The Predator

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 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.

‘Was what? Slow down, Megan. It’s OK. Slow down.’

‘A knife, Chris. A great big long knife. With blood on it. There was blood all over my pillow. It’s horrible.’

She broke off into wild sobs.

‘Oh, no, Megan! Are you hurt?’

‘No,’ she sniffed. ‘Someone must have broken in and done this inches from my face, while I was asleep. I didn’t hear a thing.’

‘Thank God they didn’t harm you. It must have been terrifying.’

‘It was. It truly was. But who would do this? And why?’

‘They were trying to scare you. And me.’

‘Well, they succeeded,’ said Megan. ‘I’ve never been so scared in all my life.’

‘I’m sure.’ Chris said. He wished he could hold her, comfort her, try to make her feel better. Then he felt the guilt creep over him. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Sorry? There’s nothing for you to feel sorry about.’

Chris swallowed. ‘I got an e-mail this morning.’ He read it off the computer screen in front of him. ‘And I got a warning myself when I was in New York. Someone pulled a knife on me and wrote in blood all over the mirror in my hotel bedroom.’

‘Jesus, why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I didn’t want to frighten you,’ said Chris. ‘I thought you might try to talk me out of going to see Marcus. I didn’t think that you were in danger as well.’

‘Well, next time someone tries to kill you, let me know, OK?’ Megan sounded angry. As well she might.

‘OK, OK. I’m sorry.’

Megan was silent on the phone for a while. ‘They are serious, aren’t they?’ she said at last.

‘Yes.’

‘Do you think it could have been Ian?’

‘Possibly. Perhaps he went to Cambridge instead of Paris. But it definitely wasn’t Ian who attacked me in New York. If he is behind it, he must be working with somebody else.’

‘What shall we do?’

‘You can tell the college authorities, if you want. They’ll contact the police. I’m not sure it’ll do much good: I haven’t heard anything from the New York cops since I told them what happened to me. But I can’t make you hush it up.’

Megan sighed. ‘There’s no point. It would hardly go down well with the college. And whoever did this must be a professional. It’s unlikely the police will catch him. I’ll put the pillowcase and the knife in a plastic bag and throw them away.’

‘Keep the knife. We might need it for evidence later.’

‘Oh, God. OK.’

They were silent for a moment.

‘Chris?’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m scared.’

‘I know. So am I.’

‘I think maybe this is getting out of hand.’

Chris didn’t answer for a moment. He had decided to take risks on his own behalf. But he couldn’t risk Megan’s life as well.

‘Maybe it is,’ he said. ‘I’ll lie low for a bit. Not ask any more questions. Keep quiet.’

‘I’m sorry, Chris. I think you should.’

‘You must be feeling terrible. I hate the idea of you being alone up there. Can I come up and see you today?’

‘That would be great if you could. I was planning to spend most of the day in the library, but if you came up this evening, I’d love to see you.’

‘I’ll be there,’ said Chris.

‘Thanks,’ said Megan. ‘Now I’d better go clean up this mess.’

Ian looked around him at the ostentation of the dining room of the George V. Normally he would have relished a breakfast meeting in these ornate surroundings, playing the international investment banker with like-minded people. But not that morning. What he craved was a strong cup of coffee and a ciggy in a corner café. Of course, with Eric, there was no chance of that.

He had been skulking in Paris for nearly a day, now. It had started to rain from the moment his taxi had hit the Périphérique, and it had continued to rain all night. It took him an age to find a hotel room at short notice on a Saturday night, and he spent much of the day avoiding boisterous men in red jerseys there to cheer on their country in a rugby match. Finally he found a scruffy hotel near the Gare du Nord, dumped his bags, walked around in the rain for a bit, and then went to see a bad American film dubbed into French at a cinema on the Champs-Élysées.

He felt foul. He had overdone the drink the night before. And the coke. It had made him feel better for a bit. But now he felt like shit. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it. Ah, that tasted good.

‘Ian, good to see you.’

Ian had missed Eric’s entrance. He looked disgustingly bright and cheerful with his gleaming white shirt, and his tie tied so tightly that it seemed to leap straight forward out of his neck. Ian had an urge to pull it, but instead he just grunted, ignoring Eric’s outstretched hand. Despite the surroundings, this wasn’t a business meeting, and he didn’t feel like pretending it was.

‘Plane was half an hour late into Charles de Gaulle. But there was no traffic coming into the city. Have you ordered?’

Ian shook his head. Eric caught a hovering waiter’s eye and ordered croissants and some coffee.

‘How are you?’ Eric asked.

‘Shit,’ Ian answered, and sniffed.

‘You don’t look too good.’ Eric stared at him closely. Ian flinched. ‘Are you on something?’

‘I was,’ he answered, deciding he had no need to lie for Eric’s benefit.

‘Is that wise? I think we all need clear heads at the moment.’

‘What do you mean, is that wise?’ Ian snapped. ‘I’ll do what I bloody well like. I seem to remember you did enough of that stuff in the past. That’s what got us into this mess in the first place.’

‘That was a long time ago. I haven’t touched anything for ten years,’ said Eric.

‘Well, aren’t you the little saint?’ Ian said. ‘I haven’t killed anyone for ten years. In fact, I’ve never killed anyone.’

‘Keep your voice down,’ said Eric calmly, with a smile.

‘What the hell did you have to get Lenka killed for, anyway?’ Ian said, more quietly this time.

‘I had no choice. She was going to talk. First to Marcus Lubron, then to other people. You knew Lenka. There was only one way to shut her up.’

‘But now Chris is on the trail. And your old girlfriend, Megan. And then Duncan. The whole thing’s out of control.’

‘Not quite,’ said Eric calmly. ‘I’m working on getting it back under control. And remember, if you hadn’t told Lenka about Alex, none of this would have happened.’

Ian sighed. His head throbbed. He closed his eyes. Eric was right. He remembered the night when he had opened this whole can of worms. It was very late, at Lenka’s flat. They had just had sex. Great sex. Lenka was talking about how she had met Marcus that day. Ian was a little tired, a little high; his brain wasn’t working quite right. He had smiled and said it was funny that it wasn’t even Duncan’s fault that Alex had died. Lenka was suddenly wide awake. She wanted to know what he was talking about. Ian tried to deny that he had meant anything, but she knew he had. She pressed him hard, assaulting him with a barrage of questions. His resistance quickly broke down. He had wanted to tell someone for years, and Lenka suddenly seemed the right person. So he told her he had seen Eric drown Alex. It turned out Lenka was not the right person at all. She exploded. Within ten minutes, Ian found himself outside in the Old Brompton Road looking for a cab.

Lenka told Ian that she was going to tell Marcus. Ian told Eric. And then Lenka was dead.

‘We both screwed up,’ said Ian. ‘But there’s no need to make things worse.’

‘You’re right, there isn’t,’ said Eric. ‘I think it’s very important that you keep quiet. Because you know what will happen to you if you don’t.’

‘Is that a threat?’

‘Of course,’ said Eric quietly. ‘And you know I’ll carry it out if necessary.’

Ian felt a surge of anger. Somehow, he had been under Eric’s thumb ever since Alex had drowned. At the time, it had seemed smart to let Eric take control and sort things out. Eric, who always seemed to have an answer for everything. Well, it was clear now that that had been a mistake. Eric had more to lose than Ian. It was time Ian took the upper hand.

He lit another cigarette. ‘Shouldn’t I be the one threatening you?’ he said, straining to make his voice sound calm and authoritative.

‘I don’t think that would be wise,’ Eric answered coolly.

‘Why not? You killed Alex. You had Lenka killed. Just get off my back, or I’ll tell people what I know.’

Ian had hoped that this would rattle Eric. But it didn’t.

Eric watched Ian for a long minute. Ian tried to smoke his cigarette calmly, but he couldn’t help shifting in his chair. Eventually, his thumb drifted up to his lips, and he gnawed at the nail.

Eric smiled, a smug self-confident smile, a declaration of his superiority. ‘Nobody threatens me,’ he said, and left the table, just as the waiter was bringing the croissants.

Terry was waiting for Eric at Charles de Gaulle. Eric ushered him to one of those quiet dead spaces in airports that are not on the way from one place to another, nor outside anywhere important. They sat in a pair of isolated chairs. The only person in earshot was a cleaner.

‘Well, boss?’ Terry asked.

Eric sighed and puffed out his cheeks. ‘Ian’s unreliable. Deal with him.’

‘Same bonus as last time?’

Eric nodded.

Terry smiled. Eric paid a very good bonus.

‘All go well in Cambridge?’ Eric asked.

‘I got in OK. Left the knife. Got out. No one saw me.’

‘Do you think it will scare her?’

‘Oh, yes. It’ll scare her,’ said Terry. ‘But are you sure that’ll be enough?’

‘We can’t leave dead bodies all over the place,’ Eric said. ‘Every one increases the risk we’ll get caught. I think it’ll help that each is in a different country, but if some cop somewhere puts together the fact that they were all on the same boat ten years ago, we’re in trouble.’

Terry nodded non-committally. But Eric picked up the implication. Terry thought Eric was being soft on Megan because she used to be his girlfriend. Well, he was right. Eric really didn’t want to kill her if he could avoid it. In fact, he hadn’t really wanted to kill any of them. But after Alex, one led to another.

And he had had to kill Alex. If he hadn’t, he would have no chance of fulfilling his destiny. Eric had always known he was an exceptionally able person, he had known it ever since he was a small child. There was no class he couldn’t come top of, no job he couldn’t get, no competition he couldn’t win. From childhood, he had assumed that he had been given this extraordinary talent for a purpose, and the purpose seemed to him to be to lead his country. He could do it. He had the talent. He could earn the money. Hell, he even had the luck. And he was certain that once he was in high office, or even the highest office, he would do the job well. Eric knew that his ambition was far beyond most mortals. But he was confident it wasn’t beyond him.

Alex and a few grams of white powder would have put a stop to all that. He couldn’t let it.

‘Let’s hope we’ve scared them off,’ Eric said. ‘But if that doesn’t work, I have another idea.’ He checked his watch. ‘I’ve got to go. My flight leaves in twenty minutes. Good luck.’

‘Thanks, boss,’ said Terry, and they parted.

Eric passed through the security check and passport control, and made his way to the gate. The flight to London Heathrow had been called, but the queue was a long one, so he had a couple of minutes. He dialled a number on his mobile.

‘Hello?’

He recognized the voice. It had changed little in the last nine years. ‘Megan? It’s Eric’

There was silence for a second. Then he heard her voice. ‘Eric?’ It was little more than a whisper.

‘That’s right. How are you doing?’

‘Er... OK. I guess.’

‘Good. That’s great. Look, I know we haven’t seen each other in a long time, but I’m in London for a meeting tomorrow, and I’ve got some time this afternoon. I just thought it would be good to see you. After what happened to Lenka and everything.’

‘Um, OK.’ Megan sounded hesitant. ‘Where are you?’

‘At the airport.’ Eric was careful not to say which airport. ‘I’ve got one or two things to do, but I might be able to get up to Cambridge by three.’

‘All right. Three o’clock is fine. Ask at the porter’s lodge and they’ll give you directions.’

‘OK,’ said Eric. ‘See you then.’

Chris stared at the rings of white bubbles on the surface of his beer, oblivious of the growing noise around him as the Hampstead pub filled up with the Sunday lunch-time crowd. Duncan had rung him at about eleven that morning and suggested a pint, and Chris had been happy to agree. There was a lot he wanted to discuss with him.

But all Chris could think of was Megan. These people weren’t messing around. Although he had been happy with his decision to risk his own neck, he couldn’t risk hers: she was just too important to him. A flood of helplessness overwhelmed him. Keeping Megan safe implied sitting back and doing nothing, and he hated that idea. It meant letting Lenka’s killer get away with it. But he had no choice.

He was jolted from his thoughts by the thud of a beer glass on his table. Duncan sat down on the small stool opposite him, bringing with him a blast of good cheer. ‘Hi, Chris. How’s the market been treating you?’ he asked, by way of useless small talk.

‘Crap,’ said Chris.

‘Oh. And how are you?’

‘Crap also.’

‘Well, never mind. I have some good news.’

‘Impossible.’

‘No. Very possible. Remember your lunch with Khalid?’

‘I do,’ said Chris, thinking he scarcely had the patience to tolerate Duncan freeloading more information off him.

