There was one. From ‘A concerned friend’. The subject line was ‘I told you once’.
The message read:
Chris
I warned you in New York, and I’m warning you again. Stop asking questions about Alex. Forget him. Otherwise it is not just you who will die. So will Megan.
Chris stared at the message open mouthed. It was too early in the morning to take it in. He checked the address of the sender: a chain of Internet cafés he had vaguely heard of.
The phone rang. He picked it up.
‘Chris! Chris, it’s Megan!’ She sounded close to hysteria.
‘Did you get one too?’ Chris asked.
‘One what? I’ve just woken up. I rolled over, and on my pillow was... God, it was horrible.’ She sobbed.
‘Was what? Slow down, Megan. It’s OK. Slow down.’
‘A knife, Chris. A great big long knife. With blood on it. There was blood all over my pillow. It’s horrible.’
She broke off into wild sobs.
‘Oh, no, Megan! Are you hurt?’
‘No,’ she sniffed. ‘Someone must have broken in and done this inches from my face, while I was asleep. I didn’t hear a thing.’
‘Thank God they didn’t harm you. It must have been terrifying.’
‘It was. It truly was. But who would do this? And why?’
‘They were trying to scare you. And me.’
‘Well, they succeeded,’ said Megan. ‘I’ve never been so scared in all my life.’
‘I’m sure.’ Chris said. He wished he could hold her, comfort her, try to make her feel better. Then he felt the guilt creep over him. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Sorry? There’s nothing for you to feel sorry about.’
Chris swallowed. ‘I got an e-mail this morning.’ He read it off the computer screen in front of him. ‘And I got a warning myself when I was in New York. Someone pulled a knife on me and wrote in blood all over the mirror in my hotel bedroom.’
‘Jesus, why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I didn’t want to frighten you,’ said Chris. ‘I thought you might try to talk me out of going to see Marcus. I didn’t think that you were in danger as well.’
‘Well, next time someone tries to kill you, let me know, OK?’ Megan sounded angry. As well she might.
‘OK, OK. I’m sorry.’
Megan was silent on the phone for a while. ‘They are serious, aren’t they?’ she said at last.
‘Yes.’
‘Do you think it could have been Ian?’
‘Possibly. Perhaps he went to Cambridge instead of Paris. But it definitely wasn’t Ian who attacked me in New York. If he is behind it, he must be working with somebody else.’
‘What shall we do?’
‘You can tell the college authorities, if you want. They’ll contact the police. I’m not sure it’ll do much good: I haven’t heard anything from the New York cops since I told them what happened to me. But I can’t make you hush it up.’
Megan sighed. ‘There’s no point. It would hardly go down well with the college. And whoever did this must be a professional. It’s unlikely the police will catch him. I’ll put the pillowcase and the knife in a plastic bag and throw them away.’
‘Keep the knife. We might need it for evidence later.’
‘Oh, God. OK.’
They were silent for a moment.
‘Chris?’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m scared.’
‘I know. So am I.’
‘I think maybe this is getting out of hand.’
Chris didn’t answer for a moment. He had decided to take risks on his own behalf. But he couldn’t risk Megan’s life as well.
‘Maybe it is,’ he said. ‘I’ll lie low for a bit. Not ask any more questions. Keep quiet.’
‘I’m sorry, Chris. I think you should.’
‘You must be feeling terrible. I hate the idea of you being alone up there. Can I come up and see you today?’
‘That would be great if you could. I was planning to spend most of the day in the library, but if you came up this evening, I’d love to see you.’
‘I’ll be there,’ said Chris.
‘Thanks,’ said Megan. ‘Now I’d better go clean up this mess.’
Ian looked around him at the ostentation of the dining room of the George V. Normally he would have relished a breakfast meeting in these ornate surroundings, playing the international investment banker with like-minded people. But not that morning. What he craved was a strong cup of coffee and a ciggy in a corner café. Of course, with Eric, there was no chance of that.
He had been skulking in Paris for nearly a day, now. It had started to rain from the moment his taxi had hit the Périphérique, and it had continued to rain all night. It took him an age to find a hotel room at short notice on a Saturday night, and he spent much of the day avoiding boisterous men in red jerseys there to cheer on their country in a rugby match. Finally he found a scruffy hotel near the Gare du Nord, dumped his bags, walked around in the rain for a bit, and then went to see a bad American film dubbed into French at a cinema on the Champs-Élysées.
He felt foul. He had overdone the drink the night before. And the coke. It had made him feel better for a bit. But now he felt like shit. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it. Ah, that tasted good.
‘Ian, good to see you.’
Ian had missed Eric’s entrance. He looked disgustingly bright and cheerful with his gleaming white shirt, and his tie tied so tightly that it seemed to leap straight forward out of his neck. Ian had an urge to pull it, but instead he just grunted, ignoring Eric’s outstretched hand. Despite the surroundings, this wasn’t a business meeting, and he didn’t feel like pretending it was.
‘Plane was half an hour late into Charles de Gaulle. But there was no traffic coming into the city. Have you ordered?’
Ian shook his head. Eric caught a hovering waiter’s eye and ordered croissants and some coffee.
‘How are you?’ Eric asked.
‘Shit,’ Ian answered, and sniffed.
‘You don’t look too good.’ Eric stared at him closely. Ian flinched. ‘Are you on something?’
‘I was,’ he answered, deciding he had no need to lie for Eric’s benefit.
‘Is that wise? I think we all need clear heads at the moment.’
‘What do you mean, is that wise?’ Ian snapped. ‘I’ll do what I bloody well like. I seem to remember you did enough of that stuff in the past. That’s what got us into this mess in the first place.’
‘That was a long time ago. I haven’t touched anything for ten years,’ said Eric.
‘Well, aren’t you the little saint?’ Ian said. ‘I haven’t killed anyone for ten years. In fact, I’ve never killed anyone.’
‘Keep your voice down,’ said Eric calmly, with a smile.
‘What the hell did you have to get Lenka killed for, anyway?’ Ian said, more quietly this time.
‘I had no choice. She was going to talk. First to Marcus Lubron, then to other people. You knew Lenka. There was only one way to shut her up.’
‘But now Chris is on the trail. And your old girlfriend, Megan. And then Duncan. The whole thing’s out of control.’
‘Not quite,’ said Eric calmly. ‘I’m working on getting it back under control. And remember, if you hadn’t told Lenka about Alex, none of this would have happened.’
Ian sighed. His head throbbed. He closed his eyes. Eric was right. He remembered the night when he had opened this whole can of worms. It was very late, at Lenka’s flat. They had just had sex. Great sex. Lenka was talking about how she had met Marcus that day. Ian was a little tired, a little high; his brain wasn’t working quite right. He had smiled and said it was funny that it wasn’t even Duncan’s fault that Alex had died. Lenka was suddenly wide awake. She wanted to know what he was talking about. Ian tried to deny that he had meant anything, but she knew he had. She pressed him hard, assaulting him with a barrage of questions. His resistance quickly broke down. He had wanted to tell someone for years, and Lenka suddenly seemed the right person. So he told her he had seen Eric drown Alex. It turned out Lenka was not the right person at all. She exploded. Within ten minutes, Ian found himself outside in the Old Brompton Road looking for a cab.