This again. Hugh, after turning it all over, has decided that Daniel was at very least a partner in Twintech. His theory is that one of the other partners had him killed. Hugh's friends down at the Met are still saying that Daniel’s murder was a professional hit.
Yes, I tell him now. I’m assuming that the fraudster is alive.
He considers a moment. ‘Raef,' he says. 'I’ve got an idea.’
9
A
fter leaving Hugh with our IT people, I do a quick tour of the bank: in Settlements, half the girls are reading magazines, and over in Funds Management the usual atmosphere of inertia prevails. Putting my head in at the Dealing Room downstairs, I see that matters stand just as they were. So I withdraw and move on to Corporate Finance. Even here the feeling is subdued. I sense the faces turning my way, searching for a sign; they are wondering if they should hang on for the half-yearly bonus, or cut their losses and jump ship now. Finding Cawley, the young MBA, I take him aside. He gives me a rundown on the state of play in the bid. Vance has gone to give a presentation at one of the big pension funds, trying to shake their Parnells shares free.
‘Haywood reckons Ian Parnell’s in the bag,’ Cawley says.
In the bag: the kind of optimistic phrase I used quite often myself when I started out in Corporate Finance. If the bid succeeds, it will boost our credibility in the market, but it won’t stop Penfield. Vance, I know, would be cock-a-hoop, but all I get when I think about it is an arid rush of spite: I would dearly love to see Darren Lyle take a fall.
I’m already halfway back to my office when I lift my head and see Gerald Wolsey coming towards me. I look around for Lyle, but it seems he hasn’t come. When Wolsey offers me his hand I ignore it and walk straight past. He follows me into my office. He seems ill at ease; not much of a consolation to me after what he’s put us through. I ask him what he wants.
‘I wouldn’t have bothered you, but I couldn’t seem to get through to your father. Rather busy.’ He waits, but I remain silent. ‘I think there’s been a misunderstanding.’
‘Misunderstanding? Is that what you call it?’
‘Raef—’
‘Mr Carlton,’ I say coldly. He looks surprised. He seems only now to have noticed how angry I am. His cheeks flush pink.
‘I can well understand that you might be upset—’
‘Who sent you?’
‘What?’
‘Not that difficult a question. Who sent you?’
‘If you’ll just hear me out—’
‘I don’t want to hear you out. I heard Mr Skinner out, your flunky from the DTI.’ I come round my desk and I hold a finger very close to his face. ‘You’re a worm.’ He blinks. I feel myself losing control but I don’t care enough to hold back. ‘This bank employs a lot of people, and most of them can’t afford to lose their jobs. This isn’t Whitehall. We don’t sit on our fat arses for twenty years waiting for a pension. Even me’ - I jerk a thumb to my chest - ‘I work too. Like my father and my grandfather did. That's what we do. We don’t do it for the good of our health, I admit that. But I tell you what: we don’t stand back and watch the lot get brought down by some bureaucratic arsehole like you.’ Wolsey flinches. I point to the door. ‘Show yourself out.’
The pink flush on his face deepens. ‘Mr Skinner’s been suspended.’
‘What for? Not digging the dirt fast enough?’
Wolsey tells me, frostily, that I am labouring under a misapprehension.
‘Get out.’
‘I had no prior knowledge that Skinner was coming here.’
‘When I need a lesson in how to be economical with the truth, I’ll let you know.’
‘That isn’t fair.’
‘And I suppose it is fair for you to join forces with Lyle and try to screw us?’
‘Darren?’
‘Oh, please. Spare me.’
As I go back to my desk, he tries again.
‘My investigators acted prematurely. I’ve taken disciplinary action against Skinner, and I came here intending to apologize. Perhaps I shouldn’t have bothered.’
Pretending to be amused rather than infuriated by this farce, I shuffle the papers on my desk.
‘Carlton Brothers does have a case to answer,’ he says, and when I make no response, he finally he goes to the door. He offers a parting shot over his shoulder. ‘And if you want to start blaming someone, I suggest you look a little closer to home.’
I restrain the impulse to hurl my paperweight after him. Whitehall. How do my father and Aldridge put up with these people?
Immediately I phone my father to tell him about Wolsey’s visit, but he dismisses this impatiently. He asks if I’ve been watching our share price. I flick on the screen: another 5p down.
‘Gifford’s concerned,’ he says.
