by Robert Young
Wherever he'd got to, the guy was probably better off than Slater sitting watching his breath turn cloudy and feeling his backside go numb.
23
Tuesday. 10pm.
Campbell drained the last lukewarm mouthful of coffee from the mug and began rubbing his eyes, which were feeling sore from staring at the screen.
His head was hurting too.
For hours Campbell had sat and read through the corporate literature that he had collected from his little 'undercover' trip to Griffin. Thinking about the hastily stammered pseudonym he had offered he cringed; 'Owen Michaels' he had said as the photo of the ex-England footballer looked back at him from the newspaper on his desk. Still, at least it hadn't been David Beckham, he thought. That would have been a little bit too obvious. As it was he wasn't entirely convinced that the girl had believed him but she'd given him the benefit of the doubt at least.
Griffin Holdings was a company that did a little bit of everything it seemed. The glossy brochures and grand but vague language did not give Campbell much in the way of detail. Its reach was international, taking in countries across Europe, Africa and the Middle East as well as a fast expanding Asian operation. It appeared, in the main, that Griffin engaged in shipping goods of various types around the world both on a private client basis as well as in trading goods itself. This was achieved via different subsidiary companies with their own specific remits all run by one man, Andrew Griffin, the Chief Executive Officer, under the umbrella of Griffin Holdings Ltd.
Campbell had begun to dig deeper than the surface that these brochures had allowed him to scratch. He was well versed with using the internet to research people and companies. It was what paid his wages and now he had plenty of motivation and a burning curiosity driving him.
Andrew Griffin had, it seemed, assumed control of the company some years previously and modernised and rebranded it pretty thoroughly such that it was now largely unrecognisable from its original incarnation.
Griffin had focused on the existing company's two strongest areas. It had begun in trading in rare and expensive goods, art and artefacts, which they would buy and sell or broker as middlemen. This in turn gave rise to an import/export business which had developed into something of a specialised skill through several years of trading in goods that they had found difficulty in moving via more traditional routes and carriers. With a burgeoning reputation of being able to move difficult items over long distances, clients included museums and art dealerships initially but as their expertise and contacts grew this developed into precious stones and even, occasionally, small arms.
Campbell had seen no cause for alarm until this point but was naturally starting to worry about what he may have become embroiled in. Further investigation allayed his initial fears though as he looked up Griffin's competitors. There seemed little untoward in this specialised and well-regulated industry and less still with regard to Griffin itself.
Next he looked at the company's early history. It had been founded by two men in the mid-1980s. The elder of the two, Geoffrey Asquith, held a PhD in Art and Art History and had at the time of the company's founding lectured on a part time basis at a leading English University. The younger man, Michael Horner, held a postgraduate degree in Banking and Finance and had worked for two leading Investment Banks in the City before joining forces with Asquith in a trading venture that utilised both men's skills to the full, not to mention Horner's extensive book of contacts.
Success naturally led to growth and then specialising in different areas as the business developed. Eventually it seemed that the art expert and the banker had grown apart from the company they had created and sold it on at a handsome profit.
By now their contacts were considerable and not just limited to the world of art, arms and shipping. Both men had expanded their interests into other areas, taking directorships in offshore investment companies, consultancy work and eventually for Asquith, politics.
Resting his forehead on the heel of his hand, Campbell squeezed his eyes tight, trying to blink away the discomfort.
What did this all mean? What was the relevance to a break in at Griffin? Did it relate to these two older, more influential men, or was it some attempt at industrial espionage on the part of one of Griffin's current competitors?
The answer, he knew, would be contained somewhere on the memory stick that nestled in his bag. He had not looked at it yet, had balked at examining its contents. He was, on the one hand, concerned that here was potentially confidential and sensitive company information and that he may in some way leave himself liable to legal action by the company if he accessed it. But that was an excuse really. It was a different fear that stayed his hand. Campbell was afraid of what he might find.
Given the circumstances of the stick's delivery, he figured that was only normal. Peeking at some private company records was one thing, but quite another when you knew that it was stolen and had arrived in the cold dead fingers of a stranger.
Slow down Campbell, he told himself. The guy wasn't actually dead when he turned up.
The tap on his shoulder jarred him from his thoughts and he looked up surprised at the person behind him, smiling down benignly.
'We're closing shortly sir. Would you mind?'
Campbell nodded and then checked his watch. It was late. Later than he'd realised and later than he'd thought the library would stay open, but the coffee and broadband here were both surprisingly good and it was also a useful spot to help allay his paranoia. Public enough to afford some of the security that he did not feel in his own home after the break-in, and private enough that he'd not be bothered, he had also been unable to shake the idea that just by researching this topic would leave some sort of digital trail to his own IP address at home. Better to anonymise himself in this way just in case.
Reflecting on the extent of the precautions he'd taken and what he'd discovered Campbell packed away his things and made for the exit.
24
Tuesday. 10.30pm.
