The Predator

by Michael Ridpath

  'You can do nothing if you want,' said Duncan. 'But that doesn't mean I have to.'

  'What will you do?' Chris asked.

  Duncan said nothing. He drained his pint and stood up to leave.

  'For God's sake be careful,' Chris said, but Duncan ignored him, as he pushed his way through the crowd to the door.

  Megan found it extremely difficult to concentrate on the book in front of her. It was an analysis of the work of the monks of Fleury, a Clunaic abbey on the Loire that had played host to a number of important English churchmen. It wasn't just that it was in French, or that the author seemed to have an aversion to sentences of fewer than thirty words. Megan could cope with that. Indeed, since she had arrived in Cambridge, she had found the library and its difficult texts a refuge from the madness of Lenka's death. It was only here that she could lose herself for a few hours. That was why she had been so eager to leave her rooms that morning, hoping to blot the horror of the knife on her pillow from her mind. But for once, it hadn't worked. And the reason for that was Eric.

  After she had spoken to Chris that morning, she had put the knife in a plastic bag and hidden it at the back of one of her drawers. Then she had shoved the bloody pillowcase into another bag together with the contents of her wastepaper basket and dumped it in the college rubbish bins. She had been just about to leave for the library when Eric had called.

  Perhaps she shouldn't have told him that he could come and see her. For eight years now she had avoided him, and there was no doubt that that decision had helped her get over him. But surely, by now it was harmless. He was married, she seemed to be at the beginning of something with Chris, something that she hoped would develop. No, there couldn't be any harm in it.

  Then why did her throat feel dry? Why couldn't she concentrate on the book in front of her? Why couldn't she stop thinking about his voice, his face, his eyes, his touch?

  She knew she had to see him. It was probably a good thing. Closure, whatever that meant. He would be a podgy, greedy investment banker. They had had little in common when they were students: they would have nothing in common now. It would do her good to see Eric ten years on. She would finally realize she was better off without him.

  By two o'clock, she gave up and walked back to the college. She shuddered as she entered her room. Only twelve hours before someone else had been prowling round her bed. It was going to be difficult to sleep there that evening. Locking the outside door hadn't made any difference. She looked over to the sofa: if she pushed that in front of the door before she went to bed, it should make it impossible for anyone to enter without waking her up. And then she would scream. There were probably a hundred people within earshot, at least. That should get rid of him.

  She paced around her room. She brushed her hair. She dug out some lipstick, which she never wore, and then put it away. What was she thinking of? She had no need to look good for Eric.

  She stood by the window and stared down at the court below. A carpet of snowdrops and crocuses lay beneath the old plane tree. She had never seen one so big, or so tangled. Presumably leaves would appear in a month or two, but it was difficult to imagine: the tree seemed too decrepit to be capable of it. She checked her watch. Three o'clock. No sign of Eric.

  At five past three, there was a soft tap at her door. Somehow, she must have missed him cross the court. She forced herself to take her time to answer it.

  He hadn't changed much. Same height. Same eyes. Same smile.

  'Hi, Megan.'

  Same voice.

  'Hi.'

  'Can I come in?'

  'Oh, sure. But I thought we'd go out somewhere, if that's OK with you. Have a cup of tea?'

  'And scones, I hope.'

  'I'm sure that can be arranged.'

  'This is lovely,' said Eric, walking around her sitting room.

  'Yeah. It's nice. I was lucky to get it. Most graduate students are stuck outside college. And I've got a phone. That's a real luxury here, apparently.'

  'I don't believe it! You still have that poster?'

  He pointed to a black and white photograph of a dead tree haunting the Arizona desert. It was advertising an Ansel Adams exhibition dated 1989.

  'I like that poster. Look, it's framed now.'

  'So it is. Very nice. Well, shall we go?'

  Megan took him to a tea shop she had been to once before. It was very quaint and English, and in the tourist season it would probably become a nightmare, but in March it was quiet and a good neutral ground.

  'So how have you been?' Eric asked, after they had ordered tea and scones. 'Really?'

