Launch Code

by Michael Ridpath

  She was indeed beautiful.

  I saw her begin to turn. My instinct was to pull back, to make sure she didn’t see me staring, but something made me keep still.

  I held her gaze.

  The half-smile became a full smile.

  I never did catch that last train to New London.

  Eleven

  Friday 29 November 2019, Day after Thanksgiving, Norfolk, England

  ‘Oh, shit.’

  Toby opened his eyes and rolled over. His wife was sitting up in bed scowling at her iPad.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked her.

  ‘You know that acquisition I’m working on? In France?’

  ‘Yes.’ Alice was always working on some acquisition or other, and they were often in France, since she spoke good French. She was good about never being too specific, at least until deals had been announced. Confidentiality.

  ‘They want to make an announcement to the market Monday morning.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Don wants me to come in later today and Saturday to work on it.’

  Toby sat up, rubbing his eyes. ‘Have you told him you can’t? He of all people should understand it’s Thanksgiving.’ Don was American. Alice worked for an American law firm.

  ‘That’s the problem. He’s in the States, so he can’t do anything. The problem is the stupid client doesn’t realize it’s Thanksgiving.’

  ‘And what country does the stupid client come from?’

  ‘Britain.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  Alice sighed. ‘I’m going to have to go in.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said Toby. ‘Did Don ask you or tell you?’

  ‘He asked me.’

  ‘Well then?’

  ‘Don’t guilt-trip me on this!’ Alice said. ‘I know we should stay here. But unless I go back today, there’s a good chance the client will lose the deal.’

  And that would be Alice’s fault. Or she would believe it was her fault. And a deal falling through because it was her fault was not something Alice could countenance.

  ‘OK,’ said Toby. ‘I won’t guilt-trip you. I promise.’

  Alice’s glare softened. She reached out for Toby’s hand under the covers and squeezed it. ‘I’m sorry, Toby. I know you’re worried about me. I just don’t have any choice.’

  ‘I know,’ Toby said. He knew she really didn’t want to let her family down. That was why she was upset: because, forced to choose between client and family, she was going to choose client and she hated herself for it. ‘You wouldn’t leave now unless you had to. And your dad and sisters will know that too. Shall we go after breakfast?’

  Alice leaned over and kissed Toby on the lips. ‘Thank you.’

  Alice made pancakes for breakfast. American pancakes, small and round and thick, topped with thin rashers of bacon and maple syrup – real maple syrup from Vermont, brought over on the plane the day before by Brooke.

  Alice’s strategy was to pick off her family members one by one as they dribbled in to the kitchen. Toby could see them all question her decision, but none of them spoke their doubts out loud. They knew they couldn’t argue with Alice on this one.

  A look nearing pain crossed Bill’s face when she told him. She said she was sorry and gave him a hug.

  Not for the first time Toby resolved that when Beachwallet became a proper company with lots of staff he wouldn’t make them work over Thanksgiving. Or Bastille Day. Or Yom Kippur or Eid. Hell, he would give them St George’s Day off.

  The front door banged and Justin appeared, followed by his wife. ‘Jeez. This town is crawling with cops,’ he said.

  ‘Well, we saw two of them,’ said Brooke.

  ‘Two is crawling for Barnholt,’ said Bill.

  ‘Must be investigating Alice’s pancakes,’ said Maya, who was wearing disconcertingly skimpy nightwear.

  ‘Oh and, Dad,’ said Brooke. ‘There’s a leak in the faucet in the bathroom in the Cottage. It’s nothing big, but I thought I ought to tell you.’

  ‘Thanks, Brooke. I’ll take a look.’ He grinned at Toby. ‘One thing about living on a submarine. You learn how to take care of leaks.’

  The doorbell rang, and Rickover started barking.

  ‘Sounds like you were right, Maya,’ said Bill. ‘Quiet, Ricky!’ He went out to the hall and they heard the murmur of a man’s voice asking if he could come in.

