Майкл Ридпат - The Predator

Then there were her clothes. What seemed like miles of them, in wardrobes, chests of drawers, walk-in cupboards, trunks. Many years’ bonuses from Bloomfield Weiss had been pumped into the world’s fashion industry. And shoes. There must have been a hundred pairs. It was a staggering sight.

‘Makes my closet look like a thrift shop,’ said Megan.

Chris went through to her desk, which was in a kind of den just off the living room. It was a large pine affair, covered with papers and a computer. Chris took a deep breath. He would have to sort through this lot. He didn’t want to. Going into Lenka’s flat hadn’t felt like an intrusion, neither did gaping at her massive collection of clothes. But going through her papers? He wanted to leave them there, undisturbed.

But something would have to be done with them. There would be the Czech equivalent of probate. Someone would have to sort out her assets. God, perhaps there was a will in there somewhere. Then there would be bills, rent, credit cards, bank accounts. Chris’s heart sank. Perhaps he could get away with dumping it all in a box and sending it over to the Czech Republic.

‘Would you mind helping me with this?’ asked Chris.

‘OK,’ said Megan. ‘I’ll sort the papers into piles. You read them.’

They worked for two hours, getting progressively more depressed. They didn’t find a will, or any evidence of investments, but there was a massive balance in a current account at US Commerce Bank. Like many investment bankers, Lenka would fight tooth and nail over a hundredth of a basis point at work, but leave a hundred thousand pounds of her own money in a low-interest account.

At ten o’clock, Chris stretched. ‘Look, why don’t we stop now? We can’t do all this. I’ll write a letter to her parents saying what we’ve found so far, and suggesting they get a solicitor to sort it all out.’

‘Don’t you think we should look in there?’ Megan said, nodding towards the computer.

‘But that’s private,’ said Chris.

‘What do you think all that lot is?’ asked Megan, pointing to the piles of papers, now neatly stacked.

‘I suppose you’re right. Go on then. Let’s have a look.’

Megan turned on the machine. She expertly skimmed through the folders. There was very little there. Quite a few word-processed documents, many of them in Czech. No other software, no games, no personal finance packages, no will-making programs. But there was e-mail.

‘Let’s have a look.’

Megan seemed to have no trouble navigating the Internet software and downloading Lenka’s mail. She came up with a list of the most recent e-mail correspondence. The names were fascinating. There were some to Ian. And one to ‘Marcus’.

‘There!’ Chris cried, pointing to it. ‘Open that one!’

‘No. Let’s do this in chronological order. It’ll make more sense.’

Impatiently, they skimmed a dozen e-mails, half of them in Czech, until they came to one from Lenka to Ian:

Ian

I couldn’t sleep last night. I think I have to tell Marcus about Alex. He has a right to know. And I’ve got to talk to Duncan.

The reply from Ian was terse:

Don’t do that! We have to talk. For God’s sake don’t do anything stupid.

Then, immediately following that, there was an e-mail to the mysterious Marcus. The subject line read simply Alex .

Marcus

I’m sorry I was rude to you yesterday. As you can imagine, it is a difficult subject for me. I have something important I need to tell you about Alex’s death. It is complicated and needs explanation, so I would like to tell you in person. I am travelling to New York at the beginning of next month, so perhaps we can meet then.

Best wishes

There was a reply, short and simple:

I will call you.

‘Let’s print those off,’ said Chris.

As the small printer next to Lenka’s machine chugged away, Megan clicked on the last e-mail Lenka had received. She opened it:

Lenka

See you Thursday at seven thirty. Can’t wait. We’re going to have some fun!

‘I wrote that last Sunday. It seems like a whole life ago.’ She blinked back a tear.

‘It was,’ said Chris.

Megan sniffed and dabbed her eyes. ‘So, who can this Marcus be?’

Chris shook his head. ‘You can’t tell much from the e-mail address. He could be from anywhere. I wonder what she wanted to tell him about Alex?’

‘The truth, presumably,’ said Megan. ‘That Duncan knocked him into the sea. But I wonder why she’d want to do that. We all agreed to keep it quiet, and I thought everyone had.’ She gave Chris an enquiring glance.

‘They have, as far as I know,’ he said. ‘I thought that was all buried. And I thought Lenka was as keen as anyone on burying it. It’s strange that she’s the one who wants to tell, and Ian’s the one who wants to keep it quiet. I’d have thought he wouldn’t mind risking getting Duncan into trouble.’

‘We’d all be in trouble,’ said Megan. ‘We lied to the police. That’s against the law.’ She frowned. ‘Big trouble.’

Chris sighed. ‘Well, whoever this Marcus is, he needs to know what happened.’

He sat down in front of the keyboard and began to write:

Marcus

I am a colleague of Lenka’s. I have some very bad news. Lenka was murdered in Prague last Monday. I may be able to help you with Alex’s death. Please contact me at chrissz@interserve.net

Regards

He glanced at Megan, who nodded, and then he clicked on Send . ‘There. He should identify himself now.’ He yawned, and stretched. ‘Let’s go. I think we’ve done all we can here.’

He turned off the computer, took the small bundle of papers they had sorted, turned down the thermostat for the heating, and switched off the light. They left the flat.

Chris looked at his watch. Twenty past ten. ‘Damn,’ he said. ‘I wanted to talk to one of her neighbours. It’s too late to disturb them now.’

But they were lucky. Just as they were about to reach the front door, it opened, and a bespectacled man in a smart overcoat and suit came in, bringing with him the waft of alcohol. He glanced at them with curiosity.

‘Hello,’ said Chris.

‘Hi.’

‘Do you live here?’

‘Yes, I do. Can I help you?’

He was American, about thirty-five, slightly overweight with a friendly face.

‘Did you know Lenka Němečková?’

‘Sure. I live in the apartment above hers.’ Then his eyes narrowed. He had caught the tense Chris had used. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘I’m afraid she’s been murdered. In Prague. We’re friends of hers.’ Chris introduced himself and Megan.

As so many other people had been when Chris had told them the news, the American was stunned.

‘Her parents asked me to take care of her stuff,’ Chris said. ‘They gave me the key. Can you keep an eye on her flat for me? Give me a call if there’s anything wrong.’

Chris handed him his card. The American took it, and looked dully at the writing on it. ‘I can’t believe it,’ he said.

‘Perhaps I can take your number?’ Chris asked.

‘Oh, sure,’ said the American, giving Chris a card in return. Richard H. Storebrand, Vice President . He worked for one of the large US investment management companies.

‘Thanks. Oh, by the way, you didn’t see anything odd last week, did you? Any strange visitors, anything like that?’

‘No, I don’t think so,’ he said. Then he furrowed his brow. ‘There was a guy who used to hang around here. He used to lean against the lamppost on the other side of the street. He was kind of creepy. Anyway, I was coming back here a couple of weeks ago and I bumped into Lenka. He crossed the street toward her. She saw him, pushed me into the building, and shut the door behind us. The guy rang the doorbell and shouted after her. She told me to ignore him and went up the stairs to her apartment. I haven’t seen him around since then.’