  'Awful,' said Megan. She had intended to be cool about the last few weeks, but now Eric was here, she found herself launching into a long description of everything that had happened. She talked about how she felt about Lenka's death, about staying with Chris, about Chris's suspicions, about his investigations, about Duncan and Ian and Marcus Lubron. And then she told him about how she had found the knife on her pillow that morning, and how scared she had been and how Chris had been threatened in New York.

  Eric was a sympathetic listener, coaxing fears and reservations out of Megan that she had had difficulty articulating to herself, let alone Chris. It felt good to Megan to talk to him, to release some of the tension of the last couple of weeks.

  'It sounds like you've been seeing a lot of Chris,' said Eric.

  'Yes,' said Megan, smiling shyly.

  'He's a nice guy,' Eric said.

  'He is.'

  Eric returned her smile. 'That's good.'

  Megan could feel herself blushing. But she was pleased that she had been able to make clear to Eric that she had her own relationship. It seemed to clear the way for a question she had been eager to ask him. 'How's married life?'

  He paused, and seemed to frown for just a second before answering. 'Oh, good, good,' he said. 'It's been seven years now.'

  'So it has. Do you have kids?'

  'One. A little boy. Wilson. He's two. He's great.'

  'I'm sure you make a good father.'

  Eric sighed and shook his head. 'I'm never there. Or not there nearly as much as I'd like. Work is crazy. I spend half my life on a plane. More than half my life.'

  'I'm sorry.'

  'It's my own choice,' said Eric. 'You know what I'm like. Driven.'

  Megan smiled. 'I remember.'

  'It puts a strain on me and Cassie, though,' said Eric. 'And I do regret that. But you just can't do my kind of job at half speed.'

  'Have you dipped your toe into the world of politics?'

  'A bit. Help with fund raising. A bit of schmoozing. Some quiet advice to policy wonks on telecoms legislation.'

  'But you haven't made your big move yet?'

  Eric smiled. 'Not yet.'

  'Somehow I doubt you've been converted to the Democrats since I last saw you.'

  Eric shook his head. 'Sorry. But I'd put myself kind of centre-right, if that helps.'

  'Not much,' said Megan. 'I don't think we were ever destined to have the same political views.'

  'I guess not,' said Eric. He poured out the last of the tea. 'So what are you and Chris going to do about Lenka?'

  'I don't know. After what happened today, I think we might just give up. But it makes me so angry. Whoever killed Lenka deserves to be caught. I'm pretty sure Ian had something to do with it. Have you seen him recently?'

  'No,' said Eric. 'I bump into him sometimes when I'm in the London office. He still works at Bloomfield Weiss. But we're not really friends any more.'

  'What do you think?' Megan asked. 'I've told you everything we've found out so far. You're a smart guy. What do you think we should do?'

  Eric didn't answer at first. His blue eyes held hers. 'I think you should be very careful, Megan,' he said softly.

  Something melted inside Megan. She felt herself begin to blush. Close to panic, she turned and waved at the waitress.

  'We should get the check.'

  Chris took the steps up Megan's stairc
ase two at a time. He was eager to see her. All day he had been torn between his desire to take a personal risk to find Lenka's killer, and his fear of putting Megan in danger. His fear for Megan had won. He didn't want to be responsible for any more harm coming to her.

  He knocked, and she opened the door. He pulled her into his arms, and she clung to him. He stroked her hair.

  'I'm so sorry,' he said.

  She broke away. 'It's not your fault. You're not the psycho who broke in here.'

  'Yes, but I should have told you about what happened in New York.'

  'Don't worry,' said Megan. 'Let's just make sure we tell each other about that kind of thing in future, OK?'

  'OK. Did you go to the library?'

  'I did. I couldn't stay here, and I thought it'd help me forget about the knife. Besides, I do have a lot to do.'

  'Did it work?'

  'Not really. I couldn't concentrate.'

  'I'm not surprised.'

  'Look,' said Megan. 'Do you mind if we go out? I don't want to hang around here.'

  They went to a Café Rouge. Chris had steak frites, and Megan a goat's cheese salad. They polished off a bottle of red wine, and ordered another.

