Final Venture Read online

  'Why don't you come with me to see Dad tomorrow?'

  We were eating dinner, some kind of pasta dish Lisa had put together.

  'No, you go,' I replied. 'I'll stay here. It'll give me a chance to get some work done.'

  'Can't you come, Simon? Please. I don't like you two not getting along. You're both important to me. I'd like to straighten things out between you.'

  I put down my fork and rubbed my eyes. I really didn't want to see Frank again that weekend. 'I tried it and it didn't work,' I said. 'I think it would be better to leave things alone. Besides, you know he just wants to see you.'

  'That's typical of you, Simon,' Lisa protested. 'You never want to talk about your feelings. I'm positive it will help to talk it over with Dad.'

  This was a common complaint of Lisa's, although actually I had talked more about how I felt with her than I had done with anyone else. But perhaps she had a point. Where I had failed to talk her father round, there was a chance she would succeed. It was worth a try.

  'OK, we'll go,' I said.

  Lisa rapped on the door of the cottage. No reply. She rapped harder. Still nothing. She turned the doorknob, and pushed. The door was locked.

  'His car's still here,' she said, nodding towards her father's dark blue Mercedes, which was parked exactly where I had seen it the day before.

  'He must have gone for a walk,' I said.

  We looked around. In front of us stretched the marsh, a soft carpet of brown and gold grass. No sign of Frank. Behind was the wooded knoll down which we had approached the house. There was no sign of him there, either. In fact there was no sign of anyone. There were a couple of houses in the distance, at least two miles away, and although there were some closer dwellings behind us, they were out of sight in the trees.

  'Come on! Let's go down to the dock,' said Lisa.

  I followed her along the rickety wooden walkway down to the creek. The tide was out, so the dock itself had floated down below the level of the surrounding marsh. We sat on the end of the walkway, and looked around us.

  It was a surprisingly warm day for October. Although there was no sound of human life, there was noise. The wind whispered through the marsh grass, and water lapped against the wooden platform below us. The warm smells of the marsh, salt and vegetation, rose up to meet us. An egret that had been standing tall and still as we approached, started and rose up into the air, beating its wings, as if struggling to keep a few feet above the long grass. You couldn't see the sea from here, the marsh was surrounded by thickly wooded islands, green with yellow fringes. Just beyond Hog Island, a mile and a half in front of us, was the ocean.

  'I love this place,' said Lisa. 'You can imagine what it was like to be a kid here in the summer. Swimming, fishing, sailing. I really missed it when I went to California.'

  'I can imagine,' I said.

  Lisa had often talked about Marsh House. In fact it was here we had first met. I had only been at Revere a couple of weeks, and Frank was having a barbecue for a dozen or so people, me included. I was listening to Art talk about what he described as Massachusetts' draconian gun laws. I disagreed with him. Everyone else fell silent. At the time, I took this to be tacit approval of Art's views, but afterwards I realized that they just knew it was useless arguing with Art about gun control. Anyway, Art launched into a tirade about the constitutional right of Americans to bear arms, and the necessity of defending oneself when the criminal classes were armed to the teeth, when a slight, dark-haired woman leaped to my defence. Barbed comments flew back and forth for about five minutes, to the embarrassment of most of the onlookers, before Frank diplomatically suggested that the woman show me his old dinghies, kept in a dilapidated boathouse a few yards away.

  She did as she was told, and we spent much of the rest of the evening together. I was drawn to Lisa straight away. I liked the way she said what she thought, I found I wanted to talk to her, and I found her physically attractive. She mentioned the only French film I had happened to have seen, and on the strength of my enthusiasm, suggested we see something else by the same director. I suddenly became very interested in French films.

  She turned and kissed me.

  I smiled. 'What was that for?'

  'Oh, nothing.' She giggled.

  'What is it?' I asked, nudging her.

  'Did I ever tell you I lost my virginity here?'

  'No! You can't have. Right out here in the open?' It was hard to think of a more public place.

  'Not exactly here. Down there. On the dock. No one can see you. And you can hear someone coming along the boardwalk in plenty of time.'

