Ardent Justice

by Research Professor Of Social Policy Peter Taylor-Gooby

  A thin grey man bent over towards her. He had a long lined face and a sharp nose. His evening dress seemed to hang in folds, like the curtains.

  ‘May I help you, madam?’ he asked in a slow grey voice.

  ‘I would like to talk with Ms Samson.’

  ‘Ms Samson. Whom shall I say?’

  ‘Ade, and a guest. She’ll know.’

  ‘Ade.’ He considered. ‘Very well.’

  A bell tinkled and a very young boy in a page’s uniform, with brightly polished buttons and a centre parting, appeared at Ade’s elbow. She could hear the tall man whispering to him. The page led the way down the gallery between tables where grey-haired men in suits of vintage style conversed in undertones. They seemed to draw back into the shadows when Ade glanced at them. The page stopped and inclined his head towards the next alcove, his lips compressed, bending forward slightly in imitation of the door-keeper.

  ‘Denny!’ said Ade. ‘No one in the office knew where you were.’

  Denny sat alone at a small table staring at the window. In front of her stood a half-bottle of sherry and a small tulip-shaped glass. She looked up at them without expression.

  ‘You don’t know how good it is to see you,’ she said, warily, like a small boy unwrapping the birthday present from the aunt who always mixes him up with his big sister.

  ‘I need your help. But why…?’

  ‘I’m taking the afternoon off,’ said Denny. ‘First time in my career. Why not? It’ll soon be Christmas.’

  The pageboy slid a copy of the Financial Times onto the table. Denny glanced at him. ‘Supposed to give him something,’ she hissed.

  Ade felt in her pocket, but Paul was already dropping some change into the boy’s hand. He scrutinised it, frowned and marched off.

  ‘Why don’t you sit down?’ said Denny. ‘More the merrier. Have a drink.’

  ‘No thanks. What’s going on?’

  ‘That damn special advisor’s been again. Checking up. Everything business-friendly. Had to get the taste out of my mouth.’

  ‘What is this place?’ asked Paul. ‘It’s like the knees-up at the undertakers’ social club.’

  Denny laughed, a subdued creaking chuckle. ‘Have you ever wondered why the City is in one place?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The City. Exists for financial transactions, insurance, trading, brokering, stocks and shares, loans, interest, deals. You can do all that on the web. Do it from your Blackberry, from your beach retreat on your Caribbean Island. So why do they all come and work here in the City? It’s smelly, the property’s expensive, the air’s bad, the public transport is awful and you can’t get a decent cup of coffee.’

  ‘You lost me,’ said Paul, smiling. ‘Never struck me.’

  ‘Word of mouth, old boy, that’s why, word of mouth.’ Denny leaned forward. ‘Do deals with no emails, no evidence, no paperchain, no details that a nosey little fraud investigator or an inquisitive little tax inspector can dig up one day, so they come back to bite you. My word is my bond. Everyone thinks it’s the seal of probity. Actually, it’s the city’s dirtiest secret. And why are they doing things they don’t want anyone else to know about? Especially Ade and me?’

  ‘Long speech for you, Denny. But you’re right,’ said Ade. ‘And this is one of the places they come for word of mouth. Never knew how you got to be a member, though.’

  ‘Don’t ask. I just sit here and sip my tea. Except it’s not tea today. No-one talks to me much, but I can watch what’s going on, who’s talking to whom, who isn’t. You’d never believe…’

  ‘I’d believe, Denny. But I came to ask you a favour. Just one. I need an address. It’ll be in the database. She’s a tax-payer and I’ve got the employer. Can you do that for me?’

  Ade took the metal biro out of her pocket and tore the corner off the newspaper. She scribbled something and slid the piece of paper across the table. Denny glanced at it and nodded. She tore the paper in half, in quarters, then into tiny scraps.

  ‘So you’re still in business. You’ve made my day. Of course I can do this. Breach of the Official Secrets Act, but who cares?’ She pulled herself to her feet. ‘You go first and keep your head down. I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘Thanks, Denny. Come on, Paul.’

