'What did he say?'
'He said he took pains not to consider the question.'
'He's a good lawyer.'
'I've asked you this before, but I have to ask you again. Are you?' He leaned forward over his desk, his eyes like small brown balls through his thick glasses.
'Innocent?'
'Yes.'
'Yes,' I said, meeting his eyes. 'I've never seen that gun before in my life. I didn't kill Frank.'
Gil sighed. He looked tired. 'OK. I have to trust my judgement. I'm going to stick by you and I'll make sure the rest of the firm does too. But do the best you can to keep our name out of the press.'
'Believe me, I will.'
'Good.' He waited for me to leave.
I did so with mixed emotions. On the one hand, his obvious doubts hurt. On the other, he had been good to me. Revere's public image was everything to him, and I had tarnished it. The evidence against me looked damning, but he had still stood up for me. He had put loyalty to his employees, his trust in me and his own instincts, before what was rationally in the best interests of the firm, namely to dump me. I was grateful. I didn't want to let him down.
After lunch, I finished the Investment Memorandum on Tetracom, and circulated it to the partners. Then I told John I would be out for the rest of the afternoon at a meeting, and took a cab back to the apartment. Lisa had a key to her father's house, which she kept in a small bowl above the fireplace. I took it, walked the few yards to the Brimmer Street Garage, and drove the Morgan out to Woodbridge to the scene of the crime.
Marsh House stood alone under a large sky of gathering rain clouds. A strong breeze blew in from the direction of the sea, flattening the marsh grass, and rocking the trees behind the house. Everything was more or less as it had been the last time I was there, the day Lisa and I had discovered Frank's body. Except for the Mercedes, which had disappeared, presumably taken by the police. They had finished their polishing and scraping, taken away their tape and left the house alone and empty. I wondered what Lisa would do with it. Would she keep it for its memories of life with her father, or sell it for its associations with his death?
I let myself in. I wore gloves. Whilst I assumed the police had finished their study of the place, I didn't want to add any unnecessary fingerprints for them to find later. I was nervous about coming here. The last thing I needed was for the police to find out I'd been here, and draw the wrong conclusions. But it was more dangerous to sit at home and do nothing.
The house was cold. It was dead quiet: even the grandfather clock that stood against the living-room wall was quiet, unwound. The imprisoned air had a musty smell to it, and a thin layer of grey film covered some of the surfaces. There were scrapings on the wooden floor where I had found Frank. Although the house looked natural, I had the feeling that everything had been picked up and carefully put down again.
Most of Frank's stuff was still there. Books, magazines, photographs of Lisa and Eddie, and even one of his wedding. There were two books on a table next to Frank's beaten-up rocker. A bird book by Roger Tory Peterson, and a book about the X-Files. Seascapes and prints of birds hung on the walls, as they always had done. I went over to his desk. This had been emptied. There were no papers left, no notebook or diary that might have given some clue of his thoughts before he died. Just a flower-patterned pencil box that Lisa had made for him when she was a girl, itself thinly covered in the grey-white sheen of dust. There was no sign of Revere.
I climbed the stairs. All the beds had been stripped. Once again, there was no paper in sight. Out of Frank's bedroom window, I could see the clouds thickening and darkening over the brooding marsh.
I tried to imagine what the house must have been like twenty years before, with the noise and bustle of a family on holiday. A small Lisa and a larger Eddie running up the stairs, playing on the porch, returning from an afternoon's swimming along the walkway across the marsh, hair wet, limbs tired, skin browned by the summer sun. But for the last fifteen years this had been Frank's sanctuary. The place where he liked to come alone as often as he could. It was a beautiful, peaceful spot. Why had he given up his family, I wondered. He loved his children. He seemed to at least like his wife. It was a mystery that had haunted Lisa, and one that I couldn't solve myself.
As I descended the narrow staircase, something caught my eye. It was one of the pens that lay in the patterned pencil box. I recognized it from somewhere, somewhere away from here. I picked it up. It was a maroon ball-point pen, with an acorn logo and the words oakwood analytics embossed in gold lettering along its side.
I turned it round in my fingers, trying to remember where I knew it from. But it wouldn't come.
I took one last look around, and left the house, closing the door carefully behind me.
I climbed into my car, and drove up the dirt track that led a mile back to the road. The clouds were upon me now, and it started to rain. A number of houses were scattered along the track, nestling among the trees, with glimpses of the marsh. The majority were only occupied in summer. None of them had a direct view of Marsh House, but I wondered whether the occupants of any of them had seen anything the day he died.
The first house I came to was clearly locked up for the coming winter. The second was little more than a shack. It was guarded by the giant Ford that had almost collided with me that day. I pulled up outside, climbed out of my car, and ran to the door. I knocked. It was raining hard.
The door opened a crack. I recognized the old lady as the driver of the Ford station-wagon. It was clear she recognized me too.
'Good afternoon,' I said in my most polite English accent. 'My name is Simon Ayot. I wonder if I can ask you a few questions?'
'I know exactly who you are,' said the woman with a mixture of fear and resolve in her eyes. 'I saw you on TV last night. And I won't answer your questions.'
She began to shut the door. I was soaking in the rain. I put my hand on it, to stop her.
'I just want to-'
'You let me shut this door, or I'll call the police!' she protested shrilly.
I realized I was only going to get myself into more trouble, and so I backed away. She slammed the door, and I heard the click of a lock. I dashed back to the car, and continued up the track.
The next two houses were empty, but the third showed signs of occupation. A small car was parked outside, and some lights blinked out into the gloom.
Once again I braved the rain, and knocked.
This time the door was opened by a pleasant looking middle-aged woman, her grey-streaked hair pulled firmly back from her forehead. She reminded me of the doughty ladies you see in the rose gardens and on the public footpaths of England.
'Yes?' she said doubtfully.
'Hello. I'm Simon Ayot, Frank Cook's son-in-law. Did you know Frank Cook? He used to live in Marsh House at the bottom of the road.'
'Oh yes. Of course I knew him. Not well, mind you. That was an awful thing to happen to him. And you're his son-in-law? How terrible for you.'
I smiled. 'I wonder if I could ask you a couple of questions. May I come in?'
'Of course. Get yourself out of the wet.'
She led me through to an open living space with a good view of the marsh through the trees. You couldn't see Marsh House, but with a slight surge of panic I realized that you could just see the end of the walkway down to the creek, and the dock, where Lisa and I had made love what seemed like an age ago.
'Coffee? I have some brewed.'
I accepted gratefully, and soon cupped my hands round a steaming mug. I sat down on an old sofa. The furniture was basic, but the room was clean and warm and very cosy.
'You're English aren't you?'
'Yes, I am. I'm Lisa's husband. Do you know her?'
'I thought I caught your accent. Yes, I do know Lisa. I've seen her around over the years. We bought this place about ten years ago. My husband works in Boston, but I like to spend time here, especially in the fall. I like to paint.'