“Thank you,” Julia understood how much that could cost Rebecca.
“Don't turn him into a cardboard villain,” Rebecca said as she showed Julia to the door. “He donated half his salary to a charitable trust.”
“I won't,” Julia said softly.
“And keep my name out of it. You can do that can't you?”
“Of course. Is there anyone I can call to be with you?”
Rebecca shook her head. “You must go.”
The sound of lift doors warned it was time for Julia to make herself scarce, if she wanted to avoid a court injunction aimed at silencing her. She headed off down the corridor towards the back stairwell.
EARLY DEADLINES were looming, so Julia half-jogged back to the office. Mr Aldo Bardetti, the deli owner, was outside, wiping down his cafe chairs, drenched in the downpour.
“You need to slow down Julia,” he said as she sped towards him. “You’re working too hard.”
“I’ve got a new assistant,” she said, stopping to catch her breath. “How’s business, Aldo?”
“Nice and easy,” he grinned. “I never worry. That’s your problem Julia. You worry too much. Take better care of yourself.”
Julia laughed and ran up the stairs to her first floor office.
“How’d it go?” Cody asked as she walked in. She raised her eyebrows, discarded her damp jacket, sat at her desk and dialled her editor Andrew Ludgate.
“Cracks are starting to appear,” she said. “Stephen Chandler - investment director at Tower Gate – has disappeared.”
“Disappeared where?”
“If we knew that he wouldn't be missing.”
“Confirmed?”
“By his wife.”
“My, my, and the market smells trouble.”
Julia knew Ludgate would be checking Tower Gate's share price. She got there first. It was 15 per cent down.
“She asked me to keep her name out of it.”
“Be careful,” Ludgate warned. “I seem to recall the beautiful Rebecca is a lawyer. Don't cross her. Get the story over as soon as you can.”
Then reach for a tin hat. We shall need it to survive the fall out, Julia thought.
She began to type…
CHAPTER FIVE
3pm Wednesday July 28
HIGHGATE
PATRICK SILVERMAN stood alone at the open grave. Other mourners had peeled away. He could not bring himself to take this last farewell from the father he loved. He cared not what was happening in the world outside. He wanted this moment to last forever. Once the spell was broken, his life would change permanently. He never knew his mother. She died before his childhood memories began. So he never felt her loss. His father was mum and dad – his everything for all his life up to this point.
Now he was gone. To other eyes this might have been a moment to rejoice. Patrick was about to inherit a considerable fortune. His father was a wealthy stockbroker with a substantial portfolio of central London property. It meant nothing to his son, who had already amassed sufficient riches to last several lifetimes.
He cared nothing for the will. As executor, it would fall to him to sort it out. That could wait until later. Instead, his mind wandered over the empty, lonely days stretching ahead. He had caught sight of a few old flames on the edge of the mourners. Decent of them to come – but they meant little to him. Lucky in money, he was spectacularly unlucky in love.
He shuffled his feet. Standing still so long in the same position, his blood stopped circulating. His mind was busy, always working, never resting. As well as the will, he would have to order a gravestone. This was the first funeral he would organise. The prospect of picking a headstone and deciding on wording chilled him. Dad had always been there to advise on delicate matters.
The melody of the final hymn played hauntingly in the back of Silverman's subconscious. It continued playing as he stood there alone for three hours more. From time to time, a distant relative or friend would join him briefly, ask if he was OK, stand respectfully for a short while, then return to the wake. Mainly he waited alone.
Alone apart from a shadow he sensed watching from a gathering of trees on raised ground beyond, largely hidden by deep summer foliage. He was glad he had come.
As darkness fell, it was time to turn away. The hymn played on, Abide with me... In Life and Death Abide with me.
Only when he reached the car did he turn on his mobile and check the news. So, it had begun. The crisis Laura predicted and he anticipated.
He hit the accelerator, heading straight out the cemetery, for the A303. He was going home.