  Ade led the way to the stairs. The thin grey man swivelled round in his place by the door, watching them go.

  Ade kept her eyes on the office entrance, just across Gracechurch Street. She and Paul were sitting in the window of the coffee-shop in the mid-afternoon lull. The man behind the counter had grinned at her when they came in and put a couple of pains aux raisin on a plate and slid it across to them.

  ‘On the house. Just don’t tell the boss.’

  Crowds of people wrapped up against the cold were sweeping past in both directions.

  Ade checked her watch. ‘Not long now.’

  Paul sipped at his China tea. ‘Tell me when.’

  A red bus moved slowly past, blocking their view. When they could see the steps again, Denny was coming down them, holding the hand-rail. She moved to one side, glanced down the street and lit a cigarette. She stifled a cough, stepped back to lean against the building and took in another mouthful of smoke. Then she dropped the cigarette and ground it out. Ade saw she was wearing a navy blue duffle coat against the cold.

  ‘She ain’t used to smoking,’ said Paul.

  ‘Never has, all the time I’ve known her.’

  Denny shook the cigarette packet and dropped it. She looked both ways up and down the street and turned to go up the steps.

  ‘Now,’ said Ade. ‘Don’t attract attention.’

  There was a burst of sound as the door opened and she saw Paul dart across the road, dodging a cycle courier on a fixed wheel bike, and take up a position just next to the tax office entrance where Denny had been standing. So far so good, she thought. Paul crouched down, fiddled with a shoelace and swept his arm out sideways and down. Then he stood up, and walked straight into a bulky figure with a grey overcoat folded neatly over his arm, a man who had been pacing slowly along the edge of the pavement. It was the same man who’d blocked Ade’s way when she came out of the tube station. Is that what he does all day? Get in people’s way? The man was shouting at Paul, she could see his mouth opening. He’d dropped a large, briefcase with heavy straps.

  Paul picked up the briefcase and offered it to him, nodding. Then he ducked his head, slipped under the man’s arm and was across the road and behind a delivery truck. Ade saw the man standing on the pavement staring round. People were queued up, trying to get past him. A moment later Paul was in the chair opposite her and the cigarette box was on the table.

  Ade flipped back the lid and glanced at the writing inside.

  ‘You done good,’ she said.

  She squeezed Paul’s hand. His eyes sparkled.

  26

  ‘Quiet neighbourhood,’ said Paul, looking down the tree-lined street and up at the 1930s block of flats – red brick façade with cream edging, flat roof, and metal framed windows. ‘Too far out for me.’

  Ade could see a car full of school-kids manoeuvring into a drive in the distance, otherwise there didn’t seem to be anyone about, though it was only half-past four. She looked at the keypad by the brown panelled front door, selected a button and pushed. A woman answered: ‘Hello?’

  ‘Jessica Dean?’ said Ade. ‘Can I talk to you?’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘My name’s Adeline Corey, we met at the office. I introduced myself. I’m the tax inspector.’

  ‘I don’t think Mr Webster would like me to talk to the tax people.’

  ‘It’s important, it’s about Mr Webster. Don’t you remember: we talked, you gave me a pen? A Christmas present?’ She held the pen up to the security camera. ‘I’ve come to say
thanks. And we want to help you.’

  After a moment the door buzzed.

  Ade was impressed by the neatness of the flat. Someone had just polished the coffee table. There was a fragrance in the air she didn’t recognise. Expensive. The sofa looked brand new. Jessica motioned them to it and then sat opposite them, her knees neatly together. She wore smartly-pressed jeans and a silk shirt, her hair back in an Alice-band. She stared at Paul, who hunched down, his hands folded into his lap, making himself as small as possible.

  ‘How can I help you?’

  There was a firmness in her voice that Ade hadn’t expected. ‘Mr Webster is, as you know, a successful businessman,’ she said. ‘His business is tax avoidance. He cheats the Revenue and he helps other people cheat the Revenue.’

  Jessica pushed a lock of hair behind her ear.

  ‘And…?’

  ‘You were aware of that?’