  Megan seemed distracted. She didn't finish her food, and for the first time in their relationship, Chris found it difficult to make conversation. He would start a topic, and Megan would quickly let it trail off. Chris told her about his drink with Duncan, and how angry Duncan had been at the discovery that it was Ian who had probably killed Alex, and Lenka as well. But now Chris and Megan had decided to ease off their investigations, her enthusiasm for the subject seemed to have waned.

  Chris wasn't surprised that a shock such as Megan had had would produce an unpredictable reaction, but he was nevertheless disappointed in the form it had taken. He had imagined himself comforting a distraught Megan. A distant one was not what he had expected.

  At the end of the meal, after a particularly long silence, Chris spoke. 'Are you angry with me, Megan?'

  'No,' she answered simply.

  'Because I'd understand if you were.'

  She smiled, for almost the first time that evening, and put her hand on his. 'It's not that Chris. Don't worry. It's just . . .'

  'You need to get over last night?'

  Megan glanced at him nervously. 'Yes. That's it. I just feel all over the place.'

  'I can imagine. You must feel dreadful.'

  'I do. Look, can we go?'

  'Of course.' Chris tried to pay the bill, but she wouldn't let him. Chris didn't want to push it, and so they split it. They walked back to her college in silence. As they reached the college gate, she stopped.

  'Chris, I'm sorry to ask you this, but do you think you could leave me alone tonight?'

  'I'll do no such thing,' said Chris. 'After what happened last night, I'm staying with you. You shouldn't be by yourself.'

  Megan touched his hand. 'You don't understand, I want to be alone.' Chris opened his mouth to protest, but she interrupted him. 'Wait. I'll be safe. They won't come back tonight. We've done what they wanted; we've backed off. I just need to be by myself for a bit.'

  'But Megan –'

  'Trust me, Chris. Please.'

  Chris looked about him in frustration. This he did not understand. But Megan was watching him intently. She was serious. And he would do what she wanted.

  'OK,' he said. 'But if you get scared, or you want to talk to me, just call me.'

  'I will.' She kissed him on the cheek. 'Thank you,' and she was gone, leaving Chris to make his way back through the dark Cambridge streets to his car, and the drive back to London.

  After Chris left, Megan couldn't sleep. At first, she didn't even try. She changed into a T-shirt, pushed the sofa against the door, balanced a lamp on the armrest that should fall off if the sofa was disturbed, opened her bedroom window so that she could be heard if she screamed, and climbed into bed.

  She was confident that the intruder wouldn't return, at least that night. All she had to do was repeat that to herself and she wouldn't be scared.

  But, tucked into her little fortress, she wanted to think.

  The afternoon with Eric had not gone at all as she had planned. He wasn't a fat investment banker at all; in fact, the extra ten years had made him if anything better looking. He had been considerate to her, and kind. The memories of what it had been like to be totally, hopelessly in love with him flooded back. She had had boyfriends before at high school and at college, but he was the first man she had really loved. Possibly the only man she had ever really loved. She wondered now whether she had ever stopped loving him.

  She had been awful to Chris to send him away like that. But she had to. She couldn't have slept with him in her current state of confusion. It would have been artificial, dishonest. And the last thing she wanted to do was to tell him the real reason she wanted to be alone that night. Chris had done nothing wrong, and she liked him. Eric was from the past, and she wanted to keep him there.

  Didn't she? Eric had hinted that things weren't going well with Cassie. Megan was sure that he had married her for the wrong reasons, even if he had done it unconsciously. She was pretty, she was well connected, she probably appeared to be the perfect wife, but she couldn't have the same bond with Eric that Megan had had. Now, too late, perhaps he realized it.

  Megan turned over, huddling under the duvet and blankets. A cold breeze blew in from the open window.

  What was she thinking of? Eric was married, for God's sake! She knew she was an emotional mess, and for understandable reasons: the knife and Lenka. She was seeking stability by trying to re-create a happy period from her past. She was deluding herself.

  She needed to talk to someone and she knew whom. Lenka. Lenka would have been able to understand how she was feeling and give her good advice. But Lenka was gone. The misery of that fact swept over Megan.

  She opened her eyes. She might have slept, but not for long. She thought she heard a creaking sound from her sitting room. She jumped out of bed and crept to her bedroom door. She looked into the darkened sitting room. Nothing.

