Fatal Error

30

March 2000, three months later, Clerkenwell, London

‘A hundred and eighty million! You think Ninetyminutes will be worth a hundred and eighty million?’

The American woman held Guy’s incredulous gaze. ‘Absolutely.’

‘Pounds or dollars?’

‘Pounds.’

‘Wow.’

I shared Guy’s sentiments. We were in the Ninetyminutes boardroom with Henry Broughton-Jones and two representatives from Bloomfield Weiss, a big US investment bank that was hot on technology in the States and was trying to transfer those skills to Europe. We had been besieged by bankers over the previous two months. They all wanted to take Ninetyminutes public through an IPO, or initial public offering. This would involve listing our shares on the London Stock Exchange and the Neuer Markt in Frankfurt and raising money from the investing public and institutions. We had decided to appoint Bloomfield Weiss to guide us through the process.

The two investment bankers were about our age. One, the banker, was a smooth Brit with oiled-back hair and a permanent frown: he acted as the front man. The other, the well-groomed American woman who also wore a permanent frown, was an analyst. She had a record of boosting new-economy shares in the US and was beginning to do the same thing on this side of the Atlantic.

‘How do you come up with that number?’ I asked. ‘Last week you were talking about a hundred and thirty million.’

‘This market’s hot,’ said the analyst. ‘The smart US investors who’ve made a killing on the Internet in the States over the last twelve months have started looking over here for opportunities. Individual investors in the UK have gotten the internet bug, volumes are going through the roof, they’re all trading stock tips on electronic bulletin boards. Lastminute.com is coming to market in a couple of weeks with a valuation of three hundred and fifty million. Everyone’s clamouring for stock. A hundred and eighty million for you is doable. Very doable. Maybe we’ll get more.’

‘And how much new money can we raise?’

‘I think we can go for forty million. We want to leave some investor demand untapped so the stock goes up on the first day. It’s important to get upward momentum. These days investors are buying stocks that are going up simply because they’re going up. It becomes a virtuous circle. And one that we want to get started.’

‘But none of my forecasts show we’ll ever be able to make enough profits to justify those kind of numbers,’ I said.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ said the banker. ‘We’re not allowed to show the investors your forecasts anyway. Don’t worry. These guys are smart. They know what they’re doing.’

‘Are they? It doesn’t sound smart to me.’

The banker’s frown deepened. ‘You’ve got a great story to tell, David. And you’re going to have to tell it many times. You’ll have to believe it. You’ve got to get with the programme or get off the bus.’

‘Come on, Davo, get with the programme!’ said Guy, poking just a little fun at the mixed American metaphors dropping so pompously from the mouth of the British banker.

‘David, we’re the sellers here,’ Henry said. ‘The higher the price we sell at, the more money we make. It’s as simple as that.’

‘He has a good point,’ said the analyst, matching her colleague’s frown. ‘We need management’s commitment to make this thing work. We’re going to be taking you to see investors right across Europe in three weeks’ time. Investors can smell uncommitted management.’

‘Oh, I’m committed to make Ninetyminutes work, all right,’ I said, offended. ‘I’m just not committed to a valuation of a hundred and eighty million quid.’

‘That’s fine, Davo,’ Guy said. ‘Let Bloomfield Weiss worry about the valuation. You and I will worry about the company.’

‘All right,’ said the banker. ‘Our current thinking is that we start off in Amsterdam on the twentieth of March, then Paris on the twenty-first and Frankfurt on the twenty-second. We’ll go on to Edinburgh the following day, and then down to London...’

Ninetyminutes had recovered from its pre-Christmas wobble. Sanjay had taken Owen’s place and, together with Dcomsult, he had retailing up and running again in a matter of days. We shipped a respectable quantity of clothing before Christmas. The millennium came and went without blowing up our computer systems and we hit the New Year running. The German site was on-line by the beginning of March with the French site due to join them by the end of April. We bought a small company based in Helsinki that specialized in Wireless Application Protocol or WAP technology. Eventually this would allow people to check our website from their mobile phones for the latest football scores and news. And the visitor numbers kept on going up and up. Advertisers loved this, and we had no trouble signing them up.

This wasn’t enough for Guy: the more we achieved, the more he wanted. He had plans for even more rapid expansion. More advertising, more marketing, opening up several more European offices, a big ramp-up of the retailing operations. All this would need money. But now that didn’t seem to be a problem.

The IPO got everyone excited. Orchestra Ventures was enthusiastic about the idea: although they wouldn’t be able to sell any of their own shares immediately, they would be able to mark them up to show a huge profit on their books. Bloomfield Weiss liked it because of the fees they could charge everyone. Guy liked it because it would give him as much cash as he could spend.

And I liked it because it would make me a multimillionaire.

It was a very strange feeling. Of course, I had gone into all this with the vague idea of making a lot of money. And, in theory, when Orchestra Ventures had committed their initial investment the value of my stake had increased considerably. But at that stage survival was all I was worried about. In a few weeks my shares would be worth silly money. Of course, it would all be paper profits, but at some time in the future I should get my hands on real cash. What would I do with it? Buy my own Cessna 182? Buy a house on the Corniche? Send my children to Broadhill? It would change my life. I would be a wealthy man, just like Tony Jourdan. Somehow, despite my ambition, I couldn’t imagine that.

I realized that the money had little meaning for me in what it could buy. But it would mean a lot to me to know that I had made it.

Not just me. There was a smile on everyone’s face. Everyone had some kind of stake in the firm, everyone was going to make money. There was a huge amount of work to be done and no time to celebrate, but the place hummed with suppressed excitement. People put in sixteen-hour days and never seemed to get tired.

To my relief, there was no sign of Owen.

The IPO required a massive amount of preparation, especially on the accounting systems and the legal documentation. There was a prospectus to be written and checked and rechecked. Much of this work fell on me. Mel was a great help, and we spent long evenings together going over obscure points.

My father called, proposing lunch at Sweetings. I had blown him off the last two times he had suggested it, so this time I agreed. Besides, I had good news for him.

They had heard of dot-com fever in deepest Northamptonshire. Even the Daily Telegraph was reporting it excitedly. So my father could hardly wait to ask me how Ninetyminutes was doing.

‘It looks like we’re going to float at the end of the month,’ I said.

‘No! You haven’t been going a year yet.’

‘I know. Absurd, isn’t it?’

‘I didn’t even realize you were making profits.’

‘We’re not.’

My father shook his head. ‘The markets have gone mad,’ he said as he tucked into his dressed crab. But he couldn’t keep the smile off his face.

‘They have. But I’m not complaining.’

‘So, um, how much...?’

‘How much will your stake be worth?’

‘Er, well, yes. I was wondering that, actually.’

‘If the shares come out at anything like the level the bankers suggest, about nine hundred thousand pounds.’

My father choked on his crab. He began to cough, went bright red, and took a desperate swig from his half-pint tankard of Guinness. Eventually he recovered. ‘Did I hear you right?’

‘I think you did.’

A broad grin spread across his face. ‘Well done, David. Well done.’

I couldn’t help smiling back myself. I was proud to have repaid his faith in me so handsomely. I knew what really delighted him wasn’t just the money, but the fact that it was his son who had made it for him. What I hadn’t told him was that my own stake would be worth just under ten million pounds.

‘Don’t count the cash until you’ve sold your shares,’ I cautioned. ‘And certainly don’t spend any of it.’

‘Of course not,’ said my father. And then, ‘Well, well, well. I think the time has come to come clean to your mother.’

‘Haven’t you told her yet?’

‘No,’ said my father, looking a little embarrassed. ‘She might not have approved. But she’ll have to, now, won’t she?’

‘I suppose she will.’

I returned to the office to find it in full panic. I could tell it was a technology-related panic, because everyone was standing around Sanjay’s desk looking anxious, while he was frantically tapping into his computer and trying to communicate with his staff through the bodies around him.

‘What’s up?’ I asked Ingrid.

‘Goaldigger has been attacked by a virus.’

The goaldigger.com website was one of our biggest competitors. It had been active a year longer than us and had more visitors, but we were catching them up quickly.

‘What kind of virus?’

‘Apparently it’s been spitting out e-mails to all Goaldigger’s registered users. Look.’

She handed me an e-mail. It was addressed to Gaz, who had presumably been keeping tabs on the opposition.

‘This sounds strange,’ I said.

‘It is. It’s a hoax.’

‘You mean there’s no virus?’

‘There is a virus. But a simpler one. It just sends this e-mail to all Goaldigger’s customers scaring them off the site. It’ll take Goaldigger weeks to repair the damage to their reputation, if ever.’

‘What a shame,’ I said with irony. The hard truth was that bad news for Goaldigger was good news for Ninetyminutes.

Ingrid looked at me sternly. ‘If someone’s done this to Goaldigger, they might do it to us next. Guy wants to be sure that we’re not vulnerable.’

‘We’ve got firewalls and anti-virus software and stuff, haven’t we?’

‘Yeah, but presumably they had all that too.’

Sanjay was pretty sure that we had protection against a similar attack, but he monitored our system constantly over the next few days to make sure. Goaldigger did try to get the message out to its customers that the whole thing was just a hoax, but there was no doubt that the episode did them damage. No one found the perpetrator.

Guy, Ingrid and I decided to take an evening off to attend the March First Tuesday event. They were keen to have us. In the internet world we were already billed as a success story before we had even made our first profit. The event was held in the auditorium of a theatre, specially cleared for the occasion. There were queues to get in and pandemonium once we got there. I felt very different than I had last time: much more secure in who we were and what we were doing. As last time, there were hundreds of eager entrepreneurs with ideas. But even more of these ideas were half-baked. In the case of some of them, no one had even turned on the oven. There was also a new kind of venture capitalist circling the room: the ‘incubators’. These were young men or women who had raised money to invest in internet companies at the earliest stage: the equivalent of the Wapping phase in Ninetyminutes’ history. They were scarcely less flimsy than the companies in which they were investing, but somehow they had attracted cash and they were throwing it about. They made the thirty-year-old Henry Broughton-Jones look like a dinosaur.

Everyone had a story about one success or another, but the big story on everyone’s lips was lastminute.com, run by the woman I had met at my first First Tuesday. This was a website which provided tickets at the last minute for anything ranging from air travel to theatres to sports events. They were in the middle of an IPO, and the investing public were fighting for shares. The flotation price had just been raised again, valuing the company at nearly five hundred million pounds. Everyone in that room wanted to be as successful as lastminute and most of them thought they could be. Even, I’m ashamed to say, me.

After a couple of hours of frantic schmoozing, the three of us met up.

‘What a zoo!’ Ingrid said.

‘Can you believe these people?’ said Guy.

‘That’s where we were nine months ago,’ I said. ‘I didn’t believe it would last then. But it has. It’s grown. Lastminute is worth five hundred million. We’ll be worth a hundred and eighty. It really is a new economy after all.’

‘I told you, didn’t I, Davo?’ Guy said. ‘You should have had faith in me.’

‘I did have faith in you!’

‘Yes, I suppose you did.’ Guy smiled at me. Then he looked out over the throng. ‘I wish Dad could have seen this.’

‘He would have been proud of you,’ I said. Actually, I thought it more likely he would have been envious, but I didn’t want to mention that. Nor did I want to ask any more questions about his death. I had asked enough questions and found out as much as I was ever going to on that subject. Although I still didn’t know what had happened to Tony, I was convinced of Guy’s innocence; Owen was gone and I had told myself to be satisfied with that. Besides, if Guy could feel better about his father, that was a good thing.

We left the throng and went our separate ways. I walked down a side-street looking for a taxi. Guy and Ingrid went the other way. I waited at a corner, and nothing came, so I doubled back, trying to find a better spot for a cab.

I saw them together on the pavement. They were waiting for a taxi too. They were very close together. It looked as if Guy had his arm round Ingrid’s waist. I could hear Ingrid’s laugh ringing up the side-street towards me.

I stopped still and watched them. They didn’t see me. Suddenly I felt cold. The comfortable glow of internet success left me.

I turned on my heel and walked all the way home.

I slept little that night. The next morning I asked Ingrid to join me for a coffee. She agreed, and we headed for the place round the corner.

‘I wonder how many of those people last night will actually get funding,’ she said as we stepped out into the street.

‘Not many, I hope,’ I replied uncharitably.

‘I met a guy from QXL, you know, the auction site?’

I grunted. Ingrid went on.

‘It’s an amazing story. They floated in October with a market cap of two hundred and fifty million, and now they’re worth nearly two billion. Can you believe that? I knew they were doing well, but I didn’t realize it was that well. And all from selling knick-knacks over the Internet.’

I grunted again. We entered the coffee shop and ordered.

‘OK, out with it,’ she said as we sat down with our cappuccinos. ‘Something’s bugging you and you want to talk to me about it. By the look of you, it’s bugging you pretty badly.’

‘Oh, it’s nothing really.’

‘Come on. What is it?’

I looked her straight in the eye. ‘Are you sleeping with Guy?’

Ingrid appeared genuinely shocked. She put her cup down. ‘Am I what?’

‘You heard me.’

‘No. No, I’m not.’

‘It’s just, I saw you last night.’

‘And I saw you,’ she said defiantly.

‘I mean I saw the two of you. Together. Getting a taxi. Together.’

‘So what? I got in one and then he got in another.’

‘Oh, I see,’ I said.

‘Don’t you believe me?’ It was a challenge. Ingrid did not like having her honour questioned.

‘Yes. Yes, of course I do. It’s just, he had his arm around you. You were together. I’ve seen Guy with women. I know what happens.’

‘I said we went home in different taxis.’ She was getting angry now.

‘OK, OK.’ I held up my hands to calm her down. ‘It’s got nothing to do with me, anyway.’

‘Too right,’ muttered Ingrid. She swallowed the rest of her coffee and checked her watch. ‘Well, if that’s all it was, we ought to get back to work.’

Our IPO approached. Lastminute.com shares were priced at three hundred and eighty pence. On the first day of trading, desperate investors bid the price up to five hundred and fifty. That meant lastminute was worth over eight hundred million pounds.

I spoke to Bloomfield Weiss. They said they felt a valuation of two hundred million for Ninetyminutes was definitely achievable now, maybe even two hundred and fifty if the stock market’s exuberance continued. We’d get a better idea when the roadshow started the following week.

Then Derek Silverman called Guy. He had just received a phone call from Jay Madden, the head of Champion Starsat Sports. Madden wanted to meet Guy the next day. He had a suggestion he wanted him to listen to.

That could mean only one thing.

We met at the Savoy for breakfast. Guy insisted on bringing me along, for which I was grateful. Jay Madden was a forty-year-old South African with an American accent and business manner. He began by discussing Chelsea’s performance in the Premier League. A good move. He wanted to show us that although he was South African he knew his English football. He then slid into a quick description of Champion Starsat’s sports strategy. Basically, they wanted to own it, especially football. They were a long way towards this as far as TV was concerned, but nowhere when it came to the Internet. This didn’t bother Jay: he was sure he had plenty of time. He could either start his own site, or buy one. He liked ours.

I could feel my pulse quickening. This was real. This was going to be big money.

‘How much?’ asked Guy simply, biting into a croissant.

‘A hundred and fifty million pounds,’ said Jay.

‘Cash or stock?’

‘Stock. With a lock-up. We want to keep you people around.’

‘Not enough,’ said Guy immediately. ‘We can get two hundred and fifty million at the float next month.’

‘I’m not nickel and diming you this morning,’ Jay said. ‘We can do that next week. But what do you think about the idea in principle?’

Guy munched his croissant. Then he took another bite. This was a big decision. It might take him a whole croissant to get through this one.

‘No,’ he said.

No?

‘No? Just like that?’ Madden looked unhappy.

‘Ninetyminutes is doing well as it is. There is a role for an independent soccer website to dominate Europe. That’s going to be us. And the stock market will put a value on that. A value much higher than a hundred and fifty million pounds.’

‘But we can give you everything you need,’ said Madden. ‘Cash for expansion, plenty of outlets for promotion, contact with the clubs and the football associations.’

‘Oh, I know you’ll do well,’ said Guy. ‘And I’m not looking forward to having you as a competitor. But working for Champion Starsat isn’t why I started Ninetyminutes. It’s not why any of us work there. And it’s not why people come to our site.’

‘Are you sure this isn’t just about money?’ Madden asked.

‘Quite sure,’ said Guy.

Madden tucked into his sausage. ‘You’re not going to like us competing with you.’

‘I know,’ said Guy, staring steadily at Madden. Letting him know he wasn’t scared of him.

‘We could make you very rich.’

‘I intend to be very rich anyway,’ said Guy. He poured himself some more coffee. ‘Do you think Arsenal will catch United in the League?’

The board was waiting for us back at Ninetyminutes: Derek Silverman, Henry Broughton-Jones and Ingrid. Guy explained to the others Jay Madden’s proposal.

‘Wow,’ said Henry.

‘You were just trying to get the price up, right?’ I said.

‘No,’ said Guy. ‘I meant what I said. I think we should stay independent.’

‘But a hundred and fifty million!’ I said. ‘That’s got to be worth taking now.’

‘It’s in Champion Starsat stock, remember,’ said Silverman.

‘Better that than Ninetyminutes stock, quite frankly.’

‘The whole ethos of everything we do is based on independence,’ said Guy. ‘Our relationships with the clubs, our internet partners, our editorial policy. It’s how we’re going to succeed. Of course Champion Starsat will have a good site that a lot of people will want to see. So will the BBC. But ours will be better.’

‘But with their cash we can make our site better,’ I said.

‘Davo, don’t go all chartered accountant on me.’

‘That’s not fair.’

‘I want to make Ninetyminutes the number-one site in Europe. We’re almost there. And Henry,’ he looked pointedly at the venture capitalist, ‘when we are, we’ll be worth a lot more than a hundred and fifty million quid.’

‘That was just their first shot,’ I said. ‘They’ll go higher.’

‘So will the stock market. Tell him what value Bloomfield Weiss thought we might get, Davo.’

‘Two hundred million,’ I said grudgingly. ‘Perhaps two fifty.’

‘And it will go up after that,’ said Guy with total confidence. ‘Hang on in there, Henry, and I’ll make you some real money.’

‘A hundred and fifty million quid is real money,’ I said. I was being outmanoeuvred and I disliked it. I still couldn’t believe that Ninetyminutes could be worth anything like twenty million pounds, let alone two hundred, despite all the hype. Guy was right, and that annoyed me: I was a chartered accountant. The numbers didn’t add up. This was a great opportunity to get out while the going was good.

‘Let’s go around the table and see what people think,’ said Silverman in his chairman’s role. ‘Who’s in favour of talking to Champion Starsat? Guy, I take it, is a no.’

‘Definitely not.’

‘And David?’

‘Yes.’

‘Henry?’

Henry Broughton-Jones paused. He was smiling. You could almost see the greed around his lips. He wanted more, I could tell he wanted more, and Guy was offering it.

‘I think we should tell them we mean no,’ he said. ‘I have a very good feeling about Ninetyminutes. I think we would be selling it just before it takes off.’

‘Ingrid?’

I looked at Ingrid hopefully. I knew she had common sense. I could see I was going to lose this one, but it would be nice to have her on my side.

‘I agree with Guy,’ she said. ‘If we stay independent, we could well end up with a higher valuation. Besides, I like this company as it is. I don’t want to work for Champion Starsat.’

I was disappointed. Why was Ingrid supporting Guy and not me? Was it because... No, I’d drive myself crazy thinking like that. But if Ingrid was sleeping with Guy, then should I expect future disagreements to go this way?

‘Well,’ said Silverman. ‘For myself, I think there’s a right price for everything, even Ninetyminutes. But if the Chief Executive and the lead financial backer don’t want to sell, then that’s pretty conclusive to me. I’ll tell Jay.’

‘If they start up a site, we’ll cream them,’ said Guy, rubbing his hands.

I left the room in a foul mood.

31

The bubble was bursting.

We didn’t realize it immediately. To start with it looked like a temporary correction, a pause for breath while the market regained its strength to climb even higher. Within a few days of launch lastminute’s shares slipped under three pounds, well below the issue price. Thousands of individual investors were sitting on a loss. And NASDAQ, the American high-technology stock exchange, fell steadily as the month progressed.

Guy and I didn’t notice, and although the people at Bloomfield Weiss must have done, they didn’t tell us. At least, not at first. We embarked on our roadshow. Amsterdam went well, as did Paris, and the fund managers almost bit our hands off in Frankfurt. We had practised our presentations to death in front of our PR firm. Guy did an excellent job of extolling Ninetyminutes’ prospects, and I swallowed my pride and did my best to come across as a safe pair of hands. Sanjay was there to answer any technical queries. It was clear from the questions that not all the potential investors understood the intricacies of the Internet, but most of them knew something about football. And they understood, or thought they understood, that if you bought shares in markets that just kept on going up and up, you were bound to make money.

We arrived in cold, grey Edinburgh tired but euphoric. We were beginning to believe not only our own story, but Bloomfield Weiss’s as well.

Things started to go wrong in Scotland. We had breakfast at the Caledonian Hotel with some big investors who asked difficult and rather cynical questions about when we would ever make a profit. As the day progressed, the questions became harder. I found them particularly tricky, because I usually agreed with the questioner. How could a company that had been going for less than twelve months and was making no money be worth two hundred million pounds? How indeed.

Our smooth Bloomfield Weiss banker was looking worried. This involved not just a frown, but a stoop of the shoulders and a tendency to scurry off to make a call on his mobile at every pause. I was amazed how he was able to shed this demeanour for the few minutes he was introducing us, when he became transported by excitement over Ninetyminutes and its future.

Even Guy noticed things were going badly after the last afternoon session. He pulled the banker to one side. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Edinburgh fund managers are always awkward. They’re notorious for it. They’re just trying to live up to their reputation as canny Scots.’

‘Oh, come on. There’s more to it than that. There must be.’

The banker sighed. ‘Possibly. The market’s a bit shaky. Lastminute was off another twenty p yesterday and the NASDAQ was down again. Have you seen today’s Financial Times?’

‘No.’

The banker handed it over. Articles about investors being let down by lastminute’s share price collapse. About fund managers angry with the greed of their investment-banking sponsors. About how companies due to come to market in April were considering waiting to see what happened. And worst of all, an article about us. According to Lex, the Financial Times’s, back-page comment piece, we were a promising company but at two hundred million pounds we were wildly overvalued.

The Scots had read the papers. They didn’t like us any more.

‘Why didn’t you show us this earlier?’ I demanded, angry that I hadn’t picked up the FT myself that morning.

‘I wanted to wait until you’d done your presentations,’ the banker said. ‘Didn’t want to dent your confidence. These roadshows are all about confidence.’

‘So what do we do now?’

The banker frowned more deeply. ‘We carry on. We’ll win them round, you’ll see.’

When we got back to the hotel Guy and I stopped off at the bar for a quick drink. The banker ran off to make calls. The euphoria of the previous few days had worn off: we were tired and we were worried.

The banker returned. ‘Bad news, I’m afraid.’

‘What?’ said Guy, scowling.

‘I was just talking to the syndicate desk in London. They don’t think they can place the deal.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means we’ll have to pull it.’

‘You’re not serious? We can’t do that!’

‘If we can’t sell the shares, we can’t do the deal.’

‘But we need the cash! You promised us the cash. You said we could definitely raise forty million pounds.’

‘And that was a perfectly fair assessment at the time that we said it. But market conditions have changed. If we go ahead with this deal it’ll be a very public flop. That will be bad for all of us.’

‘But the Germans loved us!’

‘I spoke to Frankfurt. They’re getting second thoughts. And the problem with the Germans is they all get second thoughts together.’

‘So what do we do?’ I asked.

‘We wait. This is just a temporary thing. All bull markets pause for breath. In retrospect this will be seen as a great buying opportunity. Things will turn around in April, you’ll see.’

‘I don’t like this,’ Guy said. ‘I don’t like this at all.’

‘Believe me, neither do I,’ said the banker.

‘Do we have any choice?’ I asked.

‘I’m afraid not.’

Guy looked at me. Then he turned to the barman. ‘Two beers,’ he said.

The banker left us to it.

