The Detection Collection Page 2

  ‘I’ve just passed the golf club. There’s screaming in the clubhouse. A woman. I think someone’s killing her.’

  ‘And your name and address, sir?’

  ‘No, no. I’m not getting mixed up in this. It’s nothing to do with me. I just thought I ought to let you know.’ And with gloved hands I rang off.

  They came, of course. They came just in time to see Manston-Green bending over his wife’s body. I couldn’t have planned that. I imagined they might have been late but would still have had the club with her blood and matted hair, the fingerprints, the evidence of quarrels. But they weren’t late; they were just in time.

  I resisted the temptation to go to the trial. It was irritating to have to forego that pleasure, but I thought it prudent. Press photographs were being taken of the crowd, and although the chance of being recognised was infinitesimally small, why risk it? And I thought it sensible to continue going occasionally to the golf club, but less frequently. The talk was all of the murder, but no one bothered to include me. I took my solitary lessons and departed. He appealed, of course, and that was an anxious day for me. But the appeal failed and I knew that the end was now certain.

  There were only three weeks between sentence and execution and they were probably the happiest of my life, not in the sense of an exultant joy, but of knowing myself at peace for the first time since I’d started at St Chad’s. The week before the execution I was with him in spirit through every minute of every hour in that condemned cell. I knew what would happen on the morning when he would be launched out of this world and out of my mind. I pictured the arrival of the executioner the day before to fulfil Home Office requirements: the dropping of a sandbag in the presence of the governor to make sure that there would be no mishap and that the length of the drop was correct. I was with him as he peered through the spy-hole in the door of the condemned cell, a cell only feet away from the execution chamber. It’s a merciful death if not mishandled and I knew Manston-Green would die with less pain than probably would I. The suffering was in the preceding weeks and no one could truly experience that horror but he. In imagination I lived his last night, the restless turning and twisting, the strengthening light of the dreaded day, the breakfast he wouldn’t be able to eat, the clumsy kindness of the constantly watching guards. I was with the hangman in imagination when he pinned Manston-Green’s arms. I was part of that little procession which passed through the dreaded door, the white-faced governor of the prison present, the chaplain keeping his eyes on his prayer book held in shaking hands.

  It’s a quick death, only some twenty seconds from the moment the arms are pinioned to the drop itself. But there would be one moment when he would be able to see the scaffold, the noose hanging precisely at the level of his chest before the white hood was pulled into place. I exulted at the thought of those few seconds.

  As usual I went to the prison the day before the execution. There were things to be done, instructions to be followed. I was greeted politely but I wasn’t welcome. I knew they felt contaminated when they shook my hand. And every prisoner in every cell knew that I was there. Already there was the expected din, shouting voices, utensils banged against the cell doors. A little crowd of protesters or morbid voyeurs was already collecting outside the prison gate. I am a meticulous craftsman, as was my father before me. I am highly experienced in my part-time job. And I think he knew me. Oh yes, he knew me. I saw the recognition in his eyes that second before I slipped the white hood over his head and pulled the lever. He dropped like a stone and the rope tautened and quivered. My life’s task was at last accomplished and from now on I would be at peace. I had killed Keith Manston-Green.

  PARTNERSHIP TRACK

  Michael Ridpath

  ‘I’ve had a dozen interviews here and in New York, I’ve met the head honcho twice and he loves me, everyone else thinks I’m perfect for the job, so tell me why I shouldn’t take it.’

  We were sitting in ‘The Bunker’, the wine bar beneath the twenty-six-storey office block in Bishopsgate that Peter Brearton and I had occupied along with a few hundred other bankers several years before. Between us were two glasses, empty, and two bottles of Sancerre, one empty and one half-full. I refilled Peter’s glass. Peter was ambitious, energetic, highly intelligent, unfailingly successful in everything he did. He was thirty-one, a year older than me, although he looked younger, with his square face, short blond hair and round glasses. He was mellowing as he often did after a bottle of wine. I would get to the truth.

  ‘Don’t you trust me?’ he said.

  ‘Of course I trust you. I trust you more than anyone else I know. We’re old mates. That’s why I want you to explain to me why you left.’

  Peter shook his head. ‘I told you, I can’t tell you.’

  ‘They’ve got a great reputation,’ I went on. ‘They’re aggressive but fair, they’re cunning but people trust them. They might not be big, but they’re the best in the world in their market. Bill Labouchere is a genius. Everyone says so.’

  ‘Don’t do it,’ Peter said.

  I took a deep breath. ‘My boss gave me a month to find another job.’

  Peter raised his eyebrows. I squirmed. It was something I hadn’t wanted to admit. A last resort.

  ‘How long ago was that?’

  ‘Three weeks.’

  ‘Oh.’ He took a sip of wine. ‘Still don’t do it.’

  I couldn’t conceal my frustration. Labouchere Associates was a small elite outfit that had been responsible for some of the most daring takeovers and mergers in the oil business of the last decade. And they paid well. I would be doubling my salary as a vice-president. Partners, of whom there were a dozen or so, were reputed to earn many millions of dollars every year. That was certainly something to aim for. And the only thing that was standing between all that and me was Peter’s opinion.

