Thank God, thought Chris. ‘I wonder if you could tell me something about the psychometric testing programme?’ he asked.
Calhoun seemed surprised at the change of tack. But he answered the question. ‘It was very successful. Psychometric tests are often used to measure what kind of a team player someone is, leadership, that kind of thing. I realized that wasn’t really what Bloomfield Weiss wanted. Sure, we said we did, just like every other corporation in America, but we were just kidding ourselves. We wanted winners. People who were determined to come out on top, no matter what the cost. It’s not like we used the psychometric tests alone to hire people, but they were a useful pointer.’
‘Didn’t they show up some people as borderline psychotic?’
‘No. I mean not really. Everyone has psychological problems. You could argue that the truly successful have them more than most. Most driven people are driven by something, if you see what I mean. And that something may be ugly. But we weren’t interested in their personal problems. We just cared about how they performed at work.’
‘What about Steve Matzley?’
‘A case in point. He did an excellent job for us before he moved on.’
‘But then he raped someone?’
Calhoun’s eyes flared up. ‘That’s not my fault! That’s his responsibility.’
‘Didn’t the psychological assessment point out a high risk?’
‘Who told you that?’ Calhoun snapped.
Chris shrugged. ‘It’s just a rumour.’
Calhoun sighed. ‘If you read the report with hindsight, it is just possible that you could have identified pointers to what happened. But you can do that with anything with hindsight.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Chris, trying to sound sympathetic. He didn’t want to alienate Calhoun. He still had more he wanted to find out from him. ‘Were there any others who had similar concerns raised in their reports?’
‘I really don’t remember,’ said Calhoun.
‘People on the boat the night Alex was killed? Alex himself, perhaps?’
Calhoun glared at Chris. ‘I told you, I don’t remember.’
‘After Alex died, you checked the files, didn’t you?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘What do you mean, you have no idea? We’re not talking about some routine personnel matter, here. This was a big deal. You must remember whether you did check the files or you didn’t.’
‘I don’t remember,’ Calhoun growled through gritted teeth. ‘And if I did remember, I wouldn’t tell you. Those files are personal and very confidential.’
Chris was sure that there was something in those reports that had been of great interest to George Calhoun. He was equally sure Calhoun wouldn’t tell him. There was no point in pushing it.
‘OK, I understand,’ he said. ‘What about the psychologists who did the tests? Wasn’t there one who was unhappy about it?’
Calhoun snorted. ‘Marcia Horwath. I remember her. She was the one who persuaded the firm to drop the programme.’
‘Did she test Steve Matzley?’
‘She did.’
‘And anyone else she was worried about?’
‘Possibly. I really don’t remember.’
Chris realized that he had got as far as he was going to go. ‘Thank you very much, Mr Calhoun.’
‘So you’re not going to tell me what really happened?’ asked Calhoun with a leer.
‘I already have.’ Somehow, Chris had no difficulties lying to him.
‘Come on. All these questions about whether any of your friends on the boat were psychos. Something must have happened.’
‘Alex Lubron fell in the water and drowned,’ said Chris.
‘OK,’ said Calhoun. ‘Have it your way.’
Chris got up to go. Then he paused. ‘When I came in, you said “another one”. Has someone else been asking about Alex?’
‘Yes. His brother. Or at least he said he was his brother.’
‘Marcus Lubron. Tall thin guy?’
‘That’s him. Scruffy. Probably hadn’t had a bath in a week. He was on some kind of mission to discover the truth about his brother’s death.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘Not much. A guy like that, you know.’ He wrinkled his nose in something close to a sneer.
‘He didn’t give you an address or anything?’
‘No. I don’t think he liked me much, either. But his car had Vermont plates.’
‘Vermont plates? Thank you.’ That might make finding him easier. ‘Well goodbye, George,’ Chris said, extending his hand. Calhoun shook it. Once he had left the house and was walking down the drive, Chris wiped his hand on his trousers. He hoped George Calhoun never got another job.
Terry drove Chris back to the city and dropped him off at a bland business hotel midtown. After Chris had checked in, he powered up his laptop, logged on to the Internet and started to look for Marcus Lubron.
It wasn’t quite as easy as he had hoped. There wasn’t a Marcus Lubron listed in the phone records anywhere in America. There were two M. Lubrons, one in Washington State, and one in Texas. Chris called them. A Matthew and a Mike. Marcus must be ex-directory.
He looked up ‘Lubron’ on one of the search engines, and discovered that it was the name of an anti-creasing solution for textiles. More promisingly, there was a mention of furniture made by a Marcus Lubron in the apartment of a wealthy Manhattan family named Farmiloe. Theirs was an easier number to find. Mrs Farmiloe was delighted that Chris had read about her apartment, but hadn’t dealt with Marcus Lubron directly, although she knew he came from Vermont. She gave Chris the number of her interior designer, who was uncooperative at first, but, when Chris convinced her that he was an old friend from England desperate to catch up with Marcus after ten years, she relented and gave him the name and address. Chris looked it up on a map. Marcus lived in a small town in the mountains in the middle of nowhere, Vermont.
He decided not to call him. The chances of Marcus talking to him on the phone, or agreeing to meet him, were slim, and there was no point in alerting him that Chris was looking for him. Much better to surprise him. So, Chris called a travel agent, and booked a seat on a plane to Burlington the next day.
It was much easier to locate Dr Marcia Horwath. She had an office on the West Side, and said she could spare Chris fifteen minutes at a quarter to nine the next morning. Pleased that he finally seemed to be making some progress, he took a taxi to Penn Station and a train to Princeton.
Melville Capital took up the first floor of a neatly painted wooden building that looked more like a house than an office block, the ground floor of which was occupied by an upmarket stockbroker. Chris arrived at a couple of minutes before four, and was ushered by an overweight middle-aged woman into Dr Zizka’s office. Large and airy with a couple of comfortable sofas, pleasant prints of college buildings on the walls, shelves stuffed with books and academic journals, and only one computer in the whole room, it seemed a very pleasant place to spend the day untroubled by the turmoil of the markets. The late afternoon sunshine streamed through the window, gleaming softly off the polished wood of the desk, and the bald head of the man sitting behind it reading a journal of some kind through half-moon glasses.
It was a few seconds before the man put his text to one side and looked up. He smiled, leapt to his feet, and scurried round the desk, extending his hand. ‘I’m Martin Zizka.’
‘Chris Szczypiorski.’
‘Come, come. Sit down,’ Zizka said, indicating one of the sofas. He was a small man in his fifties, with bright blue eyes twinkling out of a round face. ‘I’m very sorry we only have thirty minutes, but it’s been crazy round here,’ he said, waving vaguely at his serene office.