Майкл Ридпат - Fatal Error

‘What do you mean?’

‘Ninetyminutes.’

‘It never looks good.’

‘I can’t believe that stupid Scottish cow wouldn’t give you the money.’

I sighed. ‘She’s probably right.’

‘Do you think Ninetyminutes will make it?’

‘I don’t know. I can’t quite see how. We’ll have to cut right back, and Guy will hate that.’

Mel squinted at me. ‘That stuff you said about Owen threatening Henry Broughton-Jones. Was that true?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘All true.’

‘Did Guy know?’

‘I have no idea. But I was serious about going to the police if he or Owen threatens Clare.’

‘Bitch,’ muttered Mel.

We sat in drunken misery together on the sofa, the hubbub of the party all around us. Guy was a few feet away, talking to Ingrid. He put his arm around her waist.

I felt Mel stiffen next to me. ‘There’s another bitch,’ she muttered under her breath. ‘What does he see in her compared to me?’

It was true that Mel was more conventionally better-looking than Ingrid; she was taller and she had a better figure. But Ingrid had something about her, something that Guy could see, and so could I. I decided not to explain this to Mel.

She glanced at me, scowled because I hadn’t given her the response she was looking for, and then climbed unsteadily to her feet. I should have stopped her, but actually I wasn’t too happy seeing Guy put his arm around Ingrid either.

I watched from my vantage point on the sofa. I couldn’t hear, but I could see. It was predictable. Mel swayed up to Guy. Draped herself on his arm. They exchanged words, gentle at first, then sharper. Ingrid pulled herself away from them. Then Guy said something harsh and low that only Mel could hear. It was if she had been slapped. She turned on her heel and marched straight towards the door, blinking back the tears.

There was a slight drop in the noise level as people paused to watch, but it quickly rose again. Guy reached for Ingrid’s waist. She pushed him away and disappeared to the loo.

I returned to the bar for another drink. I felt a gentle touch at my elbow. It was Ingrid. ‘Can we go outside for a moment?’

‘Sure.’

It was a cool May night, and I huddled into my jacket. But the fresh air took the edge off the beers I had drunk. ‘Where shall we go?’

‘I don’t care,’ Ingrid said. So we headed east, with Smithfield Market looming on one side, towards Charterhouse Square.

‘I saw Mel having a go at you,’ I said.

Ingrid shuddered. ‘She’s never forgiven me for what happened in Mull. That was such a stupid thing to do, I know, but it was a long time ago and she really has nothing to fear now.’

‘Doesn’t she?’

Ingrid laughed and squeezed my arm. ‘No. It’s true I used to find Guy fascinating, but he’s not my type.’

‘Oh, really?’

‘Yes, really. I’ve been surrounded by flaky screwed-up people like him and Mel all my life. Somehow I’ve avoided becoming like them. I’d like to try to preserve my sanity.’

‘I think you’re totally sane,’ I said.

‘Ah, that’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me.’ She squeezed my arm again.

‘Now that is sad.’

We walked and talked. Past St Paul’s, silhouetted against the three-quarter moon, past the Georgian columns of the Mansion House and the Bank of England, through the narrow streets of the City, alternating between stretches of deathly quiet and patches of noise and light where people spilled out of crowded bars on to the pavement. Eventually we ended up by the river approaching Tower Bridge. Not far from Guy’s flat in Wapping.

Ingrid halted. ‘I think we’d better stop now,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ I agreed.

‘Thank you for walking with me. I needed that.’

‘So did I, I think.’

We were in one of those quiet stretches. Lights were everywhere, yellow and orange, illuminating the tower beside us and the bridge ahead of us, and dancing on the swiftly flowing river. I felt the urge to kiss her, but I hesitated, confused. Was Ingrid my friend? Or something else? Did I want her to be something else? Did she?

Ingrid saw my confusion and her eyes creased into a smile. ‘See you tomorrow,’ she said as she reached up to peck me on the cheek. Then she hurried off up the hill towards the busy road, in search of a taxi.

I watched her go, feeling pleasantly disoriented. I wondered what had happened that evening, if anything. I found my own cab, but as I was climbing into it, I realized I had left my briefcase at Smiths. It was late, but I thought I would check to see if the place was still open. It was, just. I found my briefcase and then made my way to the gents before heading for home. I passed a dark corridor and noticed two figures in an embrace. One was Guy. I peered into the darkness to see who the other was. Michelle.

Poor Michelle.

The next day was Saturday, for us a workday. There were a hundred and one urgent things to attend to, but I took advantage of the fact that I had no meetings arranged to put them all on one side for a couple of hours and concentrate on Tony’s death. While Guy was plotting his public revenge on Orchestra with the PR people, I called Detective Sergeant Spedding. He remembered me instantly and invited me to come in to talk to him that afternoon.

I met him in a bare interview room at the police station in Savile Row. A friendly freckled face beneath red hair. He brought me a cup of coffee and we sat down.

‘I’ve become a big fan of your website,’ he said.

‘Excellent.’

‘But I think you’re wrong about Rovers getting a new manager for next season.’

‘I’ll pass that on.’

‘What we really need is someone good in the air up front.’

‘I’ll pass that on too.’

‘Thank you.’ He stirred his coffee and sipped it. ‘So now we’ve got the important stuff out of the way, talk to me.’ He smiled encouragingly.

‘Do you have any idea yet who killed Tony Jourdan?’

‘Now why is it that every time I talk to you, you ask the questions and I answer them? Isn’t it supposed to be the other way round?’

‘Sorry,’ I said.

Spedding smiled. ‘We don’t know who killed him. We can rule out a contract killer: running someone down in a street like that is very messy. All kinds of things could go wrong. So that makes it most likely that it was someone who knew Jourdan.’

‘I see.’

‘Of the immediate family, Sabina Jourdan was in France at the time and I doubt very much she paid the man you saw, Donnelly, to kill him, for the reasons I just gave you. Besides, he’s not that kind of hired help. We probed the two sons’ alibis pretty thoroughly but they stacked up. Jourdan had some old business enemies that bore him grudges, so it’s just conceivable that one of them may have been involved, but we haven’t been able to uncover any useful leads there. So our official best guess at the moment is that it was a drunk-driver hit and run. But in such a small street that seems very unlikely to me.’

‘So Owen’s alibi held up? He couldn’t have tampered with the CCTV or anything?’

‘No. He was definitely in the Europa a couple of minutes before his father was run down.’

‘And Guy?’

Spedding looked at me closely. ‘What about Guy?’

‘Did Guy’s alibi check out?’

‘It seemed to. He went for a drink with his brother in Camden and then went to see a girlfriend in St John’s Wood. He got there at nine thirty, only five minutes after the murder.’

‘And she confirmed that, did she?’

‘Not just her. She had a friend staying with her that night who saw Guy as well. There wouldn’t have been time from when Guy left the pub in Camden to when he arrived in St John’s Wood for him to drive to Knightsbridge. He claims he didn’t have his car with him that evening, anyway. We checked it. Clean.’