Michael Ridpath - Final Venture

The wedding had been a nightmare. Or rather, the wedding itself wasn't, but planning it was awful. When I told my mother that I was marrying an American woman, she was cautiously optimistic. I think she assumed I was following those many landed Englishmen who had found themselves a colonial dowry to keep the family estate intact. When she found out Lisa was Jewish, without a trust fund, and that she intended to keep her maiden name, the disapproval could have frozen the Atlantic. I took Lisa to England, partly to show my mother what a lovely person she was. My mother didn't notice, but insisted on talking about pork and Saturdays.

Lisa's mother tried to disapprove too, but did a much worse job of it. She had set her heart on a nice Jewish son-in-law, and my blond hair and blue eyes just didn't fit. But her pleasure at her daughter's happiness, and the fact that she and I got on quite well, made her abandon her earlier hopes, or at least ignore them.

Over the first six months of our marriage, I thought we had proved them both wrong. I refused to admit now that they were right.

Craig burst in on my moping on Saturday evening.

'That was quick,' I said, getting him a beer.

'The Boston Police Department never sleeps,' said Craig. 'Or at least the computers still work at weekends.'

'So, what have you got?'

'Mahoney, first. My dad knew him. He worked in Boston for twenty years as a street patrolman and then detective. Then he got himself shot, and his wife demanded that he quit. He transferred to the State Police as a compromise.'

'I thought he looked streetwise,' I said.

'Oh, he was a good detective, my father says. He used to do things the old way. He'd get a hunch and he'd play it. Often he'd be right.'

Oh, great. I was obviously his hunch on this case.

'Do you know anything about any sympathies he might have with the IRA?'

Craig looked surprised. 'I don't know. I can check. I mean, he's Irish, like half the cops, especially the older ones. And most of the Irish in Boston do kind of think you should get out of their country. No offence meant.' I smiled thinly. 'Why? Do you think he's picking on you because you're a Brit?'

'Something like that,' I replied. Given Craig's own ancestry, I wanted to leave out my Northern Ireland tour of duty if I could.

'I can check if you like,' said Craig.

'If it's no trouble. Now, what about the others?'

'There are a coupla Edward Cooks with records in California, but none of them looks like your guy. Nothing on Gil. Nor on Diane Zarrilli.'

I was surprised to feel a small wave of relief when I heard about Diane. I was also glad that Gil was clean. Eddie was a bit of a disappointment.

'And Art?'

'Now, this guy has an interesting file. He was involved with a company that sold UNIX boxes. His partner, a guy named Dennis Slater, liked to invent customers who he'd sell the same box to several times over. When they sold the company, Slater was found out, and he blew himself away, or at least that's the way it was left.'

'But the police investigated Art?'

'That's right.'

'Did they get anywhere?'

'They couldn't find enough evidence to arrest him, let alone convict him. He was supposed to have been at home with his wife. She supported his alibi, but no one else could. He said he was dead drunk at the time so he couldn't have done it. Once again there was no way of checking that.'

'How did Slater kill himself?'

'Literally blew his brains out,' said Craig. 'It's the kind of suicide that can be faked by someone who knows what he's doing, and can get close enough to the victim to place a gun to his temple. It's a messy job, but Art could have gotten rid of the clothes he was wearing. If he did it. And there's really no hard evidence that he did.'

'Can you get anything on the investigation into Frank Cook's murder?'

Craig winced and shook his head. 'Sorry, Simon. An ongoing murder investigation is a much bigger deal. Besides, it's Essex County isn't it?'

I nodded.

'It's going to be hard for my contacts to nose around there without being noticed.'

'That's a shame. I'd love to know if Mahoney has found out anything else about Art. Or whether there is a good reason to rule him out entirely'

'You could always ask him.'

I looked sceptically at Craig. 'He's hardly likely to go on his knees and confess to me.'

'No, but he might tell you if there's proof that he didn't do it. If you ask him in the right way.'

'Maybe I will. Thanks, Craig, that's helpful.'

'No problem, buddy. Now, Monday's a shoe-in, right?'

I still had to get the partnership's approval for the deal I had hammered out with Jeff.

'I've learned my lesson,' I said. 'I'm never going to say any meeting is a shoe-in.'

Craig suddenly tensed. 'Look, Simon, if they jerk me around again, I'll-'

'Calm down,' I said. 'I'll call you on Monday if there's a problem.'

'Call me either way.'

'OK,' I assured him, and he left.

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.