Henry liked her voice. It was smooth and yet authoritative. Henry wanted to ask her the question that was burning on his lips when Pole entered the room. Pole’s face was closed to scrutiny, his voice neutral.
“I am prepared to release you on one condition. You must surrender your passports.”
What? Henry’s reaction was one of anger at the thought of giving up his freedom. What if a client needed him? He was about to protest but Nancy read his mood.
“My client accepts your conditions, Inspector.”
“I do not,” burst Henry.
Nancy stopped his sentence short with a sharp move of her hand and a glare that cut him to the quick.
“Yes, you do,” she replied.
Pole left the room to prepare the documents. Henry turned towards Nancy, his chair screeching on the floor, his body leaning half way across the table..
“What the fuck is the matter with you?”
Henry blushed for the first time in a long time as he realised he had insulted his neighbour, a woman he hardly knew, and more importantly someone he needed to rely on. Nancy paused before replying with a mixture of humour and implacable determination.
“This is no longer the trading floor, my dear fellow. You do not make the rules. I do. And I know this will be mighty hard, but you do not swear at me either.”
“But my passports? What if I have to see a client urgently,” replied Henry without conviction.
“I doubt you will be let near a client in the next couple of days. Don’t you think?”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because YOU are involved in a murder investigation, Henry. GL will have taken notice of this somehow. Don’t you think? And so will your clients.”
Henry stood up but Nancy had not moved.
“You won’t be allowed outside the country. Get used to the idea.”
Henry gave a conceding grunt.
“Good, this is your get-out-of-jail card. We play it and we move on.”
Henry felt reassured by the ‘we’. His experience in the City had taught him to detect lack of substance. Nancy had plenty of firepower and he liked that.
Nancy looked at her Chanel watch and stood up. Henry raised a quizzical eyebrow.
“The papers are ready,” she said.
Henry looked towards the door, doubtful. The door opened. The papers were indeed ready.
* * *
An hour before, Dolores Patten had taken a phone call that could change everything.
Jon, need an urgent chat with you, a significant development in the Crowne–Albert affair, read the text to Pole.
Dolores was working at profiling Henry from what she had so far seen but Pole knew it would take time before she could deliver her findings. It had to be something else, something major. Dolores was not the sort to get him out of an interrogation with a prime suspect for nothing.
Chapter Ten
Pole had left Nancy and Henry. The break he needed after Dolores’ text. He saw her in the distance waving at him. Her face, which usually reflected calm and composure, was concerned.
“I know you are keen to go back but I truly need to speak to you,” she turned towards her office and sensing Pole’s hesitation looked back at him.
“It’s urgent.”
He followed her. She gathered notes scattered on her desk, Pole perched himself on a side desk that leaned against the wall, his preferred spot when speaking to Dolores.
“I just had a long conversation with Anastasia Albert, very disturbing.”
Pole frowned.
“You mean Albert’s daughter?”
“Yes, I do. I have taken a copious amount of notes, we can discuss this later but in a nutshell she believes her mother is responsible for her father’s death.”
“Are you serious?”
“Absolutely, it was a very distressing call. She managed to speak despite the tears. A courageous little girl.”
A heavy silence settled. Pole took a deep breath and let his head lean against the wall behind him, closing his eyes.
“Is this credible or is she overreacting to his death?”
“I can say two things for sure. She knows this is a murder case. She is absolutely convinced her mother is involved, bear in mind she is only eight years of age.” Dolores stopped again. “She has also had, in my opinion, a traumatic childhood that leads her to think this.”
Dolores looked at Pole. He tugged at his goatee.
“I am listening,” said Pole and jumped from his perched position, to sit in a chair in front of Dolores.
The situation was grave enough that he owed it his full attention.
Dolores explained the details of the conversation. Mrs Albert had, according to her daughter, a lover who sometimes visited when her father was away but whom she also visited often, leaving Anastasia and her brother alone, terrified. The details given by Anastasia were far too vivid to come from her imagination. When Dolores asked tactfully how she was getting on with her mother the little girl erupted. She had had to grow up too fast, pushed by the demands of overzealous parents, who wanted her to be what they had never been and more importantly could never be. Dolores stopped for a short while, allowing Pole to take the information in. She had worked with him long enough to know that cases involving children always disturbed him.
He stood up and moved a few files on her desk, then sat down again.
“So, you think that there is enough content in this little girl’s call to investigate?”
Pole knew the answer but braced himself for the reply.
“Yes, Jon, I do. This is not only the trauma of a major loss speaking here.”
“Don’t go anywhere please. I know you are on half day but I need to dispatch Crowne first. This latest development forces my hand. I’ll be quick.”
Pole found Nurani and Andy processing fresh data and keen to share their findings. Pole interrupted his two assistants courteously but unequivocally.
“Yes, I will need to review them with you but before we do this could you please prepare the documents for Crowne’s release.”
Nurani and Andy exchanged a glance of disbelief. Henry was getting away.
