Майкл Ридпат - The Partnership Track

I thought about fudging the answer, saying I didn’t know. But O’Leary was going to ask everyone the same question. This was not the time to become evasive. ‘Me.’

‘I see. And how much can a partner be expected to earn?’

‘A million dollars a year. Maybe two in a good year.’

‘That’s a lot of money.’

I had to put a stop to this. ‘If you think any of us would kill Harald just so that we could become partner, you’re crazy. It’s just not that important.’

‘A million bucks a year not important? People have killed other people for a whole lot less than that. People I’ve put in jail.’

I wanted to explain that that wasn’t the way any of us thought. That we were earning decent salaries anyway, that the risk of going to jail was not worth the extra cash. That none of us could kill anyone. That I couldn’t kill anyone. What I actually said was much more stupid.

‘There are taxes. On the million.’

‘So half a million after tax isn’t worth it, but a million pre-tax would be?’

‘That’s not what I meant!’ I said. I didn’t know what I had meant. ‘Look. Do I need a lawyer?’

The detective leaned forward and smiled. ‘I don’t know. Do you?’

‘Aren’t you supposed to warn me if I do?’ I thought of the various cop shows I had seen over the years. ‘Read me my rights?’

‘We haven’t arrested you. Yet. But if you did kill Harald Utnes, I suggest you do get a lawyer. Do you want a lawyer?’

Where would I get a lawyer in America? Ask Labouchere was the obvious answer to that question, but in this case could I trust them to come up with the right one? Perhaps some Googling was required when I got back to my room. Except there was no Internet connection or phone coverage.

‘No,’ I said.

‘Did you kill Harald Utnes?’

‘No,’ I said, seeking out the detective’s blue eyes and holding them as steadily as I could. ‘No, I did not.’

‘All right.’ The detective leaned back. ‘That about wraps it up. You can go now, but don’t leave the hotel. I’m pretty sure we’re gonna want to speak with you again.’

As I was about to leave the manager’s office, I paused. ‘Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?’

O’Leary snorted. ‘I doubt it, sir. I took a vacation to London with the kids a couple years back, but it’s not very likely we met then.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Of course not.’ But there was something. It was as much his mannerisms — that snort for example — as anything else. I never forget a face, or a name. But I couldn’t place him.

I was troubled as I returned to the bar, where the others were waiting. I had given the police the trainers I had worn on my run, and permission to search my room. For a firearm, presumably. Cynthia was the next to be interviewed. Manuela was absorbed in a copy of The Economist . The others were leafing through newspapers or simply staring into space. One of the hotel staff stood behind the bar watching them.

‘Can I have a cup of coffee?’ I asked him.

‘How did it go?’ Charlie said. ‘What did they ask?’

‘A lot of questions. I went for a run this morning — it had to be just before Harald was murdered. They asked me all about that.’ I glanced at Trent, who was leafing through the Wall Street Journal, his smartphone, which he would normally have been consulting, sitting uselessly on the table in front of him. ‘I saw Trent, but not Harald.’

Trent turned to me. ‘I look forward to telling them what I saw. Or rather didn’t see.’

I could tell that the police’s first take on the matter was that either Trent or I had murdered Harald. And it wasn’t me. So...

It was ridiculous. Trent was self-absorbed and ruthless in a business context, but he wasn’t a killer; it was impossible to believe that any of us was.

At some point, though, it might turn into him or me. In which case I would much rather it was him.

‘Did you see Harald?’ I asked him.

‘No. And I’ll tell the police that. The only other person I saw was you.’

I held Trent’s gaze. I wasn’t convinced Trent had murdered anyone. But I was convinced that he would have no compunction in prodding me further into the frame if it eased him out of it. I would have to keep my wits about me.

My coffee arrived. I wished I hadn’t come to Lake Lenatonka. It was lunchtime in London; I should have been with Henrietta at that restaurant in Pimlico.

But what about Harald? Why him? There was no justice in the world: he was the nicest guy among us, the most honest, the best. No doubt, somewhere in Norway there was a mother who was as proud of him as Bill’s or mine had been of us. Soon the press would come. Bill would have to make a statement. Harald’s parents would fly over to collect the body.

And what of Manuela, sitting seemingly absorbed in The Economist but never getting beyond the first page? Would she be able to take on the role of mourner who had lost a boyfriend? Or would she try to keep the whole thing secret?

I couldn’t bear the thought of Henrietta dying. Especially after what had happened between us. What was happening.

So why had Harald been killed?

‘Charlie?’

‘Yes?’ Charlie Campbell had been staring at the wall, on which was a large photograph of men and horses dragging logs by the side of Lake Lenatonka a hundred years before.

‘You worked on Project Assegai with Harald, didn’t you?’

‘Yeah,’ he said.

‘What happened with that?’

‘We were acting for Tomskoil. They were making a play for some Mauritanian assets owned by Archimedes Natural Resources. I went down there to work on the deal. Turns out the figures were crap and the deal fell through.’

‘And Harald was there with you?’

‘He came down later. Why do you ask?’

‘I just remember there was trouble about it.’

‘Tomskoil were pissed, if that’s what you mean. And I don’t blame them. Archimedes were giving us bum numbers. But we got out of it OK.’

‘Did we?’ I asked.

‘Oh, yeah,’ said Charlie. ‘Totally.’ He picked up a magazine — New Hampshire Country Living — and began to study it carefully.

I remembered the deal being more trouble than that, but if Charlie was in bullshit mode, I would never get the truth from him.

Manuela was ignoring us, but I could tell Trent was listening. Maybe I would ask Cynthia later.

Trent was next, and the other detective, the blonde woman, came for Manuela. I was tempted to go back to my room, but decided I would wait for her. When she did emerge, she seemed untroubled. I tried to catch her eye, but she ignored me and returned to her Economist . She didn’t look as if she wanted to talk, so I stood up to return to my room.

‘Peter?’

It was her.

‘Would you mind coming for a walk with me? If they let us.’

‘Sure.’

They did let us, so we went outside through the front entrance of the lodge. Another van was parked up along the shore of the lake beyond the police tape, and someone in a white forensic suit was retrieving something out of the back. Otherwise there were just the two police cars, and the detective sergeant’s unmarked Ford.

‘I thought there would be more people,’ I said.

Manuela didn’t reply.

I set off around the opposite side of the lake from the crime scene, but Manuela stopped me.

‘Do you mind if we go up the hill?’ she said. ‘Where people can’t see us?’

‘OK.’ I could just make out the faint impression in the snow of a pathway branching off to the left and heading for a gap in the trees. Manuela was shod in snow boots but, having lost my trainers, I was wearing my Church’s brogues. Oh, well.