Final Venture

19

'Have you ever seen this before?'

Mahoney was holding a silver-grey revolver. I had never seen it before. But I said nothing.

We were in the DA's office in Salem. Mahoney had given me a formal warning this time, and I had exercised my right to have Gardner Phillips present. Mahoney had brought in reinforcements as well in the shape of an Assistant District Attorney named Pamela Leyser. She was a well-groomed blonde-haired woman in her late thirties, very crisp and businesslike. I shook her hand and smiled at her. She didn't smile back.

Gardner Phillips had absolutely insisted that I say nothing. He was watching Mahoney like a hawk, looking for a slip-up in his questioning. He seemed competent and in control, although during our hurried discussions before the interview, he seemed totally uninterested in my attempt to convince him that I was innocent. He just wanted to know what evidence the police had and how they had got it.

'It's a Smith and Wesson three fifty-seven Magnum. It was used to murder Frank Cook.'

No response.

'Do you know where we found it?'

Of course I did. I'd seen them looking. But no response.

'It was in this plastic bag.' Mahoney held up a bedraggled Boots bag. 'Do you recognize it? I believe it comes from a British store.'

No answer.

'We found the bag with the gun in it in the Basin by the Esplanade. On the route your wife takes when she goes running. How do you think it got there?'

Once again, no reply.

'She threw it there, didn't she?'

Nothing.

'We have a witness who saw her running out of your street carrying something heavy in a plastic bag. We have another who saw her running back toward your house from the direction of the river carrying nothing.'

That sounded pretty damning.

Mahoney carried on, piling up the evidence against me. It sounded convincing. There had been tension between Frank and me over the way he had treated me at work, over money and over his fear that I was cheating on his daughter. I needed money to appeal the judgement in my sister's legal case. Because of the success of BioOne, I had realized that Frank would be worth several million. I had gone to Marsh House, argued with him, and shot him. I had hidden the murder weapon, but Lisa had found it. She had gone jogging with the gun in a plastic bag, and thrown it in the river before the police had had a chance to search the apartment again. She had protected me, but because of what she had found, she decided she couldn't live with me any more. So she had left.

I wanted to tell him that he had got it all wrong. Or at least half of it. But I put my faith in Gardner Phillips and kept quiet. The Assistant District Attorney watched it all, unblinking. Although she said nothing, both Mahoney and Phillips seemed intensely aware of her presence.

Eventually the questioning ceased and I was led along a corridor. I still hadn't been arrested, and I was technically free to go, but Gardner Phillips wanted to have a few words with Pamela Leyser. I passed a small waiting area, and saw Lisa sitting there, a middle-aged man in a suit next to her.

'Lisa!'

She turned. For a moment she looked surprised to see me, but she didn't smile.

I moved towards her. 'Lisa-'

I felt some pressure on my elbow as Gardner Phillips pulled me away.

'But-'

'You don't think it's a coincidence you saw her here, do you?' he said. 'It's much the best thing if you say nothing to her, especially here. She's got a lawyer. I'll talk to him.'

I left her watching me, expressionless, as though I were someone she didn't know. It unsettled me.

I was put in a bare-walled interview room, with a table and a couple of chairs, while Phillips went off to talk to the Assistant DA.

It took a while. I was scared. Shut in this room, still free in theory to leave, I could feel my liberty slipping away from me. The process was starting. Arrest could not be far away. And with it jail, a hearing, a trial, a media feeding frenzy. Even if I was found not guilty, my life would probably be changed for ever. And what if they found me guilty?

I was glad Lisa had stood by me. But she was the one person I really needed to talk to about this, the person on whom I had learned to rely over the last couple of years. If I had felt she truly were on my side, all this would have been much more bearable. But she wasn't. Her reluctance to help the police stemmed from the last vestiges of loyalty to me, and scraps of doubt, rather than the total belief in me that I needed.

Eventually, Gardner Phillips returned.

