Collapse

by Freddie P Peters

  “I know, Jamie, I know. Can’t explain right now, just wanted to check how things are going with our star transaction?”

  “Quite a few technical points to go through.”

  “Shoot,” said Henry feeling the tiredness slip away from him. He was at his best problem solving. They discussed a number of complex points relating to pricing and structuring of an equity linked transaction. James would not want to discuss these with anyone else.

  “We need to be cautious,” emphasised Henry. “I want to avoid the usual feeding frenzy. You know the sort of crap that goes with the closure of large transactions.”

  “And the other teams sticking their noses into our business. Pretending they are part of the deal to get credit. Yes, I know.”

  “Usual shit. And the traders have lost too much money not to try anything that will give them additional P&L,” replied Henry.

  “Agreed. H, we also need to speak about the team.”

  “What about it? Are they missing me?” asked Henry.

  “Yep, in particular as they have not had anyone to sign their expenses.”

  “OK, let me guess now. Matt and Harriett have had a big ding-dong, actually no, by now they have had a number of ding-dongs.”

  “Yep.”

  “And Matt has been trying to behave as if he is the head of the team, correct?”

  “Correct.”

  “But you showed him who was boss,” continued Henry. Nothing unpredictable there he thought.

  “Just the way you’ve showed me,” replied James sounding amused. James regained composure for his next question “Have you spoken to Ted recently?”

  “No, why would I want to do that?” replied Henry, the association between Ted’s name and his team seeding unwanted thoughts.

  But a persistent noise interrupted Henry. It was the voicemail reminding him that he had forty-five unanswered messages. Henry cut the conversation short. James was doing a good job holding the team together. Henry was ready for whatever GL would throw at him next.

  Quite a few messages rolled through, all uneventful. In the absence of any major calls, Henry started to relax. He sensed the return of his confidence, stronger than before, further invigorated by his conversation with James. He looked at his watch and started calculating how much time it would take to shower, get dressed and take a cab to the office. Then the message from HR came through. The voice sounded impatient, it was someone he did not recognise, his old Human Resources’ contact had resigned a few months back, dreading the aftermath of the credit crisis and the takeover.

  “Mr Crowne, I am sure you are extremely busy.”

  What a bloody stupid thing to say.

  “But could you please call me back.”

  And who the fuck is ME?

  “It is, as you can imagine, incredibly urgent.”

  “I am not ignoring your call, you stupid bitch. I return calls within the hour, unless of course I am in the frigging nick.”

  Henry looked at his phone, he was furious at this lack of professionalism. And then he recognised the number of the off-boarding team. His anger erupted. He wanted someone to lash out at, someone he could defeat the old way, the only way he knew. His fists were clenched. He had not wanted to hit someone like this for many years and had forgotten what it felt like. He started screaming at his phone, obscenities, threats of retribution. The most vulgar and disgraceful, the more appropriate. He screamed until he felt his face distorting uncontrollably, a sharp pain surging in his chest. When he was done, he slowly sagged into his armchair, utterly empty. Anger would not get him out of this mess. His eyes fell on a wrapped parcel he had almost forgotten. The Raft of the Medusa sat against the wall. Despite the wrapping, the potency of its images flooded Henry’s mind. The image of death and defeat made him queasy. He was exhausted, spent, an eerie calm came over him and for the first time since he was a kid, he felt like crying. He hid his face in his hands. The BlackBerry had dropped to the floor, still scrolling through the messages. Leaving it where it had fallen, he walked through his lounge, across the corridor and rang Nancy’s doorbell.

  Chapter Twelve

  The two police cars carrying Pole and his team had parked in the middle of the street in front of Anthony Albert’s Belgravia house. Dolores and another woman from social services shared one car, Pole and Ms Shah the other. Pole said little during the journey. He was concentrating on his delivery. His face turned to the car window, looking out at the rolling streets he did not see. His mind rehearsed once more what he would say to Adeila Albert, to control her, how he would speak to Anastasia, to reassure her. He would never be pushed in a direction he did not want to go, something his superior called lack of vision or at best stubbornness. Pole found that knowledge to be his strength. The understanding of his own limits, the one he wanted to surpass, the one he would never cross, gave him freedom.

