Frame-Up

by Gian Bordin

Wednesday, 22nd October, 6:45 a.m.

  Again I wake at exactly that time, as if the alarm had gone off. What am I going to do with myself today? There is no housework left. The predicted rain is still holding out, so I should go for another run, in which case I might as well shower afterward. I wash the sleep off my face, eat a bowl of bran cereal, and drink an espresso before setting out to Kensington Gardens.

  Back from the run, I’m again face with the same dilemma. What to do? I can only do two or three Sudoku a day before getting either too frustrated or too bored even if I go for diabolical ones. There are several unread books in my limited library. But again, I can’t see myself read hour after hour, the whole day long, not with this police investigation hanging over me. I even doubt I could take in what I read with the uncertainty about the future constantly interfering and drawing me back into ruminating about the whole affair, and the break with Gary hovering in the background like the Windows screen saver on my laptop.

  In my whole adult life, there has never been a day with nothing to do. The time at university was filled with cramming my head full of knowledge, analyzing problems, writing essays, while at the same time using every free minute to earn money. The pressure cooker atmosphere of the stockbroker scene often left me exhausted by the time evening arrived, and the weekends were always busy, first with housework, then with leisure activity. Even on the only holiday I ever took, the one to Italy with Gary, every day there had some scheduled activity or some place to visit. And now it seems, all I can do is wait, wait for the police to abandon their investigation for lack of evidence. During that time I’ll remain suspended in limbo. It feels like being on a flying fox over a hardly moving river, stranded at the lowest part of the wire, still over the water, not able to reach the end platform, to reach safety. Should I wait indefinitely until rescue arrives or should I try to swim ashore? That means letting go and dropping into the river, where hidden eddies might pull me under and crocodiles are lurking under the surface. My intuitive preference is to jump and swim. But what does jump and swim mean in this situation? I don’t know and that is the frustrating aspect.

  In the end, I opt for wait, at least for another few days, before reassessing my situation. I might use this free time to revisit some of the art galleries I haven’t set foot in since my teens — the Tate Gallery and the National Gallery. There might be interesting temporary installations at some of the smaller private galleries. If desperate, I might even find my way to the Victoria and Albert Museum or the British Museum. And then there are always my two little sisters. They would love my visit and I would enjoy that too. Being with them might even chase away my frustrations temporarily. I make up my mind to see them today after school.

  Thursday, 23rd October, 10:50 a.m.

  To my utter surprise, I get another phone call from Gary. He asks me to meet him urgently over his lunch break. We agree to rendezvous at ten past one in a café near the Liverpool underground station, a place where no stockbroker would ever want to be seen. In contrast to the previous two calls, his voice sounds calm. Has he changed his mind? Is he going to apologize for his behavior? And what will be my response? I frankly don’t know how I would react if he tried to make up. Something deep inside me warns that there is no going back to what was before. I would never be able to trust him fully. There would always remain a fear that he might turn nasty again. But I’m willing to hear him out and then make a decision or maybe ask for time to think about it.

  I’m first at the café and order a fresh orange juice. Gary rushes in at fifteen past. He sits opposite me.

  "Why haven’t you retracted your statement yet?" he questions without any preamble, without a word of greeting.

  My heart sinks. The "hello Gary" dies on my lips. No, he isn’t trying to make up. He is only banking on forcing me to give in to his demand if he confronts me face to face.

  "This whole thing cannot continue like this," he adds after a short pause, putting exaggerated emphasis on each word while keeping his voice calm and measured. "This policewoman dared to come to Goldsax and ask for me. She wants a formal statement. Colleagues have been asking questions and the secretaries are gossiping. You have to retract your statement. There is no other way."

  I’m working myself into anger. Does he know me so little that he expects me to perjure myself for the sake of his promotion, which is by no means a sure thing even if the police never question him? "No, Gary, I will not retract my statement. What I told the police is the truth and I will stick to that."