  I looked down the few feet to the wooden platform below. 'I don't believe you,' I said.

  'Do you want me to prove it?' Lisa asked, smiling wickedly.

  'What, now?'

  She nodded.

  'But your father will see us!'

  'No, he won't. That's the whole point.'

  'OK,' I said, a grin spreading across my lips.

  And so we made love, the wind and sun caressing our bare skin, water lapping a few inches below us, and the wide expanse of the marsh all around us. It was wonderful.

  We lay in each other's arms, recovering. Lisa pulled her shirt over her chest to keep warm; I let the goose-pimples grow on my skin. We said nothing. I felt at one with the marsh, and with Lisa.

  I don't know how much time passed before Lisa said, 'Come on. Let's see if Dad's back.'

  'He'll know what we've been doing,' I said.

  'No, he won't,' said Lisa. Then she giggled. 'Anyway, what if he does? It'll stop him worrying about our marriage, won't it?'

  She held my hand as we made our way awkwardly along the walkway, back to Marsh House.

  Frank's car was still there. Lisa rapped on the door. No reply. 'Do you think he's all right?'

  'Of course he is,' I said. 'It's just a long walk.'

  'I don't know,' said Lisa. She looked around anxiously. 'It's strange he locked the door. He usually leaves it open when he's here. Let's see if we can see inside the house.'

  So we walked round the building, looking in through the windows. The living room was empty, as was the kitchen. There was a small dining area between the two. The window was high, above my eye level.

  'Here, get on my shoulders,' I said to Lisa, crouching down.

  'OK.' She giggled, and climbed on to my back. I slowly straightened my legs, bringing her up to the level of the window.

  The giggling stopped abruptly. She stiffened, and her fingers clawed at my hair. 'Simon,' she whispered. 'SIMON!!!'

  I swung her down to the ground. Her eyes were wide, and she was gasping for breath. I leaped up and grabbed the window ledge with my fingers. I hauled myself up until my eyes were just at the level of the glass.

  'Jesus!'

  Someone was lying face down in the doorway between the kitchen and the dining area, two dark patches spreading across his back.

  I dropped to the ground, sprinted round the house, and charged the front door.

  The wood cracked. I threw myself at the door two more times with all my weight, and it burst open. I rushed over to Frank's body.

  He was dead. Two bloodied bullet holes gaped through the back of the checked shirt he had been wearing the day before.

  Lisa let out a shriek, the like of which I had never heard before. She pushed past me and threw herself on to him, grabbing his face, willing him to be alive, sobbing 'Dad, Dad, Dad,' over and over again.

  7

  'Just a few more questions, Mr Ayot. Or is it Sir Simon Ayot?'

  Sergeant Mahoney sat on the sofa in our small living room. His card said he was from the State Police Crime Prevention and Control Unit assigned to the Essex County District Attorney's Office. He was a big man, running to fat, with thinning red hair and bright blue eyes. One corner of his mouth seemed permanently raised in a half-smile of mild amusement, or mild disbelief, I couldn't quite tell. He was probably pushing fifty, and he had the air of someone who had seen a lot, as he no d
oubt had. A female colleague had taken Lisa out for a cup of coffee, leaving the two of us alone in the apartment.

  'Just call me mister,' I said. 'All that the "Sir" means is that my father died young.'

  I had tried to suppress my title since I had moved to America. And Lisa never called herself 'Lady Ayot', except sometimes when drunk and naked in bed. One of my reasons for being in America, apart from Lisa of course, was that things like titles didn't matter. In England, I felt awkward using the 'Sir', and disrespectful to my father's family not using it. Here I could just forget all about it. It was only when people saw my passport, as Mahoney had, or when Gil managed to squeeze it into a conversation somehow, that anyone knew.

  'OK, Mr Ayot. I'd just like to go back over some of the things you told me yesterday.' He had a thick Boston accent, but it was slightly different from Craig's. I still wasn't able to distinguish the local accents with confidence.

  'Fine.'

  'It looks like you were the last person to see Frank Cook alive.'

  'Really?'