'I've spoken with the Assistant DA,' he said. 'They don't have enough evidence to arrest you. It will be difficult to link the gun to you, provided you and Lisa say nothing. We can work on the witnesses who say they saw Lisa: one jogger looks like another in the dark. But they are close. Very close. I've agreed that you'll voluntarily give them your passport, and that I'll surrender you should they want to arrest you. That means I have to know where you are at all times.'

'Did you talk to Lisa's lawyer?'

'Yes. She's taken the Fifth Amendment, which means she has chosen to say nothing to avoid incriminating herself. Fortunately, she will also avoid incriminating you.'

'So what happens now?' I asked.

'The police will try to find more evidence against you. And believe me, they'll try hard. We just have to hope they don't find anything incriminating.'

'They won't.'

Phillips ignored my comment. I had the unpleasant feeling that he thought I had killed Frank. Or perhaps he just didn't care. His indifference was infuriating. What I wanted was for someone to believe that I was innocent. Only Gil had done that so far, and Diane.

Mahoney glowered as I followed Phillips to the entrance of the DA's office. 'You'll be back,' he said.

As I pushed out into the bright sunlight, I was surprised to see a small crowd of journalists waiting for me. Two bulky TV cameras were present.

'Simon, got a minute?'

'Mr Ayot!'

'Did you kill Frank Cook, Mr Ayot?'

'Sir Simon Ayot! Can you answer one question?'

'I don't know who told them about this,' muttered Phillips out of the corner of his mouth. 'Don't talk to any of them.' He pushed through the crowd, repeating the words 'My client has no comment,' until we reached his car. He bundled me in, and in a moment we were away.

He glanced at me as we slowed for a light. 'You did well.'

'So did you.'

He gave me a half-smile. 'Pammy Leyser hasn't given up, neither has Mahoney. I guess we'll be seeing a lot more of each other.'

'Do you think they'll arrest me?'

'If they find more evidence, most certainly. I didn't convince them that you were innocent. I just convinced them they don't have the evidence to arrest you.'

'And if they do arrest me, do you think I'd get bail?'

'We'd ask for it, of course. But in this case there would be no chance that you'd get it.'

'So I'd have to wait for trial in jail?'

'That's right.'

I suddenly felt cold. Jail scared me. 'I wish I could prove I didn't do it.'

Phillips smiled. 'You don't need to. All we need to do is make sure there's a reasonable doubt that you're guilty.'

I stared out of the window at the gas stations and shopping malls. That's all you need to do, I thought. But a reasonable doubt wasn't good enough for me. I was innocent, and I needed everyone to know it. In particular, I needed Lisa to know it.

I watched myself on television that evening, along with the rest of Boston. And I saw Pamela Leyser being interviewed. She said she was confident of an arrest in the next few days. An Assistant District Attorney wouldn't say that unless she was pretty sure, I thought.

Gardner Phillips had said that if they arrested me, I would have to wait for the trial in jail. Presumably that would be a local jail with other remand prisoners. I could just about handle that, I thought, provided I was let go at the end. But what if I wasn't? What if they found me guilty and sent me to one of those high security jails for convicted murderers? American jails scared the hell out of me. I had seen the films, read the magazine articles. The privations of my Sandhurst training would be nothing compared with what I would experience there. In a community comprising gangs of murderers, where violence, drugs, rape and suicide were everyday occurrences, I would stick out as an easy target.

And if I was sent away, I'd spend what was left of my youth, and presumably the better part of my middle age, in prison. Everything I'd aspired to, everything I'd lived for, would be gone. Lisa, my career, all those experiences that life had yet to show me. Gone.

I went to bed alone and miserable, and for the first time in my life, afraid.

Daniel acted surprised to see me the next morning. 'So you escaped. Shouldn't you be heading off to Bolivia or somewhere? The cops in this country are pretty smart, you know. They'll probably find you here.'

'They let me go,' I said.

'Why?'

'Technical problems with the evidence. They don't have enough to arrest me.'

'So you're not cleared, then?'

