'So Ian drowned Alex to keep him quiet.' Megan shuddered. 'Are you absolutely sure that's what happened? I still can't believe it.'
'No, I'm not sure. It's my best guess. But remember, we were out of sight of all three of them. It could have been Eric, or perhaps even Duncan himself.'
'It wasn't Eric.'
There was something about Megan's certainty on that score that irritated Chris. He knew it was jealousy on his part, and he wasn't proud of it. But although he agreed with Megan, he couldn't stop himself from arguing. 'We shouldn't rule him out.'
'You don't have to rule him out if you don't want to,' said Megan. 'But I know it was Ian. What do we do now?'
Chris slumped back on Megan's sofa. He suddenly felt very tired. 'I don't know.'
'Can we go to the police?' Megan asked.
'I thought about that,' Chris said. 'And the question is, which police? There's no point in going to the police in this country; no crime has been committed here. We could go to the police on Long Island and try to get them to reopen the investigation into Alex's death. But we have no hard evidence. Just hearsay and deduction. And as soon as we start explaining what really happened, we'll have to admit that we all lied to them ten years ago. All that will do is get us arrested for obstructing the course of justice. They might decide to get Duncan on a murder or manslaughter charge as well.'
'What about the Czech police? If we're right and Ian murdered Lenka, then they can go after him.'
'True. But we have no real evidence at all linking Lenka's death to Ian. The Czechs would have to go through all the evidence about Alex's death, which would get us back to square one with the American police. And then they'd have to extradite Ian. It's unlikely to stand up.'
'I see,' said Megan.
There was one further reason why Chris didn't want to go to the police. He knew it wasn't Ian who had accosted him on the street in New York. If Ian was behind the killings of Alex and Lenka, then he had an accomplice. A dangerous accomplice. And once Chris went to the police, that accomplice would know that he had ignored his threat. Unless the police moved very fast, which given the evidence available was extremely unlikely, Chris could wind up dead.
'What about talking to Ian?' he suggested.
'That's a bit dangerous, isn't it?' said Megan. 'What if we're right and he did kill Alex and Lenka? He might just kill us too. Chris, this is beginning to scare me.'
'He can't carry on killing everyone,' said Chris. 'I could talk to him and tell him that you'll go to the police immediately if he tries anything stupid. Murdering someone in England in those circumstances would be just plain dumb. And Ian isn't dumb.'
'I don't know. It still sounds dangerous to me.' Doubt and fear were written all over Megan's face as she looked to Chris for reassurance.
'I don't think so,' Chris said, as convincingly as he could. He knew Megan was right: it was dangerous. But at least they would be taking the initiative. It was probably less dangerous than allowing Ian to pick them both off at his convenience.
'What will you say?'
'I'll talk it through with him. Ian's smooth, but he's not that smooth. Even if he denies everything, which I'm sure he will, I'll know.'
Megan took a deep breath. 'All right,' she said, nodding towards her phone. 'Call him.'
Chris hesitated. Was he sure about what he was doing? It still wasn't too late to bury his head in the sand, to pretend that he had stopped asking questions, that he didn't care that Alex and Lenka had died.
But he did care.
He looked up Ian's home number and dialled it. He told Ian simply that he had discovered some things in America that he wanted to talk to him about, and persuaded him to meet him at lunch-time in a pub in Hampstead the next day, which was a Saturday. At that time it should be crowded and, from Chris's point of view, safe.
Or at least he hoped it would be.
Lovemaking with Megan that night was both tender and intense. The fear they felt for themselves and for each other drew them together. Afterwards, they held each other tightly in the darkness, neither one of them willing to give words to what they felt. Outside, beyond the comforting walls of the college, beyond the winter dawn only a few hours away, lay uncertainty, danger, and, quite possibly, death.
As Chris left the college before breakfast the next morning, he saw an indistinct figure in a car parked a few yards up the road put down a newspaper and drive off. Why would anyone want to read a newspaper in a car at half past seven in the morning, Chris thought. He shuddered, and walked through the damp morning gloom towards his own car, unable to shake the feeling that he was running out of time.