We had to put everything on hold until we knew we could get the IPO away. The uncertainty was immensely disruptive for the business, and for Guy’s frame of mind. We all watched the stock market closely. Things didn’t turn round in April. NASDAQ’s slide became a tumble. On the fourteenth of April it fell ten per cent on the day, reaching a level thirty-four per cent below what was now being seen as the all-time high of March. Lastminute’s shares were now down below two pounds. More significantly, the founders had been transformed from heroes to hate figures in less than a month. All those speculators who had fallen over themselves to fill their boots with lastminute shares could not be relied upon to do the same with ours.

Suddenly B2C websites were out of fashion; everyone wanted to be in B2B. B2C was business-to-consumer. B2B was business-to-business. Ninetyminutes was B2C.

The following Monday Bloomfield Weiss advised us to delay the IPO for a couple more months until the markets recovered. It was the kind of advice we had no choice but to accept.

That left us with a problem. We had big plans, but not much cash left to finance them. Guy and Owen could help a little. The winding up of their father’s estate had given them a million pounds each they could get their hands on. But that wouldn’t keep us going for long: we had been relying on forty. So Guy and I went to see Henry.

He gave us a friendly enough welcome when we met him in his Mayfair office. But despite the smile there was a frown on his high forehead, and he was fidgeting. Not a good sign.

Henry had been involved in the discussions with Bloomfield Weiss to delay the IPO further, and he knew we would need more money from somewhere. Nevertheless I took him in detail through our cash situation and the advice we had received from Bloomfield Weiss. I showed him forecasts for the next six months, which reflected the reduced expenditure levels I had been able to press Guy to accept. We needed ten million to see us through to October, by which time the IPO should have happened.

Henry was listening closely. When we had finished he ran his fingers through his thinning hair. ‘I have bad news, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘The answer’s no.’

‘What?’ exclaimed Guy.

‘I should explain.’

‘You certainly should.’

‘We had a big meeting here yesterday to discuss the latest market developments. We think there has been a fundamental change. It’s at times like this that venture-capital firms are tempted to throw good money after bad. We want to avoid that. So the message to all our investee companies is, conserve cash. You won’t get any more from us.’

‘But that’s absurd! If you don’t give us more funds, we’ll go under. If you do, you’ll make at least a hundred million.’

‘And if the stock market doesn’t pick up over the summer? What then? We put in yet another ten million?’

Guy calmed himself. ‘The business is going just as we said it would. Better. Our sites in Germany and France have started brilliantly; I wouldn’t be surprised if Germany outstrips the UK next year. Visitor numbers are still climbing, we went over four million last month. The retailing is losing money, but our own-brand stuff is doing well. You walk down any street in the country and you’ll see people wearing ninetyminutes.com T-shirts and sweatshirts. We’re building a brand here, Henry. And good brands, the kind of brands that are worth hundreds of millions, cost money to build.’

‘I know. But I can’t give it to you. It’s the firm’s policy.’ Henry glanced at me. ‘I’m sorry, David. I do understand all this. I’ve argued your case, believe me. But we’re a partnership and I need to abide by the partnership’s decision. No more cash.’

‘Let me talk to your partners,’ said Guy. ‘I’ll convince them.’

‘No point,’ said Henry, his voice cooling.

‘Let me call them direct.’

I raised my hand to steady Guy. Henry was our ally at Orchestra. Going over his head had no chance of getting us what we wanted. ‘So what do you suggest we do now?’ I asked him.

Henry raised his hands. ‘What can I say? The world’s changed. There is no more easy money. Batten down the hatches. Conserve cash. Make profits.’

‘But that’ll mean we’ll screech to a halt just when we’re pulling into the lead,’ said Guy. ‘This is a race. We put on the brakes, we lose.’

We had a real problem, and Guy and I sat down to figure out what to do about it. There really was no choice but to cut back. Stop the advertising campaign in its tracks. Freeze hiring. Hold back on the development of the WAP company in Helsinki. Delay plans for offices in Barcelona, Milan and Stockholm. And try to slow down the retailing express train that was speeding away, pulling truckfuls of cash with it.

We told the team. They had been through so many tribulations that they took another one in their stride. They all left at seven to have an ‘austerity party’ at Smiths.

Guy was less resilient. In March, he had been on a high. He had seen what lastminute had done and had genuinely believed he could do better. As far as he was concerned, Ninetyminutes was already the best soccer site on the Internet. Recognition of that fact was going to come in a matter of weeks and bring with it piles of cash. For Guy, that had been a given. He was already thinking how to spend it. Now he had not just to lower his sights, but to change his whole mindset one hundred and eighty degrees from expansion to efficiency, from investing in growth to cutting costs, from shooting for the moon to survival. It was a shock.

Long after the others had all gone to Smiths, he and I went for a pint to the Jerusalem over the road.

‘We’ll pull through,’ I said. ‘We always do.’

‘I guess so. If we cut back as much as you say we should, we’ll struggle on,’ Guy said. ‘But that’s almost the worst thing of all.’

‘What do you mean?’

Guy shrugged. ‘I always wanted to have either a huge success or a spectacular failure. Struggling along to break even until we eventually fade away is my worst outcome. It will be like death from a thousand cuts.’

‘We need to stay in the game.’

‘Oh, come on, Davo. You know as well as I do that once we stop growing it’s all over. The competition will pull away from us. Champion Starsat will start up its own site and they’ll overtake us. We’ll just be also-rans.’

Guy’s optimism was difficult enough to handle. His pessimism was impossible.

‘You never know,’ I said. ‘Maybe the others will have to cut back too. Maybe the stock market will bounce tomorrow and Bloomfield Weiss will be knocking on our door again. You have to keep going, Guy.’

‘Actually, I’m not sure I do have to. You and Ingrid can run things. Maybe I should slip away.’

‘That’s absurd.’

‘This is going the same way as everything else I try. Everything’s hunky-dory to start with, but then it just slides through my fingers. At drama school they thought I was a pretty damn talented actor. I looked good. After a couple of years I should have landed some decent roles. It didn’t happen. Instead I almost destroyed myself.’

‘This is different.’

‘Is it?’ Guy looked at me witheringly. ‘Ninetyminutes was a great idea. I thought I’d done well to get it this far. I thought I was good at this stuff. But then what happens? It runs into a brick wall like everything else.’

‘All successful businesses go through rough patches early on,’ I said.

‘Not this rough.’

‘Yes, this rough. Do you think your father never had times as tough as this? Do you think he gave up?’

‘Don’t compare me to my father.’

‘Why not? You do.’

Guy didn’t answer.

‘He wasn’t a superman, you know,’ I went on. ‘He was just another reasonably successful property speculator. There are many more like him around. Sure, he had flair. But he also had determination. He didn’t give up every time property prices crashed, did he? He can’t have done, or he’d never have survived.’

‘Perhaps he was lucky.’

‘Lucky?’ I snorted. ‘You make your own luck.’

‘Well, it looks like I don’t make mine.’ Guy stared into his beer. I stared at Guy.

Eventually he looked up and met my gaze. His eyes, usually so bright and forceful, were unsteady, hesitant. ‘I don’t know what I’ll do if Ninetyminutes doesn’t make it.’

I saw it then; saw the fragile core that was at the heart of Guy. I had caught glimpses of it during the many years we had known each other. Despite the success, the friends, the popularity, the women, the athletic ability and the money, Guy didn’t believe in himself. Ninetyminutes was his final attempt to build a solid shield around that core. The attempt had worked for a year or so but now it was all unravelling, leaving Guy soft, vulnerable and unprotected underneath.

Ninetyminutes had to succeed for Guy to survive.

Guy was watching me. He knew I knew.

I opened another beer as soon as I got home, and sank into an armchair. It was very hard not to let Guy’s despair rub off on me.

My eyes rested on the telephone. I still had an unpleasant task facing me that evening. It was one of those tasks that doesn’t get any easier the longer you leave it, so I decided to face up to it straight away. I called my parents.

Fortunately, my father answered. He was full of expectation.

‘Did you tell Mum?’ I asked him.

‘Yes, I did,’ he replied. ‘To tell you the truth she was a bit miffed. Can’t think why. Seemed to think I had taken a big risk. She said even if it all came out well in the end it might not have done. Still, we’ll show her, eh?’

‘Perhaps not, Dad.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You must have read about our IPO being delayed.’

‘Yes. But that was just for a few weeks, wasn’t it? The papers say this is just a correction. The market will be roaring ahead again any moment soon.’

‘Well it had better hurry up,’ I said. ‘Because until it does there will be no IPO.’

‘Oh,’ said my father, thinking through the consequences. ‘So where does that leave Ninetyminutes?’

‘Very short of cash,’ I said. ‘I don’t think we’re actually going to go bust, at least not for a few months yet, but it means we don’t have any funds to invest in the business. It will be all we can do to keep it ticking over.’

‘Your mother won’t like this.’

‘No, she won’t. But you’d better tell her, Dad.’

‘Perhaps I’ll wait a couple of weeks. You never know what might turn up.’

‘Tell her, Dad.’

My father sounded deflated. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘And good luck.’

32

I was working late and Guy was out of the office. I didn’t know whether he was at a meeting or had sneaked home. I was engrossed in a spreadsheet for calculating Amy’s funding requirements for the retailing business over the summer, when I felt as much as saw someone watching me. I looked up. It was Ingrid, sitting in Guy’s chair, fiddling with a strand of her chestnut hair.

‘Am I disturbing you?’ she asked.

‘No.’ I looked at the papers in front of me representing hours of unfinished work, work that couldn’t be done during the hurly-burly of the normal office day. ‘That is, you are, but I’m grateful.’

‘Stressed?’

I smiled. ‘Yeah. I am stressed. And tired. Funny, really, I could handle all the hard work when I thought we were just about to do the IPO, but it’s more difficult when we’re struggling to survive.’

‘What do you think about the IPO?’

‘We’ll get it away in the summer,’ I said. ‘It’s just a question of getting through the next couple of months. Bloomfield Weiss are confident we’ve got a good story, and the site’s going well.’

Ingrid’s pale-blue eyes were watching me steadily. ‘Is that what you really think?’

I sighed. ‘I don’t know what I really think. All that might happen. Or Bloomfield Weiss could be totally wrong and we’ll never do an IPO. We might never get another penny of cash from anywhere. Champion Starsat might come back and buy us tomorrow. The site might crash. On-line retailing sales might go through the roof. People might stop using the Internet. The world might stop turning. Doing this job, I’ve given up trying to forecast even a day ahead. We just have to keep plugging away and hope.’

‘I know what you mean,’ said Ingrid. ‘But Guy seems worried.’

‘He is,’ I said.

‘I think he’s losing his nerve.’

‘Do you?’

‘Don’t you?’ She looked at me pointedly.

‘Yes,’ I admitted.

‘Unless he pulls himself together, everything will fall apart before we get a chance to do the IPO.’

‘Can you talk him out of it?’ I asked.

‘I don’t think so. We don’t have that kind of relationship.’

I couldn’t help myself raising an eyebrow. Ingrid pretended not to notice.

‘What about you?’ I asked her. ‘Are you worried? You always look so cool about everything.’

‘Do I? I don’t always feel cool about everything. Yes, I am worried. Of course, everything has always been so uncertain at Ninetyminutes. And I kind of expected that when I joined. It made a change after working for a large corporation with its plans and budgets. But over the last nine months I’ve really found myself being drawn in. If we’d done the IPO my stake would have been worth three million pounds. That’s serious money. It’s really why I joined Ninetyminutes. It’s so frustrating to have that amount of money so close and then see it whipped away from you. I might never get another chance.’

‘Neither might any of us.’

‘I don’t want to let it go, David. When we’re so close.’ She must have seen the surprise on my face. ‘What is it? You looked shocked.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t expect you to be so focused on the cash.’

‘Aren’t you? Isn’t Guy?’

‘Oh, yes,’ I said. ‘But I know about Guy. And about me. I suppose I always assumed that this was just a more exciting job for you. I thought you didn’t have to worry about money.’

‘Oh, because I have wealthy parents, you mean?’

‘I suppose so,’ I said.

‘Rich parents do not solve all your problems. Just ask Guy.’

‘I think I’m beginning to understand that.’

‘This job is fun, I’ll grant you that. And it’s true I’m not going to starve. But my father is never going to give me anything much more than pocket money. Nor should he. I don’t expect it. I’m going to have to make my own way in the world, and I’m cool with that.

‘I’ve done all right so far. I have a good reputation in the business. I could have walked into any of the top magazine publishers in the UK, or anywhere else for that matter. Good salary, good prospects. A woman can do well in magazine publishing. It’s just that a rich woman can do even better.’

‘So what will you do if you do make your three million out of Ninetyminutes? Retire to the South of France?’

‘No way. I’d stick with Ninetyminutes for as long as was necessary. But then I’d probably start my own magazine. Or maybe website. With my own money instead of somebody else’s.’

It made sense, of course. Ingrid had never seemed to me to take life very seriously, but there was no reason why she shouldn’t want to make her millions just as much as Guy and I did. And her reasons were more down to earth than ours. For Ingrid, joining Ninetyminutes had been a rational, if risky, career choice, a route to somewhere she wanted to go. She knew who she was. Both Guy and I were still trying to find out.

‘Let’s hope you get your chance,’ I said. ‘In the meantime, all we can do is keep our cool and pray.’

‘And try to get Guy to do the same thing.’

A week of austerity. Budgets slashed, office heads briefed, Amy placated. I did most of it. Guy’s enthusiasm seemed to have left him completely. His energy reached a new low. He showed up every day, but he was of little use. And this sudden lethargy made a big difference. We had all come to rely on his confidence and encouragement, urging us on to do those seemingly impossible tasks. Without it, the hill seemed higher to climb for all of us.

Frankly, this irritated me. Now wasn’t the time to give up. I wasn’t going to roll over and die, sulking as I did so. I had put a year of my life, fifty thousand pounds and my father’s retirement savings into the venture and I wasn’t about to give up on all that. I tried to replace Guy’s energy with my own. It wasn’t quite the same, but the team appreciated it.

And then, the following Tuesday, I got a call from Henry.

‘Henry, how are you?’ I said. Unlike Guy I didn’t hold Orchestra’s lack of support against him personally. I believed him when he said he had fought for us against his partners. Plus I still liked the guy.

‘I have something to say to you,’ he said, his voice cold, colder than I had ever heard it.

‘Yes?’

‘One. Orchestra Ventures is prepared to invest a further ten million pounds into Ninetyminutes. Terms to be discussed.’

‘That’s wonderful news,’ I said, a little hesitantly. His tone wasn’t that of someone bearing wonderful news.

He ignored me. ‘Two. As from today, responsibility for the investment in ninetyminutes.com within Orchestra has been passed to Clare Douglas. She will be in touch with you shortly. I will resign from your board and she will take my place.’

‘Don’t we get any say in this?’ I asked. ‘We’ll miss you.’

‘No,’ said Henry. ‘And three. I and my family are taking a two-week holiday, beginning tomorrow.’

‘Oh.’ Wishing him a good trip didn’t seem to be what he wanted to hear. Why he wanted to tell me at all was a mystery. ‘Why the change of heart?’

‘You don’t know?’ said Henry, his voice bitter.

‘No,’ I said, my suspicions rising. ‘No, I don’t.’

Henry sighed. ‘I hoped as much. Just ask your partner. He’ll tell you. Now, if you want to know anything else, talk to Clare.’

I put the phone down. Was this good news? It should have been very good news. It just didn’t feel like it, that was all.

I looked across my desk to where Guy was checking the latest news stories on the site. ‘That was Henry.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘Orchestra want to put in ten million quid.’

Guy sat up in his chair, his face suddenly alight. ‘You’re kidding?’

‘I’m not. But he’s resigning from the board. Clare Douglas is taking over.’

‘I don’t care who we’ve got on the bloody board as long as we’ve got ten million in the bank.’ He let out a whoop. ‘Hey, guys, we’re back in business.’

They all crowded round. Guy told them the news. As they filtered back to their desks he noticed my expression. ‘What’s up? Upset that you don’t get to cut any more costs?’

‘I don’t know. It doesn’t smell right. Henry seemed very cold. Eager to get off the phone. And why has he passed us on to Clare Douglas?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Guy. ‘He’s your friend.’

‘He wouldn’t tell me why he’s changed his mind. He said you’d know.’

‘He changed his mind because he’s finally realized what a great business this is,’ said Guy. ‘Not before time, either.’

‘It’s almost as though someone has been putting pressure on him. Or Orchestra. Do you know anything about that?’

‘No, Davo, I have no idea what you’re talking about. How could I put any pressure on Orchestra? Cheer up. We’ve got the cash. We’re motoring again.’

But as Guy left his desk to revive the troops, I called Henry back. ‘Henry, I don’t understand. Something’s going on here.’

Henry sighed down the line. ‘Did you talk to Guy?’

‘Yes. He said he didn’t know anything. He told me not to worry about it.’

‘He’s probably right.’

‘Do you want to have a quiet drink somewhere? Just the two of us, so you can tell me what’s going on.’

‘Listen to Guy. There is nothing going on. And I don’t want a drink with you or anyone else from Ninetyminutes. I’m going on holiday tomorrow morning and I hope I will have nothing to do with any of you when I get back.’

We took our foot off the brake and pressed down on the accelerator. Hard. I had some misgivings about this: what if we couldn’t get an IPO away in the summer? Then we’d be out of cash again. I voiced these to Guy. His answer was predictable. If we didn’t move fast, we wouldn’t get to where we wanted to go. If that meant we had to take risks, so be it. I knew he was right.

In an internet start-up, you are always looking ahead. Things are going so fast that there isn’t time to look back, consider past mistakes, regret missed opportunities. If you make a mistake you correct it as best you can and move on to the next thing. This was especially true of Ninetyminutes.

But I couldn’t help thinking. Thinking how handy it was for us that Tony Jourdan had died exactly when he had. How fortunate we were that Henry had suddenly changed his mind about investing in us. And for that matter, how lucky we were that our biggest rival had mysteriously been struck by a computer virus.

Once again, it was all too convenient.

Someone was going to great lengths to make sure Ninetyminutes survived. There was one obvious candidate. Owen.

True, it was difficult to see how he could possibly have killed Tony. But even after he had left Ninetyminutes I could imagine him still doing all he could to ensure its survival, if not for his own still substantial equity stake, then for his brother.

Henry might not want to talk to me, but I was going to talk to him.

I knew he was on holiday, so I rang his secretary asking for his address, saying I had some urgent documents to courier to him. She was having none of it, insisting that I should send the documents to her for forwarding. It was clear he had told her not to divulge anything.

When I had met Henry at First Tuesday he had told me he was in the process of buying a house in Gloucestershire. Chances were that was where he had gone. But how to find the address?

I called Fiona Hartington, a woman we had both trained with, who was still working for our old firm of accountants. She and Henry had moved in the same social circle. As I had suspected, they still did. I explained that I was going through Gloucestershire myself that weekend and I thought I might drop by. Did she by any chance have the address?

She did.

Henry’s house was on the far side of the Severn, towards Ledbury. It was a dilapidated place on the edge of a quiet village. I drove past slowly and saw a Land Rover Discovery parked outside. Just the kind of car Henry would need to navigate his children through the wilds of South London. I turned around a few yards further along the narrow lane and drove back into the small driveway, feeling like a trespasser. I noticed there was a dent in the back of the Land Rover.

A fair-haired two-year-old boy appeared from nowhere, turned and ran round the side of the house screaming ‘Daddy!’ A moment later I saw Henry in old checked shirt and jeans. He was sweaty and grimy: he had obviously been working in the garden. He didn’t look pleased to see me.

‘Hello, Henry,’ I said optimistically.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing here?’

‘I want to talk to you.’

‘Well, I don’t want to talk to you, so bugger off.’ He looked nervously over his shoulder to where his child had disappeared to. I guessed he didn’t want to explain my presence to his wife.

‘Walk, Henry?’

‘No. I said, bugger off.’

‘Henry. I’ve driven a hundred and fifty miles to see you. I’m not just going to turn round and go back. Talk to me and I’ll go.’

‘I’ve done what you asked.’

‘I haven’t asked you to do anything,’ I said. ‘You know that. Someone has. I want to know who it is and what they asked you to do.’

Henry looked at me, glanced over his shoulder and said, ‘OK. But let’s make it quick.’

He led me out on to the lane and after a few yards we crossed a stile into a field.

‘Someone has scared the hell out of you,’ I said. ‘Who is it?’

Henry walked in silence for a moment, considering his response. We were making our way diagonally across a field grazed by sheep towards the brow of a low hill. It was mildly strenuous and in the spring sunshine I quickly warmed up. Apart from intermittent birdsong and Henry’s heavy breathing as we climbed the hill, there was silence.

‘It started a couple of days after I told you and Guy Orchestra wouldn’t put any more money into Ninetyminutes. My wife came back from the supermarket with the kids in the car. She let them out first and they ran to the front door. They found my daughter’s ginger cat lying dead on the front doorstep. It had been... dismembered. The two kids started screaming. My wife had to clear it up and calm them down. She called me at work and I told her to report it to the police, which she did. They came round to take a statement. They didn’t seem to know anything about it: there hadn’t been any similar attacks in the area.

‘As you can imagine, the whole family was pretty upset. The next day, my wife was taking the kids somewhere when her car was rammed from behind by a large van. She had stopped at a T-junction and the impact sent her out into the road in front of on-coming traffic. Fortunately, no one hit her, but it could have been different. They could have been killed. All of them.’

Henry’s mouth was locked in a grim line. He was walking faster, it was hard to keep up.

‘What happened to the van?’

‘It reversed fast and disappeared round a bend.’

‘Did your wife see who was driving it?’

‘She only saw it in her rear-view mirror. She said it was driven by a man. Quite a big man. She didn’t really see his face.’

‘Young? Old? Dark hair? White hair?’

‘She didn’t see. She was a wreck. I came home from work early and tried to comfort her. Then, the next morning, there was a plain envelope on the mat with my name on it. I opened it and there was a note. All it said was “Give them the money. No police”.’

‘Was it handwritten?’

‘No, it was a standard computer font. I took it to work with me and thought about it. There seemed to be only one option. I was sure it referred to Ninetyminutes. I knew whoever wrote it was serious because they had nearly killed my family the day before. And I remembered what had happened to Tony Jourdan. I also knew I should report it to my partners at Orchestra and to the police, but that would increase the risk to my family and that was something I wasn’t prepared to do. After all, it’s Orchestra’s money, not mine. And it’s only a job; a good job, but I can always get another one. Not like my family.’

‘Jesus,’ I said. ‘Henry, I swear I didn’t know anything about this.’

He glanced at me. ‘I believe you. But I decided I wasn’t going to have anything more to do with Ninetyminutes. Or with you. That seemed the safest.’

‘How did you swing it within Orchestra?’

‘It was difficult. I cashed in every Brownie point I had to get them to agree to the money. And then, once they had, I said I wanted to go off the board. They didn’t understand that. But fortunately we’ve been trying to find a good company for Clare Douglas to look after. She’s very ambitious and she’s been demanding more responsibility. She worked on the initial investment in Ninetyminutes and I knew she liked the deal, so this kept her quiet. I hated doing it, though.’

‘I’m sure.’

‘If we lose the money, and I’m pretty sure we will, I’m going to find it hard to live with myself. I owe the guys at Orchestra Ventures a lot. A ten-million hole will make a real dent in their performance. But I didn’t have any choice. Did I?’

He was searching my face as we puffed uphill. This wasn’t a rhetorical question. He had taken the difficult decision alone, and he needed assurance that it had been the right one.

If I had had a wife and children, what would I have done? I didn’t know. But I couldn’t tell him that.

‘No, Henry. You had no choice.’

We stopped at the brow of the hill and looked over the village towards the Malvern Hills. It was a pretty spot. It seemed miles away from Ninetyminutes and its troubles.

‘So now you know,’ said Henry, ‘what are you going to do?’

‘Stop it,’ I said, without hesitation.

Henry glanced at me doubtfully. ‘Good luck. But please don’t tell anyone I told you about this. And whatever you do, don’t tell the police. I’ve given up ten million pounds of other people’s money to make sure my family is safe. You’d better not put them in jeopardy now.’

