Chris shook his head. ‘You can’t tell much from the e-mail address. He could be from anywhere. I wonder what she wanted to tell him about Alex?’
‘The truth, presumably,’ said Megan. ‘That Duncan knocked him into the sea. But I wonder why she’d want to do that. We all agreed to keep it quiet, and I thought everyone had.’ She gave Chris an enquiring glance.
‘They have, as far as I know,’ he said. ‘I thought that was all buried. And I thought Lenka was as keen as anyone on burying it. It’s strange that she’s the one who wants to tell, and Ian’s the one who wants to keep it quiet. I’d have thought he wouldn’t mind risking getting Duncan into trouble.’
‘We’d all be in trouble,’ said Megan. ‘We lied to the police. That’s against the law.’ She frowned. ‘Big trouble.’
Chris sighed. ‘Well, whoever this Marcus is, he needs to know what happened.’
He sat down in front of the keyboard and began to write:
Marcus
I am a colleague of Lenka’s. I have some very bad news. Lenka was murdered in Prague last Monday. I may be able to help you with Alex’s death. Please contact me at chrissz@interserve.net
Regards
He glanced at Megan, who nodded, and then he clicked on Send. ‘There. He should identify himself now.’ He yawned, and stretched. ‘Let’s go. I think we’ve done all we can here.’
He turned off the computer, took the small bundle of papers they had sorted, turned down the thermostat for the heating, and switched off the light. They left the flat.
Chris looked at his watch. Twenty past ten. ‘Damn,’ he said. ‘I wanted to talk to one of her neighbours. It’s too late to disturb them now.’
But they were lucky. Just as they were about to reach the front door, it opened, and a bespectacled man in a smart overcoat and suit came in, bringing with him the waft of alcohol. He glanced at them with curiosity.
‘Hello,’ said Chris.
‘Hi.’
‘Do you live here?’
‘Yes, I do. Can I help you?’
He was American, about thirty-five, slightly overweight with a friendly face.
‘Did you know Lenka Němečková?’
‘Sure. I live in the apartment above hers.’ Then his eyes narrowed. He had caught the tense Chris had used. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I’m afraid she’s been murdered. In Prague. We’re friends of hers.’ Chris introduced himself and Megan.
As so many other people had been when Chris had told them the news, the American was stunned.
‘Her parents asked me to take care of her stuff,’ Chris said. ‘They gave me the key. Can you keep an eye on her flat for me? Give me a call if there’s anything wrong.’
Chris handed him his card. The American took it, and looked dully at the writing on it. ‘I can’t believe it,’ he said.
‘Perhaps I can take your number?’ Chris asked.
‘Oh, sure,’ said the American, giving Chris a card in return. Richard H. Storebrand, Vice President. He worked for one of the large US investment management companies.
‘Thanks. Oh, by the way, you didn’t see anything odd last week, did you? Any strange visitors, anything like that?’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ he said. Then he furrowed his brow. ‘There was a guy who used to hang around here. He used to lean against the lamppost on the other side of the street. He was kind of creepy. Anyway, I was coming back here a couple of weeks ago and I bumped into Lenka. He crossed the street toward her. She saw him, pushed me into the building, and shut the door behind us. The guy rang the doorbell and shouted after her. She told me to ignore him and went up the stairs to her apartment. I haven’t seen him around since then.’
‘Did she look frightened?’ Chris asked.
‘No. More pissed off. But I guess a girl like that gets used to men hanging around her.’
‘Was this man American?’
‘No, I don’t think so. But he did have some kind of accent. Irish or Scottish, I think. I’m not real good on those.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘Big guy. Red hair, kind of messy. Wore a suit. He looked respectable, he didn’t really look like a weirdo, but he was just hanging out.’
Duncan.
‘Thanks,’ Chris said, smiling. ‘Let’s keep in touch, OK?’
The man nodded absently. ‘Lenka. I can’t believe it.’
And Chris and Megan left Richard H. Storebrand, Vice President, shaking his head at the horrors of the world.
When they returned to Chris’s flat the light on the answer machine was blinking. Chris pressed the button.
‘Hi, Chris, this is Eric. I heard about Lenka. I’m very sorry. I’m going to be in London for a couple of days early next week. I’m getting in Sunday. Would you like to meet me for a drink at my hotel Sunday evening? Say seven o’clock? I’m staying at the Lanesborough. Just leave a message there if you can make it. Hope to see you then.’
Chris glanced at Megan. She was standing very still, looking at the machine.
‘A voice from the past,’ said Chris.
‘Yes,’ Megan answered, almost in a whisper.
‘Do you want to come with me? I’m sure Eric wouldn’t mind.’
Megan took a moment to answer. ‘No, no. I’d better not. Anyway, I should be going to Cambridge tomorrow.’
‘OK,’ said Chris.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Megan. ‘It’s just weird to hear his voice again. Look, er... I’d better be going to bed.’
‘All right. Good night.’
‘Good night.’
6
‘Come here, bloody dog!’
The angry grey-haired man puffed past them in an attempt to catch up with his dog, a red setter that was streaking up the hill in pursuit of a spry fox terrier.
‘Algy!’ he screamed, and then the dog was out of sight.
It was a lovely morning: cold, crisp and clear. The northern slope of Parliament Hill was still brushed with frost, but the sun had warmed the southern side into freshly glistening dew. To their right stretched London, in the great grey bowl of the Thames, streaks of mists still lingering amongst the tall towers of the City. The low winter sun reflected in a bright orange triangle off the roof of Canary Wharf.
They paused when they reached the summit. The young setter was heading full speed for the Highgate duck ponds, leaving his master striding rapidly down the hill after him.
‘I wonder who is taking who for a walk,’ said Megan.
‘The dog’s certainly having fun,’ Chris said.
The setter stopped abruptly, and turned back towards his master, at a lope, tongue hanging out, tail wagging, oblivious of the curses raining down on him.
‘This must be dog heaven,’ said Megan, looking round at the four-legged creatures of all shapes and sizes going about their Saturday-morning business.
‘Did you ever have one?’ Chris asked.
‘Yes,’ Megan smiled. ‘He was a very fat basset-hound called Beau. Hills weren’t really his thing. His two favourite pastimes were eating and lying in front of the TV with his eyes shut. I loved him, though. He died when I was twelve. I cried and cried.’
They made their way down the northern slope of the hill towards the centre of Hampstead Heath, their shoes crunching through the dusting of ice.
‘Did the Czech police have any idea who might have killed Lenka?’ Megan asked.
‘Funny, I was just thinking about that,’ said Chris. ‘They hadn’t much of a clue when I first spoke to them, but that was right after it had happened. I haven’t heard anything from them since.’
‘Do you think this man Marcus might have had anything to do with it?’