  Pole emerged from the car first. His team was waiting for his signal. He stood for a few seconds looking at the imposing yet elegant house. He moved swiftly to the front door and rang the bell. As he stood waiting, Pole thought he could hear music coming from inside the house in an attempt to cover the noise of two people screaming at each other. He rang the doorbell with insistence, ready to get one of his men to break the door down if necessary but the music stopped and a few seconds later the door opened. A dishevelled Mrs Albert stood in the doorway, wearing an expression of fury. Pole saw a slender silhouette flying up the stairwell behind.

  “Mrs Albert, may we enter?” said Pole already pushing his way through.

  “This is not a good time,” replied Adeila Albert dryly.

  “Whether it is or not, is irrelevant,” said Pole. “We need to talk to you and your daughter.”

  “What is this nonsense about my daughter?” she replied, mad anger flashing in her eyes. “She is a very difficult child. Her father used to indulge her without restraint. Anthony never had any discipline.”

  Adeila was about to continue when she spotted Dolores and the woman from social services. Her face turned livid. She had been overheard and was desperate to give her side of the story first.

  “This may be so Mrs Albert but we would like to speak to your daughter directly.”

  “I am her guardian and will decide whether or not you can speak to her,” said Adeila Albert in a shrill voice.

  “I am perfectly prepared to file for a search warrant and I have a protection order Mrs Albert. You no longer decide whether we speak to your daughter. I do.”

  Pole’s calm determination sent shock waves around the room. Adeila Albert stepped toward Pole, ready to do battle, when a small child appeared in the doorway of the lounge in which all had gathered.

  “I am here,” said a young girl in a shaky but decisive voice.

  Dolores moved forward gently and swiftly placed herself between mother and child.

  “I am Dolores, we spoke on the phone.”

  The young girl nodded.

  “Would you like to come with me?”

  Dolores crouched in front of Anastasia, who was twisting a small hankie in her hands. She had been crying. The little girl nodded and Dolores softly took her by the hand. Mrs Albert leaped forward with a demented scream, but Nurani barred the way. Adeila started speaking in another language, which no one could understand, although there was no need to. The distorted expression on her face and the vehemence of her voice could only mean abuse. Pole moved next to Nurani, both of them remaining calm until the door of the house had been closed. Pole let the crisis rise and fall, waiting for a panting Adeila to stop.

  “Could you please now follow us to Scotland Yard, we have quite a lot to discuss, Mrs Albert.”

  Pole’s voice carried the undercurrent of some unbreakable will. She would follow them and would be questioned. Adeila Albert clenched her jaws and moved with disdain. She would follow after she had changed into more appropriate attire.

  * * *

  The coffee machine was making its familiar grinding and buzzing noise w
hilst Pole leaned against it, his eyes not seeing the coffee that was being prepared. Adeila Albert had been led into one of the interrogation rooms and, offered a tea that she had turned down. She had called her lawyer and refused to say a word until he arrived.

  “Your coffee is ready, Jon,” said Dolores, squeezing his arm gently.

  “Ah, yes, thanks. I was miles away.”

  “She is a brave little girl, and more resilient than you think,” continued Dolores, trying to alleviate Pole’s concerns.

  “What has she decided?”

  “She wants to stay with a foster family, for a while.”

  “Why do people take it out on their kids? I know it is always complicated and I should not judge but by God – why?”

  “Ambition and vanity engulf people without them noticing.”

  “I know Dolores but it still makes me mad,” said Pole. “Then again I don’t have any kids.”

  “Well, you don’t need to have any to see the absurdity of all this.” Dolores had also asked the machine for an espresso, no sugar.

  “Your coffee is ready, Dolores,” said Pole with a smile.

