Yesterday's Shadow (33 page)

“Will you?” Farro was abruptly all caution.

“I don't think so, Bruce. I don't need to. I checked your stock exchange price—it's gone down 60 per cent in the past two months. You're getting no new clients and the ones you have aren't as big as you claim. The defence contract, for instance—just one small section, that's all. How much are you in for, Bruce?”

Farro's cave of a mouth opened, but the teeth weren't coming out in a smile. He pondered a long moment, then he stood up. “You want a drink?”

“A whisky. No water, just ice.” Baker looked around the room again. “You own this or leasing it?”

“Leasing.”

“How much?”

Farro turned round from the sideboard where he was pouring two Scotches. “Jesus, what business is it of yours?”

“Bruce,” said Baker, unflustered by Farro's show of anger, “I'm trying to help you. How much?”

“Ten thousand a month. Here!” He shoved a glass at Baker, the whisky slopping and wetting Baker's hand as he took it.

“Sit down, Bruce, don't get so excited.” He wiped his hand with a handkerchief, then sipped his drink. “You are in a deep hole. Your company can't be saved, nor its shareholders. But I can save you.”

“How?” Farro had sat down again. He took a deep gulp of his whisky, then settled himself as if ready to talk business. He just wasn't ready for the business to be discussed:

“
How much will you charge to murder someone?”

Farro stared at him, then stood up, gesturing towards the door. “Okay—out! You're fucking crazy!”

“Sit
down
, Bruce.” Baker hadn't moved; he gave the order as he might have to a dog. “I'm not crazy, I'm perfectly sane and serious. I have a problem and I think you can solve it for me.”

Farro hesitated, then sat down again. He took another gulp of his drink and put down the glass; he had emptied it in two gulps. He was flushed, but not from the drink. Anger, puzzlement were blowing him up. “Why me?”

“Bruce—” He was patient, but not patronizing. “You are, as I remember the cricket commentators used to say, in dire straits. You love money, as I do, and you're going to be bloody unhappy when you have none. When all this is gone—” He waved a hand around him. “I knew you'd listen to me.”

“What's the matter with you, for Crissake?”

“I'm in a situation, Bruce. You know what it's like—everything is going along smoothly, you've got no problems and then—wham! Suddenly you've got a major problem. I guess it was like that for you when your company started to fall apart. You got caught up in all that software boom, that right? Suckers rushing in from all directions to invest in bubbles? You got off the ground with a public float, right? And then the big guys came in, kicked your arse and now you're up to your armpits in debt, right? It's a problem, Bruce, and you ain't the first who's had it happen to him. Nor are you gonna be the last. Now my problem is different—it's not a money problem—”

Farro's temperature had been lowered; his mind was in gear now: “This has something to do with Trish Norval, hasn't it?”

“Yes, it does—”

“Jesus, Jack, did you kill her? She was the American Ambassador's wife—I dunno how she ever got that far—”

“No, I didn't kill her, actually.” Good liars half-believe their lies; that is why they can sound so convincing. All they have to have is a good memory, which, when there is nothing concrete to remember
is
not so easy. “I was with her the night she was murdered—we'd been to dinner and went back to her hotel. But she was alive when I left her—sleeping—”

“Then what's your problem?” But Farro didn't look as pragmatic as he sounded.

“The police don't believe my story. The main problem, though, is there is this woman . . . May I have another whisky?” He held out his glass. Farro stood up, took it and went back to the sideboard. “Somebody told the cops a lot of lies about me and Trish. I think that might have been you, Bruce.”

Farro came back with the drink. “I told them nothing—”

“Bruce, cut out the bullshit.” He took a sip of his drink. “It's all water under the bridge, anyway. I could tell them a lot about you—”

“They know what we did, you and me and the others—the scam. They're not interested.”

“Not the scam, Bruce. The money—what was it? Three hundred thousand? You took it out of the Jebble trust account. That closed down the firm, Bruce. It didn't bankrupt it, but the two old guys, the senior partners, old Sam and Leslie, they were so disgusted at us young guns, they just folded the firm and retired. They paid the money back into the trust out of their own pockets, folded their tents and departed. They had scruples, Bruce, something you and I knew never had any value. Not in those days. I knew all about what you got away with, Bruce.”

