“Sure,” said Nancy in a relaxed tone. “I need to tend to my flowers, so help yourself to whatever you need in the kitchen. I make a mean tarte aux citrons and there is some left in the fridge.”
With this she disappeared into the second floor of her duplex apartment. The idea of a slice of cake made Henry’s mouth water. He had not had any proper food for forty-eight hours and decided to investigate Nancy’s fridge. His mother always kept cakes in the fridge. Keeps them nice and moist for you my love. For years, as a child, he had enjoyed sneaking in there for a slice. He had discovered only much later she had been fighting a losing battle with the various rodents that haunted her kitchen. The fridge was at least a safer place to store food. Henry shivered in disgust, wondering why he was reminiscing about the past. He helped himself to a large, possibly too large for good manners, piece of tart. He had never tasted such delicious food until he had come to London. There was still some tea in the pot so he poured himself a mug, visited the fridge again for milk and settled in Nancy’s living room. It was so easy to be here. He sat back, looking at the unusual decor of the room, took a deep breath and fell asleep.
* * *
McCarthy had been updated by Ted twice already, each time after a discussion with Scotland Yard. Ted had been creative in a way McCarthy had not expected, his friendship with Henry soon forgotten. McCarthy consulted his watch. It was nearly time for another key internal meeting. Ted would be there doing what he was told. This total compliance would have been nauseating at other times but with the takeover strategy to finalise McCarthy needed it.
* * *
Ted also consulted his watch. It was five past two in the afternoon, and his meeting had started already. He had been compiling the next lot of documents to be sent to the Yard. McCarthy would probably want to be updated after the meeting. He had to be ready. Pushing the door of the meeting room open Ted uttered a barely audible, “Sorry, lots to do” and grabbed the nearest seat.
A pile of documents had been distributed, waiting to be opened. Anish Gupta, Global Head of Debt Capital Market at GL, was running the meeting. He had paused briefly to allow Ted to enter before carrying on.
“We are checking our combined numbers with the other team, but the low estimate exceeds $20billion at the moment. It will depend how finance wants to calculate the losses on our complex, illiquid and long dated instruments.”
Another young man in the team, with a ponytail and a small beard, got very excited. “The accounting standards are going to bloody crucify us. Any mark to market in the current climate is a fucking disaster.”
“I know Nick,” said the short Indian man pursing his lips in disdain. “But this is what enabled us to take our profits when the going was good. It is going to take a lot more than $20 billion to get the accounting standards to be changed. So we have to be creative.”
“You mean a complete meltdown of the whole effing market,” Nick replied.
Heads turned from one man to another as if he had uttered the worst of obscenities. Unperturbed, Anish Gupta carried on.
“We now have on the books a number of mispriced instruments, why? Because the original assumptions on growth, interest rates and sustainability were wrong. The leverage on these is tenfold what it should be. We are not going to be able to sell these on, so the balance sheet is eroding at a speed I have never seen before. In fact, at this rate we will be in default in the next two months.”
The people around the table protested loudly at the same time, producing an inaudible jumble. Again, unperturbed, Anish carried on.
“The way I see this, we can accept HXBK’s offer now and subsume the business into theirs or we can try to play hardball and miss the boat. We still have the upper hand, no need to deny what is happening. We are amongst ourselves today.” Anish paused for effect. “If the deal does not go through now, we will all become the underdogs and the next lot of negotiations will not be fun. By the way we can argue until we are blue in the face that our financial models have been reviewed and agreed with the regulator, this will make zero difference if the markets tank once more.”
This time the room remained uncomfortably silent. A few shuffled on their seats. Suddenly the door opened, the timing was impeccable as McCarthy made his entrance. Each of the men assembled in the room greeted the old man in their particular ways, vying for attention.
“Have you discussed?” said McCarthy without any other form of introduction.
“We have,” Anish replied equally abruptly.
“Then you all know what you have to do, don’t you?” carried on McCarthy, this time facing the room full on.
The question didn’t call for a debate, and the room was plunged into an icy silence. Douglas McCarthy scrutinised faces. There was little his men could hide from him. The room stood still. McCarthy waited to see who would move first.
Ted shuffled on his chair.
“Ted, do you have a question?”
All heads turned towards the young man. Ted’s dishevelled blond hair, and wary eyes made a few of his colleges snigger. He was not one of them. It took a few seconds for Ted to realise that McCarthy was addressing him, a few more seconds before he could start formulating a remotely sensible response.
“No! Good.”
McCarthy had decided to spare Ted the humiliation of making a fool of himself. Ted needed to do a lot more for him in the Crowne affair. McCarthy spoke again.
“I am expecting you all to push for a close. This means that the final due diligence is to be done swiftly, the contracts ready for signature inside two weeks.”
A murmur went around the room, McCarthy lifted his hand. He had not finished.
“If you have issues to clarify I do not want emails, I do not want calls, I want direct face to face contact. If you can’t do this because you are travelling, I will make sure that Cindy sets up a secure line through our video call network. I am also expecting you to communicate in the same fashion with the members of your staff that you trust.”
McCarthy paused and waited, this time no one moved until he did.