  She smiled back took her cup and lifted it to Pole in a sign of acknowledgement.

  “And what is my excuse?”

  Pole finished his drink and crushed the cup with one hand. He had nearly reached interrogation room twelve where Mrs Albert was impatiently waiting when Andy caught up with him.

  “Boss, just very quickly, I have reviewed the documents sent by this guy Ted Barnes from the integration committee at GL.”

  Pole’s mind switched swiftly back to the other matter.

  “The committee that is in charge of merging a number of businesses after the takeover is finalised, in particular Crowne and Albert’s businesses. Go on,” said Pole.

  “Yes, well the numbers are interesting, plus the comments. I am pretty sure Albert would have got the top job.”

  Pole lifted a quizzical eyebrow and ruffled his goatee.

  “Mmm, not really what I was expecting,” he paused.

  “How old are the numbers Andy?”

  “Last year’s unaudited and this year’s projection.”

  “OK, get me some figures for, say, the last five years, audited, plus a list of deals closed for the past five years and the one that should close this year.”

  “I am on it, Boss,” said Andy turning about to dash out.

  Pole shook his head in amusement, turned around and inhaled.

  He walked into interrogation room twelve. Nurani was already there checking the equipment that would be used to record the conversation, keeping an eye on Mrs Albert and her lawyer.

  Adeila Albert had complained that she needed time to change before leaving for the Yard. Pole had had no intention of indulging her ridiculous request. Considering her circumstances, Mrs Albert was pretty focused on the non-essentials. As luck would have it, she had managed to spill a cup of undrunk coffee on her dress – clever move. There was no alternative but to let her change.

  With an air of triumph, Adeila had retired, accompanied by Nurani, to her bedroom and effected at speed the much-wanted switch of clothing.

  She had emerged wearing an elegant black and white trouser suit from Escada and managed to name drop the designer when calling her lawyer. She had decided on a pair of classic Chanel shoes to match her handbag. This time neither Pole nor Nurani could avoid recognising the unmistakably intertwined Cs. Her jewellery was equally impressive. Finally, and despite the lack of sun, Mrs Albert drew from her bag a white pair of D&G sunglasses.

  Pole observed with interest and some surprise the effect on Nurani, the mixture of disdain and what he suspected was envy. Adeila Albert had walked into the police station as though she were entering a recording studio. The show was on.

  Pole started with simple questions but soon decided to cut to the chase. Adeila showed little control, her temper always unchecked and her need for recognition unsatisfied – all these solid grounds for action.

  “How close are you to Brett Allner-Smith, Mrs Albert?” asked Pole.

  “We are good friends,” replied Adeila .

  “How did you meet Mr Allner-Smith?”

  Pole had picked up on her emphasis but decided to avoid the obvious question for a while. Adeila launched into a description of auctions at Sotheby’s and Christie’s. How she had spotted an incredible piece of antiquity. How her husband had thought it was unaffordable, of course poor Anthony could not tell the difference between a two-thousand-five-hundred-year-old Grecian vase and a flowerpot from IKEA. She, however, was a natural. Her lawyer looked unhappy but simply expressed his growing unrest by indicating that these details were superfluous. Brett had been marvellous, Adeila continued, spotting her skills at detecting unusual pieces. He had recommended she attend a course he was running at one of the auction houses. She babbled along for a while and Pole let her go on. Her lawyer tried politely to redirect the conversation yet again. Adeila was too engrossed in her world to notice.

  “Is Mr Allner-Smith your lover?” Pole demanded abruptly.

  “Brett is,” said Adeila before her lawyer could stop her. “Anthony was never of the right calibre.”

  “How long have you been having this affair?” Pole asked in a flat tone.

  Adeila’s face changed colour, her lips tightened. She abruptly turned towards her lawyer.

  “Why did you not stop me?” she spat at him vehemently. “You incompetent nerd.”

  The older man’s cheeks reddened with anger.

  “Could I have a moment with my client please?”

  “Certainly,” replied Pole.

