‘I’ll get Leicester to arrange the press conference for twelve,’ Vance says at last, and he glances at his watch.
This, I think, is too ridiculous. And rising now, I offer him my hand. ‘Congratulations.’ He seems doubtful, but he reaches across. ‘I overstepped the mark last night,’ I tell him. ‘I was out of order.’
‘Right on target actually.’
‘Forget it.’
Then he releases my hand. ‘I’d rather not,’ he says, and at this curious remark, I give a sideways look. ‘Lesson learned, and all that.’ He pushes a hand up through his hair. ‘Christ. What a night.’ He slumps into a chair and takes a moment with himself. Strong, brilliant, able; I thought I knew all the adjectives for Vance. But this is a new one: wretched. He looks awful. ‘At the Savoy, I came back downstairs to see you. You were going to get a piece of my mind.’
‘I thought I had.’
‘There was more. Thank God you’d gone. I ended up at the bar.’
‘You don’t owe me an explanation, Stephen.’
‘I owe you an apology.’
The broker speaks over the box, so I turn the volume down.
‘Apology accepted,’ I say.
Vance nods, but I can see this isn’t over with him yet. The real score he has to settle is with himself. For the first time it isn’t just respect and admiration I feel for Stephen Vance, it is sympathy. He is, after all, a man of flesh and blood like the rest of us; like the rest of us, he can sometimes err. But now isn’t the time for reflection or regret: there’s still a lot of work to do. And Vance, being what he is, in the next moment puts his feelings aside. He reaches for his briefcase, in an attempt to move us on.
‘I thought we might invite Lyle over for the press conference.’
The vanquished at the victory dance. I tell him it sounds like an entertaining idea. He runs through the other calls we have to make: the Stock Exchange, the Boards of both companies, Gary Leicester and several others. I wait till he's finished, and then I tell him.
‘Stephen, Big Win saw Karen here last Wednesday night. Ryan’s taking Win's statement right now.’ It’s a second before Vance absorbs this news; and then he looks stunned.
He stares into space. ‘Win?’ he says.
‘Karen went down to the kitchen for a sandwich. Win was bringing a few things back from the party on the boat. Stephen, if you saw her, why didn’t you just say so? Ryan’s been crawling all over you, is this what you weren’t telling him?’ He doesn’t answer. ‘Stephen?’
‘Stay out of it, Raef.’
I come around the desk. ‘Karen’s going to tell Ryan that you hated Daniel’s guts. She seems to think it was more than just professional differences between you two.’
No answer. Then breaking into the silence comes the broker’s voice from the squawkbox. But I keep my eyes on Vance. I didn’t think it was possible for him to look much worse than when he first entered, but now he does; not just drained, but haunted.
‘Stephen, who killed Daniel?’
He closes his briefcase. ‘The press conference is at twelve,’ he says, and we look at one another a moment, then he gets to his feet and walks out.
I feel strangely giddy. Behind me the broker keeps calling my name.
7
I
’m running late. Since the public announcement of Ian Parnell’s sell-out, the Carltons share price has steadied. I’ve left Henry in my office watching over my bid, while I skip out to the press conference. I had a quick word with Hugh before leaving: still no luck on Twintech.
Allen Fenwick loiters in the corridor outside the conference-room, smoking a cigarette.
‘Kept this one quiet,’ he says.
He thought he had the inside track on the Meyers bid, and now he is miffed. When he asks for an interview I tell him to try me again later, then I step past him inside. The TV lights are blazing. Up on the podium, a cluster of microphones half-screens David Meyer: he’s taking questions from journalists in the front row. Reuben and Stephen Vance are just to one side of him. Ian Parnell has apparently decided that discretion is the better part of valour: he’s nowhere in sight. As I shuffle along the rear wall, the institutional investors and lawyers in the back row crane round to offer their congratulations and shake my hand. Carlton Brothers,'it appears, is no longer an untouchable: we’ve been washed by the sweet waters of success. A pity Penfield isn’t here to see the change in mood.
Cawley, Haywood and the rest of the bid team are assembled in the back corner. A magnum of champagne is doing the rounds, the celebrations have started already. Declining the proffered glass, I turn my attention to the performance up front. The crowing of the cocks, that’s what Vance calls these occasions: the banker’s answer to the athlete’s victory lap. Nothing of substance is achieved, but the victor has a chance to preen and strut. Here David Meyer is in his element. He fields most of the questions, only occasionally referring one to Vance or Reuben. Stephen looks better than he did when he left my office, but not much. I catch his eye as he answers a question, but he looks away. Others won’t be so easily evaded. Win is already back in the restaurant: Ryan can't be too far behind.