‘He said he’s interested in all those weirdo government bond markets you trade in. Apparently, he was very impressed with you. He asked me if he can put money in your fund rather than into the market directly. He’d like to watch how you perform for a year or so, and then perhaps try it for himself.’

Chris sat up in his chair. ‘You’re not serious?’

‘I am,’ said Duncan. ‘He checked you out with Faisal who apparently had good things to say about you. I told him you were a loser of course, but Khalid never listens to my opinion.’ Duncan was grinning.

‘But he knows how I was fired from Bloomfield Weiss. How I lost all that money.’

‘Looks as though he doesn’t care. A lot of the best people have been fired from Bloomfield Weiss: me, for example. Could you take another investor now? I don’t know how the fund is structured.’

‘As it happens, we could. How much are we talking about?’

‘Fifteen million dollars. But he could do less.’

‘No, fifteen million dollars would do nicely.’ Fifteen million dollars was seventeen million euros, as near as damn it. That would be enough to buy out Rudy and leave seven million euros over. ‘And I think the timing is perfect. For him and for us.’

Duncan smiled. ‘Shall I tell him that after careful consideration you’ve decided you can squeeze him in?’

‘You tell him that,’ said Chris. ‘Well done, Duncan! I owe you one.’

‘No you don’t,’ said Duncan. ‘It’s good to be able to help you for a change.’

Chris smiled and raised his glass. ‘To Khalid.’ They both drank.

‘Also,’ said Duncan as he put down his beer, ‘I think I’ve got you to thank for talking to Pippa.’

Chris hesitated for a moment. He had hoped that Duncan wouldn’t find out about that conversation. But Duncan didn’t seem to be angry. ‘Perhaps,’ Chris said carefully.

‘I don’t know what you said to her, but it seems to have worked.’

Chris was puzzled. ‘As far as I can recall, she said you were a jerk and I agreed.’

‘Well, she and I went out on Friday night, and I think we might be getting back together again.’

‘Great,’ said Chris. And then, ‘Is that a good thing?’

‘I think so. You’re right, and so is she. I was a jerk. But, I don’t intend to be from now on. We’ll see. It’s worth a try, anyway.’

Chris looked at Duncan and smiled. ‘Yes, it is. Good luck.’

‘What about you? Why are you in such a foul mood? The market’s gone down before, hasn’t it?’

‘Let me tell you,’ said Chris. He took a gulp of beer, and described all that had happened since he had left for America, including the threats to himself and Megan. Duncan listened open-mouthed.

When Chris had finished, Duncan rubbed his eyes and slumped back in his chair. He exhaled. ‘You mean I didn’t kill Alex after all?’

‘It doesn’t look like it,’ said Chris.

Duncan shook his head. ‘For all these years I’ve been blaming myself. And Ian knew all along that it wasn’t my fault?’

‘Yep.’

Duncan reddened. He sat up and struck the table, spilling beer. ‘The bastard!’ The couple at the table next to theirs turned to stare. Duncan glanced at them and lowered his voice. ‘So what did Lenka mean?’

‘Megan and I have an idea, but tell me what you think first.’

‘OK.’ Duncan thought it over. ‘We know Alex was drowned. So if I didn’t kill him when I hit him and he fell in, then... someone else must have drowned him. After he was in the water.’

Chris nodded.

‘It can only have been one of the people who dived in to save him. So apart from me, that was Ian and Eric.’

Chris nodded again.

‘Well, it’s got to be Ian, hasn’t it?’

‘That seems the most likely to us.’

‘I can’t believe it. The murdering bastard! And do you think he killed Lenka as well?’

‘Yes. Or else he paid someone else to do it.’

‘Jesus. What are you going to do about it?’

‘It’s difficult. I told you how I was attacked in New York. And about the knife on Megan’s pillow last night.’

‘Yes, but we can’t just sit here and let him get away with it.’

‘I think we have to. At least for the time being.’

‘What do you mean?’ Duncan looked aghast. ‘That’s just cowardice.’

‘It’s common sense.’ Duncan frowned, but Chris continued. ‘Look, when it was just me being threatened, I was willing to carry on. I owe Lenka a lot, and I was prepared to take risks to find out who killed her. But I can’t risk Megan’s life.’

Duncan’s eyes narrowed. ‘There’s something going on between you and her, isn’t there?’

‘Yes,’ Chris admitted. ‘There is.’

Duncan snorted.

‘Duncan. Be reasonable. Even if there wasn’t, I wouldn’t want to risk her life. And neither should you. Anyway, Ian is in Paris until later on this week.’

‘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 staircase 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 Alex’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.

The stakes were much lower for Ian. Sure he would have lost his job, but he would eventually have found something else. It was just that it was easier to go along with Eric’s version of events, and once he had done so, it became increasingly difficult to change his mind.

He had been so stupid to tell Lenka about Eric. And he could never forgive Eric for killing her. Ian had always liked Lenka. They had had some very good times together in the weeks before she died. Until now, he had felt powerless even to protest at her death, because of his fear of Eric. Well, no longer.

Angrily, he left the café and walked towards the river. The rain had finally stopped and the streets were quiet on the Sunday morning, with the exception of the odd group of hung-over Welshmen lurching about after a long night’s drinking. From the look of them, Ian assumed their team had lost.

What could he do? For an hour or so, he seriously toyed with the idea of killing Eric himself. It would be a just revenge for the murders of Alex and especially Lenka. And if Eric could so blithely murder his old friends, why couldn’t Ian?

But he knew it wouldn’t work. It wasn’t that Ian had qualms. As far as he was concerned, the bastard deserved it. Ian just didn’t have the guts. The practicalities of planning and carrying out a murder were beyond him.

He stopped at another café somewhere in the Marais for an early beer, a cigarette and a bite of lunch. The clouds began to divide, and thin snatches of watery sunshine broke through.

So, if he didn’t kill Eric, what should he do? He couldn’t continue to bury his head in the sand, pretending he didn’t know anything. Chris was determined, and Ian didn’t underestimate him. If Chris succeeded in exposing Eric, Ian wouldn’t be able to claim he was an innocent bystander. He would be in deep trouble: he’d be lucky to escape prison. And even if Eric successfully managed to keep things quiet, it would be a messy process. More people would be hurt, or killed, possibly even Ian himself. Ian didn’t want to spend the rest of his life under the shadow of that one event, which he had witnessed but for which he felt no responsibility.

He would do now what he ought to have done all those years ago. Talk. Crossing Eric would be dangerous. But things had reached the point where it was just as dangerous to do nothing.

He left the bar, and headed for the Île Saint-Louis. Swollen by the recent rain, the Seine rushed towards the sea, tugging at the feet of the bridges that obstructed its passage. There were more people out and about now, tempted by the feeble sunshine. Suddenly Ian felt better, better than he had for weeks. Possibly better than he had since the programme. Of course, it would be difficult to know whom to tell. He could try going into a police station in London. Or perhaps he should go to Prague, or New York. Maybe he should first get himself a lawyer. Or talk to a journalist. Actually, as he thought about it, the best person to talk to would be Chris. It was true that every time they had seen each other recently they had ended up swearing at each other, but Chris was basically a good guy. He was honest. He would do the right thing. They could give each other the moral support they would need to get through this.

The more Ian walked, the surer he became of his decision. Eventually, he made his way back to his hotel to book a flight back to London the next day, have a nap, and keep an appointment with charlie.

Three hours later, invigorated by his decision, his rest, and in particular the white powder he had ingested, he set off for a last night on the town in Paris. He visited a few bars on the Left Bank and bumped into two Danish girls in a place near the Pont Saint-Michel. He pretended to be French, and he thought he did a very good job of it. His own French wasn’t bad, and his French-accented English was good enough to fool the Danes. He was having a good time and so were they. The evening passed very pleasantly as they all drank more. Then one of them began to look at him suspiciously. This didn’t bother Ian, because the other one, the one with the larger breasts, still seemed to think he was great. She was getting drunk and very friendly. Then the suspicious one took her friend off to the toilet and they never returned.

After waiting half an hour Ian shrugged, finished another beer, and left the bar, confident that if he could pull once, he could pull again.

He was now very drunk. He walked for a few minutes without knowing where he was going. Somehow, he had drifted away from the bars and was now in a quiet residential street.

‘Ian!’

He turned, his brain too fuzzy to register surprise that someone should know his name.

The knife plunged deep into his chest between his third and fourth ribs, piercing his heart.

4

Chris had a busy Monday. It was good to lose himself in work; he had no time to worry about Megan or Ian or Duncan. Ollie was ecstatic to hear the news about Royal Bank of Kuwait. The market had sagged again, but they didn’t care. It would mean Rudy’s losses would be greater, but RBK would come into the fund at a lower price. Chris was relieved to get a call from Khalid; he had been worried that Duncan in all his agitation had forgotten. Khalid wanted to move immediately, so Chris and Ollie walked the quarter mile to RBK’s office off Oxford Street, and made a presentation to Khalid and his Arab boss. Khalid asked some penetrating questions, but Chris was able to answer them. As the meeting progressed it was clear that Khalid and his boss had already made up their minds. They wanted to invest!

That afternoon, Chris made the call he had been looking forward to all day.

‘Rudy Moss.’

‘Morning, Rudy, it’s Chris.’

‘Yes?’

‘Rudy, I’m afraid we have a problem,’ said Chris, forcing the morning’s euphoria from his voice.

‘A problem? What kind of a problem?’

‘It’s the fund’s price, Rudy. It’s slipping badly. Eureka Telecom is still heading south. And these German jitters have seriously hurt our government bond positions. It doesn’t look good.’

‘It doesn’t sound good.’

‘I was wondering whether with these prices falling you wanted to reconsider your decision.’

‘You know my decision,’ Rudy snapped. He sounded angry. Good, thought Chris.

‘If you can wait another month, maybe things will look better,’ said Chris, ensuring that his voice carried no conviction.

‘Wait a month?’ protested Rudy. ‘You’ve got to be crazy. I want out. I want out now!’

‘But you still have another two weeks to go before the thirty-day notice period is up.’

‘I don’t care. I want you to get me out of this piece of crap now, do you hear me?’

‘I’m not sure there’s any way I can do that.’

‘You’d better think of a way,’ growled Rudy.

Chris let Rudy dangle on the line for a delicious few seconds. ‘Well, there is one investor who I might be able to persuade to buy your stake,’ he said at last. ‘But I’d be surprised if they could move that quickly.’

‘Try them,’ snapped Rudy.

‘If you’re sure about this?’

‘I’m sure. Now get on with it.’

Chris drummed his fingers for twenty minutes and then called Rudy back.

‘We’re in luck,’ he said. ‘I think I have found someone. And they might move quickly. If you can fax your instructions through this afternoon, you could be out by tomorrow.’

‘Wait by the fax machine,’ said Rudy, and hung up.

By five o’clock, Chris and Ollie had instructions from Amalgamated Veterans to sell their stake, with a matching order from the Royal Bank of Kuwait to buy it. The Kuwaitis were also committed to invest a further seven million euros. Zizka had sent a fax through that afternoon revoking his earlier instructions to withdraw from the fund. Eureka Telecom was still in the doldrums and the German economy didn’t look too hot, but Carpathian would survive.

‘I don’t believe it,’ said Ollie for the umpteenth time. ‘I just don’t believe it.’

Chris leaned back in his chair and smiled. He glanced over at Lenka’s desk. She would be pleased with them, wherever she was.

‘Ollie?’

‘Yes?’

‘Move your stuff over there, will you?’

‘What, now?’

‘No, not now. Tomorrow morning. I’m going to buy you and Tina a bottle of champagne now.’

Marcus sat in his truck sipping Royann’s coffee. He watched the occasional car pull up into the parking lot. He recognized most of the customers. Even the ones he didn’t recognise he knew weren’t Eric Astle.

Eric had called him from Burlington Airport. That was better than the other guy, who had just shown up unannounced. Marcus had refused to meet him at his house. He had suggested Royann’s Diner at three fifteen. He had been very specific about the three fifteen, even though it meant that Eric would have to wait a couple of hours. At three fifteen, Carl always dropped by for a cup of coffee and a doughnut. Regular as clockwork. And Marcus wanted Carl there when he met Eric.

At three ten, a bland car with Vermont plates drew up. A man wearing a businessman’s tan raincoat climbed out, looked around and trod carefully through the snow and slush to the entrance of the diner. He paused, checked the parking lot again, and went inside. He was a few years younger than Marcus: about the age Alex would have been if he were still alive. Eric. Marcus waited and watched, fingering the hunting rifle on the seat beside him. But Eric was alone.