Michael Horner quietly replaced the telephone receiver in its cradle and turned up the volume on the television. There was a calm serenity about him that was directly at odds with the tone and manner he had taken during the previous brief conversation.
Geoffrey Asquith was not a man given over to unnecessary worry or drama but he had certainly sounded rattled as the conversation wore on. At first he had sounded relaxed, almost confused - that what he had called Horner to talk about couldn't possibly be the truth but some terrible misunderstanding. Horner, for his part had begun by responding in a vague and noncommittal manner until Asquith pushed him, revealing that information had come into his possession that indicated strongly that Horner had, whilst the two were business partners, engaged in corrupt and illegal activity. This, Asquith had speculated, would have been of great personal profit to Horner and great risk to the business at the time and to both men for some time to come.
Reluctantly Horner had been forced to admit it. It certainly sounded as if Asquith had convincing evidence.
'I'm not entirely sure that you appreciate the magnitude of this Michael,' Asquith had said indignantly when Horner tried to play it down and whose apologies did not allay Asquith's obvious sense of injustice and betrayal.
'Please Geoffrey, there's no cause to panic. It was many years ago. I took numerous precautions. The money and transactions have been layered and laundered countless times. Do you really think I would have put you or the company in any real risk?'
'Michael, that is precisely what you have done,' Asquith countered sharply. 'If this information finds its way into the public domain it will ruin both of us, not to mention Griffin and the staff it employs. This is no game.'
'Everything is a game Geoffrey, it just depends on how you play it.'
'For God's sake! You can dispense with the fortune-cookie wisdom. I am seriously upset about this. You may have the luxury of a low profile but my own life is now very much lived in public. There are grave implications. I'm
probably in breach of any number of rules or regulations just having this conversation with you. This could destroy everything I'm working for. Do you know the number of foreign development contracts we are negotiating at the moment? The number of companies and jobs that could be affected if I am forced out of office?'
'I think you're jumping the gun a little. Has anyone contacted you yet? Threatened you? To what end? Think clearly man. You'd have heard by now if this were about you or I. It's probably some bungled industrial espionage - one of Griffin's competitors stealing the wrong bloody information.'
'How can you be so blas??'
'I am not being dismissive Geoffrey but with all due respect, until someone comes forward and declares their intent then there is nothing we can do. Except of course work yourself into a lather of paranoia and panic if you really want to. But until then we have no problem to tackle and if we do, then we will deal with it. I rather fancy the two of us can dispense with a couple of small time blackmailers or troublemakers if they do deem to come into the open. Stop borrowing trouble. And more to the point please don't dump this nonsense on me.'
Asquith had paused, surprised by the stinging rebuke from Horner who had long played the understudy to Asquith's wise old hand. Horner would relive that moment over again in his mind.
'I thought you ought to know at the very least,' Asquith had said sounding a little more reserved. 'But this is potentially very serious and we need to remain alert.'
When the conversation had ended with Asquith making a further pointed comment about what Horner had done and how shocked and let down he felt by the younger man, Horner had apologised again. But he had not missed the opportunity to underline that as upset and angry as Asquith might be, any sense of injustice or instinct toward retribution would not only be counterproductive but foolhardy in the extreme. Like it or not, he reminded him, they were still partners, even now. Particularly now.
It was quite obvious from what Asquith had said, what he had learned about Horner's past, that the implications were extremely serious. The consequences could be far reaching, could impact on the lives and livelihoods of a very many people if the situation was not handled correctly. Horner could hardly deny what he had done, not in the face of what Asquith had quite demonstrably discovered and in any event such a course of action struck him as futile. No, in order to control and contain this it was important that Asquith did not panic. The old man had sounded scared and Horner would have to be in charge of the situation to guide them safely through it. And so he had done.
Michael Horner was a veteran of a thousand board meetings, of hostile take-overs, of making million pound trades on foreign equity markets before most people had eaten breakfast. He had skied alpine black runs in blizzards and scuba dived with sharks. As he sat thinking everything through he began to feel the strange and unfamiliar pangs of fear in his stomach.
25
Wednesday. 6.45am.
Slater woke in a panic, immediately aware that he should not even have been asleep. It was starting to get light and when he saw the time on the dashboard clock he swore at himself. He could not be sure when he had dropped off but the hours of waiting and nothing to occupy body or mind had led him inevitably to drop off.
More alarmingly though, he knew that he must have missed what he'd been waiting for. He, rubbed his hands over his face to wake himself and then jumped out of the car, chased by the thoughts that he'd find the young man tucked up warm in bed or, scarcely worth contemplating, that he'd not come back at all and the trail was cold.
Slater reached the front door and noticed straight away that the lights were off. They had been left on the night before, one in the porch, one in the kitchen. Now the place was silent in the early morning gloom.
'Here we go,' he said and pressed the bell. 'Come on.'
