Michael Ridpath - Final Venture

Are you OK?'

I recognized him as the Hispanic I had seen following me through the Common a couple of weeks before.

I stood up. 'Yes,' I said. 'I think so.'

My face felt warm and wet. I touched it with my fingertips. Blood.

Are you hit?'

I shook my head. 'Just masonry. Thank you.' I managed a smile.

'No problem. Looks like the guy got away. He was a pro, you were lucky.'

I had been. Just like I had been that day in Armagh when a bullet had blown away Binns's face instead of mine. At least this time no one was hurt.

My hands were trembling so much it was difficult to pick up the keys I had dropped. I stood upright and took a few deep breaths to try to slow my racing heart. I let myself into my apartment and poured myself a stiff whisky, offering one to my saviour, who of course refused it.

His name was Martinez. He asked me some basic questions about whether I saw anything or knew who might have been shooting at me, but it was more for form's sake than anything else. A parade of people came and went, Cole, Mahoney's Boston partner, a paramedic who cleared up my scratched face, and some others. Eventually Mahoney himself arrived.

'So, you were shot at?' he began brightly.

'I believe that's what happened,' I replied.

'Lucky we had some people watching you.'

'I didn't know I had my own personal bodyguard. How long has this been going on for?'

'Oh, three weeks or so. On and off. More off than on, really. It's expensive tailing people.'

'Well, I'm glad you had the spare cash this evening'

Mahoney sat down. Martinez had whipped out a notebook. 'Any idea who it was?'

'Your friend here said it was a professional. I don't know any professional killers. For that matter I don't know anyone who owns an automatic rifle.' Except for Art Altschule, I thought suddenly as I spoke.

Mahoney noticed my hesitation. 'What is it?'

I told him about Art's interest in guns.

'We'll check that out,' he said. 'Is there anything else we should know about Mr Altschule?'

'No, not really. He doesn't like me.'

Mahoney raised his eyebrows. 'Why not?'

'I've been asking awkward questions.'

About?'

'BioOne.'

'BioOne, eh?' Mahoney looked at me closely. 'The deal John Chalfont wanted to talk to you about.'

'That's right.'

'And what's the problem with BioOne?'

'I don't know. That's why I was asking Art. Don't you know?'

Mahoney's questioning was irritating me. I had just been shot at, my nerves were frayed, and although he was asking the right questions, I still felt he was trying to figure out how I could be responsible for shooting myself.

'We've been making inquiries,' Mahoney said stiffly. 'Assuming we're talking about a contract killer here,' he went on, 'who else do you think might have hired him?'

'I don't know. The person who killed Frank and John, maybe?'

'But that was someone who knew them. They were both shot in the back with handguns. This is a totally different MO.'

I shrugged. I was feeling tired. 'You're the detective. I'm just the poor bugger getting shot at.'

Aren't you used to it by now?' Mahoney was watching me with that annoying half-smile.

He was referring to my time in Northern Ireland, I assumed. I felt a flare of anger, but I controlled it. I stared at him.

Mahoney stood up. 'We'll no doubt be talking again,' he said as he left the apartment. Martinez threw me a worried look and followed him.

It was hard to sleep that night. When I did drop off, it was into the graffiti-strewn streets of West Belfast. In reality, my tour of duty had been nerve-jangling anticipation for the shot that almost never came, then complacency, and finally the death of Lance Corporal of Horse Binns. In my dream, the streets were wider, with no cover, and I knew for certain that a sniper was lying in wait for me in a lone house fifty yards ahead. I had to walk on, my feet growing heavier and heavier, towards the house. I couldn't turn and run, but my steps became slower and slower until I wished I'd reach the house and get it over with.

Then I started awake. My mind turned somersaults along the blurred line between sleep and wakefulness. Time blurred as well, as minutes became hours and the night seemed to last for ever. Eventually I fell back to sleep and that never-ending road. This process repeated itself, until I gave up at five thirty, and crawled out of bed, my brain muzzy and tired. I checked the living-room window. There was a blue car parked right in front of the house, and one of the two men in it was alert enough to have noticed the movement in the curtains. I waved to him, and he nodded back. Mahoney had been good enough to leave me under surveillance, at least for the night.

I was in trouble. Someone wanted to kill me. Someone with the wherewithal and the contacts to hire a man with an automatic rifle. They would try again. I might well be dead within a week.

I hoped Mahoney would check out BioOne. Although he hated me, and would love to hold me responsible for my own murder, he wasn't stupid. But I couldn't rely on him to clear this up before a bullet hit me in the skull. With a shudder I remembered again the damage that could do.

I wasn't sure how long the police could or would protect me, or even if their protection was a guarantee of safety against a really determined killer.

I was in the office early, by seven o'clock. No one usually showed up before about a quarter to eight. Daniel and Diane were usually first in; most of the others came in between eight and half past. But I wanted to be finished before anyone saw me.

So I went straight to Art's office. A wooden filing cabinet had five drawers marked 'BioOne'. It was locked. Damn!

I searched around for a key. Couldn't find one.

All of Art's other filing cabinets were unlocked, but there was nothing interesting in any of them.

I tried his desk. The drawers were locked too. That was odd. People didn't lock their desks at Revere. I jiggled and pulled, but nothing. It was a feeble little lock and if I'd had any expertise I would have been able to pick it. But I hadn't.

I had an idea. I quickly strode back to my own desk, checking my watch on the way. Twenty to eight. No one was in yet. I opened my own desk drawer. In one corner, next to my spare set of house-keys, were my own desk keys, which I never used. I hurried back to Art's office and tried them on his drawer.

None of them worked.

I sat in Art's chair looking at his desk. His son glowered back at me. Next to the photo frame was a box of paper-clips.

I unravelled a large one, and poked it into the keyhole. For two minutes I bent and twisted the metal, gently pushing and pulling, but still nothing.

I checked my watch. Quarter to eight. I shouldn't be here, I should be at my own desk by now. I checked that the office was exactly as I found it, and slipped out.

Just in time. I passed Art in the corridor. 'Morning!' I said, with too much jollity.

Art just grunted.

I sat at my desk, trying to work out what to do. I couldn't force my way into Art's files, that would be too obvious. But I wanted to know what was in there.

The only person with a key was Art. And there was no reason for him to give it to me.

Unless.

I checked my watch. Five to eight. I thought I had heard Diane come in, but no one else.

I made my way back to Art's office and knocked.

'Yes?' He was drinking a cup of coffee and scanning the Wall Street Journal.

'Can I borrow your key to the supplies closet?' The supplies closet was a large cupboard behind the reception area where some of the more valuable office supplies were kept: computer equipment and so on.

'Can't you get a key from Connie?'

'Not in yet.'

'Is it locked?'

'Yes,' I lied.