Майкл Ридпат - Fatal Error

I looked back at the screen that was now displaying the message:

A Fatal Error has occurred. Press CTRL+ALT+DEL to restart your computer. You will lose any unsaved information in all applications.

I swore, did as I was bid and drummed my fingers for a full minute while my machine ground and beeped itself to life again. I opened my e-mail program and typed furiously.

That wasn’t funny.

The reply came back in a moment.

It wasn’t meant to be.

I closed down my e-mail in disgust. What a sicko. What a twisted deviant.

When I left the office that evening, Owen was still working. I stopped at his desk. He ignored me. Sanjay, sitting next to him, gave me a nervous smile.

I bent down. ‘I’ll ask as many questions as I like,’ I whispered.

Owen paused for a moment. His screen was full of code. Then he began fiddling with his mouse.

‘No more threats,’ I said. ‘No more funny little e-mails. Let’s just stay away from each other.’

Owen looked up at me. His black eyes seemed to pierce right into me. Then he turned back to his screen.

I stretched my foot under his desk and flicked a switch with my toe. His screen went blank. All his work lost.

‘What the fuck?’ he muttered.

‘Whoops,’ I said and left him to it.

Owen’s threats just made me more determined to ask questions. The next day Mel and I were at my desk working on how we could secure the Ninetyminutes domain name in Spain and Italy. Guy was in Munich, talking to someone we might hire to start a German office. There was no one else within earshot. Mel was gathering her papers together to leave when I stopped her.

‘Have you got a minute?’

She noticed the seriousness of my tone. ‘What is it?’

‘I want to ask you something about France.’

Mel frowned. ‘Surely it’s best to forget all that, isn’t it?’

‘I know. I’d like to. It’s just, I can’t. I only have one question. That night on Mull when we were walking to the bed and breakfast, you told me you thought Guy might have killed Dominique. Did you mean that?’

‘You’re not serious?’ said Mel.

‘I am,’ I said. ‘I haven’t been able to get the question out of my mind. Partly because of what you told me that night. Which was confirmed by Patrick Hoyle, by the way.’

‘Well, you should. I was angry with Guy and that whole France episode left me feeling guilty. Blaming him was a way of sharing the guilt with him. I certainly didn’t mean it. I can’t even remember exactly what I told you.’

I could. ‘So you don’t think Guy was covering for himself when he got Hoyle to pay Abdulatif to disappear?’

‘No.’

‘I see.’ That was clear enough.

Mel hesitated. ‘I have a question for you. Just as awkward.’

‘What’s that?’

Mel swallowed. ‘Do you think there’s anything going on between Guy and Ingrid?’

I looked at her. ‘Now you’re not serious.’

‘They seem to spend a lot of time together.’

‘We all spend a lot of time together. If you work fifteen hours a day in the same office, you’re quite likely to.’

‘So you’re sure there’s nothing going on?’

‘Quite sure.’

Mel looked at me doubtfully. ‘I don’t trust that woman,’ she said, and walked off.

I stared after her. Although I had meant what I had said, Mel’s suspicions about Guy and Ingrid echoed around my brain long after she had gone.

I wanted to find out more about the private detective. Guy was right, he did seem the most likely person to have run Tony down. Although if he had, he was being paid by someone. Sabina, according to the police. But perhaps it was someone else? I called Sergeant Spedding. He sounded pleased to hear from me.

‘I wondered what progress you’re making in your investigation?’ I asked.

‘We still have some leads,’ Spedding said, ‘but nothing solid. Why? Have you got something for me?’

I felt uncomfortable. The last thing I wanted to do was tell him my suspicions about Guy. Nor did I want to mention France.

‘No, not really. It’s just, we’re curious here.’

Spedding’s tone changed, became more formal. ‘If we have anything concrete to report, we’ll inform the family.’

‘Yes. I see. I just wondered whether you’d arrested the private detective. Since I might have to identify him in court you can probably understand my curiosity.’

‘We’ve ruled him out as a suspect, although he might be a useful witness.’ A pause. ‘Is there anything else?’ I could tell from Spedding’s voice that he suspected there was something other than curiosity behind my questions.

‘No, no, nothing,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’

I put the phone down. I hadn’t even got the private detective’s name.

I needed to talk to Sabina Jourdan. I knew she had gone back to Germany, but I couldn’t really ask Guy for her address, so I rang Patrick Hoyle at his office in Monte Carlo. He took a little persuading, but he gave me an address in Stuttgart.

Our plans to open an office in Munich were gathering pace, which meant that Guy and I were making frequent trips there. On my next one of these I engineered a gap in my schedule. I finished a meeting at three in the afternoon and drove my hired car west out of the city along the autobahn.

It was only an hour and a half’s drive from Munich to Stuttgart. It was a grey October day with a fine drizzle obscuring the German countryside. I fought through the industrial outskirts of the town, wondering why anyone would want to give up the clear blue sea and sky of Les Sarrasins for this. But then the stern factories gave way to suburban streets lined with trees dressed in autumnal golds and browns and neat, large houses with high-gabled Germanic roofs. Prosperity, order, tranquillity, security. Perhaps this was a good place for Sabina after all.

I found the address Hoyle had given me and rang the bell. The door was answered by a tall middle-aged woman with grey hair and finely sculpted features. For an instant I panicked that I had got the wrong house. Then I knew who she was. Sabina’s mother.

‘Ist Frau Jourdan hier?’ I asked slowly, in what I hoped was German.

‘Yes,’ the woman replied in English. ‘Who is it?’

‘David Lane. I’m a friend of Guy Jourdan’s. Tony’s son.’

‘Ein Moment.’

The woman was suspicious, not surprisingly, so she left me at the doorstep while she disappeared inside. A moment later Sabina appeared wearing a sweatshirt, dark hair hanging loosely over her shoulders, long legs in faded jeans, bare feet. She was beautiful.

She frowned for a moment and then recognized me. ‘I remember you. You’re Guy’s partner at Ninetyminutes. You were with him when he came to see us at Les Sarrasins?’

‘That’s right. I wonder if I could have a quick word?’

‘Of course. Come in.’

She led me through to a large spotless kitchen. A baby was playing with a plastic contraption on the floor. ‘Do you remember Andreas?’ she asked.

‘Hi, Andreas,’ I said.

‘He doesn’t speak English,’ Sabina said firmly.

‘No, of course not.’ He didn’t look to me as though he could speak any language quite yet, but I didn’t want to argue the point with Sabina.

‘Would you like some tea? We have some Earl Grey. Tony always liked Earl Grey.’

‘Yes. Yes, that would be lovely.’

She put the kettle on, and her mother said something rapidly to her in German, scooped up the baby and left us alone.

‘You haven’t flown all the way from England just to see me, I hope?’

‘No. We’re opening an office in Munich and since it isn’t too far away, I thought I’d come and see you.’

‘If you want to talk to me about the estate’s investments I’m afraid I can’t help you. Patrick Hoyle deals with all that.’