‘The Meyers want you sacked.’
Leicester stops dead.
‘You’ve upset them,’ Vance says.
‘Me?’
I follow up with the only question that counts. ‘Gary, did you buy any Parnell shares on Thursday?’
‘Fuck no.’
‘Before Thursday?’
‘What is this, an inquisition?’
Vance tells him it’s not an inquisition but a question.
‘What about your employees?’ I ask.
‘It went by the rules. What am I, an idiot? Bullshit like that and I’ve got no company.’
‘No-one’s accusing you,’ Vance tells him, and Leicester crosses his arms.
‘If I find out who’s spreading this bullshit story I’ll sue the bastard.’ He has a brooding look. He’s PR to the fingertips, and I don’t really trust him, but right now he appears to be telling the truth. David Meyer got it wrong.
‘Gary,’ I say reasonably, ‘if you know any reason why Parnells went up Thursday, it might be better if we knew now.’
‘No idea,’ he says. It is like a great door slamming closed.
I look at Vance but he has nothing to offer. I turn back to Leicester. ‘All right, this one goes through to the keeper. But should anything occur to you — anything — let us know.’
Carefully, Leicester does up his jacket buttons, he is the very picture of offended dignity. Problems like this we just don’t need. To smooth his ruffled feathers I ask about the PR campaign. Churlishly, he gives us a ten-minute report on how his company is cutting a broad swathe through the media. TV, press and radio, he has them all covered. Parnells have made no response to the increased offer yet; it will be a while before they can muster anything credible, and by then City opinion should be moving our way. Such, at least, is the plan.
‘Good,’ I say, then I turn to Vance. ‘That’s it?’ Vance nods.
Then Leicester says, ‘It wasn’t David Meyer was it? Who fed you that bullshit?’
‘What if it was?’
‘Jesus.' He shakes his head That man is a prick.’
Leicester tells us the story. He and David had an argument last week, a disagreement over the number of interviews David has been giving the press. Leicester asked him to be a little less forthcoming, and David didn’t take the advice kindly. This present false accusation, Leicester suggests, is David Meyer's way of getting even. He repeats his judgement. ‘What a prick.’
The three of us look at one another. Then Leicester rises and goes and shakes Vance’s hand. Solemnly. Next he comes and shakes mine. Not a word is spoken. A strange scene. But when he crosses to the door he glances back. ‘You weren’t to know,’ he says.
This is his exit line. The door closes behind him. and finally I get it. Magnanimity. Gary Leicester our PR man, that model of moral rectitude, forgives us. I squeeze my temples to ease the pressure.
‘What do you think?’
‘He didn’t buy the shares,’ Vance decides. ‘He knows we can check. And to tell you the truth, I wouldn’t put it past David bloody Meyer to use us like that.’
So we’re back where we started: waiting to hear from the Registrar on the 212 we’ve filed to uncover the buyer. We can’t waste more time on this now. I ask how the broker’s going with Parnells, and Vance gives me a brief account. So far, no problems.
‘Stephen, the other day Inspector Ryan was with you quite a while.’
‘Waste of time.’
‘What was he chasing?’
‘Daniel’s murderer supposedly. Who knows?’
His tone is offhand but I see that the interview with Ryan has disturbed him.
‘You weren’t even on the boat that night,’ I say.
‘No, I was here. Working late.’
I offer to speak with Ryan, but Vance waves the suggestion aside. He tells me we have a bid to attend to. ‘Real work,’ he says.
Once Vance has left I try to settle down to the backlog of paperwork: a note from Gordon Shields, our Finance Director, about an Audit Committee meeting later in the month; a summary of our positions in the Dealing Room, this one thoughtfully prepared by Henry; memos and letters, most of them absolutely pointless. I notice that there’s nothing from Sir John. My mind keeps drifting to Annie.
Out on the Thames the barges pass silently by, and the low dark clouds scud east. Raindrops strike the windowpane, tracing broken patterns down the glass.
6
* * *
When I put my head round Karen Haldane’s door she’s studying a printout. She looks up and takes off her glasses. ‘Got a moment then have we?’
