Final Venture

17

I decided there was little to be lost by talking to Art after all. And the best place to do that was at his home. So late on Sunday afternoon I drove out to Acton.

The Boston area is stuffed with the most prosaic place names from the South East of England. Acton, Chelmsford, Woburn, Billericay, Braintree, Norwood and of course Woodbridge, to name but a few. Driving around the area was a bit like being lost on the outer reaches of the Central Line. I hadn't found Chipping Ongar yet, but I was sure it was lurking there somewhere.

Acton was nothing like its West London namesake. Winding rivers, small bridges, stony fields of pumpkins lined up as if on parade, scattered brightly painted wooden houses, tiny blue lakes, and trees. Trees everywhere. The clear autumn light reflected brightly off the oranges and reds of the maples, and the yellows, browns and greens of lesser species. Despite the reason for my visit, my spirits rose as I drove up Spring Hollow Road to Art's large yellow-painted house, with the smart green Range Rover parked outside.

His wife, Shirley, answered the door. Although she must have been about fifty, she was trying to look twenty years younger. Counterfeit blonde hair, tight blue jeans, and careful make-up did their best, but didn't quite succeed. As Daniel had said, we had got on very well at the previous year's Christmas party, but it took her a second to recognize me. Then she gave me a broad smile.

'Simon, how nice to see you again!'

'I'm sorry to disturb you over the weekend, Shirley,' I said.

'No trouble at all. Do come in. I was just about to go down to the market, but Art's around.'

I stood in the hallway as she fetched her husband.

'What's the problem, Simon. A deal blowing up?' Art asked, almost with relish.

'No, it's not that. It's more, er, personal.'

'Oh yes?' Art looked me over suspiciously. He was dressed in neatly pressed khaki trousers and a denim shirt. He looked not exactly tired, but bleary eyed, as though he had a cold or something.

'Yes. Um, I wanted to ask your advice about something.'

After a moment's reflection, Art decided he was happy to play the role of wise uncle. He showed me through to the living room. A Big Ten football game was playing on the large-screen TV. He flicked a remote to turn the sound down, but not off, and picked up an open can of Diet Dr Pepper.

'Want one?'

'No thanks,' I said.

'Cup of tea?'

'Actually, yes please. That would be nice.'

I wasn't sure whether Art was mocking me, but I would prefer a cup of tea any day to the purple mixture of effervescent chemicals Art was drinking.

'Hold on a moment, I'll get Shirley to fix it.'

I sat down in an armchair, and let my eyes be pulled towards the huge screen. Michigan had just gone 23-22 ahead of Ohio State, and people were very excited. I idly wondered whether Chelsea had beaten Arsenal at the Bridge the day before.

'Good game,' said Art, returning from the kitchen. 'Chuck's playing Ohio State next week. What's the problem?'

'Well,' I began. 'It's about Frank's murder, actually'

'Uh-huh.'

'The problem is, the police seem to think I'm responsible.'

I paused to watch Art. He didn't say anything at all at first, just looked at me carefully, as though he agreed with the police's assessment. But he decided to be polite and hear me out. 'But you were his son-in-law.'

'That's part of the problem. Lisa stands to inherit half Frank's estate. Including the BioOne profits.'

Art snorted as though he was displeased that Frank could have received any of the BioOne millions.

'And I went to see him at his house at the shore shortly before he died,' I continued. 'I was the last person to see him alive. Apart from his murderer of course.'

Art furrowed his brow. 'I can see how that might not look good. But Gil has made clear to all of us that he supports you, and so should we.'

Shirley Altschule appeared with a dainty Wedgwood cup of tea.

'Thank you, Mrs Altschule,' I said. 'I'm sorry, but can I just have a drop of milk?'

'Oh, why certainly,' she said, and retreated to the kitchen.

'But how can I help?' Art asked when she had gone.

I smiled quickly. 'I need to find out who did kill Frank. And to do that, I need to ask some questions.'

'Such as?'