  Bill led two men into the kitchen, Rickover inspecting their heels, and explained that it was Thanksgiving and his family were staying with him. One was a couple of years younger than Toby. He was slim and fair-haired; he wore a suit and tie, and he spoke with a slight northern accent. His accomplice was old enough to be his father and was in uniform, the paraphernalia of the modern policeman hanging off his large frame on a belt and stab-proof vest.

  They introduced themselves as DC Atkinson and PC Easter.

  ‘Can I offer you guys a pancake?’ said Alice.

  ‘They are good,’ said Maya.

  The younger policeman glanced at the pancakes and at Maya and seemed to like what he saw on both counts, but he shook his head.

  ‘I’m afraid we have some bad news,’ he said. ‘I believe you know a gentleman by the name of Sam Bowen?’ He directed the question to Bill.

  ‘Yes,’ said Bill. ‘Or at least we met him for the first time yesterday. He spent Thanksgiving with us. Why? Has he had an accident?’

  That must be it, thought Toby. A head-on collision on one of those treacherous bends on Norfolk roads, some idiot overtaking when they shouldn’t. Maybe Sam was the idiot? That didn’t seem likely.

  ‘No, not an accident,’ said the young detective. ‘He was killed last night at the King William. Stabbed. We believe it was murder.’

  Twelve

  Toby was stunned. They were all stunned, and showed it in different ways. Alice’s face was stricken with horror. Brooke looked as if she was about to cry. Megan’s jaw was open. Maya appeared confused. Only Bill seemed to take it coolly.

  Sam seemed such an unlikely victim to Toby. Young, inoffensive. Toby remembered Sam talking about his girlfriend in Newcastle, his parents in Birmingham. Why would anyone want to kill him?

  An answer sprang immediately to Toby’s mind: it couldn’t have been the conversation the day before, could it? Those questions about Bill and the Alexander Hamilton? No. There would be a simpler reason, and the police would find it.

  ‘That’s awful, said Bill. ‘What can we tell you?’

  ‘Do you mind if we sit down?’ asked the detective.

  ‘Sure.’

  He pulled out his notebook, and looked up as Lars walked in the front door.

  ‘What’s with the cops? They’re everywhere.’ He stopped short as he entered the kitchen. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘The historian who came around yesterday has been murdered,’ said Bill.

  It seemed to take a moment for the words to register, but they did eventually. ‘No shit,’ said Lars.

  Bill told the policemen the bare bones of how Sam had come to see him for an hour or so the afternoon before, and how he had returned for dinner. The detective jotted it all down, and then went off to report to his superiors, requesting that nobody leave, and promising that he and his colleagues would be back to ask more detailed questions.

  And they were, about an hour later. The police officer in charge was a detective inspector named Creswell, a round-faced woman with pink cheeks but shadowed eyes. She and a detective sergeant interviewed Bill in the living room. The rest of them were split up between two detective constables, DC Atkinson and an older man, from his accent a local, who set themselves up in the dining room and Bill’s study upstairs.

  Alice was badly shaken. She fired off an email to her work saying it was unlikely she would be able to get there until that evening. Toby tried to draw her out on speculating what had happened to Sam and why, but she was having none of it. All she seemed to be worried about was getting back to London and her legal drafts.
r />   After Bill emerged from the living room, Alice was called in.

  Toby was sitting next to Justin at the kitchen table. He looked preoccupied, which was hardly surprising.

  ‘Man, this is the kind of thing you’d expect in Chicago, not in England,’ he said. ‘Or at least not in a tiny village.’

  ‘Have you been involved in a murder investigation before?’ Toby asked. He thought Chicago was supposed to be a violent town, but he didn’t really know what that meant.

  ‘No,’ said Justin. ‘To be fair, it all depends where you live in Chicago. Our neighbourhood is pretty safe.’

  ‘You would think Barnholt would be pretty safe.’

  ‘Brooke is not taking this well.’ She was currently being interviewed in the dining room. ‘She really liked that guy Sam. And his girlfriend was pregnant!’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Toby. ‘Poor guy. Poor her.’ He thought of how he would feel if Alice had been murdered just before they were married. It was too horrible to contemplate. And there was the pregnancy. Was that a good thing, that part of Sam would live on? Or a bad thing? Once again, too horrible to contemplate.

