Final Venture

Zoe looked at her husband and turned to Simon. 'Carl's right. I don't want to lose any more of my marbles.' She smiled faintly at her own joke. 'But you will let us know if you discover anything more, won't you?'

I promised I would, and left.

27

I walked home that evening. It was clear, cold and windy. I buttoned up my jacket and hunched my shoulders. Everyone else I passed was wearing a coat. I had held out that morning, but it would be an overcoat from now until the spring. That seemed a long way away.

I wondered whether I would be walking through the Common next spring, or whether I would be sitting it out in jail somewhere, waiting for my trial. And would Lisa be waiting with me, or would she still be thousands of miles away in California, settling in to her new life?

She had said there was something rotten in BioOne. But what was it? And how could I find it?

Deep in thought, I turned off Charles Street into the warren of little tree-lined roads that make up the 'flat' of Beacon Hill. I turned the corner on to my short street. It was quiet. My apartment would be empty. I remembered the sensation of anticipation I used to feel coming home, the hope that Lisa might have arrived before me, the warmth of an evening together which would melt away the aggravations of ten hours at the office.

No longer.

I slowed to reach for my keys in my trouser pocket. I fumbled and dropped them. I bent down to pick them up.

At that moment, I heard a crack, crack, crack to my right, and the thud of brickwork shattering above my head. The fragments of brick spattered my face. I spun round and threw myself to the ground behind a parked four-wheel drive. More cracks of an automatic rifle, and the sound of bullets smashing into the metal of the car, and shattering the glass.

I crawled under the car, my body pressed down hard against the cold tarmac. My face stung hot. Silence. If the gunman ran from his hiding place to finish me off, I would have no chance. I strained my ears, trying to listen over the loud thumping of my heart. Then I heard the sound of rapid light footsteps on the other side of the road. Damn.

I pulled myself to my feet and, crouching low, dashed up the street behind the parked cars. An engine roared into life a few yards up the road. A burst of gunfire shattered windows above me. Close. Very close.

The car accelerated down the road. I heard shots, pistol shots. The sound of brakes, car doors slamming, people running. I stopped and peered out from behind a parked motorcycle, and saw a car in the middle of the road, doors wide open.

Sirens blared from all directions, and within a minute the road was a mess of flashing lights and burly blue uniforms. A young man in jeans and a casual black jacket ran up to me, fighting for breath.

Are you OK?'

I recognized him as the Hispanic I had seen following me through the Common a couple of weeks before.

I stood up. 'Yes,' I said. 'I think so.'

My face felt warm and wet. I touched it with my fingertips. Blood.

Are you hit?'

I shook my head. 'Just masonry. Thank you.' I managed a smile.

'No problem. Looks like the guy got away. He was a pro, you were lucky.'

I had been. Just like I had been that day in Armagh when a bullet had blown away Binns's face instead of mine. At least this time no one was hurt.

My hands were trembling so much it was difficult to pick up the keys I had dropped. I stood upright and took a few deep breaths to try to slow my racing heart. I let myself into my apartment and poured myself a stiff whisky, offering one to my saviour, who of course refused it.

His name was Martinez. He asked me some basic questions about whether I saw anything or knew who might have been shooting at me, but it was more for form's sake than anything else. A parade of people came and went, Cole, Mahoney's Boston partner, a paramedic who cleared up my scratched face, and some others. Eventually Mahoney himself arrived.

'So, you were shot at?' he began brightly.

'I believe that's what happened,' I replied.

'Lucky we had some people watching you.'

'I didn't know I had my own personal bodyguard. How long has this been going on for?'

'Oh, three weeks or so. On and off. More off than on, really. It's expensive tailing people.'

'Well, I'm glad you had the spare cash this evening'

Mahoney sat down. Martinez had whipped out a notebook. 'Any idea who it was?'

'Your friend here said it was a professional. I don't know any professional killers. For that matter I don't know anyone who owns an automatic rifle.' Except for Art Altschule, I thought suddenly as I spoke.

Mahoney noticed my hesitation. 'What is it?'

I told him about Art's interest in guns.

'We'll check that out,' he said. 'Is there anything else we should know about Mr Altschule?'

'No, not really. He doesn't like me.'

Mahoney raised his eyebrows. 'Why not?'

'I've been asking awkward questions.'

About?'

'BioOne.'

'BioOne, eh?' Mahoney looked at me closely. 'The deal John Chalfont wanted to talk to you about.'

'That's right.'

'And what's the problem with BioOne?'

'I don't know. That's why I was asking Art. Don't you know?'

Mahoney's questioning was irritating me. I had just been shot at, my nerves were frayed, and although he was asking the right questions, I still felt he was trying to figure out how I could be responsible for shooting myself.

'We've been making inquiries,' Mahoney said stiffly. 'Assuming we're talking about a contract killer here,' he went on, 'who else do you think might have hired him?'

'I don't know. The person who killed Frank and John, maybe?'

'But that was someone who knew them. They were both shot in the back with handguns. This is a totally different MO.'

I shrugged. I was feeling tired. 'You're the detective. I'm just the poor bugger getting shot at.'

Aren't you used to it by now?' Mahoney was watching me with that annoying half-smile.

He was referring to my time in Northern Ireland, I assumed. I felt a flare of anger, but I controlled it. I stared at him.

Mahoney stood up. 'We'll no doubt be talking again,' he said as he left the apartment. Martinez threw me a worried look and followed him.

It was hard to sleep that night. When I did drop off, it was into the graffiti-strewn streets of West Belfast. In reality, my tour of duty had been nerve-jangling anticipation for the shot that almost never came, then complacency, and finally the death of Lance Corporal of Horse Binns. In my dream, the streets were wider, with no cover, and I knew for certain that a sniper was lying in wait for me in a lone house fifty yards ahead. I had to walk on, my feet growing heavier and heavier, towards the house. I couldn't turn and run, but my steps became slower and slower until I wished I'd reach the house and get it over with.

Then I started awake. My mind turned somersaults along the blurred line between sleep and wakefulness. Time blurred as well, as minutes became hours and the night seemed to last for ever. Eventually I fell back to sleep and that never-ending road. This process repeated itself, until I gave up at five thirty, and crawled out of bed, my brain muzzy and tired. I checked the living-room window. There was a blue car parked right in front of the house, and one of the two men in it was alert enough to have noticed the movement in the curtains. I waved to him, and he nodded back. Mahoney had been good enough to leave me under surveillance, at least for the night.

I was in trouble. Someone wanted to kill me. Someone with the wherewithal and the contacts to hire a man with an automatic rifle. They would try again. I might well be dead within a week.

I hoped Mahoney would check out BioOne. Although he hated me, and would love to hold me responsible for my own murder, he wasn't stupid. But I couldn't rely on him to clear this up before a bullet hit me in the skull. With a shudder I remembered again the damage that could do.