by J. S. Monroe
Then I began to relax as we accelerated down the Embankment, the lights on Chelsea Bridge burning like crossed stars. Prodigy was coming at me from four sides (Walter’s choice of music had been way off target). I was enjoying myself, I had to admit it. The power of the engine was invigorating, pressing me against the seat, cosseting me from the outside world.
The company could have been better, though. Chuckster was from another planet, untroubled, languid in his arm movements, most comfortable in life leaning gently backwards. I didn’t have to worry about talking. Conversation flowed freely: the lights in Regent Street (“so sweet”), the increase in river traffic (“so obviously right, somehow”), the charm of London’s parks (“so European, so un us”), all interspersed with unprying questions. “Had I seen the lights?” “Did I like parks?” and so on. But he never mentioned work or brought up anything remotely uncomfortable. Once I tried to get on to the subject of the bombing campaign, but the conversation was steered gently in the opposite direction – the inordinate amount of maintenance involved in vintage cars (a friend of his had his Bentley damaged in the Baltic Exchange blast). Undeterred, I tried again.
“I think I was at school with Samantha West,” I began, trying not to slur my words. “The name sounds very familiar.”
“Now there’s someone I can’t fathom. It’s not true by the way. I didn’t ‘have her’ as Toxo probably said. What a preposterous fellow he is. Lovely but quite ridiculous. I just took her out for a drink. Felt sorry for the old girl.”
“Why?”
“She didn’t seem awfully good at making friends.”
“Were you surprised when she left?”
“Yes and no. She wasn’t happy at the firm, that was patently obvious. But the manner of her departure, now that did surprise me. Nobody leaves at lunch-time on a Wednesday. Particularly that Wednesday. We were about to be given our bonus. And she knew that.”
“Maybe she didn’t need the money.”
“Could be, could be. But I’ve never heard of a dealer turning down a bonus. It had been a good quarter, too.” Chuckster never disagreed with anything either. The only contretemps of the whole journey took place while we were waiting at the lights to turn left over Albert Bridge. A young kid in a baseball hat cleaned his front and back windows. I waited to see what would happen, whether Chuckster would pay him. He didn’t. Instead he smiled politely as the child went about his business and then pulled slowly away when the lights changed. “Peasant,” he muttered quietly.
The car nosed into Clapham West Side. Chuckster had immediately offered to drop me off at the house when he heard how close I lived.
“Here we are dear chap. And your wife waiting in the window. The pleasures of domestic life.”
I glanced across at the house. Charlotte was at the kitchen sink, looking out. She gave a little wave when she saw me.
“She’s not my wife.”
“Good man,” he said, leaning across and closing my door. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
“See you tomorrow.” At least it would impress the neighbours.
16
“Jesus fuck. That man’s unreal. He has no idea how the rest of this country is living. Unless people take the fight to him, why should he? He drives from Battersea to the office and back again in his pissing Porsche without a care in the world.”
“Do you want a drink? Sherry?” Charlotte paused, barely suppressing a giggle. I ignored her. “Gin and Tonic?” she said, one hand over her mouth. “Special Brew?”
We were standing in the kitchen. I had taken my jacket and tie off and was in the process of releasing my shoes, hopping about on one foot as I fiddled with the laces.
“I don’t even blame the bastard,” I said, almost falling over. “It’s not his fault he’s so fucking ignorant. He’s lived all his life in another solar system.”
Charlotte went to the fridge, pulled out a can of Special Brew, and handed it to me. She then sat down at the table and poured herself a glass of white wine from an open bottle.
“So, how did the rest of the day go? Did you make any money?”
“No. I didn’t. I hope they are paying me for this.”
“Would you take their money if they were?”
“No I’d stick it up Chuckster’s arse so he knows what it’s like to be buggered.”
“The Porsche was a nice touch. There can’t be too many of those left in the City.”
“They should all be melted down. It even had a fax machine in the back for fucksake.”
