Authors: Michael Ridpath
I watched from my vantage point on the sofa. I couldn’t hear, but I could see. It was predictable. Mel swayed up to Guy. Draped herself on his arm. They exchanged words, gentle at first, then sharper. Ingrid pulled herself away from them. Then Guy said something harsh and low that only Mel could hear. It was if she had been slapped. She turned on her heel and marched straight towards the door, blinking back the tears.
There was a slight drop in the noise level as people paused to watch, but it quickly rose again. Guy reached for Ingrid’s waist. She pushed him away and disappeared to the loo.
I returned to the bar for another drink. I felt a gentle touch at my elbow. It was Ingrid. ‘Can we go outside for a moment?’
‘Sure.’
It was a cool May night, and I huddled into my jacket. But the fresh air took the edge off the beers I had drunk. ‘Where shall we go?’
‘I don’t care,’ Ingrid said. So we headed east, with Smithfield Market looming on one side, towards Charterhouse Square.
‘I saw Mel having a go at you,’ I said.
Ingrid shuddered. ‘She’s never forgiven me for what happened in Mull. That was such a stupid thing to do, I know, but it was a long time ago and she really has nothing to fear now.’
‘Doesn’t she?’
Ingrid laughed and squeezed my arm. ‘No. It’s true I used to find Guy fascinating, but he’s not my type.’
‘Oh, really?’
‘Yes, really. I’ve been surrounded by flaky screwed-up people like him and Mel all my life. Somehow I’ve avoided becoming like them. I’d like to try to preserve my sanity.’
‘I think you’re totally sane,’ I said.
‘Ah, that’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me.’ She squeezed my arm again.
‘Now that is sad.’
We walked and talked. Past St Paul’s, silhouetted against the three-quarter moon, past the Georgian columns of the Mansion House and the Bank of England, through the narrow streets of the City, alternating between stretches of deathly quiet and patches of noise and light where people spilled out of crowded bars on to the pavement. Eventually we ended up by the river approaching Tower Bridge. Not far from Guy’s flat in Wapping.
Ingrid halted. ‘I think we’d better stop now,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ I agreed.
‘Thank you for walking with me. I needed that.’
‘So did I, I think.’
We were in one of those quiet stretches. Lights were everywhere, yellow and orange, illuminating the tower beside us and the bridge ahead of us, and dancing on the swiftly flowing river. I felt the urge to kiss her, but I hesitated, confused. Was Ingrid my friend? Or something else? Did I want her to be something else? Did she?
Ingrid saw my confusion and her eyes creased into a smile. ‘See you tomorrow,’ she said as she reached up to peck me on the cheek. Then she hurried off up the hill towards the busy road, in search of a taxi.
I watched her go, feeling pleasantly disoriented. I wondered what had happened that evening, if anything. I found my own cab, but as I was climbing into it, I realized I had left my briefcase at Smiths. It was late, but I thought I would check to see if the place was still open. It was, just. I found my briefcase and then made my way to the gents before heading for home. I passed a dark corridor and noticed two figures in an embrace. One was Guy. I peered into the darkness to see who the other was. Michelle.
Poor Michelle.
The next day was Saturday, for us a workday. There were a hundred and one urgent things to attend to, but I took advantage of the fact that I had no meetings arranged to put them all on one side for a couple of hours and concentrate on Tony’s death. While Guy was plotting his public revenge on Orchestra with the PR people, I called Detective Sergeant Spedding. He remembered me instantly and invited me to come in to talk to him that afternoon.
I met him in a bare interview room at the police station in Savile Row. A friendly freckled face beneath red hair. He brought me a cup of coffee and we sat down.
‘I’ve become a big fan of your website,’ he said.
‘Excellent.’
‘But I think you’re wrong about Rovers getting a new manager for next season.’
‘I’ll pass that on.’
‘What we really need is someone good in the air up front.’
‘I’ll pass that on too.’
‘Thank you.’ He stirred his coffee and sipped it. ‘So now we’ve got the important stuff out of the way, talk to me.’ He smiled encouragingly.
‘Do you have any idea yet who killed Tony Jourdan?’
‘Now why is it that every time I talk to you, you ask the questions and I answer them? Isn’t it supposed to be the other way round?’
‘Sorry,’ I said.