“When it comes to the Crowne incident, I will handle this personally together with the Head of Legal. Any queries I want referred to me in person, no mail, no voicemail.”
He did not bother to ask whether there were further questions. He knew there would be none. McCarthy left the room having spent less than fifteen minutes with his direct reports.
An efficient meeting, he thought.
McCarthy avoided the lift but walked the three flights of stairs separating the meeting room floor and his office. He had hardly reached his desk when Cindy entered in her usual fashion, asking whether he had time for Ted. McCarthy had expected Ted would need to speak. The young man was fretting during the meeting.
“When is my next available slot?”
“Tomorrow, 9pm.”
Cindy never hesitated to push his schedule beyond the call of duty. She had learned, in all the years she had worked for McCarthy, to identify the people he would want or need to speak to. Ted had become one of them. But McCarthy needed to see Ted sooner. Cindy suggested a rearrangement that disrespected rank and seniority. McCarthy managed a smile – this was why he respected Cindy.
* * *
The phone call with Henry was over and yet James had not moved. As their dialogue progressed, Henry had come back into his own. No one but him could have helped James navigate the complex matter they were debating and certainly not Ted. The intricacy came from a number of angles, one was the mathematical modelling of the embedded option. The technology was cutting edge and only a handful of people comprehended it fully. James understood well enough what his quantitative team, in charge of this new model, was talking about but then again, he wanted to make absolutely sure, never fazed by admitting he did not always know. Henry made a point of encouraging his people to speak freely about their doubts, something that the CDO team hardly ever did.
Henry had little respect for a team that created what he regarded as ar
tificial products. A lot of bullshit and hot air! His take on sophistication and risk was simple. There is no such thing as a free lunch. If the rewards were high, so were the risks. Anyone pretending otherwise was guilty of shameful, intellectual dishonesty.
James was invigorated by their chat and almost optimistic, almost. But they had not spoken about Ted. On reflection, the discussion about Ted needed to be face to face. For the time being he would hold the fort as Henry had asked him to. Would GL ever allow Henry back on the trading floor? Certainly not until this mess had been sorted out and possibly not even after that.
“Yes, you are in deep shit my friend,” uttered James.
He sat back at his desk and started checking his mailbox. One of the messages caught his eye. It was from Cindy Freeman, McCarthy’s PA.
James,
Mr McCarthy would like to see you at 7.00am sharp tomorrow morning.
Regards
Cindy Freeman, Executive Assistant to Douglas McCarthy
He read the message again for clues and finally pressed the only button he could possibly press, accepting the invite.
James looked up and saw that both Harriett and Matt were missing.
He leaned towards Morag.
“Where are those two?” he whispered.
“No idea,” she replied. “I have a feeling that Matt is in New York.”
James took in the information, flinching at the thought.
“Doing what?”
“Again, no idea,” whispered Morag.
“Harriett?”
“I suspect still at the lawyer’s. She is trying to close her deal this week. She was working on it late last night, in fact early this morning. She sent me an email at 2am.”
“Who is he using?”
“Pamela Anderson.”
In other circumstances James and Morag would have made the expected joke but the mood was missing.
“Find out for me where Matt is please. This is urgent,” said James in a low voice.
“Understood, I am on it.”
Morag put on her headset and was immediately on the trail.
Chapter Fourteen
Pole spent over an hour with Brett Allner-Smith, talking about his two marriages, his work and finally his relationship with Adeila Albert. He was proceeding gradually, moving in deeper with each question, so he could get a different angle. In this meticulous job that he enjoyed doing, Pole felt like a surgeon moving closer to the epicentre of the disease.
Currently, however, both Pole and Ms Shah had retired to exchange views, leaving Allner-Smith on his own.
“This guy is starting to interest me more,” said Pole.
“Why? He is so removed from real life,” replied Nurani, dubious.
“Well, you look at him and you think ‘antiquities’ that few people can afford, at least at the level he operates. That makes him remote. OK, true enough but—”
Pole paused. He sat on Nurani’s desk whilst she took the chair.
“It does not mean that he is not after money the good old fashion way. And that he is not capable of scheming to get back what he has lost or even pushing someone to commit the worst.”
Nurani considered Pole’s proposition for a few moments before replying.
“I find him creepy in a seductive sort of way,” she volunteered. “So, yes, he could manipulate, be the brain.”
“It is a simple calculation. Right?” said Pole. “Anthony Albert dies, Adeila gets the money, he moves in or even better he marries her. She probably does not know the extent to which he has lost his own wealth. If all goes well he stays married for a while and spends her money the way he has been used to all his life. Worst comes to the worst, he gets a divorce and asks for a settlement. People have killed for less – he simply needs to put the right idea in Adeila’s mind.”
“I agree that Adeila is besotted enough with this guy to do anything for him and, well – if her own husband had an affair then maybe. But then again, it is pretty obvious.”
“We are dealing with people who are arrogant. Do you think they think we are going to catch them? No, no, no – they are convinced they are going to fox a bunch of dumb coppers like us.”
“Yes, Guv,” carried on Nurani, crossing her eyes.