‘I won’t,’ I said, and meant it.

I was angry as I drove back to London. There was no doubt in my mind that it was Owen who was responsible. But I felt guilty by association. The reason Ninetyminutes had survived was because Owen had scared the wits out of a decent man’s family. If Ninetyminutes prospered I would know it was because of Owen’s brutality, not hard work from the rest of us. I had told Henry I would stop it, and stop it I would.

Of course, what I didn’t know was whether Guy had any knowledge of what Owen had done.

I drove straight to Owen’s place in Camden. I rang the bell to the first-floor flat with his name on it. No reply. I looked up; the curtains were drawn. Perhaps he was away. I recognized his black Japanese four-wheel drive parked further along the road. Abroad maybe?

I brooded for the rest of the weekend.

On Monday morning, I took the opportunity of a period of relative calm at the office to ask Guy.

‘Seen much of Owen lately?’

‘Not recently,’ said Guy. ‘He’s gone to France.’

‘France?’

‘Yeah. He’s staying at Les Sarrasins. Since Sabina’s gone back to Germany, Owen said he’d look after the place for a bit. We may well sell it, it’s not clear.’

‘So he’s there now?’

‘Yes,’ said Guy. Then a breath of suspicion brushed his face. ‘Why?’

‘I never can figure Owen out,’ I said, shaking my head as though I had asked for no other reason than curiosity about what made Owen tick.

But Guy was staring at me as I turned my attention back to the pile of papers on my desk. ‘Leave him alone, Davo,’ he said. ‘Leave him alone.’

33

I was supposed to be going to Munich the next day. Instead, I drove to Luton airport and from there caught a cheap flight to Nice. I hired a car at the airport, and drove through the city and along the coast road towards Monte Carlo, passing beneath Les Sarrasins. There was something I needed to find out before I spoke to Owen.

I parked in what seemed to be a burrow in the hill, and climbed up Monte Carlo’s cramped streets to the road where Patrick Hoyle had his office. It was in a building filled with lawyers, accountants and investment firms. Hoyle was on the fifth floor. I left the lift to be met by thick carpets, blondwood-panelled walls, and an imperious young secretary with waist-length fine hair and an aquiline nose. I hadn’t made an appointment, which drew a pout of disapproval, but once she had announced my presence I was ushered through into Hoyle’s office.

It was a large space, flooded with clear Mediterranean light from the windows overlooking the harbour. Hoyle himself was seated in a big leather swivel chair behind a massive desk. As I glanced around the office, I realized that everything was big, as though it had all been made by a tailor to fit its owner.

Hoyle bade me sit by his desk.

‘I’m surprised to see you here,’ he said. ‘I can’t imagine what Ninetyminutes might be doing in Monaco. Perhaps you’ve come to put your cash reserves on the red at the roulette wheel?’

‘Not quite,’ I said.

‘It’s been done many times before,’ said Hoyle. ‘Sometimes it seems like the only solution. But the logic is faulty. It’s true that double or quits has a close to fifty-fifty chance of succeeding. But psychology dictates that desperate people play on till they lose.’

‘Well, that’s not why I’m here. I’m planning to see Owen.’

‘Really?’ Hoyle raised his eyebrows.

‘I understand he’s staying at Les Sarrasins at the moment?’

Hoyle didn’t confirm this. ‘And you thought you’d drop in on me on the way?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Ninetyminutes has had another couple of strokes of good fortune. Like Tony Jourdan’s death.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Our major competitor was hit by a computer virus. And when our financial backer refused to give us more money, his family was threatened to make him change his mind.’

‘I see,’ said Hoyle. ‘And this is why you’re going to see Owen? You think he’s responsible?’

‘Yes. I don’t have proof, but I’m pretty sure he is. But what I still don’t know is who killed Tony.’

‘Neither do the police.’

‘So I understand. They haven’t even held the inquest yet. I’ve checked on Owen and Guy. They both have cast-iron alibis. But I can’t help thinking that Owen killed his father somehow.’

I waited for some reaction from Hoyle. I didn’t get one.

‘What do you think?’

‘I think that you are talking about the son of my client.’

‘Who may have been your client’s murderer.’

Hoyle shrugged his large shoulders. I had hoped for more assistance after our previous chat waiting for a taxi in Chancery Lane. But at least he hadn’t thrown me out. I had the impression that he was curious about what I had discovered.

‘I didn’t expect you’d be able to help me with Tony’s death,’ I said. ‘But I wanted to ask you about the gardener.’

‘I’ve told you, I had nothing to do with that,’ said Hoyle.

‘I know.’ I paused. Outside, a helicopter skimmed low over a cruise ship, which was manoeuvring in the cramped harbour. ‘Did you know that Owen killed Dominique?’

Hoyle’s eyebrows shot up and his fleshy mouth dropped open. ‘Owen did?’ Then he pursed his lips, pondering for a moment. ‘I thought it might have been Guy.’ At last he was venturing an opinion of his own.

‘No, it was Owen.’ I told Hoyle what Guy had told me about that night. Hoyle listened closely. ‘And I think that it might have been Owen who killed the gardener, Abdulatif. He was in France around about the time the body was found, seeing Tony. Do you remember talking to him about Abdulatif?’

The fat lawyer hesitated.

‘Oh, come on, Mr Hoyle. We’re on the same side here. We both want to know who killed Tony Jourdan. I think what happened to Dominique and the gardener might have some bearing on it.’

Hoyle thought it over. In the end he spoke. ‘Yes, I do remember talking to Owen. He came to see me in this office. He brought a contribution towards the money to pay off Abdulatif.’

‘Did you give him Abdulatif’s address?’

‘I didn’t have it.’

‘Did you tell him anything about Abdulatif?’

‘I don’t think so. But I was planning to make a payment to Abdulatif whilst Owen was in France. He knew that: that was why he’d given me the cash.’

‘Where was the drop?’

‘Outside a bar in a seedy part of Marseilles.’

‘Did Owen know which bar?’

‘No. But I think he probably knew when I was going. He could have followed me.’

‘Did you hand over the cash to Abdulatif directly?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is it possible Owen could have followed you and then followed him? Followed him and killed him?’

‘I suppose it is. I didn’t see him. But I wasn’t looking. It is possible. Abdulatif’s body was found only a couple of days later. He had been stabbed.’

‘And you didn’t suspect Owen?’

‘I did suspect something. But not Owen. I still thought of him as a kid, even though he must have been, what, twenty at the time. But I thought he was too young. Too much of a computer freak. It was Guy I was suspicious of.’

‘What about the French police?’

‘They did go to see Tony, but I think it was just as a courtesy to inform him of what had happened to the man believed to have killed his wife. The death didn’t even merit a mention in the newspaper: I checked Le Provençal.’

‘And what about Tony?’

‘He wasn’t suspicious, either.’ Hoyle paused and glanced at me. ‘At the time.’

‘What do you mean, at the time?’

Hoyle didn’t answer for a long time. He was staring at me through his pink-tinted glasses, his huge head nestling in his many chins, weighing things up. It was uncomfortable, but I kept quiet, letting him think.

Eventually, he spoke. ‘I think I told you that Guy was anxious that we didn’t tell Tony about the pay-off to Abdulatif?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, I went along with that. It wasn’t something I was happy with, and I became increasingly convinced that it was unnecessary, since Tony was innocent. But having kept it from him to start with, it became harder to mention it.

‘Although Guy was in a way my co-conspirator, this whole business had made me distrust him. I wasn’t enthusiastic when Tony decided to back him in Ninetyminutes — you know my views on the Internet. I wasn’t surprised when the two began to clash. Anyway, Tony was convinced that Guy was doing things all wrong. Tony has always been a great believer in cash flow, and it worried him that Ninetyminutes was never going to produce any. And I think there was some rivalry in it. He wanted to show Guy who was top businessman.’

‘I’m sure that’s true.’

‘After that rather dramatic board meeting where Guy resigned, Tony and I went out to dinner. He talked about Guy and how he was never going to make it as a businessman. He asked me what I thought of him. That was usually a subject we kept clear of. Tony would sometimes talk about how proud he was of Guy, or how frustrated he was by him, but he had never asked for my opinion before.’

‘What did you say?’

‘I said I mistrusted him, and Tony knew I had some reason for saying that. He pushed me. It was late, we’d both had a lot to drink, he was an old friend and I felt bad about keeping what I knew from him. So I told him about Guy’s idea to pay off Abdulatif.

‘He leapt at it. He was convinced right away that Guy was trying to divert attention from the real killer, Guy himself. It only took him a few more seconds to suspect Owen of killing Abdulatif. I wasn’t nearly so sure, but when Tony got hold of a notion, then it was lodged in his brain.’

‘How did he react to the idea that both his sons were murderers?’

‘It was odd,’ Hoyle said. ‘He wasn’t shocked. More agitated. He really didn’t like Dominique at the end, and he didn’t give a toss about Abdulatif. It was almost as though he had half-suspected Guy all along, and I had finally given him the proof he had been looking for.’

‘Did he say he was going to talk to Guy about it?’

‘No. But he was thinking hard when we left the restaurant. His brain was whirring. I’d seen him like that many times before. He was making plans. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he did talk to Guy. But I never saw him again after that evening, so I don’t know.’

‘I don’t know, either. Guy didn’t mention anything.’

‘Are you sure it was Owen who killed Dominique and not Guy?’ Hoyle asked.

‘I think so,’ I said. ‘Guy was quite convincing, although I’m not sure how much notice I should take of that. Both the brothers certainly felt abandoned by their father, but I don’t think Guy was quite screwed up enough to want to kill his stepmother just because he saw her having sex with someone else. Whereas Owen? Who knows about Owen? There’s a deep streak of violence in him and he has a warped view of the world. He could have transferred his anger with his father on to Dominique, and become even more angry when he saw her betraying him. Perhaps Guy’s right, Owen didn’t intend to kill her. But once Guy had realized what his brother had done, it was totally in his character to try to protect him.’

‘Watch Guy, David. He’s the actor, the schemer, the manipulator.’

‘Not a nice thing to say about your client.’

‘He’s not my client, technically. The estate is. And as I said, Tony was my friend.’

‘One last question. How long has Owen been at Les Sarrasins?’

‘Only a few days. Guy called me in the middle of last week to tell me he was coming.’

That was just after Henry had changed his mind about the investment in Ninetyminutes. It meant Owen was in England when Henry’s family had been threatened. It also suggested Guy might have known about what Owen was doing, and had waited to send him away until after Henry had capitulated. An unpleasant thought.

I stood up to leave. ‘Thank you, Mr Hoyle.’

‘Not at all.’ Hoyle groaned to his feet. ‘Did you say you’re going to Les Sarrasins now?’

‘That’s the idea.’

‘Be careful.’

As I drove up the winding road in low gear, with the Mediterranean stretching out a brilliant blue below me and the maquis clinging to the hillside above, I began to feel nervous. I had been impelled this far by the conviction that I had to do something to stop Owen. I had successfully pushed all thoughts of the risks involved out of my mind, but now, as I was approaching Les Sarrasins, they seemed all too obvious. Owen would not take kindly to what I was about to say. Owen was bigger and stronger than me, we had already established that. As long as Owen behaved rationally, I was safe. But how could I be convinced that Owen would be rational?

I almost turned back. But the thought of Owen causing more mayhem with other people’s lives in the name of Ninetyminutes kept me going. I had to stop him.

I parked the car outside the big gates and pressed the buzzer on the intercom. They swung open, and I left the car by the side of the road and walked into the courtyard in front of the house. It was as immaculate as I remembered it; clearly the Jourdan estate was still paying for the place to be maintained. I pressed another bell on the front door.

I waited and pressed the bell again. Finally I heard movement inside and the door opened.

It was Owen, dressed in grey Ninetyminutes T-shirt and shorts, his white spiky hair peeking out of a Ninetyminutes baseball cap. His feet were bare.

‘What the fuck are you doing here?’

‘I’ve come to talk to you.’ I pushed past him. I went through to the living room. Although Hoyle had said Owen had only been there a few days, the place was a tip. There were food wrappers, soft-drink cans and pizza boxes everywhere. A sweatshirt was draped over one of the abstract sculptures. And on a desk in a corner in the midst of the greatest concentration of rubbish a laptop hummed. I could clearly see the ninetyminutes.com logo on the screen. Owen was looking at our website.

He chuckled as I walked over to the machine. ‘You see, you can’t keep a good man away from the office.’

‘Are you trying to hack into our site?’

‘Hack into it? I go into it, like, every day. Sanjay might not have told you, but I like to keep a close eye on what goes on at Ninetyminutes.’

I turned to him, stunned. How foolish we had been! After Owen had left we had taken no measures to protect the system from him. There was all kinds of damage he could have been doing since he had left, probably had been doing.

‘Don’t look so shocked,’ Owen said, smirking. He was really enjoying this. ‘I haven’t done Ninetyminutes any harm. In fact, I’ve been a lot of help to Sanjay in the last couple of months.’

‘Does Guy know about this?’

‘Probably. We haven’t spoken about it specifically, but he knows me. You thought you’d gotten rid of me. But I can control things just as well from here.’

Jesus! But I believed Owen when he said he hadn’t done any actual harm. In fact he probably had done some good. I felt a surge of anger at Guy. He knew what Owen was doing. I was bloody sure he knew.

Owen moved over to the kitchen area, tripping over a pizza box on the way. A half-eaten slice spun across the floor.

‘Where’s Miguel?’ I asked.

‘He couldn’t handle the place like this, so I told him to stay away. But I think it feels kind of cosy.’

He opened a can of 7 Up and strolled out into the garden. I followed him. It was a brilliantly sunny day, but there was a cool breeze blowing in from the sea. He sat down at a table near the marble railings overlooking Cap Ferrat, and I joined him. Wrappers and cans lay at the base of the lavender bed a couple of feet away. Owen was treating his father’s house with the contempt that he had always felt for its owner. His smugness was getting to me, as I was sure he intended it to.

‘I know what you’ve been doing,’ I said.

Owen sipped his drink and squinted out to sea, ignoring me.

‘You threatened Henry Broughton-Jones. Scared the wits out of his family so that he gave Ninetyminutes the ten million quid.’

‘Really? How do you know that?’

‘Don’t worry: he wouldn’t tell me anything. But it’s obvious he’s scared. And it’s obvious who’s been scaring him.’ I wanted to keep Henry safe from any more of Owen’s attention.

‘So, Orchestra did invest, did they?’ Owen said.

‘And you sent the virus to Goaldigger.’

‘Technically it wasn’t a virus. It was a worm.’

‘I don’t care what it was, technically,’ I said, fighting to keep my frustration under control. ‘It was sabotage.’

‘Horrible,’ said Owen. ‘I hope they catch whoever did it.’

‘I know you killed Dominique. And I think it’s highly likely that you killed Abdulatif.’

‘Abdulatif?’

‘The gardener who was blackmailing you and Guy.’

‘Oh, you mean the dude the police think wasted my stepmother.’

‘Yes. Him. You knew Patrick Hoyle was going to pay him off. You followed Hoyle to the drop. You saw him give the money to Abdulatif. You followed him and then stabbed him.’

‘Man, you do have some weird ideas.’

‘And I think you got your father killed. I don’t know how, but I’m sure you arranged it.’

‘Have you been smoking something?’

This time I stared out to sea, towards the white craft buzzing round Cap Ferrat.

‘You don’t have any proof,’ Owen said at last.

‘No. But I have enough to get the police asking difficult questions.’

‘I don’t think so. You have nothing to link me with any of this. Half this stuff happened, like, years ago.’

‘I want you to stop,’ I said.

‘Stop what?’

‘Stop threatening people. Stop hurting people. Stop killing people.’

‘Huh!’ Owen snorted.

‘I know you’re doing all this for Ninetyminutes. I know you think it’ll help your brother. But Ninetyminutes can get by without that kind of help.’

‘Can it? I don’t think so. You know how close Ninetyminutes has gotten to the edge. It’s been real lucky to make it this far. I guess sometimes it needs a little help.’

‘I’d rather Ninetyminutes went bust than it survived with your kind of help.’

‘You know what? I don’t give a shit what you think.’ Owen’s flippancy left him: he looked serious. ‘Ninetyminutes means everything to my brother. It’s, like, his last chance. It’s also his best chance. If it works he’s going to be just as rich as Dad, probably richer. If it fails, it’s going to be worse than just a disappointment to him. It will totally destroy him. I don’t like you very much, but I know you like him. You know I’m right.’

Owen was trying to talk me into seeing his point of view. That was a first. But he was right. I remembered Guy in the Jerusalem Tavern the evening after Henry had turned us down. If Ninetyminutes went under, so would Guy.

But.

‘Guy is my friend. I know you’re trying to help him. But listen to me. Listen to me carefully.’ I leaned forward. ‘I would prefer Ninetyminutes went into liquidation tomorrow than it survived by terror or murder, whatever effect that may have on Guy or any of the rest of us. So if I see you trying any more of this extortion, if anyone else gets hurt, I will blow the whistle. I’ll tell the police, I’ll tell the press, I’ll tell anyone else who’ll listen. It will finish Guy. It might finish Ninetyminutes. But I’m prepared to do it.’

Owen watched me for a moment. Then he burst into laughter. ‘You’re just as bad as me or Guy, you know that? You’re desperate for Ninetyminutes to succeed. You’ve looked the other way for so long, why should I believe you’ll suddenly become a good citizen? You and me are no different. Except I’ve got the guts to do something to make Ninetyminutes survive, and you’re too scared. Sure, you’ll take the millions of pounds from the IPO, but you won’t get your hands dirty. You’ll let other people do that. People like me.’

There was something uncomfortably true about what Owen said, at least as it related to the past. But not for the future; I was determined about that.

‘You know,’ said Owen, ‘I never really liked you since I saw your naked butt going up and down on my stepmother.’

I couldn’t answer. I stood up and turned to leave.

I felt, as much as saw, a sudden movement behind me. I spun round as Owen grabbed my shoulder and dragged me back towards the railings. I squatted down to prevent myself being tossed over, and jammed one leg against them to try to get purchase. He leaned into me and pushed. He was stronger and heavier than me. I felt my foot slip. I took a swift glance behind me. There was nothing, just air, and then, far off, the sea.

Owen lunged again. My foothold gave way, but I managed to twist so that Owen’s forward momentum brought him up against the railings. For a fraction of a second I had the chance to give him that little extra push that would send him on his way. But I didn’t do it. I couldn’t do it.

Owen saw my hesitation. His eyes gleamed. With his legs far apart now, giving him a secure footing, he reached for my shoulders and pulled. I found my chest on the railings, my face staring down at waves gently shifting in and out over the strip of sand a thousand feet below. It was a long, long way. I was gripped by vertigo; a surge of panic rose like bile from my stomach and I jerked backwards to try to break free, but it was hopeless. I couldn’t move.

‘You know what happened to the last person who tried to threaten us?’ he muttered.

I didn’t. I kept quiet.

‘Anyway, let’s just get straight who’s threatening who here,’ he said. ‘If Ninetyminutes needs my help, and I think it does, then I want you to promise me you won’t get in the way. Do you understand?’

I didn’t answer.

Owen heaved. For a fraction of a second I thought I was going over the edge, then he grabbed me again. My face smashed against the railings. ‘I said, do you understand?’

‘Yes,’ I said, fighting back the panic.

I heard a grunt, and he pulled me back over the railings. I collapsed in a heap on the ground. I felt my cheek: there was blood.

‘OK. Now piss off out of here.’

34

‘Where the hell were you?’

I looked up from my desk. ‘Morning, Guy.’

‘Jesus! What happened to you?’ His expression changed from anger to astonishment as he saw my face.

‘Someone tried to push me off a cliff.’

‘Looks like it. There aren’t any cliffs in Munich.’

‘I didn’t go to Munich.’

‘I know. I was trying to get hold of you all yesterday. Your mobile was switched off. They hadn’t seen any sign of you in the office over there. Where were you?’

‘France.’

‘When you say someone tried to push you off a cliff, you don’t mean the one by Les Sarrasins?’

I nodded.

‘You saw Owen. You picked a fight with him, didn’t you?’ The anger was returning.

‘No. I told him to stop screwing around with Ninetyminutes. I told him to stop threatening the likes of Henry and me. I told him to stop sending computer viruses.’

‘He didn’t do any of that,’ Guy said contemptuously.

‘He did. I know.’

‘You know!’

‘Guy! He almost killed me!’ Guy’s refusal to see the obvious was getting to me.

‘My brother has a bad temper. You know that. If you went over there to hassle him it’s not surprising you got hurt. Now just leave him alone.’

‘You tell him to leave us alone.’

‘What the hell do you think he was doing at Les Sarrasins? I told him to go there. You’re the one stirring up trouble, Davo!’ He was shouting now. Everyone was watching.

‘One day, he’s going to kill someone,’ I said, just preventing myself from adding the word ‘again’ with so many ears listening.

‘Just lay off him!’ Guy was glaring at me.

I got up and left my desk, fuming. Everyone stared. Guy and I frequently disagreed, but we never shouted at each other, certainly not in the office. This was a first, and everyone was aware of it.

I went out on to the street. I heard footsteps behind me. It was Ingrid.

‘David, wait!’

I waited. She looked at my face and touched my scratched cheek. ‘That looks nasty.’

‘It hurt.’

‘Owen did this?’

‘Yes. He was trying to scare the living daylights out of me. For a moment there, he succeeded.’

‘My God.’ She fell into step beside me. ‘What were you doing?’

I told her about Henry and about my theory that Owen had planted the Goaldigger virus. I didn’t mention Owen killing Dominique and Abdulatif. Although I had told Hoyle, Guy had specifically asked me not to tell her, and I felt I should respect that, at least for the time being. She listened with a mixture of shock and sympathy.

‘I knew Owen was weird, but I didn’t know he was that weird,’ she said when I had finished.

‘It turns out he is.’

‘It was pretty brave of you to go and see him.’

‘Or stupid. But I had to. I had to stop him.’

‘Do you think you’ll succeed?’

‘Probably not. But I had to try. I couldn’t let him just carry on terrorizing people without doing something.’

‘What did you say to him?’

‘I told him that if he caused any more trouble I’d bring Ninetyminutes down. Talk to the police, the press.’

‘And will you?’

I stopped and faced her. ‘Yes.’

She avoided my eye. ‘Ah.’

‘What do you mean, “ah”? Do you think I’m wrong?’

‘Well. Owen has to be stopped, you’re right about that. And I don’t condone anything he has done, in fact quite the opposite. But if he does something stupid totally beyond our control, that’s no reason to ruin Ninetyminutes.’

‘What?’

‘You said it yourself to Guy. Ninetyminutes means something to all of us. It’s not just a means for Guy to prove something to his father. And it’s not just your conscience.’

I shook my head. ‘Whatever Ninetyminutes is, it’s not worth someone’s life.’

‘Of course it’s not,’ said Ingrid. ‘But that’s not the issue here. It’s not our fault Owen’s a psycho. Ninetyminutes shouldn’t have to suffer.’

‘But don’t you see? The threat of that is the only way to stop him.’

‘It won’t make any difference.’

‘It might. And for me, that’s enough.’ But I could see it wasn’t enough for Ingrid. She had put a year of her life into Ninetyminutes. I had known she badly wanted it to succeed, only now did I realize how badly. It depressed me. Without saying another word, I turned on my heel and walked. This time, she didn’t follow me.

My trip to France hadn’t solved anything. The doubts I had felt before Christmas, doubts that I thought I had laid to rest, were returning stronger than before.

I had thought the situation was clear. I knew Owen was dangerous, but I had thought he was out of the way. Guy, I had thought, was guilty of no more than protecting his brother. And I had thought that I could forget about France and Tony’s death and concentrate on Ninetyminutes.

It was now obvious I couldn’t. Owen wasn’t out of the picture, and neither was Tony’s death. My conversation with Hoyle had raised more questions than it had answered. What had Tony done with the knowledge that his sons had been blackmailed by Abdulatif and that one of them had probably killed the blackmailer? Knowing the Jourdan family, it seemed unlikely to me that he had simply offered counsel and support. And I remembered something Owen had said while he had me pinned against the railings at Les Sarrasins. Something about what had happened to the last person who had threatened them.