Five minutes later, the white police cruiser arrived. Marcus smiled to himself and jumped out of the truck. ‘Hi there, Carl,’ he called to the scrawny policeman as he got out of his vehicle.

‘How’re you doin’, Marcus?’ replied the policeman. Marcus was sure that Carl didn’t really trust him, but having lived in the area for nine years, he was confident he rated a greeting. And if he got into an argument with an out-of-towner, he was quite sure whose side Carl would be on.

Eric was sitting at a booth at the back of the diner, a crisp suit surrounded by jeans, dungarees and grimy T-shirts. He glanced up as Marcus walked in and seemed to recognize him, bringing home to Marcus how much like his younger brother he must look, even after ten years. Marcus sat at a booth near the counter, within a few feet of Carl’s favourite spot, but just out of earshot. He caught Eric’s eye and nodded. Eric picked up his cup of coffee and joined him, just as Carl took his place at the counter. Carl ordered a doughnut and a cup of coffee, and began his daily chat with Royann, who knew how to flirt with a regular. As far as Marcus could tell, Carl spent his day eating his way around the county, yet he never seemed to put on an ounce of fat.

Eric’s eyes darted between the policeman and Marcus and he smiled. ‘That’s fair.’

Marcus didn’t smile back.

Eric held out his hand. ‘Eric Astle.’

Marcus didn’t shake it. ‘What do you want?’

‘To talk to you.’

‘So talk.’

Marcus was doing his best to unsettle Eric, but it wasn’t working. Eric seemed unconcerned by Marcus’s rudeness.

‘OK,’ he said. And then sipped his coffee, looking steadily at Marcus.

‘I said, talk!’

‘I want to talk to you about your brother.’

‘I figured as much.’

‘He was a friend of mine.’

‘Sure. Just like he was a friend of that other guy’s. That Brit. Well, if you were all so damned friendly with him, how come he’s dead?’

Eric ignored him, and continued in a low, steady voice. ‘As I say, he was a friend of mine. We met in our first week at Bloomfield Weiss. We got on straight away; we had a different attitude from most of the others. We were both looking for apartments. He found one, he needed someone to share it with, he asked me, I said yes.’

‘You were his room mate?’

‘Yes. As I said, he and I got along real well. We had a ball. Two single guys can have a lot of fun in Manhattan.’

The waitress came by, and Marcus curtly ordered a coffee. Eric waited until she had gone off to fetch it before he continued. ‘I was devastated when he was drowned. I did what I could to help his mom organize the funeral and everything; she was too sick to do it by herself. I spent quite a lot of time with his mom, your mom, afterwards. But as you know, once he was gone, she lost her will to fight.’

‘I know,’ said Marcus, swallowing. Of course, he didn’t really know. He hadn’t been there. He had been thousands of miles away.

‘I only knew your brother for nine months or so, but he made a big impression. He was different from the others. He had a great sense of humour. I’ve tried to remember the way he never took anything that happened at Bloomfield Weiss too seriously. When everyone is uptight and the crap is flying, I sometimes try to think what Alex would do. It kind of keeps me human.’

Marcus was watching Eric all the time as he spoke. He seemed calm, almost wistful. Not nearly as uptight as the Brit had been.

‘I saw some of his paintings: they were really good. I kept one after he died. Your mom said it would be OK. He was wasting his talent in an investment bank.’

Marcus held his tongue. He didn’t want Eric to see that he was getting through to him. But he was. This was the kind of thing Marcus had wanted someone apart from himself to say about his brother ever since he had died. Until now, no one had.

Eric sipped at his coffee.

‘Go on,’ said Marcus eventually.

‘I thought what had happened to Alex was all in the past. But over the last few weeks, I’ve realized that it isn’t. It all started soon after you tried to see me in New York. I’m sorry I didn’t meet with you then, by the way. I was busy on deals, and I guess... No, it doesn’t matter.’

‘You guess what?’

Eric looked Marcus straight in the eye. ‘I guess I was still mad at you because you weren’t there when Alex died. Nor his mother.’

Marcus felt a flash of anger. Who was this guy to criticize him? But Eric held up his hand in a calming gesture. ‘I’m sorry. I know that’s unfair. Especially since I now know how much you’ve been doing to find out what really happened to him.’

Marcus grunted. At least the guy understood that he was trying to do something now. But he was still suspicious of Eric. He was, after all, an investment banker in a suit.

The investment banker continued in his slow, reasonable voice. ‘As I think you know, Alex’s death wasn’t straightforward. It wasn’t an accident. Someone drowned him. And then someone killed Lenka, whom I think you’ve met. And last night, someone else was murdered. In Paris.’

‘Someone else?’

Eric nodded. He pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and passed it to Marcus. It was the printout of a Reuters report that Ian Darwent, a thirty-two-year-old British investment banker, had been found stabbed in the streets of Paris the night before.

Marcus hadn’t met Ian, but of course he knew who he was. ‘Do you know who did this?’

‘I think so. And I do know who killed your brother.’

Marcus could feel his heart beating faster. He was about to find out what had been eluding him for so long.

‘Who?’

‘Duncan Gemmel.’

‘Duncan Gemmel?’ Marcus snapped in irritation. ‘I know it wasn’t him. Lenka told me. Someone drowned Alex after Duncan had knocked him into the sea.’

‘Duncan did,’ said Eric quietly.

‘Duncan did?’

Eric nodded. ‘When Alex fell in, Ian and I dived in right after him. Duncan saw us and then jumped in himself. The water was choppy and it was difficult to see anything. Ian and I lost your brother. But Duncan didn’t. Duncan found him and drowned him.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Ian saw him,’ Eric said.

‘Ian?’

‘Yes. He told me last week. I was in London and we met up to talk about what had happened to Lenka. He was a real mess. He said that he’d seen Duncan drown Alex ten years ago, but he had kept quiet. Then he’d let it slip by mistake to Lenka. Lenka said she was going to tell people, including you, which, by the way, I assume she didn’t?’

Marcus was careful not to react to this question. ‘Go on,’ he said.

‘So, Ian told Duncan, and before he knew it, Lenka was dead. By the time Ian saw me, he was scared. I mean, really scared. He thought he was next. He said he was going to Paris on business, and he didn’t want to come back.’

‘And then this?’ Marcus nodded at the news report in front of him.

Eric nodded.

‘So who killed Ian? Duncan?’

Eric frowned. ‘Well, that’s the thing. I don’t think it was Duncan. I think it was Chris Szczypiorski.’

‘The Brit who came to see me?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Why do you think that?’

‘Because when I was at the airport coming back here, I saw him at the check-in for flights to Paris. I would have gone over to say hi, but I didn’t want to lose my place in line. By the time I’d checked in, he was on his way to his gate.’

‘So he was on his way to Paris. So what’s the big deal?’

‘It could just be a coincidence. But I’d spoken to him on the phone that day, and he said that he was spending the weekend in London. So he lied to me. Why would he need to do that?’

Marcus looked doubtful. ‘Look,’ said Eric. ‘I’m not sure about Chris. I don’t know what his deal with Duncan is, and I can’t be sure that he killed Ian. But I’m sure as hell suspicious.’

Marcus tried to take it all in. It all added up, apart from one thing. ‘If Duncan did drown Alex on purpose, then why did Lenka tell me that he wasn’t responsible for Alex’s death?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Eric. ‘Perhaps she meant that Duncan didn’t kill your brother by accident. But I do know what Ian told me. He saw Duncan push your brother under.’

Marcus leaned back and rubbed his temples. This was getting complicated. ‘Do you have any proof?’

Eric sighed. ‘No. If I did, I would go to the police. As it is...’

‘So I’m supposed to just believe you?’

Eric smiled. ‘You can believe me if you want. Or not, it’s up to you. I just know you have a right to be told. But please don’t tell anyone I told you. Especially don’t tell Duncan or Chris. They don’t know Ian spoke to me, so I hope I’m safe. But you’re not.’

‘I’m not?’

‘Of course not. Not after Lenka spoke to you. I doubt they’ll stop at Ian.’

‘What are you going to do?’ Marcus asked.

‘There’s not much I can do. Keep quiet. Pretend I know nothing. What about you?’

‘Me?’

‘Yes. You were the one who first suspected there was something going on. Now you’ve found out there was. What are you going to do?’

‘I don’t know. I need proof.’

‘If I get proof, I’ll let you have it,’ said Eric. ‘But I’m not going to go looking for it.’

‘I don’t know what I’m going to do,’ said Marcus.

‘Well, I’ve got to go back to London tomorrow. Another damned deal. If you do decide to go over there, give me a call on my cell phone. I might be able to help you. Discreetly. Here’s my card.’ Marcus took it and slid it in his pocket without looking at it. ‘I do know somebody has got to do something. Think about it.’

With that, Eric took a five-dollar bill out of his pocket, left it on the table, and stood up to leave. ‘Be careful,’ he said, and pushed past Carl on his way to the exit.

Marcus followed him, unfocused, his brain trying to take in what he had just heard. Did it make sense?

Chris came into work early the next morning. He and Ollie had to revalue the portfolio. This revaluation was necessary to determine the price at which Amalgamated Veterans’ investment would be transferred to Royal Bank of Kuwait. This was an easy task for the government bonds, but the junk bonds had much murkier prices, and Eureka Telecom had the murkiest of them all.

By nine thirty, they had all the prices bar Eureka Telecom. Exchanging glances with Ollie, Chris dialled Ian’s number. Even though he knew Ian was in Paris, he still asked for him by name; that way he would make sure he spoke to whoever was covering for him. As he was put on hold, he wondered what number Bloomfield Weiss would come up with. He wanted as low a price as possible. The more Rudy lost, the happier Chris would be, and the more profits RBK would make when the market bounced back.

Eventually, the phone was answered. ‘Chris? It’s Mandy. Mandy Simpson.’

Chris remembered her as a junior salesperson when he had been at Bloomfield Weiss. She was probably a top producer by now.

‘Hi, Mandy, how are you? I didn’t know you were covering for Ian.’

‘I’m not. I’m just talking to you because I know you.’

Chris recognized from her tone that something was very wrong.

‘What is it, Mandy?’

‘It’s Ian. He was murdered the night before last. In Paris.’

Chris closed his eyes. He knew it. He just knew it.

‘Chris?’ Mandy said.

‘Sorry. Any idea how it happened?’

‘He was stabbed, apparently.’

Oh, Duncan, Duncan! ‘Stabbed? Did the police catch who did it?’

‘Not as far as we know. But we don’t know much.’

‘Jesus.’

‘I’m sorry, Chris,’ Mandy said. ‘I know you two were friends.’

Some friend, Chris thought. But even though he was virtually certain that Ian was responsible for the deaths of two people, Chris was surprised to feel a wave of sadness sweep over him.

‘OK, Mandy. Thanks for telling me,’ and he hung up.

Ollie was listening in. He was white. ‘Oh, my God,’ he said.

Chris exhaled. ‘Precisely.’

Duncan had killed him. The stupid bastard! The second Chris had told Duncan about Ian, Duncan had jumped on a plane, gone to Paris, found Ian and killed him. Knowing Duncan, he wouldn’t have been too subtle about it either. He’d probably be in jail within twenty-four hours.

‘Ollie, can you give me a moment? I need to make a phone call.’

Ollie scurried back to his desk, still in a state of shock. Chris called Megan and told her the news.

‘It must have been Duncan,’ she said.

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘That guy’s a psycho. I knew it all along.’ There was an undertone of ‘I told you so’ in her voice, but then Chris had to admit, she had told him so.

‘You’re right,’ Chris said. ‘I bet the stupid bastard will get caught.’

‘I’m not covering for him again,’ Megan said.

‘No, not this time. Not if he did it.’

‘Do you think we should go to the police first?’

Chris sighed. ‘No. Let them come to us. This could all get very messy. They’ll have to investigate Lenka’s murder, and Alex’s, and we could still get in trouble for the cover-up there. You’re right, we shouldn’t lie, but I think we should wait for them to ask us the questions before we answer them.’

‘OK. I must say, I’m relieved.’

‘Relieved?’

‘Yeah. Now Ian’s... gone. No more people creeping around my bedroom. No more dead bodies. And I hate to say it, but if he did kill Lenka, he got what he deserved.’

