‘I don’t believe it,’ said Ollie for the umpteenth time. ‘I just don’t believe it.’
Chris leaned back in his chair and smiled. He glanced over at Lenka’s desk. She would be pleased with them, wherever she was.
‘Ollie?’
‘Yes?’
‘Move your stuff over there, will you?’
‘What, now?’
‘No, not now. Tomorrow morning. I’m going to buy you and Tina a bottle of champagne now.’
Marcus sat in his truck sipping Royann’s coffee. He watched the occasional car pull up into the parking lot. He recognized most of the customers. Even the ones he didn’t recognise he knew weren’t Eric Astle.
Eric had called him from Burlington Airport. That was better than the other guy, who had just shown up unannounced. Marcus had refused to meet him at his house. He had suggested Royann’s Diner at three fifteen. He had been very specific about the three fifteen, even though it meant that Eric would have to wait a couple of hours. At three fifteen, Carl always dropped by for a cup of coffee and a doughnut. Regular as clockwork. And Marcus wanted Carl there when he met Eric.
At three ten, a bland car with Vermont plates drew up. A man wearing a businessman’s tan raincoat climbed out, looked around and trod carefully through the snow and slush to the entrance of the diner. He paused, checked the parking lot again, and went inside. He was a few years younger than Marcus: about the age Alex would have been if he were still alive. Eric. Marcus waited and watched, fingering the hunting rifle on the seat beside him. But Eric was alone.
Five minutes later, the white police cruiser arrived. Marcus smiled to himself and jumped out of the truck. ‘Hi there, Carl,’ he called to the scrawny policeman as he got out of his vehicle.
‘How’re you doin’, Marcus?’ replied the policeman. Marcus was sure that Carl didn’t really trust him, but having lived in the area for nine years, he was confident he rated a greeting. And if he got into an argument with an out-of-towner, he was quite sure whose side Carl would be on.
Eric was sitting at a booth at the back of the diner, a crisp suit surrounded by jeans, dungarees and grimy T-shirts. He glanced up as Marcus walked in and seemed to recognize him, bringing home to Marcus how much like his younger brother he must look, even after ten years. Marcus sat at a booth near the counter, within a few feet of Carl’s favourite spot, but just out of earshot. He caught Eric’s eye and nodded. Eric picked up his cup of coffee and joined him, just as Carl took his place at the counter. Carl ordered a doughnut and a cup of coffee, and began his daily chat with Royann, who knew how to flirt with a regular. As far as Marcus could tell, Carl spent his day eating his way around the county, yet he never seemed to put on an ounce of fat.
Eric’s eyes darted between the policeman and Marcus and he smiled. ‘That’s fair.’
Marcus didn’t smile back.
Eric held out his hand. ‘Eric Astle.’
Marcus didn’t shake it. ‘What do you want?’
‘To talk to you.’
‘So talk.’
Marcus was doing his best to unsettle Eric, but it wasn’t working. Eric seemed unconcerned by Marcus’s rudeness.
‘OK,’ he said. And then sipped his coffee, looking steadily at Marcus.
‘I said, talk!’
‘I want to talk to you about your brother.’
‘I figured as much.’
‘He was a friend of mine.’
‘Sure. Just like he was a friend of that other guy’s. That Brit. Well, if you were all so damned friendly with him, how come he’s dead?’
Eric ignored him, and continued in a low, steady voice. ‘As I say, he was a friend of mine. We met in our first week at Bloomfield Weiss. We got on straight away; we had a different attitude from most of the others. We were both looking for apartments. He found one, he needed someone to share it with, he asked me, I said yes.’
‘You were his room mate?’
‘Yes. As I said, he and I got along real well. We had a ball. Two single guys can have a lot of fun in Manhattan.’
The waitress came by, and Marcus curtly ordered a coffee. Eric waited until she had gone off to fetch it before he continued. ‘I was devastated when he was drowned. I did what I could to help his mom organize the funeral and everything; she was too sick to do it by herself. I spent quite a lot of time with his mom, your mom, afterwards. But as you know, once he was gone, she lost her will to fight.’
‘I know,’ said Marcus, swallowing. Of course, he didn’t really know. He hadn’t been there. He had been thousands of miles away.
‘I only knew your brother for nine months or so, but he made a big impression. He was different from the others. He had a great sense of humour. I’ve tried to remember the way he never took anything that happened at Bloomfield Weiss too seriously. When everyone is uptight and the crap is flying, I sometimes try to think what Alex would do. It kind of keeps me human.’
Marcus was watching Eric all the time as he spoke. He seemed calm, almost wistful. Not nearly as uptight as the Brit had been.
‘I saw some of his paintings: they were really good. I kept one after he died. Your mom said it would be OK. He was wasting his talent in an investment bank.’
Marcus held his tongue. He didn’t want Eric to see that he was getting through to him. But he was. This was the kind of thing Marcus had wanted someone apart from himself to say about his brother ever since he had died. Until now, no one had.
Eric sipped at his coffee.
‘Go on,’ said Marcus eventually.
‘I thought what had happened to Alex was all in the past. But over the last few weeks, I’ve realized that it isn’t. It all started soon after you tried to see me in New York. I’m sorry I didn’t meet with you then, by the way. I was busy on deals, and I guess... No, it doesn’t matter.’
‘You guess what?’
Eric looked Marcus straight in the eye. ‘I guess I was still mad at you because you weren’t there when Alex died. Nor his mother.’
Marcus felt a flash of anger. Who was this guy to criticize him? But Eric held up his hand in a calming gesture. ‘I’m sorry. I know that’s unfair. Especially since I now know how much you’ve been doing to find out what really happened to him.’
Marcus grunted. At least the guy understood that he was trying to do something now. But he was still suspicious of Eric. He was, after all, an investment banker in a suit.
The investment banker continued in his slow, reasonable voice. ‘As I think you know, Alex’s death wasn’t straightforward. It wasn’t an accident. Someone drowned him. And then someone killed Lenka, whom I think you’ve met. And last night, someone else was murdered. In Paris.’
‘Someone else?’
Eric nodded. He pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and passed it to Marcus. It was the printout of a Reuters report that Ian Darwent, a thirty-two-year-old British investment banker, had been found stabbed in the streets of Paris the night before.
Marcus hadn’t met Ian, but of course he knew who he was. ‘Do you know who did this?’
‘I think so. And I do know who killed your brother.’
Marcus could feel his heart beating faster. He was about to find out what had been eluding him for so long.
‘Who?’
‘Duncan Gemmel.’
‘Duncan Gemmel?’ Marcus snapped in irritation. ‘I know it wasn’t him. Lenka told me. Someone drowned Alex after Duncan had knocked him into the sea.’