“Panama.”
Henry grinned, uncovering a set of regular teeth. He crossed his arms behind his head, nostrils flaring.
“Panama, hey. I was wondering when the issue of fiscal paradises would surface. It seems it now has.”
Nancy arched her eyebrows. “Really? Let’s hope the governor will agree to let you out then.”
Henry’s smile broadened even more. “He will. Your good friend Pole will make sure of it and, if not, I can guarantee Superintendent Marsh won’t hesitate to assist.”
“But before I agree to support the SFO too, I want to have a little chat with you about something.” Nancy opened her briefcase and placed an untidy piece of paper she had taken out of it in front of Henry.
“Would you care to elaborate please?” Nancy asked, her eyes running over Henry’s face.
“I know – a bit melodramatic – very Irish. I get some strange ideas within the confines of HSU. It always passes.” His smile had become rueful. He had known the question about the note he had written to Nancy a few months ago would come up. He did not regret writing it and simply hoped he could be convincing enough now.
“Escape out of HSU is not an option, you know that,” Nancy said, bending forward and placing a hand carefully across her mouth so that no one could lip read what she was saying to Henry.
“I know – the most secure prison in the UK.” Henry’s shoulders had slightly sagged. “I am convinced of that.”
Nancy searched his face. He let his mouth drop slightly and a shadow pass over his eyes. She pulled back. He thought she was convinced.
Now the game was on.
Chapter Seven
The frisking was done professionally. She was glad however when the heavy prison door closed shut, leaving her outside and Henry still inside. Nancy was only half convinced by Henry’s explanation. The HSU was an impressive environment, a smaller community of inmates imprisoned within the main body of Belmarsh prison itself. The prison officers too were different, better trained at identifying problems early and under strict instructions not to fraternise with the prisoners. But even if Henry dreamt about freedom, no one had ever escaped from HSU Belmarsh. She felt reassured. Her experience of visiting Henry regularly had convinced her that no one would ever change that.
The bus arrived. She climbed on board and found a seat at the far end. She had been followed by a couple of other women. She recognised one of them, also a regular visitor. Her son was doing time for GBH, assault on his girlfriend and mother of his unborn child. The younger woman was talking to the older one animatedly. The meeting with the prisoner she was visiting must have gone well, leaving a small glimmer of hope that he might change his ways and that there could be happiness once he came out. The two black women would leave the bus at Hackney Central and take a tube that would deliver them into the heartland of gangs’ territory: high-rise estates riddled with drugs, weapons and abuse, a place where few policemen would ever venture. It looked cliched and yet sadly too familiar.
Nancy sighed; poverty in a country like the UK was a disgrace. What was the excuse in this place of abundance? It was not India. Or China with 1.4 billion people to feed. Her body shuddered; she pushed away the memories of China. Nancy looked at her watch, almost 4pm. She could be with Pole in half an hour if she got off now and hailed a cab. Would it be unprofessional to distract him in the middle of two murder investigations? Nancy rested her forehead against the window of the lumbering bus. The words of Phillippe, the young gallerist who had kindly agreed to help her with her search for her father, came back to her. “The trail goes cold after 1989.” She opened her bag, fumbling with the zip, grabbed her BlackBerry and sent a text to Pole. She could hold back no longer. She had to know.
Pole replied within minutes. Nancy smiled. She sat back in the taxi she had been lucky to find quickly. How much more was she prepared to tell him about her childhood and her greatest fears?
The taxi swerved wildly, the cabbie banged his horn and lowered his window to give the cyclist a piece of his mind. He had barely avoided a man on his bike with a child seat at the back complete with a small passenger. Nancy was thrown to one side, causing a searing pain in her right shoulder. The pain grew in intensity going way beyond what the impact should have provoked.
