Майкл Ридпат: The Partnership Track

‘I was just kidding,’ said Trent, looking uncomfortable.

‘You stalked me! You followed us when we went out on dates. You called me up in the middle of the night. You sent me flowers, letters. You know you did all that, Trent.’

Now it was Trent’s turn to blush.

‘But there was no need to kill him.’ Manuela’s voice was speeding up. She began to shake. ‘What did you think would happen when he was dead? Did you think I would fall into your arms, my fiancé’s killer? Did you think I would ever speak to you again?’

‘Hey, I didn’t kill him!’ Trent protested.

Manuela was on her feet. ‘Of course you killed him! Peter didn’t — why would Peter do something like that? But then you saw him out running by the lake, and you killed him. You’re a murderer, Trent!’

She was screaming now, her face red, spittle flying from her lips. She launched into a tirade of Portuguese, and lunged towards him. I stood up and grabbed her by the arm. ‘It’s OK, Manuela,’ I tried to say. ‘It’s OK.’

‘It’s not OK, Peter,’ she said, but she was sobbing. ‘I’ve got to get out of here. I can’t stand being in the room with him.’

‘Here, I’ll take you back to your room.’ I led her out of the dining room. The policeman guarding the back door out to the cabins was about to stop her, but Manuela glared at him and, startled, he stepped out of our way.

We stopped outside her cabin.

‘It’s OK, Peter, I’m OK now. You can leave me. I’d like to be alone.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m sure.’

And in fact she did seem calmer. The rage had disappeared, leaving her perfectly composed: some redness around her eyes and a glint of tears in the winter sunshine on one of her cheeks being the only sign that anything had been wrong. I marvelled at her self-control.

‘All right, then.’

She went into her cabin, and I looked up at the muscled sinews of the snow-covered mountain behind the lodge, letting the sun bathe my face for a few moments.

Could Manuela be right? Trent didn’t strike me as an obsessive romantic. I could certainly imagine him sleeping with Manuela, and I could see him being angry when he discovered she was having a relationship with Harald. Trent had a lot of vanity, a lot of pride, and he could be dangerous. Manuela was an object that he wanted and couldn’t have because of Harald, a rival whom he would dismiss as unworthy.

That would make Trent angry. Very angry indeed. But angry enough to kill?

I wasn’t sure. But I was sure Manuela believed he was.

It just seemed so absurd, so unreal. The whole thing seemed unreal.

I headed back to the dining room where Bill was waiting for me, sitting at the head of the table, Sergeant O’Leary next to him. I noticed Professor Behbehani lurking in an armchair in the corner, notepad on her lap.

‘Ah, here you are, Peter! And Manuela?’

‘She’s gone back to her room.’

‘That’s a shame. I did ask you all to remain here; I’d value the input of the whole team.’

I just shrugged.

‘Take a seat. So, have you come to a decision?’

There was silence for several seconds. Bill wasn’t going to break it.

But Trent was, eventually. ‘It was Peter.’

‘Peter?’ Bill raised his eyebrows and turned to me. ‘Do you think it was Peter, Cynthia?’

‘I don’t know.’ She glanced at Trent. Then she nodded.

‘And Charlie?’

‘It was Peter,’ said Charlie.

‘And you, Peter? Is this a confession? What do you have to say for yourself?’

Bill looked pleased. It was almost as if he was enjoying this. I was disgusted and I was angry.

Think!

Bill looked to be in control. Total control. That wasn’t right. Bill had lost one of his most valued members of staff; the murder would splash Labouchere’s name all over the press; things were completely out of control, surely?

Something was up. And I could guess what it was.

‘I have two statements and a question,’ I said.

‘Fire away.’

‘One.’ I looked straight at Bill. ‘I didn’t kill Harald.’ It was worth a try. Bill prided himself on being able to read people. I was innocent, I wasn’t lying; if he was that good, he should be able to see that I was telling the truth. Bill’s deep dark eyes held mine. I thought I caught a hint of amusement in them, but then it was gone.

‘Two. Before I answer any more questions from you or the police I want a lawyer present, and a lawyer of my own choosing.’ I prayed that I could get hold of Charlotte Prior in New York. I had her cell number and, good corporate bunny that she was, she would answer a phone call from a client at the weekend. And I thought I could trust her to help me. We would see.

‘And the question?’ Bill asked.

I took a breath. ‘Did you kill Harald, Bill?’

This time Bill did smile. ‘Why would I do that?’

I thought of mentioning Project Assegai, but although my colleagues had just accused me of murder, I didn’t want to betray their secrets. Or not yet. There would be time for that once I had my lawyer and I could do it properly.

‘I don’t know. But did you kill him?’

Bill hesitated. ‘That thought had occurred to Sergeant O’Leary. But I was able to tell him I was on a conference call to our London office from six to eight a.m. this morning. They can confirm that, of course.’

Bill glanced at the detective, who nodded.

‘Did you pay someone to kill him?’ I asked.

‘What, a hit man, you mean?’

I shrugged. ‘Yes, that’s what I meant.’

‘No, I didn’t. Are there any signs of a hit man, Sergeant O’Leary?’

O’Leary shook his head. ‘No one came into the area from outside in the night. And Trent is correct. We only found signs of four individuals in the section of the lake shore where Harald was killed: Trent, Harald himself, Jason Turnell the hotel employee, and you.’

Bill was watching me closely. It was almost as if he was impressed with me rather than disgusted. Professor Behbehani was scribbling in the corner.

I thought of asking Bill whether he had paid or coerced Trent or Jason Turnell to kill Harald, but that wasn’t it. Bill was still in control. My question hadn’t discomfited him one bit. Bill hadn’t killed Harald.

So I shut up.

Bill turned to the flip chart. ‘Who wrote all this?’

‘I did,’ said Cynthia.

‘Do you want to take me through it?’

Cynthia began to explain their reasoning, omitting any reference to Project Assegai. It was just like a presentation to a client about a potential acquisition target, except I was the target.

I tuned out.

This question of control concerned me. It was one of Bill’s key mantras: always stay in control of the client, stay in control of the meeting. He didn’t always manage it. I had once witnessed him in a meeting where his client’s chief financial officer had let slip that he had been negotiating with the other side behind Bill’s back. I had seen the anger in Bill’s face, but he hadn’t let it get the better of him. He had set about the task of regaining control over the client with grim, ruthless determination. Within a week, the CFO was transferred to the client’s Taiwan office.

So I didn’t necessarily expect Bill to panic on hearing about Harald’s murder. But I didn’t expect this.

Cynthia had finished.

‘Very interesting,’ said Bill. ‘Thanks, you three, for doing that for us. I’m sure Sergeant O’Leary found it useful.’

‘I did,’ said the detective. ‘Now I’d like you all to remain here for half an hour or so until the DA gets here.’

Bill, O’Leary and the professor left the room.

There was silence around the table.

‘I’m sorry, Peter,’ Cynthia said. ‘But we had to come up with something.’