'Far from it,' I sighed. 'I'm beginning to think I might end up in jail.'

'So what? You'll be fine. A big guy like you. You'll make a whole bunch of nice new friends.'

'Yeah,' I said. 'I'm worried, Daniel.'

For a moment, Daniel was serious too. 'I know,' he said. 'Good luck. I guess you need it.' Then he tossed across a copy of the Globe. 'Here, have you seen this?'

There I was, on page four. They had a picture of Frank. Police are receiving assistance with their investigation into the murder of Frank Cook from a man identified as Sir Simon Ayot, 29, a British national who was Mr Cook's son-in-law and his colleague at the venture capital firm of Revere Partners. The article was very light on detail and long on speculation.

It turned out Daniel wasn't the only one who had read the paper. After about half an hour my phone rang. It was Connie, telling me Gil wanted to see me.

He was sitting behind his large desk, the buildings of the Financial District standing tall behind him. He looked grim. Spread across his desk was a copy of the Globe.

'I heard you'd been released, but I didn't expect to see you back here so soon.'

'I've got a lot of work to do,' I said. 'It'll help take my mind off things.'

'This doesn't look good, Simon,' he said, nodding down to the paper in front of him. 'Not for you or for Revere. And I understand you were on the TV news last night.'

'That's true.'

'I called Gardner Phillips. I asked him whether he thought you were innocent.'

'What did he say?'

'He said he took pains not to consider the question.'

'He's a good lawyer.'

'I've asked you this before, but I have to ask you again. Are you?' He leaned forward over his desk, his eyes like small brown balls through his thick glasses.

'Innocent?'

'Yes.'

'Yes,' I said, meeting his eyes. 'I've never seen that gun before in my life. I didn't kill Frank.'

Gil sighed. He looked tired. 'OK. I have to trust my judgement. I'm going to stick by you and I'll make sure the rest of the firm does too. But do the best you can to keep our name out of the press.'

'Believe me, I will.'

'Good.' He waited for me to leave.

I did so with mixed emotions. On the one hand, his obvious doubts hurt. On the other, he had been good to me. Revere's public image was everything to him, and I had tarnished it. The evidence against me looked damning, but he had still stood up for me. He had put loyalty to his employees, his trust in me and his own instincts, before what was rationally in the best interests of the firm, namely to dump me. I was grateful. I didn't want to let him down.

After lunch, I finished the Investment Memorandum on Tetracom, and circulated it to the partners. Then I told John I would be out for the rest of the afternoon at a meeting, and took a cab back to the apartment. Lisa had a key to her father's house, which she kept in a small bowl above the fireplace. I took it, walked the few yards to the Brimmer Street Garage, and drove the Morgan out to Woodbridge to the scene of the crime.

Marsh House stood alone under a large sky of gathering rain clouds. A strong breeze blew in from the direction of the sea, flattening the marsh grass, and rocking the trees behind the house. Everything was more or less as it had been the last time I was there, the day Lisa and I had discovered Frank's body. Except for the Mercedes, which had disappeared, presumably taken by the police. They had finished their polishing and scraping, taken away their tape and left the house alone and empty. I wondered what Lisa would do with it. Would she keep it for its memories of life with her father, or sell it for its associations with his death?

I let myself in. I wore gloves. Whilst I assumed the police had finished their study of the place, I didn't want to add any unnecessary fingerprints for them to find later. I was nervous about coming here. The last thing I needed was for the police to find out I'd been here, and draw the wrong conclusions. But it was more dangerous to sit at home and do nothing.

The house was cold. It was dead quiet: even the grandfather clock that stood against the living-room wall was quiet, unwound. The imprisoned air had a musty smell to it, and a thin layer of grey film covered some of the surfaces. There were scrapings on the wooden floor where I had found Frank. Although the house looked natural, I had the feeling that everything had been picked up and carefully put down again.