  But it had happened.

  ‘I’m glad Alice is around,’ Justin said. ‘Brooke really looks up to her.’

  ‘They all do,’ said Toby.

  ‘She’s a strong woman,’ said Justin.

  ‘Yes,’ said Toby. ‘You must have known their mother?’

  ‘I did,’ said Justin. ‘I spent a lot of time with the Guth family when I was a kid. After Craig died, Bill acted like a kind of godfather to me. I told you Craig was my real father?’

  Toby nodded.

  ‘They were both good to me, Bill and Donna. I discovered they helped pay for my college education, although they never admitted it. I never got on with my dad, or step-dad as he turned out to be. It wasn’t really his fault – we are just different. But Bill and Donna were always there for me. She was a strong woman too.’

  ‘I wish I had known her,’ said Toby. Apart from anything else, knowing her would have helped him to understand the Guth family. To understand his wife. ‘Was she anything like Alice?’

  ‘A bit. A lot less corporate. She was sort of a middle-aged hippie. Really kind, though. Like Bill.’

  ‘Alice misses her,’ said Toby.

  ‘So does Brooke. They all do.’

  Brooke appeared, looking pale, her eyes red, and told Justin to take her place in the dining room with DC Atkinson.

  Alice was still ensconced in the living room, when Toby was sent in after Justin.

  DC Atkinson seemed keyed up, as well he might be. Toby imagined murder investigations were not a common occurrence in North Norfolk. But the police officer was calm and professional and meticulous in his questioning.

  He started by asking Toby about the meeting with Sam Bowen. The detective was more concerned with the way Sam and Bill had behaved than the substance of the discussion; Toby said no more than that the historian was asking about an erroneous order to launch nuclear missiles from an American submarine on a patrol during the Cold War. Toby recounted that neither Bill nor Sam seemed nervous or antagonistic, although Bill refused to be specific about events which he considered still to be secret. Sam seemed to have expected that.

  Then followed minute questioning about who had been where when during the day. Toby described the comings and goings at Thanksgiving dinner and during the football game on TV afterwards, finishing with how he stayed up late for his wife returning with the shopping from King’s Lynn. Here the questioning became very detailed, with Toby asked to account for Alice’s arrival to the minute, which he couldn’t quite do. ‘About half past eleven’ was the best he could manage.

  Then DC Atkinson put down his pen and looked Toby straight in the eye.

  ‘Did your wife tell you she had just been to see Sam Bowen?’

  Toby hesitated. His instinct was to say ‘what?’, but he held back, overwhelmed by a competing instinct to protect Alice.

  From what?

  Atkinson was watching him. Toby realized his hesitation and obvious surprise had given the policeman his answer anyway.

  ‘No, she didn’t,’ he admitted.

  ‘Do you know why she might have wanted to see him?’

  ‘Er. No,’ said Toby. ‘Perhaps she was trying to find out more about the events on the submarine?’

  ‘Did she indicate she had more questions for Sam?’

  ‘No,’ said Toby.

  ‘So that’s just a guess?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Toby, deciding to do no more guessing. ‘How do you know she met him?’

  ‘She was seen by the landlord’s wife at the pub,’ said the policeman. ‘And Alice confirmed it to us herself just now.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘But she didn’t tell you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  I have no bloody idea, thought Toby. ‘I don’t know.’

  His instinct was to cover for his wife. Rationality told him there was nothing to cover for. There must be a perfectly good reason. It wasn’t just that Alice was his wife; she just didn’t do bad things.

  ‘One last question. Had Alice ever mentioned Sam Bowen before today?’

  ‘No,’ said Toby, more forcefully. ‘Never.’

  Alice was in the kitchen, with everyone else. She looked tense.

  DC Atkinson followed Toby and asked for Megan.

  ‘Is she the last?’ said Maya.

  ‘I think so,’ said Bill. ‘Are you two still leaving today?’ he asked Alice.