  "Do you think having the police show up at my work will help with my promotion, do you? I might as well kiss that good-bye, and all because of you." He raises his voice, quickly working himself into a self-righteous rage. "I warned you what I’ll do if you don’t retract your statement. Don’t think I won’t. In fact, I’ve already done so. I told that bitch that you’re a compulsive liar and that this is the reason why I broke with you —"

  "Thanks very much, Gary, for letting me know that you’ve broken with me. Return the key for my apartment to my mailbox, will you?" The sarcasm slips out before I know it. I get up, put two one-pound coins on the table and walk away.

  He rises too. In the mirror behind the service counter I see him reach out to retain me. In my mind, I ready myself to clout him, but he doesn’t touch me, instead shouts: "Bitch, I warn you; you can’t do that to me. You owe me."

  I’m boiling inside, angry with myself for having contemplated that Gary might want to make up, angry for having let myself be duped by this man for almost two years. Then I almost laugh. Maybe there is a silver lining to the Sanvino affair. It allowed me to discover Gary’s true nature before it was too late, before I committed myself to a marriage that was bound to break apart. I know that once I made the commitment, I would have tried everything to make it work. This is part of my nature. It might have taken years of unhappiness, self-doubt, and mental abuse, always hoping that I could rescue the marriage, before I would throw in the towel. But these thoughts are scant consolation. I feel bereft as if something precious had been ripped out of me.

  Thursday, 8:30 p.m.

  "Halt!"

  The Aikido instructor’s shout shatters the trance I’ve worked myself into. Startled, I abort the move I’ve just initiated. At the same moment the cold realization grips me that if she hadn’t stopped me, I could have maimed or even killed my opponent. I see stark terror in his face. He is swaying, as if he is going to collapse.

  "I’m sorry, Dan. Please, forgive me," I croak, holding out both hands to steady him.

  He shies away, exclaiming: "No, don’t touch me!"

  "What got into you?" the instructor scolds, pushing me away. "This is an exercise, not a fight to the death." She doesn’t raise her voice, its impact all the more powerful, like cold steel cutting into me. "Take some time out on the bench. I’ll talk to you later." Then she helps Dan.

  I do as ordered. Sitting there, my elbows on my knees, my face hidden in my hands, delayed fright seeps into my bones. When she told me to practice with Dan, by far her most accomplished student, I slowly but surely worked myself into a trance. The frustration of not knowing what Willis is going to do, the forced idleness, the growing resentment and antagonism against Gary, Edward Long, my feckless boss, my jealous colleagues, suddenly all focused on my Aikido opponent. He wasn’t Dan any longer. He became the surrogate for all of them. I could have killed him. My heart is pounding madly.

  The instructor cuts the session short and dismisses the class.

  "Cecilia, come to my office," she says. Her face shows puzzled concern.

  I follow her and take the seat she directs me to.

  "I’m sure you realize the gravity of what you’ve done. Not only could you have killed Dan, but nobody will want to partner you again."

  "Master, I know what I did was inexcusable and I regret it sorely. It will never happen again."

  "Unfortunately, the damage is done. A pity. You’ve always been reliable in the past. What has suddenly change
d? I sense that something is wrong with you."

  Is she going to refuse me as her student? Panic grips me. I decide on partial disclosure. "I’m sorry, Master, I promise it will never happen again. And you are correct; there is something wrong with me. I have been accused of fraud and the police have been called in, and I also got fired from my job. But I’m innocent. I have done nothing fraudulent or unethical. But I suspect I’ve been set up. I now realize that this whole affair has taken more out of me than I thought. Please, don’t exclude me from your classes."

  Her eyes search mine for several long seconds before she responds. "Cecilia, I’ve always admired your dedication to the philosophy of Aikido, but you have to understand that I cannot place my students at risk. I could see that you were in a trance and, if it happened once, it may happen again. I think you need professional help. I suggest you have a few sessions with a psychotherapist." She takes a business card from the desk drawer and hands it to me. "See this woman. She is good. She may help you resolve your difficulties."

  I take the card and lower my head. I know there is no point begging her. It is against the Aikido creed and would only lower her opinion of me even more. She is a woman who weighs her actions and words carefully. Once she makes up her mind, nothing is likely to shift her.