'I wonder if you could tell me where you were on the Saturday he was killed?'

'What?' Art swigged his Dr Pepper. 'What kind of question is that? I didn't kill him.'

'I'm sure that's right, Art, but I just need to eliminate everyone in the firm.'

'I had to answer these questions from the police. Why the hell should I answer them from you?'

'I'm sorry, Art. The police won't tell me the results of their investigation apart from that they think I'm the most likely suspect. So I have to recreate their investigation for myself. I know it's a bore for you, but it would help me a lot.'

'Well, I was at home with Shirley all that day, wasn't I honey?'

His wife had just returned with a delicate jug of milk, which I poured into my cup.

'What day was that?' she asked.

'That Saturday when Frank Cook was killed.'

Shirley Altschule threw me a sharp look. 'That's right. You worked in the yard most of the afternoon, and then we rented a video in the evening. But we've told the police all this.'

'Yes, I know, hon, but Simon is making his own inquiries.'

'Was anyone else here that day?'

'No,' said Shirley. 'The kids are both at college.'

'And who collected the video?'

'I did,' said Shirley. 'It was a Die Hard movie. Art likes those, you know. But I don't know why you need to know all this stuff. Surely you don't think-'

'Of course I don't, Mrs Altschule. As Art said, I'm just trying to recreate what the police have done so far. Anyway, with what you've told me, I can cross Art off the list, even though he wasn't really on it to start with.'

She gave me a quick worried look. 'I'm just going down to the store, Art,' she said. 'I'll be back.'

'See you later, hon,' he said.

I waited until she had left, and then I continued my questioning. 'Have you any idea who else might have killed Frank?'

'No. I'm with Gil on this though. I can't believe it can have been anyone at Revere. It was probably some wandering psycho. The cops will get him in the end. I just hope they find him before he kills any more people.'

'I tell you though, it's horrible when you feel the police are after you,' I said. 'It shakes your faith in the justice system.'

'I bet.'

'I hear the same kind of thing happened to you once. After your partner committed suicide?'

'Who told you that?' asked Art, sharply.

'Oh, I forget who. It's just rumour. It's probably all wrong.'

Art looked at me. 'No, it's true.' He glanced at his watch, which must have said a quarter past five, and then towards the front door, through which his wife had recently disappeared. 'What do you say to a real drink?'

'It's a bit early, isn't it?' I said. Although a looser tongue might tell me more, I was reluctant to encourage a former alcoholic.

'Oh, don't be silly. Jack on the rocks OK with you?'

The truth was, if Art wanted a real drink, I couldn't stop him. I nodded.

Art reached behind a bookcase and pulled out a bottle. He found two glasses on a shelf, and some ice from a small refrigerator, which I could see was stuffed with Diet Dr Pepper. Within a moment a large drink was in my hand.

Art took a big gulp. 'Aah. That tastes good.' He slung the can of Dr Pepper accurately into the wastepaper bin at the far side of the room.

'Yeah, I've had my turn as a number-one suspect,' he said. 'It was a bad time. Everything seemed to be going wrong all around me. It turned out my partner had been ripping off our company for years. We were both being hit for a giant warranty payment. And then the stupid son-of-a-bitch went and killed himself. The cops blamed me.'

'They didn't have any evidence, though?'

'Not real evidence. But I had a motive, and my only alibi was Shirley, and they didn't believe her. They also held the fact that I had been in 'Nam against me. That really pissed me off. It was as though just because I had been out there fighting for my country, I was some kind of murderer.'

'I know what you mean,' I said. 'That's exactly what Mahoney holds against me.'

Art looked at me curiously. 'But you didn't fight in any war, did you? I thought you guys just pranced around on horses at the Queen's tea parties.'

'No, I never fought in any war,' I said. 'But I did learn to drive an armoured car. And I also spent a year in Northern Ireland. I think that's what Mahoney didn't like.'

'That figures,' said Art.

'But in the end they couldn't pin anything on you?'