  ‘I’m going to take it,’ I said.

  Peter shook his head sadly. ‘You’re making a big mistake.’

  ‘If you can’t give me a good reason not to, I’m taking the job.’

  Peter drained his glass, and stared at me thoughtfully. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you. But first get us another bottle of wine.’

  He began:

  It was last February. I had been at Labouchere just over two years and I was doing pretty well. The firm usually promotes new partners in March, and that year there was only one opening. They take the process very seriously, too seriously according to some of the partners, but not according to the only one that matters, Bill Labouchere. He insists on a weekend off-site session of role play, where the vice-presidents on the partnership track are put through a string of exercises, all watched closely by him and one other partner. The sessions are notorious within the firm, but unavoidable if you want promotion. And believe me, we all wanted promotion.

  There were six candidates. Labouchere prides itself on its international staff: there were two Americans, a Canadian, a Colombian, a Norwegian and myself. The session was to be held at Lake Lenatonka, some godforsaken camp in New Hampshire. I flew over from London to Boston and drove a hired car from there all the way up to the lake. I was knackered, I had been pulling several all-nighters on a big financing project we were setting up in Rajasthan. Believe me, the last thing I was in the mood for was corporate games.

  Lake Lenatonka was fifteen miles off the main road, down a dirt track in what they call the White Mountains. And they were white, or at least a blue shade of white in the moonlight. I didn’t pass a single car on that track, just pine trees, thousands and thousands of pine trees. I stopped every couple of miles to check the map. I dreaded getting lost; I could easily spend the whole night driving around those back roads without seeing anyone.

  It takes a long time to drive fifteen miles along a dirt track at night, and I was relieved when I saw the wide expanse of the lake, a white board of snow on ice. The camp was a series of a dozen log cabins clustered around a larger building, from which a welcoming column of smoke twisted. There
was indeed a roaring log fire in the reception and I went straight in to dinner, which had started without me.

  The five other candidates were there, with Steve Goldberg, one of the partners, and Bill Labouchere. Everyone, even I, was wearing American corporate casual clothes: chinos and designer button-down shirts. It was warm, the drink was flowing and we were all having a great time. You’ve met Bill; he can be charming when he wants to be and he knows how to relax people. He’s a Cajun, from Louisiana, you know, that’s where he gets that weird accent. His father has his own oil company and sent him to Yale and then Columbia, where he read Psychology. He only went into the oil business himself when his father’s company ran into trouble. He couldn’t save it, but he did learn how to do deals. He’s the expert at doing the deal. The thing to remember about Bill is that it’s impossible for you to read him, but he can read you like a book.

  It was a great dinner, exquisite food, wonderful Californian wines, Armagnac, cigars, we were all having a good time. I was sitting next to Manola Guzman. She’s a Colombian from the New York office, very smart, very poised, with dark flashing eyes, as sexy as hell. She speaks perfect American English with only the trace of a Latin accent. Her father is high up in the Colombian national oil company and she joined Labouchere out of Harvard Business School. She had a very good reputation, although people said that when she lost her temper she became quite scary. We hadn’t worked together much before, but she and I got on well that evening. I was enjoying myself. So was Bill, on her other side; the two of them were charming the pants off each other. He’s maybe sixty-two, but he’s quite handsome with his tanned face, black eyebrows and that shock of thick white hair. He had just ditched wife number three.

  Then Bill made his speech. It was only a short one; he basically said two things. Firstly, we would all receive a package of information to study overnight, a ‘case’. We would be divided into three teams of two and would role-play a takeover battle. This was bad news: I was shattered and now a little drunk, not at all in the mood for reading documents late into the night.

  Then came the second announcement. ‘You’ve all come a long way for this weekend,’ he said. ‘I would like to thank you for that. I know you are working on some very important transactions.’ We all tried to look important. ‘But I think it only fair to let you know who it is you have to beat. You all have a chance to make partnership, that’s why you are here, but one of you is in pole position.’

  Suddenly we were all sober. Bill let the moment rest. He had that frustrating, slightly amused look on his face that he wears when he’s playing with you. We glanced around the table. There had been much office gossip about who would be promoted, and frankly I considered myself the favourite, with Manola and a Canadian smooth-talker called Charlie Cameron close behind.

  ‘Harald Utnes,’ Bill said. There was an intake of breath around the table. Eyebrows were raised. I noticed Manola next to me give a little smile. Perhaps she was pleased that my name hadn’t been mentioned. I knew Harald well. We had worked together for a year in London before he moved to New York nine months before. He was a tall Norwegian, a very nice guy, a geologist, totally reliable, but in my opinion he lacked the killer instinct, the ability to close a deal. And in our business, it’s closing deals that makes the money.

  Deflated, we staggered outside and over to our cabins, clutching the sheaf of overnight reading. Scattered lights illuminated the path, but beyond them was the night, the stars, the snow, the millions of trees, the great American wilderness. Four of us peeled off in the same direction, Manola, Harald, Trent Dunston, an Ivy League jock from the New York office, with blue eyes, a turned-up nose, gleaming teeth and a scheming brain, and myself bringing up the rear. We were all a little drunk, but Trent was drunker than the rest of us.