He revved the engine and picked up speed, singing, under his breath, his farewell to his father...
“Change and decay in all around I see, O Thou who changest not, abide with me.”
CHAPTER SIX
Morning Thursday July 29
Southwark
A HERO-GRAM FROM LUDGATE was waiting for Julia in her Inbox when she arrived at her desk, the next morning, applauding her Chandler story. Cool. Even cooler, he called in person to reinforce his delight. Well that's a first, she thought.
“Well done,” Andrew congratulated her. “We've caused a stink. Red tops’ve gone berserk. Most of the qualities followed up in later editions. A triumph.”
The tabloids loved anything which smacked of money and scandal. Julia was particularly pleased to see the follow-ups in the quality titles.
“Pretty-much word for word,” she couldn't resist pointing out – no higher compliment.
“Hmmm,” he changed the subject. “So where is Chandler?”
“No one knows. Maybe this will flush him out.”
“Anyway,” he continued, “I'm calling to ask if you’d like to join me at the Chinese Embassy next week. I've been invited to some festivities celebrating the Dragon Boat Festival. Could be fun. What d’you think?”
Beware editors bearing gifts, Julia thought, but muttered something about how delighted she would be to join him.
“That's great. Know where it is?”
“Portland Place.”
“Indeed. One more thing – “
Hmm, what now?
“Matthew Hopkins is joining from the Post. I've wanted to get him for some time. He'll be a great asset.”
Julia's heart sank. Andrew how could you? she thought, but managed to bleat perkily, “Wonderful, congratulations.”
“See you next week. Meanwhile, get cracking on the follow-up. Market’s bound to be lively. See what Tower Gate is planning, and, well, find Chandler, if you can.”
She slammed the phone onto its cradle.
“Andrew! How could you be so stupid,” she shouted at the receiver. “Hopkins is the last person we need.”
Matthew Hopkins enjoyed the sobriquet of Witch Finder General, partly because he shared the name of the infamous English Civil War Commander, who hunted down and hanged more than 300 so-called witches. But mainly he owed his infamy to a career dedicated to sniffing out promising subjects to satisfy a 21st century public's lust for blood.
Well, I’ll never share a by-line with him, she thought. Just about the nastiest, most poisonous journo I’ve ever come across. She had dealt with Hopkins’ pointed elbows and penchant for stealing other people's stories in the past.
Andrew was right about the Chandler exclusive, though. The disappearance of a star money manager, like Stephen Chandler, hit that morning’s news like a jet fighter at full thrust. Repercussions trembled throughout the morning. Despite strong denials from the company, investors were panicking.
“Stephen Chandler has not disappeared,” a Tower Gate spokesman emphasised. “He’s working on a confidential project in the country.”
Unlikely, Julia thought, as Cody walked in holding the morning’s mail.
“See it worked out,” he greeted her, his smile even wider than usual. “Met the postman at the door.”
“It did indeed,” Julia grinned back.
“Does this mean I've got a job?” he asked, placing
the post on the desk in front of her.
“Undoubtedly, I owe you,” she hesitated, before adding. “That was brilliant work. I'm sorry you missed a by-line. But if our relationship is to work, we need to keep you incognito, at least for the time being.”
“So I've got a job?” Cody punched the air.
“Maybe,” Julia took a deep breath. “Cody, as you once told me yourself, I can get into Boardrooms. Playing messenger looks a rich seam for stories. Come in here full-time and you lose that. First rule of journalism - you’re only as good as your sources.”
Cody was not slow following her thinking. “I could do casual evening shifts as a messenger. There's always a mad dash to get documents out late afternoon.”
“Great. Come in here first thing, and we'll get you working on stories. I'll pay a trainee wage. Not much, but with what you pick up for casual work, should be enough to live on.”
“Worry not,” he beamed. “Casual delivery pays well.”