‘Yes,’ said Chris flatly.

‘What is it? You don’t sound convinced. You do think it was him who killed her?’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘But you’re not absolutely sure?’

‘No. Are you?’

‘I don’t see how we can be. We’ll just have to wait and see what the police dig up.’

‘Megan?’

‘Yes?’

‘Can I come up and see you tonight? In Cambridge?’

Megan hesitated. ‘Of course. That would be great.’

‘See you, then,’ said Chris. But he was anxious as he put down the phone. He had caught the hesitation in Megan’s voice when he had asked to come and see her, and he didn’t like it. And they couldn’t be sure about Ian.

He thought of calling Duncan. There wasn’t much point; he was almost certainly in Paris, very probably in a police cell. But he picked up the phone and tapped out the number of Honshu Bank. To Chris’s surprise, he heard Duncan’s soft Scottish accent answer.

‘Duncan! I didn’t think you’d be there!’

‘Why not?’ Duncan said. ‘It’s Tuesday morning. It’s ten o’clock. Where else would I be? Did you sort out something with RBK?’

‘Yes, I did. Look, I need to talk to you.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Not on the phone,’ Chris hissed. Honshu Bank’s phones were recorded, of course, just like Bloomfield Weiss’s.

Duncan lowered his voice, serious suddenly. ‘Is it about Ian?’

‘Yes.’

‘OK. I’ve got to go into a meeting now. I’ll be out about half twelve. We can meet then.’

‘Duncan! This is important!’

‘I’m sorry, Chris. I can’t get out of this one.’

‘OK. See you outside your office at twelve thirty.’

5

Honshu Bank’s offices were in Finsbury Square at the northern edge of the City. Duncan was five minutes late.

‘Where are we going?’ he asked.

‘For a walk,’ said Chris, leading him out of the building.

‘But it’s freezing,’ said Duncan shivering. And it was. A cold wind swept across the square. ‘I haven’t got my coat.’

‘That’s your problem,’ said Chris, walking rapidly up City Road.

After a hundred yards or so, they came to Bunhill Fields, an old burial ground for the City of London. They passed inside the green-painted iron gates and along a pathway through tightly packed gravestones covered with moss and lichen, the inscriptions on most of them now unreadable. There was a group of benches in the middle, and Chris sat on one of them. In front of him lay John Bunyan, resting on a white stone slab, feet towards them.

‘Why here?’ said Duncan. ‘I’m cold.’

‘It’s quiet,’ said Chris. On a fine day it would be crowded with office workers enjoying their lunch. But in this March wind, they were all alone with the gravestones.

‘What’s up with you?’ Duncan asked, shoving his hands deep in his pockets.

‘Ian.’

‘I thought I was the one who was supposed to be pissed off with Ian.’

‘Nice trip to Paris, was it, Duncan? See the sights? Go up the Eiffel Tower?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t been to Paris.’

‘Duncan, I’m not stupid. And I’m not going to cover for you again.’

‘Cover for me? What do you mean?’ And then he stopped. ‘Something’s happened to Ian, hasn’t it? In Paris. And you think I’m responsible?’

‘Too right, I think you’re responsible,’ Chris muttered.

‘What happened? Is he dead?’

Chris looked at Duncan. His confusion seemed genuine. But then Chris had just said he wouldn’t cover for him. There was no reason for Duncan to tell him the truth, and every reason for him to act surprised.

‘He was stabbed in Paris on Sunday night. By you.’

‘Hey, come on, Chris,’ protested Duncan. ‘You can’t say that. I didn’t kill him. I wasn’t even in bloody Paris.’

‘But you wanted to, didn’t you?’

‘No I didn’t.’

‘It certainly looked like it when I saw you in the pub at lunch-time.’

‘I was angry, that’s all,’ said Duncan. ‘You can hardly blame me.’

Chris shook his head. ‘You’ve gone too far, Duncan. What Ian did was wrong, but what you’ve done is just as wrong. You shouldn’t have killed him.’

‘But I didn’t kill him! For Christ’s sake, I was in London then.’

‘All tucked up in bed by yourself, no doubt?’

‘Probably. No, let me think. I remember. Sunday was a bad day. I went out by myself for a drink or two in the evening. You’re right, that stuff about Ian had shaken me. But then I went to see Pippa.’

‘What, in the middle of the night?’

‘About half eleven. I wanted to talk to her. She said I was drunk and told me to piss off.’

‘And she’ll back up your story?’

‘I suppose so. I don’t see why she shouldn’t.’

Chris hesitated. ‘You might have got her to lie for you. Like you got us to lie for you on the boat.’

Duncan’s eyes flashed with anger. ‘I never got you to lie for me! As I remember, it was your idea. I wish you’d have let me tell the truth now. All this might not have happened.’ He ran his hands through his hair. ‘Jesus. If the police come talking to you, are you going to tell them I killed him?’

‘I’ll tell them the truth. Nothing more,’ said Chris.

Well, the truth is I didn’t kill him. And think about it for a second. If I didn’t kill Ian, someone else did. And that doesn’t make you very safe, does it?’

Chris looked at Duncan for a moment, and then stood up to go. As far as he was concerned, there was nothing more to be said. But Duncan grabbed his arm.

‘Here,’ he said, thrusting his mobile phone at Chris. ‘Call her.’

Chris hesitated. Duncan punched out a number and handed the phone to him. Chris shrugged and put it to his ear. He heard it ringing, and then Pippa’s voice.

‘Phillippa Gemmel.’

‘Pippa, it’s Chris Szczypiorski.’

‘Oh, hi, Chris. Look, I’m just going out.’

‘This won’t take a minute,’ Chris said. Duncan was watching him intently. ‘Have you seen Duncan in the last few days?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Answer my question, and I’ll tell you.’

Pippa sighed. ‘We went out for a meal together on Friday night.’

‘And since then?’

‘He came round to see me in the middle of the night. He was drunk. He wanted to moan at me. I told him to piss off.’

‘Which night was that?’

‘Sunday.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure. Why?’

‘Ian Darwent was murdered on Sunday night in Paris.’

‘Oh, my God.’ There was silence for a moment. When Pippa spoke again, the brusqueness had left her voice. She sounded weary. ‘Not another one. Duncan was going on about him, but I couldn’t make sense of what he was saying.’

‘Duncan thought Ian had killed Lenka,’ Chris said.

‘And so you think Duncan might have killed Ian?’

‘Yes,’ Chris said curtly, glancing at Duncan sitting next to him.

‘Don’t trust your friends much, do you?’ said Pippa scathingly. ‘But with friends like yours, I’m not really surprised. No, Duncan was in London that night. I can vouch for him.’

Chris didn’t say anything.

‘What’s the matter? Don’t you believe me?’

Chris sighed. He knew Pippa wasn’t covering for Duncan. Suddenly he felt ashamed of his lack of trust in her, and in Duncan. ‘I believe you. Thanks, Pippa. Bye.’

He disconnected, and passed the phone back to Duncan. ‘Sorry.’

Duncan slipped the phone back in his pocket. Then he smiled. ‘It’s OK. Weird things have been happening recently. It’s difficult to know who to trust.’

‘You’re right there,’ Chris said, putting his head in his hands. He leaned back against the bench. A magpie pecked amongst the worn gravestones.

‘You know what this means?’ said Chris eventually.

‘What?’

‘If you didn’t kill Ian, then he must have been killed for the same reason Lenka was: because he knew who had drowned Alex.’

‘Do you think so?’

‘It seems the most likely to me. I can’t think of any other reason.’

‘So who did drown Alex?’ Duncan asked.

‘There’s only one possibility,’ Chris said. ‘Three people dived into the sea. You, Ian, and Eric.’

‘Eric.’

‘Must be,’ said Chris. Now he had made that assumption everything slotted into place in his brain. ‘Eric drowned Alex. Lenka found out about it and threatened to tell people. So Eric killed her. Ian knew about that, and now he’s dead.’

‘Jesus,’ said Duncan.

‘Of course, Eric didn’t kill Lenka and Ian himself. Probably he hired the same man who scared Megan and me.’ The man with the moustache and long hair. The man in New York whose run Chris had recognized from Prague.

A moustache and long hair could easily be faked. Suddenly, Chris knew who the man was.

‘Terry,’ he said. ‘Eric’s driver and part-time bodyguard. Terry.’ Chris turned to Duncan. ‘What do you think?’

Duncan blew air through his cheeks. ‘It all hangs together,’ he said. ‘After getting so upset about Ian, I don’t want to jump to the wrong conclusion this time, but I think you’re right. Eric is the only one who makes sense. Apart from anything else, it would take some organization to do all that. I’m sure Eric could get someone like this Terry to jet all over the world doing his dirty work for him. But I’m not sure any of the rest of us could. Eric seems such a charming guy, but there’s something cold about him underneath. He’s always calculating, you know what I mean? Yeah, I think it fits.’

They stared at John Bunyan’s grimy toes a few feet in front of them.

‘Of course, you have no proof,’ said Duncan.

‘No.’

‘What about that psychologist you saw in New York?’

‘She wouldn’t talk to me. Confidentiality issues.’

‘Is there any point in trying again? Now we have a name?’

Chris considered this. ‘I don’t know. I don’t see why not. Give me your phone.’

It was a quarter past one, eight fifteen New York time, but Dr Marcia Horwath was already in the office, even if her receptionist wasn’t. She answered her own phone.

‘Dr Horwath, this is Chris Szczypiorski.’

‘Oh, yes?’ Her voice was cool, but Chris thought he detected a trace of curiosity.

‘We met last week. I asked you about the testing of Bloomfield Weiss trainees.’

‘Of course.’

‘Have you had a chance to think about whether you can give me any more information about the test results?’

‘Yes, I have, and I’m afraid the answer is no. At the time, I decided it was my duty to tell Bloomfield Weiss about my concerns. Beyond that, I owe a duty of confidentiality to them, and to the trainees concerned.’

‘I understand that,’ said Chris, trying not to show his impatience. ‘And I appreciate that this is a difficult ethical problem. But Ian Darwent was murdered two days ago. That means three of the seven people on that boat have been killed, probably all by the same person. It is very likely that person will kill again.’

‘Then you should inform the police,’ said Marcia. ‘I would have to consider a request from them.’

‘It’s not that easy,’ said Chris. ‘Please.’ Sod it. He let the desperation come through in his voice. ‘The next person to be killed may well be me. This isn’t some abstract ethical dilemma. If I die in the next few days because you didn’t give me the information I need, you will remember this conversation for the rest of your life.’

There was silence at the end of the phone. Duncan gave Chris a thumbs up in encouragement.

‘Dr Horwath?’

She answered him. ‘One of the tests I used was the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory. This is more commonly used in diagnosing personality disorders than in recruitment, but it seemed appropriate, given Bloomfield Weiss’s aims. During the period I used the test, two candidates’ results suggested major psychopathology. I requested further interviews with both of them, and my fears were confirmed. I expressed my reservations each time in the strongest possible terms to Mr Calhoun at Bloomfield Weiss, who went ahead and hired them both anyway. One of them was Steven Matzley, who as you know was convicted of rape after he had left Bloomfield Weiss.’

There was a pause. Come on, thought Chris. The other one. The name. Give me the name.

‘The other was recruited later. Mr Calhoun subsequently called me back to tell me that he had achieved first place in his training programme. I believe it was the same training programme you attended. Mr Calhoun seemed to think that this was a vindication of his decision to hire the candidate despite my protests.’

‘Thank you very much, Dr Horwath.’

‘No problem. You will keep me informed of developments, won’t you?’

‘I will,’ said Chris.

He handed the phone back to Duncan.

‘Well?’ Duncan asked.

‘Eric.’ Eric had come top of his training programme. It was Eric who had displayed strong psychopathic tendencies. They were well hidden by his smoothness, his charm, his apparent frankness. But Dr Horwath had had no doubt. They were there. ‘She said it was Eric.’

‘That just about settles it.’ Duncan exhaled. ‘So what do we do now? Go to the police?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Chris. ‘It’s difficult. In the first place, there’s the problem of which police force to report it to. We’re talking about three murders in three different countries, none of them Britain. Also, we don’t have enough proof to get Eric arrested immediately. The police would have to start a long and complicated international investigation. Eric would hire the best lawyers in three countries to keep himself out of jail. And in the meantime you, me and Megan would all be in danger. The police might never get the evidence to convict him, and even if they did, we’d probably be dead by the time they locked him up.’