Was he talking about his father?

I should take Owen’s threats seriously. I felt the icy fingers of fear tickle my chest. I was afraid of him.

I knew Owen had killed in the past. I knew he could kill again. He didn’t like me, he had probably never liked me, but while I was on Guy’s side he would tolerate me. Once I started asking questions, probing into his brother’s past, that attitude would change. He was strong, he was clever, he was ruthless. But what was most frightening about him was he just didn’t have the same sense of proportion as other people. Nor did he seem to have any remorse. He had bitten off a schoolboy’s ear in a rugby match. He had killed his stepmother for the crime of adultery. He would kill me if he thought I was a serious threat to his brother.

So should I just look the other way, as Owen had mocked me for doing up till now?

It was tempting. It wouldn’t disrupt Ninetyminutes. I’d stay alive. I might even make some money.

But it was the memory of Owen’s taunts that made me realize I couldn’t do that. I wasn’t the kind of person who got rich on the back of other people’s crimes, and I didn’t want to become that kind of person. I would find out what had happened to Tony, and I would do my best to make sure that no one else was killed.

The problem was, I didn’t have the time.

Guy’s optimism had returned with a vengeance. Ninetyminutes had ten million pounds to spend and he had lots of ideas on how to spend it. Offices in Milan and Barcelona to complement those in Paris and Munich. A site dedicated to Euro 2000, which was taking place in June. More recruits: we now had forty employees and the number was climbing week by week. Organizing this stretched all of us.

And we didn’t actually have the cash yet. Following his phone call Henry had sent us a letter promising us ten million pounds subject to terms to be agreed. As far as I was concerned, those terms had to be agreed as soon as possible. And that meant talking to Clare Douglas.

Clare was diligent, fearsomely diligent. She wanted numbers on everything: website visitors, on-line sales, costs, budgets, cash flows, advertising revenues, headcount. She wanted these numbers going back into the past and forward into the future. And she asked questions, lots of questions. Although I respected her, all this caused me a lot of extra work when I had other things to focus on. I wanted to sign the damned shareholders’ agreement and get on with it.

Guy, Mel and I met Clare at eight o’clock one morning in the boardroom in Ninetyminutes’ offices to discuss the agreement. It should have been very straightforward, since the draft in front of us was based heavily on Orchestra’s original investment document. The only difficult point would be, as always, the price. How much of the company would Orchestra get for their ten million pounds?

Clare was a small figure, stuck alone on one side of the table facing the three of us. She was a couple of years younger than us, but there was something in her grey eyes that said, don’t try to push me around. I noticed how she was fidgeting with a pencil and she seemed more nervous than usual. It wasn’t altogether surprising: we were prepared for a tough negotiation session.

What we weren’t prepared for was what Clare actually said.

‘I’m worried about this investment, Guy.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean I’m not sure Ninetyminutes is going to make it.’

The three of us stared at her.

‘I don’t understand,’ I said, although I understood perfectly well. ‘This money should see us safely through until we do an IPO later in the summer.’

‘But what if the stock market gets worse rather than better?’

‘In that case, it’s possible we might not get the funds at the price we originally wanted.’

‘You might not get the funds at all.’

‘We’ve been through all this with Henry,’ Guy interrupted. ‘The decision’s been taken. He’s written us a letter promising us the funds. Orchestra can’t go back on that, can they, Mel?’

‘Definitely not,’ said Mel.

‘You’ve just decided this?’ said Guy, glaring at Clare with contempt.

‘Yes,’ Clare said, glaring back.

‘And what does Henry say?’

‘Henry’s still on holiday.’

‘You mean you haven’t even talked to him?’

‘No. But I’m responsible for this investment now within Orchestra. And I’ve made my decision.’

‘And what will your senior partners say about you welching on a deal?’

‘They’ll stand by me.’

‘When this gets out, which it will, it’ll ruin Orchestra’s reputation.’

‘So will investing ten million pounds only to lose it three months later.’

Clare’s answers were clear and strong. I admired her: she was doing a good job in difficult circumstances.

Mel coughed. ‘Clare, I’d like to draw your attention to this letter that Henry sent us. It clearly states that Orchestra Ventures will provide the funds.’

‘On terms to be agreed,’ Clare responded.

‘Which is what we should be discussing now.’

‘Very well. We will make the ten-million-pound investment mentioned in the letter in return for ninety-five per cent of the company and voting control on the board.’

‘That’s absurd!’ said Guy. ‘That values the company at next to nothing.’

‘It’s next to bankrupt,’ said Clare.

‘With voting control, you could just put the company into liquidation and get your funds out,’ I said.

Clare gave me the briefest of smiles. She had thought of that. ‘The truth is, as I said at the beginning, if we don’t want to invest, we don’t have to. Now, I think I must be going. I’d like to talk about how we take the company forward from here. You still have two hundred thousand pounds in your account. But that’s a discussion for another time, don’t you think?’

She gathered her papers together and left the room.

‘Jesus Christ!’ Guy snarled as she closed the door behind her. ‘She can’t do that, can she, Mel?’

‘I don’t know. We can try and stop her, but it will be difficult. Henry’s letter is subject to contract.’

‘First Bloomfield Weiss and then Orchestra Ventures! These City guys offer you money and never come through with the goods. I’ll tell the press about this. Davo, I want you to get right on to Henry and get him to sort this out.’

I shook my head. ‘Sorry, Guy.’

‘What do you mean? Call him!’

I glanced at Mel, but decided to talk anyway. ‘You know as well as I do why Henry changed his mind. Owen threatened his family.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Owen mutilated Henry’s daughter’s cat and then shunted his wife and children into the middle of a busy road.’

‘What is this crap?’ Guy said.

Mel looked at me as though I was mad.

‘I’m not about to put more pressure on him,’ I said.

‘All right, give me his number. I’ll call him.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘And let me tell you something else. If any more threats are made to Henry, or Clare, I’ll tell the press and the police everything I know. And be sure to pass that message on to your brother.’

With that, I left the room and returned to my desk. I picked up a pen and paper and started to figure out how Ninetyminutes could possibly survive without the Orchestra money.

Ten minutes later, Guy returned to his desk. We sat there in silence for a few minutes, opposite each other but avoiding each other’s eyes. Then Guy spoke.

‘Davo?’

‘Yes.’

‘I promise you I know nothing about Henry’s family being threatened.’

I didn’t answer, but turned back to my work.

‘And I swear that neither I nor Owen will put any pressure on Clare or Henry or anyone else at Orchestra.’

I glanced up. Guy’s eyes held mine. He looked sincere. Of course.

‘But, I am going to do everything legal I can to keep Ninetyminutes alive, and so should you. Agreed?’

‘I’m not going to persuade Orchestra to do anything, Guy.’

Guy breathed in deeply. ‘OK, I’ll do that. But are you with me?’

Was I with him? His brother had done terrible things to keep Ninetyminutes alive. But then Guy had just renounced them. And there was the small matter of my life savings as well as my father’s. I didn’t want to let Ninetyminutes go either.

‘I’m with you.’

‘Good. Now let me get those bastards at Orchestra.’

I heard Guy harangue the bastards at Orchestra for the next hour. But it was clear from Guy’s half of the conversation that they weren’t going to budge. They were one hundred per cent behind Clare. Although her actions had placed Ninetyminutes in probably the most difficult situation we had ever experienced, I couldn’t help admiring her. She was a brave woman.

I suspected she didn’t realize how brave.

That afternoon I went round to Bloomfield Weiss’s offices in Broadgate to discuss the possibility of doing an IPO for a reduced amount of funding at a lower price. The banker was not optimistic. NASDAQ was still sliding. All the hot internet stocks were way below their IPO prices and slipping lower by the day. Wait till the summer, he said. We were in May. I wondered when his summer would start. Not any time soon, I thought.

Back at the office, I described my meeting to Guy. He listened impatiently.

‘So what are you going to do about it?’ he asked when I had finished.

I took a deep breath. ‘I think we should do two things. Firstly, we should talk to Champion Starsat again. Ask them whether they still want to buy us.’ Guy scowled. I ploughed on. ‘Secondly, we should cut way back on expenses to make the cash we have left last longer. If we cut back far enough, we might be able to last through till October. We might even break even.’

‘Great idea, Davo. And what price do you think Champion Starsat will pay? I’ll tell you something, it won’t be a hundred and fifty million quid. If we didn’t want to sell out at the top of the market, why should we sell now? And as for cutting back, I keep telling you, we need more investment, not less. Can’t you see that?’

‘We don’t have any choice. If we carry on as we are we’ll be closing our doors in three weeks.’

‘Look, I want solutions, not problems. Finance is your responsibility, Davo, so be responsible for it. We are the fastest growing soccer site in Europe; ninetyminutes.com is a brand people know. We’re getting there. We’re winning. And you’re trying to tell me that we’ve lost. I don’t get you, Davo. We used to work together as a team. But now I think you’re just trying to look for problems.’

‘I don’t have to look for them,’ I said. I was angry now. ‘They’re there, staring me in the face every day from our bank statement. I can’t make them go away.’

‘You could bloody well try,’ said Guy.

‘Oh, yes? How?’

‘Fire Bloomfield Weiss. Get an adviser with guts. You must still have some mates at Leipziger Gurney Kroheim. And what about all those other people who were falling over themselves to get our business in March?’

‘It’ll look bad in the market if we fire Bloomfield Weiss.’

‘I don’t care what it looks like. All I want is a broker who can get us the cash.’

‘It’ll be hard to find one.’

‘How the hell do you know until you’ve tried?’

I didn’t answer. He sounded right. But I knew he was wrong.

‘And I haven’t finished with Orchestra Ventures yet. They broke their word and they know it. If I can’t get them to change their mind, Mel will.’

I shook my head. ‘Don’t count on it.’

Smiths was crowded. It was Friday, still a big night, even in the current climate. Pink-slip parties were beginning to take over from website launches, but the dot-commers still had money to burn. It was Guy’s birthday, his thirty-second, and the drink was flowing.

The funding worries had led to a build-up of tension throughout the whole company and it was as if everyone wanted to take this opportunity to forget present worries and remember past camaraderie. I was drinking fast; Guy was drinking faster. The chatter was frantic, the laughter loud. Time flew.

At about ten o’clock I found myself slumped on a sofa, an empty space next to me. Mel plumped herself into it.

‘Hello,’ I said.

‘Hi.’

‘How are you?’

‘Yeah, all right,’ she said.

‘How’s it going with Guy?’ I asked, without thinking. Although I had spent a lot of time working with Mel over the previous three months, I hadn’t spoken about her and him since I had caught them together.

She raised her eyebrows, surprised I had brought up the subject. Then she answered me. ‘It’s so frustrating. Sometimes he’s there. Sometimes he’s not. I just never know.’

‘Some things don’t change.’

Mel sighed. ‘No. I just wish they would.’

I suddenly found myself with lots of questions that I had wanted answered for a long time. This seemed the right time to ask them.

‘When I came round to Guy’s flat that night, why did you show yourself? I mean, you could have stayed tucked up in bed. I’d never have known.’

‘I could,’ said Mel. ‘In fact, that’s what Guy wanted me to do. But I get sick of being his secret squeeze. If I’m good enough for him to shag, then I should be good enough to talk to his friends.’

I was taken aback by the bitterness in her voice. ‘Of course you’re good enough,’ I said.

‘Well, can’t you tell him that?’

‘He wouldn’t listen,’ I said. ‘He listens to me less now.’

‘He’s feeling the pressure.’

‘When did you two get together again?’ I asked.

‘Oh, it’s been going on for a while, on and off. It started last year just after he’d had that massive row with his father about turning Ninetyminutes into a porn site. He usually comes to me when he’s feeling down. It’s all secret, of course,’ she said bitterly. ‘No one should ever know.’

‘Why do you put up with it?’

Mel turned to me. There were tears in her eyes. ‘I can’t help it. I just can’t help it. I know I should have him on my terms or not at all. But the truth is, I need him. When he’s not with me I’m so miserable I’ll put up with anything to get him back. Anything. And he knows that. Sometimes I think he’s a total bastard, but then he smiles, or he touches me and, well, there’s nothing I can do.’

I got Mel another drink. And one for myself.

‘Thanks,’ she said, taking hers. ‘It doesn’t look good, does it?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Ninetyminutes.’

‘It never looks good.’

‘I can’t believe that stupid Scottish cow wouldn’t give you the money.’

I sighed. ‘She’s probably right.’

‘Do you think Ninetyminutes will make it?’

‘I don’t know. I can’t quite see how. We’ll have to cut right back, and Guy will hate that.’

Mel squinted at me. ‘That stuff you said about Owen threatening Henry Broughton-Jones. Was that true?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘All true.’

‘Did Guy know?’

‘I have no idea. But I was serious about going to the police if he or Owen threatens Clare.’

‘Bitch,’ muttered Mel.

We sat in drunken misery together on the sofa, the hubbub of the party all around us. Guy was a few feet away, talking to Ingrid. He put his arm around her waist.

I felt Mel stiffen next to me. ‘There’s another bitch,’ she muttered under her breath. ‘What does he see in her compared to me?’

It was true that Mel was more conventionally better-looking than Ingrid; she was taller and she had a better figure. But Ingrid had something about her, something that Guy could see, and so could I. I decided not to explain this to Mel.

She glanced at me, scowled because I hadn’t given her the response she was looking for, and then climbed unsteadily to her feet. I should have stopped her, but actually I wasn’t too happy seeing Guy put his arm around Ingrid either.

I watched from my vantage point on the sofa. I couldn’t hear, but I could see. It was predictable. Mel swayed up to Guy. Draped herself on his arm. They exchanged words, gentle at first, then sharper. Ingrid pulled herself away from them. Then Guy said something harsh and low that only Mel could hear. It was if she had been slapped. She turned on her heel and marched straight towards the door, blinking back the tears.

There was a slight drop in the noise level as people paused to watch, but it quickly rose again. Guy reached for Ingrid’s waist. She pushed him away and disappeared to the loo.

I returned to the bar for another drink. I felt a gentle touch at my elbow. It was Ingrid. ‘Can we go outside for a moment?’

‘Sure.’

It was a cool May night, and I huddled into my jacket. But the fresh air took the edge off the beers I had drunk. ‘Where shall we go?’

‘I don’t care,’ Ingrid said. So we headed east, with Smithfield Market looming on one side, towards Charterhouse Square.

‘I saw Mel having a go at you,’ I said.

Ingrid shuddered. ‘She’s never forgiven me for what happened in Mull. That was such a stupid thing to do, I know, but it was a long time ago and she really has nothing to fear now.’

‘Doesn’t she?’

Ingrid laughed and squeezed my arm. ‘No. It’s true I used to find Guy fascinating, but he’s not my type.’

‘Oh, really?’

‘Yes, really. I’ve been surrounded by flaky screwed-up people like him and Mel all my life. Somehow I’ve avoided becoming like them. I’d like to try to preserve my sanity.’

‘I think you’re totally sane,’ I said.

‘Ah, that’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me.’ She squeezed my arm again.

‘Now that is sad.’

We walked and talked. Past St Paul’s, silhouetted against the three-quarter moon, past the Georgian columns of the Mansion House and the Bank of England, through the narrow streets of the City, alternating between stretches of deathly quiet and patches of noise and light where people spilled out of crowded bars on to the pavement. Eventually we ended up by the river approaching Tower Bridge. Not far from Guy’s flat in Wapping.

Ingrid halted. ‘I think we’d better stop now,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ I agreed.

‘Thank you for walking with me. I needed that.’

‘So did I, I think.’

We were in one of those quiet stretches. Lights were everywhere, yellow and orange, illuminating the tower beside us and the bridge ahead of us, and dancing on the swiftly flowing river. I felt the urge to kiss her, but I hesitated, confused. Was Ingrid my friend? Or something else? Did I want her to be something else? Did she?

Ingrid saw my confusion and her eyes creased into a smile. ‘See you tomorrow,’ she said as she reached up to peck me on the cheek. Then she hurried off up the hill towards the busy road, in search of a taxi.

I watched her go, feeling pleasantly disoriented. I wondered what had happened that evening, if anything. I found my own cab, but as I was climbing into it, I realized I had left my briefcase at Smiths. It was late, but I thought I would check to see if the place was still open. It was, just. I found my briefcase and then made my way to the gents before heading for home. I passed a dark corridor and noticed two figures in an embrace. One was Guy. I peered into the darkness to see who the other was. Michelle.

Poor Michelle.

35

The next day was Saturday, for us a workday. There were a hundred and one urgent things to attend to, but I took advantage of the fact that I had no meetings arranged to put them all on one side for a couple of hours and concentrate on Tony’s death. While Guy was plotting his public revenge on Orchestra with the PR people, I called Detective Sergeant Spedding. He remembered me instantly and invited me to come in to talk to him that afternoon.

I met him in a bare interview room at the police station in Savile Row. A friendly freckled face beneath red hair. He brought me a cup of coffee and we sat down.

‘I’ve become a big fan of your website,’ he said.

‘Excellent.’

‘But I think you’re wrong about Rovers getting a new manager for next season.’

‘I’ll pass that on.’

‘What we really need is someone good in the air up front.’

‘I’ll pass that on too.’

‘Thank you.’ He stirred his coffee and sipped it. ‘So now we’ve got the important stuff out of the way, talk to me.’ He smiled encouragingly.

‘Do you have any idea yet who killed Tony Jourdan?’

‘Now why is it that every time I talk to you, you ask the questions and I answer them? Isn’t it supposed to be the other way round?’

‘Sorry,’ I said.

Spedding smiled. ‘We don’t know who killed him. We can rule out a contract killer: running someone down in a street like that is very messy. All kinds of things could go wrong. So that makes it most likely that it was someone who knew Jourdan.’

‘I see.’

‘Of the immediate family, Sabina Jourdan was in France at the time and I doubt very much she paid the man you saw, Donnelly, to kill him, for the reasons I just gave you. Besides, he’s not that kind of hired help. We probed the two sons’ alibis pretty thoroughly but they stacked up. Jourdan had some old business enemies that bore him grudges, so it’s just conceivable that one of them may have been involved, but we haven’t been able to uncover any useful leads there. So our official best guess at the moment is that it was a drunk-driver hit and run. But in such a small street that seems very unlikely to me.’

‘So Owen’s alibi held up? He couldn’t have tampered with the CCTV or anything?’

‘No. He was definitely in the Europa a couple of minutes before his father was run down.’

‘And Guy?’

Spedding looked at me closely. ‘What about Guy?’

‘Did Guy’s alibi check out?’

‘It seemed to. He went for a drink with his brother in Camden and then went to see a girlfriend in St John’s Wood. He got there at nine thirty, only five minutes after the murder.’

‘And she confirmed that, did she?’

‘Not just her. She had a friend staying with her that night who saw Guy as well. There wouldn’t have been time from when Guy left the pub in Camden to when he arrived in St John’s Wood for him to drive to Knightsbridge. He claims he didn’t have his car with him that evening, anyway. We checked it. Clean.’

‘Do you know whether he saw his father that day?’

‘He saw him the day before, at Jourdan’s place in Knightsbridge. According to Guy, it was quite an upsetting meeting.’

‘Did he say what they talked about?’

‘Yes. The future of Ninetyminutes. He was trying to persuade his father to change his mind.’

I hesitated before asking my next question. ‘Did they talk about anything else?’

‘Not according to Guy,’ Spedding said. ‘He and his father were the only people there, and of course Tony Jourdan can’t tell us anything.’

‘I see.’

‘Why?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. I’m just trying to get an idea of what happened.’

‘Do you have any information for me?’

‘Oh, no,’ I said.

‘I’ve been quite forthcoming with you. Can’t you be the same with me?’

‘I don’t have anything to tell you.’

Spedding looked at me for a few long seconds. ‘This case doesn’t add up. You know that and I know that. I think there’s something wrong with what Guy Jourdan told me. I think you might know what that is. I don’t know whether it’s just a suspicion, or whether you have some concrete proof, but if you do, you should tell me. I know Guy is your friend and your business partner. But murder is a serious business, David. And so is withholding evidence.’

I met Spedding’s eyes. ‘I know that,’ I said. ‘That’s why I came here.’

Spedding nodded. ‘Fair enough. If you want to talk to me again, call me. Any time.’ He passed me his card.

I left the police station clutching it tightly in my hand.

I left work at five that afternoon. Guy was still in the office, and I was confident he would be there for another hour at least. I took the tube to St John’s Wood and walked through the leafy streets to where Mel lived.

I had been to Mel’s old flat in Earls Court a couple of times many years before, but never to this one. It was on the first floor up a narrow dark staircase. She invited me in to the living room. It was very tidy and quite soulless: bland framed posters and prints, cool grey walls, very few knick-knacks, a row of books in a neat bookshelf, a tiny CD collection, a solitary photo frame. It looked more like a temporary corporate flat than a person’s home.

‘It’s nice to see you, David,’ she said politely.

‘I hope you don’t mind me just showing up like this, but I was worried about you. After last night.’

‘Yes. Last night. I’m sorry, I got a bit drunk.’

‘Didn’t we all?’

We were standing in the middle of the living room. Mel closed her eyes and leaned forward into my chest. I held her. She began to sob. Gently I stroked her hair.

Eventually she pulled back. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s just, I think I might have finally lost him.’

What could I say? That she’d be much better off without him? That she shouldn’t worry; he’d probably be round at her place one night when he’d been turned down by another woman and fancied a shag? I touched her sleeve.

She smiled quickly. ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ she said. ‘And I’m sure you’re right. I just... I don’t know. I feel so miserable.’

‘What happened?’

‘He told me to piss off and leave him alone.’

‘You were drunk. He was drunk. That doesn’t mean anything.’

‘But he was with Ingrid.’

‘She left a few minutes after you. Guy stayed.’ I didn’t tell Mel about Michelle.

A flicker of hope sparked in her eyes. Then she ran her hand through her hair, visibly trying to pull herself together. ‘I’m sorry. I feel such a fool. Do you want a drink? I don’t think I could face another one after last night.’

‘No thanks,’ I said, sitting on a sofa. There was a photograph on the mantelpiece beside me, of Mel and Guy. I recognized Guy’s flat in Gloucester Road from several years before. It must have been taken just before the fateful Mull trip.

‘Nice picture,’ I said.

‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Those were good days.’

I quickly scanned the room. There were no other photos, no parents, no pets.

Mel started to talk. She wanted to talk. ‘You know, I fell for him the moment I first saw him. We were only fourteen. Fourteen! God, it seems so long ago.’ She laughed. ‘I was taller than him then.

‘I didn’t do anything about it at the time. I was starting to realize that I wasn’t just a pretty little girl any more. Boys were beginning to notice me. Older boys. I went out with a lot of guys who were sixteen or seventeen.’

‘I remember.’ It wasn’t just older boys who had noticed Mel.

‘It gave me a kick. I seemed to have this power over them. I used it. And I never let them get very far. You know I went through school a virgin. I enjoyed the power of saying no.’

‘But you never went out with Guy?’

‘Not until the very end. I was used to being chased rather than chasing. I thought he would come round in the end, and he did. I knew how to play him; I was a real expert by that stage. But, as I think I told you in France, he was the one.

‘Then I went and messed it up by sleeping with that bastard Tony Jourdan.’

‘Did you ever get over that?’

‘No, not really. It’s not like he raped me, or anything. But I was going through a really bad patch at home. My father had walked out, and he and my mother were trying to manipulate me against each other. I was always Daddy’s beautiful girl. I worshipped him. And then it turned out he was having it off with some tarty secretary only a few years older than me. Six months later and I end up having sex with someone his age and losing the boy I loved. I felt cheap, worthless, stupid.

‘I changed. Reinvented myself at university. Got rid of the tight jeans. Ignored men. Worked hard. I didn’t have many friends. I used to brood, get depressed. It was a miserable time, until I met Guy again at that Broadhill do. The rest you know.’

‘Do you think you’ll be able to leave him behind you?’

