by Fiona Neill
“Why would someone do insider dealing?”
“To make money. It happens all the time. That’s why I’m so careful about what I say to people about my clients and never buy shares in any of their companies. It’s a very dodgy but very simple way of making lots of extra pocket money: if a company is being sold, its value increases and its share price goes up once the deal is announced,” explained Bryony.
She stopped and looked Ali directly in the eye. Ali could see a hint of steel. “Nick didn’t do this. They’ve got the wrong man.”
“But if someone was to do this, how would they actually make any money?” Ali persisted.
“If you know a deal is happening before anyone else, then you can buy shares in the company before the price goes up and sell them once the announcement has gone out and the share price rockets. You pocket the difference.”
“I still don’t understand why the police would take the names and addresses of parents at school and photos of your wedding and all that other stuff?” Ali asked.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” said Bryony. “Thanks for staying, by the way. When all this is over, we’ll remember your loyalty.”
Ali’s phone beeped to indicate she had a message. She looked down to see who had called but didn’t recognize the number. While Bryony took the plates of eggy bread over to the twins, Ali dialed her voice mail to hear a message from Felix Naylor asking her to get in touch urgently.
“We can’t talk on the phone,” Felix said. “We need to meet. Just name the date and place and I’ll be there.”
• • •
Nick came downstairs. Ali hadn’t seen him since he had left in a police car the previous afternoon, and wasn’t sure whether to acknowledge what was euphemistically dubbed “the situation.” She was taken aback to see him dressed in jeans and T-shirt on a weekday. He hadn’t shaved, and his eyes were as puffy and wrinkled as Leicester’s.
She stood up suddenly, in case he hadn’t noticed she was in the room. Her chair went flying.
“Steady, Ali,” he said. “My nerves are shot already.”
“Do you want me to make you a coffee?” Ali offered.
“Where’s Malea?” Nick asked.
“She’s gone,” said Bryony flatly.
“What do you mean?” he asked, his brow furrowing. Bryony gave him the note. He read it and tore it up. “Coffee would be great, thanks. So I’m in good fettle for my lawyer.”
According to Bryony, Nick had hired the best corporate-fraud defense lawyer in London. She knew the woman charged £750 an hour because Foy was paying and yesterday afternoon it was all he could talk about. Since his collapse, he had a tendency to relentlessly fixate on a single issue until he had exhausted himself and anyone else unfortunate enough to be in the drawing room at the same time.
Nick was carrying all the newspapers under his arm, and a copy of yesterday’s press release from the FSA. This he handed to Bryony while he began scanning the newspapers for stories. Despite the fact that a couple of journalists and at least four photographers had arrived outside the house yesterday before the investigators had even left, the FSA had been true to their word and given only a skeletal account of the dawn raid.
“‘The Financial Services Authority (FSA) today arrested two senior City professionals at leading City institutions and executed two search warrants in two premises in connection with a significant insider-dealing ring.’” Bryony read the top paragraph out loud twice, the second time a little slower than the first. She stared at it in confusion and then repeated it again.
“It says that two people were arrested and two premises were searched. What are they talking about, Nick? Do they mean because your office was searched, too?”
“Just what it says: they arrested someone else at the same time,” said Nick, as he spread out the first newspaper on the table in front of him. “There is an alleged co-conspirator.” He didn’t look up. His smooth tone was reassuring to Ali, as if underlining the absurdity of his situation, but it seemed to agitate Bryony.
“Do you know who it is? Were they at the police station, too? Did they raid their home at the same time?”
“Yes, yes, and yes.” He still didn’t look up from the paper.
“So who is it?”
“Ned Wilbraham.”
“Ned Wilbraham?”
“Ned Wilbraham,” Nick confirmed.
“You hardly know him.”
“That’s what I told them. It’s ridiculous.”
“What did they say?”
“They suggested that we were in cahoots. They say that I got the information, passed it on to Ned, he bought the shares, and then we split the difference. I told them they should reconsider a career writing fiction.”
“It explains why they’ve taken the school list, though, doesn’t it?” said Bryony, jangly nerved. “And the photo albums. Because they’ll find pictures of you and Ned together, won’t they? At our party, for example, or at the Petersons’ house in Corfu. Isn’t Martha on the same netball team as Izzy?”
“You can’t build a case around such spurious evidence,” said Nick dismissively. “Insider dealing is notoriously difficult to prove. I buy stocks and shares all the time.”
“They obviously think they’ve got something, otherwise they wouldn’t pursue it, would they?”
“Sometimes the FSA indiscriminately sticks a net in the sea and pulls out whatever fish they can catch in the hope of scaring off others. It’s banker-bashing season, after all,” commented Nick.
Ali sat at the table throughout this exchange, wondering whether Nick had forgotten she was in the room. She debated whether to go but felt too self-conscious to suddenly get up and leave when they were in the middle of such a heated debate. His reaction niggled Ali. He should be protesting his innocence rather than finding reasons why he couldn’t be prosecuted.
