I ask Henry to make a list of any bond dealers in the market looking for a change. He jots a note to himself. I don’t tell him right now, but I've just made my decision about Daniel’s replacement: it will be Henry. He has proved his mettle in the past twenty-four hours; at very least he deserves his chance. But this news can wait till Monday; in the meantime the job, and its responsibilities, are mine.
Out in the corridor I run into Vance. ‘Well?’ he says.
‘It looks all right. The lines are opening up, we’ll get through it.’
There is the hint of a smile. ‘Darren’s going to hate this.’
Then Vance’s face changes. I glance back over my shoulder to see what he’s looking at. Inspector Ryan. And just behind him, Hugh Morgan.
‘Mr Carlton,’ the Inspector says. ‘I presume your office is free.’
3
* * *
‘I could charge both of you.’ Ryan points at Hugh then at me. ‘Obstructing a police inquiry. Withholding evidence.’
‘Evidence of what?’ Hugh objects. ‘We haven’t got anything.’
Hugh just had time, before we entered my office, to tell me that Inspector Ryan has discovered I’m involved in carrying out Penfield’s investigation. Hugh whispered that Ryan wasn’t best pleased. And I can see that myself now. Ryan has a tight rein on himself, he isn’t shouting, but he is extremely angry.
‘We would’ve passed it on if we’d found something concrete,’ Hugh says. ‘We knew Penfield was keeping you informed.’
‘You aren’t the police, Mr Morgan. Neither of you. And nor is Penfield.’ He glares at Hugh. ‘Didn’t it occur to you that by stampeding through Shobai you might queer the pitch for us? Us, the police?’
‘Shobai has nothing to do with this.’
‘The gentlemen at Shobai gave you their word, I suppose.’
‘Daniel Stewart’s murder isn’t connected with Shobai. That’s my professional opinion.’
‘Your professional opinion cuts no ice here, Mr Morgan. Not after this cosy little operation you’re been running.’
Chastened, Hugh looks at the floor now, so I take up the baton.
‘You saw the fraud note? What was I meant to do, sit on my hands?’
But before Ryan can answer, Hugh speaks again. ‘Anyway why didn’t the Met follow it up straight off? You got me in for the Shobai suicide, why not for Stewart?’
‘For what it’s worth,’ Ryan says grimly, ‘we thought we had the fraud angle covered. Penfield assured me he had his own investigation underway. I received a daily report.’ Ryan looks at me. ‘Only Penfield’s report on Shobai arrived at the same time as I was taking a call from Shobai’s Treasurer about Mr Morgan here’s visit. I asked the Treasurer if any other investigator had been around. Apparently not.’
I take a moment with this. Then I ask Ryan if Penfield mentioned Carltons' other problems.
He nods. ‘You seem to be in the fortunate habit of receiving the benefit of the doubt, Mr Carlton. That isn’t something I’d rely on much longer.’ When I turn toward my chair he says, ‘I wouldn’t bother. We’re going out shortly.’
The significance of this remark eludes me.
‘Listen,’ says Hugh. ‘We’re as far along with this thing as anyone would’ve been. Whatever we’ve found, you’ve got. Penfield’s given us till tomorrow night, so what’s to stop us working this together? I mean, if this fraud thing's connected with Stewart’s murder, and we figure out the fraud, that must help you, no?’
‘You thought we might work together.’ Ryan’s tone is ironic.
‘We crack one, we crack them both,’ Hugh says. ‘If we pool what we have, we’d both stand a better chance. That's all I’m saying.’
Hugh doesn't seem so much like a trader now, more a corporate banker, wheedling an advantage. Ryan sniffs, but he sees that what Hugh is proposing makes sense.
‘My investigation isn’t a bargaining chip,’ he decides. ‘If you have information that might help me, you’re obliged to hand it over. So. Beyond what I’ve seen from Penfield, what do you have?’
‘Not much,’ Hugh says.
‘How much?’
‘Nothing,’ I cut in.
Ryan studies me a moment, then he turns to Hugh. ‘You can go now, Mr Morgan.’
Taken aback, Hugh asks if he can continue with his investigation of the fraud.
