Martin Dash

by Andy Bailey

19.

  As the cab swung into the aforementioned Benbow Square, Susan realised she passed the top of it every day of the week as she walked from the Tube station to work. She’d never seen her father in the vicinity. Never knew he’d been there. Doing God-knows-what. What was it anyway? Some sort of knocking shop? Perhaps he had never been there before. Perhaps he’d got scores of such addresses dotted all around London to nip in and out of as the need took him.

  Jesus ! Was she losing it? Was she starting to imagine nonsense?

  She wondered about what her father did. What he had done. She had always been naturally curious and quizzed him whenever she judged the time was right (usually after he’d downed a few whiskies) and he did tell her things – probably a few things he oughtn’t to have told her – but she didn’t assume that she’d ever got the whole story. Jimmy always liked to see Susan as his ally, his political heir even, and – for all her loathing of the vast majority of his supposed comrades – she, in turn, did often wonder whether she would actually be better suited to the vigorous world her father inhabited than the arid landscape of commercial law that she saw before her.

  But, equally, she had no illusions about how rough it could get. The US / UK invasion of Iraq four years previously had aroused disgust and damnation in many quarters, not least in the Sachs family, with Susan and Maria particularly critical of their father’s support for Blair’s war (Rosa had played the supportive wife rather more, maintaining the line that they should trust that their father knew what he was doing). Susan had not held back from expressing her anger at the whole affair but she was also confused because she knew that, ordinarily, every fibre of Jimmy’s being would rebel against such an impertinent adventure, led by the Americans too ! Indeed, many on the left of the Party had looked to Jimmy to take this one opportunity to fulfil his widely-perceived role at the heart of the government, as the conscience of an otherwise heartless regime and, thus, there was widespread dismay and disappointment when Jimmy, after some apparent prevarication, finally voiced full support for the action in a BBC TV interview.

  It had to be said that he didn’t look entirely comfortable doing it but he still did it and, subsequently, always maintained his support – even when no weapons of mass destruction were found in the newly ‘liberated’ Iraq, nor evidence of any links to Al-Qaeda. Then, one night – when she had come across her father in his library, morosely, but determinedly, working his way through a bottle of Chivas Regal – he had furnished the only near-credible explanation she had heard for the UK’s supine obeisance to Bush’s command, muttering darkly about people not realising the degree to which this country was harnessed – with the Americans – to the international bankers’ yoke, that the UK was going to war because those who were “really in charge” had decided that such was needed and that the country would ultimately pay a heavy price if it had the temerity to disobey a command given such a high designation – code red, in effect.

  Susan recalled how shocked she had been at this statement. Shocked because this was one of the country’s most senior ministers of the day basically telling her, frankly, that the public statements on the war’s rationale were all lies; that the country was, in fact, doing what it was told by an extra-governmental force, more powerful than itself; and shocked because this was her father – who she (and most others) had always assumed could not be bullied by anyone into doing what he thought was wrong – meekly submitting to the gang of financiers that (in private, at least) he had always condemned.

  He had said that he had not realised, until recently, what these people could do to a country if they thought it needed bringing into line and she thought she had never seen him so depressed. And it had depressed her too. Badly.

  The next day – when he was sober – he had phoned her and told her to forget what he had said, that he had been drunk, and not to repeat it.

  That was about the time she had decided to go and work at Stone Rose.

  And now she found herself sat in the sitting room of a plush flat in Mayfair with her father in the armchair opposite; he with a glass of whisky in hand, smiling indulgently; she with no drink, tense, scrutinising him.

  He himself had let her in when she rang the doorbell and that, in itself, was unusual or, rather, the fact that he appeared to be alone. For many years he had almost always been shadowed by at least one faceless attendant – be it bodyguard, PA, driver, whatever – but here he was, by himself, just like a normal private citizen. Most odd.