PART FOUR
1
Eric looked over the top of his Wall Street Journal as his car slowed towards the rear of the yellow taxi in front. He checked his watch. It was still only five forty. He was due at the lawyers' midtown offices at five forty-five. He was going to be late. Since this was a Friday evening and they were only half way there, probably very late. Tough. It was only a rinky-dink deal, anyway. Some company called Net Cop that made switches for the Internet was up for sale. The only reason he hadn't been able to palm the deal off on to a junior was that Sidney Stahl had invested in the company himself. Sidney would be pleased if Eric could get a good price for Net Cop. And Eric would. It was what he did. Three big telecoms equipment manufacturers were interested. One had offered four hundred million dollars, but Eric was confident he could achieve at least double that, maybe even a billion if he could get them all scared enough of each other.
The car lurched forward twenty feet. 'Is there any way we can get around this?' he asked.
'Nuttin' we can do,' said the massively overweight driver, who seemed perfectly content to spend his Friday evening slouched in Manhattan gridlock.
Eric sighed, but decided not to argue. Terry would have done something. But just then, Terry wasn't available.
He turned back to the legal documents on his knee. It was beginning to get dark and the dense print blurred together. He rubbed his eyes and switched on the interior light in the car. Eric could work hard, he liked to work hard, but it was getting so he was working all the time. And there was this other business to worry about.
His cell phone chirped. Eric sighed. The damn phone never stopped.
'Eric Astle.'
'Eric, it's Ian.'
Eric put down his papers. Ian sounded shaken.
'What is it?'
'Chris wants to see me.'
'So?'
'He said he found out something in America he wants to talk to me about.'
Eric's pulse quickened. 'Did he say what?'
'No. Did you see him while he was there? Did he tell you he'd discovered anything?'
'I did see him,' said Eric. 'He hadn't found out much. He knows about Alex and the drugs. But when I saw him he hadn't made any connection with what happened to Alex, let alone Lenka.'
'Did he talk to Marcus Lubron?'
'I don't know. He was intending to. But I was hoping he might have changed his mind.'
'Perhaps he did talk to Marcus,' Ian was sounding agitated. 'Perhaps Marcus told him everything.'
'Relax, Ian,' said Eric. 'We don't know what Lenka told Marcus. We don't know whether Chris even saw Marcus. And if he did, we don't know what Marcus said.' He paused to think. He could hear Ian's panicked breathing on the phone. 'When did Chris call you?'
'A few hours ago.'
'And when are you supposed to meet him?'
'Tomorrow lunch-time.'
'I think it would be best if you didn't see him.'
'But if I don't show, he'll find me.'
'Then go away somewhere.'
'Go away somewhere?'
'Yeah. Go abroad. Frankfurt. Paris. Somewhere like that. Say you'll see him when you get back. That'll buy us some time.'
'But tomorrow's a Saturday!'
Eric closed his eyes. Boy, did this guy whine. 'Ian. Real men work Saturdays. Just tell him.'
'What
are you going to do?'
'I don't know,' said Eric. 'But I'll figure something out.'
'Eric. Don't do anything rash.'
'I said, I'll figure it out. You know what? Go to Paris. Call me when you get there. Better yet, I'll meet you there.' He paused for a few moments, putting together a schedule in his head. 'We'll have breakfast in the George Cinq on Sunday.' With that, Eric hit the red button on his phone and Ian was gone.
Eric stared out at the crowds and the cars and thought. Despite that carefully cultivated British arrogance, Ian was weak. And Chris was determined. Eric would have to act. Again.
He hit a number from his phone's memory. It took a few moments to connect. He glanced up at the thick neck of the driver. He was stupid, but Eric didn't want to take any chances. He might already have said more than he intended in his conversation with Ian. He would be more careful this time.
The call was answered on the first ring.
'Yes?'
'Terry?'
'Yes.'
'Where are you?'
'Cambridge.'