‘Your arrangement with Penfield still applies,’ Ryan tells him. ‘But from now on, you keep me directly informed.’
Ryan nods toward the door. Hugh has no choice now, and with an apologetic shrug to me, he departs. Ryan crosses to the window and looks out. ‘Morgan knows nothing about your daughter, I suppose?’
‘No.’
He continues to stare out, perhaps waiting for an explanation of why I, a suspect in Daniel’s murder, have chosen to become so deeply involved in an investigation of my own. At last he faces me again. ‘There’s something I’d like you to see.’
4
* * *
We take Ryan’s car, and after driving through the City streets we emerge by the river and continue a short way before he slows, mounts the pavement, and parks. He flips over a small sign on the dashboard: Metropolitan Police. Then we get out.
Walking by the river wall, he asks me, ‘You know where we are?’
I do. We’re approaching St Paul’s Walk, where Daniel was murdered. There’s a constant hum of traffic, and a cold breeze coming off the river.
‘Two people,’ Ryan says. ‘Early hours of the morning. Not much traffic — it’s drizzling anyway, so the drivers are all concentrating on the road. It’s dark. Who’s going to notice us?’ He leads me down the steps to the pedestrian underpass beneath Blackfriars. There are a few cardboard cartons along the wall, where the tramps sleep. ‘According to forensics, the muzzle was within inches of the point of entry when it was fired.’ A short way along he stops and rests against the river wall.
‘I’ve got a bank to run.’
‘I’m sure they can spare you awhile.’
This must be where it happened, where Daniel died. When I shiver, Ryan asks if I’m cold.
‘What’s your point, Inspector?’
‘Let’s say I'm just sharing some information. What you wanted, isn’t it?’ When I make no comment, he goes on in that matter-of-fact tone. ‘The bullet entered at the base of the skull. Stewart died instantly.’
A sound escapes me, I cannot help it.
‘He slumped against this wall and slid down,’ Ryan says, and then I follow his gaze down. Beneath our feet, we’re actually standing on it, there is a dark stain on the pavement, and I instinctively step back.
‘Considerable bleeding,’ Ryan remarks, and now I feel bile rises in my throat. Swallowing, I take another step back. Then turning, I breathe in the cool air from the river. Ryan watches me. I can’t do or say anything for almost a minute, the brutal fact of the murder seems finally to have pierced. And that bloodstain. A part of Daniel. Ryan stands very still. At last I face him.
‘Why am I here?’
‘To see.’
‘So I’ve seen. Can we go now?’
‘It's not like a balance sheet is it, Mr Carlton? Not something that a bit of fooling with the profit and loss account can put right. He’s dead. Last Wednesday night someone stood here, put a gun against the back of his head and pulled the trigger. Can you picture that?’
He sees by my look that I can.
‘Good,’ he says, and when I go to step by him he grips my arm. ‘We haven’t finished yet.’
‘I've finished.’
‘No,’ he says. ‘Not yet.’ Releasing my arm he asks, ‘Have I been fair with you? About your wife and Stewart? Your daughter? Do you see the journalists pounding on your door?’
‘I know.’
‘Do you?’
‘All right, I appreciate it. Is that what you want? I appreciate it.’
‘It’s not your appreciation I’m after, Mr Carlton.’ I can’t hold his gaze. He won't use what he knows about
Annie against me, I see that now. He desperately wants to discover who killed Daniel, and why; but unlike nearly everyone I deal with each day, he won’t break the bonds of decency to achieve what he wants. He won’t sacrifice two innocents — Theresa and Annie — just to get there. Could I say the same? And if I was, as he is, a decent man, would Theresa ever have sought solace with Daniel? And would I be standing here, as I am now, on the very spot where Daniel was murdered, yet thinking of how soon I can get back to the bank? In the midst of my life, perhaps more than half of it over, it occurs to me that I’m not at all like the man I intended to be. And this man who probably doesn’t even own a dinner jacket — he is.
‘You knew Stewart better than anyone. And you know what’s been going on at Carltons better than anyone. I’m asking for your help,’ Ryan says. The traffic hurries by, someone beeps a horn. ‘You’re in the habit of keeping things to yourself. That really isn’t much use to me.’