Her long hair has been braided in a long plait that has not been undone for days. She wants to scratch her scalp but she is too frightened to let go of her father’s back. Her father is peddaling fast. She is barely holding on. The small child seat on which she is perched has been built by him, a rackety affair that has done a good job of carrying her this far but now is threatening to collapse at any moment. She hears her mother call after them. They must reach the safety of their next stopover before it is dark, before the roads are deserted and the red guards prowl the streets. Nancy sees that they are in a city, people moving like ants, relentless, unstoppable. Her father slows down and a few people stare. Her mother is a foreigner and easily recognisable despite the scarf around her hair – just a little effort and they will be safe.
They turn off into another street, away from the main road, then take another turning into a smaller lane. Her father stops and takes her into his arms. He is almost running. Nancy sees her mother move her bike alongside her husband’s, as she clasps her father’s neck. Her mother catches her satchel on the handlebar of the bikes; they collapse with a loud clatter. Her father drops Nancy in front of a wooden door and runs back towards his wife. Out of nowhere four young men in uniform have appeared, red guards.
A door opens and shuts. She is in; they are out. She wants to cry but one hand covers her mouth and another grabs her shoulder in an iron vice, “Don’t say anything.” The use of English stuns her.
Nancy could hear another voice far away. She has taken hold of her shoulder trying to ease an overwhelming pain. The cab has stopped, the cabbie is speaking to her from the car’s open door – “All right? Hurt?”
Nancy opened her eyes. She could hardly hold back the tears. She managed a breathless, “Don’t worry – it’s fine; an old wound.”
* * *
Pole had once again arrived before her. She slowed down and spent a few moments observing him. His tall body was bent over a small coffee table. He had managed to secure their favourite spot, a couple of comfortable small sofas alongside the bay window, secluded from the rest of the cafe and its clusters of armchairs and couches. She sometimes wondered whether he used his police ID card to secure the spot. He had ordered pastries already. Her latest favourite, introduced to her during a trip to France, the Ile de Ré, a little island close to La Rochelle. This chausson aux pommes, a kind of apple turnover drizzled with coarse granulated sugar, had awoken her taste buds and she was delighted she could find it in the middle of London. Pole had a knack for knowing when he needed to be there first to welcome her; perhaps he heard it in the tone of her voice. This reflected the skill of a successful DCI and yet his ability to read human feelings always impressed her. It was one of the things which made him so immensely attractive. Nancy started walking towards him. Pole had just finished rearranging one of the small sofas when he saw her. She was now all smiles and so was he.
“Jonathan, mon cher ami, always full of thoughtful attention when I need it the most,” Nancy said putting one hand on his shoulder and standing on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.
“Très heureux de l’entendre,” Pole kissed her cheek in return and bent forward to help her with her coat. “Did it not go as well as you expected with Henry? I would have thought —”
Nancy pressed his arm to interrupt him. “No, he is raring to go, just as we expected.” She sat down, inhaled deeply. Pole sat opposite her, patient. He would give her all the time she needed.
Nancy looked into Pole’s face, his intelligent eyes that creased ever so slightly near the temples when he paid attention, the famous goatee, now more salt and pepper than when they first met, and one immen
se quality above all.
Truthfulness.
“I have been thinking about this for a while now,” she finally said whilst pouring the tea that had just arrived. Pole nodded encouragingly. He was pouring his own tea, a slow careful movement, mindful of not disturbing the atmosphere of confidence.
“It’s about —” Nancy stopped. Did she really want to do this?
“The past?” Pole ventured.
“Thank you, yes, it is, very much so.” Nancy took a sip of tea. “It’s about someone from my past.” Hesitating once more, she looked into Pole’s eyes. He let her gaze deeply into them. Her right hand started shaking ever so slightly but she could only see immense kindness in front of her.
“It’s about – my father.”