“You have no proof—” Farro could feel the past welling up like a great black cloud.

“Who needs proof? A word here, a word there, it gets around the business community . . . The business community here is still just a small parish . . . The police think I killed Trish, but they've got no proof. But the word gets around—you think that back where I come from, the people there, I work with, go to the country club with, go to church with—”

“You go to church? Jesus, I bet they don't let you take around the plate—”

“Bruce, I've turned over a new leaf. But like I said—the word gets around, you think they're not gonna start looking at me outa the corners of their eyes? When shit hits the fan, Bruce, it doesn't care what it sprays. Now are you prepared to listen to my proposition?” He took another sip of his drink, looked at Farro over the rim of his glass.

Farro
got up, went back to the sideboard and refilled his own glass. He came back, sat down. Baker could see the businessman getting his notes together. “You mentioned a woman. What has she got on you?”

“She saw me coming out of the room where I'd been with Trish—where Trish was murdered. The police put me in a line-up and she was expected to identify me. But she didn't. Which pissed off the police completely. Then she came to me, where I'm staying, and she's blackmailing me.”

“So? Report her to the cops.”

“Bruce—” He was beginning to sound impatient; he didn't want to have to draw cartoons. “If you were in my place, the chief suspect, would you go back to the police and complain about their chief witness?”

Farro considered this; then he said, “Murder someone? I'm not a violent man—”

“Of course you're not. Neither am I. But we're both venal men, let's admit it.” He took another sip of his drink. “I'll give you a million dollars to do it. I could hire a hitman, give him fifteen or twenty thousand, whatever the going rate is. But would I ever be rid of him? Next thing he'd be blackmailing me, just as she is. You and I, Bruce, for a million dollars, can trust each other.”

Shock was the first expression on Farro's face; it was almost instantly replaced by greed. Venality is a quick fertilizer. “You haven't got that sort of money to throw around!”

“I'm not throwing it around. And I've got it, trust me.”
Four and a half million bucks that I knew nothing about till a week or two ago.
“I can pay it to you wherever you like. A big deal like that, it would be better if you didn't have it paid into your bank here. You wouldn't want to be suspected of laundering cash, not on top of all your other sins.”

Farro put down his glass on a nearby table. He leaned forward. “I think you've come here to play some fucking joke—”

“No, Bruce.” Baker stared at him steadily. “It's no joke. A million bucks to murder a woman—a woman who murdered her husband—”

Farro was completely alert now: “Jesus—not the woman—? The one at the hotel that night, killed
her
husband or someone—”

“Her husband. Yes, her. Bizarre, eh? But the police believe her and not me when it comes to Trish's murder. Except that she let them down in the line-up—she said she didn't recognize me. I'll pay you the million dollars in Switzerland or the Bahamas or where you like—”

Farro sat back. He was ruthless, but only in business and romance, where it was part of the game; he could never kill anyone, he had standards, if only out of squeamishness. But he could hire a hitman. His cocaine dealer would know someone who would know someone . . . “You'll pay upfront?”

Baker smiled. “Only a percentage, Bruce. Five thousand down—”

“Against a million? Come on!”

Baker had had to raise the cash through Sarah. He had gone to her this afternoon, told her his credit cards, held through his bank, had run out their time; he had, he said, forgotten to check them. He had accounts to settle where he was staying and he wanted to buy presents for Lucille and the children. Without demurral, as if unconsciously making up for Walter's antagonism, she had written him a cash cheque for five thousand—“Tell my bank to call me if there's any query.” She had kissed him then, a little self-consciously, and he had kissed her back with a feeling of guilt, something he could never remember feeling before.

“Bruce, trust me. I want you to start right away. No wasting time, let's get on with it before this woman changes her mind.”