  The walls of the room were covered in what she assumed must be paper but the surface was a soft textured pale green – like velvet – and, with the dark wood cornicing, striped blue and grey carpet, oak Georgian furniture and old fabric lightshades, the whole effect was surprisingly cosy – soothing, even. A grandfather clock with a sunny smiling face ticked discreetly and the only other sound was the muffled whoosh of the odd passing car in the street outside to remind you that you were, in fact, in the middle of the bustling metropolis.

  “OK, tell all,” said Jimmy, sitting back in his armchair. He seemed relaxed but Susan knew that her father was a sufficiently hardened pro to be able to appear unconcerned even when he most definitely was. And, again, he had come rushing over to meet her as soon as she had called. And come alone. But then, she was his daughter and she’d obviously sounded upset.

  Anyway, she came back: “I was going to say the same thing to you, Dad . . ."

  At first Jimmy said nothing. This was a funny moment for them both. The nature of Jimmy’s career and position meant that he constantly had to be careful about what he said to anyone but, at the same time, he had always tried to be honest with his wife and children so that, if he was unable to tell them things, he would simply tell them that that was the case rather than spinning them the sort of bullshit he was obliged to feed the rest of the world. And Rosa and the girls had come to understand that this was the best way for them to all rub along with it and to trust Jimmy to share with them what he could and only keep back that which could not safely be repeated to anyone.

  Thus, even if they disagreed on things, Susan had always felt that she could trust her father to at least be honest with her, even if he was being utterly wrong-headed, in her eyes anyway. But there was now an external agency involved of a sort that had never been a factor before . . . something that, for the first time, raised the possibility of divided loyalties in a way that had not hitherto seemed possible.

  And its name was Martin Dash.

  Could his daughter really not be trusted to not use information to help Martin if it meant hurting Jimmy? Would her father really try to dupe her if he thought that necessary to protect himself?

  Susan thought she saw some sign of resolution in Jimmy and he sat more upright and started the conversation off proper.

  “You said it was about Martin and Barry Rogers?”

  “Martin’s been arrested, Dad.”

  Jimmy didn’t appear to be shocked, or even surprised, at this news.

  “You knew?”

  Just a moment’s hesitation . . . “Yes, I knew.”

  “How?”

  Another moment – “Joan Rogers told me.”

  “When?”

  A pattern was setting in now of quick fire questions from Susan and a rather slower response in each of Jimmy’s answers.

  “This morning.”

  Susan thought for a moment. “But that was before he was arrested. How did she know?” Susan felt a certain warmth at the back of her ears.

  “They lifted Barry this morning – at their home. Asked them if they knew where Martin was as well; they were having some difficulty locating him – apparently he’s not been seen in his flat for a while.”

  Susan realised he was referring to the Angel flat but she was focussing instead on Sister Rogers: “So, what? – she phoned you?”

  “No, no – I met her.”

  “Where?”

  Another hesitation. “Well . . . here, actually.”

  The heat in Susan’
s ears seemed to be developing into a kind of anger.

  “Joan Rogers . . . came here?”

  No matter how much of a pro he was, Susan thought she saw him turn, ever so slightly, in his seat.

  “Yes . . . It wasn’t something to discuss over the phone . . . you know . . .”

  “First time?”

  “What?”

  “She’s been here?”

  He didn’t just move then, but flinch.

  And then he seemed to gather himself.

  “No, it’s not. But that’s got nothing to do with anything. Joan is a friend – as is Barry – I see the pair of them. On and off. Regularly.”

  Some silence between them, briefly. Both Susan and Maria had, for some years now, got used to the idea that their father hadn’t necessarily always been absolutely faithful to their mother (and, in fact, there was some suspicion that Rosa had, at some point, given up worrying about it and decided that what was good for the goose was good for the gander; maybe more than once). They had, perhaps without a conscious decision, ultimately come to the view that they were the sort of sophisticated family that didn’t really make a fuss about such things. But, even so, Susan had to acknowledge that the thought of her father ‘betraying’ her mother with Joan-fucking-Rogers did raise her hackles somewhat. And in this very place, where she was now sitting with him !