“Let the good times roll,” Julia gave him two thumbs up. “Well, let's get you started.” She pulled pen paper and a battered-looking laptop from the cupboard, and settled him at a spare desk.
“Second rule of journalism, always carry paper and pen,” she said, handing him both, before turning back to the post. There was an intriguing brown envelope with a set of accounts, but no accompanying letter or explanation. No indication of who sent them.
“Tower Gate's put out another statement, saying anyone peddling lies will be sued,” Cody was checking out the firm's website.
“One writ I'll never live to see,” she replied, sliding the brown envelope across to him. “You’d better start earning your keep. Take a look at these.”
Julia returned to her emails. As was often strangely the case after splashing on a big story, her Inbox was surprisingly quiet. Uncanny, she thought. An eerie silence descended, as if everyone was sitting back, digesting this latest news, wondering what to expect next.
Find Chandler, hmmm, Julia muttered Ludgate's final instruction. Easily said, but where to begin? She jotted down the possible scenarios on a pad. Accident? Lost his memory, lying in hospital somewhere, kidnapped for a ransom, run away with another woman, gone into hiding, lying dead somewhere? All seemed equally unlikely.
There has to be a rational explanation.
She randomly searched for “missing banker”. A single paragraph appeared on her screen. Bank boss, Adam Lee, found dead in Wardour Street, Soho early yesterday evening. Police appealing for information and witnesses.
Pitcher's body, she racked her brains to see if she knew this Adam Lee. She quickly found him with an internet search, and was reading when her phone rang. Talk of the Devil. It was the Chief Inspector.
“I'm going to start charging,” she joked, when she heard his voice at the other end of the line.
“No, I'm not calling about my savings, although now you mention it...”
She smiled. He was incorrigible. “What can I do for you then?”
“Surprised to see you going into the missing person's business that's all. Shouldn't you leave that sort of thing to the police? I thought money not people was your area of expertise.”
“Amounts to the same thing most of the time.”
“If you say so,” he sounded unconvinced. “Fancy lunch? It's a long time since we got together.”
“Not long enough for me,” she quipped.
“Are you determined to get on the wrong side of me?”
“There isn't any other is there?”
He’s intrigued by my story, she thought.
“Very funny. OK, I'll call Susan Ray at the Record. She's always interested in my little titbits.”
“Little being the operative word. What did you want to discuss? I could manage an early supper.”
“I'll see you at the Golden Pagoda at five, by the new gate. Get the drinks in, I'll have a pint.”
“Typical,” Julia muttered to herself. Pitcher was quick with his invitations, but he never paid.
Time to get down to serious work. She checked her Inbox again as a final statement landed from Tower Gate. The directors had decided to close all funds until further notice. No money would be coming in or out until the fog cleared.
“They're shutting Tower Gate,” Cody called across, his face puzzled.
“So I see,” she hadn't intended to unleash havoc, but predicting the outcome was not hard. “Remember Cody, we didn't cause this. We reported the story. Chandler would have known the consequences of his disappearing.”
“If that's what happened...”
The follow-up was effortless, and pretty much wrote itself. Closure of Tower Gate, rise and fall of superstar money house, markets tumbling on a wave of profit-taking. Investors furious at not being able to get their money out. Queues outside Pendle trebled, but panic not yet spreading. All of which said, by the time the New York stock market rang its opening bell, not long after London had closed, prices had stabilised.
Her news and features package filed, she set off to meet Pitcher in Chinatown. A young Chinese man sat opposite her on the tube. She found herself thinking again of Adam Lee. Did she know him? Had their paths crossed?
She felt a shiver down her spine as her thoughts moved next to Chandler.
Just a coincidence? Two bankers – one missing – one dead. It had to be, didn't it?