Farro took his time, seeing beyond the five thousand dollars to the million. “I'll have to get a gun—”

Baker reached across to the couch, picked up the small parcel on top of his overcoat, opened it. “This is a Walther .380—”

“Where'd you get
that
?”

“Bruce, in this town, as in any big town, you can get what you want if you're willing to pay.” He had had to go to American Express to cash a travellers' cheque, but they hadn't asked what he was going to do with the money. “It took me a coupla hours, but eventually I got this. Unfortunately, you can't fit a
silencer
to it, so you'll have to muffle the shot as best you can—”

“Jesus, you're so cold-blooded!”

“I always was, up till some years ago—” He thought of Lucille and the kids; but only for a moment. “I'm reverting to type. Here—” He held out the gun and a small box of ammunition. “Take it.”

For a moment Farro couldn't move his hands; then he reached out and took the gun and the box. “I've never fired a gun in my life—”

“You won't need to practise. Just get up close and all you have to do is squeeze the trigger.”

“You talk as if you've done this before. How many people have you killed? You don't belong to one of those crazy American outfits that play war games?”

“No, Bruce, I don't. And I've never killed anyone. I told you—I'm non-violent. Except in this particular case—” He smiled. “When you kill this woman, you'll be sparing her a long jail sentence—which she'll get for killing her husband. Look at it that way, Bruce. Take the job and the money.”

“Can I trust you?”

“Yes, you can. Give me the name of a bank and the deposit will be there, in cash, tomorrow morning.”

“How do I know the rest of the money will turn up? A million—that's a lot of money to have to spare, Jack.”

But Baker could see that Farro was weakening. “I have it, Bruce—trust me. It's legit money, no strings to it. You will have the full million within a month of you doing the deed.” Walter had assured him that, with a little push and shove in the right quarters, administration on his father's estate was being put through in a hurry. “You can close down your software company—I like the name. Finger—a nice touch. You can take what you can snare from it and go and live in Monaco or the Bahamas or wherever you like. Wherever you want to go to escape the shit that's gonna start flying when the shareholders start yelling for your blood.”

Farro seemed unaware that he was still holding the gun; then he looked down at it and hastily put it on the table beside him. “I don't make deals on trust—”

“
Neither do I, Bruce. But we both have a lot to lose if we don't trust each other. I'm your salvation and you can be mine. Where's your bank?”

Farro took half a minute to consider. Salvation has tempted sinners, but they are usually attempting to avoid Hell; this particular redemption offered an escape from bankruptcy and scandal. A million wasn't much these days, but beggars can't be choosers. He had no one other than himself to consider: no male or female partner, no parents, no siblings, just himself. He gave the address of a bank in Hong Kong.

“I still have an account from when I worked there back in '88. By the time the million is due I'll have an account in the Bahamas or the Caymans. You won't have any trouble transferring it?”

“None at all. I've been working for banks for the past fourteen years. If you know how, transferring money is just as easy as passing on a virus. As soon as you've done the job on the woman, you can leave for the Bahamas or wherever and count the money as it comes in. Here is the woman's name and address. She was obliging—she gave it to me. Women can be dumb, they're too trusting.”

“Am I too trusting?”

“No, Bruce, we're both bastards. We recognize each other.”

Suddenly Farro laughed, tension slipping out of him like sweat. “We had good times, once, didn't we?”

“Often,” said Baker, who couldn't remember ever enjoying Farro's company. He stood up, pulled on his overcoat. “I'm leaving the country tomorrow. Kill her any time after six o'clock tomorrow evening.”

“You haven't told me where you live—”

“Wisconsin, Bruce.”

“You're in a bank
there
? Jesus—Wisconsin?” He tried to remember where it was in the United States, but couldn't. “That's not exactly the hub of the universe, is it?”

“Trust me, Bruce. I'll be in touch.”

When he had gone Farro went back to the living room and picked up the gun. He handled it
gingerly,
as if it were alive; he felt himself beginning to tremble and he put the gun down. He slumped into a chair, began to wonder if he would go ahead with the bargain he had made. But a million was a million . . .