The Rules

by Laurence Todd

  “Why didn’t he want the deal to go ahead?”

  “James knew about Hembreys’ interest in the merger, you see. They’re this giant American corporation. Their deal with Ambersial would see share values increase fantastically.” His voice rose slightly as he spoke.

  “How would he have known about that?”

  “Tipped off, wasn’t he? Someone he knew told him about this American firm, Hembreys, coming to the UK and looking to do a deal with Ambersial, so James gets himself in front of it before it happens and buys God only knows how many thousands of shares in both companies, and then does his bit to scupper Zealiac’s proposed deal. Once news of the proposed merger becomes public knowledge, value of the shares soars. From the number of shares he’d bought, James makes a killing.” He stated this as though it were incontrovertible fact.

  “You know how much?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “But my bet is he made a tidy sum, well into six figures.”

  “You know who gave him the tip-off?”

  “Never said, not to me anyway. He just said he’d had the word about the deal from someone. In the City, news like that’s easy to tap into, especially if you’re my brother.”

  “Apparently the Israelis weren’t too happy about Zealiac being shafted like that. You know why that’d be the case?”

  “I don’t, no.” He shook his head firmly.

  “What does Zealiac do? What kind of firm is it?” I was curious.

  He thought for a moment. “From what I understand, it’s involved in pharmaceutical research of some kind. I know it does work with other firms over here. What it was looking for was a more permanent relationship with a European firm, and Ambersial seemed to fit the bill. I don’t know what it was about them that prompted James to scupper the deal, though, knowing him, I suspect it was just for the money.”

  “What about other deals your brother engaged in? The bank told me he’d made a few unwise investments.”

  Jeremy Blatchford settled back into the chair, with a beatific smile. “Unwise investments. That’s a good one.” He chuckled to himself for a moment. “James made the same mistake many others in his position did. They assumed the ongoing bull market in property would last forever, but of course it couldn’t, and it didn’t. I told him that but he wouldn’t listen.” He radiated smugness.

  “When property prices began to tank in 2007, after a more-than-twenty-year bull market,” he continued, “James was left holding some very high-end expensive property, both here and in New York, which he’d bought, expecting prices to increase. They didn’t. Property prices began to fall. Before the credit crunch hit, he could have named his own price for them. But sales dried up, almost overnight. James couldn’t unbundle what he was holding on to. Some of his clients wanted their money back, and guess what?” He grinned, almost maliciously. “He couldn’t give it to them. He couldn’t sell what he was holding. He sold some of the properties but got nothing like what he’d have got the year before, and several of his clients lost out. Those who managed to unbundle themselves without being burnt too much moved into other tradable commodities, gold or something similar, which was why the price of gold went through the roof around then, but poor old James was in a hole, you see. He tried borrowing more but no one would lend to him, and he couldn’t use falling property values as security for any loans.” He laughed for a moment.

  “He’d made a few other dumb investments with clients’ money which’d gone tits-up.” He was still grinning. “He tried doubling up to recoup his cash, you know, the classic desperate gambler’s strategy, but lost even more. You can imagine the bank’s response to these losses, especially a place like Crattelle’s. Not happy.” He stared at me whilst he sipped his tea. “Basically, he was investing money for clients he pretty much knew he’d not get back. It’s almost the dictionary definition of unethical trading, not to mention recklessness.”

  “Why didn’t they sack him?” I ventured.

  “Oh, they wanted to. They really did. They even went to the FCA because of this unethical behaviour. I asked why the FCA didn’t take the matter further. Apparently he had something on the bank and, if they left him alone, he’d not reveal it. He was already planning his run for Mayor, you see, didn’t want anything to get in the way of that. So the bank didn’t press the matter.”

  “You know what it is he’s got on them?” Crattelle and Hatchman had alluded to what they thought Blatchford might have on them. I was curious to see if his brother’s version was similar.

  “No, sorry, I don’t. He didn’t tell me that.”

  “You know anything about a poison pill he’s supposed to have buried?”

  “I don’t, I’m afraid,” he apologised. “If I did I’d shop the bastard.”

  His pronunciation of the expletive was exquisite. He’d not learnt to talk like that at some inner-city sink school.

  I moved away from finance for the moment. There seemed to be an absence of brotherly love here. I decided to pursue this.

  “I’m assuming you and he must be quite close,” I said. “I mean, he’s told you a lot about his financial affairs. You’d think he’d wanna keep those under wraps.”

  “Close,” he said, more to himself than to me. “I loaned the bastard nearly a hundred K to dig himself out of a hole a couple of years back. We’re trust fund kids, you see; I could afford it. You know what? He’s not paid a penny back despite how much he’s made.”

  “Why’d you loan him it?”

  “Temporary cash-flow embarrassment was how he described it. Clients pressing him for money. He paid off a few debts and that’s the last I heard of it.”

  “But he still told you about the bank.”

  “Oh, no, I learnt most of this from Jamal,” he said matter-of-factly.

  This surprised me. Khoudri hadn’t just taken Sally Taylor into his confidence. Jeremy Blatchford was also au fait with his brother’s transgressions. “Why would Jamal talk about this?”