'Where's our man?'
'With our girl.'
If Eric caught a slight note of mockery in Terry's voice, he ignored it. 'OK. I don't think he's got the message. So go ahead and do what you have to do. Then get yourself on a plane to Paris. I'll see you there Sunday.'
'Understood.'
More calls. To his secretary to book a flight to Paris. To one of his more ambitious vice presidents to tell him he was now working on the Net Cop deal, and should get his ass up to the lawyers' offices immediately. The guy couldn't wait. Great visibility with Sidney. Then the call to Sidney Stahl himself, explaining that Eric had got the whiff of a big European telecoms merger and needed to be there immediately. Stahl was clearly pissed off, but couldn't say anything. The conflict of interest would be too obvious if he made Eric drop that for a deal in which Stahl had a personal investment. Eric winced as he made the call. It was never a good idea to bullshit Stahl. But he had no choice.
Finally, he called Cassie, once again blowing their weekend plans out of the water. Cassie took it well. Eric smiled to himself. She was a wonderful woman.
Chris parked his car in the nearest spot he could find to his flat. It was still fifty yards away. He lugged his bag up the hill, thinking nervously about his meeting with Ian in just over an hour's time. He tried to ignore the fear. There was nothing Ian could do in a crowded pub. In fact, it was hard to take Ian seriously as a physical threat. As a manipulator, certainly. As a devious, lying, conniving bastard. But not as a cold-blooded killer.
But Alex and Lenka were both dead. And Chris had been warned.
Chris checked the street both ways before unlocking the front door of his building. Nothing suspicious, just a man in his fifties walking his dog, and a harassed mother dragging two reluctant children towards the Heath. No one was waiting for him on the stairs and his flat was locked just as he had left it. He entered, dumped his stuff, put the kettle on to boil, and listened to the messages on his machine. There was one from Ian.
'Sorry, I can't make lunch. Something's come up. Got to go to Paris. I'll call you next week.'
Chris looked up Ian's mobile number and dialled it. It was answered.
'Hello?'
'Ian? It's Chris.'
'Oh, hi, Chris.'
'Where are you?'
'Heathrow.'
'Look, I've got to see you.'
'Yes. I'm sorry about lunch today. But we can catch up at the end of next week. I'll give you a ring as soon as I get back.'
'But why the sudden rush to Paris?'
'Big deal. We've got to move fast. I only heard about it after you called me yesterday.'
'But it's a Saturday!'
'What can I say? It's a live deal. They say jump, I jump.'
This didn't sound right. Corporate Finance people like Eric might work all weekend but Ian was basically a salesperson. They worked Monday to Friday. Or they certainly had when Chris was at Bloomfield Weiss.
'I have to talk to you Ian. I can drive out to Heathrow now.'
'My flight's in twenty minutes.'
'Can't you get a later one?'
'No. I've got a meeting in Paris. It's going to be tight as it is.'
Damn, thought Chris. 'When will you be back?'
'Can't say. Depends on how the deal goes. End of next week at the earliest. I'll call you.'
'Ian –'
'Got to go, now. Bye.'
Chris put down the phone, thinking that he didn't believe a single word Ian had told him.
Ian had a horrible flight to Paris. He was sweating: the heating on the plane must be too high, or something. Eric was right: he would be safer in Paris. It was unlikely that Chris would come looking for him there. He had no idea what he was going to tell the office on Monday. There was, of course, no big deal in France for him to be working on. But there were deals in London that he was supposed to be doing something about. He would have to develop quite a story to justify his presence in Paris. But at least he had two days to think of it.
He was scared. He had been scared for ten years. He had done his best to hide it, to forget it, to rationalize it away, but the fear had always been lingering under the surface. And now, since Lenka had died, it had forced itself very much into the open.
He felt for the little package in his jacket pocket. It was the first time he had taken any abroad with him. Until now, he had always made it a rule never to carry drugs over international borders. But these days London to Paris didn't count. The only guys he had ever seen checked were swarthy men with moustaches wearing leather jackets who practically had 'smuggler' tattooed on their foreheads. He'd be OK. And he'd brought enough to last him until the end of next week.