Mel smiled. ‘I should, but I doubt it. I know he doesn’t respect me after what happened in France, and he’s right. It was a terrible thing I did. That’s why he treats me like he does. But I keep hoping that if I show him just how much I love him, he’ll forgive me. He’ll have to.’ There was desperation in her voice.

I smiled at her weakly. It wasn’t going to happen. The harder she tried, the more Guy would take advantage of her. But I didn’t have the heart to tell her that.

‘I worry about Ninetyminutes,’ Mel went on. ‘If that blows up it’ll destroy him. Even if he drops me, at least I know I can help him with that.’

‘Last night you said you started to see him again just before Tony died?’

‘That’s right,’ she smiled. ‘It was the day before. Guy came round quite late. He’d been drinking. I have no illusions about why he came; he just wanted a shag. But afterwards. Afterwards he lay in my arms and we talked. He told me everything. All about his worries about what his father was going to do to Ninetyminutes, everything. I comforted him.’

‘Did he tell you about the gardener in France? About Tony finding out about it?’

‘Yes, yes he did.’ Mel looked at me, puzzled and a little put out. ‘He said he hadn’t told anyone else about that.’

‘He hadn’t,’ I said. ‘At least, not then. I found out from Patrick Hoyle later. I spoke to Guy about it a few months ago. He was worried about Owen, as usual.’

‘Tony was trying to persuade Guy to stay on at Ninetyminutes. Guy didn’t want to, of course — he didn’t want to be Tony’s gopher. But Tony was threatening to go to the French police about the gardener and Owen’s role in his death.’

‘He was going to expose his own son?’

‘Guy couldn’t believe it, either. He thought it was a bluff, but he couldn’t be sure. I think he was as upset that his father would do something like that to Owen as he was about being forced out of Ninetyminutes.’

‘So it was lucky Tony died when he did?’

‘Very lucky,’ Mel said firmly. ‘Guy was heading for self-destruction.’

‘You say Guy told you all this the night before Tony was killed?’

‘That’s right. But he came round here again the following night. You probably know he was here when it happened.’

‘Yes. Apparently a friend of yours was here as well?’

‘Anne Glazier. We were at uni together. She works for one of the big British law firms in Paris. She was just staying here for the night.’ Suddenly, something clicked in Mel’s brain. ‘Why are you asking all these questions?’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I said casually. ‘I’m curious about what happened to Tony Jourdan, I suppose.’

‘You don’t think Guy had anything to do with it, do you?’ Mel’s eyes flashed with anger.

‘Oh, no, no, of course not,’ I said hurriedly. ‘I know he didn’t. I just don’t know who did, that’s all.’

‘Well, it’s best forgotten about, as far as I’m concerned. In fact I wish I could forget about Tony bloody Jourdan. I hated that man. I still do, even though he’s dead.’ The phone rang. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, and went to pick it up.

She turned towards me, her eyes alight. She carried on a short conversation with some yesses and noes, coolly delivered. Then she said: ‘Well, if you really want to come over, that’s all right... About half an hour?... I think I’ve got some food in the fridge. Do you want me to cook some dinner?... OK, see you soon.’

She put the phone down in triumph.

‘Guy?’ I asked.

She nodded.

‘I’d better be going.’

She smiled, a radiant smile, her misery banished. ‘I’ve got to go out to the shops and get some food for dinner. Thanks for coming, David. I’m sorry to burden you with all that, but it’s nice to talk to someone. You’re about the only other person who’s close enough to Guy to understand. Apart from Owen, of course, and I try to have as little to do with him as possible.’

‘Do you mind if I use your loo before I go?’

‘No, not at all. It’s down the hallway.’

As I returned I passed the open door of Mel’s bedroom. On the wall was a large frame holding a collage of photographs. There must have been twenty of them. Twenty cynical images of Guy, smoothing their way into a vulnerable woman’s bed.

‘Have a good evening,’ I said as I left. But despite Mel’s sudden change in spirits I hoped, for her sake, that she wouldn’t.

I went back to my flat, flopped into the sofa and turned on the TV. I was tired. Thoughts of Mel, Guy, Ninetyminutes, Tony and Owen tumbled over and over in my mind. I knew I should try to sort them all out, but my brain just wanted to shut down.

Eventually, I went to bed.

I kept my computer in my bedroom. I didn’t like it in the more public spaces of the flat, like the living room or the spare bedroom. Since I had joined Ninetyminutes, I had barely used it; I did most of my Ninetyminutes-related work on my laptop and I didn’t have time for much else. I probably hadn’t turned it on for two weeks. But, as I opened my bedroom door, I heard a low hum and saw a flickering glow.

Strange. I moved over to the small pine desk that supported it. Everything seemed as it should be, as I had left it. I grabbed the mouse and clicked to shut the machine down.

The hard drive whirred. A familiar animation flickered on the screen. A golfer. A golf club. My head with its idiotic corporate brochure smile. The impact. Blood, brains, that horrible squelching sound. It may have been crude, but it was so totally unexpected it shocked me. I leapt back from the keyboard and watched. The red gore slid down the screen to be replaced by shimmering orange letters.

I pulled the computer’s plug out of the socket. The image died, my bedroom returned to darkness.

Owen! In my flat! How the hell had he got in?

I turned on the light and scanned the room. Nothing was out of place. I checked the other rooms, all the windows, the front door. Nothing broken, nothing open, nothing moved, no sign of a forced entry.

I wondered whether he could somehow have planted his sick little program remotely, over the Internet. But that was impossible. The computer was switched on. That could only have been done by someone in the flat. Owen had wanted me to know that he had been there. Physically. In my room.

I glanced at the door to the flat. That was the only way in. The security at the front entrance of my block was pathetic: it would be easy to get in. But my door? He must have had a key. Instinctively, I pulled the key ring out of my pocket and checked that I still had mine. I did. He must have copied it. I could easily have left my keys unattended on my desk or in my jacket for a few minutes some time in the months we were working together. I shuddered. First thing on Monday morning I would change the lock. And I would never let the new key out of my trouser pocket again.

36

I dragged myself into work the next morning. I didn’t mind working on Saturdays, but I hated spending Sundays in the office. In Ninetyminutes’ current crisis there was no choice.

‘So what do we do?’ I asked Guy.

‘Get money from somebody else.’

‘Champion Starsat?’

‘Not bloody Champion Starsat.’

‘I know we won’t get a hundred and fifty million, or anything like it. But if we came out with a profit on our investment, that would be a result.’

‘No it wouldn’t. It would be a disaster. We’d lose our independence, they’d take control, it wouldn’t be our site any more.’

‘So what do you suggest?’

‘Did you try some other brokers?’

‘I spoke to a couple on Friday. My contact at Gurney Kroheim thinks there’s no chance of anyone taking us up in the current market, especially if Bloomfield Weiss drop us.’

‘Make some more calls tomorrow.’

I sighed. ‘OK. I take it Orchestra won’t change their mind?’

‘No. Derek Silverman’s been on to them, but they’re adamant.’

‘Then we’ll have to cut back.’

‘No.’

‘We have to, Guy! If we follow our current spending plans we’ll be out of cash in three weeks. If we’re tough enough we can make our cash last through the summer.’

‘No.’

‘Have you got any other ideas?’

‘I’m going to Hamburg this afternoon.’

‘To see Torsten?’

Guy nodded.

‘There’s no point.’

‘Yes there is,’ said Guy. ‘He sounded interested.’

I snorted. ‘You go to Hamburg and I’ll come up with a cost-reduction plan.’

I spent the day working on the numbers. I needed to make our half-million quid last the summer and beyond. It was a depressing exercise. Cut, cut, cut.

Retailing had to go. It was a long way from profitability and the more clothing we sold the more cash the business swallowed. We would have to close the European offices we had opened, even Munich. No more hiring, in fact we would have to fire fifty per cent of our journalists. The WAP company in Helsinki was on its own: the widespread use of WAP-enabled phones was too far off into the future. All that was left would be the original UK site. It would mean a loss of momentum, the quality of the site would probably suffer, but the cash would last well into the following year.

Ninetyminutes would survive.

The next morning, with Guy still in Hamburg, I decided to take an hour or so to track down Anne Glazier, Mel’s friend who had been staying at her flat the night Tony Jourdan died. Ninetyminutes’ situation was worsening by the day, and so was my relationship with Guy. I needed to know where I stood with him. And I couldn’t do that until I had cleared up my doubts over what had happened to his father.

A few minutes’ work on the Internet gave me the names and numbers of the major British law firms with offices in Paris. I picked up the phone and worked my way through the list. I was only on number three, Coward Turner, when the switchboard operator recognized Anne Glazier’s name. I tensed as I was put through, but the line was answered by her English-speaking secretary. Ms Glazier was away from the office for a few days, and wouldn’t be back until the following week.

So I returned to the numbers.

Guy arrived back in the office late afternoon. He smelled of alcohol.

‘How did it go?’ I asked.

‘Good,’ said Guy. ‘Torsten will do it.’

‘Really? How much?’

‘Five million, I think.’

‘You think?’

‘Yeah. I’ve still got to pin him down on details. But he said he’d do it.’

‘Pounds or marks?’

‘Pounds, of course.’

I eyed Guy suspiciously. ‘When did he say he’d do it?’

‘Last night. We went out. It was a good night.’

‘Was he drunk when he said it?’

‘Well, maybe.’

‘Had he asked his father?’

‘Not yet. But he will. He says he’s going to stand up to his father this time.’

‘And he said this at what time, precisely?’

‘What is this?’

‘What time of night did Torsten say he would stand up to his father?’

‘About midnight.’

‘That’s worth nothing,’ I said. ‘Last time he said he’d do it, the Internet was booming. If he couldn’t come through then, what makes you think his father will let him invest now?’

‘Trust me,’ said Guy, his voice slurring. ‘He’s a mate.’

‘Have you been drinking?’

‘Jesus! I had some champagne on the flight. To celebrate. And I might just go out and have some more. Want to come?’

I ignored the sarcasm. ‘No. I really need to go over some figures with you. I think we can survive into next year. Provided we cut right back immediately.’

Reluctantly, Guy looked at my numbers. It took him a couple of minutes to figure out what I was proposing; it was clear his mind was far from razor sharp. Then he pushed the papers to one side.

‘This is crap,’ he said.

‘We have no choice.’

‘Yes we do. Torsten.’

‘Oh, come on. We can’t leave the company in Torsten’s hands again. We did that once before and look what happened.’

Guy was about to answer me, and then he stopped. He looked down at my figures. When he did speak, it was quietly.

‘Ninetyminutes means everything to me,’ he said.

‘I know. It means a lot to all of us.’

Guy stared at me with his piercing blue eyes. ‘I’m not talking a lot. I’m talking everything. You know me as well as anyone, Davo. Anyone apart from my brother, maybe. You saw me when I was pissing about pretending to be an actor. I told you about LA, how I cracked up. You knew my father. You know what I felt about him; still feel about him. I have spent most of my life this close to falling apart.’ He held up his thumb and index finger to show how close.

‘But this last year I’ve felt I’ve been back on track. I’ve built something that’s good. Better than good, remarkable. Something that will be worth tens of millions of pounds. Something that thousands of people use each day. A team that works together. Something unique.’ He was spitting out the words. ‘And now you want to destroy it all.’ He shook his head. ‘If Ninetyminutes goes, I go.’

I knew that Guy had been feeling the tension over the last few months, but this was the first time I had seen him facing it since that evening in the Jerusalem Tavern after Henry had turned us down. Since then he had been in denial, looking the other way from bad news, losing his temper, drinking, taking solace in Mel, or Michelle, or God knows who. But now he was facing it again, he didn’t like what he saw.

‘That’s just it,’ I said. ‘We have to save Ninetyminutes. Cutting back is the only way of doing that.’

Guy slammed his palm down on his desk. ‘You don’t bloody get it, do you? I’m not talking about the survival of Ninetyminutes as a legal entity. I’m talking about the idea. The big idea. Your plan would kill that stone dead. We’d never get to the number-one site slot. We’d be lucky to show a profit to investors on their money. We’d grind to a long slow death. As soon as we implement that,’ he waved my figures in the air, ‘Ninetyminutes is over. And I think I’m over too.’

I knew what Guy was getting at. But he needed a dose of realism and the only place it would come from was me.

‘There is no other choice.’

‘There is. Come on, Davo. We’ve done so much together. But now’s when I really need your support. This is the culmination of all that hard work, all the good times and the bad times. You can destroy Ninetyminutes. Or you can help me save it. But if you try to destroy it you should know I’ll do everything in my power to stop you.’

We stared at each other. He was calling it all in. Our thirteen years of friendship. For most of that time I had never been sure whether I was a true friend of his at all. Now, he was saying, it was up to me to decide.

He was tempting me. But one of the reasons I had gone into Ninetyminutes was to prove that I was more than a bag-carrying yes-man. That I was capable of making up my own mind, taking my own decisions. I could succumb to Guy’s force of character, or I could tell him what had to be done.

I took a deep breath. ‘I insist that we undertake these cost reductions immediately.’

Guy looked at me hard, the disappointment and anger written clearly all over his face. ‘Insist?’

‘Yes. Insist.’

He drew a breath. ‘OK. Well, I’m the Chief Executive. And I say no.’

‘If you refuse, I’ll talk to Silverman,’ I said. ‘And Clare Douglas.’

‘Are you threatening me?’

‘I’m just telling you what’s going to happen.’

‘Well, I’m having dinner with Silverman and Clare this evening. I’ll put forward your point of view.’

I started. ‘Dinner? You didn’t tell me about that.’

‘I thought you said you didn’t want to be involved in putting pressure on Orchestra?’

‘Yes. But you’re going to be talking about much more than that, aren’t you?’

‘Possibly.’

‘I want to be there.’

‘You’re not invited.’

I glared at Guy. He glared back.

‘I’ll tell you all about it in the morning,’ he said. ‘I’m going now. I think there’s something to celebrate and I’m going off to celebrate it. You’d better stay here and take inventory of the paperclips. I’m sure Amy uses far too many.’ With that he left the office. And he didn’t come back.

I waited anxiously for him the next morning. He didn’t roll up till ten. He looked dreadful — he hadn’t shaved and his eyes were puffy and unfocused. Guy could cope with a heavy night pretty well. This must have been a very heavy night. I was sure he hadn’t done that much damage with Clare and Derek Silverman: he must have carried on long after they had disappeared home.

‘How was dinner?’

‘Clare won’t budge,’ Guy said as he switched on his computer. ‘But they were pleased to hear about Torsten.’

‘Has he contacted you?’

‘Not yet. Give him time.’

‘Huh.’ I picked up the papers I had been working on. ‘I want to talk to you some more about the cost reductions.’

Guy strained to focus his eyes on me. ‘Oh, yes. I want to talk to you about that too.’

‘I’ve done some more figures, and—’

‘Forget the figures. Let’s talk principles. Are you still determined to cut the foreign offices and the journalists and the retailing?’

‘Yes.’

‘Even though that was what we set up Ninetyminutes to do?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘There’s no other way.’

‘And there’s nothing I can do to change your mind?’

‘No.’

‘Are you quite sure?’

‘Yes.’

Guy was silent. For a moment he looked uncertain, almost sad. Then he seemed to come to a decision.

‘You’re fired,’ he said quietly.

‘I’m what?’

‘You’re fired,’ he said more clearly.

‘What!’ I looked around. No one else had heard. The bustle of Ninetyminutes continued as if nothing had happened. I couldn’t believe it. ‘You can’t do that.’

‘Of course I can. I’m CEO. I set the strategy. You’ve just told me that you insist on doing something that will permanently cripple that strategy. You won’t be talked out of it. You’re fired.’

‘Silverman won’t let you.’

‘He will. We discussed it last night.’

‘And he went along with it? Clare went along with it?’

He nodded. I had been stuffed. Outmanoeuvred. I couldn’t believe how persuasive Guy could be. ‘We should talk about this.’

‘We have.’ For a moment his eyes softened. ‘Do you want to reconsider your recommendation?’

Did I? If I did, he might keep me on. If I did, then our friendship might remain intact.

But I had gone too far. Guy was wrong. I had told him many times and I believed it with all my soul. I couldn’t go back on that.

I shook my head.

‘We’ll pay you your month’s notice,’ said Guy. ‘And I’ll get Mel to arrange an emergency resolution of the board to remove you as a director. But I suggest you leave today. There’s not much point in hanging around.’

He was right, there wasn’t. I wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible. I didn’t want to say goodbye to anyone. I opened my case and stuffed my few personal possessions inside it. Then I closed it up and headed for the doors.

I passed Ingrid’s desk.

‘David!’ she called. I slowed. She leapt up and fell in step beside me. ‘David. What’s wrong?’

‘I’ve been fired.’

‘You’ve been what?’

‘He’s just fired me.’

‘He can’t do that.’

‘He just has.’ I looked at her. I had lost Ninetyminutes to Guy. At that moment I wanted to know if I had lost Ingrid as well. ‘Are you coming?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, are you coming? With me?’

‘I’ll talk to Guy,’ Ingrid said. ‘I’ll get him to change his mind. I’m sure you two can sort something out...’

I turned on my heels and walked out the door.

I went home. Home in the afternoon on a weekday was a strange place to be. I felt angry. Deeply angry.

I resisted the temptation to get plastered, and went outside again instead. I headed for Kensington Gardens and walked. Walked and thought.

I remembered the moment when I had read Guy’s plan for Ninetyminutes and decided to drop everything and go for it. The delicious feeling of resigning from Gurney Kroheim. Guy’s enthusiasm as he talked Gaz round into joining us. The first day in our new office in Britton Street. The excitement of launching the site. The thrill of seeing it succeed. The sense of achievement in creating so much from nothing.

It was a warm afternoon, the warmest of the year so far. I found a shaded bench and sat on it. A large family of Italian tourists walked past, arguing. They frightened away a squirrel that an old lady on the bench next to mine had been trying to tempt with a piece of bread. She frowned in momentary annoyance, and then held out the bread again, making clucking noises. She had all day.

Where had it all gone wrong? Of course part of it, probably a large part, had nothing to do with Guy or me. It was beyond our control. We were unlucky the market had crashed just before we raised the forty million instead of just after. We were unlucky that the internet bust had been quite so vicious. But Guy and I working as a team could have dealt with that. And even if we had failed, it wouldn’t have seemed quite as bad if we had failed together.

I was reminded of that flight up to Skye. I had trusted Guy in the storm, almost trusted him for too long as he had flown up that glen. I had wrested the controls from him with seconds to spare. This time, he had hung on to them.

Ninetyminutes had meant so much to me. It had been my chance to prove to myself that I was more than a risk-averse accountant. But in the end, was I? I had failed as an entrepreneur. At the last minute the accountant in me had tried to rescue things, but that had been too late. I was out of my depth. I should face facts. There was nothing special about me after all.

I was sure Ninetyminutes was going bust. I would lose my investment. That I could handle. I would have to try to find another job, probably in a big bank. That would be true defeat. And, of course, I would have to tell my father that I had failed him. That he had been foolish to back me with everything he had. That he now had nothing.

I left the bench and the old lady, who by now had become good friends with the squirrel, and wandered for another hour or so. When I got back to the flat I turned on the TV and watched rubbish. I cracked open a beer, but just one.

Then the bell rang.

It was Ingrid.

She stood in my doorway. ‘Hi,’ she said.

‘Hi.’

‘I’m leaving Ninetyminutes.’

Something melted inside me. I smiled.

She opened her arms and we held each other tight.

‘Why?’ I said.

She plopped down on to my sofa. ‘Can I have a glass of wine or something?’

I opened a bottle of white and poured us both a glass.

She took hers eagerly and drank from it. ‘Mmm, that’s good.’ She answered my question. ‘It was when you asked me to come with you and I didn’t give you an answer. I waffled on about reaching some kind of compromise with Guy. Well, once you’d gone, I knew I was wrong. I knew I was hiding from the truth.

‘You know how determined I’ve been to make Ninetyminutes succeed. I’m proud of what I’ve achieved there. I suppose I thought Ninetyminutes was like a test. I was under pressure and the important thing was to try harder and not give up. And to support Guy. And then I saw you walk away from him because you believed he was wrong, and suddenly I saw things differently. I know Ninetyminutes is in deep trouble. I know Guy isn’t going to get us out of it. And, well...’

‘What?’

She looked embarrassed. ‘I thought for once I’d rather go with you than go with Guy.’ She smiled shyly at me. She ran her hands through her chestnut hair. ‘I don’t know. Maybe I’m doing the wrong thing.’ Then she smiled again. ‘But it feels right.’

‘I think it is right,’ I said.

‘I’ll tell him tomorrow.’

‘You haven’t told him yet?’

‘No. He left early. I only really decided on my way home. So I came here instead.’

‘I’m glad you did.’

We sat in silence, drinking our wine.

‘Some more?’ I asked her.

‘Sure.’ She held out her glass and I refilled it. ‘You know, I’m not sure Ninetyminutes ever could have worked.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, Guy got pretty close to achieving his aim, didn’t he? A few more months of growth and Ninetyminutes will be the number-one soccer site in Europe. Most people know the brand name now. Lots of people want to buy the clothing and the merchandise.’

‘That’s true.’

‘So what’s the problem?’

‘The problem is we haven’t got any cash and we aren’t likely to make any any time soon.’

‘Precisely,’ Ingrid said. ‘And that matters. Now. It didn’t seem to matter a year ago. A year ago the Internet was a gold rush, a land grab. Once you’d got the eyeballs gawping at your site, the money would roll in. Advertising, e-commerce, no one knew exactly how it would happen, they just knew it would happen. If Ninetyminutes had reached the stage we’re at now a year ago, we’d all be worth tens of millions.’

‘That’s true.’

‘But the world’s changed. It turns out the Internet is a lousy way to make money. People expect it to be free. People expect to buy goods over the Internet more cheaply than in the shops. Advertisers want tangible results and don’t have bottomless budgets for an unproven medium. There’s just not that much money in it. So Ninetyminutes is worth virtually nothing. That’s what Guy doesn’t understand.’

‘So what are you saying?’

‘I’m saying we did succeed in what we set out to do. It just didn’t make us the millions we thought it would. I suppose if we’d been really smart we’d have realized that at the time. What you’ve done is realize it now. But I think we should be proud of all we’ve achieved. All of us: you, me, Guy, Amy, Gaz, everybody. It’s not really our fault the numbers don’t stack up.’

I saw what she meant. Looked at her way, it hadn’t been a waste of time. It hadn’t been a disaster at all.

Ingrid picked up her glass. ‘To Ninetyminutes.’

‘To Ninetyminutes.’

We both drank.

‘What are you going to do now?’ Ingrid asked.

‘I don’t know. I’ve got my savings in Ninetyminutes, So has my father. I really don’t want to see it all pissed away.’

‘It’s not just the money that worries you, is it?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean Guy.’

‘You’re right. It is Guy.’ I tried to explain. ‘When Guy showed me his vision for Ninetyminutes he was showing me not just a good job or a good investment, but a new life. A life that I had always wanted but had been too scared to go for. He talked about creating something new and exciting, taking risks, breaking the rules, building the new economy. He inspired me. He made me believe I could become a new person. And then... and then he let me down.’

‘But we just said it wasn’t his fault that Ninetyminutes is going under.’

‘It’s not that. In fact, if Guy and I had led Ninetyminutes to a glorious end together, it wouldn’t have been so bad. Sure, I’d have lost some money, and it would have been a disaster for my father, but I would have felt I’d achieved something. Become a better person, a different person. As it is...’

‘As it is, what? I don’t understand.’

I looked at Ingrid. My promises to Guy meant nothing any more. ‘There’s some stuff about Guy you don’t know.’

I told her all about Owen and Dominique and Abdulatif and Guy’s efforts to cover everything up. And I told her that I still didn’t know whether Guy had murdered Tony.

She listened closely, at first with disbelief, then amazement, then anxiety.

‘So you see I have no idea who Guy is,’ I said at the end. ‘I know he’s a liar. I know his brother kills people. But I don’t know whether Guy kills people too. I don’t know whether the only reason Ninetyminutes has lasted this long is because Guy killed his father.’