  The blue eyes watched my every reaction. 'Yes. The coroner thinks he died sometime before ten p.m. on Saturday. Now you say you came to see him at about two thirty on Saturday afternoon?'

  'I think that's right, yes.'

  'That fits with the neighbour who says she saw you speeding down the dirt road toward his house.'

  I smiled. 'I was doing about ten miles an hour. She just wasn't looking where she was going.'

  'Fair enough. This isn't a traffic investigation.' The corner of Mahoney's mouth flicked upwards. 'Now when you arrived, was Mr Cook there?'

  'Yes, he was there. He looked tired. On edge. He didn't seem too pleased to see me.'

  'Why did you go to meet him?'

  'I wanted to try to straighten out a few things between us.'

  'What kind of things?'

  I hesitated. 'Frank and I had had an argument at work. I wanted to try to sort it out.'

  Mahoney looked at me closely. He knew I wasn't telling him everything. 'What was the argument about?'

  'An investment.'

  'I see.' He remained silent, holding my eyes, waiting for me to say more.

  I had no desire to tell Mahoney about Frank's suspicions over me and Diane. But I had even less desire to be caught hiding them. This was a murder investigation: the questions would not go away. I decided it was best to be as straightforward as possible with the answers.

  I sighed. 'I thought the real cause of the disagreement was that Frank suspected me of having an affair with one of my colleagues. I wanted to persuade him that there was no danger of that.'

  'And were you?' The eyes peered into mine.

  'No,' I said simply. This wasn't the time for righteous indignation. I would have to be very careful with Mahoney. Careful and precise.

  'OK. Did Mr Cook believe you?'

  'I don't know. I don't think so.'

  'Did you have another argument?'

  'Not exactly,' I said, truthfully.

  'But you didn't leave best of friends?'

  'No.'

  Mahoney paused, but let his eyes rest on me. Then the questions came again.

  'What time did you leave the house?'

  'I don't know. Three o'clock, perhaps.'

  'Where did you go then?'

  'I went for a walk on the beach. Shanks Beach. And then I drove to the office of one of our companies, Net Cop.'

  'Did you meet anyone on this walk? See anyone?'

  'There were a few cars in the car park.' I thought hard. 'I think there were one or two people on the beach, but I can't remember them. I was too wrapped up in Frank and his attitude towards me.'

  'OK,' said Mahoney. 'How long were you at the beach?'

  'About an hour.'

  'And then you drove to this company, what was it? Net Cop?'

  I gave Mahoney the details of Net Cop and the people I had seen there. He promised to check with them. I was sure he would.

  'Do you know how much Frank Cook's estate will be?' The change of tack surprised me.

  'I've no idea.'

  'Take a guess.'

  I thought about it. Frank had had a successful business career, and had probably already made some good money at Revere. And then of course there were the BioOne millions that would come his way. Daniel was right. Frank must be a rich man. But I decided to undershoot for Mahoney's benefit. 'A million dollars.'

  'Closer to four, we think. And Mr Appleby says that in another year or two, Mr Cook would have had another ten coming to him from one of Revere's investments. That will still go to his heirs. Which brings me to another question. Who are Frank Cook's heirs?'

  'I have no idea,' I said.

  'Try.'

  'Lisa I suppose. And her brother Eddie. Maybe her mother.'

  Mahoney grunted. 'I'll leave it to his lawyer to confirm whether you're right. But let's just say you might expect to get some money coming to you as a result of Mr Cook's death.'

  I sighed. 'I suppose so. But I've never thought about it until now.'

  'Do you own a gun, Mr Ayot?' Another change of tack.

  'No.'

  'Do you know anyone who owns a Smith and Wesson model six forty, three fifty-seven Magnum?'

  'No.'

  'Do you know how to use a gun?'

  I paused. 'Yes.'

  'How's that?'

  'I used to be in the British army,' I answered. 'They teach you how to use a weapon.'

  'I see. So you know all about guns, right?' He thought for a bit. 'Have you ever killed anyone?'

  'Yes,' I said quietly.

  'Tell me about it.'

  'I'd rather not,' I said.