  “I don’t know.” He shook his head. “He just spilled it all out one evening. Told me James was getting into some deep financial schtuck, then told me what I’ve just told you. I’m assuming he was worried about the media getting to hear about it.”

  Could he have been that worried when he’d told Sally Taylor the same things? I made a note to myself to ask her about this.

  I moved on. “Presumably your brother knows about your involvement in animal rights protesting.”

  “’Course he does,” he replied snippily. “Said I was an embarrassment, given where he works. Bad for the image of the bank, y’know. That’s how he described it in his usual pretentious manner.”

  “Are you familiar with someone called Assa Khoudri?”

  “Assa,” he said sadly. “She was a friend. Died not too long ago. I went to her funeral.”

  “Her husband’s James’ campaign manager, isn’t he?”

  “Yeah. Well, up to yesterday he was.” Was that an evil grin? “He was another crook. There’s no way my brother could have screwed up the Zealiac deal without Jamal’s help.”

  “How so?”

  “Jacobson’s, where Jamal worked, also did some work with Zealiac. That’s how James found out some of what he had on them. Jamal told him. Between them, they stopped Zealiac’s plans to merge with this company. I suspect whatever it is James has on Crattelle’s came from Jamal, though obviously I can’t substantiate it. That’s just what I think.”

  “What was in it for Jamal?”

  “James was going to give him some important position at City Hall if he won the election. Treasurer, or something like that. He’d told me that. So Jamal leaks some confidential info here and there, you know?”

  His meaning was clear. You scratch my back and . . .

  “You have any idea who might have killed Jamal?”

  “Nope.” He said this firmly.

  “What was his relationship with his wife like? She’s involved in protesting against animals being used in labs, while he’s w
orking for someone who disapproves of her actions. Doesn’t sound like a marriage made in heaven to me.” I tried not to smile.

  “Ain’t that the truth?” He laughed for a couple of seconds, but then he adopted a more serious tone of voice. “Actually, she told me something interesting not too long before she died. She said she and Jamal had had a huge argument over the weekend about her going back up to Cambridge to continue with the protest. She said Jamal told her, You can’t keep on doing this; we’ve got too much riding on this for people like you to screw it up. Those were his exact words, according to her.”

  “Presumably, we means him and James Blatchford.”

  “That’d be my guess.”

  “So I’m assuming you knew Steven Perry as well?”

  “Yeah. Poor sod died alongside Assa in that accident.”

  “Ambersial claimed their offices had been broken into just before the car crash, and they’d had some key documents taken. You know anything about it?”

  “I heard about a break-in,” he agreed. “Apparently Ambersial said it was one of the demonstrators who’d stolen their stuff. It wasn’t.” He shook his head vigorously. “Nobody on our side could have got into that Portakabin. I was only there weekends and occasionally during the week. I remember one weekend it was easy to get onto their site, but by the next weekend security had become much more intense. We couldn’t even get onto the site anymore, never mind get into a heavily locked and alarmed Portakabin. They’d beefed up their security quite a bit.”

  Richard Rhodes had done what he’d been paid to do.

  “It was alarmed?” I asked.

  “Yeah. We could hear them testing it every evening before they locked everything up. No way could we have got past that, even if we’d wanted to.” He was adamant.

  My mind flashed onto thoughts of Richard Rhodes. He knew the system, so it’d be easy for him to get into the Portakabin, or give the details to someone else to do it.

  “I’m guessing you know whatever had been stolen was found in the car Assa Khoudri died in, don’t you?”

  “I heard that,” he sneered, “but it’s utter crap. They had nothing to do with any burglary at Ambersial. Perry wasn’t even there the evening it’s supposed to have occurred. He was here in London with his family. Assa was there, but she didn’t leave the gates all evening. The CCTV cameras should be able to spot her out front.” He sounded certain.

  I considered everything I’d heard. If there was CCTV evidence, why were Khoudri and Perry being pinned as burglars? The more I heard about James Blatchford, the less convinced I was about his integrity.

  I grinned as I stood up. “So your brother can’t count on your vote.”

  “No, he bloody can’t.” He said this with considerable emphasis.

  *

  It was now mid-afternoon. After discovering from Pam Lovett that James Blatchford was out campaigning around Islington today, I prepared to set off and apprehend him. But before I drove to Islington, I obtained the details for Elaine Jones, Steven Perry’s wife. I phoned her, identified myself and, after commiserating with her about the loss of her son PC Jones two nights back, I gave her a date and asked her if Perry had been home with her that evening.

  “Yes, he was,” she said quietly.

  “You’re quite sure about that?” I wanted her to be certain. “Very sure. That was the last night I saw him alive, that’s why I’m sure. He returned to Cambridge next afternoon and he died soon afterwards in that car crash. I never saw him again.” She sniffed. She was quiet for a few moments. “Police told me he was a suspect in a burglary, that he’d died driving away from where he’d just stolen something, but I didn’t believe it. Steven was a political animal, he wasn’t a thief.” She sounded like she was choking up.

  “Is there anything else you can tell me?” I didn’t want to upset her any more than it seemed I was doing. She was quiet again for a moment.