Ingrid sipped her wine thoughtfully. ‘You might be right about Owen, but Guy?’

‘I know. That’s what I thought. But he’s an actor. A good one. And when he’s in a tight spot over his brother or Ninetyminutes, who knows what he might do?’

‘God.’ Ingrid shook her head. ‘I can’t believe it.’

‘I need to know. About Guy. What kind of person he is. Whether what I’ve been doing for the last year means anything.’

‘So what do we do? We can’t just walk away.’

‘You can,’ I said. ‘In fact, I’d recommend it.’

‘I’m not going to,’ Ingrid said. ‘We’ll sort this out together.’

My emotions had been in turmoil for weeks: hope, despair, anger, frustration. For weeks I had been at war with these feelings, trying to control them, trying to control Ninetyminutes. I had fought this war alone. I had thought I had lost, but now Ingrid was with me perhaps I could win after all. We gave each other comfort, strength and, in an as yet undefined way, hope.

We went out to a small Italian restaurant round the corner for dinner. We drank more wine. We discussed what we could do to rescue Ninetyminutes and find out about Guy once and for all. But as the evening wore on we talked about other things, about each other and about life outside Ninetyminutes.

As we left the restaurant, Ingrid linked her arm in mine. ‘Do you mind if I come back with you?’ she asked.

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’d like that. I’d like that very much.’

37

I awoke to the sensation of a hand stroking my thigh. It was six thirty. Ingrid was lying next to me in my bed, and I didn’t have a job to go to.

I rolled over. The sunshine poured in through my bedroom’s puny curtains, painting stripes of pale gold on to Ingrid’s skin. She was definitely one of those women who looked better the morning after.

‘Good morning,’ she said, with a languid smile.

‘Good morning.’

Her hand moved upwards.

Half an hour later I went through to the kitchen to make some coffee. By this time I would usually be in the shower. But not today.

‘Are you going straight in to Ninetyminutes?’ I asked, carrying two mugs back to the bedroom.

‘There’s no hurry. Guy’s always late these days. And besides, I quite like it here.’ She took her mug and sat up in bed. She tasted the coffee and pulled a face. ‘Yuk! That’s disgusting. If I’m going to come here again, you’re going to have to get some decent coffee.’

‘What do you mean? It is decent coffee.’

‘It’s crap. I’m Brazilian. I know.’

‘I knew I should have made tea,’ I muttered.

Despite her grumbling, Ingrid took another sip. ‘What are you going to do today?’

What was I going to do? It was tempting to spend my first day of freedom from Ninetyminutes in bed with Ingrid. But I couldn’t.

‘Go and see Derek Silverman for starters. And then Clare. I must make them realize Guy has got it all wrong. Then I’ll see if I can get hold of Anne Glazier again. She should be back in her office today.’

‘I’ll come with you to see Silverman,’ said Ingrid. ‘Once I’ve told Guy I’m quitting.’

‘Thanks. I could use the support.’

‘It’s going to be frustrating, though, isn’t it?’ Ingrid said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Sitting on our hands watching Ninetyminutes go down the tubes.’

‘Well, I hope we’ll be able to do something to stop it. But they’ll find it hard without you.’

‘Gaz will manage.’

‘I’m not so sure.’ Gaz would be able to keep the content coming, but without Ingrid the whole editorial and publishing process would soon unravel. Especially if it was necessary to cut back and reorganize. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t resign.’

‘What do you mean? I told you why I want to quit.’

‘Yes. And all that makes sense. Believe me, I value the support. But I think you’ll be more use still working at Ninetyminutes. Things will be bad enough as it is without you leaving. And it will be useful to know what’s going on at the company. If we are going to save Ninetyminutes, we should do it together. Me on the outside and you on the inside.’

‘You don’t expect me to go along with Guy?’

‘Absolutely. For the time being. Until we get Silverman and Orchestra to see our point of view.’

Ingrid sipped her coffee. ‘Maybe I should stay,’ she said. Then she frowned.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘That means I have to go to work now.’

‘I’m afraid it does.’

She put her coffee down and leaned over to kiss me.

‘Well, perhaps not quite yet,’ I said.

After Ingrid had left, I had a shower, put on a suit and went to see Derek Silverman at his town house in Chelsea. He showed me into a study at the back with a view over a perfect herbaceous border, blooming powerfully in the sunshine. He was very civil and offered me a cup of coffee. I told him that in my opinion Ninetyminutes had no choice but to retrench and Guy had been mistaken to fire me. Silverman was polite, he listened and he seemed to understand my point of view. But he was firm.

‘Guy is confident he can raise more funds. He’s the Chief Executive. I’m not one of those people who believe in dumping the Chief Executive as soon as things get tough. You’re putting me in a situation where I have to choose between you and him. I have no choice but to go for him.’

‘But we’ve got ourselves in trouble before by relying on Torsten Schollenberger,’ I protested.

‘Guy and I discussed this at dinner on Monday night. He says the deal is ninety per cent done.’

‘He’s wrong.’

‘It’s possible he may turn out to be wrong. But from my standpoint it seems to be the best chance we’ve got.’

‘But...’ I hesitated, and then went ahead anyway. ‘Ninetyminutes has been in a similar situation before. Last year, when Guy had that argument with his father and resigned.’

‘And?’

‘And, well, a few days later Tony Jourdan was killed.’

‘That was a hit-and-run driver, wasn’t it?’ Silverman said.

‘Perhaps. The police don’t know who it was.’

‘What’s your point, exactly, David?’

What was my point? Was I going to accuse Guy of killing his father? Once I had suggested that to Silverman there would be no going back. And I had no proof, yet. Even if I did suggest it, what would I expect Silverman to do? Change his mind in my favour? Fire Guy because he might possibly be a murderer? No. That would be unfair. Not just unfair, wrong.

‘Nothing, Derek. Nothing. Thanks for your time.’

Silverman saw me out. ‘I’m sorry that you felt you had to leave. I’ve been very impressed with what you’ve contributed to Ninetyminutes over the last year. One of the saddest things I see is when good teams split up under pressure.’

I wanted to protest, claim I hadn’t wanted to leave at all, that it was Guy, not me, who was feeling the pressure, but I realized there was no point. Guy had got to him. So I went.

Once out on the street I pulled out my mobile and dialled Orchestra’s number. Clare Douglas reluctantly agreed to see me in her offices in an hour. But she said she’d only have ten minutes between meetings.

I was shown into a conference room, where I waited for half an hour before Clare arrived. She looked flustered.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘This doesn’t seem to be a great time to be a venture capitalist. No sooner do I put out one fire than another starts.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I’m already late for my next meeting. I’ve only got five minutes.’

‘OK,’ I said. ‘You’ve heard I’ve left Ninetyminutes?’

‘Yes. Guy has explained it all to me.’

‘Did he tell you why?’

‘He said that you wanted to cut back on costs drastically to conserve cash. He said he’d found another investor so he could continue growing the business.’

‘He hasn’t,’ I said.

‘Well, he says he has. I have to believe him.’

‘It’s an old friend of ours from school. He’s let us down once before. He’ll let us down again.’

Clare looked doubtful. She was not her cool Scottish self that morning. She frowned. ‘That’s not what Guy said.’

‘I know.’

Clare hesitated. ‘Look, I’ve spoken to the Chairman. I’ll be sorry to lose you, but I trust Derek Silverman. People here have known him a long time, and if he wants to stick with Guy on this I’ll go along with him.’

‘Can’t you reconsider?’

Clare’s expression became firm. ‘We’ve made our decision. Now I really must go. Can you see yourself out?’

Once again I found myself out on the pavement.

When I arrived home I rang Anne Glazier in Paris. She was back from her trip. I had decided I needed to talk to her face-to-face. If there was some vital detail to be gleaned from her about Guy and the night Tony died I’d never get it from her over the phone. I was prepared to go to Paris to speak to her, but she had a meeting in London the following week and she was willing to see me for half an hour before that.

The next call was much more difficult. My father was at work: his building-society office in the Market Place. We skated over some small talk, before he asked the question I dreaded.

‘How’s Ninetyminutes?’

‘I have bad news,’ I said.

‘Not again! This thing really is a roller coaster, isn’t it? I’m sure whatever it is, you’ll work out a way round it.’

‘Not this time, Dad.’

‘Oh.’

‘Guy and I have fallen out. He fired me.’

‘Good God. Can he do that?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Oh, Lord. I am sorry. How awful for you.’

‘It is, actually.’ I appreciated my father’s concern for his son. But that wasn’t what I was most worried about. ‘I think it’s awful for all of us. Ninetyminutes is running out of cash and I want to do something about it. Guy wants to ignore it. I fear this time the company doesn’t have long in this world.’

‘Oh.’

Silence. I knew what my father was trying to work out a way of saying. I put him out of his misery. ‘I think it’s quite likely that you’ll lose your entire investment. We all will.’

‘Oh God,’ he whispered.

‘I’m sorry, Dad. I’m really sorry.’

I heard an intake of breath over the phone line. ‘That’s all right, David. It was entirely my decision. Don’t blame yourself.’

‘I won’t,’ I said. Although, of course, I would. He had trusted me and I had let him down. He’d never hold it against me, but I’d always know. It was my fault.

‘I would feel better if you were still there, though.’

‘Believe me, so would I.’

‘Yes, well. I have to go now.’ I could hear his voice cracking, almost as though he were about to cry. I had never seen my father cry.

‘Bye, Dad.’

‘Goodbye.’ And he was gone, leaving me feeling angry, sad and very, very guilty.

I met Ingrid that evening in a pub round the corner from my flat. She smiled broadly when she saw me, and kissed me quickly on the lips.

I checked my watch. A quarter to six. ‘Coming in late. Leaving early. What will people think?’

‘They won’t know what to think. Anyway, I don’t care. I was eager to see you.’

‘Likewise,’ I said.

‘And...’ She reached into her bag and pulled out a small brown package. ‘I bought some coffee.’

I smiled. If having my coffee insulted was the price of Ingrid staying another night, I was quite prepared to pay it.

‘Did you manage not to resign?’ I asked.

‘I did. In fact, I hardly spoke to Guy all day. He seemed rather preoccupied.’

‘I’m not surprised. No news from Torsten?’

‘Not that I could tell. But Owen came into the office.’

‘You’re joking!’

‘No. He spent most of the day on his computer. But he talked to Guy a bit.’

‘Watch out for him, Ingrid. You know how dangerous he can be.’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll avoid him.’

‘Do be careful. Please.’ I was surprised how apprehensive I suddenly felt. I had lived with the persistent threat of Owen’s violence for the last six months. I didn’t like the idea of Ingrid putting herself at risk as well.

‘I will be,’ she smiled, grateful for my concern. ‘Also, Mel was there.’

‘Mel?’

‘Yeah. I thought Guy had had enough of her. But obviously not. She didn’t seem very pleased to see me.’

‘I’m sure she wasn’t. What was she doing?’

‘I don’t know. She was sitting at your desk doing it, though. It was kind of weird.’

‘It sounds it.’ The idea of Mel sitting at my desk was uncomfortable. But it made sense. She would be able to do as good a job as anyone in picking up my work. She might have other clients at Howles Marriott, but if Guy said jump, I was sure she would jump.

‘No luck with Silverman or Orchestra, then?’ Ingrid asked.

‘No. Guy has got to Silverman. Clare was harassed and was happy to follow his lead.’

‘Oh.’

‘But I’m seeing Anne Glazier next week.’

‘Do you think she’ll be able to tell you anything?’

‘Probably not. But I have to try.’ I drank my beer, feeling the disappointment crowd in on me from all sides. ‘What now?’

‘I don’t want to just give up,’ said Ingrid. ‘Sit by and let Guy screw it all up.’

‘Neither do I. But if neither Silverman nor Clare will listen to us I don’t see how we can get Guy to cut back on costs.’

‘And you’re quite certain Torsten won’t come up with the cash?’

‘Positive. I’m sure Guy is convincing, but that doesn’t mean anything. When Guy wants to believe something, he can make other people believe it too. You know that. Torsten will flake and Ninetyminutes will go under.’

‘What about Champion Starsat?’ Ingrid said.

‘I thought you voted against the idea of selling out to them?’

‘I did then. But this is now. I’m not sure we have a choice.’

‘Guy would hate it if I went to them behind his back.’

‘Guy fired you yesterday.’

I took a deep breath. ‘You’re right. I’ll call them tomorrow.’

This time I didn’t meet Jay Madden at the Savoy. This time I met him in his large corner office on the South Bank with a view of the river. Madden sat behind an impressive desk; I sat opposite.

‘Now, David,’ said Madden with a friendly smile. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘Firstly, I should tell you that I’ve left Ninetyminutes. Guy Jourdan and I had a disagreement over strategy.’

Madden raised his eyebrows. ‘And does that disagreement over strategy have anything to do with Champion Starsat?’

‘It does.’

‘You know the market’s changed since we last spoke. So have our plans. We’ve started up our own site. We don’t need Ninetyminutes any more.’

‘Ninetyminutes has the best site on the Internet.’ I was surprised at the pride I felt as I said this. Whatever Ninetyminutes’ problems, that was the truth and Madden couldn’t deny it.

He didn’t try. ‘Running out of cash, are you?’

‘If Ninetyminutes is to make the most of its potential it needs investment. Serious investment. You can provide that. The markets can’t.’

Madden thought for a moment. ‘It’s true you have an excellent site. Probably even better than ours. But, as you point out, we have the cash and you haven’t. And that means we’ll dominate the space. You’ll fold soon. Goaldigger have a bit more funding than you, so they’ll last longer. But we’ll win. You know that.’ His tone was matter-of-fact, not aggressive, which just made what he said sound even more credible.

‘You may be correct. But at the right price it would be worth your while to incorporate our site into yours.’

Madden smiled. ‘I take it Guy Jourdan doesn’t know you’re here?’

‘No, and I’d rather he didn’t.’

‘Is this a way for you to get your old job back?’

‘No. Absolutely not. But I think it would be good for Ninetyminutes. I’m still a shareholder.’

Madden picked up a pencil from his desk and tapped his chin with it. ‘If we were to make an offer, what makes you think Jourdan would accept it?’

‘He might have no choice.’

‘Are you suggesting I call him?’

‘No. Call Derek Silverman. And please don’t mention my name.’

‘All right,’ said Madden. ‘I’ll think about it.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, and left, feeling guilty as hell.

38

Without Ingrid, the weekend would have been unbearable. With Ingrid, I found it extremely bearable. She worked on Saturday, but we went to see a film together that evening. We spent Sunday morning in bed, getting to know each other, ambled down the street to a local café for lunch and wandered round Hyde Park during the afternoon. Summer had come early, the air was hot and heavy, the grass inviting. Then Ingrid returned to her own place to sort out the week’s domestic loose ends.

I didn’t see her again until the following evening. She came straight to my flat from work. I was anxious to hear what had happened at Ninetyminutes: we had agreed not to communicate while she was at the office. With Owen there, you never knew.

I was also anxious just to see her. At this stage of our relationship a day seemed a long time, especially when I had nothing to do but stew.

She kissed me, and tucked herself under my arm on the sofa.

‘Well?’ I said.

‘Well. Interesting day, today.’

‘Tell me.’

‘Guy was in a worse mood than usual this morning. I’m pretty sure he’s ignoring me, but maybe he’s just ignoring everyone. Anyway, I asked him about Torsten. He looked pissed off and said he would handle it. I demanded to know whether Torsten had come through with the cash: I am still a director, after all. Guy admitted he hadn’t.’

‘What did I tell you? So Torsten’s father said no?’

‘Torsten wouldn’t admit that to Guy, but that’s what Guy thinks. Guy was furious. I thought he was going to jump on a plane to Hamburg and kill him.’

‘Don’t say that,’ I said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know. Tony Jourdan has died. I was put in hospital. Henry’s family was threatened. It’s getting dangerous to thwart Ninetyminutes these days.’

Ingrid shuddered. ‘You’re right. I’m sorry. Guy didn’t jump on a plane, and before you say anything, Owen was in the office all day too.’

‘Did Madden call Silverman?’

‘I think he must have. Silverman came round about lunchtime, and he and Guy shut themselves in the boardroom for a couple of hours.’

‘Did Guy tell you what it was about?’

‘No. I asked him if there was anything I should know. He said there would be a board meeting tomorrow morning. Apparently Clare is in Leeds or somewhere today. He said it was to confirm your removal as a director from the board. But there’s something else, I’m sure.’

‘Madden’s put an offer in.’

‘It looks like it.’

‘I wonder what the board will say.’

Tuesday morning was tough. The waiting was becoming more difficult by the day. I had spent many hours trying to work out who had run Tony Jourdan down, with little success. For all I knew, it could have been Guy. My best chance for a breakthrough was my forthcoming meeting with Anne Glazier, but that was still twenty-four hours away. Ingrid and I had decided to meet for lunch so that she could tell me about the board meeting, but by nine o’clock I was already stir-crazy. I was just about to leave my flat and go for a walk when the phone rang. It was Michelle.

‘Hi, Michelle. How are you?’

‘I’m good,’ she said. But she sounded tense. It took a lot to make Michelle tense. ‘I’ve got a message from Guy.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. He’d like to see you this morning. Ten o’clock, if you can make it.’

‘OK,’ I said. I was intrigued. And besides, it was good to be able to actually do something. ‘I’ll come round straight away.’

‘He’d like to meet you at Howles Marriott.’

That was a surprise. But I supposed in his current mood Guy wanted to keep me away from Britton Street.

‘All right. I’ll be there.’

Howles Marriott’s offices were in a warren of narrow pavements and cramped squares off Chancery Lane and behind Fleet Street. This was once the labyrinth of streets described by Charles Dickens, but those overcrowded dwellings had been flattened by bombs and bulldozers to be replaced by red brick, plate glass and flagstones. I found such soulless quiet in the middle of London rather eerie.

I waited in the reception area. I had been to these offices dozens of times before, and usually Mel would come down to meet me. Not this time. I was shown up to her office by her secretary.

She was there with Guy. I smiled at her. A mistake.

‘Sit down, please,’ she said, her voice unfamiliarly cold.

I took a seat at her small conference table, on which she and I had strewn papers many times in the past. She sat facing me, next to Guy.

Guy stared at me coolly. He seemed to have aged in the last few days, the lines around his face had deepened. His forehead was creased in a frown of worry. There were bags under his eyes.

It was finally getting to him.

‘Hello, Guy,’ I said.

He didn’t answer. I sat down.

‘We want to speak to you about your role in the unsolicited offer Ninetyminutes has just received from Champion Starsat,’ Mel said.

‘I see.’

‘Do you deny you spoke to them?’ Mel’s voice was dispassionate, lawyerly, precise.

‘No, I don’t,’ I said simply.

Guy snorted. ‘What were you thinking of? You know Champion Starsat are the last people in the world I’d want to sell Ninetyminutes to. We discussed this a couple of months ago. The board voted to tell them to get lost.’

‘I went to them as an independent shareholder.’

‘You’re still a director of the company,’ Mel said. ‘You should have abided by the decision of the board.’

‘But Guy fired me last week.’

‘Technically you remain a director until you are removed by a resolution at a board meeting. We haven’t had the board meeting yet. It’s scheduled for later on this morning.’

‘Whatever. It’s still the only way out for Ninetyminutes. How much have Champion Starsat offered?’

‘Eighteen million pounds,’ Guy said.

Eighteen million. I ran the numbers in my head. At that level we’d all get out whole, Orchestra, me, Guy, Owen, Ingrid, my father. In fact, we’d make a small profit.

‘That’s not bad.’

‘Not bad? It’s bloody awful! Two months ago this business was worth two hundred million. It’s grown since then and now it’s worth a poxy eighteen. I don’t know why I ever hired you as a finance director, Davo. You’re really not very good at sums.’

‘I can do the sums,’ I said. ‘In a couple of weeks’ time Ninetyminutes will be worth precisely zero. Eighteen million pounds is eighteen million pounds more than that.’

Guy sighed in frustration. ‘You make me sick. I chose you as a partner because I thought you were one person I could rely on. Someone I could trust. I thought you understood the vision. I thought you got it. Instead, you’re just as bad as the rest of them. Worse. You betrayed me, Davo. I won’t forget that.’

He had touched a nerve and he was pressing hard. I was determined not to let it hurt, or at least to ignore the pain.

‘You need more than imagination and vision to be a successful businessman, Guy,’ I said. ‘You have to be able to see what’s around you. The world has changed in the last few months. The Internet is not the way to make money. I can see that. The smart money can see that. If you can’t, that’s your problem.’

‘Christ, Mel, you talk to him. I can’t,’ muttered Guy.

Mel spoke. ‘David, I am giving you notice that you are obliged to sell your shares in Ninetyminutes back to the company at their nominal value.’

‘What? Sell them? Why?’

‘Because you were dismissed “with cause”.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means that since you were passing confidential information to another company to be used against Ninetyminutes, Guy had cause to dismiss you. Under the terms of your contract, in those circumstances Ninetyminutes can require you to sell your shares at their nominal value. Which is one p, by the way.’

‘One p?’

‘That means you get fifty thousand pennies,’ said Guy, with an unpleasant smile.

‘That’s ridiculous. I didn’t talk to Champion Starsat until after Guy had fired me.’

‘You were gathering confidential information while you were at Ninetyminutes with the intention of using it against the company.’

‘Bollocks. You can’t prove any of that.’

‘Oh, can’t we?’ said Mel.

‘No. I’m getting a lawyer.’

‘It had better be a good one.’

‘It will be.’ I stood up. ‘You’re dragging Ninetyminutes down, Guy, and screwing me won’t save it.’

I left the building, seething. Guy couldn’t get his hands on my fifty thousand investment for five hundred quid. That would be totally unfair.

As I thought it over, I realized that Mel and Guy almost certainly had no case. They were trying to intimidate me, or infuriate me, or both. But I would go and see that lawyer.

Mel was clearly enjoying the whole thing. She was sitting where she wanted to be, next to Guy. Ingrid was right, she was filling the role of trusted adviser that used to be mine, and she was loving it. Mel and I had historically been on the same side. It was sad to see her as an adversary. But if I was Guy’s enemy, I was hers too, I could see that.

I met Ingrid for lunch in a café near Baker Street, only a few tube stops from Farringdon. We didn’t want to run the risk of bumping into anyone from Ninetyminutes. I told her about Mel and Guy, and asked her how the board meeting had gone.

‘It was tense,’ Ingrid said. ‘Guy was in a foul mood after seeing you. We began with the resolution to remove you as a director. It should have been a formality, but Guy wouldn’t stop ranting about what a traitor you were. Silverman had to calm him down so we could focus on the offer from Champion Starsat.’

‘Was Clare there?’

‘Oh, yes. There were the four of us: Guy, Silverman, Clare and me. And Mel was there as the company’s legal adviser.’

‘So, what happened?’

‘Silverman told us the deal. Champion Starsat are offering eighteen million in cash for the whole company, subject to due diligence on their part. Guy can stay on if he wants, but their plan is to integrate ninetyminutes.com with their existing internet businesses. The offer expires at midnight on Thursday.’

‘Midnight on Thursday? But that’s only two days away!’

‘Yep. Madden is piling on the pressure.’

‘Did the board go for it?’

‘Guy made an impassioned plea for independence. You’ve heard it all before, but he was pretty eloquent. Then Mel started trying to pick holes in the Champion Starsat offer. Clare would have none of it; she said it was very straightforward and there was no reason to doubt it. She and Mel had a real fight; Silverman had to break it up. Clare won, though. Mel had to shut up.’

‘So Orchestra want to sell?’

‘Yep.’

‘Yes! What about Silverman?’

‘You know the way the shareholders’ agreement is with Orchestra. In times like this, they call the shots. Silverman knows that and he went with Clare.’

‘Which left you?’

‘I abstained,’ Ingrid said, smiling. ‘It seemed the best thing to do in the circumstances.’

‘So they’ve accepted the offer?’

‘Not quite. They’ve agreed to let Guy see if he can find an investor before Friday. If he has a firm unconditional offer on paper before then, they’ll reconsider. Otherwise they’ll accept.’

‘He’ll never manage that, will he?’

