Майкл Ридпат - The Predator

Chris sat up in his chair. ‘You’re not serious?’

‘I am,’ said Duncan. ‘He checked you out with Faisal who apparently had good things to say about you. I told him you were a loser of course, but Khalid never listens to my opinion.’ Duncan was grinning.

‘But he knows how I was fired from Bloomfield Weiss. How I lost all that money.’

‘Looks as though he doesn’t care. A lot of the best people have been fired from Bloomfield Weiss: me, for example. Could you take another investor now? I don’t know how the fund is structured.’

‘As it happens, we could. How much are we talking about?’

‘Fifteen million dollars. But he could do less.’

‘No, fifteen million dollars would do nicely.’ Fifteen million dollars was seventeen million euros, as near as damn it. That would be enough to buy out Rudy and leave seven million euros over. ‘And I think the timing is perfect. For him and for us.’

Duncan smiled. ‘Shall I tell him that after careful consideration you’ve decided you can squeeze him in?’

‘You tell him that,’ said Chris. ‘Well done, Duncan! I owe you one.’

‘No you don’t,’ said Duncan. ‘It’s good to be able to help you for a change.’

Chris smiled and raised his glass. ‘To Khalid.’ They both drank.

‘Also,’ said Duncan as he put down his beer, ‘I think I’ve got you to thank for talking to Pippa.’

Chris hesitated for a moment. He had hoped that Duncan wouldn’t find out about that conversation. But Duncan didn’t seem to be angry. ‘Perhaps,’ Chris said carefully.

‘I don’t know what you said to her, but it seems to have worked.’

Chris was puzzled. ‘As far as I can recall, she said you were a jerk and I agreed.’

‘Well, she and I went out on Friday night, and I think we might be getting back together again.’

‘Great,’ said Chris. And then, ‘Is that a good thing?’

‘I think so. You’re right, and so is she. I was a jerk. But, I don’t intend to be from now on. We’ll see. It’s worth a try, anyway.’

Chris looked at Duncan and smiled. ‘Yes, it is. Good luck.’

‘What about you? Why are you in such a foul mood? The market’s gone down before, hasn’t it?’

‘Let me tell you,’ said Chris. He took a gulp of beer, and described all that had happened since he had left for America, including the threats to himself and Megan. Duncan listened open-mouthed.

When Chris had finished, Duncan rubbed his eyes and slumped back in his chair. He exhaled. ‘You mean I didn’t kill Alex after all?’

‘It doesn’t look like it,’ said Chris.

Duncan shook his head. ‘For all these years I’ve been blaming myself. And Ian knew all along that it wasn’t my fault?’

‘Yep.’

Duncan reddened. He sat up and struck the table, spilling beer. ‘The bastard!’ The couple at the table next to theirs turned to stare. Duncan glanced at them and lowered his voice. ‘So what did Lenka mean?’

‘Megan and I have an idea, but tell me what you think first.’

‘OK.’ Duncan thought it over. ‘We know Alex was drowned. So if I didn’t kill him when I hit him and he fell in, then... someone else must have drowned him. After he was in the water.’

Chris nodded.

‘It can only have been one of the people who dived in to save him. So apart from me, that was Ian and Eric.’

Chris nodded again.

‘Well, it’s got to be Ian, hasn’t it?’

‘That seems the most likely to us.’

‘I can’t believe it. The murdering bastard! And do you think he killed Lenka as well?’

‘Yes. Or else he paid someone else to do it.’

‘Jesus. What are you going to do about it?’

‘It’s difficult. I told you how I was attacked in New York. And about the knife on Megan’s pillow last night.’

‘Yes, but we can’t just sit here and let him get away with it.’

‘I think we have to. At least for the time being.’

‘What do you mean?’ Duncan looked aghast. ‘That’s just cowardice.’

‘It’s common sense.’ Duncan frowned, but Chris continued. ‘Look, when it was just me being threatened, I was willing to carry on. I owe Lenka a lot, and I was prepared to take risks to find out who killed her. But I can’t risk Megan’s life.’

Duncan’s eyes narrowed. ‘There’s something going on between you and her, isn’t there?’

‘Yes,’ Chris admitted. ‘There is.’

Duncan snorted.

‘Duncan. Be reasonable. Even if there wasn’t, I wouldn’t want to risk her life. And neither should you. Anyway, Ian is in Paris until later on this week.’

‘You can do nothing if you want,’ said Duncan. ‘But that doesn’t mean I have to.’

‘What will you do?’ Chris asked.

Duncan said nothing. He drained his pint and stood up to leave.

‘For God’s sake be careful,’ Chris said, but Duncan ignored him, as he pushed his way through the crowd to the door.

Megan found it extremely difficult to concentrate on the book in front of her. It was an analysis of the work of the monks of Fleury, a Clunaic abbey on the Loire that had played host to a number of important English churchmen. It wasn’t just that it was in French, or that the author seemed to have an aversion to sentences of fewer than thirty words. Megan could cope with that. Indeed, since she had arrived in Cambridge, she had found the library and its difficult texts a refuge from the madness of Lenka’s death. It was only here that she could lose herself for a few hours. That was why she had been so eager to leave her rooms that morning, hoping to blot the horror of the knife on her pillow from her mind. But for once, it hadn’t worked. And the reason for that was Eric.

After she had spoken to Chris that morning, she had put the knife in a plastic bag and hidden it at the back of one of her drawers. Then she had shoved the bloody pillowcase into another bag together with the contents of her wastepaper basket and dumped it in the college rubbish bins. She had been just about to leave for the library when Eric had called.

Perhaps she shouldn’t have told him that he could come and see her. For eight years now she had avoided him, and there was no doubt that that decision had helped her get over him. But surely, by now it was harmless. He was married, she seemed to be at the beginning of something with Chris, something that she hoped would develop. No, there couldn’t be any harm in it.

Then why did her throat feel dry? Why couldn’t she concentrate on the book in front of her? Why couldn’t she stop thinking about his voice, his face, his eyes, his touch?

She knew she had to see him. It was probably a good thing. Closure, whatever that meant. He would be a podgy, greedy investment banker. They had had little in common when they were students: they would have nothing in common now. It would do her good to see Eric ten years on. She would finally realize she was better off without him.

By two o’clock, she gave up and walked back to the college. She shuddered as she entered her room. Only twelve hours before someone else had been prowling round her bed. It was going to be difficult to sleep there that evening. Locking the outside door hadn’t made any difference. She looked over to the sofa: if she pushed that in front of the door before she went to bed, it should make it impossible for anyone to enter without waking her up. And then she would scream. There were probably a hundred people within earshot, at least. That should get rid of him.

She paced around her room. She brushed her hair. She dug out some lipstick, which she never wore, and then put it away. What was she thinking of? She had no need to look good for Eric.

She stood by the window and stared down at the court below. A carpet of snowdrops and crocuses lay beneath the old plane tree. She had never seen one so big, or so tangled. Presumably leaves would appear in a month or two, but it was difficult to imagine: the tree seemed too decrepit to be capable of it. She checked her watch. Three o’clock. No sign of Eric.