The Predator

by Michael Ridpath

  Radaphone was one of the big three European mobile telephone networks. If they bought Eureka Telecom, the bonds would shoot up in price. Carpathian would make a nice quick return on twenty-five million euros. As Lenka had said to him when he had phoned her in Prague, there was a story.

  Chris glanced at Barry. His ears had progressively reddened throughout the conversation. Chris remembered him vaguely. He was an IT guy through and through. He might have picked up the possibility that Ian had given away too much information to Lenka, but he would be much more interested in the nature of the relationship between her and Ian. The Bloomfield Weiss gossip machine would have plenty of new material before the day was out. Tough.

  'Well?' said Chris, after Barry had left the room.

  'What can I say? I'm embarrassed.'

  'Not that. Radaphone.'

  'Oh. Radaphone.'

  'Will Radaphone take over Eureka Telecom?'

  Ian paused for a long time before answering. In the end, he seemed to make up his mind. 'It's possible.'

  'But no signs yet?'

  'None at all.'

  'Do you have any concrete evidence of a takeover?'

  'You heard the recording,' said Ian. 'It's just guesswork.'

  'You didn't see Radaphone executives talking to anyone from Eureka Telecom?'

  Ian shook his head.

  'What about any of your corporate finance boys?'

  'I wouldn't know about it if they did, would I? Chinese walls, and so on.'

  'She just trusted your hunch, didn't she?'

  Ian smiled. 'Looks like it.'

  Chris had had enough. Lenka's death, Rudy's demand for his money back, the collapse of Eureka Telecom's bond price, his presence in the Bloomfield Weiss trading room and now the discovery that Ian and Lenka were having an affair, all combined in some cavity deep within him to produce a surge of disgust.

  'You lied to her, didn't you?' he muttered through clenched teeth.

  'What do you mean?'

  'Because she was sleeping with you, you sold her a pile of crap and took the sales credits. And now that she's dead, you think there'll be no comeback.'

  'That's just not true.'

  'What's going on here?' A sharp voice barked behind Chris. He recognized it. Herbie Exler.

  The feeling of disgust became overwhelming.

  Chris turned to face his old boss. 'You probably put him up to this,' he said, getting to his feet. 'Well, you can take the Eureka Telecoms and shove them up your arse. Both of you.'

  'Get out!' hissed Exler. 'Get out now. I don't ever want to see you in this building again.'

  'I'm going,' said Chris, and he left the conference room, passing the stares of a hundred salesmen and traders as he made his way to the lift.

  5

  Megan was waiting for him in the Drayton Arms, a pint of bitter in front of her. Chris liked the way American women ordered pints; they thought it was English and it didn't seem to worry them that it might look unladylike.

  'Sorry I'm late,' he said. 'Have you been here long?'

  'Ten minutes.'

  'Here, let me get myself one of those.'

  Chris returned from the bar with a pint and took a long drink. 'I needed that.'

  'It tastes good,' said Megan.

  'I'm glad you like it. Did you have a good day?'

  'Oh yeah. I went to the Tate Modern. And the Wallace Collection. And the ICA.'

  'All in one day?'

  'What can I say? I like art. You have a lot of it in London. How about you?'

  'Jesus,' Chris said, shaking his head. 'I had a pretty awful day. I lost it with someone, and I think I've blown my only chance of getting rid of a disastrous bond position.'

  'Oh,' said Megan.

  'Sorry,' Chris smiled. 'I don't mean to burden you with my work problems. But you might find it interesting. Do you remember Ian Darwent?'

  'He was with us on the boat, wasn't he? He jumped into the sea after Alex. English. Quiet. Quite good-looking.'

  Chris winced. 'I wouldn't know about that. But that seemed to be Lenka's opinion.' He explained what he had found out.

  Much to his disappointment, Megan didn't seem surprised.

  'Don't you think it strange that she and Ian were sleeping together?' he asked her.

  'Not really. You know Lenka,' Megan said. 'And I do remember Ian.'

  'Actually, I don't know much about that side of her life. She didn't talk to me about it. I didn't ask.'

  'Probably wise.'

