Sam Bourne - The Final Reckoning

‘My cellphone, why?’

‘Just pretend you're talking into it. And don't keep looking at me.’

For the second time in six hours, Jay Sherrill was coming face to face with his own inexperience. He had never done undercover work. He realized now, he didn't know even the basics. He did as he was told and tried to fake a phone call.

‘OK, what do you want?’

‘I don't want anything. I'm risking my fucking job here-’

‘I'm sorry, I didn't mean-’

‘Want something? What is it with you people?’

‘I'm really sorry. That was-’

‘I have some information that might help you.’

The pitch of Sherrill's voice lifted. ‘Information?’

‘On the killing of Gerald Merton.’

‘What kind of information?’

‘The eye-witness kind.’

Sherrill couldn't help but shoot a glance at the man walking just ahead of him. Then, guiltily, he returned to the blank middle-distance stare adopted by all those talking on cellphones in the street.

‘You were there?’

‘I saw it all. From the beginning.’

‘First, I need you to calm down. We need to be really calm here.’

‘We need to get away.’

‘We can't do that. We need to stay and call the police.’

‘I mean it!’ Rebecca pulled away from Tom's embrace and glared at him. ‘We need to get away. Far away. Somewhere where there are no people.’

‘Come on, Rebecca.’

‘Haven't you noticed?’ Her voice was high, torn. ‘Something very bad is happening here and it's following us. First my flat and now this.’ She pointed at the corpse of Henry Goldman, stiff on the lushly carpeted floor of his study, his face still bearing an expression of open-eyed shock.

‘I know, I understand,’ Tom said, his mind jamming as one thought skidded and crashed into another. It was becoming impossible to deny: danger was stalking them. An image appeared before his eyes, punching him in the guts: he saw Rebecca, brutally murdered. He pushed it away: the important thing was to stay focused. ‘We can't go anywhere. We have to report this. Right away.’ He was bracing himself for an argument, but they had no choice. Imagine how it would look if they didn't call the police. They had met Henry Goldman that afternoon, for a meeting that had ended inconclusively. Goldman had later called his son, sounding agitated; Julian would be sure to tell the police that. Tom cursed himself for losing his temper in the boardroom earlier: the secretary would confirm Julian's story, telling detectives about the raised voices she had heard. And Julian would then confirm that he had spoken to Rebecca this very evening, reminding her of his father's home address. ‘You need to call the police right now.’

‘Me?’

‘It will sound better coming from you. You're a friend of the family. You have a reason to be here. And you're a woman.’

He picked up the cordless phone charging on Goldman's desk and instantly regretted it: fingerprints. Shit, Rebecca had left her prints everywhere, including all over Goldman's body. She had touched his wrist, his neck. He looked over at the corpse: she had ripped open his shirt, popping the buttons clean off. They would have to explain all this.

Too late to undo his mistake, he dialled 999 and passed the phone to Rebecca. ‘Ask for the police.’

Still breathing fast, she spoke within a few seconds: ‘I'm calling to report a murder.’

‘No!’ Tom shouted the word without making a sound, mouthing it with desperate urgency then shaking his head frantically. He stage-whispered: ‘You're calling to report a dead body!’

She tried to correct herself but the damage was done. Tom imagined a recording of this call played to a jury in the future trial of Rebecca Merton and Tom Byrne for the murder of Henry Goldman. He knew how it would sound. He rubbed his temple.

Once the call was over, she looked at Tom. ‘I'm sorry,’ she said. ‘I don't know-’

‘You need to call Julian.’ Any delay there would look even more suspicious. She took the phone and left the room, though he could still hear her speaking in the corridor. He was struck by how quickly she seemed to have steadied herself; he imagined this was her doctor's voice, used when telling families the worst.

Through the study windows he could now see the blue light of a police car and two uniformed men emerging. Local plods, Tom guessed; the first wave, sent to secure the scene. The big boys would come later, especially once they heard what had happened.

Tom went to the door, shut but unlocked, just as they had found it. He opened the door and gestured for the two men to come in.

They introduced themselves as constables, showed their ID and pulled out their notebooks. They started with Tom, asking for his details, looking up when he gave an address in New York. Rebecca came in, the four of them standing together in the hall like hosts welcoming guests to a dinner party.

The older of the two men spoke. ‘I would ask you to sit down, madam, but I'm reluctant to do that at this stage, in case you might alter anything that could be of importance.’ As Tom had feared, they were treating this as a crime scene.

‘So why don't you just tell me what happened?’

The policemen nodded as Rebecca explained that Henry Goldman was a friend of her late father's. To Tom's great relief, neither policeman seemed to recognize the name Gerald Merton, even though it had been across all that day's papers. They listened as she said that she had come here to carry on a conversation started earlier today. Then they both picked up their pens and scribbled furiously when she said that they had found the front door unlocked.

Of course, thought Tom. That was the crucial detail, the awkward fact that would turn this from the unfortunate discovery of a dead old man into a murder inquiry. He noticed the older officer firing regular glances his way, even when Rebecca was speaking. Wait, thought Tom, till you find out that I have known Rebecca Merton for less than twelve hours. Wait till you discover why I'm in London in the first place. He fought hard the urge to sink his head into his hands.

Soon a doctor arrived, to confirm that Henry Goldman was dead, followed by a second police car, this one containing a photographer, who immediately headed for the study, to capture images of Goldman's body in situ from every angle. Travelling with him was a plain clothes detective. Tom had now met two of these characters in the space of two days, a fact he kept to himself. This man was Asian, prompting Tom to think of Harold Allen, the one-time rising star of the NYPD who had become hobbled by a battle over police racism. That meeting with Sherrill and Allen seemed from a different age; New York felt far more than an ocean away.

The detective asked them all to step outside: he did not want any more footprints in the hallway than were there already. So they stood outdoors, in a huddle on the drive. Tom watched as the constables began cordoning off the entire perimeter with plastic tape.

This more senior man asked the same questions all over again, though now he loaded some with extra and, Tom felt, threatening emphasis.

‘So you came here and let yourselves in, and you felt comfortable doing that because you had visited this house often as a child, am I right?’

‘No, that's not-’

‘And once you're in, you find the body. You find it in the study. Which means you had to go exploring, walking down the corridor and so on, to find it, am I right? And then you, Miss Merton, once you see it, you start trying to revive Mr Goldman. Kiss of life and so on, am I right?’

‘CPR. Cardiopulmonary resuscitation.’

‘All right. And this is because you suspect what?’