Gifford isn’t the only one. If the fall continues, my father and I could be in dire financial trouble. Half our twenty per cent holding in Carltons is financed by a loan, and that loan is secured by the ten per cent of Carltons we own outright. Leverage: it cuts both ways. We need to stop the endless fall.
‘I think we should put in a bid ourselves,’ I tell him. “Account personal”.’
He greets my suggestion with silence. An attempt to support the Carlton share price will take serious money, and we both know that the one asset we could use as collateral — the only one that might make a difference — is Boddington. He asks if there’s any hope the slide might stop of its own accord.
‘It won’t stop unless someone starts bidding.’
‘I’ll come over to see you at three,’ he says.
Outside my window a gull soars, drifting high above the river. Carlton Brothers or Boddington: my father or me. One of us is about to have a gaping hole punched clean through his life.
When I turn back to the screen, our shares have dropped another 4p.
10
K
aren Haldane missed her vocation, she should be down at the Met with Ryan. She badgered Becky so much that Becky finally came in to beg me to go upstairs. ‘Please Raef,’ Becky said. ‘She’s been on my back for an hour.’ Now I take the fire steps two- by-two, mentally rehearsing the sharp little speech I will make. I have enough problems without being forced to run around at Karen Haldane’s beck and call.
But Karen doesn’t give me the chance to say a word. When I enter her office she says, ‘Just a moment,’ and walks straight out the door. I step back and watch her stroll down the corridor to Funds Management. Unbelievable. I wait in her office, brooding darkly.
She returns with a young West Indian woman in tow.
‘Pauline does administration on the Alpha Fund,’ Karen says, closing the door. The Alpha Fund: where the cock-up occurred. 'Tellll Mr Carlton what you told me.’
Pauline looks lost. ‘Which part?’
‘Well, start with the instructions Mr Mannetti left when he went on holiday.’
‘When Mr Mannetti left, I was with Mr Johnstone then — he did Mr Mannetti’s job on the Alpha Fund.’
‘The instructions?’ Karen interrupts.
‘Yeah, well he said he left them with some brokers.’
I ask her what kind of instructions.
‘He said Mr Johnstone was just temporary, he didn’t want him messing up the book. Mr Mannetti said he’d take care of all the nominee business when he got back, I should just book it through.’
Karen says, ‘Mannetti left orders with some brokers before he went on holiday. Is that right?’
‘Ahha,’ Pauline says.
‘And Johnstone didn’t know?’
Pauline shakes her head. She explains that the shares passed into a small nominee account; she did the paperwork herself.
‘But you must’ve known Parnells were in the Red Book.’
‘Yeah. But when I rung Mr Mannetti he said just put it through, he’d be back in a few days. If there was problems he’d sort it out.’
‘You rang him?’
‘Ahha.’
Karen tells me she has the number.
Pauline shifts her weight from foot to foot. ‘I just did what he said.’
I get the impression I’m missing something here. I ask why she didn’t speak up earlier, back when Johnstone was fired. Pauline stares at her feet.
‘She was afraid,’ Karen says.
Pauline lifts her head. ‘I was just doing what Tony told me.’
Karen directs a withering glance Pauline’s way. Opening the door, she reminds Pauline not to speak with anyone about this, including Mannetti. Pauline bobs her head and leaves us.
I face Karen. ‘Tony?’
She goes to the far side of her desk. ‘Okay, he was sleeping with her.’
‘And now he’s dumped her and she wants her revenge?’
‘He’s dumped her and she’s decided to tell the truth.’
‘I can't believe you’ve brought me up here for this.’
‘Mannetti’s been lying,’ Karen says.
She opens a folder and begins to show me the paperwork. Begrudgingly I run an eye over it. On first view it seems to support Pauline’s story. Odd. I ask Karen about that phone number.
‘Fiji,’ she says. ‘When I tried it, I got some resort manager. He gave me the two-minute spiel on holidays in the sun.’
So about the Pacific island, at least, Mannetti was telling the truth. He wasn’t in England. And if he wasn’t in England, he couldn’t have been at St Paul’s Walk last Wednesday night. I turn the whole business this way and that, trying to see it from every angle; but after a moment I give up. Whatever happened, we’ve taken our lumps over this Alpha Fund business already: I can sort it out with Mannetti later. With Carlton Brothers dissolving by the hour, I have greater and more immediate concerns.
‘I’ll have a look at it on Monday.’
‘Monday?’ She’s appalled.
And then, as if summoned, Mannetti appears on the doorway.
‘Private party?’ he enquires.