  But now Chris couldn't restrain his curiosity. 'So she slept around, did she?'

  'That would be unfair,' said Megan. 'We did talk about men sometimes, especially when we went on vacation to Brazil. She said she often went for months without sex, then she would see two or three men in succession. She liked men, and she liked sex, but she hated the idea of tying herself down. I guess you could say she was confused. And she sometimes chose the strangest guys. Ian isn't nearly as weird as some of them, I'm sure.'

  Chris shook his head. 'I'm glad I didn't know about all that.'

  Megan looked at him closely over her pint. 'What about you and Lenka?'

  'What do you mean?'

  'I'm sorry,' said Megan. 'I didn't mean to suggest anything. It's just you obviously liked each other, and . . .'

  'That's OK. We did like each other. And I can't deny she was an attractive woman. But somehow I never considered it. She was too good a friend, I suppose. I always assumed she was out of my league. If I had tried something, and she'd rejected me, it would have been awful. And even worse, if we had gone out together it wouldn't have lasted long and then I'd have lost a good friend. No, we were much better as we were.'

  'Perhaps.' Megan looked at Chris steadily.

  'Did Lenka say anything to you about her relationship with Ian?' he asked, uncomfortable under her gaze.

  'No. I only had that one conversation last week. It didn't come up. She did sound a bit stressed out, though.'

  'Stressed out?'

  'She said that something had happened that she wanted to talk to me about when I came to stay. She didn't say what it was.'

  'No clue at all? Was it something to do with work?'

  'I don't know. I was curious, of course, but I thought I'd find out all about it when I got here.'

  'Hmm. Did she mention Eureka Telecom to you?'

  'No.'

  'Or a man called Marcus?'

  'Marcus? No. Who's he?'

  'A tall thin American man came to see her in our office last week. Apparently, he upset Lenka pretty badly. But I've no idea who he is.'

  'Neither have I.'

  Chris stared thoughtfully into his pint. 'Something was going on,' he said. He glanced over to Megan's glass. It was almost empty. 'Come on,' he said. 'We'd better go and check out her flat.'

  Lenka had lived on the first floor of an elegant white-stuccoed building guarded by twin pillars in Onslow Gardens. The Czech police had recovered the key from her bag, and her parents had asked Chris to sort through her things and send them any personal belongings. There was going to be a lot to do. Chris was counting on a helpful neighbour.

  He let himself and Megan into the building. There was a pile of mail for Lenka neatly stacked on a windowsill in the hallway. Chris carried it upstairs with him. Her door opened easily. It was as though she had been away for a day, not a week. The heating was still on. The flat was untidy, but not a total mess. Her bed was made. There was a note from 'Adriana' to Miss Lenka saying she was owed twenty pounds for Wednesday. The cleaning lady, no doubt. The flat was a mishmash of furnishings, things she had seen around the world that she just had to buy. They formed a pleasing jumble, and some of them, like a set of two-foot-high wooden carvings of elephants from Africa and a large intricately decorated table from somewhere in Asia, were quite dramatic.

  Then there were her clothes. What seemed like miles of them, in wardrobes, chests of drawers, walk-in cupboards, trunks. Many years' bonuses from Bloomfield Weiss had been pumpe
d into the world's fashion industry. And shoes. There must have been a hundred pairs. It was a staggering sight.

  'Makes my closet look like a thrift shop,' said Megan.

  Chris went through to her desk, which was in a kind of den just off the living room. It was a large pine affair, covered with papers and a computer. Chris took a deep breath. He would have to sort through this lot. He didn't want to. Going into Lenka's flat hadn't felt like an intrusion, neither did gaping at her massive collection of clothes. But going through her papers? He wanted to leave them there, undisturbed.

  But something would have to be done with them. There would be the Czech equivalent of probate. Someone would have to sort out her assets. God, perhaps there was a will in there somewhere. Then there would be bills, rent, credit cards, bank accounts. Chris's heart sank. Perhaps he could get away with dumping it all in a box and sending it over to the Czech Republic.

  'Would you mind helping me with this?' asked Chris.

  'OK,' said Megan. 'I'll sort the papers into piles. You read them.'