‘What do you need?’
‘Cooperation.’
I glance down at the bloodstain. I tell him that I will try.
‘How far do you think we are from your office?’
‘Why mine?’
‘From the bank.’ He looks pained. ‘It’s not a trick question. How far are we from Carltons? On foot.’
‘Fifteen minutes?’
‘My sergeant did it in a little less.
Now I see what he's getting at. Shaking my head, I tell him that he has Vance wrong. ‘If Stephen says he was working, he was working. Believe me, I know him.’
‘You thought you knew Stewart.’
That one stops me.
‘Anyway,’ he says, ‘Vance wasn’t the only one working late at the office.’
‘The nightdesk?’
‘I’ve spoken with Baxter. No, I was thinking of someone else.’ He gestures to the pavement. ‘This is where Stewart was found. Does anything strike you as curious?’ He sees that I am lost, and so he continues. ‘Why wasn’t the body dropped in the river? Sensible precaution. It might not turn up for days, Thames Barrier or somewhere. Put yourself in the murderer’s shoes. You’ve fired the shot, what now?’
‘He’d have to get away.’
‘You’d have to get away from the body. In the shadow here, no traffic passing, what’s to stop you from heaving Stewart over the wall?’
I suggest that a man who has just committed a murder isn’t likely to be thinking straight.
‘If he was a professional he would be. Or if he’d planned it.’ Ryan pauses. ‘And there’s a third possibility. It’s possible he wanted to, but couldn’t. Stewart was what, about your size?’
Yes, I tell Ryan, give or take a few pounds: around thirteen stone.
‘What can you tell me about the bank's chef?’
My head comes up in amazement. ‘Win?’
‘We’ll talk in the car.’ Ryan glances at his watch. ‘I think we’ve seen enough here. Don’t you?’
It takes me less than five minutes to give Ryan everything I know on Win Doi: the Vietnamese background, his escape in a boat after his parents were killed, his time in a refugee camp in Hong Kong. I learnt none of this from Win, it all came secondhand, from the friend of Mary Needham who recommended him to me. Ryan looks mildly surprised.
‘You hired him yourself?’
I explain how it happened. How Mary Needham’s friend works with a refugee resettlement charity, that she specializes in browbeating acquaintances into offering employment to those in the charity’s care. My turn came with Win. I had no idea what he was going to do. And then, when I met him, he mentioned with a nervous smile that he hoped one day to do in England what his family had done before the war in Saigon: run a restaurant. Problem solved. I took him on as a kitchen-hand at Carltons and forgot all about him. Four years ago that was, and his hard work has done the rest. Now I’m not looking forward to the day when he tells me he’s leaving to start a restaurant of his own.
‘Win wouldn't hurt a fly. It isn’t in him.’
We pull up outside the Carlton building; the Inspector turns to me.
‘Then perhaps you could explain why he keeps lying to me.’
‘What’s he said?’
‘“I don’t know.” He says that rather a lot.’ Ryan taps the steering wheel. ‘He was here on Wednesday night. Your nightdesk, Vance, they all saw him. Vance even spoke with him. But Mr Win Doi doesn’t remember. Could he have had a grudge against Stewart? Was there any bad blood between them?’
‘They got along fine.’
‘I imagine he’s quite grateful to you for the job.’
‘I suppose so.’ In fact Win gives me a small present each anniversary of the day he joined us. A Vietnamese custom, he says.
‘Perhaps you might have a word with him,’ Ryan suggests. ‘If he’s got nothing to hide, I’d like to hear a little more from him than just, “I don’t remember.”’
‘I can try.’
‘Because if there’s any more trouble with this investigation, I’ll be conducting the rest of my interviews down at the station.’
Eyebrows raised, he asks me if I understand. I assure him that nothing could be clearer.
5
* * *
‘We’re still on the skids,’ Henry informs me.
But the Dealing Room looks to me much as it did earlier: quiet, certainly, but deals are being done at most of the desks. Henry sees my puzzlement.
‘Not here.’ He nods to the Equities desk. ‘The Carltons share price. We’re taking a bath.’