“Why didn’t you tell me about this last night?” It was difficult to work out whether Bryony was more annoyed that Nick had withheld information or that Ned Wilbraham was involved.
“It didn’t seem relevant.” Nick sighed, as though the whole affair was a ridiculous rigmarole. “Still, if we both go down, at least you and Sophia can share lifts for prison visits.” He lifted up his espresso to his lips and drank the whole cup without pausing.
“Stop being so flippant,” Bryony said angrily.
“Sorry,” said Nick. “I just can’t take this very seriously. I was underwhelmed by their evidence, and my lawyer says it’s going to be very difficult for them to prove any connection between us.”
“But in the meantime our bank accounts are frozen, your passport is confiscated, which rather messes up our holiday in Corfu next week, and you can’t go to work,” said Bryony, her voice rising. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I would say that all in all, that seems like a pretty shit situation to me.”
“My lawyer will get it sorted, Bryony. Please try and stay calm. They haven’t charged me with anything yet. They’ve got to build a case against me to press charges.”
“There could be a lot of media interest in this, and it’s not sub judice unless you’re charged,” Bryony worried. “Stories about greedy bankers with their greedy bonuses netting even more money through grubby little backroom deals sell newspapers. No one is more reviled at the moment. Not even pedophiles. They’ll be digging around for stories about us.”
“The point is, Bryony, that I didn’t do it,” said Nick firmly.
He still didn’t seem perturbed. Instead he insisted they focus their attention on what the papers were saying, so that they could try to build some kind of coherent response. Perhaps Bryony was right, perhaps the antidepressants were numbing his reactions.
“Get our side of the story out first, isn’t that always your advice?” he asked Bryony.
He started wi
th one of the tabloids, knowing that their coverage would be the most lacerating. He opened up the Daily Mail and folded the paper back on itself to concentrate on the first page.
Bryony sat down beside him. Ali took her plate to the dishwasher and then came back to the table to collect the rest of the dirty dishes. She caught sight of the first headline and stopped to read it over Nick’s shoulder. “Banker at Troubled Lehman Brothers Arrested for Insider Dealing.” There was a small fact box with bullet points: insider trading was suspected in thirty-two percent of City takeovers; people rarely acted alone; the usual modus operandi was for the person providing the information to get someone else to make the trade with a broker and then split the proceeds; insider trading had become rife in the City during the boom years. There was a photograph of Nick and Ned, “the alleged co-conspirator,” taken together at the Christmas drinks party the previous year.
“It’s really bad news the way the media is linking this with the banking crisis,” said Bryony. “Even if the charges aren’t proven, you could end up being the scapegoat for a whole industry. Especially because you were involved in subprime securities and Lehman’s has been so greedy and reckless. It has all the ingredients of a perfect scandal.”
“I hope you offer more comfort to your clients in times of crisis,” observed Nick, who, in Ali’s opinion, seemed unnaturally unbothered at the way his life was being unpicked so publicly in a newspaper. He turned the paper over to the next page.
There was a picture of Jake, sprawled on the grass outside his Oxford college, smoking dope from the same pipe that he shared with Ali at the party. His head was resting on the bare stomach of a girl wearing a bikini top and a pair of cutoff denim shorts. Most definitely not Lucy. His arm was pointing toward the camera, his palm flat, in an effort to block the lens. But his reactions were evidently slowed by the dope, and instead he was captured with a leery half-smile in a cloud of smoke, obviously stoned.
“Oh my God,” said Bryony. “He’s on drugs.”
“How could he do this to us?” groaned Nick. “We told him to lie low.”
Ali glanced at Nick. She wanted to tell him that he was being unfair, because if he hadn’t been arrested then no one would have been interested in a photograph of his son smoking dope at university. The newspaper story was all about the wild lifestyle of the son of disgraced City banker Nick Skinner. It didn’t mention that Jake had just got a first in his end-of-year exams.
“It’s an old photo,” Ali pointed out. “His new flat doesn’t have any outside space. He was probably just relaxing after exams. He wouldn’t have got a first if he had a big drug problem, and he wouldn’t turn up to work at the right time every day.”
“Everyone is going to see this,” said Bryony, starting to cry.
“Do you think he realizes?” Nick asked. He instinctively reached out for his BlackBerry, but of course, with the exception of Ali, all their mobile phones had been taken.
“I’m lost without my bloody phone,” he said. “Can I borrow yours, please, Ali?”
She handed over her BlackBerry, and Nick scrolled down her contacts list, looking for Jake’s name.
“Jake isn’t in there,” said Ali.
“Why not?” asked Bryony.
“I deleted him when he went to university,” Ali mumbled.
“What’s his number?” Nick asked Bryony.
“Don’t you know your son’s number?” Bryony asked, as she tapped it in. Her hand was shaking as she gave the phone to Nick. Poor Jake, thought Ali, as he picked up the phone expecting to hear Ali’s voice and instead was woken by his father delivering a scathing indictment of his behavior. She could hear him protesting to Nick that one of his friends must have sold the photograph to the newspaper and that it was taken almost two months ago. Jake sounded confused, as well he might, because from Nick’s reaction it was as if his conduct had eclipsed the insider-dealing charges.