Spedding smiled. ‘We don’t know who killed him. We can rule out a contract killer: running someone down in a street
like that is very messy. All kinds of things could go wrong. So that makes it most likely that it was someone who knew Jourdan.’
‘I see.’
‘Of the immediate family, Sabina Jourdan was in France at the time and I doubt very much she paid the man you saw, Donnelly, to kill him, for the reasons I just gave you. Besides, he’s not that kind of hired help. We probed the two sons’ alibis pretty thoroughly but they stacked up. Jourdan had some old business enemies that bore him grudges, so it’s just conceivable that one of them may have been involved, but we haven’t been able to uncover any useful leads there. So our official best guess at the moment is that it was a drunk-driver hit and run. But in such a small street that seems very unlikely to me.’
‘So Owen’s alibi held up? He couldn’t have tampered with the CCTV or anything?’
‘No. He was definitely in the Europa a couple of minutes before his father was run down.’
‘And Guy?’
Spedding looked at me closely. ‘What about Guy?’
‘Did Guy’s alibi check out?’
‘It seemed to. He went for a drink with his brother in Camden and then went to see a girlfriend in St John’s Wood. He got there at nine thirty, only five minutes after the murder.’
‘And she confirmed that, did she?’
‘Not just her. She had a friend staying with her that night who saw Guy as well. There wouldn’t have been time from when Guy left the pub in Camden to when he arrived in St John’s Wood for him to drive to Knightsbridge. He claims he didn’t have his car with him that evening, anyway. We checked it. Clean.’
‘Do you know whether he saw his father that day?’
‘He saw him the day before, at Jourdan’s place in Knightsbridge. According to Guy, it was quite an upsetting meeting.’
‘Did he say what they talked about?’
‘Yes. The future of Ninetyminutes. He was trying to persuade his father to change his mind.’
I hesitated before asking my next question. ‘Did they talk about anything else?’
‘Not according to Guy,’ Spedding said. ‘He and his father were the only people there, and of course Tony Jourdan can’t tell us anything.’
‘I see.’
‘Why?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I’m just trying to get an idea of what happened.’
‘Do you have any information for me?’
‘Oh, no,’ I said.
‘I’ve been quite forthcoming with you. Can’t you be the same with me?’
‘I don’t have anything to tell you.’
Spedding looked at me for a few long seconds. ‘This case doesn’t add up. You know that and I know that. I think there’s something wrong with what Guy Jourdan told me. I think you might know what that is. I don’t know whether it’s just a suspicion, or whether you have some concrete proof, but if you do, you should tell me. I know Guy is your friend and your business partner. But murder is a serious business, David. And so is withholding evidence.’
I met Spedding’s eyes. ‘I know that,’ I said. ‘That’s why I came here.’
Spedding nodded. ‘Fair enough. If you want to talk to me again, call me. Any time.’ He passed me his card.
I left the police station clutching it tightly in my hand.
*
I left work at five that afternoon. Guy was still in the office, and I was confident he would be there for another hour at least. I took the tube to St John’s Wood and walked through the leafy streets to where Mel lived.
I had been to Mel’s old flat in Earls Court a couple of times many years before, but never to this one. It was on the first floor up a narrow dark staircase. She invited me in to the living room. It was very tidy and quite soulless: bland framed posters and prints, cool grey walls, very few knick-knacks, a row of books in a neat bookshelf, a tiny CD collection, a solitary photo frame. It looked more like a temporary corporate flat than a person’s home.
‘It’s nice to see you, David,’ she said politely.
‘I hope you don’t mind me just showing up like this, but I was worried about you. After last night.’
‘Yes. Last night. I’m sorry, I got a bit drunk.’
‘Didn’t we all?’
We were standing in the middle of the living room. Mel closed her eyes and leaned forward into my chest. I held her. She began to sob. Gently I stroked her hair.
Eventually she pulled back. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s just, I think I might have finally lost him.’
What could I say? That she’d be much better off without him? That she shouldn’t worry; he’d probably be round at her place one night when he’d been turned down by another woman and fancied a shag? I touched her sleeve.
She smiled quickly. ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ she said. ‘And I’m sure you’re right. I just … I don’t know. I feel so miserable.’
‘What happened?’
‘He told me to piss off and leave him alone.’
‘You were drunk. He was drunk. That doesn’t mean anything.’