‘What did Ryan have to say?’
‘He asked some questions. He wasn't here long.’
‘What was he after?’
She lays a ruler across the printout and scores a red line. ‘He thinks Daniel was involved in something.’
‘Involved?’
‘I’m only telling you what he thinks. I’ll tell you something else too. He’s not going to give up on it.’
‘Involved in what?’
‘I don't know Raef.’ She hesitates. ‘Fraud, I suppose. Ryan asked about our procedures: who has authority for what, all that. He said he’s coming back to you later.’
Fraud? Daniel? And why is Ryan coming back to see me?
‘I can’t block them,’ Karen adds flatly.
I should be angry, but her obstinate honesty is solid ground in this widening mire, one point of certainty from which I can take my bearings. She isn’t like Leicester or Darren Lyle; not even like my father, if it comes to that. With Karen Haldane, for better or worse, I know exactly where I stand.
I tell her to keep me informed.
My next stop is Sir John’s office where I spend fifteen minutes filling him in on the progress of the bid. He holds himself a little too squarely, and gives my words an unusually careful consideration. He has been drinking. I don’t like these occasions at the best of times, and so once I’ve said my piece, I rise and head for the door. Sir John checks me.
‘Raef, do you think Stephen’s quite steady just now?’
‘He’s got the Meyers under control.’
‘Not the bid. I was thinking of Inspector Ryan. Ryan's heard about the two of them. Stephen and Daniel.’
‘The two of them what?’
‘With the best will in the world, Raef, they never saw eye-to-eye, did they?’
‘That was work.’
‘Yes, I told Ryan that.’
‘Why’s he asking you about Vance?’
‘I’ve no inkling.’ He frowns. ‘But I mentioned it to Stephen just now. Asked him what he wanted me to say. He nearly bit my head off.’
I tell Sir John it might be best if he steers clear of Vance for a while. ‘He’s under enough pressure with the Meyers, he doesn’t need us on his back.’
‘Stephen was here on Wednesday night, wasn’t he? He stayed back?’
‘Yes?’
'I was just wondering,’ he says tentatively. He strokes his nose, a habit he’s developed since the red veins there became quite visible.
‘Wondering what?’
He looks at me from the corner of his bleary eye. ‘How far do you suppose we are from St Paul’s Walk?’
Back in my own office I try to call Hugh but all I get is his answering machine. Then Becky comes in. She fusses with the papers on my desk, and I'm about to ask her what the problem is when she asks me, ‘That Inspector’s all right, isn’t he?’
‘Sure.’
‘He spoke to me again, about my statement and that. You know. What I saw that night on the boat.’ She looks down. ‘I had to say.’
The Antipodean approach defeats me. I reach across for our loan agreement with the Meyers.
‘I mean, I told him how Daniel stood back up and everything.’
My hand freezes on the folder. A great chasm seems to open wide beneath me. Looking up slowly, I ask Becky what it is, exactly, that she has told the Inspector.
; ‘Well,’ she says apologetically, ‘I told him I saw you hit Daniel. I’m sorry Raef, I had to.’
She saw me hit Daniel the night of the party, the night Daniel died. I stare at her.
‘What did he say?’
‘He wants to see you. He made an appointment.’
‘When for?'
Becky opens her hands helplessly. ‘Now?’
7
* * *
Ryan eases himself into the chair. He looks at me stone-faced, and the first thing he says is, ‘Why didn’t you mention it?’
‘It wasn’t important. Nothing.’
‘ ‘You hit him.’
‘We scuffled. Schoolboy stuff.’
‘Six hours later Stewart was dead.’ Then a claw clicks out from his paw. ‘Mr Carlton,’ he says. ‘You know I don’t want a media circus.’
A cold shiver runs through me. The tabloids. If they pick up on this I’ll be crucified, we both know that, but I hold his gaze.
‘Talk me through it,’ the Inspector says. ‘The scuffle.’
‘We argued. We’d had a bit to drink.’
‘And then?’
‘Look, Daniel was shot. I don’t see that this comes into it.’
