by Paul Torday
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he repeated. ‘If I can ask for your patience a few moments longer, I would like to say a few additional words. Mountwilliam Partners was set up on a wing and a prayer about six years ago. The office consisted of me and Alan over there, and we had no money and no clients on the day we started. Now we are one of the biggest and most respected funds of our kind in Europe. We have an excellent team [prolonged applause and thumping of the tabletop] and a track record second to none. It is that track record that will allow us to grow further and compete with anyone in London or New York.
‘Some of you may have heard rumours that the market is going through a period of uncertainty. That’s what markets do, from time to time. If it was easy to make money, nobody would pay us to make it for them. We don’t bury our heads in the sand at times like this: periods of turbulence are often periods of opportunity, as we all know. When confidence ebbs, pricing errors are made: that’s when we must be at our busiest.’
Bilbo paused and looked around, smiling. In that dining room, the table laden with silver and crystal, oil paintings of earlier Mountwilliams staring gloomily down at us from the walls, it was difficult to imagine what could ever go wrong. We waited to hear what Bilbo would say next.
‘I thought this little dinner would be a good idea for three reasons,’ continued Bilbo. ‘Firstly, to celebrate our own success over the last six years; secondly, to say to you that in times like these competitors, financial journalists and others will feed the rumour mill whenever they can. You will even hear stories about Mountwilliam Partners. Ignore them. These people will do anything to get attention and they are not worth bothering about. Mountwilliam Partners is as solid as - I was going to say the Bank of England, but maybe that’s not the right comparison at the moment [laughter and more applause - as solid as it can be. There was a third reason for bringing you here tonight: to thank you all for your hard work.’
Bilbo raised his glass and said: ‘Thank you!’
There was more applause. Everyone had drunk quite a lot by this stage. Someone tried to start up a chant of ‘Six More Years’, which ran around the table like a Mexican wave for a brief interval. Bilbo was still standing, beaming at us, resplendent in his green velvet smoking jacket and the immaculate silk of his evening shirt and beautifully knotted bow tie. Then an odd thing happened: everyone at the table fell silent. People looked sideways at each other. There was a chill in my own heart as if someone had walked over my grave. For a moment everything in the room was thin and cold as if all of us, dressed in our finery, surrounded by the remains of an epicurean feast, were in reality crouching around a pile of bones and scraps by the mouth of a cave. Even Bilbo, as he stood there, looked at a loss for a few seconds. Then he clapped his hands to gain our attention, and the moment passed.
‘And now,’ he said, ‘drinks next door in the drawing room: port, brandy, whisky, champagne. Help yourselves to whatever you want. Enjoy yourselves!’
*
Everyone broke into groups. The drawing room was full of noisy people, laughing and joking, on the outer edge, if not yet over it, of sobriety. Vanessa Mountwilliam was showing a small cluster of acolytes the new Horowitz painting and telling them how much Bilbo had paid for it. I decided that I would help myself to a glass of port and then, as soon as I thought I would not be missed, I would vanish into the night. As I poured myself a glass from a decanter a hand fell on my shoulder and the smell of a good cigar enveloped me. It was Bilbo.
‘Cockburns ’63,’ he said. ‘Hope you like it. Come over here and sit with me for a moment, Eck. I wanted to have a word with you tonight.’
There was nothing I could do but follow him to a couple of unoccupied armchairs in one corner of the enormous room. Even Bilbo would not fire me at his own dinner party, I told myself. But then there was no knowing what Bilbo would or would not do.
‘Splendid dinner, Bilbo,’ I told him as we seated ourselves.
‘Yes, very jolly,’ he agreed. ‘I’m so glad you liked it. I gather you’ve been talking to Nick Davies, at the Serious Organised Crime Agency. That’s very naughty, Eck. I’m really quite annoyed with you.’
For a moment I was speechless. I could feel the blood draining from my face, then rushing back so that my skin must have glowed like a bonfire. Where or how had he found out about Nick? Bilbo smiled at me, pleased at the effect of his words.
