‘Get him back over here.’ Turning, I head for the door. Vance asks where I'm going, but I wave a hand over my shoulder and keep right on walking.
In my office I pick up a box of discs, then I take the lift to Ground and walk the few hundred yards to Cannon Street where Hugh Morgan has his office.
4
H
ugh's hair has gone completely white, the last traces of grey finally faded. He studies the note a moment then looks up. ‘Some nut,’ he decides. ‘Anyone could have got hold of the letterhead.’
‘Penfield isn't convinced.’
A flicker of interest appears. ‘Penfield’s seen this?'
‘He gave it to me. I’ve got till close-of-trade Friday to find out what’s behind it.’
‘What if you can’t?’
‘He sends in the Investigation Unit.’
Hugh whistles quietly through his teeth, a discomfiting reaction. But he seems puzzled. ‘Just for this?’ He hands back the note.
‘This, and Daniel,’ I tell him.
Hugh looks blank, and it’s a moment before I realize why: he hasn’t made the connection. Daniel was up at Cambridge; Hugh never knew him. I ask Hugh if he was away somewhere last week.
He was. Morocco. ‘Why?’ he says.
‘Our Treasurer was killed last Thursday. He was shot.’
Surprised, Hugh purses his lips. ‘Not an accident I take it.’
Briefly, I explain the circumstances.
‘They haven’t found who did it?’
‘No.’
‘But Penfield thinks this note might be tied up with a motive? Raef?’
‘I don’t know what he thinks.’
Hugh makes that whistling sound again. Being what he is, the matter has just become interesting. In our Oxford days I was never particularly close to Hugh, and after university he went straight to work at the US Securities and Exchange Commission, so I never saw him much then either. He was helping put fraudsters behind bars while the rest of our crowd were struggling with MBAs. But when he came back to London I helped him get his face known around the City. I’ve even helped him out on one of his cases, and this I trust, is the pay-off.
I place the box of discs on his desk. ‘Our Treasury records for the last twelve months.’
But Hugh’s mind is elsewhere. ‘Stewart,’ he says to himself. He snaps his fingers, trying to remember; and then he does. He points at me. ‘Daniel Stewart. I did a course with him a few years back. Derivatives.’ He smiles. ‘That’s right. There was a female tutor; he was knocking her off after two days.’
‘I don’t have much time, Hugh.’
‘You don't have much time, so I panic?’
‘I need a favour.’
‘Yeah. I see.’ He thumbs through the discs. ‘Three sets?’
‘One forex, one money market, one miscellaneous,’ I explain.
‘Miscellaneous?’
‘Commodities, equities and anything else.’
Hugh considers my request. I hope he's also considering the help I gave him on the Arnold Petrie case. A one-time client of Carlton Brothers, Petrie relieved thousands of his own clients of their pension plans and disappeared to South America two years ago. Just months earlier, Petrie had disputed our fees and bounced a cheque on us. We dropped him as a client, and now the bank to which Petrie took his business after leaving Carltons has two senior executives awaiting trial. Vance told me he had nightmares for days after those two bankers were charged. Petrie was so secretive, Vance said, they wouldn’t have known a thing about it. The Serious Fraud Office thinks differently: those two bankers will never work in the City again. Hugh’s the man the Serious Fraud Office called in to help with their investigation, and Hugh - when he discovered Petrie’s earlier connection with Carlton Brothers — called on me. The world goes around
Now he looks up. ‘And that’s all you’ve got, this note?’
‘That, and Daniel death.’
‘No suspicions?’
‘Like?’
'Anybody left unexpectedly, that kind of thing?’
I tell him no, not that I’m aware of.
He flicks through the discs. ‘I’m meant to be writing a report on Habibi.’ Habibi, a Moroccan fraudster who has just decamped to his home country. I can see Hugh is wavering, he owes me, but he isn’t a man to waste time on lost causes.
‘I wouldn’t ask, Hugh, but I need someone I can trust.’
‘What you need is a dozen forensic accountants you can trust.’ He flips the disc box closed. Looking at me straight in the eye, he delivers his verdict. ‘And they wouldn’t have a prayer of getting through this lot by Friday.’ My stomach turns over. I hold tight to the back of the chair. 'Look,’ he says, ‘leave these with me. I’ll make some time to have a browse. If I have any bright ideas, we'll see. Okay?’ Slowly, I return to myself. He repeats it, ‘Okay?’
‘Penfield wants to know you're working on this. You personally, Hugh.’
Hugh raises an eyebrow. ‘Flattered.’ He rocks back in his chair. ‘If you speak to him you can tell him I’m working on it.’
‘I appreciate this Hugh.’
He smiles, amused by some private thought. I ask him what’s up.
‘Keep this happy moment in mind,’ he says, ‘when you get my bill.’
5
B
ack at Carlton House, I find Vance waiting in my office with Gary Leicester. Leicester starts in with a spiel about some feature on the Meyers he’s lined up with the Telegraph, and I let him talk for half a minute before cutting him off.
‘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
W
hen 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
R
yan 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.’