He flashes a grin too, and looks about to enter but he’s picked an extremely inappropriate moment to apply his boyish charm. Karen rolls her eyes. I excuse myself, explaining that I have some rather serious business to attend to downstairs.
11
V
ance has just returned from his presentation. The Corporate Finance team spends hundreds of man- hours each year doing the rounds of the institutions, talking them out of their money or drumming up support. This time it's support for the Meyers: Sandersons will have been equally busy on behalf of Parnells. Tinker sessions, Vance calls these presentations, a fair description: each one a door-to- door sales pitch, the salesmen dressed by Armani. Vance is talking with Cawley when I enter his office.
‘Success?’ I venture.
Vance suggests to Cawley that it might be an idea to grab a sandwich, and Cawley takes the hint and goes. As soon as the door closes, Vance’s carefree look evaporates.
‘Another presentation like that, and this bid is dead in the water.’ He gets to his feet. ‘They didn't want to hear what the Meyers have got planned for Parnells. They wanted to hear about us. Carltons.’
‘The share price?’
‘Every damn thing. Is it true the DTI are investigating us? Did Daniel leave any deals in the bottom drawer? Are the police looking here for the murderer? Everything.’
He opens his copy of the Evening Standard and drops it in front of me. In the business section, speculation on the fate of Carlton Brothers has displaced the Parnells takeover as the lead story. There’s a picture of Daniel lifted from last year’s annual report. A cold ripple runs up my spine.
Frowning, I drop the paper into the bin. I ask Vance how much we already have of Parnells.
‘Forty-five per cent. Postal acceptances won’t get us there. We’ve stopped dead.’ He says that he’s had no luck with Bainbridge either: now we’re relying absolutely on Ian Parnell breaking ranks with his family. Vance rubs his forehead. ‘Even Reuben’s angry, he’s asking what the hell's happening here at Carltons. And do you know what? I honestly can’t tell him.’
‘It isn’t easy for any of us, Stephen.’
‘Bloody Daniel. He couldn’t even die without making trouble.’ Then he realizes what he’s said.‘Sorry, Raef.’
I tell him it’s all right. But it isn’t. It’s not what he’s said that disturbs me, it’s his whole manner: this tenseness isn’t like him at all. And it’s more than just the bid. I’m starting to wonder if there might not be something behind Ryan’s suspicions. Not murder, I don’t believe that, but there’s definitely something going on with him. Twintech?
Haywood pokes his head in. ‘Ian Pamell’s here.’
Vance straightens, instantly alert. ‘Is he selling?’
Haywood laughs. ‘Give him a chance. He wanted lunch, so I brought him over. I’ll bring him in.’
When Haywood returns and ushers Ian Parnell, my first impression is of weakness: Ian’s handshake is limp and his chin recedes. He’s dressed like Haywood, an expensive pinstripe and a quiet tie — if I saw him in the street I wouldn’t look twice. Vance asks how the Hunt went; Haywood draws Ian Parnell into the conversation, but Ian is distracted - he has other concerns just now than the field. If his uncle, or Darren Lyle, found that he’d come over to see us, they’d lynch him. Eventually Vance mentions Parnells.
‘We’d rather hoped your uncle might have found time to see us.’
‘My uncle,’ Ian murmurs, dismissive. We wait, but Ian isn’t inclined to elaborate. He turns to Haywood. ‘Are we going to eat?’
Vance tells Haywood to show Ian around, adding that he might join them after lunch.
The moment the door closes Vance raises an eyebrow.
‘Sounds like a split?’ I say.
He swivels in his chair. ‘He wants to sell or he wouldn’t be here. But he might need some encouragement. How did he seem to you?’
‘Weak.’
‘Too much money too young.’ Giving me a wry look, Vance adds, ‘Not a hard and fast rule, of course.’
A few more moments’ thought, then he slaps his hand down on the desk with real force. I lift my head in surprise.
‘We’re not going to lose this,’ he says. ‘Not to Darren bloody Lyle.’
12
A
t two o’clock Celia Stewart arrives unannounced. I’m perched on the edge of Cawley’s desk when I see Henry approaching with her beside him; he must have gone out to reception to sign her in. An odd silence descends. Everyone is gawking at Celia, but pretending not to. She’s dressed in a bright red jacket and skirt; and she’s smiling too, no-one’s idea of the heartbroken widow. Henry explains to me that Celia’s come to get the personal effects from Daniel’s office. ‘I’ve gotta get back,’ he says, jerking a thumb towards the Dealing Room. He wants nothing to do with this.