'No. I got a good lawyer and they had to leave me alone.' Art snorted. 'That bastard Slater got me even after the grave.'

Art sipped his whisky thoughtfully.

'What was it like in Vietnam?' I asked.

Art looked at me suspiciously. 'It wasn't what I expected. It wasn't how a war should be fought. Not what we were trained for.' He took a large gulp of his whisky. 'I try to forget it. I don't always succeed, but I try.'

This reply was so unlike Art, so lacking in bravado and bluster, that it caught me by surprise. I thanked God I hadn't been asked to go anywhere like Vietnam.

He emptied his glass and refilled it. 'What about Northern Ireland?'

'That was pretty unpleasant,' I answered. 'You're there to keep one half of the population from murdering the other half, but you get the feeling they all hate you. There is so much hatred there. It's quiet ninety-nine per cent of the time, but then a bomb goes off, or someone fires a shot, and one of your men dies.'

'Do you think the peace process will work?'

I shrugged. 'I hope so.'

We were silent for a moment.

'It teaches you something, doesn't it?' Art said.

I didn't reply. I wasn't sure it did. Other than that every society has nasty jobs that it persuades its young men to undertake on its behalf. I felt a worse person for having shot those two men in the car, not a better one.

I swallowed the rest of my drink and Art refilled the glass. 'Hey, do you want to take a look at my gun collection? You were a soldier, you'd appreciate it.'

'I'd love to,' I said. Art's interest in guns was definitely something that interested me.

We left our glasses, and Art took me down to the basement. One wall was lined with sturdy-looking metal cabinets. Art took out a key, and unlocked one of them. There were half a dozen antique muskets, rifles, and carbines. Most of them were from the American Civil War, although he also had a long Brown Bess musket used by the British army in the Peninsular campaign.

The other three cabinets held more modern weapons, including some from the Second World War. There were assault rifles, semi-automatics, and a variety of handguns. No three fifty-seven Magnums though. I wondered if there ever had been one in his collection.

Looking at all this assembled hardware, I remembered with a pang when I had first met Lisa, when Art and she had argued about gun licensing laws.

After twenty minutes or so, we returned to the living room and our glasses. Art was mellow and relaxed.

'What did you think of Frank?' I asked.

Art took a deep breath. 'We had very different philosophies on how the firm should be run,' said Art. 'Frank was very analytical about everything. I'm more seat-of-the-pants. Sure, Frank was a bright guy. But my method works.'

'So did his,' I said, unable to leave Frank undefended.

'Oh, on a small scale, yes,' said Art. 'But for a real big winner like BioOne, you need something more. It's a kind of imagination, a willingness to take risks, courage, leadership. Call it what you will.'

I'd call it luck, I thought, but I bit my lip.

'Do you think he would have taken over when Gil eventually retires?' I asked. 'I mean if he was still alive.'

'Possibly,' said Art. 'Gil liked Frank a lot. But what Revere needs now more than ever is leadership, and that's something I can provide.' He poured himself another drink. 'I joined Gil right at the outset, I have the best investment track record at the firm. I think I'm the obvious choice. When Gil does retire,' he added, almost as an afterthought. As far as he was concerned I didn't know anything of Gil's plans.

'And if you don't get to be Managing Partner?' I asked.

Art looked at me strangely. 'Oh, I will,' he said, forcefully. 'Don't worry about that.'

Just then, there was the sound of a car pulling up in the driveway outside. A moment later, Shirley came in, carrying some grocery bags. 'Art, can you help me with these?' she called. Then she saw the whisky glass.

'Art!' she snapped.

'What?' His tone was angry. Belligerent. I looked at the Jack Daniel's bottle. It had been full. It was now half-empty. But Art's voice wasn't slurred, and apart from a slight flush in his cheeks, he looked completely sober.

'Art. We agreed.' Her voice was exasperated.

Art stood up, drawing himself up to his full height, which was about six feet four. 'Shirley, I'm just having a drink with my colleague here.'