He rises, and we go across there. The Carltons share price has slid to 250 — we’ve dropped 75p in two days. The senior trader relates the details of the slide. ‘Looks grim,’ he concludes.
The number on the screen is red; the price still going down.
The trader says he’s been pumping the market- maker in Carltons for information. He points to the off-Exchange screen, the order-driven market: no bid next to Carltons. ‘I think he got dumped on at the top, can’t get out.’ The market-maker, he means.
‘Can’t get out anywhere?’
The trader shrugs. ‘Why else’s he chasing us for a bid?’
I chew that one over. If Sandersons want to make a move on us, why aren’t they buying? I tell the trader to keep his ears open. Then on my way to the door, young Jamie - Mr Medieval French History - steps from the alcove beside me.
‘Mr Carlton?’
I pause, one hand on the door.
‘I just wanted to say it wasn't Owen’s fault.’ He looks downcast. Then he seems to realize that I haven’t a clue what he’s talking about. ‘That big loss the other night?’
I remember now. But that was last week, archaeological time to a dealer.
‘It was my fault,’ he says.
A long memory, and scruples too. Maybe this lad really isn’t cut out for the Dealing Room. Opening the door, I tell him that we all make mistakes. ‘Live and learn.’
Owen bawls at him from across the room, and Jamie drops his head and retreats into the alcove to fetch the custard creams.
6
* * *
Win’s in the, kitchen, unpacking vegetables. When I step through the open doorway he says, ‘Too early, too early,’ and smiles.
‘What’s on the menu?’
He moves between the vegetable rack and the box on the floor, reciting: three entrées, three main courses, two desserts. ‘Still some Henry birthday cake,’ he adds, sliding open the bread bin to show me.
I find myself at a loss for a moment. I’ve always liked Win, and I don’t want to intrude: every man has his reasons, and if Win doesn’t want to speak with Ryan, what affair is that of mine? Looking at him now I couldn’t be more sure that he has nothing to do with Daniel's death. But if I don’t intrude, Ryan will pursue him, something I’m not sure that Win understands.
‘Win, Inspector Ryan asked me to speak with you.’ If there were a noise, or any other distraction, I’d assume he hadn’t heard me. ‘He’s just trying to find out wha
t happened to Daniel.’ Still no acknowledgement. Win dribbles the empty box across the floor like a football, then kicks it into the pantry. He takes three chickens from the fridge. ‘He thinks you can help,’ I say.
Win picks up a knife. ‘He is your friend?’
‘No.’
He starts to slice. ‘I don’t like him.’
‘You don’t have to like him. He just wants you to answer a few questions.’
He glances out to the restaurant where the waitress is laying the tables. I lean back, pulling the door closed.
‘What’s wrong? The Inspector’s not going to go away, Win. He knows you were here on Wednesday night, and he thinks you’re lying to him.’ I pause. ‘You were here on Wednesday night, weren’t you?’
He nods.
‘You have to tell him.’
Win suddenly drops the knife. Hands braced on the bench, he looks at the wall. ‘I don’t go back Vietnam,’ he says, ‘I don’t go back Hong Kong.’
His shoulders rise and fall. When he turns, his face is set hard, a fierce determination blazes in his eyes. So this is it, the hidden rock upon which Ryan foundered. Win Doi has no intention of returning to hell.
‘That won’t happen, W1n. You’ve got a family here, a life, no-one’s "going to send you back.’
‘I don’t go back.’
‘No one can send you back. You’ve got to understand that. Ryan can’t, no-one can.’
Words. I see they make no impression. God knows what real horrors Win can set against them. I turn left and right in frustration.
‘For Christ’s sake. The only way you’ll go back there is on some damn package tour.’
He looks at me now. The title, Boddington and the bank, they count for nothing with Win: he sees only the man who gave him a new chance in life. But he still isn’t convinced.
‘You’re not being accused, Win. The Inspector just needs to find out what happened that night. I’ve told him you couldn’t have been involved.’
No response. I ask him if he can at least tell me what happened. It’s like watching some wild creature moving tentatively out of the shadows.
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