Michael Ridpath - Final Venture

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.

I was up early on Monday morning, and set out on the river just as dawn was breaking. I needed the exercise to clear my head. My shoulder felt much better than it had on Saturday.

I wished I had somehow stopped Art from drinking the previous night. His wife's courage had impressed me, and I hoped she wouldn't have to pay for her bravery. But if she failed to get him back off the booze, I was sure Art would be in no fit state to run Revere. I just hoped Gil would recognize that too.

I was pulling slowly and steadily back to the boathouse. The sun had risen and the morning air was crisp and clear. As I neared the boathouse, I passed some figures in wet suits on the Esplanade. I eased up and watched. They were divers.

With a heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach I knew what they were looking for. I prayed they wouldn't find it.