CHAPTER SEVEN
Thursday July 29
Hong Kong 6pm –London 11am
WARWICK MANTEL gazed out across Hong Kong Bay from his 40th floor office while he waited for his Californian marketing guru to join him. His subordinate was late. Time was money, but it made space for a rare luxury, a crack in the day to do nothing, but stare and think. A tired sun was beginning to bleed from the sky, although dusk had not yet arrived. Mantel watched the ferry crossing the bay, taking workers home to their apartment blocks on Kowloon. A few early beams dazzled from the skyscrapers crowding the shoreline. Soon the laser light shows would begin.
A Chinese junk, with red sails fully hoisted, weaved slowly across the waves, as the elegant crafts had for centuries. How he loved this spectacular harbour at dusk. Water was the city's lifeblood. Its trade winds blew ships, laden with cargoes from around the globe, in and out with the seasons. Now a new whirlwind was coming. Not all companies or cities would survive. Many would be blasted away in the wave of destruction about to be unleashed.
Then what? The seeds of world wars and the deaths of millions could be traced back to wealth destruction on the trading floors of Western capitals. Peak Bank of Hong Kong was as safe as he, its boss, could make it. He would use any means foul or fair to survive.
How easy and joyous it seemed a decade ago when they dreamed up their capital raising scheme. What a triumph it had been. That was its downfall. So sensational, everyone copied. Instead of a small scale, carefully-managed squeeze to the system, it grew to become the system itself. A nuclear option in the hands of those with no idea what they were doing.
His thoughts were cut short by a knock at the door. Scofield Crisp entered the room, looking hot, and stressed.
“Sorry I'm late. Traffic gridlocked by the pro-democracy demonstration. Chaos everywhere.”
Crisp joined Mantel at the window. Tear drop neon cascaded down one of the highest Kowloon skyscrapers across the bay. Of the original five rocket scientists at that brainstorming weekend, he was the only one still with the company.
“You've seen the news?” Crisp seemed rattled.
“We don't know anything has happened to Chandler,” Warwick stalled.
“They say he's disappeared and his fund's in trouble. Adam Lee is dead. We made a pact with the devil that weekend.”
“Careful – your imagination’s running away with you.”
“Is it?”
Mantel laughed. “Adam Lee has nothing to do with Chandler’s disappearance. You know his background. He was a danger junkie. Played for high stakes. I'm guessing his luck finally ran out.”
�
�Self-destructive streak?” Crisp nodded, adjusting his gold cufflinks. “In his blood I guess – ”
“Look, we created a valuable business proposition. The timing was perfect. We exploited it wisely. If others were less cautious that's not our problem.”
“What happens to First State now its chief executive is dead?” Crisp said.
Mantel scanned the mountains on the horizon. He lay awake in the early hours pondering this very question.
“If First State goes down, who next?” Crisp was like a dog with a bone.
“It won't be us,” came the peppery reply. Mantel walked to the cabinet and poured them both a whisky. “Hell, I've been through plenty of difficult times. So has Hong Kong. The Asian crisis of the 1990s barely touched us. We'll be fine.”
“This time is different,” Crisp spoke bluntly to his superior. “You need to wake up. The days of big imperial banks and investment houses are over. The Hemmings, Jardines and Matthewsons have all long gone. We no longer look over our shoulders to a distant Bank of England. China’s our master now, and my guess is we can expect no quarter from the People's Republic if we screw up.”
“We haven't screwed up, as you so indelicately put it,” he handed Crisp a glass. “Patience – the storm will pass.”
“Will it? This time? What if it doesn't? If this time the system doesn't bend and bounce, but breaks. Won't someone have to pay?”
“Yes, but I say again it won't be us. Our hands are clean.”
Crisp sipped his whisky, savouring the pleasure of the burn as it scorched the back of his throat.
“We made it all possible,” he pointed his glass at Mantel. “Doesn't that mean...”
“It means nothing,” Mantel interjected. He walked back to the wall of glass overlooking the bay. Dusk had fallen further. Skyscraper lights transformed office towers into diamond obelisks, sparkling against the creeping dark. He turned again to Crisp.
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