  ‘Of course. I don’t think you understand. I don’t have money, but I’m bright and I work hard. I got a scholarship to Kings College School. I’ve got a first in Economics from Bristol University. I’m temping to finance my MSc, so I can start my real career. Acquisitions and mergers, that’s what I’ll be doing in two years’ time. I know exactly what goes on in the city. I can see who comes to that office and how they behave.’

  ‘Tax evasion is a crime. More importantly, it takes money away from the state – that’s you and me. We can’t have old-age pensions, we can’t have hospitals, we can’t have schools, all those things, unless people like Webster pay their tax. You know that.’

  ‘Yes. It’s unfortunate but that’s how it is. People are always going to fiddle tax if they can. Webster is not a pleasant person,’ she smiled, ‘but I need the cash and I handle him. Now, if that’s all you wanted to tell me…’

  ‘Forget all that. S’not about tax.’ Paul spoke for the first time.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ said Jessica.

  Paul leaned towards her, Ade saw how his dark eyes were fixed on hers. ‘He’s a pig.’

  ‘Of course. Don’t forget I work in that office.’ Jessica gave a little laugh. ‘They’re like that, most of them, those city types.’

  ‘He don’t respect women,’ said Paul with a stubborn note to his voice.

  He took the mobile phone out of his pocket, held it up to her and tapped “Play”. The screen showed a street, after dark, light spilling out from a hotel entrance. A limousine drew up and the chauffeur opened the passenger door. A stout bear-like man in an overcoat, hatless, got out and turned to help another passenger, a young woman with strikingly long dark hair, dressed in a tight black dress. The man said something they couldn’t catch and she giggled, ducking her head. He held her close against him as they mounted the steps. The porter held the door and the light illuminated their faces: Rex Webster and a young woman who couldn’t have been more than eighteen. The woman stared straight at the camera and Ade was suddenly reminded of the homeless woman in the red anorak she’d talked to near the Monument the morning that she’d gone looking for Paul.

  Jessica nodded.

  ‘I suppose I’m supposed to burst into tears and say “But he…he promised!” with my eyes wide open and my hand to my mouth like a character in a Mills and Boon novel. Yes, I know he’s a pig. And I don’t think much of Mills and Boon novels.’

  ‘We can show you some more film if you like. Different women, of course. Didn’t take long to get the pictures.’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘You can help us,’ said Ade. Everything was going in the wrong direction. ‘You know he’s a tax cheat, you know he’s a pig. We’d like you to help us get into his office, so we can get the evidence and tell everyone what he’s really like.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m not likely to do that. It’s the City, it’s the richest and most exciting place on the planet.’ Jessica spread her hands as if she was trying to explain something. ‘Listen. You don’t understand, not really. It isn’t just money. It’s the glamour of it, the power, being able to do anything you want. Anything at all, if you have enough of it.’

  She looked at Ade then Paul, then back at Ade. ‘You’re either on the inside or the outside. I intend to be on the inside. It’s my future.’

  ‘I hope you never need an ambulance.’

  ‘I’ll buy one.’

  Ade stared at Jessica. What would Morwen have said? The sound of clapping cut across the silence. Paul clasped his hands and grinned at them.

  ‘You’re smart, girl, and you’re confident, just like Webster and all those clever people he knows. You’ve missed the main thing. You want a career with that lot. Lots of money. Never have to worry about anyone else. Good luck. How you going to get it? You’re a woman. You’ve seen what they think of women. They ain’t your friends. You can have as many first class degrees as you like, people like Webster’ll always think you’re their doormat.’ He stood up and strode to the door. ‘Come on Ade, there must be another way to do this.’

  ‘He’s right, isn’t he?’ said Ade softly. ‘Webster and his friends, they’ll use you, but they’ll never like you. And you’ll never be able to trust them.’

  She could play the trump card now. Did you know he tried to rape me? Do you know that’s who he is? She could say that in a gentle reasonable voice with her eyes on Jessica’s. And what would happen? Would those lovely cornflower blue eyes widen, would she say, ‘That’s so awful, that’s terrible?’ Would she clutch at Ade’s wrist?