* * *
The cab almost felt comfortable. It was an old model, the cushioned upholstery had seen better days and so had the scuffed floor. Marissa pushed her body into the left-hand corner, squeezing herself between the window and the backrest. It was oddly cosy. She spent a few moments observing the driver. He too had seen better days: short white hair barely covering his skull, hunched over the wheel, hands knotted with arthritis and yet smoothly weaving his taxi through heavy traffic. She closed her eyes and rested her head against the window. Mark’s bandaged face and hands sprang to mind, interrupting her train of thought. She buttoned up her coat, shivering. Was it truly what he wanted to do – carry on with the case? He was still so raw and shocked. She had never hesitated in prosecuting even the most tedious of cases. But today was different. Her large dark eyes felt moist. She opened her handbag, fished out a couple of tissues and ran them over her face. She was about to arrive at the Serious Fraud Office where the director was waiting for her. Under his leadership the SFO had regained much of its lost reputation. He was unlikely to let the human factor interfere with the decision to follow through.
“David is going to want to prosecute. No matter what,” Marissa whispered. David Green had made it his mission to restore the agency’s relevancy. He had reopened the LIBOR case after his predecessor had decided not to prosecute bankers, consequently revoking the previous decision. If there was sufficient evidence, he would want to forge ahead.
She asked the cabbie to drop her at the bottom of Trafalgar Square, paid and stepped out into the cold. She raised the collar of her coat and brought it close to her face. The wind was pushing mercilessly into her. She moved at a slow pace, each step making ground against the gusts and sudden squalls of driving rain. She was getting wet but she would not hurry, wanting to gain a few precious minutes before having to face a decision she did not want to make.
She entered the SFO building, greeted the receptionist with her usual nod and took the lift to the third floor. She ran her hand over her thick short hair, brushing off the raindrops. She almost smiled: the advantage of African hair; it was hard for it to get wet. Her mobile phone buzzed, reminding her why she was back in the office. David was waiting for her and his texts made clear.
Marissa was sitting in a narrow chair in front of the director’s desk. He was pacing down the length of his office, rehearsing the speech he would deliver to the Attorney General, his boss. The LIBOR scandal was at the forefront of his strategy to charge the bankers who had manipulated the benchmark. LIBOR served to fix interest rate levels not only in the UK but also around the world, a $350 trillion scandal. Even he had gasped at the figure. How far could he go in holding the banks and the bankers to account? And now this new scandal, another bank to prosecute. This was exactly what the SFO needed after years of lacklustre performance.
Marissa shifted a little. The wretched chair made her self-conscious of her size, and yes, it was not supposed to be comfortable to be in the director’s presence. David stopped and peered over his narrow blue-rimmed glasses.
“Your view, Marissa.”
“I think he has decided to carry on.”
David looked puzzled. “You sound unsure.”
“He has barely recovered from the shock of the blast and from losing his wife, of course.” Her voice trailed.
“I am not talking about Mark Phelps; understandably, his decision isn’t final yet.” He moved to his desk and sat down heavily. “I am talking about you. Your views on the case. The evidence looks solid so far.”
“We still need to demonstrate that the Ultimate Beneficial Owner of the fund that received money from HXBK originates from the same Middle-Eastern country that invested in them in the first place.”
“A circular transaction of the worst kind.” The director smirked. “You’ve found a banker that can help, haven’t you? I read Crowne’s résumé. This case should be a walk in the park for him.”
“Perhaps.” Marissa’s large hand moved a few sheets of paper around the file she had laid open on the desk.
David leaned back in his chair, one hand swinging the glasses he had removed.
“Marissa, we can’t afford another BAE Systems failure. Surely, out of all people, you know that too.”
Marissa froze for a few seconds. She had been expecting a reference to the case that still haunted her but perhaps not so soon. Not being able to properly prosecute BAE Systems for bribery in the sale of armaments to the Saudis had been the worst moment in her career. What amounted in her view to a mere slap on the wrist for BAE and a pardon granted by Tony Blair to the Saudis, who had invoked national security, had been a severe blow. “I know, Sir; how could I forget?” Marissa straightened up.