‘I see what you mean,’ said Duncan. ‘But we can’t sit around doing nothing, waiting for someone else to die. What about Lenka? And Ian and Alex? If Eric killed them, we can’t let him get away with it.’

‘I don’t know what else we can do,’ said Chris.

‘I do,’ said Duncan, determination in his voice.

‘No, Duncan,’ said Chris. ‘I know I was wrong to think that you stabbed Ian, but I wasn’t wrong that that would be a stupid thing to do. You’d get caught. Killing people is wrong, Duncan, even when it’s someone like Eric.’

‘I admire your moral scruples, Chris. But if we don’t do something about it, he’ll kill us all anyway.’

Chris knew Duncan was right. ‘OK, OK. Perhaps we should go to the police. It’s a risk, but as you say, so is doing nothing. I want to talk to Megan about it before we do, though. I’m seeing her this evening.’

‘Why do you need to talk to her?’

‘Because she’s in just as much danger as we are if Eric finds out what we’re doing.’

‘OK,’ said Duncan. ‘We’ll do it your way. Talk to her, and then we’ll go to the police. But for God’s sake, be careful about it.’

Marcus took the long run down to the lake smoothly, his cross-country skis sliding over the snow, freshly fallen from the night before. The sky was clear and blue, and he was surrounded by muffled silence, his favourite sound. He paused by the side of the frozen lake, which should hold his weight for a few weeks yet. The half-dozen summer cabins that ringed it were quiet, still in hibernation, the snow on their roofs and in their yards undisturbed. He struck out across the lake, moving easily over the thin layer of snow that covered the ice. This was where he liked to think, to recharge. It would be a long slog from the lake uphill back to his house, but it was worth it.

The cold air was invigorating. He had slept poorly the night before, and had felt imprisoned by the warm cabin, which he usually found so comforting. Angie, too, had been driving him crazy. He knew she was only trying to help, but he needed to sort this out by himself.

And sort this out he must. The guilt and sense of loss over the deaths of his brother and his mother had been festering inside him for ten years. When he had begun to ask questions about what had really happened to Alex, he had started a process that he could not reverse. He literally could not rest until he had ended it.

What that meant, he wasn’t quite sure. Establish who had killed Alex, certainly. Ensure that person received retribution as well. But what form that retribution should take, he wasn’t yet certain. He knew what he wanted to do. What he felt he had to do. But he wasn’t yet ready to admit it to himself.

He played over for the umpteenth time in his head his conversation with Eric, and felt the rage re-emerge. How could Eric talk that way about helping his mother, about being angry that Marcus hadn’t been there when Alex had died? He had no right to! It was hard enough for Marcus to deal with, without some fancy investment banker who claimed to be Alex’s friend telling him what he should have done.

The trouble was, Marcus believed that Eric really had been Alex’s friend. He understood Eric’s anger; in fact, he shared it. He had let his brother and mother down. It had been good to hear Eric saying such complimentary things about Alex, but the criticism of himself still stung. And it would continue to sting until Marcus resolved the issue.

Marcus sped up along the lake, establishing a rapid rhythm. He used to be an excellent downhill skier, but it was only when he had moved up to Vermont that he had taken up cross-country. He was good: he had the physique and the temperament for it. Some weeks he would ski fifty miles, when the weather was good, and when he felt the urge.

Alex had never skied. But he was better at nearly everything else than Marcus. He was smarter, he was a better artist, he was more popular. Marcus had never held Alex’s success against him: he had always been proud of his kid brother. And Alex never seemed to let any of it go to his head, or to take himself too seriously. Eric had been right about that.

Alex had deserved a friend like Eric. He had deserved a brother like Eric, too, but he hadn’t got one.

Was Eric telling the truth about Duncan killing Alex? After all, he had no proof, and he was an investment banker. Marcus went over the conversation yet again, trying to be as objective as possible. The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became.

He wasn’t so sure about the Brit with the Polish name, Chris whatever-it-was. He had been very different from Eric. More uptight. More cagey about divulging information. More eager to find stuff out from Marcus. Eric, he knew, had come in peace, told his story, and left. Marcus wasn’t sure what Chris’s agenda had been. But all that was too complicated. He didn’t really care who had killed Ian Darwent. All he cared about was who had killed his brother. And he was sure, now, who that was.

Duncan.

He left the lake, and began thrusting his skis up the slope towards home. He knew he had to go to London and find him. He had no choice.

Eric flopped into the back seat of the hired Jaguar. He was exhausted. He was used to a punishing travel schedule, but this was ridiculous. Still, it had had to be done. As he had told Terry in Paris, there was a limit to the number of dead bodies that they could be directly responsible for, and with Ian, they had just about reached that limit. They needed a new recruit.

As Terry guided the car through the airport traffic and coasted towards the M4, Eric pulled out his mobile phone and listened to his messages. There were a dozen of them, all of them urgent. He ignored all but one, even the one from Cassie. But one message required an immediate reply. He looked up a number and punched it out. The conversation was brief, but he smiled as he disconnected.

‘Good news, sir?’ Terry asked from the front seat.

‘Yes, I’d say it is,’ Eric replied. ‘That was nice work you did in Paris by the way, Terry. Your bonus should have gone through yesterday.’

‘No problem. I’d be happy to do something similar again. Just ask.’

‘No need for the time being,’ said Eric. He settled back in his seat and closed his eyes. ‘I’d say things are slotting together quite nicely just as they are.’

6

Chris was both eager and nervous as he climbed Megan’s staircase. Eager because he wanted to tell Megan what he had discovered. Nervous because he was still worried about her coolness to him the previous Sunday and the note of hesitation in her voice when he had invited himself up to see her.

He knocked on her door, a little out of breath from the stairs.

She opened it in an instant. ‘Hi,’ she said, smiling.

‘Hi.’

‘Come here.’ She pulled him towards her and kissed him. All his nervousness left him as he felt her hands run over his back. She pulled away and began to unbutton his shirt.

‘What’s this?’ Chris said.

‘What does it look like? Do you have any objections?’

‘None at all,’ he smiled.

‘Well, come on then,’ she said, and led him through to her bedroom.

Half an hour later they lay in each other’s arms, naked in the darkened room. Chris eased himself up on to his elbows and watched the light from the college buildings opposite play on Megan’s skin.

‘That was nice,’ he said, running a finger along her thigh.

‘Yes, it was. You deserved it after how mean I was to you.’

‘That wasn’t your fault,’ Chris said. ‘You were still in shock.’

‘It was my fault,’ Megan said earnestly. ‘And I’m sorry.’ She kissed him gently on the lips.

‘I found out something today,’ he said.

‘Oh, yes?’ She sat up and hunched her legs up to her chest. ‘Tell me.’

So Chris told her about his discussion with Duncan, about Pippa backing up Duncan’s story, and about what Dr Horwath had told him about Eric. She listened closely. When he’d finished, she didn’t say anything.

‘Well? What do you think?’ he asked.

‘I’m not sure you’ve drawn the right conclusion.’

‘About Eric?’

‘Yes. About Eric. I don’t think he has anything to do with this.’

Chris was stunned. He stared at Megan, not sure what to say. He had been looking forward to her common sense to help him decide what to do, now they knew Eric was responsible for so many deaths.

‘But don’t you see? It must be him. He drowned Alex, he had Lenka murdered to shut her up, and then he had Ian killed. It’s obvious.’

‘Not to me,’ said Megan.

‘But why not?’

‘You don’t have any evidence, do you?’ she said. ‘I hate to say this, but I think you’re losing perspective, trying to find a reason to let Duncan off the hook. I don’t think that’s smart. We were wrong to cover for him all those years ago, and it would be wrong to cover for him now.’

‘But what about the psychometric tests?’

Megan laughed. ‘Oh, come on! You can’t convict someone on the basis of a bunch of multiple choice questions they answered ten years ago. That stuff’s all bullshit anyway.’

‘Dr Horwath was convinced.’

‘Of course she was convinced. It’s her job to be convinced by that psychocrap.’

‘Well, we know Duncan wasn’t in Paris that night.’

‘According to his wife, who is very probably protecting him. Besides, we know Eric wasn’t there, either.’

‘Do we?’ Chris asked, puzzled. ‘Where was he, then?’

‘He was in England that day,’ Megan said quietly. ‘He came up here to see me.’

‘He what?’

‘He came up to Cambridge. We went out for tea. We talked.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me this?’ Chris demanded.

Megan shrugged. ‘I don’t have to tell you everything.’

‘Megan!’

‘Look, Chris, he was my old boyfriend. I feel uncomfortable talking about him with you; you know that. It was no big deal. But it does mean he wasn’t in Paris.’

‘But that doesn’t matter. We know he gets someone else to do his dirty work.’

‘Maybe Duncan does as well. Have you thought about that?’

Chris ran his hand through his hair in frustration. ‘But the whole point is that we assumed Duncan had killed Ian in a fit of anger. If Eric did all this, it was carefully planned.’

‘Maybe Duncan planned the whole thing,’ Megan said. ‘I’ve never trusted him. Whereas I do trust Eric.’

Chris looked at her. Just ten minutes ago, everything had seemed so simple. Now it was becoming complicated. Megan’s readiness to defend Eric bothered Chris. It bothered him intensely. And if she had seen Eric on Sunday, then that, rather than the shock of discovering the knife on her pillow, might explain her coolness towards him that evening.

Megan was obviously following these thoughts. ‘There’s nothing between us now, you know. There’s been nothing for years.’ She touched his arm. ‘You must believe me, Chris.’

‘Must I?’ he snapped.

‘I’d like you to.’

Chris wanted to argue, but he bit his tongue. He knew Megan was trying not to make an issue of it and he wanted to try to do the same. ‘OK,’ he said, making his tone as conciliatory as possible. ‘But do you mind if I ask you a couple of questions about Eric?’

‘Sure.’

‘We know that Alex and Ian took drugs when we were all in New York together. Did Eric?’

Megan looked uncomfortable. ‘Yes, he did. A little. Cocaine. But he stopped when Alex was caught.’

Chris stared at her. ‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’

‘It didn’t seem important. Everyone took drugs then.’

‘Did you?’

‘No,’ Megan admitted. ‘I’d tried it at college, of course. But I never really got into it.’

‘But Eric did?’

‘Yes. I was a bit worried about him at college. And again in New York. But, as I said, after Alex was caught he gave up. It might have interfered with his precious political ambitions.’

‘I can see it might have,’ Chris said. ‘And who had the drugs?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know what I mean. Presumably, either Eric or Alex must have bought the drugs from someone. Which of them was it?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Megan. ‘I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to know about it.’

‘OK, so who kept them safe?’

‘Eric,’ Megan said reluctantly.

‘And when Alex wanted some, he would go to Eric?’

‘I guess that’s right.’

‘So Alex could have told Bloomfield Weiss that Eric was his supplier?’

‘No,’ Megan protested, raising her voice for the first time. ‘They were friends. What are you trying to say? Eric was the evil drug-dealer, and Alex was his innocent victim?’

‘No. I’m trying to say that Alex was going to shop Eric to George Calhoun. That Eric knew this. And that when Eric saw he had a chance to shut Alex up for good, he took it.’

Megan snorted.

‘Megan,’ Chris said quietly. ‘Duncan and I think we should go to the police.’

‘About Eric?’

Chris nodded.

‘Don’t you think you should discuss that with me, first?’

‘That’s what I wanted to do this evening.’

‘Oh, did you? Well, I think you’d be making a big mistake. You’re just jealous of Eric because he and I were going out years ago, and you want to protect your stupid friend from the consequences of his own actions. I’m not going to go along with it.’

Chris had been trying to hold his temper, trying to avoid the confrontation that had been looming, but he lost it.

‘Maybe I am jealous. Maybe I should be,’ he said. ‘There’s a lot you haven’t told me about Eric. You never mentioned the drugs before. You never told me he came to see you on Sunday. There’s probably a lot else you haven’t told me about him. You’re the one who’s losing perspective. The man’s a killer, Megan! Don’t you understand that? He’s extremely dangerous. It’s quite likely that he’ll try to kill you or me or both of us. We should think hard about that. Do something, before it’s too late.’

Megan glared at Chris. He suddenly felt cold and awkward in his nakedness. ‘I think you’d better go,’ she muttered through clenched teeth.

