Майкл Ридпат - The Predator

It was the right thing to say. Calhoun laughed. Or at least Chris thought it was a laugh. It actually sounded more like a bark.

‘I still can’t believe it. Twenty-six years. Six months short of my fiftieth birthday, and they give me the pink slip. What chance have I of finding another job at my age?’

Chris smiled in what he hoped could be mistaken for sympathy. He enjoyed the irony. Calhoun had loved firing people. He had made it a personal business philosophy. If ever an ego needed to be downsized, it was his.

‘All right. I’ll tell you. We tested all the American trainees after the final examination. Alex Lubron was the only one who tested positive. I wanted to have him out of the firm the next day, but the head of mortgage trading, Tom Risman, wouldn’t let him go without a fight. So I thought I’d try to get him to finger whoever had supplied him. He had the weekend to think about it. I think he would have told us, too. His mother was very ill, and he had loans and big medical bills to pay off. Also, he seemed worried about what effect a public dismissal and a conviction would have on her. He asked us to keep it quiet.’ Calhoun smiled to himself. ‘Big mistake. I said I’d make it as public as I could. Press release, the works. I had him. I’m sure he would have talked.’

‘But wouldn’t that have been bad publicity for Bloomfield Weiss?’

‘No. That was the whole point. We’d gotten some PR consultants in after those salesmen were convicted for supplying drugs. They said it was vital for Bloomfield Weiss to be seen to be cleaning up its act.’

‘So who was it who was supplying Alex?’

Calhoun sighed. ‘We never found out. He died before he could tell us.’

‘Do you know if it was anyone in the firm?’

‘Not for sure. It could have been anyone from his doorman to Sidney Stahl. But somehow I think if it was his doorman he’d have been quick to tell us all about it.’

Chris nodded. ‘Did you pursue the investigation after he died?’

‘Certainly not,’ said Calhoun. ‘Once he was dead, we just wanted to hush everything up as quickly as possible. Especially once the police started getting suspicious.’

‘I remember they were asking us lots of questions.’

Calhoun smiled. ‘The thing is, they didn’t believe you. That was a problem. We had to apply pressure.’

‘How did you do that?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Calhoun. ‘That was done at a very high level. But one day they were asking a whole lot of questions. The next day they stopped.’

Thank God, thought Chris. ‘I wonder if you could tell me something about the psychometric testing programme?’ he asked.

Calhoun seemed surprised at the change of tack. But he answered the question. ‘It was very successful. Psychometric tests are often used to measure what kind of a team player someone is, leadership, that kind of thing. I realized that wasn’t really what Bloomfield Weiss wanted. Sure, we said we did, just like every other corporation in America, but we were just kidding ourselves. We wanted winners. People who were determined to come out on top, no matter what the cost. It’s not like we used the psychometric tests alone to hire people, but they were a useful pointer.’

‘Didn’t they show up some people as borderline psychotic?’

‘No. I mean not really. Everyone has psychological problems. You could argue that the truly successful have them more than most. Most driven people are driven by something, if you see what I mean. And that something may be ugly. But we weren’t interested in their personal problems. We just cared about how they performed at work.’

‘What about Steve Matzley?’

‘A case in point. He did an excellent job for us before he moved on.’

‘But then he raped someone?’

Calhoun’s eyes flared up. ‘That’s not my fault! That’s his responsibility.’

‘Didn’t the psychological assessment point out a high risk?’

‘Who told you that?’ Calhoun snapped.

Chris shrugged. ‘It’s just a rumour.’

Calhoun sighed. ‘If you read the report with hindsight, it is just possible that you could have identified pointers to what happened. But you can do that with anything with hindsight.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Chris, trying to sound sympathetic. He didn’t want to alienate Calhoun. He still had more he wanted to find out from him. ‘Were there any others who had similar concerns raised in their reports?’

‘I really don’t remember,’ said Calhoun.

‘People on the boat the night Alex was killed? Alex himself, perhaps?’

Calhoun glared at Chris. ‘I told you, I don’t remember.’

‘After Alex died, you checked the files, didn’t you?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘What do you mean, you have no idea? We’re not talking about some routine personnel matter, here. This was a big deal. You must remember whether you did check the files or you didn’t.’

‘I don’t remember,’ Calhoun growled through gritted teeth. ‘And if I did remember, I wouldn’t tell you. Those files are personal and very confidential.’

Chris was sure that there was something in those reports that had been of great interest to George Calhoun. He was equally sure Calhoun wouldn’t tell him. There was no point in pushing it.

‘OK, I understand,’ he said. ‘What about the psychologists who did the tests? Wasn’t there one who was unhappy about it?’

Calhoun snorted. ‘Marcia Horwath. I remember her. She was the one who persuaded the firm to drop the programme.’

‘Did she test Steve Matzley?’

‘She did.’

‘And anyone else she was worried about?’

‘Possibly. I really don’t remember.’

Chris realized that he had got as far as he was going to go. ‘Thank you very much, Mr Calhoun.’

‘So you’re not going to tell me what really happened?’ asked Calhoun with a leer.

‘I already have.’ Somehow, Chris had no difficulties lying to him.

‘Come on. All these questions about whether any of your friends on the boat were psychos. Something must have happened.’

‘Alex Lubron fell in the water and drowned,’ said Chris.

‘OK,’ said Calhoun. ‘Have it your way.’

Chris got up to go. Then he paused. ‘When I came in, you said “another one”. Has someone else been asking about Alex?’

‘Yes. His brother. Or at least he said he was his brother.’

‘Marcus Lubron. Tall thin guy?’

‘That’s him. Scruffy. Probably hadn’t had a bath in a week. He was on some kind of mission to discover the truth about his brother’s death.’

‘What did you tell him?’

‘Not much. A guy like that, you know.’ He wrinkled his nose in something close to a sneer.

‘He didn’t give you an address or anything?’

‘No. I don’t think he liked me much, either. But his car had Vermont plates.’

‘Vermont plates? Thank you.’ That might make finding him easier. ‘Well goodbye, George,’ Chris said, extending his hand. Calhoun shook it. Once he had left the house and was walking down the drive, Chris wiped his hand on his trousers. He hoped George Calhoun never got another job.

Terry drove Chris back to the city and dropped him off at a bland business hotel midtown. After Chris had checked in, he powered up his laptop, logged on to the Internet and started to look for Marcus Lubron.

It wasn’t quite as easy as he had hoped. There wasn’t a Marcus Lubron listed in the phone records anywhere in America. There were two M. Lubrons, one in Washington State, and one in Texas. Chris called them. A Matthew and a Mike. Marcus must be ex-directory.

He looked up ‘Lubron’ on one of the search engines, and discovered that it was the name of an anti-creasing solution for textiles. More promisingly, there was a mention of furniture made by a Marcus Lubron in the apartment of a wealthy Manhattan family named Farmiloe. Theirs was an easier number to find. Mrs Farmiloe was delighted that Chris had read about her apartment, but hadn’t dealt with Marcus Lubron directly, although she knew he came from Vermont. She gave Chris the number of her interior designer, who was uncooperative at first, but, when Chris convinced her that he was an old friend from England desperate to catch up with Marcus after ten years, she relented and gave him the name and address. Chris looked it up on a map. Marcus lived in a small town in the mountains in the middle of nowhere, Vermont.