  The room seemed suddenly less congenial. Perhaps they had romped around naked in this very room ! On the bloody seat she was now sitting on !!

  Susan nearly leapt straight out of the chair at the thought. But she was going off track and Jimmy brought her back anyway –

  “Joan told me that there’s a joint investigation by SOCA and the Financial Conduct Authority into the Crack Harbour development and that they’re picking a number of people up as well as Barry and Martin – she’s only avoided arrest because they appear to think she’s little more than a sleeping partner in the whole venture.”

  “Oh really? Not because she’s done some deal with them?”

  Jimmy's chin bumped up and his brows furrowed, as though this possibility had not occurred to him before.

  “But why is this happening, Dad? And what’s it got to do with you?”

  More fidgeting from Jimmy; he breathed out heavily and continued: “It’s a joint investigation because there are allegations of money laundering and sanctions busting.”

  Susan stared at Jimmy.

  “Some of the investors are possibly less than kosher . . . It’s possible that money has come out of Syria in exchange for military hardware, through criminal enterprises in London and into Crack Harbour, to come out clean at the other end. Many millions – and, possibly, other Grudge developments as well. That’s the allegation, at least.”

  “And why does your name crop up, Dad? Both Gerry Bild and Martin mentioned you today.”

  Jimmy gave a start – “To the police?!” His face was changing colour.

  “No, to me.”

  “Jesus Christ, they should keep their fucking mouths shut. If they know what's good for them.”

  It was Susan’s turn to start. Again, she was not innocent in the ways of the world but it was a shock to sit and listen to her father talking like some two-bit gangster.

  “What do you mean?”

  Jimmy looked at Susan, checked himself, and talked more measuredly. “Only that they’re dealing – apparently – with Arab gangsters, for God’s sake, and if they’re perceived at all as being unable to hold their tongues then these are the sort of chaps who’d be inclined to take matters into their own hands.” This last part seemed to be delivered with something of a sarcastic edge.

  The thought sprang up in Susan’s mind that she’d possibly never seen her father look less appealing than he did right now.

  And the whole situation was starting to appear, if possible, even worse than she’d thought.

  “But why are you mentioned?”

  Jimmy looked almost sheepish now.

  “I’m another investor – I’ve got shares in the damn thing."

  “Bloody hell, Dad,” Susan moaned. “You were warned about Barry before – you only just got out of the last bloody job.”

  “That was all a misunderstanding – nothing came of it and you know it. And Barry seemed to be moving on. Making a more mainstream company. Respected. And doing it properly. He bloody assured me that this was risk–free. We’re on the biggest sustained boom since the war and everyone’s making. He was talking about a big return for me . . . for us . . . for you.” He looked imploringly at Susan, saw no help, and slammed his palm on the arm rest as he jumped to his feet in anger and started pacing across the carpet, stopping only at the drinks cabinet.

  “Fucking Barry,” he shouted. “I fucking told him it’d better be right and he swore it was. Instead of which he’s taking money from those fucking Arab friends of his. And where’s it coming from?! Bloody Syria !! They’re only on the 'Axis of Evil' that idiot Bush goes on about – the worst of the worst !”

  “But why did he come to you? It’s not like we’re rolling in spare millions to invest and he’s got all the investment from those guys hasn’t he? And why, for heaven’s sake, did you go for it?”

  “It wasn’t my money he was after, particularly; you’re right – they’ve got quite a bit more than us.”

  And now Jimmy looked rather beyond sheepish – “I’ve been able to help in other ways.”

  “Oh God, do tell.” Could it get any worse?

  “You know . . . with the planning. And all that. You’ve got no idea, Susan; you’ve no idea how much it all costs. That house in Hampstead. The villa. Your schooling. All the rest of it – you don’t think that’s all paid for on an MP’s salary do you? Or even a Minister's. I have to earn, Darling, and property investment is a perfectly legitimate concern.”