“Have a shower, unwind. You’ve had a tiring day at the office.”
“Ha fucking ha. I’ll tell you another thing. Samantha West had something going with the chairman.”
“What?” Her face tightened.
“Apparently she and him were close.”
“Who told you?”
“Tugger, Chuckster, Johnny Biggies, who cares? One of them did.”
“Are you sure?”
“If you don’t believe anything I say, we are wasting our time.”
I walked towards the door, undoing the clip on my trousers. I had to get shot of my clothes.
“Okay. You’re sure,” she said, watching me go.
*
Upstairs in my room I cut a couple of lines. I was more tired than I realised, more drunk too. I tried to think things through, but I was feeling increasingly paranoid. If Samantha West was close to the chairman, she was just being careful, taking out clever insurance. It was a risk, but her cover was less likely to be blown if she was sleeping with the man who employed her. Was it just coincidence, then, that this particular chairman was also friendly with MI5? She never realised how close she was to the enemy. Or perhaps MI5 knew her real identity and made sure she was killed. In which case what was I doing poncing about in the City? It was all part of a plot to rescue me, bring a fallen citizen back into the family fold.
“Do you want me to iron your shirt?” Charlotte asked through the closed door.
“It’s still in its wrapper.”
“Remember to take the pins out.”
“Yes, mummy,” I said and gave her the finger.
A few minutes later, I walked unsteadily down the stairs with the inch-thick pile of print-out Debbie had given me. Charlotte had started cooking in the kitchen.
“I presume you like fish?” she said.
“If I have to.”
I sat down at the table and searched energetically through the reams of paper, as if I was letting out rope. I was going to crack the City, suss its systems and then shaft it. The print was small. I closed my eyes, swallowed.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“It’s a record of all the conversations between JKA dealers. They flog money to each other on a thing called Reuters 2000.”
I was slurring my words and could feel her gaze linger on me.
“I know the system.”
“I thought it would be interesting,” I said, pausing, “to know what Samantha West was saying to people before she let off her bomb.”
“How far back does it go?”
“Three weeks. She might have used Reuters to talk. Providing they’re all dealers. Which we don’t know for sure, of course.”
“Walter’s pretty certain.”
Pretty certain? What weren’t they telling me? Samantha and the chairman: that wasn’t right. I stopped sifting through the print-out and looked up at Charlotte. Her back was turned. She had switched on a food mixer, and I watched some carrots spin and dissolve, one piece bobbing, avoiding the chop. Quietly, I stood up and walked towards her. I tried to stand still but I was swaying. As I rocked forward I grabbed her around the waist, pinning her arms.
“Somebody’s lying,” I said, bending her back against my leg.
“Dutchie, get off. You’re hurting me.”
I was squeezing with all my strength, much tighter than I realised.
“Walter – how much does he know?” I shouted.
“He’s told you everything. Let me go, please
, you’re hurting.”
“So why was Samantha West pally-pally with the chairman?”
“I don’t know.”
“You said he is a friend of MI5. What’s he doing then, fucking a bloody bomber?”
“He didn’t know. It was just chance.”
“Am I being set up?"
“No. Please.”
I let her go, tossing her away from me, and stood there, wavering. She went to the sink, poured herself a glass of water and walked towards the door.
“That’s not the way this is going to work, Dutchie. You’re drunk. Been out with the boys. That’s fine. But don’t ever touch me again.”
She left the kitchen and went upstairs. Annalese was right. Chemicals made me feel hunted.
I poured some water as well, drank four glasses quickly, and sat down at the table. I was just being paranoid. Picking up the print-out again I found the day of the bombing, December 22nd, a Monday. Some of the messages were signed PM, others SW. Pete Marshall, Samantha West. Dealings with Citibank, Credit Agricole, BZW. It meant nothing to me. I would have to ask Pete if there was anything strange about them.