  Alice didn’t answer. She was staring out of the window at the bare dripping branches of the pear tree in the garden and the soggy marsh beyond. A mist was retreating across the reeds back towards the sea from whence it had come.

  ‘Alice?’

  ‘What? Oh, yeah. We have to go this evening.’

  ‘Alice? Can I have a word with you for a second?’ Toby asked. He meant it to sound casual, but Alice’s glare told him it didn’t sound casual to her.

  ‘What about?’

  ‘You know what about.’

  The others were listening and pretending not to.

  She shrugged. ‘OK. Let’s go upstairs.’

  They went up to their bedroom. Alice sat on the bed and stared at an old print on the far wall: logs floating down a broad American river. She avoided Toby’s eye.

  ‘The police said you saw Sam last night.’

  ‘The police are correct.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I don’t have to tell you where I’m going.’

  Toby sat on the bed next to her. ‘Oh come on, Alice. You told me you were going to Tesco’s. You went to see a guy who got himself murdered last night. You were hiding it from me.’

  Alice was still staring at the print.

  ‘Why?’

  Alice shrugged.

  ‘What did you talk to him about? I saw you speaking to Sam at dinner; you looked worried. Did your dad know you were seeing him? Was Sam OK when you met him?’

  ‘Please don’t ask me these questions, Toby,’ Alice muttered.

  ‘Hey, look, these are fair questions!’ Toby said. ‘Are you in some kind of trouble?’

  Alice looked up at Toby. A tear was running down her cheek. Alice rarely cried.

  ‘No, Toby. I’m begging you. Please don’t ask any more questions. I’ve had enough of that from the police. And I’m going to have to talk to Dad. But not you. Please, not you.’

  She looked miserable. A sob escaped from her chest, and then another. Toby put his arm around her and pulled her to him. ‘Toby just . . . please just . . . just stick with me, OK? Don’t ask questions, just be on my side.’

  ‘All right,’ Toby said, stroking her hair. ‘It’s all OK, Alice.’

  But Toby was pretty sure it was not OK.

  Toby needed to get out of the house. The police had gone. Alice was cooped up in their bedroom, trying to control her deal from afar via her iPad. Although neither of th
em said it, they both knew it was unlikely the police would let her go back to London that evening.

  He took Rickover with him, breaking out a Polo mint for him as soon as he had shut the front door. On a previous visit Alice had told Toby Rickover loved Polos, although the vet had said they were bad for him and had banned them. Toby liked to sneak him one every now and then in a shameless bid to win the dog’s affections. Which frankly wasn’t that difficult.

  ‘Hey, Toby! Mind if I join you?’

  It was Lars. He looked haggard, the two creases slicing his cheeks had deepened and his yellowish moustache pointed downwards. But he managed a smile.

  ‘Sure.’

  Lars took out a cigarette and lit up. ‘Where are you headed?’

  ‘I was thinking of going down to the sea.’ There was a raised path along a dyke that ran half a mile through the marsh to the dunes and the beach beyond.

  ‘Want to check out the pub?’

  ‘All right.’

  The King William was set back from the coast road on a small green, in the middle of which stood a grey stone obelisk bearing worn ancient carvings. Pre-Christian, apparently. The pub didn’t look much from the outside, a rectangular red-brick building, but inside the wood fire, the thick beams and the array of old fishing trinkets dangling from the wall created a pocket of warmth against the wind and damp of the Norfolk coast outside. Toby had been to Barnholt with Alice to visit his father-in-law a few times, and usually managed to sneak out to the pub by himself for a quick pint of Wherry. The food was pretty good too: they would all go there for a meal occasionally when no one wanted to cook.

  But half the tiny green was now cordoned off with police tape. Two officers in uniform were guarding the crime scene from a TV crew who were packing equipment into a van having taken their shots of the pub, and a couple of local women who were chatting and pointing. More uniformed police officers and crime-scene technicians in forensics overalls streamed in and out of the building from an assortment of police vehicles parked by the green.

  ‘Do you know anything more about how he was killed?’ Toby asked Lars.

  ‘I asked the detective who interviewed me. All he said was he was found dead in his room this morning. Someone had stabbed him.’