He would answer in a minute. Give him a moment or two - maybe he wasn't even up yet. And then, all bleary-eyes and bed-hair - Slater was picturing it now - in his dressing gown, he would look blank for second as Slater asked if he was Mr Campbell. And then, before he'd got to the S of yes Slater would be on him, barrelling into the flat, a heel kicking the door shut behind him, maybe stick a couple on him. Crack a rib, or loosen a tooth perhaps.
'Wake up sleepyhead,' he said and pressed the doorbell several times.
He'd explain carefully that all Campbell needed to do was hand over the memory stick - which he would dutifully do - and then Slater would make it clear that Campbell had not seen nor heard a thing. They knew after all, he would point out with maybe a physical emphasis to the midriff, exactly where he lived.
The morning was mostly silent but somewhere in the distance a bus revved its engine and he could hear the manic enthusiasm of a breakfast radio DJ blathering.
There was no sign of activity from inside yet, no giveaway sounds of movement. Slater pushed the button repeatedly and then his frustration got the better of him and he knocked sharply on the door.
'Wakey wakey sunshine,' he hissed and then looked at his watch. It was not even six thirty in the morning. No-one left for work this early, did they?
Slater began to consider the possibility that he had messed up once again. That Campbell had got jittery and not returned to the flat last night after leaving, was gone for good.
No, the lights. They'd been on and now were not. He'd been back late, whilst Slater was snoring little clouds into the cold air of his car as the windows frosted and he'd been up and out again already before the snoring had stopped.
Damn. Surely not. Surely the lights were out because he was sound asleep.
'You're going to make me come in there, aren't you?' he said and jabbed the bell again and then, with a quick look around to check that the street was still empty he turned and headed for the rear of the flat. He began to run through a new scenario in his head now, imagining the rude awakening that Campbell was about to get.
Campbell was having a dream which featured two of his work-mates, a TV personality and someone who he was certain was an old school friend but who he did not actually recognise at all. Then suddenly he noticed that Sarah Knowles was part of the group. How he had not noticed before he couldn't think but it didn't seem strange to him all the same. She had made eye contact with him and was smiling and seemed eager to talk to him.
Feeling a little self-conscious and awkward he found himself trying to find a good reason to talk to her whilst all the time he became creepingly aware that the scene made no sense and that in fact this must be a dream. With the realisation he began to come round.
Then there was a sharp shuddering jolt and Campbell was instantly, jarringly awake.
Campbell shot a hand up over his eyes, which were still sensitive to the light. He felt a sudden pain in his arm and a heavy weight pressing on him and he turned his head to look up, squinting through the glare.
Above him stood a man who had stumbled and gripped his arm to steady himself as the tube train jolted to an unexpected stop. Opposite, a flustered young woman picked herself from someone's lap, all red cheeked and embarrassed, and someone in front of him gathered his newspaper from the floor of the carriage.
'Sorry mate,' the man said as he righted himself and released his grip on Campbell's arm. Looking around he noted that the train was stopped on the platform and people were standing waiting to get off. He had slept one stop past his own so when the doors opened he jumped up and dashed across to the opposite platform and rode back the other way.
Stopping for coffee and some hot breakfast to take to his desk, Campbell began planning what more he needed to find out. The office would be quiet for an hour or more and he could get some more research done here and with better tools. He could maybe look up what involvement Asquith and Horner still had in Griffin if any, exactly where their lives had taken them, what their other business interests involved. Begin to build a picture.
But something else nagged at him. For all the background he was building, all the detail he was filling in,
there was really only one thing that was going to tell him anything of substance and the thought filled him with trepidation.
It was time to look at what was on that memory stick.
Somewhere behind him across the city, a furious Keith Slater was preparing to deliver more bad news to his boss that for a second time inside 12 hours, he'd missed laying his hands on Daniel Campbell.
26
Wednesday. 6pm.
He had found a quiet side street to make sure that he would be able to hear clearly and not to be drowned out. He had also spent some ten minutes pacing and trying to compose himself, trying to come up with what to say, a line of argument that would convince her but not scare her off or send her running to her boss. Or worse.
After it had rung twice he had a sudden jolt when he realised that she may well have left already for the day. He had been so worked up about what he would say to her that he had barely even stopped to notice the time. His nerves were already shredded and he didn't want to have to wait another night.
'Come on?' he pleaded with the unanswered phone.
It rang again.
'Griffin Holdings, good evening.'
'Ah, you're still there. Thank god.' The relief in his voice was obvious.
'Hello? Who's this?'
'Sorry, is that Sarah Knowles?'
'Yes.' She sounded apprehensive. Bad start.
'Sarah its Owen Michaels? we met last night. You were kind enough to give me some information on the company.'
'Oh yes. I hope it was of some use.' A little friendlier.
'Very helpful, yes. Look, I wonder if I could speak with you?'
'Mr Michaels, as I've already told you, I'm not the person that deals with the press.'