Charlotte came back into the kitchen a few minutes later and went to the stove. On her way out, she dropped a bowl of carrot soup down on the table and took hers to the sitting room where she was watching television. We were obviously eating separately. The soup smelt good. There was a fish pie in the oven, she said. I didn’t feel guilty. It was a score which needed to be settled, a return handshake. After I had drunk the soup I went through to the sitting room. Charlotte was sitting on the floor, one arm on the seat of the sofa. She didn’t look up.
“I’ve found the day,” I said, sitting on the other end of the sofa and holding out a single sheet of print-out. She looked at me and then back at the television.
“Anything interesting?” she asked.
“You tell me. It’s all bollocks.”
“You’re not worried about going in tomorrow, are you Dutchie?”
Her sudden concern surprised me. “Why? Should I be?”
“No. But if anything ever bothers you, talk to me about it first. You’ll make mistakes if you’re nervous. Let me see that.”
I passed her the sheet of paper which she looked at for a while.
“Where do you go during the day?” I asked, with as much charm as I could muster.
“You don’t expect me to answer that, do you?”
“Just wondered. Somewhere in the City. It’s got to be. Unless you get on the tube and come back here again.”
“It’s a small PR firm. Awful place.”
“Don’t go in then.”
“I have to be credible too.”
“Why?”
“In case we go out.”
“Out? Will we have to?”
“If you’re asked.”
“None of the blokes in the office are involved in this. They’re wankers but they’re not terrorists.”
“Maybe not. But you can’t afford to arouse suspicion. People talk. The City’s a small place.”
“What do you think?” I asked, nodding at the print-out in her hand.
“Ask someone about Kiruna Kredit. Casually, though. I haven’t heard of them before. They were offering Swedish kronas against pesetas. That’s a nightmare transaction. No one in their right minds would even say no thanks.”
“No one except Samantha.”
17
There was more activity the next morning. The ceiling seemed lower, the intercoms more urgent. Dealers were standing up, calling across the room. Pete acknowledged me with a barely raised a hand. He was talking on the phone, leg still bouncing. (No one had offered Debbie enough.) I sat down and logged on. My instructions remained the same as yesterday: watch unless the chairman said otherwise.
I poured myself some cereal, read Dan’s copy of The Sun, and waited for Pete to calm down. Over by the coffee machine I looked closer at a pinboard covered with holiday snaps: Dave and Toxo posing in sunglasses on a ski-slope, Pete wiped out, suspended upside down in some red fencing. I looked harder, searching for Samantha, and spotted her in turquoise at the back of the group. She had been thorough. Would I have to go skiing?
“Douglas? Simon Briggs.”
I turned round to see the chairman. He looked younger than expected, tanned with short, sun-bleached hair, and was standing too close to me. He shook my hand. “Do you want to come through?” he asked. His breath was minty, his teeth too perfect. He also had a faint Afrikaans accent which hardened the occasional consonant.
Briggs’s office was at the far end of the dealing room, near the Yen. It wasn’t spacious; a chair either side of an oak desk and a row of screens along one wall. A Nike sports bag was by the door, the towelled handle of a squash racket sticking out of one end. His desk was clear except for a Union Jack, smaller than the ones outside, and a photograph of a blonde woman.
“Have a seat. How are you enjoying yourself?” he asked with absurd enthusiasm, closing the door.
“There’s a lot to take in,” I said, sitting down.
“Of course there is. It must all seem very mysterious.” He moved round to his side of the desk and settled back in his chair, looking at me as if we were old friends. “MI5 and I go back a long way,” he said, switching the subject suddenly, enjoying the conspiracy. “I was only too pleased to help again.”
What did he mean by “again”?
“Any idea who’s behind them? The bombs?”
I didn’t reply. I was impatient to leave.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. Pete will take care of you.”
“He’s already shown me around.”
Briggs stood up energetically and walked over to the window, where he fingered a hole in the blind.
“Pete’s a good operator,” he said, squinting out through the gap he had now made. He had his back to me. “Watch what he buys and then look for a similar deal elsewhere. Hedge carefully and you’ll be okay.”