‘But Megan—’

‘Just get dressed and go!’

So Chris went.

Megan watched Chris as he strode across the court below, shoulders hunched. For a moment, she felt the urge to open the windows and shout down to him to come back. But she couldn’t. Not without admitting that he was right about Eric. And that was something she could not do.

She had genuinely tried to put Eric behind her. Her warm welcome to Chris hadn’t been entirely for his benefit. She had wanted to prove to herself that Eric was in the past, that it was Chris she cared about now.

But she had failed. Chris was right about her and Eric. Her head’s battle with her heart had been lost. She, who was so proud of her self-control and her ability to analyse the most complicated problems dispassionately, wanted to see Eric — no, bad to see Eric. She knew nothing would come of it. She knew it was pointless. But she had to do it; she wouldn’t be able to forgive herself if she let the opportunity to see what would develop between them slip by. She knew now that she had never stopped loving him when they had split up. She might have told herself time and time again that she was over him, but she wasn’t, she never had been. Now she would have to accept that fact and see what happened. The prospect frightened her, especially the likelihood that she would be rejected, but it also thrilled her. Remembering her afternoon with him that Sunday, she knew he still felt something for her. There had to be a chance.

Chris had sensed all that, and that had made her angry with him. She had denied what he could see was obvious, and she had been unfair to him. She liked him, liked him very much, and she didn’t want to hurt him, but she felt that the situation was out of her control. Until that week, she hadn’t believed in destiny. Now she felt destiny was taking hold of her life and her role was to let it.

She was sure that Chris was wrong about one thing, though: that Eric had killed all those people. She knew Eric, and she knew he would never do anything like that. She distrusted both Duncan and Ian and she was sure that one or other of them had been responsible for the deaths. Chris’s jealousy had made him unable to see what was to her perfectly obvious.

She turned away from the window and began to work on her notes. She soon gave that up; she hadn’t the concentration. So she pulled out an old, dog-eared volume of Emily Dickinson’s poetry that Eric had given to her when they were at college. The familiarity of the poems gave her some comfort, like old friends, their rhythms stable, unchanging, reliable.

The phone rang. She lifted the receiver.

‘Hello?’

‘Megan?’

She felt a glow course through her body as she recognized the voice. ‘Eric.’

‘How are you?’

‘Not too good, actually.’

‘Have you heard about Ian?’

‘Yes, I have. I can’t believe it. Another one.’

‘Yeah. I called because I’m worried about you.’

‘Oh, yes?’

Yes. I mean, I’ve no idea why Ian was killed, but after our conversation on Sunday, I wanted to make sure you were OK.’

‘I’m fine. No more psychos creeping about my bedroom.’

‘Good. I’m worried that whoever threatened you on Saturday night meant business. Don’t do anything to provoke them, OK?’

‘Don’t worry. I won’t. I just want to forget about the whole thing.’

‘That’s easier to say than to do, I’d guess. What about Chris?’

Megan couldn’t bring herself to tell Eric about Chris’s ridiculous suspicions of him. At least, not over the phone. She decided to keep it vague. ‘I think he’s decided to go to the police and tell them all he knows.’

‘Isn’t that dangerous?’ Eric said. ‘I mean, it’s OK for him to put himself at risk. He knows what he’s doing. But that knife was left on your pillow.’

‘He seems to have made up his mind about it.’ Megan sighed. ‘We had a disagreement.’ There was a pause. ‘Where are you calling from now?’ she asked.

‘London. I’ve been in meetings all day.’

Megan’s heart beat a little faster. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any free time while you’re over here? It’s just... it would be nice to see you, if you can manage it.’

‘Sure,’ said Eric. ‘I’d like that. Hold on a second, let me look at my calendar.’ Megan waited. She wanted to see him so badly. She had to see him. ‘Yeah, OK. I can come up to Cambridge tomorrow evening, if you like.’

‘All right.’ She didn’t want him to come to her rooms this time. Somewhere more neutral. ‘How about we meet at a pub?’

‘OK. Which one?’

‘There’s one called the Fort St George. It’s by the river. I’d give you directions, but I’m still a little confused where it is myself. But it’s a nice place.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Eric said. ‘I’ll find it. See you there at seven.’

‘OK.’ Megan smiled to herself as she replaced the receiver.

The early spring sunshine caressed Marcus’s tired features as he sat on the bench in St James’s Park. He was sure it was the right one, on the Mall side of the lake, by the footbridge, just as Eric had described it. He checked his watch. Five past eleven. Eric had said eleven o’clock.

He wasn’t sure what to expect: whether Eric would meet him, or someone else would. He had considered not showing up at all, but in the end he had decided to go ahead with the rendezvous. He had nothing to lose and he could use any help he could get. He still wasn’t sure what he would do once he found Duncan. But find him he must.

He hadn’t slept at all on the flight over. In fact, he hadn’t slept well for a couple of nights, since his conversation with Eric back in Vermont. He was tired, and he let his eyes close, lulled by the steady background traffic noise and the sound of ducks fussing on the water in front of him.

Suddenly he felt the pressure of something placed on his lap. He opened his eyes and saw a cheap black canvas sports bag. He glanced up from left to right. On one side, a couple were sauntering arm-in-arm towards Buckingham Palace. On the other, a man with dark hair creeping over the collar of his leather jacket was walking briskly away. Marcus shouted to him, but the man lengthened his stride. Marcus shrugged. It wasn’t Eric, and the messenger didn’t matter. What mattered was the bag.

He unzipped it. Inside were a single sheet of white paper and a dark blue plastic bag. He glanced at the paper. It contained two neatly typed addresses: Honshu Bank’s London office, and Duncan Gemmel’s home address.

He felt the plastic bag. It contained something small and heavy. He guessed what it was as he cautiously peered inside, keeping it all the while in the sports bag.

He was right. A handgun.

His heart beat rapidly and he zipped up the bag. He stared ahead, trying to decide what to do, oblivious of the tourists and office-workers strolling by.

There was no choice. He had known what he had to do since he had skied across the lake the day before; he just hadn’t been able to admit it to himself. But now, with the means lying there on his lap, he took the decision. He stood up and walked purposefully down the Mall towards Trafalgar Square, gripping the handles of the sports bag tightly.

7

‘Hey, Chris! Look at the screen! I don’t believe it.’

Chris, jolted out of his reverie by Ollie’s urgent cry, looked. On Bloomberg News was an announcement:

Radaphone in agreed €1.5 billion takeover of Eureka Telecom.

Chris scanned the details. It looked like a done deal. He dialled Bloomfield Weiss and got through to Mandy Simpson. ‘Have you seen the Eureka Telecom news?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘What does it mean for the bonds?’

‘Good news for you, Chris. And good news for Bloomfield Weiss too. We’ve got Radaphone debt paying a twelve per cent coupon.’

Chris smiled to himself. Radaphone was a good credit: its bonds would normally trade at half that yield. ‘Where’s your trader making them?’

‘He says he’ll bid one-oh-seven. But that’s low. They’ll go higher than that.’

‘Excellent!’ said Chris. ‘Thanks, Mandy.’

‘Looks like Ian sold you a good deal after all,’ she said.

Chris thought about her words as he put down the phone. She was right. Ian had known all along that Eureka would be taken over. He had told Lenka when he probably shouldn’t. She had bought the bonds when she probably shouldn’t. Everything had gone according to plan. Except that neither Lenka nor Ian was alive to see it.

Ian had been right to be cagey with Chris. Chris had thought it was because Ian had deceived Lenka and was worried about being found out. In fact, Ian had told her the truth, but had been unwilling to admit as much to Chris. He was probably right to be careful. Ian would no doubt have argued that his guess that the takeover would happen was no more than a guess, but what he had done was close to passing on inside information. The fewer people who knew about that, the better.

For the first time Chris wondered whether he had been too cynical about Ian and Lenka. Perhaps she had meant more to Ian than Chris had given him credit for. After what had happened to them both, he hoped so.

This was good news for RBK. The price at which they had bought Amalgamated Veterans’ position had been fixed the day before. It had just gone up at least fifteen per cent. Chris smiled to himself. Khalid’s gain had been Rudy Moss’s loss. Carpathian definitely had a future now.

Chris dialled Duncan’s number.

‘Did you see the news about Eureka Telecom?’

‘Yes,’ Duncan said. ‘You had some of that, didn’t you?’

‘We had a lot of it.’

‘Khalid will be ecstatic.’

‘He was very lucky.’

‘Not entirely,’ said Duncan. ‘He got the market timing right, and he picked the right fund manager. He deserves to make money.’

‘And Rudy Moss deserves to lose it.’

Duncan laughed.

‘Seriously, thanks, Duncan. RBK really bailed us out.’

‘Don’t worry about it. My client’s happy. It makes me look good. In fact it makes me look bloody brilliant.’ Duncan chuckled. Then his tone became serious. ‘Did you talk to Megan?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘And what did she say?’

‘She thinks we’ve got the wrong end of the stick. She thinks Eric couldn’t possibly have done it.’

‘That’s crazy. She went out with him, didn’t she? Maybe she’s biased. Maybe she still fancies him. Does she?’

‘I think so,’ said Chris, with difficulty.

Duncan picked up the tone in Chris’s voice. ‘Sore point, obviously. Hang on. If she thinks Eric’s innocent, then who does she think killed everyone? Me?’

Chris didn’t say anything.

‘I thought so,’ Duncan said. ‘Look, I understand why you wanted to talk to her. But we have to do something now. If she can’t see that she’s wrong about Eric, that’s her problem. You’ve told her everything you can.’

Chris sighed. ‘You’re right. We should do something. But, as I said earlier, it’s not that simple. Who do we talk to? The cops on Long Island? Or in Prague? Or Paris? The only name I’ve got is some guy called Karásek in Prague, but he’s going to have to do a lot of work to put it all together.’

‘Jesus, Chris, we’ve got to do something!’

‘I know.’ Chris thought. ‘What about a lawyer?’

‘A lawyer?’

‘Yes. If we get a good one, he might be able to help us make sure we protect our role in all this. And he’d know the best way round the international legal system. I think that’s the safest way to go.’

‘All right,’ said Duncan. ‘Find one. And let me know what happens.’

‘I will.’

Chris stared at the receiver as he put it down. Duncan was right, there was no time to lose. They were all at risk as long as Eric was running around unchecked. He picked up the phone and called the Fund’s lawyer. She recommended someone who recommended someone else, and within an hour he had an appointment to see a Mr Geoffrey Morris-Jones at his offices in Holborn at nine o’clock the next morning.

Duncan found it very difficult to concentrate. At 12:05 he grabbed his jacket and left the office. He hurried to a pub round the corner and ordered a pint. It tasted good.

Duncan felt better than he had in a long time. He had energy and he had focus. He knew what had to be done: Eric had to be stopped. If this could be done within the framework of the law, so much the better, but he wasn’t at all sure Chris’s plan would work. The police investigation would be slow and cumbersome. Eric would simply hire the best lawyers available and keep quiet. It would take months or years to put him in jail, if they ever succeeded at all. And in all that time, their own lives would be at risk.

Then Duncan thought of Lenka. Her death had to be avenged.

He finished his pint, left the pub and walked fifty yards down the road to a hardware shop. There he bought a large, sharp kitchen knife. If Chris’s plan didn’t work out, he would be ready.

Chris, too, was finding it hard to focus on his work. The Eureka Telecom bonds had risen to 109 and Ollie was in a jubilant mood. He and Chris discussed how they were going to invest RBK’s extra seven million euros. Chris did his best to share Ollie’s good spirits, but couldn’t manage it.

He was worried about seeing the lawyer the next day. He was sure Megan was wrong to put her faith in Eric, but he hated to place her in a potentially dangerous situation without her consent. If Eric ever did find out that they had gone to the police, her life would be in real danger. That thought scared Chris. Perhaps she would be safer if she went back to America. The problem was that Eric seemed to have no trouble leaving dead bodies all round the world: America would be no safer than England. Chris resolved to talk to the lawyer the next day about what steps could be taken to ensure her safety; and his own, for that matter.

He had to speak to Megan again, to try to get her to see that what he was doing made sense. He stared at the phone for a whole minute, then he called her.

She sounded subdued when she heard his voice, but at least she would talk to him. He told her about his appointment the next day.

She was unimpressed. ‘I don’t know why you’re telling me all this. You’re wasting your time. You know I think Eric is completely innocent.’