  'Was it while you were in the army?'

  'Yes.'

  'In Ireland, maybe?'

  'Yes.'

  The blue eyes hardened.

  'I don't have to answer this sort of question,' I said sharply. 'Am I under suspicion, or what? Do I need a lawyer?'

  Mahoney relaxed. 'Look, we've got a job to do here. We're just gathering information from whoever might be able to help us with this, that's all. Thank you for your help, Mr Ayot. I'll be back if I have any further questions.'

  With that, he was gone, leaving me feeling distinctly uneasy. As I waited for Lisa to return, Mahoney's last question rankled.

  I remembered the vehicle checkpoint in a quiet country lane in Armagh, the beaten-up Ford Escort slowing down, Lance Corporal of Horse Binns bending down at the car window, the look of surprise and shock on his face, the two shots in rapid succession, his head disintegrating, his body thrown backwards, the car engine revving, my own weapon raised to the window, the explosion of noise and shattering of glass as I emptied the magazine into the car, the vehicle careering out of control into the side of our Land Rover.

  I had killed two members of the Provisional IRA. I wasn't proud of it, but it had been something to tell Binns's parents.

  Frank's murder was entirely different. I might have shot two terrorists while on active duty, but that didn't mean I could murder my father-in-law in cold blood. Mahoney's insinuation that I could infuriated me.

  I didn't have much time to worry about that, though. Lisa needed me, and I was reluctant to leave her alone. She seemed dazed, sometimes crying and sometimes just staring into space.

  I did the best I could, but I felt helpless. I could see and feel and touch her pain. It stretched forward into the coming weeks, months and years. It scared me. I had no idea how Lisa would react, how badly she would be hurt, whether any of the damage would be permanent. I wanted to protect her, to wrap my arms around her and defend her from the horrible thing that had happened to her father. But no matter what I did, I couldn't protect her from the central fact. He was gone. Eventually her pain might lessen, become more bearable, but that day was a long way off. Things would probably get worse before they got better.

  And I had my own feelings towards his death to deal with. Frank and I had got on so well at the beginning. Until recently, I had
counted him as a friend and mentor: I had him to thank for my job at Revere, and then for my wife. He had liked me and respected me, I was sure. And then our relationship had deteriorated, culminating in the last time I had seen him when he had turned his back on me. Literally. I had heard that grief brings guilt with it. I was beginning to understand what that meant.

  So far in our lives together, we hadn't faced anything more serious than a broken dishwasher. I wondered how Lisa would cope with what had happened. I was determined to do all I could to help her, however inadequate that might seem.

  The door buzzer buzzed. It was another reporter. I told her, as I'd told all the others, that we had no comment, and Lisa was too upset to talk to anyone. Frank's murder had been in the morning papers, and on TV, and they were all looking for grieving-relative quotes or pictures. I knew it was inevitable, but it made me angry, as though Lisa and I were expected to meekly take our parts in a play that had been put on without our knowledge or consent. Still, it would probably have been worse in England.

  There was a lot to be done. Frank was to be buried the next day. Lisa's mother and brother were flying over from California, and were staying at a bed and breakfast round the corner from our apartment.

  We picked them up from the airport that evening in Lisa's Honda. They were easy to spot. Lisa's brother Eddie was tall and thin with dark hair cut so short it was little more than stubble. Their mother, Ann, was a bustling dark-haired woman who, with the help of careful attention to clothes, make-up and hair, was still striking. The three of them embraced, tears running down the cheeks of Lisa and her mother, Eddie's face a foot above them, his eyes blinking.

  I stood awkwardly to one side.

  When they eventually broke up, Lisa's mother gave me a hug. I extended a hand to Eddie, who shot me a cool glance before shaking it. We all made our way back to the car, Lisa tucking herself happily under Eddie's arm.

  I cooked them supper in our apartment. Lasagne. A bottle of red wine quickly disappeared between the four of us before the meal, and I opened a second one as we all sat down.

  Ann looked around her. 'I don't see how you two live in such a small apartment. You've got so many things. I don't know how you keep them all tidy.'