‘I worry about Ninetyminutes,’ Mel went on. ‘If that blows up it’ll destroy him. Even if he drops me, at least I know I can help him with that.’
‘Last night you said you started to see him again just before Tony died?’
‘That’s right,’ she smiled. ‘It was the day before. Guy came round quite late. He’d been drinking. I have no illusions about why he came; he just wanted a shag. But afterwards. Afterwards he lay in my arms and we talked. He told me everything. All about his worries about what his father was going to do to Ninetyminutes, everything. I comforted him.’
‘Did he tell you about the gardener in France? About Tony finding out about it?’
‘Yes, yes he did.’ Mel looked at me, puzzled and a little put out. ‘He said he hadn’t told anyone else about that.’
‘He hadn’t,’ I said. ‘At least, not then. I found out from Patrick Hoyle later. I spoke to Guy about it a few months ago. He was worried about Owen, as usual.’
‘Tony was trying to persuade Guy to stay on at Ninetyminutes. Guy didn’t want to, of course — he didn’t want to be Tony’s gopher. But Tony was threatening to go to the French police about the gardener and Owen’s role in his death.’
‘He was going to expose his own son?’
‘Guy couldn’t believe it, either. He thought it was a bluff, but he couldn’t be sure. I think he was as upset that his father would do something like that to Owen as he was about being forced out of Ninetyminutes.’
‘So it was lucky Tony died when he did?’
‘Very lucky,’ Mel said firmly. ‘Guy was heading for self-destruction.’
‘You say Guy told you all this the night before Tony was killed?’
‘That’s right. But he came round here again the following night. You probably know he was here when it happened.’
‘Yes. Apparently a friend of yours was here as well?’
‘Anne Glazier. We were at uni together. She works for one of the big British law firms in Paris. She was just staying here for the night.’ Suddenly, something clicked in Mel’s brain. ‘Why are you asking all these questions?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I said casually. ‘I’m curious about what happened to Tony Jourdan, I suppose.’
‘You don’t think Guy had anything to do with it, do you?’ Mel’s eyes flashed with anger.
‘Oh, no, no, of course not,’ I said hurriedly. ‘I know he didn’t. I just don’t know who did, that’s all.’
‘Well, it’s best forgotten about, as far as I’m concerned. In fact I wish I could forget about Tony bloody Jourdan. I hated that man. I still do, even though he’s dead.’ The phone rang. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, and went to pick it up.
She turned towards me, her eyes alight. She carried on a short conversation with some yesses and noes, coolly delivered. Then she said: ‘Well, if you really want to come over, that’s all right... About half an hour?... I think I’ve got some food in the fridge. Do you want me to cook some dinner?... OK, see you soon.’
She put the phone down in triumph.
‘Guy?’ I asked.
She nodded.
‘I’d better be going.’
She smiled, a radiant smile, her misery banished. ‘I’ve got to go out to the shops and get some food for dinner. Thanks for coming, David. I’m sorry to burden you with all that, but it’s nice to talk to someone. You’re about the only other person who’s close enough to Guy to understand. Apart from Owen, of course, and I try to have as little to do with him as possible.’
‘Do you mind if I use your loo before I go?’
‘No, not at all. It’s down the hallway.’
As I returned I passed the open door of Mel’s bedroom. On the wall was a large frame holding a collage of photographs. There must have been twenty of them. Twenty cynical images of Guy, smoothing their way into a vulnerable woman’s bed.
‘Have a good evening,’ I said as I left. But despite Mel’s sudden change in spirits I hoped, for her sake, that she wouldn’t.
I went back to my flat, flopped into the sofa and turned on the TV. I was tired. Thoughts of Mel, Guy, Ninetyminutes, Tony and Owen tumbled over and over in my mind. I knew I should try to sort them all out, but my brain just wanted to shut down.
Eventually, I went to bed.
I kept my computer in my bedroom. I didn’t like it in the more public spaces of the flat, like the living room or the spare bedroom. Since I had joined Ninetyminutes, I had barely used it; I did most of my Ninetyminutes-related work on my laptop and I didn’t have time for much else. I probably hadn’t turned it on for two weeks. But, as I opened my bedroom door, I heard a low hum and saw a flickering glow.
Strange. I moved over to the small pine desk that supported it. Everything seemed as it should be, as I had left it. I grabbed the mouse and clicked to shut the machine down.
The hard drive whirred. A familiar animation flickered on the screen. A golfer. A golf club. My head with its idiotic corporate brochure smile. The impact. Blood, brains, that horrible squelching sound. It may have been crude, but it was so totally unexpected it shocked me. I leapt back from the keyboard and watched. The red gore slid down the screen to be replaced by shimmering orange letters.
I pulled the computer’s plug out of the socket. The image died, my bedroom returned to darkness.
Owen! In my flat! How the hell had he got in?
I turned on the light and scanned the room. Nothing was out of place. I checked the other rooms, all the windows, the front door. Nothing broken, nothing open, nothing moved, no sign of a forced entry.
I wondered whether he could somehow have planted his sick little program remotely, over the Internet. But that was impossible. The computer was switched on. That could only have been done by someone in the flat. Owen had wanted me to know that he had been there. Physically. In my room.
I glanced at the door to the flat. That was the only way in. The security at the front entrance of my block was pathetic: it would be easy to get in. But my door? He must have had a key. Instinctively, I pulled the key ring out of my pocket and checked that I still had mine. I did. He must have copied it. I could easily have left my keys unattended on my desk or in my jacket for a few minutes some time in the months we were working together. I shuddered. First thing on Monday morning I would change the lock. And I would never let the new key out of my trouser pocket again.
36
I dragged myself into work the next morning. I didn’t mind working on Saturdays, but I hated spending Sundays in the office. In Ninetyminutes’ current crisis there was no choice.
‘So what do we do?’ I asked Guy.
‘Get money from somebody else.’
‘Champion Starsat?’
‘Not bloody Champion Starsat.’
‘I know we won’t get a hundred and fifty million, or anything like it. But if we came out with a profit on our investment, that would be a result.’
‘No it wouldn’t. It would be a disaster. We’d lose our independence, they’d take control, it wouldn’t be our site any more.’
‘So what do you suggest?’
‘Did you try some other brokers?’
‘I spoke to a couple on Friday. My contact at Gurney Kroheim thinks there’s no chance of anyone taking us up in the current market, especially if Bloomfield Weiss drop us.’
‘Make some more calls tomorrow.’
I sighed. ‘OK. I take it Orchestra won’t change their mind?’
‘No. Derek Silverman’s been on to them, but they’re adamant.’
‘Then we’ll have to cut back.’
‘No.’
‘We have to, Guy! If we follow our current spending plans we’ll be out of cash in three weeks. If we’re tough enough we can make our cash last through the summer.’