Ingrid shrugged. ‘You should never underestimate Guy,’ she said. ‘He’s going to see Mercia Metro TV in Birmingham this afternoon. He reckons they’d be an ideal fit.’

Ingrid was right, you never should underestimate Guy. But I felt a huge surge of relief. It looked as if my investment was safe. Much more importantly, my father wouldn’t lose any money. And I would be proved right. Guy would be devastated, of course, but after that morning’s meeting that didn’t concern me too much. In fact, I was rather pleased. I was also pleased for the staff, especially Gaz, whose website would continue.

We left the café to head back to Baker Street tube. As we paused to cross the road, Ingrid turned to check for traffic and grabbed my arm.

‘My God!’

‘What?’

‘Look!’

I looked. About twenty yards behind us a large figure in a Ninetyminutes T-shirt and baseball cap was shambling along the pavement towards us. Owen.

He stopped and stared at us, his face devoid of expression. A cab with its light on was approaching us along the Marylebone Road. I thrust out my arm and the taxi screeched to a halt. I bundled Ingrid inside.

I turned to look for Owen.

He was gone.

39

Anne Glazier was a small, harried woman of about thirty wearing an English suit and a Hermès scarf. The rapid clack of her heels on the hard stone floor echoed around the cavernous foyer of Coward Turner’s new building as she approached me, bulging briefcase weighing her down on one side. We perched uncomfortably on the leather-clad slabs that were supposed to act as seats for the big law firm’s visitors.

‘Thanks for seeing me,’ I said.

‘Not at all,’ she answered briskly. ‘A murder is important.’

‘It is indeed.’

‘I take it the police haven’t discovered who killed Tony Jourdan?’

‘Not yet.’

‘You know they spoke to me at length?’

‘Yes, yes, I know. But as I told you on the phone, I’m Guy Jourdan’s partner. The uncertainty over the whole affair is damaging our business, so I’m trying to get to the bottom of what happened myself. I wanted to talk to you in person: I’m sure you know how important it is to get the details right.’

She frowned for a moment, but then nodded. She looked like the sort of woman who spent a lot of time getting the details right.

‘Can you tell me what happened that evening?’

‘All right. Mel’s an old friend from Manchester. We studied law together. Every now and then when I visit London I stay on an extra night with her. She does the same in Paris. We see each other perhaps a couple of times a year. Anyway, that afternoon I went to her office to pick up her key. She told me she’d meet me at her flat later. She also said her boyfriend might be there.’

I picked up a note of distaste in Anne’s voice. ‘You weren’t happy about that?’

‘Not exactly. Especially when I heard who it was. I remembered Guy from several years ago. He wasn’t good news. I know he’s a friend of yours, but I’m sure you understand what I mean.’

I nodded. I did.

‘Also, I wanted to spend the evening with Mel myself. I mean, that’s why I was staying with her. But Mel was so excited it was embarrassing. You know her, she usually seems so cool. Apparently, Guy had stayed with her the night before and she was clearly convinced this was going to be the beginning of something serious.’

From her tone, Anne was less convinced.

‘So you were in Mel’s flat all evening?’

‘Yes. From about seven o’clock onwards. I dumped my stuff there that afternoon and went for a walk. I got back about seven.’

‘And then Guy showed up?’

‘Yes.’

‘At what time?’

‘I can’t remember exactly. I did tell the police. It was quite late.’

My interest quickened. ‘So you’re not sure when it was?’

‘Not now. It’s six months ago, isn’t it? But I was sure then. I gave them a precise time.’

‘Nine thirty?’ I said, remembering my conversation with Spedding.

‘That sounds right.’

‘How could you be so precise?’

Anne’s eyebrows knitted together as though she didn’t like the implication that she was ever anything but precise.

‘I was watching the clock. Mel wasn’t back from work. I was annoyed. As I said earlier, the whole point of this was to see her. I thought we’d go out to dinner or something.’

‘So she wasn’t there when Guy showed up?’

‘No. I let him in.’

‘How was he?’

‘Drunk. Not just drunk. He was in a state. He looked manic. He didn’t say anything to me, just, “Hello,” and “Where’s Mel?”. He searched the flat for alcohol, found a bottle of wine, opened it and slumped on the sofa to wait for her.’

‘What happened when Mel came back?’

‘She wasn’t much better. I mean, she did have a few words with me, but she was all over Guy. Comforting him, pouring him more drink. She ignored me! I left them to it and shut myself in my room. I was on my way to the airport when Mel called me on my mobile to say that Guy’s father had been killed. She said the police would want to speak to me.’

‘Do you know what Mel and Guy talked about?’

‘No. They didn’t want me to hear.’

‘Could it have been about Tony Jourdan’s death?’

‘No. They didn’t know about it then.’ Anne looked me straight in the eye. ‘As you can tell, Guy Jourdan is not my favourite person, and to be frank neither is Mel when she’s with him, but nothing he said or did suggested he was plotting to kill his father. And according to the police, it would be impossible anyway, given the time he arrived at Mel’s flat.’

‘That’s true,’ I said.

‘I hope I’ve been some help,’ Anne said, looking at her watch. ‘Now I really must go upstairs to get ready for my meeting.’

I watched her march to the bank of lifts, her heels rapping her progress on the hard floor, and thought about what she had said.

It was looking increasingly unlikely that Guy could have killed his father. He didn’t have the time to do it himself, and Sergeant Spedding’s conviction that Tony’s death was not the work of a professional effectively ruled out the possibility that Guy had hired someone else to do it.

That, at least, was good to know. Or it should have been. But my feelings about Guy were becoming more confused, not less, especially after the way he had accused me of betraying him and tried to take my stake in Ninetyminutes away from me. Was he the friend I had always assumed he was? Or was he someone else entirely? Had I really wasted the last year of my life and ruined my career by following him?

And if neither Guy nor Owen had killed Tony Jourdan, who the hell had?

I was wary of letting Ingrid go back to Ninetyminutes now Owen had seen us together, but she was determined to do it. She wanted to see what was going on.

What was going on was that Guy was desperately trying to get Mercia Metro TV interested in Ninetyminutes. He took Ingrid, Gaz, Amy and Mel along with him to Birmingham on Wednesday. According to Ingrid, he put on a good performance and she had no doubt he caught Mercia Metro’s interest. He persuaded two of the senior people to come down to Britton Street the following day, although they weren’t confident that they would be able to put in an unconditional offer by the midnight deadline.

Nothing from Owen. Ingrid said he was in the office, but he gave no indication that he’d seen the two of us together the day before. Not that that meant anything. I was worried about her. Guy had his back to the wall. Whenever that had happened in the past, someone had got hurt. This time I prayed it wouldn’t be Ingrid.

I spent the next day, Thursday, the day of the deadline, at home climbing the walls. Ingrid called at eight o’clock that evening.

‘I’m leaving now.’

‘You’re what? I thought you’d be staying till midnight. Has Guy given up?’

‘No. But he’s sent us all home.’

‘What happened?’

‘I’ll explain.’

She did, when I saw her half an hour later.

‘The Mercia Metro TV team came down this morning: the Managing Director and the Finance Director. Guy showed them around the office and there’s no doubt they were keen. All kinds of talk about synergies, and internet space and all that mumbo-jumbo. But then we sat round the table to talk about the deal. They didn’t seem to think there was much chance of coming up with an unconditional offer. They’d have to do their own due diligence, get an accountant’s investigation, convene a board meeting and God knows what.

‘Guy argued with that for a while, and then Mel suggested that a conditional offer might work. After all, Champion Starsat’s offer is conditional on due diligence, so if Mercia Metro come up with a better deal with the same conditions, the Ninetyminutes board will have to consider it.’

‘What price are they talking?’

‘A valuation of twenty-two million pounds. But Mercia Metro wouldn’t buy the whole company. The idea is that they invest eight million of new money and become a minority shareholder. Guy will still run the show. The strategy will still be all-out growth.’

‘Will Mercia Metro bite?’

‘I don’t think there’s a chance, no. It’s true the Managing Director liked the business, but the Finance Director was sceptical about the practicalities, and he had some pretty good arguments. Also, I suspect they would need a board meeting of their own to authorize the offer, and there doesn’t seem much likelihood of them calling one in time.’

‘So it’s all over?’

‘Not according to Guy. He still thinks they might go for it. He organized a conference call with Clare Douglas and Derek Silverman to discuss accepting a conditional offer. I sat in on it.’

‘Were they receptive?’

‘In a word, no. Silverman said it would be a mistake to throw out a solid deal for a flaky one at this stage. And Clare was adamant that it was unconditional or nothing.’

‘Good for her.’

‘Yes. But she didn’t sound happy about it at all.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know Clare. She always seems so cool and in control. Today she sounded tense. Very tense. Almost afraid.’

‘Really? Maybe something else is going wrong at Orchestra. I remember last time I went to see her there she looked stressed. Said something about putting out fires.’

‘Perhaps. Whatever it was, there’s no way she’s going to change her mind.’

‘And you? What did you say?’

‘I voted with Guy.’

‘For appearances’ sake?’

‘Partly. But I have to admit it would be nice if we could bring in Mercia Metro TV as a minority shareholder and Ninetyminutes could continue growing.’

‘It would be very nice,’ I said. ‘But it’s not going to happen. You said it yourself: the Internet doesn’t make money. This is our chance to get out whole. We won’t get another one.’

Ingrid sighed. ‘You’re right, of course. But I can’t help feeling sorry for Guy. He’s a brave man, you know. He’s fighting to the bitter end.’

‘So what happens now?’

‘We wait. Guy sent everyone home, he said there was no point in doing any work. People wanted to stay, but he insisted. It was as if he wanted to be by himself at Ninetyminutes at midnight.’

‘Strange.’

‘Yeah.’

‘What’s he like? Is he holding it together?’

‘In a manic kind of a way. While there’s still hope.’

‘But when the hope goes?’

Ingrid shuddered. ‘Who knows?’

The door buzzer rang. I opened it. It was Clare. A distraught Clare. Her hair was a mess, her grey eyes, usually so cool, were wild, her face was flushed.

I showed her into the living room. Her eyes widened when she saw Ingrid.

‘Don’t worry. Ingrid and I are together.’ I said this without thinking through the implications. It was simply the truth.

Clare’s eyes darted between us. Ingrid smiled reassuringly.

‘OK,’ Clare said, accepting the fact. ‘I need to talk to you.’ She was shaking.

‘Here, sit down. Do you want a drink? A cup of tea. A whisky?’

Clare sank into a sofa. ‘No, it’s all right,’ she said. Then she smiled quickly. ‘Actually, a wee whisky might be a good idea.’

I got her one. Lots of whisky, not much water.

She took a gulp. ‘Thanks.’ She winced at its strength. Her hands were still shaking. ‘I need your help. Henry suggested I talk to you.’

‘Henry?’ I wondered what she could possibly want to talk to me about. Then I knew. ‘You’ve received a threat, haven’t you?’

Clare nodded. ‘Two.’

‘What happened?’

‘Yesterday I got this.’ She handed me a single sheet of A4 that had been folded three ways to fit into a standard office envelope. I read it:

The note was unsigned. It had been produced by a computer, of course, but the font was slightly different from the letter Henry had received.

Ingrid was reading it over my shoulder. ‘Oh, my God,’ she whispered.

‘Did you show this to Henry?’

‘Yes,’ Clare said. ‘The bastard told me all about what had happened to him and his family. I can’t believe he let me take Ninetyminutes over from him without warning me. The coward.’

‘He was worried about his family,’ I said.

‘What about me? And he said he’d told you all about it. Why didn’t you let me know what was going on?’

‘I’m sorry. I had promised Henry I wouldn’t. I did try to stop it. I went to France to try to warn Owen off.’ I touched my cheek, where there was still a small scar. ‘Obviously that didn’t work.’

‘Obviously,’ said Clare.

‘So that’s why you sounded so shaken this afternoon?’ Ingrid asked.

‘Absolutely right. I decided to ignore the note. But I was rattled. And then I got this.’

She handed me the printout of an e-mail. This message was much shorter.

I tried to decipher the internet routing gobbledegook. The message had been sent to Clare at Orchestra. Where it had come from was impossible to determine: I didn’t recognize any of the forwarding addresses.

‘Will it be possible to trace this?’ I asked.

‘I doubt it,’ said Clare. ‘It’s easy to send anonymous e-mails once you know what you’re doing.’

‘Anonymous?’ I snorted. ‘I don’t know why Owen bothered.’

‘Do you think it is Owen?’ Ingrid asked.

I nodded. ‘I’m sure it’s Owen. It’s a last-ditch attempt to protect Guy.’

Clare shuddered. ‘That man gives me the creeps.’

‘So he should,’ I said.

‘What are you going to do?’ Ingrid asked Clare.

‘I know I’m not going to give in to the threats,’ said Clare, her hand shaking.

‘Henry did,’ said Ingrid.

‘I know Henry did. But I’m not going to. If I do, Orchestra Ventures will lose millions. I’m just not prepared to be responsible for that.’

‘It would be quite understandable if you did pull the deal,’ I said. ‘You should know Owen is quite capable of carrying out his threats. He’s killed at least two people that I know of.’

Clare looked at me, eyes wide. ‘My God, I’ve dealt with some shady people in the past, but never a murderer.’ Then they narrowed. ‘He’s not going to mess me about. I’m not that easy to push around.’

I exchanged glances with Ingrid. Clare was a brave woman, there was no doubt about it.

‘OK,’ I said. ‘That leaves you with three choices. You could say nothing and hope, you could go to the police, or I could go and see Owen.’

‘Last time you did that you nearly got yourself killed!’ Ingrid said.

‘I know. But Clare’s right, someone has to stand up to him.’

‘What do you think about going to the police?’ Ingrid asked Clare.

‘I don’t know. I’m nervous about that. The threat was pretty explicit. What do you think, David?’

I considered it. ‘Knowing Owen, if you talk to the police there’s a good chance he’ll carry out his threat.’

‘Whereas if you talk to Owen,’ Ingrid said to me, ‘he’ll kill you first, and then Clare.’ She quite clearly didn’t like that option.

‘What if I talked to Guy? Guy could talk Owen out of harming Clare.’

‘He might,’ said Ingrid. ‘But you and he are hardly best mates at the moment, are you? He blames you for all of this. And he’s not in the most stable frame of mind.’

‘I think he’ll listen to me.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m willing to take the risk. Short of Clare calling Silverman to say that she wants to reject the Champion Starsat deal, I can’t see what else we can do.’ Ingrid and I turned to Clare. ‘Well?’

She thought for a moment. ‘If you’re prepared to talk to Guy and Owen, then do it,’ she said, eventually.

‘All right,’ I said. ‘We’ll give it a go. You say Guy’s at Ninetyminutes?’

‘He said he’d be there all evening,’ said Ingrid. ‘And I’m coming with you.’

‘Oh, no you’re not,’ I said. ‘It might be dangerous.’

‘Of course it’s dangerous,’ said Ingrid. ‘But if you two are going to risk your lives, I don’t see why I shouldn’t too.’

I could see there was no point in arguing with her. ‘All right. Where will you be?’ I asked Clare.

‘Mel wanted me to meet her at Howles Marriott. If we don’t hear anything from Mercia Metro TV before midnight then Derek will send a fax from his house to Champion Starsat accepting their offer. We’ve already drafted it. As the company’s lawyer, Mel wants to be involved. Since she’s in Guy’s pocket, neither Derek nor I are too happy with that. I think she’s hoping that if I’m with her and a deal comes through from Mercia Metro, we can draft whatever papers are necessary on the spot. I don’t know. She was pretty insistent, though.’

‘It’s not a bad idea,’ I said. ‘Lawyers’ offices have plenty of security, even at night, so you should be safe from Owen. We’ll come and pick you up when we’ve had a chance to talk to Guy. Depending on what he says, we can figure out somewhere safe for you to go.’

‘OK,’ said Clare, downing her whisky. ‘What are we waiting for?’

Clare took the first passing taxi to Howles Marriott’s office off Chancery Lane and Ingrid and I took the second.

‘Are you sure Guy will be there?’ I asked her.

‘I think so. Hang on. I’ll check.’

She pulled out her mobile and dialled a number. ‘Hello, Guy, it’s me... Any news?... Nothing?... OK, just checking. Bye.’

‘He’s there?’

‘Yes.’

‘How’d he sound?’

‘Tense.’

‘Do you think Owen’s with him?’

‘I don’t know. He left with the rest of us. I suppose he might have come back. I could hardly ask Guy, could I?’

‘No.’

In silence we pondered the possibility that Owen might be in the office with Guy. It was a risk we would just have to take.

We were taking big risks. People had died. More people might die. Including Ingrid and me.

I worked through the logic of what we were about to do. It held together. Just.

I thought I understood Guy. He would be pretty strung out. I knew that Ninetyminutes meant everything to him. But I also knew that our friendship meant something. He wouldn’t callously kill me. Or Ingrid. Nor would he stand by and let Owen harm us. I was pretty sure of that. Wasn’t I?

I would just have to trust him.

The taxi turned right off Clerkenwell Road down the much quieter Britton Street. We stopped outside the familiar building and I paid the driver. He disappeared, leaving Ingrid and me on the empty pavement looking up to where Guy was sitting, we hoped, alone.

I glanced across at her. Her face was pinched. She was as nervous as me.

‘You really don’t have to do this,’ I said. ‘I can go in by myself.’

‘I know.’

‘It might be dangerous. You might get hurt.’

She turned to me and smiled, a small nervous smile. ‘So might you. I’m coming with you.’

‘OK,’ I said. ‘Let’s go, then.’

We took the stairs up to the fourth floor. We pushed open the door bearing the ninetyminutes.com logo and entered the large open-plan room.

Guy was sitting there, staring at his computer screen where a half-finished game of Minesweeper was displayed.

Alone.

We walked towards him. He turned. He looked worse than I had ever seen him, and I had seen Guy pretty bad. His eyes were set deep in dark shadows, their habitual bright blue now dulled. Stubble sprouted out of his chin and pale puffy cheeks. His yellow hair was greasy and uncombed.

‘Hi,’ he said, his voice flat, defeated.

‘Hello, Guy.’ I walked towards him.

‘Sit down.’ He waved distractedly at my desk. I sat in my old chair. Ingrid perched on the desk next to me.

‘Heard anything?’ I asked him.

‘No.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Ten past ten. I’m not going to hear anything, either. If Mercia Metro were going to do it, they’d have done it by now.’

‘They never were going to do a deal, Guy,’ I said.

He looked at me vaguely, his eyes unfocused. ‘No,’ he said quietly. Then he glanced at Ingrid. ‘Are you two...?’

I nodded.

‘For how long?’

‘Not long. Since you fired me,’ I said.

He smiled. More to himself than to us. ‘That’s nice.’ Then he seemed to notice us again. ‘Are you going to wait with me?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Because I wanted to be alone. Here. At midnight.’

There was something in what he was saying that scared me. ‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Why do you want to be alone?’

Guy didn’t answer. He stared at his screen. He clicked the mouse. We let him play. Then he swore to himself as he clicked on a mine.

He pushed the mouse away. ‘Ninetyminutes is over, isn’t it, Davo?’

I nodded.

‘All that work. All those hours. All the worry, the arguments, the triumphs, all crumbling away into nothing.’

‘The site will live on.’

‘Yeah, but that wasn’t what Ninetyminutes was about,’ Guy said. ‘It was about you and me becoming new people. Better people. And for a time I thought we’d made it. For a long time. I was the entrepreneur who could make anything happen. You were my right-hand man who made sure that once it happened it didn’t all fall apart. We were good, Davo. We were really good. It shouldn’t have gone wrong.’

‘No, it shouldn’t.’

‘But it did. Tonight we sell out. Tomorrow? Tomorrow, there’s nothing.’

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

Guy didn’t seem to hear her at first. Then he smiled a small quick smile, and bent down to open the bottom drawer of his desk. He straightened up. In his hand was a gun.

It was silver-grey, quite large for a handgun, I thought, not that I knew anything about handguns. It was one of those that have a magazine in the handle. He weighed it in his hand. It looked quite heavy.

‘Where did you get that?’ I asked.

‘Owen got it for me,’ Guy said. He chuckled. ‘It’s amazing what you can buy over the Internet these days. Shootsomeone.com. Why didn’t we try that one? Or www.blowyourbrainsout.co.uk. Not many repeat customers, though. And it’s all about repeat customers, isn’t it?’

‘What are you going to do with it?’

‘Use it,’ Guy said. ‘On myself. Don’t worry. I won’t take you with me or anything. I was going to wait till twelve. But if you force me, I could do it now.’

Ingrid let out a short gasp.

‘Let’s wait till twelve,’ I said. ‘There’s still a couple of hours.’

Guy contemplated the gun in his hand. ‘I don’t know. Two hours is a long time to wait with you two staring at me.’

He lifted the weapon.

‘You were a crap businessman, you know,’ I said. I had to say something. For a second a spark of anger lit up Guy’s eyes. But then it died down.

‘I know.’

‘Nowhere near as good as your father.’

He lowered the gun. I had caught his attention. ‘You’re right.’

‘You’re good at the big-picture stuff. The vision thing. But you never really understood that it was all about money, did you? I did, but you fooled me too.’

Anger smouldered in Guy’s eyes.

‘Your father knew about profit, didn’t he? Let’s face it, if we’d done what he’d suggested and linked up to a porn site, the money would be rolling in. Sex ’n’ soccer. The tabloids would be queuing up to buy us. And the NASDAQ could just go screw itself.’

‘I could never have run a site like that,’ said Guy.

‘Neither could I. Could you, Ingrid?’ She shook her head. ‘But that’s our problem. You’d never have made it in property, either.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I remember reading an article in Private Eye about your father. How he had bribed a local council to allow planning permission for some shopping centre in the north. And how he screwed his partner in the seventies.’

‘That was all libel!’ Guy protested. ‘Private Eye settled out of court. They paid Dad a substantial sum and printed an apology.’

‘Course they did. Just like they did to Robert Maxwell. I wouldn’t want to mess with your father in court.’

Guy sighed. ‘So what are you getting at?’

‘You built something much greater than your father could ever have done. Ninetyminutes was one hell of an achievement. Not financially, maybe. But I don’t know anyone else who could have created the best soccer website in Europe from scratch.’

‘Big deal.’

‘It is a big deal. It impressed the hell out of me. And Ingrid. And Gaz. And Michelle. And every one of the people who work here.’ I leaned forward. ‘Guy, you’ve always impressed the hell out of me. For a while I thought that you would be a great entrepreneur. So you’re not. So what? I’m still impressed.’

‘You’re just saying that because I’ve got a gun in my hand.’

‘I’m not, and you know it. I knew your father. I know you. Believe me, Guy. You’re a better man than him. You don’t have to prove that to me, and you shouldn’t have to prove it to yourself any more.’

Guy looked again at the gun. Very slowly he placed it on to the desk next to him. Even more slowly I got to my feet and reached across towards it.

Guy snatched it up and pointed it somewhere between me and him. ‘I’m not sure what I’m going to do with this thing, so don’t rush me.’

I eased back into my chair. ‘OK,’ I said.

We sat in silence, the three of us. But I was thinking about a fourth person. Clare.

Slowly, I pulled the note she had received out of my jacket pocket and handed it to Guy.

‘What’s this?’

‘Clare got it yesterday. It’s from Owen. Read it.’

Guy read it, frowning. ‘You think Owen wrote this?’ he said, when he had finished.

‘I know Owen wrote it. And he sent an e-mail to Clare today, telling her he’s serious.’

Guy was silent, staring at the letter. Eventually, he spoke. ‘I don’t think this is Owen.’

‘Of course it’s Owen,’ I said. ‘It was Owen who threatened Henry. Owen who planted the computer virus in Goaldigger’s system. Owen who has been threatening me. You know yourself Owen killed Dominique. I think he killed Abdulatif as well. And now he’s going to kill Clare. Unless you stop him.’

Guy looked confused. Unsure of himself. Unsure of his brother.

‘You are the only person who can stop him,’ I said.

Just then the door to the office banged open. We turned.

Owen.