“And conveniently, this murder takes place in the middle of a protracted takeover.”
“Does Adeila really measure the huge tension between her husband and Crowne?”
“All we have seen of the competition between these two men indicates that this has been going on for some years. She knows. She also is the sort of woman who will want to find out whether her lifestyle is going to be affected by the changes in her husband’s financial situation. If he is likely to fail, a life insurance cheque may not go amiss.”
They both stopped to assess this latest statement. Neither Pole nor Nurani had noticed Andy standing at the door, listening intently to what was being said.
“Actually, I might have found something … interesting,” exclaimed Andy.
“Mmmm,” said Pole, his mind still on Adeila and Brett.
“I think Brett Allner-Smith knows Henry Crowne and also Douglas McCarthy, the CEO of GL.”
“What?” Pole said with a sideways look. “That IS news, go on.”
“I have been checking Crowne’s bank account for movements that might be of interest and I’ve found some large sums of money being paid to Sotheby’s. He buys and sells a fair bit of Asian art, so I called Sotheby’s.”
Andy was about to enter into a lengthy account of his findings when Pole interrupted him.
“And?”
“Sorry, sorry,” replied Andy, blushing slightly whilst adjusting his glasses. “Allner-Smith sold a statuette, a Guanyin, in ivory, sixth century AD, to Crowne in March 2004. The statuette came from his own collection but had to be authenticated by Sotheby’s, at Crowne’s request as far as I can tell.”
“Very good. A nice bone of contention between those two,” exclaimed Pole. “And what of the McCarthy connection?”
“Allner-Smith always invites McCarthy to all sorts of previews when Asian art comes to auction, but I haven’t had time to dig deeper.”
“Well done, young man – keep digging and you, Ms Shah, you go back and have a little chit-chat with Brett.”
Nurani’s face twisted, cringing at the thought.
“I will put Mrs Albert on ice and join you for a more in-depth conversation with the English gentry.”
Pole dealt swiftly with a furious Adeila. Yes, she would have to wait, yes, she could have a coffee but no, it would not come from Caffè Nero. Pole rejoined Nurani for a new round with Allner-Smith. Brett was very animated, seeking Nurani’s attention. Pole could see that Ms Shah had dropped her guard significantly, admiring with slight annoyance the skill of the other man. Inspector Pole walked straight to the table and slid a picture of an ancient ivory statuette in front of Brett.
“How about giving me an expert description of this particular object, Mr Allner-Smith, together with, if you please, an even more detailed description of its sale?”
Pole’s eyes ran over Brett, ice cold. Nothing would escape his attention until the interrogation was over. Brett Allner-Smith took a small pair of half-moon glasses out of an old leather box and pushed them up the tip of his nose.
You can try to buy time, thought Pole, I am still getting the truth out of you.
Allner-Smith remained composed, yet Pole detected the man’s mood swing, a mix of irritation and disquiet. Pole was satisfied with the reaction he had just triggered. He now needed to tap into its source. Brett finally responded, his voice was low and his lips quivered.
“I used to own this Guanyin,” he paused. His fingers went lovingly down the picture as he spoke again. “A magnificent piece attributed to the Tang dynasty. It came from my great grandfather,” he paused again his eyes resting still on the picture. “A well-travelled man.”
“And you sold it?” interrupted Pole tearing the man away from his fond memories.
“Yes, I did,” replied Brett, still composed. “I had to sell it to this – Irish peasant.” The words escaped Brett but he did not seem to care. “New money you see,” he said in a vague attempt to redeem his outburst. “They think they can buy style or appreciate the finer things in life but what do they really know about the exquisite pieces they acquire?” he finished with a sigh.
The room fell silent, leaving Pole to acknowledge the strange intensity of Brett’s feeling for his world of art and aesthetics.
“Crowne, the buyer – after a massive bonus. God knows what unholy transaction he must have done to deserve that one.”
Pole shrugged, “And so …”
“It is hard to relinquish such a phenomenal piece to such an amateur,” carried on the antiques dealer adopting an expert approach to the argument, still hoping for sympathy.
“Why did you not mention this before?” asked Pole, not letting go of his grip.
“It was a while ago Inspector.”
“You must be aware that this is a murder investigation,” replied Pole.
“Well, you’re the policeman. Details like these escape me.”
“Well then, let me therefore remind you of the insignificant details. You received £250,000 from Henry Crowne on the 27th of March 2000 and delivered the object on the 22nd of June, the reason for the delay was?”
“Inspector, you cannot be serious,” said Brett barely able to refrain from laughter.
“Do you really believe that that was the full settlement for such an exceptional piece? You must be out of your mind,” exclaimed Allner-Smith, his outrage sounding genuine.
Allner-Smith had managed to unsettle Pole. Inspector Pole took it on the chin and sat back.
“OK, enlighten me Mr Smith.” Pole consciously dropped the double-barrelled name.
“It cost Mr Crowne the ridiculously low sum of £580,000,” exclaimed Brett, now fired up.
“How did he settle the rest of the sum?” asked Pole.
“Ask my accountant,” replied Brett, crossing his arms over his chest.
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