“How did it go at the police station?” Jake kept asking. “What exactly is going on?”
“Don’t try and change the subject,” Nick persisted. There was a pause. “Your mother is very upset about this.”
He’s going to exploit this to take the pressure off him, realized Ali. Bryony was nervously flicking through the Financial Times. Her body was taut with tension and her movements quick and abrupt. She found a small piece, more concise and better sourced, largely based on the FSA press release on the front of the Companies and Markets section of the newspaper. She ran her finger over the story, nervously picking apart each sentence. Her hand stopped in the middle and she rubbed the same line over and over again with her finger until the tip was stained with ink.
“It says here that your wife is a senior partner at a City financial PR company and that some of her clients are reconsidering their position in light of the accusations. What do they mean?”
Before Nick could answer, the phone on the desk by the bookshelf started ringing. Bryony got up to get it, half running to the other side of the room. Ali understood from the swift exchange that it was one of the partners at work letting Bryony know that her Ukrainian energy company had called up to say that given the circumstances they would be looking for a new financial PR agency to represent them.
“Did you say someone else could head up the account?” Bryony said.
Her business partner said that she had made the same suggestion, but they were adamant. Bryony said that she would get in touch with them and at least put their case across.
There was a lull in conversation. Bryony’s colleague hesitantly suggested that perhaps it was better if Bryony stayed at home and lay low until the initial interest had died down. It wasn’t good for a PR company to be the subject of news. Bryony reluctantly agreed. She put down the phone, stared at it for a moment, as if collecting her thoughts, and then came back to the kitchen table.
“Is my Ukrainian client one of the companies that you’re accused of buying shares in?” she asked. “No bullshit, Nick.”
“It might have been one of them,” said Nick, his brow knitted as he tried to recall details. “They mentioned so many in the interview.”
“You know that I worked on that takeover deal?”
“Of course,” said Nick.
“Why didn’t you tell me this last night?” she asked, banging her fist on the table.
“I didn’t want to worry you until it’s clear what evidence they have against me. My lawyer says they’ll say a lot of stuff in the hope of catching me out.”
“Even if you’re proven innocent, this ‘stuff’ will have an impact on me,” said Bryony. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me. You know they’ve fired us.”
“I didn’t know that someone would leak it to a newspaper,” said Nick apologetically.
“So did you do it?”
“Did I do what?”
“Did you buy shares in my company just before they were sold?”
“No.”
“Did you know about this deal from me?”
“What was it called?”
“The codename was Project Odysseus.”
“Rings no bells at all.”
Ali studied his face as he took Bryony by the hand. Everyone had tics that revealed when they were lying. Will MacDonald’s nostrils flared; the twins couldn’t look her in the eye; Katya whistled; her sister pulled her lower lip with a finger; her mother couldn’t blink. Apart from a slightly plaintive concertina of his forehead, a gesture aimed at provoking sympathy, Nick’s features remained passive. His blue eyes were a little watery, his face perhaps more flushed than usual, but that could have been due to the shot of caffeine. His smile was genuine. But Ali remembered the papers she had seen in the drawing room two years earlier when Jake had stumbled upon them sitting on the sofa, and knew that Nick was lying.
“I’d better call the office again,” said
Bryony, getting up from the table.
“Careful what you say on the phone,” warned Nick.
Before Bryony could get to the phone it started ringing, and for the next hour it didn’t stop. The first call was from the Darkes next door, offering help and support and suggesting that if the children wanted to avoid the photographers already lined up on the other side of Holland Park Crescent, they were welcome to climb over the fence into their garden and go out through the basement of their house to get onto the street. Perhaps this was how the burglar escaped, Desmond Darke said sarcastically.
“That’s kind,” said Bryony, “especially since we lied to them about what was going on.” She had no sooner put down the phone than it rang again. This time it was Ali’s parents. Her mother apologetically explained to Bryony that they had tried and failed to get hold of Ali on her mobile. Ali signaled from the other side of the kitchen that she didn’t want to speak to her. Shortly after this, Hester called to say that she would be coming round as soon as possible to help out. Bryony tried to put her off.
“A dawn raid by my sister,” Bryony said, and sighed. “I’m not sure I can endure.”
Tita called from Corfu to let them know she would catch the next flight home. Bryony said she would be grateful to have some help with Foy. Tita agreed but said nothing about his moving back into their house. Lucy’s father phoned to let them know that his daughter was going on a round-the-world trip, and they would be grateful if Jake would avoid contacting her before she left, especially given his drug problem. Bryony put the phone on voice mail and it rang again. This time it was Sophia Wilbraham.
“Bryony, Bryony, are you there?” Sophia’s panicky voice echoed round the kitchen. “Ned’s been arrested. Something to do with Nick. Call me if you know what’s going on. He won’t tell me a thing.”
“On no account speak to her,” Nick called from the bottom of the stairs. “I’m going to call my lawyer again.”
“Do you have any money?” Bryony shouted to him.
“Forty pounds,” he confirmed.
