a kitchen, and an alcove for photocopier, fax machine and computer equipment. It wasn't large, but it had been nicely designed by an American friend of Lenka's, and it was airy, light and professional. The work hadn't cost much, except for a sweeping curved wall in the reception area, which sported a mural of swirling blues. Chris and Lenka had argued about it: Lenka loved it, but Chris had objected that it was too frivolous.

  We'll keep it, Chris decided.

  Chris gazed at Lenka's desk. Dramatic orange and purple flowers leaned out of a tall crystal vase. 'Birds of paradise' she had said they were called. She bought a new bunch of exotic flowers every week from the florist round the corner. Chris hesitated, and then dumped them into the bin. It seemed wrong that they should be so bright and alive, as though they hadn't heard the news. But he left the vase there, empty. Under her desk were four pairs of scuffed shoes. Lenka said she thought best in bare feet, and she would even occasionally meet visitors shoeless. It had taken Chris a couple of months to work out how she had accumulated so many pairs at work; surely even Lenka wouldn't go home in bare feet. The answer was, of course, that when the markets were going against her she would nip out to Bond Street and buy a new pair, which she promptly took off when she returned to the office.

  But Chris couldn't afford to waste the day wallowing in thoughts of Lenka. He checked the prices of their portfolio. The market was weak. The Russian Finance Minister had resigned in the midst of a corruption scandal, a
nd Eastern Europe was looking jittery. The big Eureka Telecom position was down five points. Chris would have to work out what Lenka had had in mind when she bought that. But that, too, could wait. He didn't intend to trade at all if he could avoid it over the next few days.

  He spoke briefly on the phone to Ian Darwent. Ian was still at Bloomfield Weiss; he was now a European high-yield bond salesman. It was from him that Lenka had bought the Eureka Telecom bonds.

  The conversation was awkward. Ian had turned his back on Chris when Chris had left Bloomfield Weiss, and Chris couldn't quite bring himself to forgive him. Ian clearly felt just as uncomfortable with Chris, especially since Carpathian was now a purchaser of European high-yield bonds. So they had come to an unspoken agreement that Ian would speak to Lenka. That would have to change. Tina had told Ian about Lenka the day before, so for now they exchanged shallow commiserations about her death. Chris was sure Ian was genuinely sorry about what had happened, but he wasn't about to help Ian overcome his public-school reticence to discuss it. They rang off with a promise to talk about Eureka Telecom the next day.

  Chris also spoke to Duncan at the sales desk of Honshu Bank, the second-tier Japanese firm where he now worked. Chris had called him from Prague to tell him about Lenka. The conversation had been brief; Duncan had been too stunned to say much of anything. Now he had lots of questions. Chris agreed to meet him in a pub after work to answer them.

  The next task was to inform the investors in Carpathian's fund. There were eight of them and they had invested a total of fifty-five million euros. They were mostly based in the US, and they were nearly all Lenka's contacts from her days at Bloomfield Weiss in New York. The largest was Amalgamated Veterans Life, where Lenka's contact was none other than Rudy Moss. He was the only investor Chris really knew. The rest had met Chris, but it was Lenka they trusted. Still, he and Lenka had managed to provide them with a twenty-nine per cent return in the first nine months, so they ought to be happy.

  Chris decided to send them all an e-mail, which would be ready for their opening, and follow it up with a phone call in the afternoon. They were difficult calls to make. Everyone was shocked by the news. Most of them seemed to think of Lenka as a personal friend. None of them mentioned rethinking their investment in Carpathian, much to Chris's relief. The only person he couldn't get through to was Rudy, who didn't return his call. Chris wasn't concerned by this: not returning calls was a macho thing with people like Rudy, and since they knew each other, he was the investor Chris was least worried about.