  They worked for two hours, getting progressively more depressed. They didn't find a will, or any evidence of investments, but there was a massive balance in a current account at US Commerce Bank. Like many investment bankers, Lenka would fight tooth and nail over a hundredth of a basis point at work, but leave a hundred thousand pounds of her own money in a low-interest account.

  At ten o'clock, Chris stretched. 'Look, why don't we stop now? We can't do all this. I'll write a letter to her parents saying what we've found so far, and suggesting they get a solicitor to sort it all out.'

  'Don't you think we should look in there?' Megan said, nodding towards the computer.

  'But that's private,' said Chris.

  'What do you think all that lot is?' asked Megan, pointing to the piles of papers, now neatly stacked.

  'I suppose you're right. Go on then. Let's have a look.'

  Megan turned on the machine. She expertly skimmed through the folders. There was very little there. Quite a few word-processed documents, many of them in Czech. No other software, no games, no personal finance packages, no will-making programs. But there was e-mail.

  'Let's have a look.'

  Megan seemed to have no trouble navigating the Internet software and downloading Lenka's mail. She came up with a list of the most recent e-mail correspondence. The names were fascinating. There were some to Ian. And one to 'Marcus'.

  'There!' Chris cried, pointing to it. 'Open that one!'

  'No. Let's do this in chronological order. It'll make more sense.'

  Impatiently, they skimmed a dozen e-mails, half of them in Czech, until they came to one from Lenka to Ian:

  Ian

  I couldn't sleep last night. I think I have to tell Marcus about Alex. He has a right to know. And I've got to talk to Duncan.

  L

  The reply from Ian was terse:

  Don't do that! We have to talk. For God's sake don't do anything stupid.

  Ian

  Then, immediately following that, there was an e-mail to the mysterious Marcus. The subject line read simply Alex.

  Marcus

  I'm sorry I was rude to you yesterday. As you can imagine, it is a difficult subject for me. I have something important I need to tell you about Alex's death. It is complicated and needs explanation, so I would like to tell you in person. I am travelling to New York at the beginning of next month, so perhaps we can meet then.

  Best wishes

  Lenka

  There was a reply, short and simple:

  I will call you.

  Marcus

  'Let's print those off,' said Chris.

  As the small printer next to Lenka's machine chugged away, Megan clicked on the last e-mail Lenka had received. She opened it:

  Lenka

  See you Thursday at seven thirty. Can't wait. We're going to have some fun!

  Megan

  'I wrote that last Sunday. It seems like a whole life ago.' She blinked back a tear.

  'It was,' said Chris.

  Megan sniffed and dabbed her eyes. 'So, who can this Marcus be?'

  Chris shook his head. 'You can't tell much from the e-mail address. He could be from anywhere. I wonder what she wanted to tell him about Alex?'

  'The truth, presumably,' said Megan. 'That Duncan knocked him into the sea. But I wonder why she'd want to do that. We all agreed to keep it quiet, and I thought everyone had.' She gave Chris an enquiring glance.

  'They have, as far as I know,' he said. 'I thought that was all buried. And I thought Lenka was as keen as anyone on burying it. It's strange that she's the one who wants to tell, and Ian's the one who wants to keep it quiet. I'd have thought he wouldn't mind risking getting Duncan into trouble.'

  'We'd all be in trouble,' said Megan. 'We lied to the police. That's against the law.' She frowned. 'Big trouble.'

  Chris sighed. 'Well, whoever this Marcus is, he needs to know what happened.'

  He sat down in front of the keyboard and began to write:

  Marcus

  I am a colleague of Lenka's. I have some very bad news. Lenka was murdered in Prague last Monday. I may be able to help you with Alex's death. Please contact me at chrissz@interserve.net

  Regards

  Chris Szczypiorski

  He glanced at Megan, who nodded, and then he clicked on Send. 'There. He should identify himself now.' He yawned, and stretched. 'Let's go. I think we've done all we can here.'

  He turned off the computer, took the small bundle of papers they had sorted, turned down the thermostat for the heating, and switched off the light. They left the flat.