He pushed his way through the door carrying a flat brown carton. ‘Hey, Guy?’ he called. ‘Guy? I got pizza! Pepperoni feast.’

Then he saw us.

‘What are these people doing here?’ he demanded, placing the pizza box on a nearby desk and moving over to his brother. ‘I thought you said you wanted to be alone?’

‘They came to talk to me about this.’ Guy handed him Clare’s letter. ‘They tell me you wrote it. Did you?’

Owen read the letter. He chuckled softly to himself.

‘Did you?’ asked Guy again.

Owen shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

Guy’s eyes narrowed. He glanced at Ingrid and me. ‘Owen, if you did write this, it’s pretty dumb. If Ninetyminutes does get sold, killing Clare isn’t going to bring it back.’

‘Did she fold?’ Owen asked.

‘No,’ said Guy. ‘We haven’t heard anything from her. Or from Mercia Metro TV.’

‘Then I guess it was pretty dumb,’ said Owen.

‘There’s no point in harming Clare now,’ I said. ‘Ninetyminutes is going to be sold to Champion Starsat whatever you do to her or anyone else.’

Owen glared at me. His small black eyes gleamed with anger. He was about to say something when he noticed the gun on Guy’s desk. He reached over and picked it up.

I tensed. Owen was dangerous enough. Owen with a gun was lethal.

‘So, you had a use for this after all,’ he said to Guy. ‘I was scared you were going to, like, top yourself with it.’

Guy looked uncomfortable.

‘You were going to top yourself.’ Owen pulled up a chair next to Guy’s desk and lowered himself into it. ‘That’s why you wanted to be by yourself tonight. Then these jerks disturbed you. I knew I shouldn’t have left you alone.’

‘What about Clare?’ I said.

Big mistake. Owen exploded. ‘Screw Clare! I don’t give a shit what happens to her. She’s given Ninetyminutes away.’ He jabbed the gun towards me, using it more as a finger than as a weapon. ‘And screw you too. Can you see what you’ve done to my brother? It was you who totally fucked up Ninetyminutes. If it hadn’t been for you, he’d be fine now, not sitting here planning to blow his brains out.’

‘Give me the gun, Owen,’ Guy said quietly.

‘So you can use it on yourself? No fuckin’ way. I’m gonna use it. On this bastard.’

He raised the gun and pointed it towards me. He was aiming now, not jabbing.

‘Owen, wait!’ Guy protested.

‘No. This fucker deserves to die. He’s gonna die.’

Ingrid let out a small scream.

‘You too, baby. One goes, you both go.’

‘Don’t do it, Owen. It’s stupid.’

‘Of course it’s not stupid. If I hadn’t shown up just now, you’d have shot yourself. And all because of him.’ Owen stared at me hard down the barrel of the gun. He was angry, but he wasn’t out of control. He was very much in control. He knew what he was doing and he was determined to do it.

‘I’m telling you. Give me the gun.’

Guy’s voice was firm. But Owen ignored it. He didn’t move his eyes away from me. I heard the click of the safety catch. He was going to pull the trigger.

‘OK, OK.’ Guy ran his fingers through his hair. His expression changed. From a state of confusion, he suddenly became focused. Angry. ‘You’re right, Owen,’ he said. ‘It is all this bastard’s fault. But let me think. There’s no point in shooting him and waiting for the police to arrive.’

I stared at Guy. Had he gone mad? He looked very sane. Angry, but sane.

Owen stared at his brother too.

‘Guy?’ I said.

‘Shut the fuck up.’

‘Guy. You can’t let Owen do this.’

‘I said, shut the fuck up!’ Guy screamed. ‘Owen’s got it dead right. I should never have hired you. I shouldn’t have listened to you whining about Owen and Henry and my father. I shouldn’t have let you sell Ninetyminutes out from underneath me. I should have fired you months ago.’ He leapt out of his chair, placing his face inches from mine. It was full of hate. I had never seen him like this, even in his worst moments.

Guy had cracked.

‘You speck of shit. You’re going to die, Davo, and I’m going to enjoy it when you do.’ He stepped back and spoke to his brother. ‘But we’ve got to think about this, Owen. Give ourselves time. Kill these two and then get out of the country before anyone realizes they’ve gone.’

Owen nodded his head. He didn’t actually smile, but you could see him swell with pleasure. His big brother was on his side. They were going to run off together, just the two of them, looking after each other as they should have done all along.

‘I’m gonna shoot the fucker,’ he said. Just to be clear.

‘Yeah, I know. But not here. Not now. We need to take them away somewhere.’

‘We can shoot them and move the bodies.’

‘Hey, let me do the thinking, will you?’ snapped Guy. ‘I sorted things after Dominique, I can sort things now. People will see us shifting bodies around. I’ll go and get your car and bring it back here. We’ll put them in alive, and take them somewhere a bit more remote. Maybe somewhere on the way to Dover. Give me the keys.’

Owen thought for a second and then reached into his pocket. He threw Guy a bunch. ‘I’ll get your passport while I’m at it. I’ve got mine here.’ He reached down into the bag by his desk and pulled out his own passport, showing it to Owen. ‘I won’t be long. Keep them covered. And if they try anything, shoot them. It’ll be messier, but we’ll figure something out.’

He was gone.

40

Ingrid and I were left facing Owen and a gun.

How long would Guy be? Owen’s flat was in Camden, not too far away. It wouldn’t take him long to fetch the car if he took a cab there. Twenty minutes maybe? It would be a long twenty minutes.

Ingrid was still perched on the desk, beside me. She moved her hand out to mine. I held it.

‘How cute,’ said Owen. He shifted his aim slightly away from my head and towards our hands. ‘But let go, or I’ll blow your fingers off.’

We let go.

I cursed myself for allowing her to come, even though it would have been impossible to stop her. Owen wanted to kill me. He didn’t care about Ingrid, but now she would die too.

I still couldn’t believe the transformation I had seen in Guy. He had turned from confused and suicidal to focused and murderous. Something had snapped. This was a Guy I did not recognize, a Guy I did not know.

I wondered where they’d take us. Probably to some woods somewhere in Kent. They’d shoot us, dump us, and drive on to the ferry and the Continent. Would they escape? Between the two of them, they were pretty resourceful. They might.

I thought about dying. About my parents, how distraught they would be. About what I had achieved with my life. To my surprise, I found myself thinking about Ninetyminutes. That was something. Something good. Then I realized it was all going to be over. Sometime in the next hour or so, it was all going to be over.

I glanced at Owen. He saw the fear in my eyes. He smiled.

I tried to get a grip of myself. I had no intention of giving that bastard any pleasure.

We sat there a long time. It seemed longer than twenty minutes, but I didn’t want to check my watch in case it provoked Owen. He sat solidly still. If he was impatient or jumpy, he didn’t show it. His eyes never left me. He had the ghost of a smile, a complacent, self-satisfied smile. He liked to watch me sitting there in fear. He was enjoying this.

Then Ingrid spoke. ‘Owen?’ she said softly. ‘You could just leave us, you know. You could easily get away, just the two of you. We wouldn’t call the police until the morning.’

‘Quiet,’ Owen said. ‘Don’t even try to talk your way out of this.’

‘But, Owen—’

‘I said, quiet!’ He raised the gun.

Just then, we heard the sound of Guy running up the stairs, two at a time. He banged open the door.

‘You took your time,’ Owen said.

‘Come on,’ said Guy. ‘Let’s go. Give me the gun. I’ll cover them.’

‘No, I’ll keep it.’

Guy reached out towards the weapon. Owen pulled it away. ‘I said, I’ll keep it. If anyone’s gonna shoot these fuckers, it’s gonna be me.’

Guy stared at his brother, who stared back. He wasn’t going to budge. Guy shrugged. ‘OK. The car’s outside. Let’s go.’

Owen waved the gun at Ingrid and me. Reluctantly we stood up and followed Guy out into the hallway and down the stairs, Owen a couple of feet behind us.

Guy was first through the door on to the street. Everything was quiet. I looked for Owen’s black Japanese four-wheel drive, but I couldn’t see it.

‘Where’s the car?’ Owen asked.

‘Just round that corner,’ Guy replied, pointing to an alley on the other side of the road.

We crossed the street.

Then several things happened at once. Everything exploded in a bright whiteness. Guy screamed, ‘Down!’ He dived to the ground, pulling Ingrid with him. As I dropped too, pressing my face against the hard road surface, I heard the sharp crack of two shots, then a sharp scream from Owen behind me, and the clatter of his gun falling to the tarmac.

I rolled over. I saw Owen slumped in the road, an outstretched hand reaching for the gun, only inches away from his fingertips. I scrabbled over to it and snatched it away from him. All around me I could hear the sounds of running.

I pulled myself to my feet, still holding the gun. I looked down at Owen, illuminated by the bright lights. Blood seemed to be pouring out of two holes, one in his shoulder and another in his side. Policemen wielding rifles and handguns and wearing bulletproof vests bent over him. A siren wailed with increasing intensity as an ambulance barrelled down the little street towards us.

I turned to look for Ingrid. She seemed unhurt, but she was shaking violently. Wide-eyed, she staggered towards me and I wrapped my arms around her. She clung to me, tight.

Guy was hovering behind the group of policemen who were surrounding his brother, watching them as they tried to stanch the flow of blood. I recognized one of them: DS Spedding. Seconds later they were joined by paramedics in green overalls. Within a minute, Owen was on a stretcher and being lifted into the ambulance.

‘Is he going to be OK?’ Guy asked Spedding, whose hands were covered in Owen’s blood.

‘He’s still alive. He’s bleeding heavily, but he’s a big strong guy. He’s got a chance.’

Guy tried to get into the ambulance with Owen, but Spedding stopped him. There were questions to answer.

I walked over to Guy. There were tears streaming down his cheeks. Spedding stepped back.

‘Thanks, Guy,’ I said.

He tried to smile. ‘Did I fool you?’

‘You fooled me. I knew you were a good actor.’

‘I had to be to fool Owen.’ He turned to watch the ambulance disappear up the road, siren blaring. ‘I hope he lives.’

I hoped so too. For Guy’s sake.

‘I had to do it, Davo. When I saw he really meant to kill you, that even I couldn’t talk him out of it, it all suddenly clicked. He may be my brother, but he’s evil. I’ve tried to hide from that fact all my life. Blame my parents, blame anybody but Owen. So it was up to me to stop him.’

‘I thought you were away a long time.’

‘I called Spedding. He was pretty quick in the circumstances. I knew I couldn’t keep Owen waiting too much longer.’ He shook his head, looking along the street to where the ambulance had long since disappeared. ‘I wish he’d given me the gun.’

Spedding approached us. ‘I’m sorry, Guy, but I have some questions I have to ask you.’ He drew Guy a few yards away and began asking them. Other policemen talked to Ingrid and me. After half an hour or so, they let us go.

‘I’m off to the hospital, now,’ said Guy. ‘To see how Owen’s doing.’

I glanced at Ingrid. ‘We’ll come with you,’ I said. I didn’t give a damn what happened to Owen, but I did care about Guy. He needed all the support he could get.

‘Thanks,’ he said, and turned to the small group of policemen who were still busy milling about the road. Spedding had already left, so he spoke to a uniformed sergeant.

A moment later he rejoined us. ‘Owen’s been taken to St Thomas’s. The copper said they could give us a lift, but we’d have to wait a few minutes. So let’s just grab a taxi.’

He headed off rapidly towards Farringdon Road, and we followed him, keeping our eyes out for black cabs with orange lights on. There were none.

‘Damn,’ Guy said. He was getting impatient, and began walking down towards Smithfield. He waved at an empty cab with its light off, but it ignored him and drove on. I was reminded of Hoyle’s prayers for a recession.

We paused at a crossing. Guy was suddenly struck by something. He turned to me, frowning. ‘You know, you were wrong, Davo.’

‘About what?’

‘About Owen. And the note to Clare.’

‘What do you mean? He admitted he wrote it.’

‘No, he didn’t. When I asked him, he said, “Maybe.” He was trying to be mysterious. Having his own little joke.’

Guy saw my scepticism. ‘Think about it. Think of the words in the note: “unsolicited offer”, “purchase the company”, “pursuing discussions with other potential investors”. That’s not Owen.’

It was true. They didn’t sound like Owen’s words.

‘Did you see the note Owen wrote to Henry?’ Guy asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Was it anything like that?’

‘No. It was just a couple of lines. I can’t remember it exactly, but it was something like: “Give Ninetyminutes the money, or else.” ’

‘And another thing. I know Owen didn’t kill my father.’ I opened my mouth to protest, but Guy stopped me. ‘It’s not just that he was with me at the time, I know he didn’t hire anyone else to kill him, either. He was genuinely surprised when he heard what had happened. But someone murdered Dad. Someone ran him down, on purpose. And someone wrote that note.’

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a taxi with its light on speeding past us. But I was too stunned by what Guy was saying to react.

Guy’s frown deepened. ‘Where’s Mel?’

‘She’s with Clare,’ said Ingrid. ‘At Howles Marriott.’

‘Oh, my God,’ I said. Suddenly, I saw it. Guy was right. Of course Owen wouldn’t have written a letter like that: it was written by a lawyer. A lawyer who would do anything to help Guy. Anything.

‘What time is it?’ Guy asked.

I checked my watch. ‘Ten to twelve.’

‘Jesus.’ Guy looked up and down the street. No sign of any more free cabs. We were now quite a distance from Britton Street and the remaining police. ‘Come on! Let’s run! It’s only half a mile to Mel’s office.’

Guy set off, with Ingrid and me in hot pursuit. We ran along Charterhouse Street, across Holborn Circus, down Shoe Lane, and into the rabbit warren of streets and squares between Fleet Street and Chancery Lane. Guy ran fast and it was all I could do to keep up. I wasn’t as fit as I used to be; my heart was soon pounding and I was gasping for air. But I kept up, just. Ingrid wasn’t far behind us.

We reached the entrance to Howles Marriott. A security guard looked up from his desk, startled.

‘Have you seen Melanie Dean?’ Guy asked, fighting for breath.

‘She just left a moment ago.’

‘Alone?’

‘No. With another lady.’

‘Shit!’ said Guy. ‘Look. Call the police. Tell them there’s a murder about to be committed. There’s a dangerous woman out there and she’s almost certainly armed.’

The security guard’s jaw dropped. He didn’t move.

‘I’m serious. Do it!’

Guy and I ran out of the front entrance. Ingrid arrived panting.

‘Which way?’ I said.

‘God knows,’ said Guy. ‘She could have gone anywhere.’

‘I thought I saw two figures back that way,’ said Ingrid, pointing towards the alley from which we had come. ‘It’s not far.’

‘OK. Show us.’

Ingrid set off again and we followed her. She dived through a passageway under an office block and into a tiny square paved with flagstones. The red-brick lawyers’ buildings that surrounded it were still. No traffic. No people. Just Mel and Clare, illuminated under a yellow streetlamp.

‘Mel!’ Guy shouted.

At the sound of his voice, she stopped and turned. Clare was right next to her, looking very frightened. In Mel’s hand was a gun.

Ingrid and I stopped. Guy slowed to a walk. He approached the two women.

‘Now, Mel. Let her go,’ he said calmly.

‘No,’ Mel said. ‘I warned her that if she didn’t turn down the Champion Starsat offer she would die. Derek Silverman faxed through the acceptance ten minutes ago.’

‘I’m asking you to let her go,’ Guy said, taking a further step towards her.

‘Stop where you are!’ Mel shouted. Her eyes were bright. She was wired. On the edge.

Guy stopped.

‘I’m doing this for you, you know that, don’t you?’ Mel said.

Guy nodded. ‘I know.’

‘I’ve done so much for you.’

‘I know.’

‘Do you? I don’t think you do. I got rid of your father. Did you know that? Do you remember that night when you came round to see me after you’d had a fight with him? After he had insisted that Ninetyminutes become a porn site. Do you remember that, Guy?’

‘I remember.’

‘I was so angry for you. I wanted to help you. So I decided to force him to keep you on, to keep doing things at Ninetyminutes your way. I waited for him in my car outside his flat. I was going to tell him that if he didn’t do what I wanted, I’d accuse him of raping me in France.

‘Then I saw him. Coming out of his flat into the narrow street. I thought it would be so easy just to put my foot down on the accelerator and finish him off. I remembered what he’d done to me in France, how he’d ruined my life. I couldn’t let him ruin your life as well. So I put my foot down.’

I remembered what Anne Glazier had said: Mel had arrived back at her flat that evening after Guy. She had driven home straight from running Tony down. No wonder she had seemed so agitated.

I couldn’t see Guy’s face, but Mel could. ‘Don’t look so shocked. Owen killed Dominique, didn’t he? And you stood by him. Well, I killed Tony. For you.’

‘There’s no need to kill anyone else,’ Guy said. ‘Let Clare go. For me.’

Mel grabbed hold of Clare and lifted the gun to her head. ‘No. She destroyed Ninetyminutes.’

Clare whimpered. She was terrified.

‘Did Owen know?’ Guy asked.

‘He worked it out. He’s clever, your brother. And I knew he was trying to help you too. We both did our best.’

‘Is that where you got the gun?’

‘Yes. He came up to me a few days ago and said he’d got one for you and did I want one? I think he knew what I’d use it for.’

A siren sounded. Mel looked round the square in panic. The police. If she was going to press the trigger, she might do it now.

Guy took a step further forward.

‘I’m going to shoot her! I mean it.’

More sirens, louder. Guy took another step. ‘Let her go.’

‘I said, I’ll shoot her.’

Another step.

The gun moved away from Clare’s head towards Guy. Clare bucked and yanked herself away from Mel’s grasp. Guy lunged forward. There was a shot and a cry from Guy. He slid to the ground as Mel jumped backwards. Clare ran off somewhere to the side. I dashed towards Mel and Guy. Mel turned and ran down an alleyway.

I ran after her. I knew she had a gun, but I was angry and I was determined to stop her. I rounded a corner. She turned and fired. She was only a few yards ahead of me, but she was holding the gun unsteadily and the bullet whined harmlessly over my head. I ducked back out of sight.

Mel ran on and I followed. She was not a good shot and at that moment I didn’t care too much for my own safety. But I would have to figure out how to get close enough to disarm her. How many bullets did she have in her magazine? I had no idea.

Another corner, another alleyway. This time at the far end was Fleet Street, with its traffic, busy even at this time of night. Mel stopped and turned towards me. I was closer to her now. She raised her gun towards me. She was so near it would be hard to miss.

I thought about trying to run back to the corner. But she would fire then for sure. And she might hit me.

So I walked on.

‘I’ll shoot!’ she said, her voice catching with hysteria.

‘Don’t, Mel. Put the gun down.’

‘No!’ She was grasping the gun so tightly in front of her that it was shaking. But at least part of the time it was pointing straight at me.

‘There’s no point, Mel. You’ve shot Guy. He’s back there lying on the pavement in his own blood. He’s not coming with you.’

Mel bit her lip. Her shoulders hunched as she tried to control herself, tried to keep the gun pointed at me. ‘Is he dead?’ she said, in little more than a whisper.

‘Perhaps,’ I said. ‘I don’t know. Give me the gun.’

I took another step forward.

Mel braced herself and stared along the barrel of the gun straight at me. Then she slumped backwards into the wall. The gun dropped to her side.

I walked swiftly up to her and prised the weapon out of her fingers. The barrel was warm. She slid down to the ground, put her head in her hands and sobbed.

A policeman arrived breathing heavily. I left Mel and the gun with him and ran back to the small square.

Guy was lying where he had fallen. Ingrid was with him, as were three or four armed policemen.

I pushed my way through to him.

He had a single wound to the chest. Blood was pumping out. He was finding it very difficult to breathe, but his eyes were open. His skin was pale under his stubble, so pale.

He saw me.

‘Davo.’

I knelt down beside him.

‘Is Clare OK?’ he asked.

I looked up. She was standing a few yards away, her face white, her hand to her mouth.

‘Yeah. You saved her.’

‘And Owen? How’s Owen?’

‘I don’t know.’

He tried to speak, but could only cough. Blood dribbled out of the side of his mouth.

‘Easy,’ I said. ‘The ambulance will be here soon.’

‘Can you find out? About Owen?’ It was little more than a whisper.

I looked up. Spedding was standing over us, catching his breath, splashes of Owen’s blood still on his clothes. I raised my eyebrows. He stepped back and spoke into his radio. After a few seconds he caught my eye and shook his head.

I looked down at Guy. He hadn’t seen Spedding.

‘He’s fine,’ I said. ‘He’s going to make it.’

Guy smiled. Or tried to smile. He coughed. More blood. He coughed once more, and then he was still.

Ingrid wept quietly. I put my arm around her and squeezed her tight. As I watched the paramedics cover his body and load it on to a stretcher, I realized that in the end I had trusted Guy.

And he hadn’t let me down.

41

November 2000, six months later, Mayfair, London

The twenty-six-year-old ex-investment banker finished his PowerPoint presentation with a flourish and sat down expectantly. I glanced at Clare. This was the third Wireless Application Protocol deal we had seen in a month, and easily the worst. By a slight twitching of an eyebrow, Clare signalled that she agreed with my assessment. We asked the two-man team some questions for the sake of politeness, and then kicked them out.

‘We were never that bad, were we, Clare?’ I asked her as we made our way back to the small office we shared.

Clare laughed. ‘Not quite. But those guys were geniuses compared to some of the bozos we used to get in here a year ago.’

The dot-com bubble may have burst, but the venture capitalists lived on. They now counted me as one of their number. I enjoyed the job: finally I had found something that played to my analytical strengths and allowed me to take the occasional risk. Orchestra Ventures was doing well, partly owing to one of Henry’s deals, a chain of coffee shops that had been bought by a multinational for tens of millions. So Henry was still a partner; it is amazing what venture capitalists will forgive someone who makes them money.

I sat at my desk and stared at my computer, remembering our own pitch to Orchestra. I called up the web browser and typed in www.ninetyminutes.com. The familiar bubble design appeared, although one of the bubbles now bore the words Number One Soccer Site in Europe. I smiled. With Champion Starsat’s funding, Gaz’s writing and Ingrid’s editorial skills, Ninetyminutes had wiped the floor with the opposition. Sure, retailing had been closed down, and there were prominent links to Champion Starsat services all over the site, but none the less Guy would have been pleased. I was glad Madden had succeeded in persuading Ingrid to stay on. I still saw a lot of her. I was glad of that, too.

The legal machinery was grinding on towards Mel’s trial. I wasn’t planning to attend, but I assumed I would be called as a witness, something I was not looking forward to. Mel had spent most of her adult life feeling guilty. I hoped she would plead guilty now.

Guy was lying next to his father and brother in the village churchyard, but it seemed to me that he had finally broken free of both of them. All his thirty-two years he had been at war with himself to prove that he could make something of his life. And he had: I was staring at it. For the hundredth time since his death I felt a wave of sadness wash over me.

Then I heard his voice whispering in my ear: ‘Get on with it, Davo!’

I smiled to myself. With a couple of clicks of my mouse I left the Ninetyminutes website. And got on with it.

Author’s Note

None of the characters in this book represent real people. The explosion of new internet companies over the last few years has made it virtually impossible to find a company name that is both plausible and hasn’t been used before somewhere, some time. Although a few real companies have been given peripheral roles in the book, Ninetyminutes, Goaldigger, Babyloves, Lastrest, Sick As A Parrot, Orchestra Ventures, Bloomfield Weiss, Howles Marriott, Coward Turner, Leipziger Gurney Kroheim, Champion Starsat and Midland Mercia TV are all fictional.

A great many people have helped with the writing of this book. In particular, I would like to thank Will Muirhead of Sportev, Sheona Southern and her colleagues at Teamtalk, Eldar Tuvey of Mailround, Anne Glover and her colleagues at Amadeus, Toby Wyles, Peter Morris, Tim Botterill, Troels Henriksen, Saul Cambridge, Douglas Marston, Jonathan Cape, Richard Horwood, Simon Petherick, my agent, Carole Blake and my editors, Beverley Cousins and Tom Weldon.

This book is dedicated to Hugh Paton, a skilful and safe pilot. I miss him.

Michael Ridpath

London

September 2002