‘I went out for a drink with Owen.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘The Elephant’s Head in Camden,’ he muttered, his impatience showing. ‘Near his place.’
‘What time did you leave?’
‘What is this?’ Guy protested. ‘I told the police all this. They checked out my story. Don’t you trust me?’
‘I want to trust you. But I can’t get Tony’s death out of my mind. I need to know who was responsible.’
‘Don’t you think I want to know too? He was my father.’
‘If I can start off by eliminating you it’ll make me feel much better.’
Guy scowled. ‘All right. I’ll tell you what I told the police. And what they checked out. Owen and I went to the pub about seven o’clock. We left about nine. I was already half-pissed, but Owen hadn’t had much. He went back to his flat. I went on to Hydra, you know, that bar in Hatton Garden? I came home about eleven.’
‘And your father was killed at nine twenty-five, wasn’t he?’ I said, remembering my interviews with Sergeant Spedding.
‘Something like that.’
Owen and Guy had left the pub at about nine. Just time to get to Knightsbridge if one of them hurried. It was such an obvious point, I didn’t need to make it.
‘Before you say anything,’ Guy said, ‘the police checked out the Elephant’s Head and Hydra.’
‘What about Owen?’
‘He stopped off at a Europa to buy some food on the way home. The CCTV got him. Timed at nine twenty-one. Can’t get better than that.’
You couldn’t.
‘Anyway,’ Guy went on. ‘What about the man you saw in the car? The private detective. He has to be a better suspect than me, doesn’t he?’
I nodded. ‘That’s true.’
‘Any more questions?’ Guy asked.
I had gone this far. I may as well go the whole way. ‘Yes. I was thinking about what happened to Dominique and the gardener.’
Guy looked angry again. ‘Why? What’s that got to do with anything? That was years ago, for God’s sake!’
‘I was talking to Patrick Hoyle about it. He’s convinced your father didn’t kill Dominique. And he told me how Abdulatif tried to blackmail you about paying him off.’
‘I don’t know who killed Dominique! Nor do I care. It was twelve years ago. And as for that bloody gardener, it’s true he tried to blackmail us. But I’ve already told you we paid him off.’
‘You didn’t tell me about the blackmail.’
‘No. Because it wasn’t important. Anyway, he was blackmailing Hoyle, not me. So what are you saying here, Davo?’ Guy’s voice was laced with scorn. ‘I killed all three of them? Because if you are, you can just sod off out of here.’
‘No, no,’ I said. ‘I was just wondering whether there was any connection between what happened in France and what happened to Tony. Perhaps I should mention it to the police.’
‘For God’s sake, don’t do that. It’ll open up a whole can of worms. This thing is bad enough as it is.’ Guy got a grip on his anger. ‘Look, I’m sorry, Davo. It’s hard not to get worked up when a friend doubts you. You’re a mate. A good mate. You were with me in France. You’ve been with me this last six months. You should know I don’t wander around killing people.’
‘I know I should,’ I said. ‘But...’
‘But what?’
The truth was, I didn’t know what. There was circumstantial evidence against him, so some suspicion was natural. But he was my friend. He did have a comprehensive alibi that the police had investigated thoroughly. It was Patrick Hoyle’s doubts against Guy’s word.
I considered asking him about the footprint, but I knew that he would only say what he had always said: that he had gone to relieve himself in the bushes. More than ten years on I wouldn’t be able to get him to change that story, even though I knew it was wrong.
I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry. You’re absolutely right. But I had to ask those questions just to clear things up in my head. And you’ve answered them. I ought to go.’
‘No. Have another beer,’ Guy said. He dug a couple out of the fridge and handed one to me with a smile of friendship. My suspicions were forgiven. ‘Now, how are we going to get a Munich office off the ground in three months?’
We chatted amicably about Ninetyminutes for an hour or so. But as I sat in a taxi making its way west towards my flat, I realized that although Guy had made me feel better, I still wasn’t one hundred per cent sure of his innocence. The question was whether I could live with ninety per cent.
The following afternoon I had a meeting with the people who were going to administer the credit-card payments once customers started buying from us on-line. We had chosen this particular company because they had assured us that the process would be straightforward. It wasn’t. It was one of those meetings where more problems emerged than were solved. Frustrated, I returned to the office. I turned on my computer and checked my e-mails. There was one from Owen. I opened it, preparing myself for an obscure techie rant.
You’ve been asking questions about Guy, haven’t you? About Dominique and our father.
I looked up sharply to where he was hunched over his machine only a few feet away. Jerk. I hit Reply.
So? If you have a problem with that, come over and talk to me. Better still, tell me what really happened.
I glanced up. Owen’s fingers were flying over the keyboard. Whether he had read my response or not, I couldn’t tell.
Forget it. Forget Dominique. Forget our father. See attached.
I opened the file attached to the e-mail. My computer whirred and ground, then an animation appeared of a man about to take a swing at a golf ball. Except the golf ball was a head. The image zoomed in on the face. It was mine, taken from a photograph on the corporate section of the website.
The club was a driver, a wood. It swung back, then sliced down, making contact with my head, exploding it in a mess of blood and brains, to the amplified sound of cracking eggs. Despite myself, I flinched. It was only an animation, but it made me feel sick. I glowered over at Owen, who refused to meet my eye.
I looked back at the screen that was now displaying the message:
A Fatal Error has occurred. Press CTRL+ALT+DEL to restart your computer. You will lose any unsaved information in all applications.
I swore, did as I was bid and drummed my fingers for a full minute while my machine ground and beeped itself to life again. I opened my e-mail program and typed furiously.
That wasn’t funny.
The reply came back in a moment.
It wasn’t meant to be.
I closed down my e-mail in disgust. What a sicko. What a twisted deviant.
When I left the office that evening, Owen was still working. I stopped at his desk. He ignored me. Sanjay, sitting next to him, gave me a nervous smile.
I bent down. ‘I’ll ask as many questions as I like,’ I whispered.
Owen paused for a moment. His screen was full of code. Then he began fiddling with his mouse.
‘No more threats,’ I said. ‘No more funny little e-mails. Let’s just stay away from each other.’
Owen looked up at me. His black eyes seemed to pierce right into me. Then he turned back to his screen.
I stretched my foot under his desk and flicked a switch with my toe. His screen went blank. All his work lost.
‘What the fuck?’ he muttered.
‘Whoops,’ I said and left him to it.
Owen’s threats just made me more determined to ask questions. The next day Mel and I were at my desk working on how we could secure the Ninetyminutes domain name in Spain and Italy. Guy was in Munich, talking to someone we might hire to start a German office. There was no one else within earshot. Mel was gathering her papers together to leave when I stopped her.