Whilst his team was following the release procedure, Pole went back to Dolores’ office. She was reading her notes again, making some additions here and there, ensuring that nothing of her conversation was lost. Pole had not bothered to knock at the door and Dolores did not mind. She lifted her face and shook her head.
“There is a lot in this conversation. We are looking at some serious psychological abuse I fear.”
“How old is Anastasia again?” asked Pole.
“She is eight.” Dolores clasped her hands underneath her desk and leaned forward. “The procedure for interviewing minors is very rigorous, I will have to talk to social services. Her mother is no longer fit to be the adult present at her interview I fear.”
“How can this happen in an environment that is so privileged?” said Pole. “I know it shouldn’t surprise me but after all these years it still does.”
Dolores smiled at him.
“That’s why you still do your job so well after all these years, Jon. You still care about the human soul.”
Pole coughed, not knowing how to react to this compliment.
“Anyway, to answer your question. I can think of many reasons unfortunately. A powerful combination of mankind’s worst features, greed, vanity, devouring ambition, you know these as well as I do. You keep up with colleagues,” Dolores said, “the neighbours, you move up and up and you become so obsessed by it to the point where you fail to ask yourself the real questions, dead to the values that should really matter.”
Dolores lifted her face towards Pole. Her dark eyes resting on him, her head tilted so that her mass of heavy dark locks fell to one side. Pole had never asked her why she had chosen the job.
“I also presume that no one in their environment would have noticed anything.”
“Unfortunately, it is hard to be hone
st with yourself. The pressure of what others will think, the need to comply and be accepted. This means not allowing for signs of dissent to appear as much as possible.”
“When are we going to get the OK to pay Mrs Albert a visit?” said Pole deliberately moving back to the case.
“I need to follow procedure, call social services. You know the drill. I will do this now. We won’t get an answer until tomorrow morning but I don’t think the little one is in immediate danger.”
“Your call, Dee.”
Dolores nodded and started making calls.
* * *
Henry shivered in the open air when he stepped outside Scotland Yard. Nancy had wrapped a bright orange pashmina around her shoulders, it barely sheltered her from the cold October wind. Her walk was alert – a woman in control. Henry slowed down and let her move a few paces ahead. He could not quite believe his present situation; the prominent City banker, walking out of the Yard, accompanied by a retired QC who just secured his release, albeit without a passport.
“I’d laugh at the situation, if it weren’t mine,” said Henry.
“Humour is a powerful tool, don’t lose it just yet.”
She grabbed his arm and pushed him into the cab she had just hailed.
“Yes, Mum.”
Henry grinned at the familiarity he had just displayed to someone he still considered a perfect stranger. Nancy smiled in return and gave their address to the cabbie.
They rode home in silence. Henry was enjoying his freedom. He had thought he would feel exhausted after his lengthy interrogation but he only felt joy. He was free. What mattered, he discovered, was the moment. The cab took a wrong turn, it was going to take longer to get home. Henry would have normally jumped at the cab driver and got him to change his route; not today. He swallowed what would have been a heated argument. It was of very little importance, after all.
Henry took in the scenery. He saw the embankment for the first time in years, admired the square clock of the Savoy Tower, spotted King’s College disappearing on his right as they went through The Aldwych. It felt good simply to be alive and able to take it all in, not needing to block out all that was happening around him, always projecting towards the next meeting, the next deal to close, the next battle to win.
* * *
Nancy pulled a yellow pad out of her orange rucksack and started writing. An old habit from her lawyer’s days she had never lost. She took notes on everything and arranged them in folders fastidiously organised in her office. Her note-taking method was renowned in the profession. She captured the words of course but also the minor details she observed, those that made all the difference. Communication of vital importance was always the non-verbal she had observed.
Henry dropped his guard as soon as he entered the cab. His body was relaxed, slightly slumped in the corner of the back seat and his attention focused on the magnificent spectacle that constituted the building outline along the Thames. Nancy gave Henry a side glance. Without knowing yet why, she felt sympathy for him. She trusted her instinct as to Henry’s character but also knew something personal was afoot. The Raft of the Medusa had told her so.
Vivid images of Paris materialised. The original painting hanging at The Louvre, then The Sorbonne Law School final year results. The students smoking Gauloises sans filtre, terrible taste but so trendy among her left-wing friends. She was part of that community that rebelled. She had escaped communist China with her parents at the time of the Cultural Revolution and felt welcome amongst la gauche française. The young woman standing in front of the panels with all her friends had undergone such transformation. Nancy wondered whether it could have been different.
The cabbie used his horn and swore at a cyclist. Nancy’s past evaporated as quickly as it had surfaced. She went back to her pad. Henry had not moved, still savouring his release. Nancy read what she had jotted down and added one final comment.
Check Jonathan Pole, know the name.
As they were approaching home, Henry noticed that Nancy was looking at him with an amused smile.
“Freedom is good, n’est-ce pas?” she whispered.