  I leave the gymnasium, despondent, cursing the day I listened to Edward Long’s rumor.

  Friday, 24th October, 11:20 a.m.

  The building entrance intercom chimes. I put down Involuntary Witness, a crime novel by the Italian author Gianrico Carofiglio, which has been translated into English, although I would have preferred to read it in the original Italian version. I rise to answer.

  "Police. Detective Sergeant Somes and Police Officer Barlow. Let us in."

  I don’t like her peremptory tone. "Why should I?"

  "This is the police. Open up."

  "What do you want this time?"

  "We are to escort you to the Snow Hill Police Station."

  "You could learn a bit of politeness from DI Willis. It would improve your manners enormously." I can’t resist, but at the same time also press the release button. Then I open the front door a hand width and immediately go to call Crawford’s office. I leave a message with his secretary that I’m once more being taken to the police station. She wants to know if I have been arrested. I reply that I don’t know, but hope that Mr. Crawford will be able to join me there.

  While I talk, there is a hard knock at the apartment door. Without waiting for a response, Somes enters and comes directly into the kitchen, just as I hang up.

  "Are you arresting me, detective?" I question.

  "Miss Walker, my orders are to take you to the police station."

  "Let me grab a jacket and my purse."

  She follows me and stands watch in the bedroom door. As if I were going to jump out the window! And if I really wanted to abscond, Somes would hardly be able to stop me, even with the help of Barlow.

  At the station, Somes deposits me once more in the same interview room. I inform her that I’m not going to answer any questions except in the presence of my lawyer. She grunts something unintelligible and leaves. It takes almost forty minutes, before Crawford shows up. He is his usual uncommunicative self. We both wait another few minutes in silence for Willis and Somes to appear. Willis nods to both of us.

  Crawford speaks first. "Detective Inspector, are you arresting Miss Walker and if so on what charges?"

  "The answers to that depend on what Miss Walker can tell us," he responds. He switches on the recording device and says: "Interview started at 12:47 p.m. in the presence of DI Willis, DS Somes, Miss C. Walker, and Mr. Crawford, representing Miss Walker." Next he places a document in front of me. "Miss Walker, can you explain to us the meaning of these transactions in the statement of account numbered 343.650056, issued by the London branch of the Union Bank of Switzerland on the 22nd October to I-Consolidated Holdings Ltd., attention C. Walker?" He says it all in one breath, quite a feat, while tapping his index finger consecutively on five lines on the document. "For the record they are a deposit of 10 million pounds, a debit of 9.94 million pounds, both dated 15th of October, another deposit of 11.98 million pounds and two debits of 10,007,438 pounds and of 2,032,560 pounds, respectively, both dated 16th October, the latter to a bank in Liechtenstein."

  For any trading done through the stock exchange, seller and buyer do not know each other’s identity, although their names are recorded by the exchange transaction system. But since the Sanvino transaction was a direct deal with another stockbroker, I know the purchaser. So the name of the account holder, I-Consolidated Holdings, strikes me immediately, as does the debit of 9.94 million — the amount that firm paid for the Sanvino shares. Puzzled, I take the sheet and scan over it. Yes, I’ve heard correctly. The account holder is the purchaser of the shares. The incoming balance of the account is £481.64. Why is the account addressed ‘Attention C. Walker’? My initial and name. Who is C. Walker? I never opened this account and prior to the sale of the Sanvino shares I had never heard of the firm I-Consolidated. Is the ‘C. Walker’ a coincidence or is it more ominous, an attempt to frame me?

  "Before I give you a partial answer to your question, I want to know where this statement comes from? How did you get in possession of it?"

  "I’m not obliged to answer that, but it will hardly matter if I do. It was mailed to Lewis on the 22nd October, and handed to Fred Garland, who opened it. He suspected that it had something to do with the Sanvino transaction, and therefore he passed it on to me this morning. The reason for calling you in again today is to question you on the meaning of this bank account, seemingly addressed to you."