Most of Frank's stuff was still there. Books, magazines, photographs of Lisa and Eddie, and even one of his wedding. There were two books on a table next to Frank's beaten-up rocker. A bird book by Roger Tory Peterson, and a book about the X-Files. Seascapes and prints of birds hung on the walls, as they always had done. I went over to his desk. This had been emptied. There were no papers left, no notebook or diary that might have given some clue of his thoughts before he died. Just a flower-patterned pencil box that Lisa had made for him when she was a girl, itself thinly covered in the grey-white sheen of dust. There was no sign of Revere.

I climbed the stairs. All the beds had been stripped. Once again, there was no paper in sight. Out of Frank's bedroom window, I could see the clouds thickening and darkening over the brooding marsh.

I tried to imagine what the house must have been like twenty years before, with the noise and bustle of a family on holiday. A small Lisa and a larger Eddie running up the stairs, playing on the porch, returning from an afternoon's swimming along the walkway across the marsh, hair wet, limbs tired, skin browned by the summer sun. But for the last fifteen years this had been Frank's sanctuary. The place where he liked to come alone as often as he could. It was a beautiful, peaceful spot. Why had he given up his family, I wondered. He loved his children. He seemed to at least like his wife. It was a mystery that had haunted Lisa, and one that I couldn't solve myself.

As I descended the narrow staircase, something caught my eye. It was one of the pens that lay in the patterned pencil box. I recognized it from somewhere, somewhere away from here. I picked it up. It was a maroon ball-point pen, with an acorn logo and the words oakwood analytics embossed in gold lettering along its side.

I turned it round in my fingers, trying to remember where I knew it from. But it wouldn't come.

I took one last look around, and left the house, closing the door carefully behind me.

I climbed into my car, and drove up the dirt track that led a mile back to the road. The clouds were upon me now, and it started to rain. A number of houses were scattered along the track, nestling among the trees, with glimpses of the marsh. The majority were only occupied in summer. None of them had a direct view of Marsh House, but I wondered whether the occupants of any of them had seen anything the day he died.

The first house I came to was clearly locked up for the coming winter. The second was little more than a shack. It was guarded by the giant Ford that had almost collided with me that day. I pulled up outside, climbed out of my car, and ran to the door. I knocked. It was raining hard.

The door opened a crack. I recognized the old lady as the driver of the Ford station-wagon. It was clear she recognized me too.

'Good afternoon,' I said in my most polite English accent. 'My name is Simon Ayot. I wonder if I can ask you a few questions?'

'I know exactly who you are,' said the woman with a mixture of fear and resolve in her eyes. 'I saw you on TV last night. And I won't answer your questions.'

She began to shut the door. I was soaking in the rain. I put my hand on it, to stop her.

'I just want to-'

'You let me shut this door, or I'll call the police!' she protested shrilly.

I realized I was only going to get myself into more trouble, and so I backed away. She slammed the door, and I heard the click of a lock. I dashed back to the car, and continued up the track.

The next two houses were empty, but the third showed signs of occupation. A small car was parked outside, and some lights blinked out into the gloom.

Once again I braved the rain, and knocked.

This time the door was opened by a pleasant looking middle-aged woman, her grey-streaked hair pulled firmly back from her forehead. She reminded me of the doughty ladies you see in the rose gardens and on the public footpaths of England.

'Yes?' she said doubtfully.

'Hello. I'm Simon Ayot, Frank Cook's son-in-law. Did you know Frank Cook? He used to live in Marsh House at the bottom of the road.'

'Oh yes. Of course I knew him. Not well, mind you. That was an awful thing to happen to him. And you're his son-in-law? How terrible for you.'

I smiled. 'I wonder if I could ask you a couple of questions. May I come in?'

'Of course. Get yourself out of the wet.'

She led me through to an open living space with a good view of the marsh through the trees. You couldn't see Marsh House, but with a slight surge of panic I realized that you could just see the end of the walkway down to the creek, and the dock, where Lisa and I had made love what seemed like an age ago.

'Coffee? I have some brewed.'