“I was planning on just watching.”
“Why?” he said, turning. “Get your gloves off. Enjoy yourself. You might as well. I don’t suppose you will be with us for ever.”
“As long as it takes,” I said, watching him sit down again. He had thick, white nails, scalloped and well nourished.
“Quite. There’s one other thing.” His confidence had suddenly given way to awkwardness. He put one finger in his mouth and began to rub a gum, staring at the floor. “I gather you’ve been asking around about Samantha West. I’d rather you didn’t.”
“I was just curious.”
“I know, fine. It’s not good for morale, that’s all, when someone leaves the firm. Bit of a shower. They start asking me for more money.”
He pulled a broad, fluoride grin, trying to make light of it. How much did he know?
“Nothing happened to her, did it?” I asked, conscious that I shouldn’t.
“Not at all. Family trouble.” He paused and sat back again, adopting his former, more chummy tone. “I always wanted to be a spy, you know, but they wouldn’t have me. Wrong university. Wrong handshake,” he added, laughing. I had to get out of there. The man’s zest was overbearing.
“Pete’s waiting for me,” I said, looking at my watch. “The RPI’s out at 9.30.”
“Of course. Money calls.”
He went to the door and held it open for me.
“Any problems, you know where I am. Go well.”
I vowed to be back, with a machete. I walked past him, feeling his light fingers on my shoulder. Only too pleased to help again. The company had assisted MI5 in the past, that’s all. Walter had described him as a friend of the service.
Or did it mean that I wasn’t the first to be doing this? If so, what had happened to the others? The terrorists will kill you if they suspect anything.
The rest of the morning was frustrating. I wanted to ring Charlotte but I couldn’t risk talking to her about anything. There was little opportunity to ask anyone about the print
out. Pete was on a roll and had lost interest in me. Everyone else was locked into their own screen dialogues. No one was calling on Swedish krona or pesetas. It was all Deutsche Mark, dollar, lira. The RPI came and went, causing a brief flurry of activity. I watched the bank initials flash up on the screen, the jokey messages between Pete and faceless people in Geneva, Paris, Frankfurt. Did they know how ugly he was?
“Pete, catch,” Dan said.
Pete swivelled on his chair just in time to catch a bunch of keys sailing through the air.
“Take a look at the new phones, yes?” Dan said. “They’ve just installed them down at the back-up.”
“Today?”
“Please. Briggs says it’s important. Enterprise House, near the Arena. Should be exactly the same system as this one.”
Dan walked away.
“What’s that all about?” I asked.
“Oh, nothing. A pain in the arse. Why can’t he go?” Pete glanced at Dan, who was fixing a coffee.
“Go where?”
“Docklands. We’ve got a contingency dealing room there.”
“What for?”
“All the big firms have them these days. In case we get bombed.”
“What, you mean if this place blows, we all move down to Docklands?”
“In one. It’s identical to here, only more cramped, if that’s possible.”
*
At twelve I offered to get in the sandwiches and took everyone’s orders. I wondered whether I should ask for money. Nobody was offering. I had given Pete a couple of quid yesterday. These people were tight, that’s why they were rich. What did I expect, charity workers?
Pret A Manger was packed and I took my place in the queue. As I drew closer to the till I reached for the wad of notes folded neatly in my back pocket. It was empty. I sniffed and peeled off the queue towards the coolers at the back of the shop. I didn’t have a bank account yet and the money was on my chest of drawers at the house. I could see it clearly. Either I was going to leave the baguettes in a neat pile on the shelf or I had to walk out of the shop with them under my arm. I couldn’t return to the office without them. They would think I was mad. A dealer with no money?
I looked at the shop entrance. It was narrow, near the till, and jammed with people squeezing past each other. I could try breezing out but it wasn’t ideal. There were two women on the tills, maybe a hidden camera somewhere. Calmly I rejoined the queue and waited my turn.