  The interview would carry on now, no matter what. Adeila would not get much sympathy from her lawyer.

  Good result.

  * * *

  Brett Allner-Smith had arrived at the Yard. He was coming voluntarily, no doubt very keen to give his side of the story and clear his name. Brett was waiting. He had accepted his cup of tea and looked pretty relaxed. His control was different from that of Henry, softer and yet surprisingly more effective. Pole had asked Nurani to start the process without him, giving her the lead. He would observe for a while through the one-way mirror.

  His very English tailoring had made Nurani cringe, the Prince of Wales jacket, the silk cravat, the small moustache and the very blond hair made her feel uncomfortable. His perfectly manicured hands showed no sign of real work and his nonchalance irritated her, yet something about him was intriguing.

  Brett had become nervous when she entered the room, but then again this was not a particularly relaxing experience. Brett Allner-Smith was somewhat shaken at the idea of where he was but managed to hide his nerves surprisingly well. Pole detected something else. Until Nurani entered the room, the man was bored. Adeila might have provided a distraction for a while but he had moved on. He needed something new. In dilettantish fashion, he was surveying the young inspector sitting opposite him.

  The chase is so much more interesting with a female police officer, thought Pole. He entered the room.

  “Mr Allner-Smith, Inspector Pole,” said Pole, extending a hand. “I hope you have not been waiting too long.” Pole smiled.

  “Absolutely not,” Brett replied, looking annoyed. “I can, of course, spare the time to assist in these terrible circumstances. What a tragedy.”

  Pole sat down. A few long hours of hide and seek with the truth had now begun.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Henry rang Nancy’s doorbell twice, in short impatient bursts. He wanted to get on with it, wanted to get definitive advice from a proper lawyer. She would recommend someone tough, someone who could deal with HR, this entire mess. He wanted to go back to his team, his life. Nancy took what Henry thought was an interminable amount of time to reach the door. He had rested his tall body against the wall, arms folded across his chest, when she finally opened up. She gestured him in, she was on the phone to what seemed to be an old colleague.

  She carried on her cryptic conversa
tion whilst Henry stepped into her living room, not knowing what to do. She left him there, going back to her notepad. He noticed that she was writing once again on a yellow legal briefing pad.

  Reassuring – once a lawyer, always a lawyer.

  The room wrapped itself around him. Henry felt it again, this deep sense of peace, unaltered by the charged activity. Nancy had now finished her conversation and looked at her watch.

  “I thought it was going to take you longer to come over,” she said with an amused smile. “A good sign indeed.”

  “You mean it took me less time than you thought to admit that you were right,” retorted Henry.

  “No,” said Nancy. “I am not trying to enter into a battle of wills with you, Henry. I am simply glad you have realised that denial works against you. I have nothing to prove to you.” Her tone of voice was conciliatory. “I have just finished a conversation with Gavin Pritchard QC, a good friend of mine and ex-colleague. He can take the case on. His record in criminal law is second to none. We have an appointment first thing in the morning.”

  Henry did not respond. She waited a few more moments until Henry finally relaxed, reassured by the news.

  “You now need to think about a number of important things. Firstly, do you want to get a recommendation from someone else?”

  Henry opened his mouth to speak but Nancy lifted her hand to stop him in his tracks.

  “Secondly, do you want me to still be involved and, if so, how? Your barrister will be bound by client confidentiality. I am not, although I am very happy to enter into a form of agreement tying me to the same rule if you so wish. Finally, you must think about what you are accused of and decide what you want to say and how you want to plead. Telling the truth to your lawyer is advisable, then again you need to decide what this all means to you.”

  Henry sat down on the sofa, bending his body forward, elbows on knees.

  “I need time,” he said eventually.

  “You have some time but not much, at least to decide on the first two questions,” said Nancy.

  “Could I stay here a bit to think?” said Henry, feeling awkward at invading her privacy. But he needed to stay away from his flat at all costs, the temptation to call his office still far too strong.