There’s a stir over by the door, and I turn to see Darren Lyle coming in. For a man who’s just had the rug pulled from under him, he looks remarkably sanguine: he must be dying inside. Most men in his position would retire to lick their wounds in private, but not Darren. He’s decided to accept Vance’s invitation to come and watch us crow. Proof, if any were needed, that Darren Lyle has a freakishly thick hide. The journalists see him, and one of them stands and asks if Darren would like to make a comment.
‘Sandersons are pleased to have extracted maximum benefit for the Parnells shareholders,’ Lyle answers. The usual banality of defeat.
The journalist follows up with a question on Sandersons’ appeal to the Takeover Panel. To this Lyle merely smiles and raises his hands.
‘No comment,’ he says, and a ripple of laughter goes around the room. But then attention returns to the podium where David Meyer is talking again.
Lyle comes across, running a gauntlet of hollow commiserations, before he reaches me. We shake hands. It almost chokes him, but he offers me his congratulations. I savour the moment, then I ask if he’s got a minute for a private word, and he follows me into the adjoining room where I close and lock the door.
Apart from the chairs, the whiteboard and the overhead projector, the room is empty: here we can talk privately.
‘Ian Parnell, eh?’ He pulls up a chair and sits down, legs stretched in front, hands in his pockets. ‘I always said he was a dick.’
‘Win some, lose some.’
‘Spare me the bullshit, Raef. If the Takeover Panel had done their job, you wouldn’t’ve got a look-in. That was Sir John, right? His mates on the Panel?’
I keep my face blank. Darren glares.
‘Shit,’ he says. ‘The old silver-spoon brigade.’
I offer to get some champagne for him to take back to the wake that will now be held at his office. He tells me to fuck off.
Then I pull up a chair. Lyle and me in the aftermath of battle. It brings back memories. Working together under Vance, we inevitably forged a bond of shared experience. Certainly we’ve attended more than our share of wakes together. I know exactly how things will proceed now, back at his office: everyone involved in the unsuccessful defence of Parnells will gather over a few drinks, and the post mortem will start; what went wrong. By early evening they’ll all be ducking for cover or looking for someone else to blame. Lyle has a miserable time ahead of him, but after the trouble he’s caused us I really can’t dredge up much sympathy.
‘We’ve been filing 212s all week,’ I tell him. A 212, a request to the Registrar for a shareholder’s name. When Lyle looks nonplussed, I add, ‘For Carltons.’
‘Bully for you.’
‘What’s that, another no comment?’
He gives me a look. ‘Am I missing something? You’re filing 212s. Wonderful. So you find out who’s buying Carltons. Call me a slow learner, but that doesn’t look to me like your problem. I mean, you’ve got problems, but finding out who’s buying? What do you want to do, send them a thank-you card? Jesus.’
‘Why did you pull our trading line?’
‘When?’
‘Tuesday.’
He takes a moment, remembering. ‘You weren’t the only ones. We had a fuck-up in IT last weekend. Things went wrong on Monday, so we wound back on Tuesday. Not just with you. Why?’
‘Have you reinstated the line?’
‘I can check.’
‘Don’t bother. The line went out on Tuesday and stayed out. Darren—’
‘Hang on, hang on.’ He rises from his chair. ‘I came over to shake hands and say, "Well done". No hard feelings, and all that. Instead I’m getting a fucking interrogation?’
‘Darren, is Sandersons lining up a bid for Carltons?’
His face is dead still, he is thinking, his eyes on mine. Then after a few seconds, he smiles. Not a fake smile either, he’s actually amused.
‘You’re filing 212s to find out if we’re the ones buying?’ he says. Then he leans over and claps me on the shoulder. ‘Dream on.’
‘You’re not buying?’
‘Read my lips. We’re not buying. Never have been. Never intend to.’ When I shrug his hand off, then stand, he puts his other hand on my chest. ‘Not yet, golden boy.’
He tries to shove me back but I swipe his hand aside. Now he points at me.
‘You know what I never liked about you? You were always so damn cock-sure. Just gliding along, everything laid out for you. Just keeping your nose clean and wafting up to the top. Nothing to stop you.’