‘You look quite shaken, dear boy. Can I get you a glass of water? No? It doesn’t go with port, does it? Yes, you have your old army friends, and so do I. You’ve been talking to them, and some of them have been talking to me. All these government agencies leak like sieves. The days when people kept secrets are long gone. I knew that there was a rat talking to the authorities and I thought it was you; now I know it’s you.’
A young analyst, whose name I could not remember, came towards us. He looked quite drunk.
‘Super party, Bilbo,’ he said. Bilbo did not even turn his head.
‘Go away,’ he said coldly. The young analyst jerked as if he had been slapped in the face, and then walked off. Bilbo leaned forward and tapped me on the knee.
‘So your friend at SOCA talked to someone at MI5, and one of my mates at MI5 talked to me. But the damage is done. Someone malicious has been spreading rumours that we are going down, that we can’t get new funding from our banks. All complete nonsense, of course, but that kind of gossip can be very damaging. We think - my partners and I think - that same someone is deliberately trying to destabilise us. We don’t like it.’
Bilbo paused to draw on his cigar then exhaled a cloud of fragrant smoke.
‘These Hoyos really are the business,’ he said. ‘You don’t smoke, do you? Sure you won’t try one? What was I saying . . . oh, yes, they nearly nabbed Aseeb at Heathrow. They missed him by about five minutes and he’s now lying low, as they say - I won’t tell you where, if you don’t mind. I hope you’re not offended by my total lack of trust. And so he can’t do any more business just at the moment.’
‘I thought it was drug money,’ I said slowly and thickly. ‘I thought he was laundering cash for the Taleban.’
‘That’s what Mr Davies told you, is it?’ asked Bilbo. ‘Well, where the money comes from is none of your business. It’s money. That’s all that matters. We could have done great things with the fire-power from Aseeb’s cash. That is not to be, thanks to you.’
Bilbo paused, as if waiting for something.
‘Aren’t you going to say you’re sorry?’ he asked.
‘Bilbo, I’m not sorry. If it’s dirty money - and it is, isn’t it? - then I’m not sorry, whatever happens.’
‘Oh, I think you will be,’ said Bilbo. ‘I think you will be very sorry. One good stab in the back deserves another, that’s what I always say. If you are fussy about where our money comes from, or where indeed it goes, you shouldn’t be working for us. You shouldn’t be in the business. That reminds me: don’t come back to the office. Your P45 is in the post. Meanwhile, you ought to know that I’ve been talking to people about you too.’
‘Talking to which people?’ I asked. I knew he wouldn’t tell me.
‘Well, I mustn’t monopolise you,’ said Bilbo, rising to his feet. ‘It’s been marvellous to have this little chat, but I must look after my other guests. Goodbye, old boy. I don’t think we will meet again.’
He turned away and, seeing Alan McNisbet, threw an affectionate arm around his shoulders and said, ‘Now then, Alan, what about a proper drink? I’ve got a thirty-year-old Macallan over there that I want your opinion on.’
*
It was after midnight when I left the house in Kensington Gate. The streets were deserted and damp, with a fine drizzle forming haloes around the street lamps. Outside Bilbo’s house were half a dozen pre-booked taxis and a minibus, the drivers smoking and chatting in a small group on the pavement. I had not had the forethought to make any such arrangement. As I walked homewards, searching for a cab, a feeling of profound unease crept over me. I found
myself listening to the echo of my footsteps in the deserted streets as I walked. Once or twice I turned sharply, in case someone was following me. It was just nerves: Bilbo had certainly achieved his intended effect with his last few words. Who had he been talking to? Would he try anything more substantial in the way of retribution? I didn’t think so: he would have his hands full trying to rescue Mountwilliam Partners, if the rumour mill really was working against us now. Us? It wasn’t us any longer.