‘I know. And I respect that. But I wanted you to know what I’m doing. And I want to make sure that you’re safe, just in case you’re wrong.’

‘If you want to keep me safe, don’t talk to the police,’ said Megan.

‘But we have to do something! The riskiest thing is to sit back and do nothing.’

‘OK. But what if I’m right? What if it’s Duncan you should be worried about?’

‘I talked to him again today,’ Chris said. ‘I really don’t think there’s any need to worry about him.’

‘Oh, great,’ said Megan. ‘Well, I’m seeing Eric this evening, and I’ll let you know what I think after I’ve spoken to him.’

‘You what?’

‘I said, I’m meeting Eric.’

‘Where? When?’

‘At the Fort St George. At seven.’

‘You’re crazy. Don’t do it.’ Chris could feel the panic rising in his voice.

‘Look. I’ll talk to him about your theory. See what he says. I know him. I’ll be able to see if he’s telling the truth.’

‘But if you do that, he’ll know we’re still asking questions. He’ll know I’m on to him. It’ll put all of us in danger.’

‘Oh, I see. So it’s perfectly safe for you to talk to Duncan, but it’s dangerous for me to talk to Eric, is it?’ Megan’s voice was rising.

‘It’s not that simple.’

‘Isn’t it? Well, I think it is. Anyway, I’ve already told him you’re planning to speak to the police.’

‘You what! Why did you do that?’

‘I didn’t say it was him you were suspicious of.’

‘But he’ll know! For God’s sake, Megan. Don’t see him this evening. Please. It’s too dangerous. I’m only asking you this because I care about you. I couldn’t bear it if you were hurt.’

There was silence on the line for several seconds. When Megan spoke, her voice was softer. ‘I know you mean that, Chris. And I know I’ve been unfair to you over the last few days. I am sorry about that, I really am. But you’re right; it is to do with Eric. I just don’t know where I am with him, and it’s something I need to sort out. That’s why I have to speak to him. Why I’m going to see him this evening.’

‘Megan—’

‘Sorry, Chris,’ and she hung up.

Chris stared at the receiver in disbelief. He looked at his watch. Twenty past five. He could just make it to the Fort St George before seven. He wouldn’t have time to go back to the flat and get his car, but if he caught a train from King’s Cross, it should work. He had to get to her before she met Eric.

He dialled Duncan’s number.

‘Honshu.’

‘Duncan, bad news. Megan is meeting Eric in a pub in Cambridge this evening. She’s going to tell him everything I’ve discovered. I’m worried about her. I’m going up there right now. Do you want to come?’

‘All right. How are you getting there?’

‘Train from King’s Cross. You can get one from Liverpool Street. We’ll meet at Cambridge station, and then go to the pub. We should get there before Megan if we move.’

‘OK. I’ll call you from my mobile when I know what time my train gets in to Cambridge.’

Chris hung up, said goodbye to the bewildered Ollie, and headed for the door:

The Jaguar whispered up the M11 at just under eighty miles per hour, Terry driving, Eric in the back, composed, neat in a dark suit, white shirt and Ferragamo tie. He was feeling good.

‘I think we’re going to pull this off, Terry.’

‘I hope so, sir.’

‘All I need to do is convince Megan that she should keep her head down and forget about who killed Lenka. I think she’s just about there as it is.’

‘Are you sure you don’t want me to deal with the other two? We don’t want them going to the cops.’

‘I think we’ll leave them to our friend Marcus. He’s primed and dangerous. And without them the police will get nowhere.’

‘Don’t you think there’s a risk he’ll rat on you when he gets caught?’

‘No,’ said Eric. ‘There’s no point. He’ll think he’s killed the man who murdered his brother. And the police will probably believe him, since there’ll be no one left to contradict him. He’ll have no reason to drag me down with him. Anyway, I’ll just deny everything. A good lawyer will protect me, no problem.’

‘So, it’s just Megan, then?’

‘Just Megan. Will you wait for me in the parking lot?’

‘I can’t do that. I checked the map and it looks like the pub isn’t even on a road. We’ll have to park on the other side of the river and you can walk over the footbridge.’

‘Whatever. I’m not totally sure I’ll be coming back with you this evening,’ Eric said.

‘No?’

Eric tried to ignore the curiosity in Terry’s voice. ‘We’ll just have to see how things progress.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Terry replied, as he eased the Jaguar off the motorway and on to the road to Cambridge.

Chris took the tube to King’s Cross direct from Oxford Circus; it was quicker than a taxi during the rush hour. He arrived at the station just in time to jump on the five forty-five, which was due to arrive at Cambridge at six thirty-six. That should just give him time to get a taxi to the Fort St George by seven.

The train was pulling out of the station when Chris’s mobile phone rang. It was Duncan. He had caught a train from Liverpool Street that would reach Cambridge at six forty-four. Chris said he would wait for him on the platform.

The train sped through the flat Hertfordshire countryside, past Stevenage and Royston, and into the even flatter Cambridgeshire fens. They were only ten minutes from Cambridge when it slowed to a stop. Chris drummed his fingers in frustration. He wasn’t psychologically prepared for a delay. It was getting dark outside. The clear sky, now a light blue-grey, was shrinking, blotted out by inky black clouds rushing in from the fens to the west. The train didn’t move. Raindrops spattered the carriage window for a few moments, and then what seemed to be a wall of water battered the glass. The whole carriage rocked in the wind.

Chris stared in frustration at the rain outside. They’d be late. There was no way now that they could reach the pub before Eric and Megan. What would Eric do to her? Chris couldn’t stand the thought of him harming her in any way. But if she told him all that Chris had discovered, would Eric have any choice?

Unless... Unless Eric planned to seduce her. Surely, she wouldn’t let him do that. Chris didn’t know whether it was instinct or jealousy, but he feared she might. At that moment that was a thought almost as horrible for Chris to contemplate.

Chris’s fears were interrupted by an announcement over the train’s loudspeaker system that there was a problem at a level crossing just ahead of them, and the train would be moving shortly.

It didn’t.

8

Megan was still a quarter of a mile from the Fort St George when the rain hit. She could see the pub standing next to the river, surrounded by the wide spaces of Midsummer Common and Jesus Green. As the rain turned into a torrent, she broke into a run, but she was soaking by the time she made it inside.

The pub was almost empty. There was no sign of Eric. She checked her watch: she was ten minutes early. She bought herself a pint of bitter and sat in a small bar with a fire glowing in one corner. She sniffed as she pushed the damp hair from her eyes.

She was nervous about seeing Eric, but she also felt the thrill of doing something foolhardy. She had no idea what she was going to say to him, but she did know what she wanted to learn: whether her future was in any way connected with his. Somehow, she was sure, she would find out that evening.

She heard the door to the pub slam shut, and a moment later Eric popped his head round the door, water dripping from his hair, his nose and his clothes. She smiled at him. He came over and kissed her on the cheek, bringing with him the cold of the wind and rain outside. They exchanged greetings, and he went off to get himself a pint. A minute later, he was sitting opposite her, next to the fire.

‘Jesus, this weather is awful,’ he said, shivering.

‘You get used to it.’

‘Where does that wind come from? The Arctic?’

‘Probably.’

Eric took a long drink of his beer. ‘Can you believe what happened to Ian?’ he said.

‘No. It was horrible.’

‘First Lenka, and now him,’ Eric shook his head. ‘And that knife on your pillow. Things are getting seriously weird.’

‘They are.’

‘I’m worried about you, Megan. And I’m worried about Chris going to the police. I mean, whoever did this might not stop now. Please take care of yourself.’

Megan gave him a small smile. ‘I will,’ she said. She sipped her beer nervously. The time had come to ask him. It was something she would have to do if she was ever going to be sure of him. ‘Chris thinks that you killed Ian. And Lenka. And Alex, for that matter.’

Eric closed his eyes. He shook his head slowly. ‘I thought Chris knew me better than that.’

‘Did you?’ Megan asked, looking him directly in the eye.

‘How can you ask that?’ he said.

‘Did you?’ she repeated.

Eric’s eyes met hers. ‘No,’ he said, barely audibly. ‘No, I didn’t.’

They sat for several seconds, just looking at each other. Memories of that time so many years before when Megan had been so desperately in love with Eric came flooding back to her.

‘Do you believe me?’ he asked eventually, still holding her eyes.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, I do.’

Eric smiled. ‘Good. But why does Chris think I killed them? And how could I possibly have killed Alex? Surely Duncan did that, if anyone?’

Megan launched into an explanation of Chris’s view of events. When she had finished, Eric looked thoughtful.

‘But he doesn’t have any evidence at all. It’s all smoke. He’s just freaked out by it all, and he’s picked on me as the answer. That disappoints me. I always liked Chris: I thought he’d know better.’

‘What about the psychometric tests?’ Megan asked.

‘Oh, that,’ Eric smiled. ‘I was the perfect interviewee. You must remember that. I got offered jobs by ten Wall Street firms in my senior year in college. My secret was that I told them what they wanted to hear. And Bloomfield Weiss wanted to hear that I was a big, tough, nasty guy who ate babies for breakfast. So that’s what I told them. I guess I went a bit over the top. But, as you know, they gave me the job.’

‘So you lied?’

‘Not exactly. But close. I embellished. Whenever there was a choice of helping a little old lady across the road or throwing her under a bus, I threw her under a bus. That kind of thing. But none of it was real. Once I got to Bloomfield Weiss I paid lip service to all the “it’s a jungle out there” bullshit. I was always the predator, not the prey. But I think I behaved pretty decently. Ask Chris. He knows.’

Megan was relieved. Eric’s explanation was totally believable. If this Dr Horwath woman had been any good, then she should have been able to detect Eric faking his answers, but Megan wasn’t surprised that he had managed to mislead her.

‘So who do you think killed Ian and Lenka?’ Eric asked.

Megan sighed. ‘I don’t know. I try really hard not to think about it. It must be Duncan, I guess. But Chris is sure Duncan’s innocent. I don’t know what it is about those two, Chris always seems to be covering for him.’

‘We all did on the boat, didn’t we?’ said Eric. ‘Maybe that was a mistake. I don’t know. Those kind of secrets have a habit of coming out eventually.’

‘What do you think?’ Megan asked.

Eric stared into his beer thoughtfully. ‘I don’t know, either. I guess it must be Duncan. But I think the most important thing for you to do is to forget all about it. If Duncan is a killer, or someone else who we don’t even know, they’re watching you. Chris can get himself into whatever kind of trouble he likes, but I’d hate for anything bad to happen to you.’

Megan blushed and looked up at Eric. The look of concern in his eyes was much more than worry about an old friend from a previous life. ‘Thank you,’ Megan said, and touched his hand.

Eric smiled at her. They sat like that, her hand touching his, for a moment that felt to Megan to last for ever.

‘Let’s talk about something else,’ said Eric eventually. ‘What are the famous Cambridge dons like? Are they all as crazy as they look? And what do they all do now they can’t recruit spies for the KGB any more?’

Megan launched into a description of some of the eccentrics she had met in her college. That led on to exchanging memories of their professors at Amherst. Then the conversation became more personal. They discussed the major decisions they had taken in their lives, and why they had taken them.

Eric began to talk about Cassie. ‘You met her, didn’t you?’ he asked.

‘Yes. A couple of times, when you first went out with her.’

‘What did you think of her?’

‘She was nice. Very pretty, obviously. I can’t say I liked her, but I was a bit biased at the time.’

‘Sorry,’ Eric said. ‘Stupid question. But you’re right. She seemed like the perfect woman. Beautiful, intelligent, charming.’

‘And her father is a bigshot in the Republican Party.’

‘That’s unfair.’

‘Sorry.’ But Megan wasn’t. She didn’t like this listing of Cassie’s charms.

Then Eric frowned. ‘I don’t know. Although I never admitted it to anyone, that probably was something else in her favour. In fact, she seemed perfect in every way. All my friends said so. And for the first couple of years they were probably right.’

Megan’s pulse quickened. ‘The first couple of years?’

‘Yes,’ Eric said, and fell silent.

‘Why? What happened then?’

‘I don’t know. It was nothing she did; she’s always been the perfect wife. It was more me. I came to realize that I needed something else from the person I was supposed to love for the rest of my life. Something that for some reason Cassie couldn’t give me.’

‘Something else? What do you mean?’