  She tried to go back to sleep, but she couldn't. The blurred image of the unknown intruder inches from her face forced her eyes open every time she shut them. Eventually, she gave up and carried her pillow and duvet through to the sitting room. She removed the lamp, and curled up on the sofa. Now that she knew she would be instantly wakened by anyone trying to open the door, she felt safe enough to fall asleep.

  3

  Ian left the George V as soon as he could pay the bill, and found himself a seedy little café off the Avenue Marceau. He sat by a tiny table next to the window, savouring the combined smell of Gitanes and strong coffee, and tried to think.

  He was angry with himself for losing the initiative, and angry with Eric for taking it. Right from the beginning, Eric had been calling the shots.

  He remembered that night ten years before, the shock at seeing Alex pitch over the side, the drunken euphoric urge to heroism that had propelled him over the side after Alex, the shock of the cold water and the high waves. Ian wasn't a bad swimmer, but he could see nothing in the choppy waters apart from the stern of the boat speeding off towards Long Island, and in a moment even that was out of view. He had battled his way through the sea, shouting Alex's name, but he couldn't hear anything in response apart from the water boiling around his ears.

  Then, after a few minutes of frantic swimming, he caught sight of an arm raised above the waves. He pulled towards it, and intermittently through the rising and falling water, caught sight of two bodies splashing frantically. At first, he thought one was struggling to save the other. Then, as he came closer, he saw a head emerge, and two hands push it firmly down beneath the water. Ian was tired, but he laboured nearer. It seemed to take an age. Then, when he bobbed over the crest of a wave, he could see just one head left above the water. Eric. He shouted his name, Eric turned, and then swam strongly off in the opposite direction.

  Ian looked for A
lex's body, but couldn't find it. Whether it had been submerged or swept out of sight, he didn't know. But after a couple of minutes, he began to worry about his own situation. He was tired and very cold. Where was that damn boat? He stopped flailing about, and trod water, trying to conserve energy.

  His brain was numbed by the cold and the fatigue, and the shock of what he had just seen. What the hell was Eric doing with Alex? It made no sense. He didn't have the mental energy to make sense of it.

  In the rough sea, it was hard work to keep his face safely out of the water. Whenever he lost concentration and a wave broke over him so that he swallowed a lungful of water, it took almost all of his remaining energy to cough it out and stay afloat.

  Eventually, he heard the sound of the boat's engines, and then saw the hull edge towards him through the darkness. Voices he recognized called his name, and arms heaved him out of the water and on to the deck where he lay in a stunned heap.

  Eric had whispered in his ear. 'Don't say anything. Alex was going to tell them about both of us. I had to do it.'

  And Ian hadn't said anything. He was too tired to think straight then anyway, and so he went along with the cover-up suggested by Eric and Chris. Afterwards, what the hell? Eric seemed in control. If Ian tried to tell the police what he had really seen, he would just get himself into all kinds of trouble. It had nothing to do with him. All he had to do was keep quiet and forget it.

  Of course, he couldn't forget it. Although he was in no way responsible for Alex's death, he felt guilty. And in a strange way, the guilt strengthened the bond between him and Eric. They both shared a secret. If they both kept quiet, they would be OK. And, in the ten years following Alex's death, Eric had most definitely done OK.

  Ian knew now it had been a dreadful mistake. In retrospect, he realized he had had little to lose compared to Eric. It was Eric who had provided the drugs for Alex and Ian. None of them was more than an occasional weekend user, but in the eyes of Bloomfield Weiss and the police Eric would have been the supplier and Ian and Alex the customers. Eric had somehow got wind of the drugs test at the end of the final examination, and had left early. Ian wasn't tested, because he was a London-office hire. But Alex had been tested, and caught. He was worried about his job and his mother's medical bills, and Eric was convinced Alex was going to point the finger at Eric to get himself off. Eric wouldn't just have lost his job, but he would have done so publicly. If he were to run for political office in the future, any journalist who took the trouble to dig would find that he had been fired from a Wall Street firm for dealing drugs. It was that, Ian was sure, that had prompted Eric to kill.