No, I decided, Bilbo had his own problems. From the sound of it, he was at risk of being taken in for questioning by SOCA, for example. And he’d already sacked me from Mountwilliam Partners. All the same, I felt a sense of relief when at last I saw a taxi with its yellow light on coming towards me.
It was two o’clock in the morning by the time I went to bed. I felt cold and tired and rather depressed. The fact that I had just lost an extremely well-paid job was beginning to sink in. I reminded myself, as I brushed my teeth, that I had become more and more unhappy in my work and had been planning to give it up. Unhappiness was one thing; an income another. I climbed into bed and switched off the lamp. At least it meant that I could go home to Pikes Garth Hall.
Tomorrow I would ring Harriet and tell her I was leaving London for good. Then she would have to make up her mind. Clutching that thought, like a child clutching a teddy bear, I let sleep overtake me.
*
The following morning the alarm went at its usual time of six o’clock and I started to climb out of bed until it dawned on me that I didn’t have a job to go to. I could lie in bed the whole day if I chose. But I was awake, so I showered, shaved, dressed, and went to brew up some coffee in the kitchen. As I sat and sipped my coffee, I tried to think what on earth to do next.
When the post arrived an hour or two later there was, as promised, a letter for me franked with the Mountwilliam Partners stamp. When I opened it I found my P45, and a short letter signed by Bilbo saying that the partners intended to sue me for breach of trust, and that their solicitors would shortly be in touch.
Great. I could imagine what sort of claim I would face. Bilbo would try to wipe me out financially if he could. I wondered whether Nick Davies would help me. I decided I ought to ring him anyway; tell him I was no longer at Mountwilliam Partners, and report on my last conversation with Bilbo.
Reaching Nick by telephone was not easy. I left several messages for him, but it was early evening before he called back.
‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Got your message. Thanks for the update. I told you you’d need a new job soon, didn’t I? And I have some news for you, too.’
He didn’t sound too concerned by the fact that I’d lost my job, or that Bilbo knew of his agency’s interest in Aseeb.
‘Oh? What’s that?’
‘One of my colleagues has the tedious job of monitoring various jihadi websites. Last night about six of them lit up with your name. I thought you’d want to know.’
He might have used the same tone of voice if my name had appeared in the Births, Marriages and Deaths page of the newspaper.
‘Oh,’ I said again. ‘What do they say about me?’
‘The ones we’ve seen so far are either calling for your head - not necessarily the rest of you - or demanding that you be put on trial in a people’s court in Afghanistan. Someone’s told them about your involvement in that incident near Gholam Khot.’
I noticed that Nick said ‘your involvement’. His own name hadn’t been mentioned.
‘That will be Bilbo’s doing,’ I said.
‘That’s what we think, too. It’s more evidence that Aseeb is connected through his Taleban friends to some of the al-Qaeda networks.’
‘What am I supposed to do?’ I asked. 1 didn’t like the feeling that my name was being broadcast around the Internet, and being discussed by God knows who.
‘Well, I suppose you ought to take some notice of it. I mean, most of these websites carry all sorts of rubbish and usually it means little or nothing: just disaffected youngsters trying to make a noise. But one can’t be sure.’
‘So do I sit here and wait for the doorbell to ring?’ I asked Nick. He wasn’t being very helpful.
‘Well, that’s an option. You could tough it out. No doubt it will blow over soon enough, although don’t be surprised if it gets into the newspapers. I suppose there is just a slight chance that someone will decide to take the matter seriously and pay you a visit.’
‘Is that all you can tell me?’ I asked Nick.
‘What else can I say? We haven’t got the budget to look after you. As far as my boss is concerned, you’re just someone who acted as a go-between for one of the Taleban’s money-men. Of course, I know that Bilbo set you up, but from the outside it doesn’t look too good. Still, what can you do? Let’s hope no one takes much notice. It’s an old story, after all.’
That made me feel a whole lot better.
Fifteen
Charlie told me later that on the day I left The Laurels to drive back to London he had woken about ten in the morning.