  Ade couldn’t bear that. She couldn’t bear the other Jessica either, the one that knew she could take on the city and win, because her sort of people always won, who’d look at her and pause a moment, before saying:

  ‘That’s bad, but you knew he was like that, but how did you ever get into that kind of situation with him? And yes, the City is my future and it won’t be easy. I’ll look pretty in their office and I’ll fight and I’ll win because I’m sharper than they are and I’m tougher than they are, and I can handle them.’

  She stood up. ‘Goodbye,’ she said.

  Jessica sat there. After a moment she touched Ade’s sleeve, said ‘No, wait a moment,’ and scribbled something on the cover of a magazine and tore it off.

  ‘Access code, for the door.’

  ‘Thanks. And the computer?’

  Jessica sat there as if she hadn’t heard her. Ade found she could hardly breathe.

  ‘OK.’

  She wrote rapidly on the paper and handed it to Ade.

  27

  It was six-thirty and the street was crowded with people. Christmas was in full swing. An office party, all drink and laughter and outrageous dresses and silly hats, spilled out of the pub in front of them.

  ‘Gangway!’ shouted a young man in shirtsleeves, his face flushed, and pushed between them. So much for the vampire scare, thought Ade. They’ve got short memories in the city. She glanced round then peered at the key-pad by the plate glass door with “Webster House” in polished steel capitals on the stone-work above it.

  Paul stood next to her, shielding what she was doing from the street. The door buzzed and swung open. She led the way across the thick carpet of the outer office. She could hear the hum of a vacuum cleaner somewhere else in the building, but this floor seemed to be deserted.

  ‘How do we get into Webster’s office?’

  ‘There must be spare keys somewhere.’

  Paul was looking through the drawers of the outer office desk.

  ‘Here we are.’

  There was something so comical about him, stood there in the scruffy jacket he always wore against the immaculate office décor, with a Jeff Wall painting beside him, a bunch of keys dangling from his hand and a grin across his face, that Ade nearly burst out laughing.

  The lock clicked open at the third key. She smelled the air. This was Webster’s place. I hate you,
she thought, and we’re going to put you out of business.

  She looked across at the mahogany partner’s desk, the black leather executive chair behind it, the guest chairs in front and the bookcase to one side, all illuminated by the light from the street streaming up through the picture window. A computer screen and keyboard were set into the desk, next to a blotter, a matching metal desk set, a cylindrical steel ruler and a miniature antique set of scales. She reached out and took one of the pens and looked at it, slim in her hand. It seemed such a small thing, so perfectly made.

  ‘What you got?’ said Paul.

  Ade sat down on Webster’s chair, tapped in the password and started to work through the spreadsheets, all neatly ordered, all stacked on top of each other, reaching down to the next level of transactions and the next. It all seemed familiar to her, she found she could see the pattern as soon as she looked at it. She’d looked down on it in her dream, seen it all, taken it in, grasped it, how it all linked together, how it worked.

  She flicked to the layer underneath, following the trail outside the office, the network of buying and selling, trading and dealing, linking up across the city, flipping backwards and forwards, all the streams running in, the torrent of money surging, swelling, dividing and merging again, a river crashing round a rock. Then it flowed outside London, outside the UK, cascading across Europe through Russia and Singapore and Hong Kong. She lost it, then she picked it up again, in and out of Ireland, back through the Netherlands, to another Irish company and – she leaned forward to make sure – out to the Caymans and back. We’ve got him. The profit’s all made here, but it’s shifted out there. But how does the money come back and where does it go when it gets here? She checked through the links twice but the trail ran dry.

  It was obvious when you thought about it. Webster didn’t shift his money around just to bury it away in a tax-haven somewhere. He made his money in the city and he sent it though a dizzying chain of trades and contracts round in a gigantic circle and back where it started. Then he could pay everyone back. It didn’t come back through all the secret connections, it came back as the profits of legitimate trading, nothing to do with business in the City subject to UK tax, but financial services off in the Caymans, insurance in Singapore, property development in Hong Kong. A lot of financial services, all based out in the Caymans, and that’s overseas, not subject to UK law and paying precious little tax out there.