  “Police came to search the house soon after, said it was routine when someone dies as a result of a burglary and there’s still missing property. They didn’t find anything. I told them Steven wasn’t a burglar.”

  It wasn’t routine at all. Someone had lied to her. A police search in such circumstances is actually quite unusual. Unless there’s a security issue involved.

  *

  James Blatchford’s entourage was easy to find. There were a number of his mainly youthful and idealistic supporters leafleting the area, handing them out to passers-by. I was standing around by the town hall on Upper Street watching Blatchford working the crowd, talking to people and shaking hands. His expression seldom seemed to change: the same fixed grin given to everyone he met, irrespective of age or gender, or even interest. I wondered if his jaw ached when he finished campaigning for the day.

  The usual retinue of journalists was in attendance, and I could see Sally Taylor amongst them, typing something onto her phone. She saw me and smiled.

  When Blatchford walked away from a crowd of well-wishers, I saw Qais Jaser appear, holding what looked like a tablet, pointing out something to his boss.

  He nodded and they walked towards a parked car. They got in and drove north along Upper Street. I followed close behind. So did the media entourage. It was almost like a procession.

  They stopped opposite Highbury & Islington tube station, by the swimming pool. I parked and followed as they walked along the street, Blatchford introducing himself to the public, shaking hands occasionally and smiling all the while. Unless I was mistaken, it appeared the same supporters had followed and were leafleting the area again.

  I waited around five minutes for a quiet moment and then approached the party. Jaser recognised me and nodded. I mentioned to Blatchford I needed to talk to him. He agreed. We went into the car park by the swimming pool.

  “Is this about Jamal?” he began.

  “Sort of, but not quite.”

  He looked bewildered.

  “What do you know about a company named Zealiac?” I was goading him.

  His eyes opened wide. His apparent certainty his actions at the bank would never see the outside world was now in shreds. He took a deep breath, shook his head and lightly sighed.

  “Did Jamal know what you’d done?” I asked.

  He appeared to be gathering his thoughts. I gave him a second to do so.

  “What is it I’m supposed to have done, Detective?” He sounded confused, as though I’d just asked him what the capital of Albania was.

  “I’m investigating Jamal’s murder, looking for a motive, and I’m wondering whether the collapsed Zealiac deal could provide one.”

  “Jamal told you this.” He nodded, pursing his lips.

  “Was Jamal involved as well?”

  “It has to have been Jamal.” He didn’t answer my question. “Why would he tell you all this?”

  “As I said, I’m looking into a motive for murdering Jamal.” I didn’t comment on what he’d said, and I certainly wasn’t going to implicate Sally Taylor or his brother. “He knew what you’d done, didn’t he? Was he part of it? I know there was some political fallout from Zealiac’s proposed deal collapsing. The Israeli government had an interest in that deal being completed, but the word on the street is you screwed it up for them, and did so purposely. I’ve also heard you’ve buried certain pieces of evidence so the bank can’t come after you. So I’m left wondering, if Jamal knew about this, whether that’s enough of a motive to kill him, and, if that’s the case, why didn’t his killer kill you as well?”

  He was initially too surprised to comment on my assertion, but, politician that he was, he quickly regained his composure.

  “Well, I wasn’t there, for one thing.” He almost smiled. “And I don’t know anything about any political fallout. I don’t even know what deal it is you’re referring to.”

  “Oh, I think you do.” I looked him in the eyes. “I’ve been told this by two sources, neither of whom works for the bank, and we both know the bank knows what you did, as well as the Israelis knowin
g.” I thought I detected him breathing a little heavier for a moment or two. “But fraudulent financial conduct isn’t my remit; that’s for the FCA and the fraud squad, so I’m not after you for that. I’m more concerned with deaths involving political or security implications.”

  “And you think Jamal’s death falls into that category?”

  “Keeping an open mind. But, if it’d make you feel better, it wasn’t Jamal who told me. I never even spoke to Jamal when he was alive.”

  His eyes rolled around for a couple of moments. He looked like he was trying to think who it was who’d been talking out of class about him. I was hoping he’d not suspect Jamal of having told Sally Taylor. Would he suspect Jeremy Blatchford of talking out of turn?

  “So you’re ruling this out as a motive,” I said.

  “I’m not commenting on these ludicrous assertions, officer.”

  “Okay. I’d like to ask you a few other things.”

  “Okay.” He nodded.

  I quickly sized Blatchford up. He was the consummate politician but he wasn’t in control of this situation, so he was trying not to reveal he was nervous, especially with the media nearby.

  Jaser then approached us and asked me when we’d be finished. He moved away once he’d been assured by Blatchford that I’d not be delaying him too much longer. He wasn’t too concerned with what the candidate was doing because a murder had occurred yesterday, so a police officer talking to Blatchford about the shooting of his campaign manager couldn’t be misconstrued by the press.

  “How well did you know Jamal’s wife, Assa?” I asked Blatchford.

  “Huh? What does that have to do with anything?”

  “We’re working on the assumption Jamal’s death was in some way connected to his wife’s death. You know she was active in the campaign to stop Ambersial building new premises in Cambridge, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do. She spent a lot of time there doing that.” He didn’t seem impressed.