‘Yes,’ said Chris flatly.
‘What is it? You don’t sound convinced. You do think it was him who killed her?’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘But you’re not absolutely sure?’
‘No. Are you?’
‘I don’t see how we can be. We’ll just have to wait and see what the police dig up.’
‘Megan?’
‘Yes?’
‘Can I come up and see you tonight? In Cambridge?’
Megan hesitated. ‘Of course. That would be great.’
‘See you, then,’ said Chris. But he was anxious as he put down the phone. He had caught the hesitation in Megan’s voice when he had asked to come and see her, and he didn’t like it. And they couldn’t be sure about Ian.
He thought of calling Duncan. There wasn’t much point; he was almost certainly in Paris, very probably in a police cell. But he picked up the phone and tapped out the number of Honshu Bank. To Chris’s surprise, he heard Duncan’s soft Scottish accent answer.
‘Duncan! I didn’t think you’d be there!’
‘Why not?’ Duncan said. ‘It’s Tuesday morning. It’s ten o’clock. Where else would I be? Did you sort out something with RBK?’
‘Yes, I did. Look, I need to talk to you.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Not on the phone,’ Chris hissed. Honshu Bank’s phones were recorded, of course, just like Bloomfield Weiss’s.
Duncan lowered his voice, serious suddenly. ‘Is it about Ian?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK. I’ve got to go into a meeting now. I’ll be out about half twelve. We can meet then.’
‘Duncan! This is important!’
‘I’m sorry, Chris. I can’t get out of this one.’
‘OK. See you outside your office at twelve thirty.’
5
Honshu Bank’s offices were in Finsbury Square at the northern edge of the City. Duncan was five minutes late.
‘Where are we going?’ he asked.
‘For a walk,’ said Chris, leading him out of the building.
‘But it’s freezing,’ said Duncan shivering. And it was. A cold wind swept across the square. ‘I haven’t got my coat.’
‘That’s your problem,’ said Chris, walking rapidly up City Road.
After a hundred yards or so, they came to Bunhill Fields, an old burial ground for the City of London. They passed inside the green-painted iron gates and along a pathway through tightly packed gravestones covered with moss and lichen, the inscriptions on most of them now unreadable. There was a group of benches in the middle, and Chris sat on one of them. In front of him lay John Bunyan, resting on a white stone slab, feet towards them.
‘Why here?’ said Duncan. ‘I’m cold.’
‘It’s quiet,’ said Chris. On a fine day it would be crowded with office workers enjoying their lunch. But in this March wind, they were all alone with the gravestones.
‘What’s up with you?’ Duncan asked, shoving his hands deep in his pockets.
‘Ian.’
‘I thought I was the one who was supposed to be pissed off with Ian.’
‘Nice trip to Paris, was it, Duncan? See the sights? Go up the Eiffel Tower?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t been to Paris.’
‘Duncan, I’m not stupid. And I’m not going to cover for you again.’
‘Cover for me? What do you mean?’ And then he stopped. ‘Something’s happened to Ian, hasn’t it? In Paris. And you think I’m responsible?’
‘Too right, I think you’re responsible,’ Chris muttered.
‘What happened? Is he dead?’
Chris looked at Duncan. His confusion seemed genuine. But then Chris had just said he wouldn’t cover for him. There was no reason for Duncan to tell him the truth, and every reason for him to act surprised.
‘He was stabbed in Paris on Sunday night. By you.’
‘Hey, come on, Chris,’ protested Duncan. ‘You can’t say that. I didn’t kill him. I wasn’t even in bloody Paris.’
‘But you wanted to, didn’t you?’
‘No I didn’t.’
‘It certainly looked like it when I saw you in the pub at lunch-time.’
‘I was angry, that’s all,’ said Duncan. ‘You can hardly blame me.’
Chris shook his head. ‘You’ve gone too far, Duncan. What Ian did was wrong, but what you’ve done is just as wrong. You shouldn’t have killed him.’
‘But I didn’t kill him! For Christ’s sake, I was in London then.’
‘All tucked up in bed by yourself, no doubt?’
‘Probably. No, let me think. I remember. Sunday was a bad day. I went out by myself for a drink or two in the evening. You’re right, that stuff about Ian had shaken me. But then I went to see Pippa.’
‘What, in the middle of the night?’
‘About half eleven. I wanted to talk to her. She said I was drunk and told me to piss off.’
‘And she’ll back up your story?’
‘I suppose so. I don’t see why she shouldn’t.’
Chris hesitated. ‘You might have got her to lie for you. Like you got us to lie for you on the boat.’
Duncan’s eyes flashed with anger. ‘I never got you to lie for me! As I remember, it was your idea. I wish you’d have let me tell the truth now. All this might not have happened.’ He ran his hands through his hair. ‘Jesus. If the police come talking to you, are you going to tell them I killed him?’
‘I’ll tell them the truth. Nothing more,’ said Chris.
Well, the truth is I didn’t kill him. And think about it for a second. If I didn’t kill Ian, someone else did. And that doesn’t make you very safe, does it?’
Chris looked at Duncan for a moment, and then stood up to go. As far as he was concerned, there was nothing more to be said. But Duncan grabbed his arm.
‘Here,’ he said, thrusting his mobile phone at Chris. ‘Call her.’
Chris hesitated. Duncan punched out a number and handed the phone to him. Chris shrugged and put it to his ear. He heard it ringing, and then Pippa’s voice.
‘Phillippa Gemmel.’
‘Pippa, it’s Chris Szczypiorski.’
‘Oh, hi, Chris. Look, I’m just going out.’
‘This won’t take a minute,’ Chris said. Duncan was watching him intently. ‘Have you seen Duncan in the last few days?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Answer my question, and I’ll tell you.’
Pippa sighed. ‘We went out for a meal together on Friday night.’
‘And since then?’
‘He came round to see me in the middle of the night. He was drunk. He wanted to moan at me. I told him to piss off.’
‘Which night was that?’
‘Sunday.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure. Why?’
‘Ian Darwent was murdered on Sunday night in Paris.’
‘Oh, my God.’ There was silence for a moment. When Pippa spoke again, the brusqueness had left her voice. She sounded weary. ‘Not another one. Duncan was going on about him, but I couldn’t make sense of what he was saying.’
‘Duncan thought Ian had killed Lenka,’ Chris said.
‘And so you think Duncan might have killed Ian?’
‘Yes,’ Chris said curtly, glancing at Duncan sitting next to him.
‘Don’t trust your friends much, do you?’ said Pippa scathingly. ‘But with friends like yours, I’m not really surprised. No, Duncan was in London that night. I can vouch for him.’
Chris didn’t say anything.
‘What’s the matter? Don’t you believe me?’
Chris sighed. He knew Pippa wasn’t covering for Duncan. Suddenly he felt ashamed of his lack of trust in her, and in Duncan. ‘I believe you. Thanks, Pippa. Bye.’