‘I don’t know. It’s hard to describe.’ Then he looked directly at Megan. ‘Well, actually I do know. And so do you.’

Megan did her best to fight the surge of excitement within her. She knew it! Her feeling that there was a unique bond between them was confirmed. Eric knew it too, she was sure. ‘That’s a bit tough on Cassie, isn’t it?’ she said carefully.

Eric nodded. ‘It is. And I feel so bad thinking it. So ungrateful for all she does for me. But I can’t help it. And it’s one of those ideas, that once you get it, it doesn’t go away.’

‘Are you going to do anything about it?’ Megan asked. For a moment, she thought she had gone too far, but she had to know. She just had to know.

Eric looked confused. ‘I don’t know. The truth is, most of the time I’m thinking about work. And I love Wilson. No. I expect we’ll just drift further and further apart. It’s sad, though.’

Megan’s throat felt dry. ‘Yes, it is.’

She felt like throwing herself on him right there and then. But she knew that he was still married, and despite his unhappiness, from the sound of it there was no imminent bust-up likely. He gave no hint that he had ever been unfaithful; on the contrary, he gave the impression of being a dutiful, if occasionally absent, husband. She couldn’t be responsible for breaking up a family, could she? And what about Chris? Starting something with Eric would be very cruel to him. And she didn’t want to be cruel to Chris.

Eric glanced at their empty beer glasses. ‘I think it might have stopped raining. How about we go find somewhere to have dinner?’

‘Yes,’ she said immediately. She couldn’t have said otherwise: she had no choice.

Eventually, Chris’s train began to move, and ten minutes later it pulled into Cambridge. Duncan had been delayed by the same level-crossing incident. Chris waited the couple of minutes for him to arrive, and after exchanging curses they jumped into a taxi. The rain had snarled up the traffic, and it was twenty minutes before the taxi reached a small residential road by the river.

Chris and Duncan ran over the footbridge to the Fort St George. They scoured the place, but no sign of Eric and Megan. Chris grabbed the barman’s attention, a lanky boy with spots and an earring. ‘Have you seen two Americans in here? A tall man and a girl with long dark curly hair?’

‘Oh yeah,’ he said. ‘They left a couple of minutes ago.’

‘Thanks.’ Chris turned to Duncan. ‘They’ve probably headed back across the green towards the town. Let’s go.’

They ran out of the pub, and surveyed the acres of parkland surrounding them. It was very dark, and although streetlamps illuminated a road that crossed the green they couldn’t see either of them.

‘Come on,’ said Chris, and he set out along a path that led to the lights of Jesus College and the centre of the town. He ran fast, praying that Megan was all right, that Eric hadn’t touched her, that Eric wouldn’t touch her.

Terry looked up from the portable chess set on the front seat beside him, and saw the two figures leaping out of the taxi and rushing over the bridge. He recognized them immediately. As the taxi drew away, he was just about to get out of his own car, when he saw another cab pull up. This time a tall man in a long coat appeared, looked over the bridge where the other two had disappeared, and followed them.

Terry went after the three of them, his senses alive. It looked like the boss was going to need some help.

9

Chris ran steadily, peering into the darkness of Jesus Green. He could hear Duncan puffing along behind him. Then he saw them: two figures walking slowly towards the town. He increased his speed to a sprint. They turned as they heard him approach. It was Eric and Megan.

Chris came to a halt beside them, out of breath. They were in the middle of the green, far from any buildings. No one else was near them.

‘Chris! What the hell are you doing here?’ Megan exclaimed. ‘And why did you bring him with you?’

Duncan joined them, panting heavily.

‘I need to talk to you,’ Chris said between breaths.

‘Well, we don’t need to talk to you.’

‘Please, Megan. This is important.’

Megan threw Chris an impatient look. But there was hesitation in it also.

‘Come on, Megan,’ Eric said, taking her arm.

‘No, stay!’ Chris’s tone changed from pleading to a command.

‘What is this, Chris?’ Megan protested.

‘I’m just trying to keep you alive, that’s all. Keep us all alive.’

‘That’s ridiculous. Look, why don’t you talk to Eric sensibly? He can help you.’

‘Wait, Megan,’ said Eric. ‘I’ve kept out of this so far, and I want to stay out of it. As long as you’re safe, that’s all I care about. Chris can dream up all the wild theories he likes, but I’m having nothing to do with it. Now let’s go.’

Chris glanced at Megan. She looked at him with a mixture of confusion and anger. He couldn’t let Eric walk off with her.

‘Stop!’ he said, grabbing hold of Eric’s arm.

Eric turned and glared at him. ‘Get your hands off me!’

‘Yeah, stop,’ said Duncan. He stepped forward, brandishing the kitchen knife at Eric, a light sliver of grey in the darkness.

Eric froze. Megan let out a small scream.

Chris’s first thought was to step back and let Duncan stick the knife into Eric. Maybe he could even help him. Then sense took over. ‘Duncan. Hold on. Don’t do it.’

‘Why not? He killed my friends. He’ll kill us if we let him. He deserves to die.’

‘Don’t, Duncan. It’s wrong. And anyway, you’ll get caught. You’ll go to jail for a long time.’

‘It’ll be worth it.’

‘No, it won’t. Wait. I’ll call the police.’

‘No,’ said Duncan grimly.

Chris glanced at Duncan’s face. He knew there was no point in arguing further. And he couldn’t try to restrain Duncan physically without letting Eric go. So he released Eric’s arm and stood back. Megan was watching, horror-stricken. ‘Stop him, Chris.’

At that moment, Chris heard a click behind him. They all turned towards the sound. There was Marcus in his long coat, unshaven and out of breath. He was holding a gun, and pointing it directly at them.

‘Well, well, well. What do you call a group of investment bankers? A gaggle? A herd? Whatever. It looks like you all just can’t get along with each other.’

They were silent, staring at the gun.

‘Who are you?’ Megan asked at last.

‘Marcus Lubron. Alex was my brother. Until he killed him.’ Marcus nodded towards Duncan.

‘What do you mean?’ Duncan objected.

‘Put down the knife,’ Marcus said, jerking the gun at him.

Duncan didn’t move.

‘I said, put it down.’

Duncan slowly laid the knife on the ground.

‘You make me sick,’ Marcus said. ‘Not only do you kill my brother, but you start killing each other as well.’

‘No, you don’t understand,’ said Duncan, moving towards Marcus.

‘Stand still,’ snapped Marcus. ‘I know how to use this thing. It looks like I got here just in time to stop you killing another one.’

‘But it’s Eric who killed your brother!’ Duncan protested. ‘And the others.’

‘I’ve had enough of this whining bullshit. Stand over there. And you,’ Marcus waved the gun at Chris. ‘Stand with him.’

Chris and Duncan stood to one side, next to each other, facing Marcus. His face was in shadow, but Chris could just make out the determined set of his mouth. He was serious. Deadly serious. Chris felt fear grab him.

‘Marcus,’ Chris said, in his best attempt at a reasonable voice. ‘I think you’ve got this all wrong.’

‘Shut up, or I’ll blow your head off.’

‘But Chris didn’t do anything,’ Megan protested.

‘He killed your friend in Paris,’ Marcus said.

‘No he didn’t. Tell him, Eric.’

She turned to Eric. He said nothing.

Marcus raised the gun and pointed it directly at Duncan. ‘Alex may have meant nothing to you,’ he said. ‘But he was my kid brother. He would have had a great life ahead of him if you hadn’t finished it. I wasn’t there to protect him then. But I’m here now.’

‘Marcus—’ Duncan said, his voice cracking with panic.

‘I said, be quiet,’ Marcus snapped.

Megan watched all this with mounting horror. She was about to see someone shot in cold blood. She wanted to scream. She wanted to run. After the emotional turmoil of the last hour, and the strain of the previous month, she thought she was going to crack. It was all too much for her to take in. She looked at Duncan. Total fear. At Eric, impassive, with the hint of a small satisfied smile. And at Chris, standing straight, tense, but facing his last few seconds with courage.

In those last moments before his death, he turned to her. His eyes met hers. Suddenly something snapped inside her, and she saw everything clearly. People were going to die here. The wrong people. This was so much more important than her stupid infatuation. She also saw that somebody loved her. And it wasn’t Eric.

Slowly and deliberately, she stepped forward and placed herself in front of Duncan.

‘Get out of the way!’ Marcus growled.

‘No,’ Megan said calmly. ‘Put the gun down.’

‘Look, I don’t care how many investment bankers I blow away here. Now, move!’

‘I’m not an investment banker,’ said Megan. ‘And I don’t think these people had anything to do with your brother’s death. Even if they did, there has been too much killing. It must stop.’

A flicker of hesitation appeared in Marcus’s eyes. Megan glanced quickly at Eric. ‘Just tell me, how do you know who killed Alex? And why do you think Chris killed Ian?’

‘He told me,’ Marcus nodded towards Eric.

Then Megan knew. Eric had mentioned nothing to her about talking to Marcus. The attempt to implicate Chris was pure cynicism on his part. Eric had deceived her. About everything.

‘He lied,’ she said.

‘Jesus,’ Marcus said in frustration. ‘OK. Then I’ll shoot the lot of you. You all deserve it.’

‘You won’t shoot any of us,’ Megan said, taking a step forward. ‘You’re not a killer. Alex wouldn’t want you to kill us.’

‘I will,’ Marcus said, but Megan could see the doubt in his eyes.

‘Well, if you do, you’ll have to start with me. And you know I’m innocent.’

She took another step. The barrel of the gun was just inches from her chest. Marcus let it drop to his side.

Then Eric lunged. In one movement, he grabbed Marcus’s arm and twisted it behind his back. Hard. Marcus let out a yelp of pain and dropped the gun. Eric shoved him forward and picked it up. He pointed it at Megan.

‘Don’t try that stunt with me,’ he said coolly. ‘Because I’ll pull the trigger.’

‘You bastard!’ Megan said, her voice laden with contempt. ‘I believed in you, and you lied to me. And you murdered all those people just because they threatened your precious little plans.’

‘If you want something, you have to be prepared to do what it takes to get it.’

‘I thought you were something special,’ Megan said. ‘But I was wrong. You think you’re better than us, don’t you? Better than all of us. You think it’s OK for lesser people to die so that the great Eric Astle can realize his destiny. Well, let me tell you something. You’re small. You’re a nasty, lying, evil little low-life. You amount to nothing, Eric. You never were anything, and you never will be.’

‘Bitch,’ he said and raised the gun to take aim.

A few seconds earlier Chris had faced death and accepted it. He had felt fear and overcome it. Now he couldn’t stand and watch Megan die in front of him. In that moment, the decision seemed easy. If he stood still, Megan would die. If he jumped, perhaps he would get shot, perhaps Duncan would, but perhaps Megan would live. His eyes darted to Duncan, and he saw his fear had gone. He too was ready to act.

They launched themselves at Eric simultaneously. The gun went off, and then they were on him, joined in a moment by Marcus. Chris went for Eric’s right hand, still clasping the gun. He pinned it to the ground as it exploded again, this time the bullet speeding harmlessly off into the darkness. Eric writhed and kicked, but in a matter of seconds they had him pinned to the ground. Marcus prised the gun from his fingers, and held it to his ear. ‘Don’t move, fucker,’ he growled.

Terry watched all this from his vantage point, twenty yards away behind a tree. He knew this would happen sometime, that Eric would get himself in too deep. Well, Terry wasn’t going to go down with him. He had over a million dollars stashed away in a Swiss bank account for just such an eventuality. Not enough to see him out for the rest of his life, perhaps, but enough to support him on an extended vacation somewhere. Time to go. He slipped off and headed quietly back to the Jaguar and Stansted Airport.

Chris got to his feet, and Megan ran to him. He held her tightly.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, looking up at him. ‘Will you forgive me?’

‘Of course,’ Chris stroked her hair. ‘Of course I will.’

She smiled, and buried her head in his chest.

He heard a curse on the ground beside him. Duncan was holding his shoulder.

‘Are you OK?’ Chris asked.

‘I’m alive. But this hurts like hell. And it’s bleeding.’

‘Let me have a look.’ Chris and Megan squatted beside him. There was blood, and Duncan’s face was contorted in pain, but it didn’t look life threatening.

‘What shall I do with this asshole?’ said Marcus, prodding Eric.

‘Keep him there,’ said Chris. He pulled out his mobile phone and dialled 999. The questions and explanations were about to begin. But the insanity had ended.