I accepted gratefully, and soon cupped my hands round a steaming mug. I sat down on an old sofa. The furniture was basic, but the room was clean and warm and very cosy.

'You're English aren't you?'

'Yes, I am. I'm Lisa's husband. Do you know her?'

'I thought I caught your accent. Yes, I do know Lisa. I've seen her around over the years. We bought this place about ten years ago. My husband works in Boston, but I like to spend time here, especially in the fall. I like to paint.'

My eyes scanned the walls, and I saw some reasonable depictions of scenes I recognized from the area.

'They're very good. I like them,' I said.

'Thank you,' she said. 'My name's Nancy Bowman, by the way. Now, how can I help you?'

'I wanted to ask you about the day of the murder. Whether you saw anyone strange hanging around.'

'The police asked me this,' she replied. 'Anyway, didn't I see they'd caught the murderer?'

Nancy Bowman seemed an honest, helpful woman. I liked her. I decided to take a risk and tell the truth. 'They thought they had. But it turned out they had the wrong man. I know, because it was me.'

'You?' Her eyes widened.

'Yes, I'm afraid so. That's why I want to talk to you. I want to prove that I didn't kill my father-in-law.'

The woman looked confused for a moment, as though she was considering whether to throw me out. She spent a few seconds looking me over with shrewd eyes. Then she decided to trust me.

'Oh, I understand. All right, let me see whether I can help you. My husband and I were both here that weekend. I do like to walk along the marsh, and I often walk by Marsh House. Ray likes to stay indoors more.'

'Did you see anyone?'

As I told the police, there was one strange man I saw a couple of times that weekend. He seemed to be some kind of photographer, or perhaps a bird watcher. I saw him on the road out there, and down behind Marsh House. He seemed to be waiting for a bird or something. He had an expensive-looking camera.'

'What did he look like?'

'Young. In his thirties I should think. Short, but quite big, if you see what I mean. Not fat, just broad.'

'I see. And what was he wearing?'

'A T-shirt and jeans. I remember thinking he must have been cold standing still in just a T-shirt, but he looked like a tough fellow'

'Have you seen him before or since?'

'No. Just that weekend.'

And you told all of this to the police?'

She nodded. 'Oh yes. They seemed quite interested.'

'I'm sure they were. Did you see anyone else?'

'No. Not that I can remember.'

'You didn't see me, for instance?'

'No. But come to think of it, the police asked me whether I had seen a tall fair-haired young man. And they mentioned an old convertible. That must have been you, mustn't it?'

'I expect so,' I said. I stood up. 'Thank you very much, Mrs Bowman. That's very helpful. And thanks for the coffee.'

'Not at all. I do hope you manage to persuade the police they have the wrong man.'

'Thank you,' I said. I was touched. It was encouraging to have a stranger show such faith in me, even if it was just because I had an English accent and an honest face.

I left her, and rushed through the rain to my car.

I drove round Route 128 to Wellesley. Nancy Bowman's description was unmistakable. Craig.

Craig had been in Woodbridge the day Frank died. Craig knew Frank was opposed to further investment in Net Cop. I remembered that when I saw him just before Frank was killed, he had been smiling, as though he had found a solution to his problems. Was he already planning to murder Frank? Could he have been dumb enough to have murdered Frank in the hope that Revere would change its mind about Net Cop? With a shudder I realized that it was just conceivable that Craig when very angry might kill someone.

I knew how absolutely determined Craig was to make Net Cop succeed.

For a moment I considered contacting Mahoney. But I couldn't be certain that Craig had killed Frank. I liked him, and we had supported each other. I had to give him a chance to explain himself.

I turned off 128 in Wellesley, and drove down into Hemlock Gorge. I leaped out of the Morgan, and hurried into Net Cop's building. Gina, the secretary-cum-receptionist, smiled when she saw me and told me Craig was in New York. He would be in tomorrow. Impatiently, I drove back to Boston.

