Michael Ridpath - Final Venture

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!'