  ‘Good night, Manola,’ he said. ‘Good night, Harald. Sleep well, both of you.’ His words were laced with innuendo.

  Manola stopped in her tracks. ‘Fuck off, Trent,’ she snapped, anger igniting in her voice. ‘If you can’t accept reality, that’s your problem, not ours.’

  Trent looked meaningfully at me and disappeared off to his cabin. Manola noticed my presence and looked confused. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Good night, Harald, Peter.’ And we all retired to our separate cabins. My interest piqued, I dawdled on the way to mine, just to make sure.

  My alarm went off at four, and I got stuck into the case. Two oil companies, one French and one American, were competing to buy drilling rights in the Peruvian rain forest. Harald and I were to play the role of the French company. It was fiendishly complicated. To the usual problems of reliability of reserves, valuation and negotiation strategy, were added an ethical minefield of officials to bribe, public-relations pitfalls and environmental risks.

  I was exhausted. My head throbbed and my eyes hurt, but at least I had the five-hour time difference on my side. At a quarter to six I noticed a tinge of grey around the edges of my curtains and decided to go for a half-hour run to clear my head.

  I set off down to the lake and ran for about a mile along the shore on a path beaten into the snow. The dawn crept pink over the mountains to the east, and I fell into a rhythm, my breath puffing in clouds in front of me like an ancient steam train. All was quiet around the lake, all was peaceful. The first half mile was bitterly cold, but once I warmed up the sharp air was invigorating. As I ran, it suddenly occurred to me that the case was a trap. The smart thing to do was not to bid for the Peruvian oilfield at all: it would cause more public relations headaches than it was worth. I grinned to myself, it was typical of the kind of test Bill Labouchere would set. Well, I would show him that I could step back and see the bigger picture.

  On my return journey I met Trent powering towards me: he had turned left along the lake shore where I had turned right. He slowed up so that we would meet, wished me a good morning and then pulled away. There was no doubt that he was fitter and stronger than me. And, competitive fool that I am, it pissed me off.

  As we ran past the main lodge I saw a grey four-wheel drive speeding down the dirt track towards us. I wondered vaguely who it was arriving so quickly at that time in the morning, but I was too wrapped up in the case to give it much thought. I had a shower in my cabin, and walked back to the lodge for breakfast, my brain buzzing with PR strategies to ambush my American competitors when they bid for the Peruvian oilfield.

  I knew something was wrong as soon as I walked into the dining room. The shock was palpable. The mountainous paraphernalia of an American breakfast buffet was untouched.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked Manola, who was standing, stunned, at the edge of the group, next to a large ham.

  ‘Harald has been killed.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘He was found by the lake, early this morning. He was murdered.’

  ‘No! Oh, my God.’ I looked at Manola. Her bottom lip was shaking: she bit it to keep it still. I touched her arm. ‘I’m sorry.’

  She took a deep breath and fought to compose herself. She succeeded. ‘Peter?’ she said quietly, looking ahead of her, blinking.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You may have guessed something about me and Harald, I don’t know, you may not have. But if you have, don’t tell anyone, please. I’ll do it, once I’ve figured out how.’

  I looked at her sharply. From Trent’s comments the night before and Manola’s response, I had guessed there was something going on between Harald and her. People abandoned their social life at companies like Labouchere, men and women spent long days, and nights, working together on deals; it was easier to begin a relationship inside the firm than outside it. That kind of thing was heavily frowned upon at Labouchere Associates. I had no doubt that if Bill found out about it, both of them would lose any chance of partnership. But someone had been killed, for God’s sake! Would Manola still try to salvage her partnership hopes in those circumstances?

  She returned my stare. Her dark eyes were moist. ‘Please,’ she mouthed.

  ‘Okay,’ I said
.

  The police had been called, including a detective from the nearest town. He didn’t waste much time before interviewing us all, in the manager’s office. I was first.

  The detective’s name was Sergeant O’Leary. He was a middle-aged man with a policeman’s moustache, wearing a brown suit, and I could see the rim of a black sweater under the collar of his white shirt. His tie was brown with grey stripes, right out of the seventies. He was businesslike, and asked pointed questions in a distinctive accent, New Hampshire, presumably. He asked me about my movements, about the details of my run that morning, and about what I knew of Harald and the other candidates. I told him what I could, although I missed out my suspicions about Harald and Manola. It was hard to concentrate on his questions. The reality of the murder hadn’t sunk into my exhausted, jet-lagged brain. Apparently Harald’s body had been found near the lake. His head had been bludgeoned with a rock.

  Something was nagging at my mind. As I left 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 few years ago, but it’s pretty unlikely 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. As you know, I never forget a face, or a name. But I couldn’t place him.

  We waited in stunned silence as everyone was interviewed. Manola disappeared to her room as soon as her interview was finished. Trent made an attempt at light-hearted comments to break the tension, but failed and disappeared too. Myself, Charlie Cameron the Canadian, and Phil Riviani, a balding, overweight analyst who had been with the Houston office for fifteen years, waited in silence. The case was forgotten. I tried to go for a walk by the lake, but a uniformed policeman barred my way.