‘There’s the door. We're done.’
‘But this isn’t quite that easy, is it.’ He is enjoying himself now. ‘The golden boy hasn’t got a fucking clue. You got Parnells, yeah, great. But your bank’s fallen off a cliff, and you haven’t got a fucking clue.’
‘If you’re behind it Darren, I'll break your balls.’
He hoots in derision. I feel the blood rush into my cheeks.
‘What are you going to do?’ he says. ‘Report me to your old man? To Vance?’
‘How about I just have you done for slander.’
‘Whoa.’ He draws back, feigning surprise. ‘Me?’
‘There’s a rumour we reneged on a two-million- pound payment.’
‘Is that right?’
‘A payment to Sandersons.’
His brow creases and he shakes his head sadly. ‘Fucking rumours,’ he says.
The muscles tighten in my shoulders now. I sway forward, dizzy with the effort of control. ‘Get out.’
His grin fades, and his look hardens into one of raw belligerence. ‘Who pointed Ryan at me?’ he asks. ‘It was Vance, wasn’t it.’
‘I'm not Ryan’s confessor.’
‘You reckon I should be done for slander? An accusation like that in the middle of a bid from Mr Clean himself, and I should be done for slander?’ He swears at me with real venom. 'The pair of you should be flushed down the friggin’ toilet. You and him both,’ he shouts.
His face is red, and so close to mine that I can see a crooked vein on his temple, pulsing. The act is over: losing the battle for Parnells has cut him to the quick. I count the pulse-beats up to three.
‘Who killed Daniel?’ I ask quietly.
He stares at me a long moment. Then he nods, just to himself at first but more vigorously as he turns left and right. ‘Who killed Daniel?’ he mutters. ‘Who killed Daniel?’ Bending sharply, he picks up a chair and hurls it across the room; it clatters into a stack of chairs in the corner.He faces me again, chest heaving. ‘Me. I killed Daniel. Is that what you want to hear? Well, back luck. I didn’t kill Daniel, I don’t know who did, and to tell you the truth, I don’t bloody care.’ He raises a finger. ‘But if my name gets waved under Ryan’s nose once more, you and Vance are going to need lawyers.’
‘What about Wolsey?’
He checks. ‘Have I missed something here? Again?’
‘You and Wolsey worked together. Your committee.’
He looks at me blankly, and I get a queasy hollow feeling. My mention of Wolsey has him genuinely perplexed. This isn’t an act. I am a voyager suddenly robbed of my compass. Is it possible that he’s actually told me the truth, that Sandersons never intended to buy into Carltons?
‘You’re full of shit,’ he finally declares. ‘Open the door.’ He gestures towards the door that leads out to the corridor. He has no intention of running the gauntlet of the press conference a second time. So I go to the door and unlock it with my keycard. I want this man out of here.
‘And tell Vance I’ll see him with Quin tonight,’ Lyle says. The Bankers’ Association do. Lyle's head drops. The thought of exchanging chit-chat about his defeat over a tray of canapés has clearly deflated him.
As he steps past, I clutch his elbow. ‘Darren. If you ever come here again, I’ll have you thrown out on your ear.’
He jerks his arm free, the full vigour of his anger suddenly returned. Lifting his head, he looks me straight in the eye.
‘You and your old man,’ he whispers, ‘are history.’
9
R
eturning to my office, I find Henry lounging in my chair, his feet on the window-sill.
‘Going nowhere fast,’ he informs me over his shoulder. He drops an empty crisp packet into the bin. ‘Your bid’s 202,’ he says, ‘the offer’s 205. You’ve picked up dribs and drabs.’
He swivels, handing me the deal-sheet. He doesn’t know it, but I am down to the last million pounds of ammunition.
I hit the switch on the squawkbox. ‘Pull the bid back to 200.’
We watch the number change on the screen: mine still appears to be the only bid. Henry asks how the press conference went, but I have other matters on my mind.
‘Could you find out if Sandersons pulled their line on anyone apart from us last Tuesday?’
‘Sure.’
‘Now?’ I say.
Once he’s gone, I punch up the CTL bond price: stationary; it has stopped moving down. Then I ring through to Hugh who tells me there’s still no sign of Twintech or the fraudster.
‘He’s clocked up a decent loss though. If he’s got any sense, he’ll close out. And by the way,’ he says, lowering his voice, ‘Ryan appeared fifteen minutes ago.’