‘I had a bit of a head after all that whisky we drank,’ he said. ‘Still, it was jolly nice yarning away; very good to catch up on things. Hope I wasn’t a terrible bore. I think I must have told you all that stuff about my being connected to the Royal Family. I hope you didn’t take it too seriously. I’m not holding my breath for a knighthood, or anything like that.’
After a satisfactory breakfast of scrambled eggs and bacon and finding himself with absolutely nothing to do, Charlie decided to go and get the newspapers to kill some time before the next meal. He knew he could not stay at The Laurels for ever, and that sooner or later I would ask him to leave, but he was enjoying, for the moment, the absence of any compelling need to sell dog food.
It took him a while to find the nearest newsagent’s, but by the time he had walked there and back, Charlie’s headache was gone. A strange sense of optimism filled him, as it had done in the past after other business ventures had gone astray. There was a feeling of liberation: that the world, once again, was his oyster, provided he had a reasonably effective knife.
Having returned to the house with the papers, he made himself a cup of coffee and sat down to read them.
There was not much in the news: the usual stuff about house prices going up at the fastest rate ever; an article about the fifty wealthiest towns in Britain; another about the big jump in that month’s unemployment figures. None of it interested Charlie too much. His thoughts strayed to Sylvia Bently. Had he been wrong to leave her without a word? He knew she had been good to him; if only she had been a little less demanding. Charlie was quite keen on a bit of nooky from time to time, but this woman knew no restraint. Then again, by her own account, she’d been on short rations for quite a while. If only her daughter hadn’t looked down her nose at him in quite the way she had. Charlie thought he would send Sylvia a postcard one day, just to keep her sweet: you never knew, did you, how things might turn out in the end?
It was while he was turning through the pages at the back of one of the newspapers that he made his discovery. He’d read the sports pages, and the cartoons, and tried and failed to do the Sudoku, so now he was flicking through the classified ads. One caught his eye:
Want to make six figures a year without leaving your armchair? Interested in fine wines? Want to become rich AND have fun while you’re doing it? Then call me, Hans van der Kloof, at this number . . .
There were several aspects of this proposition that appealed to Charlie. There was no mention of sending in a CV, or providing evidence of a first-class degree from a major university, or having one’s own car, or having to prove one-self beyond reproach in any other way. This advertisement was aimed, Charlie knew, at people whose CVs would not take up much space, whose means might be limited, and whose lives might very well be subject to reproach in a number of different ways: in other words, people like himself.
He also knew from the way in which the advertisement was worded that, whatever the chances of
a six-figure income in some distant future might be, the first thing that would happen would be that he would be asked for money up front. Even if he could find the sum in question, the second thing that would happen would be that he would never see that money again. That might not matter. If the scheme was compelling enough, then the people who ultimately never saw their money again might be the people down the line from Charlie. He would be asked to sell something, and if he could find buyers, the risk moved on down the line and some decent commission might stick to his fingers. It had to be worth a phone call to find out more, especially as the phone call from this house would cost him nothing.
With an ingenuity I can only admire, Charlie spent the rest of his day negotiating new lines of credit, taking advantage of his temporary residence at a respectable address. He managed to find enough bits of paper - old utility bills, a driving licence Aunt Dorothy had possessed but not used in recent years, a savings book - in drawers and in an old file in the kitchen to provide enough documentation to obtain credit cards. I do not know the detail of how this was achieved, but people like Charlie are past masters at it. Over the next few days he obtained two credit cards: one in his own name, and one in the name of Mr D. Branwen. Once he had done this, he was able to extract a few hundred pounds in cash from a high street bank in Cirencester. With the cash he opened a bank account in another bank a street or two away, and with that he managed to negotiate an overdraft facility. From a state of absolute poverty, Charlie had achieved modest affluence within the space of two or three days. It would be a week or two, perhaps even a month, before the credit card companies and banks shut down his credit and asked for their money back.