“You were not helped by the previous director, of that I am aware. But I am here to give you all the backing you need.”
“It is very much appreciated.”
“Come, come. What is it?”
“What if he changes his mind?”
“I presume we are back to Phelps. It is your job to convince him otherwise.”
“He has two children. He may not want to risk their lives too.” Marissa rearranged the papers again, meticulously aligned them in a neat pile. She could feel the heavy scrutiny of her boss’s eyes. It was almost impossible to escape his astute and prodding attention.
“Are you reluctant to prosecute because you fear more lives will be lost?”
“I think that is correct, Sir.” Marissa lifted her face and looked at him calmly. She was glad he had prised the question out of her.
He stopped the rhythmic movement of his hand. The glasses stood still in mid-air. His icy gaze rolled over her like water over a duck’s back. The lady was not for turning, at least not yet, but she knew he would keep trying.
“They will benefit from the witness protection programme if they need to.”
“Which has had mixed results,” Marissa answered.
“If we give up now and he yields to intimidation, others will follow suit. These people will use the same techniques again and win.”
Marissa held her breath. Of course, he had a valid point. But what was she expecting from such a seasoned lawyer.
“He is under armed protection, the Counterterrorist Squad is in attendance, and from what I can tell, Inspector Pole is a man who gets results.” The director had resumed swinging his glasses from the tip of his fingers, round and round they went.
“His wife is dead,” Marissa spoke without conviction, trying to find the argument that would perhaps stop or at least delay the wheels of the SFO from moving forward inexorably.
“It’s a tragedy, an abomination but not prosecuting will not bring her back. More to the point, her murderers will have achieved what they wanted.”
Marissa felt her tense body give a fraction. Her shoulders had been braced since she had started the conversation and her feet were itching to leave.
“I know you have a point, Sir, but I need to be absolutely sure that Mark will not change his mind and cave in at the last minute,” Marissa said. Perhaps an argument that was giving her a little more time to assess her own feelings about the
impact of the case on Mark’s family.
“And it is also your job to make him feel secure enough not to want to cave in, as you put it.” The director put down his glasses and stretched his hands over the desk’s surface. “I understand it was a shock. You may not believe it but I understand. You know though that the only way to do the wife justice is to find and prosecute the bastards who did it.”
Marissa locked eyes with the director for an instant – manipulation or compassion?
She slowly closed the file.
“I will speak to Mark.”
* * *
Sotheby’s Cafe was buzzing with a fauna that Brett hardly noticed. Afternoon tea was being served and much champagne being consumed, Brett could tell. He navigated the tables, managing to avoid the long legs and Louboutin high-heeled shoes of an ultra-chic brunette. His eyes lingered a little too long over the legs that had almost tripped him. She did not mind the look nor did she move away – ruffians, plenty of money but little education.
Brett recognised the stocky frame of MI6-Steve. It was the first time Steve had arranged a meeting outside Brett’s club or some facility regularly used by the agency. It felt rushed or perhaps it was just that Brett did not like the fact that his ability to anticipate the moves of his associate had been thwarted. Afternoon tea had arrived, a mountain of cakes and finger sandwiches into which Steve was tucking hungrily. Brett sat down without a word.
“It’s a good table, relax. We can speak without being disturbed.”
“If you say so.” Brett was in no mood for risk-taking.
“Care for tea?” Steve was already pouring Brett a cup. He was almost jovial.
“Was it part of the plan?” Brett asked as calmly as he could muster. He so wished he could turn the plate of cakes onto the little rat’s head.
“Which part of it?” Steve had wolfed down what must have been a coronation chicken sandwich by the look of the yellow stains on his fingers. He wiped them on his napkin, scrunching it in the process. Brett stopped Steve when he tried to finish pouring him tea. Afternoon tea was drunk with lemon. He waved at one of the waiters who was too busy serving a group of Asian women to notice. Brett stood up, made his request known and came back to the table – anything to delay the inevitable.
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