‘But he was with Ingrid.’
‘She left a few minutes after you. Guy stayed.’ I didn’t tell Mel about Michelle.
A flicker of hope sparked in her eyes. Then she ran her hand through her hair, visibly trying to pull herself together. ‘I’m sorry. I feel such a fool. Do you want a drink? I don’t think I could face another one after last night.’
‘No thanks,’ I said, sitting on a sofa. There was a photograph on the mantelpiece beside me, of Mel and Guy. I recognized Guy’s flat in Gloucester Road from several years before. It must have been taken just before the fateful Mull trip.
‘Nice picture,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Those were good days.’
I quickly scanned the room. There were no other photos, no parents, no pets.
Mel started to talk. She wanted to talk. ‘You know, I fell for him the moment I first saw him. We were only fourteen. Fourteen! God, it seems so long ago.’ She laughed. ‘I was taller than him then.
‘I didn’t do anything about it at the time. I was starting to realize that I wasn’t just a pretty little girl any more. Boys were beginning to notice me. Older boys. I went out with a lot of guys who were sixteen or seventeen.’
‘I remember.’ It wasn’t just older boys who had noticed Mel.
‘It gave me a kick. I seemed to have this power over them. I used it. And I never let them get very far. You know I went through school a virgin. I enjoyed the power of saying no.’
‘But you never went out with Guy?’
‘Not until the very end. I was used to being chased rather than chasing. I thought he would come round in the end, and he did. I knew how to play him; I was a real expert by that stage. But, as I think I told you in France, he was the one.
‘Then I went and messed it up by sleeping with that bastard Tony Jourdan.’
‘Did you ever get over that?’
‘No, not really. It’s not like he raped me, or anything. But I was going through a really bad patch at home. My father had walked out, and he and my mother were trying to manipulate me against each other. I was always Daddy’s beautiful girl. I worshipped him. And then it turned out he was having it off with some tarty secretary only a few years older than me. Six months later and I end up having sex with someone his age and losing the boy I loved. I felt cheap, worthless, stupid.
‘I changed. Reinvented myself at university. Got rid of the tight jeans. Ignored men. Worked hard. I didn’t have many friends. I used to brood, get depressed. It was a miserable time, until I met Guy again at that Broadhill do. The rest you know.’
‘Do you think you’ll be able to leave him behind you?’
Mel smiled. ‘I should, but I doubt it. I know he doesn’t respect me after what happened in France, and he’s right. It was a terrible thing I did. That’s why he treats me like he does. But I keep hoping that if I show him just how much I love him, he’ll forgive me. He’ll have to.’ There was desperation in her voice.
I smiled at her weakly. It wasn’t going to happen. The harder she tried, the more Guy would take advantage of her. But I didn’t have the heart to tell her that.
‘I worry about Ninetyminutes,’ Mel went on. ‘If that blows up it’ll destroy him. Even if he drops me, at least I know I can help him with that.’
‘Last night you said you started to see him again just before Tony died?’
‘That’s right,’ she smiled. ‘It was the day before. Guy came round quite late. He’d been drinking. I have no illusions
about why he came; he just wanted a shag. But afterwards. Afterwards he lay in my arms and we talked. He told me everything. All about his worries about what his father was going to do to Ninetyminutes, everything. I comforted him.’
‘Did he tell you about the gardener in France? About Tony finding out about it?’
‘Yes, yes he did.’ Mel looked at me, puzzled and a little put out. ‘He said he hadn’t told anyone else about that.’
‘He hadn’t,’ I said. ‘At least, not then. I found out from Patrick Hoyle later. I spoke to Guy about it a few months ago. He was worried about Owen, as usual.’
‘Tony was trying to persuade Guy to stay on at Ninetyminutes. Guy didn’t want to, of course – he didn’t want to be Tony’s gopher. But Tony was threatening to go to the French police about the gardener and Owen’s role in his death.’
‘He was going to expose his own son?’
‘Guy couldn’t believe it, either. He thought it was a bluff, but he couldn’t be sure. I think he was as upset that his father would do something like that to Owen as he was about being forced out of Ninetyminutes.’
‘So it was lucky Tony died when he did?’
‘Very lucky,’ Mel said firmly. ‘Guy was heading for self-destruction.’