Майкл Ридпат - The Predator

‘What about the Czech police? If we’re right and Ian murdered Lenka, then they can go after him.’

‘True. But we have no real evidence at all linking Lenka’s death to Ian. The Czechs would have to go through all the evidence about Alex’s death, which would get us back to square one with the American police. And then they’d have to extradite Ian. It’s unlikely to stand up.’

‘I see,’ said Megan.

There was one further reason why Chris didn’t want to go to the police. He knew it wasn’t Ian who had accosted him on the street in New York. If Ian was behind the killings of Alex and Lenka, then he had an accomplice. A dangerous accomplice. And once Chris went to the police, that accomplice would know that he had ignored his threat. Unless the police moved very fast, which given the evidence available was extremely unlikely, Chris could wind up dead.

‘What about talking to Ian?’ he suggested.

‘That’s a bit dangerous, isn’t it?’ said Megan. ‘What if we’re right and he did kill Alex and Lenka? He might just kill us too. Chris, this is beginning to scare me.’

‘He can’t carry on killing everyone,’ said Chris. ‘I could talk to him and tell him that you’ll go to the police immediately if he tries anything stupid. Murdering someone in England in those circumstances would be just plain dumb. And Ian isn’t dumb.’

‘I don’t know. It still sounds dangerous to me.’ Doubt and fear were written all over Megan’s face as she looked to Chris for reassurance.

‘I don’t think so,’ Chris said, as convincingly as he could. He knew Megan was right: it was dangerous. But at least they would be taking the initiative. It was probably less dangerous than allowing Ian to pick them both off at his convenience.

‘What will you say?’

‘I’ll talk it through with him. Ian’s smooth, but he’s not that smooth. Even if he denies everything, which I’m sure he will, I’ll know.’

Megan took a deep breath. ‘All right,’ she said, nodding towards her phone. ‘Call him.’

Chris hesitated. Was he sure about what he was doing? It still wasn’t too late to bury his head in the sand, to pretend that he had stopped asking questions, that he didn’t care that Alex and Lenka had died.

But he did care.

He looked up Ian’s home number and dialled it. He told Ian simply that he had discovered some things in America that he wanted to talk to him about, and persuaded him to meet him at lunch-time in a pub in Hampstead the next day, which was a Saturday. At that time it should be crowded and, from Chris’s point of view, safe.

Or at least he hoped it would be.

Lovemaking with Megan that night was both tender and intense. The fear they felt for themselves and for each other drew them together. Afterwards, they held each other tightly in the darkness, neither one of them willing to give words to what they felt. Outside, beyond the comforting walls of the college, beyond the winter dawn only a few hours away, lay uncertainty, danger, and, quite possibly, death.

As Chris left the college before breakfast the next morning, he saw an indistinct figure in a car parked a few yards up the road put down a newspaper and drive off. Why would anyone want to read a newspaper in a car at half past seven in the morning, Chris thought. He shuddered, and walked through the damp morning gloom towards his own car, unable to shake the feeling that he was running out of time.

Eric looked over the top of his Wall Street Journal as his car slowed towards the rear of the yellow taxi in front. He checked his watch. It was still only five forty. He was due at the lawyers’ midtown offices at five forty-five. He was going to be late. Since this was a Friday evening and they were only half way there, probably very late. Tough. It was only a rinky-dink deal, anyway. Some company called Net Cop that made switches for the Internet was up for sale. The only reason he hadn’t been able to palm the deal off on to a junior was that Sidney Stahl had invested in the company himself. Sidney would be pleased if Eric could get a good price for Net Cop. And Eric would. It was what he did. Three big telecoms equipment manufacturers were interested. One had offered four hundred million dollars, but Eric was confident he could achieve at least double that, maybe even a billion if he could get them all scared enough of each other.

The car lurched forward twenty feet. ‘Is there any way we can get around this?’ he asked.

‘Nuttin’ we can do,’ said the massively overweight driver, who seemed perfectly content to spend his Friday evening slouched in Manhattan gridlock.

Eric sighed, but decided not to argue. Terry would have done something. But just then, Terry wasn’t available.

He turned back to the legal documents on his knee. It was beginning to get dark and the dense print blurred together. He rubbed his eyes and switched on the interior light in the car. Eric could work hard, he liked to work hard, but it was getting so he was working all the time. And there was this other business to worry about.

His cell phone chirped. Eric sighed. The damn phone never stopped.

‘Eric Astle.’

‘Eric, it’s Ian.’

Eric put down his papers. Ian sounded shaken.

‘What is it?’

‘Chris wants to see me.’

‘So?’

‘He said he found out something in America he wants to talk to me about.’

Eric’s pulse quickened. ‘Did he say what?’

‘No. Did you see him while he was there? Did he tell you he’d discovered anything?’

‘I did see him,’ said Eric. ‘He hadn’t found out much. He knows about Alex and the drugs. But when I saw him he hadn’t made any connection with what happened to Alex, let alone Lenka.’

‘Did he talk to Marcus Lubron?’

‘I don’t know. He was intending to. But I was hoping he might have changed his mind.’

‘Perhaps he did talk to Marcus,’ Ian was sounding agitated. ‘Perhaps Marcus told him everything.’

‘Relax, Ian,’ said Eric. ‘We don’t know what Lenka told Marcus. We don’t know whether Chris even saw Marcus. And if he did, we don’t know what Marcus said.’ He paused to think. He could hear Ian’s panicked breathing on the phone. ‘When did Chris call you?’

‘A few hours ago.’

‘And when are you supposed to meet him?’

‘Tomorrow lunch-time.’

‘I think it would be best if you didn’t see him.’

‘But if I don’t show, he’ll find me.’

‘Then go away somewhere.’

‘Go away somewhere?’

‘Yeah. Go abroad. Frankfurt. Paris. Somewhere like that. Say you’ll see him when you get back. That’ll buy us some time.’

‘But tomorrow’s a Saturday!’

Eric closed his eyes. Boy, did this guy whine. ‘Ian. Real men work Saturdays. Just tell him.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Eric. ‘But I’ll figure something out.’

‘Eric. Don’t do anything rash.’

‘I said, I’ll figure it out. You know what? Go to Paris. Call me when you get there. Better yet, I’ll meet you there.’ He paused for a few moments, putting together a schedule in his head. ‘We’ll have breakfast in the George Cinq on Sunday.’ With that, Eric hit the red button on his phone and Ian was gone.

Eric stared out at the crowds and the cars and thought. Despite that carefully cultivated British arrogance, Ian was weak. And Chris was determined. Eric would have to act. Again.

He hit a number from his phone’s memory. It took a few moments to connect. He glanced up at the thick neck of the driver. He was stupid, but Eric didn’t want to take any chances. He might already have said more than he intended in his conversation with Ian. He would be more careful this time.