He could certainly use some now. He knew his consumption had gone up in the last few weeks, since Lenka died. That was hardly surprising. These were exceptional circumstances. Besides, he knew he could give up any time. He'd gone cold turkey many times over the last ten years, hadn't he?
Ian fidgeted in his seat. He didn't underestimate Chris. Chris was smart and determined, and he would discover the truth eventually. Unless Eric stopped him first. Ian shuddered. Chris had become a pain in the arse, but he didn't want another killing. The killing had to stop.
He wished that he had told people what he knew when he had the chance, ten years ago. Now he had no choice. He had to keep quiet and trust Eric.
It was too much. Ian stood up, pushed past the man in the aisle seat, and headed for the toilets.
Terry's feet hit the damp soil with the barest of sounds. It was a ten-foot drop from the wall of the college: no problem. Terry smiled to himself. These old colleges might look like fortresses from the outside, but they were a cinch to get into. And once inside the walls there were all kinds of bushes, staircases and corridors to lurk in. Plus everyone he had seen wandering around the place during the day looked as weird as hell, so he doubted anyone would think anything strange if they did see him.
It was one thirty. There was only a slither of a moon, which cast the palest of light on the spreading tangle of branches of the ancient tree outside the building. Terry waited for ten minutes, stroking the moustache he had attached for the exercise. He was getting to like it. Perhaps he should grow a real one when this was all over. But the wig irritated him. The long greasy hair tickled his neck. It made him feel scruffy, not the neat, well-trimmed man of action that he liked to think himself to be. It was necessary though, enough to mislead anyone who caught a brief glimpse of him. He grinned to himself as he thought how it had fooled Szczypiorski in New York.
He waited while a loaded kid made his unsteady way across the grass to bed, and then crept along the shadow of the wall until he came to the building. He straightened up and walked up to the staircase and through the doors. Nothing was locked. Up two flights of stairs and there was the thick wooden door with the number eight painted on the wall above it. This door was locked, but it was only a Yale, and
within a few seconds Terry was inside.
He found himself in a sitting room. No bed, but a door in one corner. He opened it and slipped into a much smaller room. There was a narrow bed here, and a figure huddled under the covers, dark hair splayed over the pillow. Terry smiled to himself, slid his gloved hand into his jacket and gently pulled out a six-inch knife.
Two hours later, he was in an all-night Internet café in London, typing out a brief message. Three hours after that, his moustache and wig now removed, he was at Heathrow's Terminal Four, waiting for an early flight to Paris.
2
Chris woke up early on Sunday morning. There was no chance of him indulging in his traditional Sunday morning lie-in, so he rose and made himself a cup of tea in the kitchen. The thoughts that had been tumbling about incoherently in his sleep coalesced into the questions he needed to answer. Marcus, Ian, Alex, Lenka. How were they all connected? What had happened in the water off Long Island Sound ten years ago? What had happened in Prague two weeks before? And what was Ian doing in Paris?
Chris wandered into his sitting room with the cup of tea. He glanced at the blank screen of his PC. Perhaps there was an e-mail from Marcus. Or George Calhoun. Or someone else that could shed some light on the whole mess. He knew it was probably a waste of time, but he turned on the machine and checked his e-mails.
There was one. From 'A concerned friend'. The subject line was 'I told you once'.
The message read:
Chris
I warned you in New York, and I'm warning you again. Stop asking questions about Alex. Forget him. Otherwise it is not just you who will die. So will Megan.
Chris stared at the message open mouthed. It was too early in the morning to take it in. He checked the address of the sender: a chain of Internet cafés he had vaguely heard of.
The phone rang. He picked it up.
'Chris! Chris, it's Megan!' She sounded close to hysteria.
'Did you get one too?' Chris asked.
'One what? I've just woken up. I rolled over, and on my pillow was . . . God, it was horrible.' She sobbed.
The Predator Page 24