  Susan was speechless. She did wonder sometimes if her father had a death wish. His whole career comprised extended periods of good, solid work when his natural talents came to the fore and he made serious progress – only to be punctuated (with monotonous regularity) by insane blow-ups, entirely self-inflicted, that might even seem to have been designed to undo all the good work, so that he then had to start all over again.

  But even he was only ever going to have so many chances and he’d surely used up all his lives. A scandal like this, now, could finish Jimmy for good.

  “And what did you do on the planning, Dad?” Susan was beginning to sound as exasperated as she felt.

  “Well, in reality, it didn’t take all that much, actually. To be honest, it could easily be passed off as normal lobbying if it came to it. I just had a word with Johnny Adams, who heads up the local Planning Committee. Loyal party man is Johnny . . . and he owed me a favour . . .”

  “And this is normal lobbying that’s been disclosed?”

  “Well, no. That is a problem, I suppose. But nothing that can’t be got round. Anyway, Johnny will keep his mouth shut. Everyone just needs to keep their mouths shut.” Jimmy looked at Susan pointedly and he saw Susan wince in turn, at which he moved to embrace her.

  “No, no – you know what I mean Darling. Everyone simply needs to be sensible, stay calm, and we’ll all get through this . . . including your Martin.”

  But Susan pulled away and was having none of it – “But why is Martin being dragged into it? He’s not being set up as the fall guy is he?” She was indignant.

  “No, of course not, but the point is that Martin has apparently signed all this off . . . for the banks, you know? As a solicitor he was trusted – they probably couldn’t have done it without him. He’s agreed to skip the usual checks apparently, which is what has got it through.”

  “Or Gerry Bild has told him to.”

  “Well, I don’t know whether your Martin is so much the innocent, you know, Darling. Joan reckons he’s actually suggested to Barry the complete refinancing of the project that’s just gone though. Worked it all out to pull the full value of the thing through again – had never occ
urred to Barry.”

  “What?!” Susan was incredulous.

  Jimmy put his hands up defensively – “I don’t know. All I can tell you is what Joan’s told me, Darling. And to be honest, I reckon Joan would just as soon see Barry go away as Martin.”

  Again, he looked at Susan rather archly but then decided to move the conversation on before Susan started processing that comment.

  “But, you’re right – they’re not Martin’s shareholders; it’s not Martin’s development; he’s only the lawyer. Barry’s the key man in all this. If anyone’s taking the drop, it’s him. And he’ll fucking deserve it, quite frankly.” He smiled at Susan – “Pardon my French.”

  She let him put his arm around her this time – “But Barry’s one of your oldest friends, isn’t he, Dad?”

  “Was, my dear. Was.”

  20.

  The next two days meant simple frustration for Susan. After leaving her father, she had returned to the office to see Gerry Bild again; to ask if he knew where Martin was being held; when (if?) he would be released; would he be coming back to work . . . all that. Gerry really didn’t have much information to impart to Susan in response and she realised that, even if he did, he probably wouldn’t pass it to her anyway – she and Stone Rose weren’t necessarily on the same side anymore. As if to echo that thought, Gerry told her that she should take a couple of days off (“more, if you would like . . . given the circumstances”); that Martin would undoubtedly be realised on bail by then; that the police had told him that Stone Rose would be advised when Martin was being released; and that he would, of course, let her know as soon as he heard anything.

  Somehow, Susan hadn’t felt massively comforted by any of that but she knew, for something like this, that the police would undoubtedly be holding Martin for a couple of days, at least, and that he wouldn’t exactly be receiving visitors during that time.

  Apparently he had been set up with a top-line defence lawyer but Gerry had indicated that this hadn’t been arranged through Stone Rose and at this stage he didn’t know who it was – it must have been something organised by Martin himself or by someone on his behalf.