‘I’m not suggesting he was beaten to death Mr Carlton. I’m trying to understand why two supposed friends were brawling in public just hours before one of them was murdered.’
I tell him it wasn’t a brawl. He asks me what I’d call it then.
‘Is this where I demand to speak to my lawyer?’ But this foolish quip falls into silence. Worse, the Inspector’s gaze wanders down.
‘There’s the phone,’ he says. He isn’t just some banker or client; he isn’t here to negotiate with me. He wants to discover the truth. ‘Friends fall out,’ he says. ‘It happens. Then again, men your age, in your positions, they don’t duff each other up in the street just for fun.’ He drops his head to one side. ‘Why?’ he asks, and the blood pounds in my ears. ‘Mr Carlton?’
‘Daniel thought I was having an affair with Celia.’
‘Celia Stewart?’
Yes, I tell him, Daniel’s wife.
‘Was it true?’
‘No.’
‘He accused you, then you hit him.’
‘We scuffled.’
‘Your secretary saw him fall.’
‘He took a swing and I grabbed him. We wrestled a bit. He wasn’t hurt.’
‘Were you?’
I hold up my wrist. ‘Broke my watch.’
He asks why he's only hearing about this now.
‘Because it isn’t important,’ I say.
He stands and takes a turn around the office, pausing by the window. ‘You and Stewart were friends a long time. Back to Eton.’ When I incline my head, he says, ‘You might help me.’
‘If I could.’
His look immediately darkens, and I know at once that I have made a mistake.
‘I hope you don’t think this investigation can be deflected, Mr Carlton, because I won’t let that happen.’ He goes to the door. ‘I’ll call on Mrs Stewart. If you contact her before I do, I’ll regard that as an obstruction of my inquiries. Thanks for your time.’
The truth — the simple truth — is all that he wants. But the simple truth is the one thing I can't give him.
I pick up the phone and dial Hugh Morgan.
8
* * *
Before lunch there’s a gathering of the corporate finance team in Vance’s office. The atmosphere is cheerful, almost partylike, everyone discussing different angles on the bid. When Henry walks in with Peter Fanshawe, our broker on the bid, young Haywood claps theatrically and cries, ‘Bravo.’ Fanshawe takes a bow. The backslapping done, I draw Henry aside.
‘How much have we got?’
He gestures back to Fanshawe. ‘They’re still doing the numbers. Looks like we’re over forty per cent, thereabouts.’ As Vance hoped. From here on in, Parnells will find it extremely difficult to shake us loose. ‘Dried up a bit after ten,’ Henry says.
‘Last bid you saw?’
‘177.’
‘Last trade?’
‘Same. Just hanging round there.’
Vance, overhearing, leans across. ‘Maybe the arbitrageurs might stay out of it for a change.’
Henry tells him to keep right on dreaming.
I touch Vance’s arm and we step out into the corridor. Behind us Henry regales the others with a Dealing Room story that would turn the Equal Opportunities people apoplectic if they heard.
‘What do you think?’ I ask Vance as we walk down the passage. ‘Forty per cent enough?’
‘Could be worse. You’ve still got lunch with Brian McKinnon today?'
Brian McKinnon, the manager of an investment fund that is one of Carltons’ major shareholders: they own a large parcel of Parnells too. Over lunch, I will try to convince McKinnon that 180 is a worthwhile bid.
I confirm with Vance that lunch is still on. We stop by the coffee machine and he leans against the wall and stifles a yawn.At last the sleeplessness is getting to him, he is human after all.
'This Inspector Ryan’s getting on my pip,’ he says.
‘Humour him, Stephen.’
He rubs his eyes. ‘I keep thinking about Daniel. I was checking my diary just now. Daniel and Celia were meant to be coming round for dinner tonight.’
‘At your place?’
He sees my surprise. ‘Burying the hatchet,’ he explains. After their last big argument I told him to do just that. Apparently he intended to try. ‘But now?’ He shrugs. ‘You know what I mean?’
I know exactly what he means. Mortality weighs heavy on us both.
‘Just like that,’ he says. ‘How old was he, forty?’