  Crawford intervenes: "The fact that the initial and name are the same as Miss Walker’s does not prove that the statement is addressed to her. A quick check of the phone listings will reveal that there are dozens, if not hundreds of C. Walker in London."

  "Maybe Miss Walker can enlighten us. What is your response?"

  I quickly look at Crawford. He shrugs his shoulders. I take this as his okay to reply. "First, I-Consolidated Holdings is the firm that acquired Ventura’s Sanvino shares through a private deal with a stockbroker at Goldsax, and 9.94 million is the settlement amount. Second, I suppose that the deposit of 11.98 million is the proceeds of selling these shares on that day, but that’s only a guess. Checking Sanvino’s share price movements for that day might confirm it. Third, the first time I heard of a firm called I-Consolidated Holdings was on the day of the Sanvino transaction. Fourth, I don’t know the identity of the C. Walker shown on the statement. I never opened this account."

  A fleeting smile flashes over Somes’ face, as if she had caught me in a lie. I don’t have to wait long to find out.

  "Miss Walker, I have here a copy of the application form for opening that account, dated 1st of October of this year," she states with a slight smirk. "It shows C. Walker as the only person authorized to sign on the account. Will you please confirm that this is your signature?"

  It looks deceptively similar to mine, the same rounded W and final tail after the r, except that I never sign just C. I always write out Cecilia. "This is not my signature. I always write out my first name in full."

  "You never simply sign C. Walker?" Somes questions, clearly unconvinced by my reply.

  I hesitate for a moment. "I may have done so several years back, but not recently."

  "This account was opened only fourteen days before you arranged the Sanvino transactions," she retorts triumphantly. "You still maintain you didn’t open it?"

  I shrug. "I never opened this account, and this is not my signature. And besides, where would I get ten million pounds for depositing in this account?"

  "From your accomplice who seems to have a numbered account with a bank in Liechtenstein."

  "I have no accomplice, nor do I have a numbered bank account anywhere. I again repeat strenuously, I did nothing wrong, except heed a false rumor."

  "You are lying, Miss Walker. Your
ex-boyfriend warned us about that."

  "So he told me, but then did he also tell you that he wanted me to perjure myself by retracting my statement that he was my contact at Goldsax who confirmed the Lufthansa rumor? So, can you believe the accusation of a man who doesn’t hesitate to perjure himself? Furthermore, the scenario in which you are trying to implicate me is an insult to my intelligence. It is so primitive that any stockbroker would blush with embarrassment to even think of such a transparent scheme. Any rookie of the Securities and Futures Authority would immediately smell fraudulent trading. This looks more and more like a setup to implicate me and hide the real culprit." I surprise myself by how I manage to keep my voice calm and even — again my Aikido training — despite feeling that the noose around my neck is tightening. Maybe, it might have been more politic to show some nervousness.

  While I talk, Somes scowls again. I can see that she gets ready to blast another salvo, but Willis quickly preempts her: "You said the Sanvino transaction was as a private deal arranged through a Stockbroker at Goldsax, not one going through the London Stock Exchange. Isn’t this rather irregular? What was the reason for that?" His tone of voice reveals that he is suspicious.

  "Offering a large parcel of shares on the stock exchange, particularly ones that are not regularly traded, is likely to cause a substantial drop in price. Privately arranged deals usually do better."

  "Who was the stockbroker at Goldsax?"

  "Bob Gough."

  "Do you know him well?"

  "No, I only met him once for about a minute."

  "To come back to the signature. We will have it compared by a graphologist with your handwriting and signatures we obtained from Mr. Garland."

  Again Crawford intervenes. "Detective Inspector, you have not produced a single piece of hard evidence that links my client to a possible fraud. All you have presented so far is circumstantial. Even if your expert confirms that the signature for the account is in all likelihood the same as the signature of Miss Walker, that does not exclude the possibility that all you have is a very good forgery. As Miss Walker so rightfully expressed, you seem to be barking up the wrong tree. If this is all you have, I will advise my client to leave with me now." He starts to rise. I follow.