I was sitting at home at the computer, idly scanning the Chelsea web-pages, when I heard the key scrape in the door.

It was Lisa, and she looked angry.

I leaped to my feet, with a rush of joy at seeing her again, immediately tempered with worry by her expression. 'Lisa!'

'Can you help me with some cartons?' she muttered, scarcely looking at me.

'OK.' I followed her outside, where a man and a small truck waited. A dozen or so collapsible cardboard cartons lay in their collapsed state on the sidewalk. I took half of them and Lisa took the other half. The man promised to return in an hour.

'I take it you're not moving back in, then?' I said, tentatively.

'No I am not, Simon. I'm going back to California. Roger has offered me a job.' Roger was Roger Mettler, her old professor. He had been trying to entice her back to Stanford for years.

'California! But that's thousands of miles away!'

'A geographic genius,' she muttered.

I felt a rush of panic. At least when Lisa was with Kelly, I knew she was only a couple of miles away. But California! She'd be really gone. Once the time was right, it would take days, not minutes, to see her, to get her back.

'What about Boston Peptides?' I asked.

'Oh, don't pretend you don't know,' she spat.

'What do you mean? What's happened?'

'I've been fired, that's what's happened,' she said as she wrestled with the first of the cartons.

'No! I don't believe it! Why would Henry do that? It makes no sense.'

'Henry didn't do it, although I would have expected him to stand up for me. No, it was Enema.'

'But they need you, don't they? I mean you're responsible for BP 56. Boston Peptides isn't worth much without you.'

'Well that's not what Enema thinks. He thinks the company can do perfectly well without me. He says I don't fit into the BioOne way of doing things. And frankly, I think he's right. Damn this thing!'

She was folding the flaps of the box together in the wrong order.

'Here, let me,' I said.

'Leave me alone!' she snapped.

I left her alone. 'What happened?'

'I asked too many questions.'

'About neuroxil-5?'

'Yep.'

'What's wrong with it?'

She threw the half-constructed box to the floor. 'Simon, the drug stinks, BioOne stinks, and Revere stinks. If you're too stupid to see that, that's not my problem. Now let me pack my stuff and get out of here.'

'Lisa,' I said, taking her arm.

She pushed my hand away.

'Lisa, sit down. Let's talk for a moment. We should at least do that. Then I'll leave you alone and you can pack up.'

Lisa hesitated, and then sat in the chair. Her face bore the stony expression of misery it had worn since just after Frank died, the corners of her mouth pulled downwards, her eyes dull. A tear ran unchecked down one cheek. She sniffed.

I took hold of her hand and crouched beside her. This could be my last chance to keep her, but I tried to keep the desperation out of my voice, to sound controlled, sensible. 'Listen, Lisa. I know things have been tough for you. Very tough. But I love you. I want to help you. You must let me.'

Lisa didn't answer. She sat still and straight, the tears now streaming down her face. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

'We work well together, Lisa. We understand each other. Your life must have been hell over the last few weeks. You need me. Let me help you.'

'I need the old you,' Lisa said, her voice trembling. 'I need the old you so bad.'

'But you've got me.'

Lisa shook her head. 'I don't know who I've got, Simon. I don't know whether you killed Dad. I don't know whether you used me to sell out my company and get me fired. I don't know whether you've been unfaithful to me. I don't know whether you've lied to me. I don't know you. I don't know you at all. And it scares me.'

'Of course you know me, Lisa. I haven't changed. Ever since we met, you've known me all the way through. We are so good for each other. I love you, and you love me.'

Lisa shook her head. 'I don't know whether I love you or I hate you. I don't know anything these days. I just want to go back to California and leave all this behind.'

'Don't. Please stay.'

Lisa took a deep breath, fighting to regain control. 'If I stay here, I'll go crazy. I need to try to rebuild my own life, Simon. Now let me go. I'll come back and do all this tomorrow morning. Please make sure you're not here.'

She stood up, and headed for the door, leaving the mess of cardboard all over the floor.

Then she walked out.