Henry nodded. Nancy exuded an unusual mix of confidence and empathy. Henry could never trust easily but today he seemed more at ease with her than any of the numerous friends he had in the City. Nancy had stopped writing and relaxed in silence. Time for an in-depth conversation would come later. She let Henry enjoy a few moments of peace. The hard work was still in front of them.
* * *
McCarthy walked out of the building and jumped into a cab. He enjoyed these few moments of complete anonymity away from the well-orchestrated timetable that Cindy laid out in front of him every day; the penance of a CEO he often said. He enjoyed meeting with the UK political elite. Unlike their American counterparts, the British still had a sense of decorum and cultivated the cosiness of exclusive gentlemen’s clubs. By some quirky twist of the law, the Club that McCarthy visited was still reserved for gentlemen only, something that he approved of wholeheartedly.
His taxi turned into St James and stopped at the corner of Jermyn Street. He would walk the last few yards on foot, as was customary. McCarthy left the cab driver with a reasonable tip. He did not want to be remembered either for tipping too much or too little. He disappeared down a small passageway. The door of the club was open and the small plump doorman who was waiting at the entrance, recognised him. With a short nod of the head and the customary Good Evening sir, he ushered him into the club’s lobby. McCarthy was led through a series of rooms where gentlemen sat in small comfortable meetings. He finally reached a corner of one of the smoking rooms and was left to settle. McCarthy was a tad early. He pursed his lips, a fault in protocol. He knew his contact well enough though to avoid playing games about timing.
At 6.30 on the dot McCarthy’s contact entered the room and came to sit opposite him in one of the deep leather armchairs.
“My dear Douglas, I hope I have not kept you waiting long.”
McCarthy stood up rapidly and, with a grin, extended a short energetic hand.
“I’ve just arrived.”
“Good, good,” the other man said. He turned towards the waiter and then McCarthy.
“The usual I presume?”
“Yes please.” McCarthy felt a slight pinch of pride that his contact remembered his taste in beverage.
“Two Glenfiddichs, no ice, Martin, thank you.” The man settled comfortably into his chair and joined his hands in front of him, fingertips touching.
“So, Douglas where is this market going?” asked the slender gentleman without any further niceties. “We entered the subprime crisis nearly a year ago now. There are some signs of optimism which I don’t believe will last. How bad is the housing market in the US? You are the expert.” He gestured with deferral at McCarthy.
McCarthy pushed his stocky body into the chair and considered his answer. There was no point in trying to sell William bullshit. He had been in government for far too long not to recognise the smell of it.
“Yes, it is going to get a lot worse. We are only at the beginning I am afraid,” McCarthy paused.
“And? I feel there is an ‘and’.”
“And GL has already incurred a heavy loss,” said McCarthy clearing his voice.
“So you invested in that market too? Billions?”
McCarthy nodded.
“Tell me more about Collaterised Debt Obligations,” William asked.
“They are instruments that use mortgages as investments.”
“Like subprime?”
“Correct, but they have tranches of risk.” McCarthy replied.
“And you believe that the rating agencies have verified each investment that goes in there. There must be thousands?”
“I am – not sure,” said McCarthy promptly taking another mouthful of whisky.
“I see. But GL is the master of the CDO business, right? Anyway, any risks of contamination to the UK?”
“Quite possibly, in fact alm
ost certainly. US CDOs sold to UK investors and of course you, in the UK, have your own subprime market!” replied McCarthy almost defiant.
“Mmmm, thought so. Timing is obviously appalling for the Labour Party. Gordon will not survive this crisis but then again a change in the governing party after twelve years is overdue.”
“Are you not worried?” asked McCarthy dubious at this even-keeled response.
“No, I am the glue that keeps all governments together,” said the man with a distant smile and a spark of humour in his eyes.
“I see.” McCarthy paused for a moment before deciding to be unequivocally frank.
“To continue on the subject of subprime,” said McCarthy. “We are going to see a spectacular collapse at the lower end of the market very soon, certainly before the end of the year. I don’t think the banks know exactly how bad their inventories of subprime products look yet.”
McCarthy paused, took another mouthful of whisky.
“Hell, I don’t understand some of it myself, CDO squared, CDO cubed,” he uncomfortably volunteered.
“Neither do we,” the man replied after an equally lengthy pause. “As you know, a number of economists during the Blair era warned us of the impending crisis. The mortgage rates were too low, the level of borrowings too high, etc. John was quite vocal about it but then who in government would volunteer to stop the fun? Gordon got into a world of his own. Intellectual arrogance and stubbornness are unfortunately the main character traits of successful politicians. We received a number of reports from the Bank of England that were sounding caution. Of course, no one had the appetite to do anything about it.”
“What about the FSA?” ventured McCarthy.
“Come, come, Douglas, buffoons as you well know yourself. Anyway, most of them have a salary one tenth the size of the salary of those they seek to regulate. A farce really.”
McCarthy smiled.
“I am aware.”
His contact reciprocated the smile.
“The difficult thing here is that all of us are to blame, including the public, but who will be frank or crazy enough to tell the story. It is much easier to concentrate on the obscene amount of money made by the banks.”
Collapse Page 10
