Майкл Ридпат - The Predator

‘I knew he did some drugs occasionally,’ said Eric. ‘But it was no big deal. It’s not like he had a problem or anything. We didn’t talk about it much.’

‘Until he got caught.’

‘Even then. Of course, he was really worried about it, and when I asked him, he eventually told me what was wrong. But he didn’t want to discuss it.’

‘Abby said that Calhoun was threatening him.’

‘Probably. Something was going on. But as I said, he didn’t want my help. I respected that. He and I were good friends, I knew him well. The thing with Alex was, sometimes he just wanted to be left alone. And that was one of those times.’

‘So you don’t know specifically what was going on?’

Eric shook his head.

‘And you didn’t say anything about it afterwards to any of us?’

‘No way,’ said Eric. ‘It just didn’t seem the right thing to talk about. Especially after what happened to him. Whatever his problems were, they died with him.’

‘I’m trying to think how this might be related to Lenka’s death,’ Chris said.

Eric looked blank. ‘I can’t see how. Why should it be?’

‘Well, I know Lenka wanted to tell Marcus something before she died. I’m pretty sure now that it was more than just Duncan knocking Alex into the sea. I thought maybe it had something to do with Alex getting caught with drugs.’

Eric frowned. ‘I can’t see a possible connection.’

Chris sighed. ‘Maybe Marcus can tell me. If I can find him.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Eric. ‘Let me know.’

Chris leaned back in his chair by the warm fire, and sipped his brandy. He looked across at Eric. Although he had a glittering future, indeed, was already living one, in many ways he was the most straightforward of Chris’s friends from the programme. Duncan was an emotional wreck, Ian had become cynical and selfish as his career had progressed, but Eric was still basically a friend. He didn’t have anything to prove to Chris, and there was no point in Chris trying to compete with him. He was glad it was Eric, not Ian, who had done so well.

‘What is it?’ asked Eric.

‘Oh, nothing,’ said Chris. ‘Are you still intending to go into politics?’

Eric smiled. ‘I guess so.’

‘Everything seems to be going according to plan so far.’

‘Partly. I’m making good money at Bloomfield Weiss, and I’ve also made some lucky investments. You can make excellent contacts in this business; it’s amazing how grateful a big company boss can be if you help him make the biggest acquisition of his career. The problem is I never have any time for all the schmoozing. I’m going to have to figure out how to make more time. But yes, I’m still interested.’

‘And you’d be following in the family tradition.’

Eric looked at Chris sharply. ‘You mean Cassie’s family? Wilson’s a good man. I respect him. I can learn a lot from him.’

It took a moment for Chris to realize that he was talking about his father-in-law. Eric had even named his son after Cassie’s father! But perhaps Chris was being too cynical: some American families did that, he supposed. Chris could see Eric felt sensitive about the whole subject.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Good luck with it. You deserve to go far.’

‘We’ll see,’ said Eric. But he didn’t smile. His tone was surprisingly serious. This was clearly more than an idle fancy. Suddenly the edge of Eric’s ambition, which he kept well hidden, but which Megan had spoken about, showed through. But what was wrong with that? They were all ambitious, Chris included. That was, after all, why they had been so enthusiastically swept up by Bloomfield Weiss.

Eric’s driver Terry opened the door of the limo, and Chris climbed in. It was nine o’clock: Terry had already driven Eric into Manhattan several hours earlier, and Cassie had left at eight, leaving Juanita in charge of the house and Wilson.

‘You know where we’re going, I hope,’ said Chris to the closely cropped blond hair at the back of the driver’s head.

‘Westchester,’ Terry replied. ‘Home of a Mr George Calhoun. Don’t worry. I know the way.’

‘It’s good of you to take me,’ said Chris.

‘Whatever the boss says.’

‘I didn’t know Bloomfield Weiss ran to limos for managing directors.’

Terry laughed. ‘I don’t think they do. This is more of a private arrangement. I drive for Mr Astle when I don’t have any other work.’

‘I see. And what is that work?’

‘Personal bodyguard. That’s how we met. I got Mr Astle out of a tough situation in Kazakhstan a couple years back. I’ve done quite a bit for him since then.’

This surprised and intrigued Chris. ‘I didn’t realize Eric needed a bodyguard. What happened?’

‘Attempted kidnapping. We got away.’

‘Wow. Investment banking must be getting more dangerous than in my day.’

‘Not really. I only accompany clients to particularly troublesome parts of the world. Or to meet particularly dangerous people. Even then, ninety-five per cent of my job is just watching and waiting. But occasionally I need to put my training into action. I haven’t lost a client yet.’

‘So I’ll make it to Westchester?’

Terry laughed. ‘You’ll make it to Westchester, sir.’

They pulled into the lines of traffic on the Long Island Expressway.

‘Pardon me for asking, but are you related to Stanislaw Szczypiorski?’ Terry asked.

‘I am. I’m his son. But you’re about the first person I’ve ever come across who’s heard of him. Do you play chess?’

‘Sure. And I like reading the books, going through the old matches. I have an old book on the King’s Indian Defence that features a lot of his games. They even have a variation named after him.’

‘That’s right. It was his favourite opening as black.’

‘Do you play?’

‘Not any more,’ Chris said. ‘I played a lot as a boy, but I was never going to be as good as my father.’

They chatted about chess until they reached the leafy county of Westchester. George Calhoun lived in a classic American suburban house: wooden, white-painted, with a large patch of grass in front of it running down to a mailbox and the sidewalk. Terry waited in the car, while Chris rang the doorbell.

Calhoun answered. He was greyer, balder and fatter, with a few more wrinkles. His hatchet face had become both softer and more bitter. He didn’t recognize Chris.

‘Chris Szczypiorski,’ Chris said, holding out his hand. ‘From the Bloomfield Weiss training programme.’

‘Ah, yes. I remember,’ said Calhoun. ‘I remember quite well. What do you want?’

‘I want to talk to you about Alex Lubron.’

‘Alex Lubron, eh? Another one. Well, you’d better come in.’ He led Chris into a living room. The TV was on. Adverts for laxatives or something. ‘Sit down. Have you come to tell me what really happened?’

‘No,’ said Chris. ‘I’ve come to find out what really happened.’

Calhoun snorted. ‘You were there. You ought to know. It would sure be interesting if you could let the rest of us in on it.’

‘I know what happened on the boat,’ said Chris. ‘Alex fell in and drowned. But what interests me is what happened beforehand.’

‘Beforehand?’

‘Yes. Wasn’t Alex in some kind of trouble with drugs?’

Calhoun looked at Chris suspiciously. ‘That’s all very confidential.’

Chris returned his stare. ‘I’m sure it is,’ he said, after a moment’s thought. ‘And I’m sure that after all your years of loyal service to Bloomfield Weiss the last thing you would want to do is discuss something confidential that happened ten years ago to someone who is now dead.’