Michael Ridpath - Final Venture

'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.