She dropped the shopping, and grabbed the glass in his hand. She threw the whisky into a plant pot.

Art's face reddened. 'Don't do that,' he growled. His voice was low, sinister. His wife froze, as if she recognized this new tone. There was something close to fear in her face.

She seemed to take a second to summon up her courage. 'Art. No more drink, OK?' She threw a quick glance at me.

'Don't worry. He's just going,' said Art, glaring at his wife.

I tried to catch her eye. She was standing in front of him, trying to be resolute, but fear was creeping into her eyes, and the corner of her mouth trembled.

I couldn't leave her.

'Can I help you with the shopping, Mrs Altschule?' I said.

She glanced at Art. 'OK. That would be very kind.' She hesitated, then headed for the door. I followed her, with Art watching us.

Her car was parked in the driveway, the boot open.

'I'm sorry,' I said. 'He offered me a drink and I accepted.'

She sighed. 'It's not your fault. If he wants to drink he's going to drink.'

'I was worried in there,' I said. 'Are you going to be all right?'

She bit her lip and nodded her head, but the frightened glance she shot me made me not so sure.

'When did the drinking start?'

'About a month ago.'

'When Frank died.'

'No, a bit before then.'

'Do you know why?'

She looked at me hesitantly.

'I know Gil is planning to retire,' I said. 'He must have told Art about then. Did he tell him Frank was going to take over the firm?'

She took a deep breath. Art's very ambitious. He's always assumed Gil's job would be his eventually. When Gil sent a note to the partners saying he was going to retire, Art thought his time had come. Then a couple of weeks later, Gil told him Frank had the job. Art was going to be given some grand title, but Frank would have the power. I've never seen Art so angry. He went on about BioOne, and how it was such an important investment for the firm. He felt badly let down by Gil, I can tell you.'

There was something in Shirley Altschule's voice that suggested she agreed with her husband on that score.

Anyway, he ranted on for an hour or so, and then left the house. He didn't say where he was going. He came back in a taxi at midnight, drunk.' She bit her lip. 'If only Gil had been fair to him.' She sniffed. 'It was the first drop he'd touched for nearly ten years, since that awful time when his partner killed himself. Once he started, he couldn't stop. And it's so stupid. It's not going to do anything for his chances.'

'But now Frank's dead, doesn't he think the job's his?'

'He says he does. But his confidence is shaken. He doesn't trust Gil any more. And the drink doesn't help.'

She glanced at me sharply, as though she regretted what she had just said. 'My husband didn't kill Frank Cook,' she said icily. 'I know that. He was here with me all the time. And he might be violent sometimes, but he's not a murderer.' She looked at me defiantly, daring me to contradict her.

'OK,' I said, mildly.

Then her eyes clouded with worry. 'Don't tell Gil, will you?'

'He's bound to find out.'

She sighed. 'Maybe. And I expect when he does he'll be understanding. But I'm still hopeful I can get him off it. I can't go through that again.'

We were standing by her car in the driveway. I saw some movement in the window. It was Art, watching us.

'What are you going to do now?' I said. I looked back towards the house. 'Are you sure you'll be all right?'

'Of course,' she said. For a moment there was fear in her eyes, but then she banished it, and steeled herself. She looked me straight in the eyes. 'We have to face this together. He needs me if he's going to get over this. Now, help me carry these in.'

I grabbed some bags and followed her back into the house. Art was standing in the hallway, his large frame almost blocking it. I squeezed past him, and put the bags down in the kitchen.

'Goodbye, Simon,' Art muttered.

I glanced at his wife. She nodded. 'Goodbye,' she said.

I wanted to stay there, to protect her, or force her to come away with me. But I admired her courage and her loyalty, and I had no right to prevent her from doing what she could to help her husband.

But I couldn't abandon her completely. I drove my car a few yards up the road and stopped. I jogged back to their house, crept up to the living room window, and peeked in.

Art and his wife were standing there, in the middle of the room, holding each other.