‘Thirty-nine.’
‘Jesus, his boys too.’ Vance shakes his head. He asks if I’ve spoken to Celia.
‘She’s all right.’
‘That Ryan, the Inspector.’ Vance lifts his head. ‘Did he say anything to you about Daniel and me?’
‘If he's bothering you, Stephen, I’ll have a word.’
Becky calls me from down the corridor, we look down there.
‘I’ll ring you after I’ve seen McKinnon,’ I tell Vance.
‘He asked me about you.’
‘McKinnon?’
‘Ryan,’ he says.
‘Raef?’ Becky calls.
Backing away down the corridor, I tell Vance I don’t want to keep McKinnon waiting.
9
* * *
‘They’re saying it was a hit,’ Hugh Morgan informs me. When I look blank, he adds, ‘Professional.’
‘Who’s saying?’
He waves his hand airily. ‘Contacts.’
'The police?’
He nods, tapping at the keyboard of his portable. We’re in Darcy’s, a coffee bar in a cramped City alley, Hugh asked me to meet him here. We have a rear table, Hugh has his back to the wall. The few customers who enter don’t stay long, they buy what they want and move on. Hugh turns the screen a little so that I can see.The Carlton Brothers numbers appear.
‘What does that mean?’ I say. ‘Professional?’
‘Like it sounds. Someone who knew what he was doing. Someone who got paid.’ He glances up. ‘This is just between us, by the way.’
‘A hitman killed Daniel?’
‘You remember a few months back that dealer at Shobai?’ Shobai, one of the big Japanese banks. ‘He didn’t show up for work two days running. Police broke in, and there he is, suicided all over the floor.’
‘What’s the connection?’
‘Maybe none.’ He tastes his coffee. ‘The Shobai managers asked us in to take a discreet look at the books. Seemed okay. But the Inspector on the suicide didn’t like the smell of it. He turned up so many questions the coroner brought in an open verdict.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning maybe it was suicide and maybe it wasn’t.’ He concentrates on the screen again. ‘I don’t suppose you know how much busine
ss your Treasury does with Shobai?’
'Not offhand.’ He hits a key and a long list of last month's Shobai-Carltons deals comes up in black and white. The list is in three sections. Hugh points to the smallest. ‘Miscellaneous,’ he says. ‘Equities and commodities, you don’t do much.’ His finger runs over the other two sections. ‘Forex and money-market, a bit more.’
‘Which tells us what?’
‘Bugger all.’ There’s a certain look Hugh gets when he wants to be serious, he goes quiet and seems to sink into himself, thinking. He gets that look now. ‘Actually, we should drop your miscellaneous file. You want something by Friday, I’ll have to narrow the field.’
‘You’re assuming this is connected with Shobai?’
He shrugs. ‘One possibility. We’ve got too much information anyway. We do some pruning now or we’ll be thrashing around the data jungle for the next four days going nowhere.’ He puts up a hand and orders two more coffees. 'I've scanned all the files you gave me, the pattern’s similar. Plenty of forex and money-market deals, a lot less equities and commodities. Most of these frauds rely on burying crooked trades under truckloads of real ones. If you want to hide a tree, plant it in a forest.’
‘So we drop the miscellaneous file?’
‘You agree?’ he says.
It’s Monday. Only four full days left. I tell Hugh I’m completely in his hands. He bends over his keyboard, explaining how he spent half the morning reformatting the Carlton Brothers discs. ‘Compatibility,’ he ‘says in that American accent he sometimes affects. ‘Such a bitch.’ A female customer looks sharply our way. Hugh doesn’t seem to notice. He points to the screen and the list of miscellaneous details disappears: if the fraud was buried there, we won’t find it, not by Friday Our fresh coffee arrives.
‘You don’t take this hitman business seriously?’ I say.
‘The name Roberto Calvi ring any bells?’
It does. Roberto Calvi, a banker with connections to the Vatican, was found hanging by his neck one morning beneath Blackfriars Bridge. Coincidentally, a stone’s throw from where Daniel was found. Another open verdict.
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