  Chris looked at his watch. Twenty past ten. 'Damn,' he said. 'I wanted to talk to one of her neighbours. It's too late to disturb them now.'

  But they were lucky. Just as they were about to reach the front door, it opened, and a bespectacled man in a smart overcoat and suit came in, bringing with him the waft of alcohol. He glanced at them with curiosity.

  'Hello,' said Chris.

  'Hi.'

  'Do you live here?'

  'Yes, I do. Can I help you?'

  He was American, about thirty-five, slightly overweight with a friendly face.

  'Did you know Lenka Němečková?'

  'Sure. I live in the apartment above hers.' Then his eyes narrowed. He had caught the tense Chris had used. 'What's wrong?'

  'I'm afraid she's been murdered. In Prague. We're friends of hers.' Chris introduced himself and Megan.

  As so many other people had been when Chris had told them the news, the American was stunned.

  'Her parents asked me to take care of her stuff,' Chris said. 'They gave me the key. Can you keep an eye on her flat for me? Give me a call if there's anything wrong.'

  Chris handed him his card. The American took it, and looked dully at the writing on it. 'I can't believe it,' he said.

  'Perhaps I can take your number?' Chris asked.

  'Oh, sure,' said the American, giving Chris a card in return. Richard H. Storebrand, Vice President. He worked for one of the large US investment management companies.

  'Thanks. Oh, by the way, you didn't see anything odd last week, did you? Any strange visitors, anything like that?'

  'No, I don't think so,' he said. Then he furrowed his brow. 'There was a guy who used to hang around here. He used to lean against the lamppost on the other side of the street. He was kind of creepy. Anyway, I was coming back here a couple of weeks ago and I bumped into Lenka. He crossed the street toward her. She saw him, pushed me into the building, and shut the door behind us. The guy rang the doorbell and shouted after her. She told me to ignore him and went up the stairs to her apartment. I haven't seen him around since then.'

  'Did she look frightened?' Chris asked.

  'No. More pissed off. But I guess a girl like that gets used to men hanging around her.'

  'Was this man American?'

  'No, I don't think so. But he did have some kind of accent. Irish or Scottish, I think. I'
m not real good on those.'

  'What did he look like?'

  'Big guy. Red hair, kind of messy. Wore a suit. He looked respectable, he didn't really look like a weirdo, but he was just hanging out.'

  Duncan.

  'Thanks,' Chris said, smiling. 'Let's keep in touch, OK?'

  The man nodded absently. 'Lenka. I can't believe it.'

  And Chris and Megan left Richard H. Storebrand, Vice President, shaking his head at the horrors of the world.

  When they returned to Chris's flat the light on the answer machine was blinking. Chris pressed the button.

  'Hi, Chris, this is Eric. I heard about Lenka. I'm very sorry. I'm going to be in London for a couple of days early next week. I'm getting in Sunday. Would you like to meet me for a drink at my hotel Sunday evening? Say seven o'clock? I'm staying at the Lanesborough. Just leave a message there if you can make it. Hope to see you then.'

  Chris glanced at Megan. She was standing very still, looking at the machine.

  'A voice from the past,' said Chris.

  'Yes,' Megan answered, almost in a whisper.

  'Do you want to come with me? I'm sure Eric wouldn't mind.'

  Megan took a moment to answer. 'No, no. I'd better not. Anyway, I should be going to Cambridge tomorrow.'

  'OK,' said Chris.

  'I'm sorry,' said Megan. 'It's just weird to hear his voice again. Look, er . . . I'd better be going to bed.'

  'All right. Good night.'

  'Good night.'

  6

  'Come here, bloody dog!'

  The angry grey-haired man puffed past them in an attempt to catch up with his dog, a red setter that was streaking up the hill in pursuit of a spry fox terrier.

  'Algy!' he screamed, and then the dog was out of sight.

  It was a lovely morning: cold, crisp and clear. The northern slope of Parliament Hill was still brushed with frost, but the sun had warmed the southern side into freshly glistening dew. To their right stretched London, in the great grey bowl of the Thames, streaks of mists still lingering amongst the tall towers of the City. The low winter sun reflected in a bright orange triangle off the roof of Canary Wharf.