The must-read new blockbuster thriller

by Tony Kent

‘What sort of absolute bullshit are you trying to peddle?’

  Dove’s response was angry. It was also immediate. Far too fast if Michael’s suggestion was something he had not heard before. Far too fast if what was being put to him was untrue.

  ‘Answer the question, Mr Dove. Did you act as Mr Campbell’s supervisor on the transactions that have brought him to court today? Did you take on the role of settling his trades?’

  ‘Of course I bloody didn’t.’

  Dove’s anger seemed to be gone. It was as if they were now on ground he had prepared for. It was the wrong impression to give, but he carried on.

  ‘Look at the records you’ve got there. Every single one of the trades are recorded as having been signed off by Nathan himself.’

  ‘Oh, I know that,’ Michael replied. ‘But that’s fairly meaningless, isn’t it, Mr Dove. Because as his immediate superior you could have appointed yourself to the role, and you could have easily signed off as Mr Campbell without him being any the wiser. Because the only person who would be looking at the trades across your floor – from everyone, not just Mr Campbell – was you, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, I get it.’

  Dove’s voice was now arrogant. Daniel could tell that he had been prepared for these last few questions. But he doubted that Dove would be prepared for the next ones.

  Dove continued.

  ‘You’ve sat down and worked out the only way that Nathan could have been overseen without that being recorded. Very clever. But it doesn’t really help you though, does it? Because Nathan did carry out the trades. He did use the error account to hide his losses. And he did lose hundreds of millions of bloody pounds. So even if I were settling his trades – and I wasn’t – it doesn’t make him innocent, does it?’

  ‘It does if he was making the trades under the orders of his boss,’ Michael replied.

  ‘That’s another comment.’ The prosecutor was rising to her feet again.

  ‘I’m moving on,’ Michael responded, before the judge could intervene.

  He turned back to Dove.

  ‘Mr Dove, it is correct, isn’t it, that Nathan Campbell made each and every trade for which he is being tried under your direct supervision and guidance, and that every trade made was made upon your order?’

  ‘You’ve got to be joking.’

  ‘And isn’t it true that throughout that period, at least as far as Nathan Campbell was aware, you were settling his trades in accordance with good practice?’

  ‘This is pathetic. It really is pathetic.’

  ‘And isn’t it true that, having told Nathan Campbell that you were settling his trades, you manipulated the records to which you had access and presented the settlements as if it were Nathan Campbell settling his own trades?’

  ‘Desperate,’ Dove replied. ‘Absolutely desperate.’

  ‘So are you denying what I’ve asked?’

  ‘Of course I’m bloody denying it! Behind the trades? Ordering Campbell to make them? What do you take me for? I’m good at my job. No one with an ounce of expertise or experience would have made those trades. Guaranteed losers, every one of them. So this little conspiracy you’ve put together, why would I do it? Why would I have involved myself in something that was bound to fail?’

  It was a good question. And exactly the one Daniel had hoped Dove would ask.

  As ever, Michael did not miss a beat.

  ‘You’ve been with Costins for what, eighteen years?’

  ‘Why are you changing the subject? Come on, tell me what I had to gain from that picture you’ve painted.’

  ‘Answer the question, Mr Dove.’

  ‘Not until you answer mine.’

  ‘That is not how this works.’ The judge sounded impatient. ‘Mr Devlin asks the questions, Mr Dove. And you answer them. So please do that.’

  Dove looked at His Honour Judge Kennedy QC, his irritation obvious. Still, he did as ordered.

  ‘Yes, eighteen years.’

  ‘For which you have been paid a very, very respectable salary.’

  ‘No more than I’m worth.’

  ‘Heaven forbid.’ Michael’s response raised a laugh from the jury. ‘But still, your salary is, by most standards, a very high one.’

  ‘I suppose that it is.’

  ‘Thank you. It is also correct, is it not, that you are paid an annual bonus.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A bonus that is never less than six figures?’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘Never less than six figures?’

  ‘No. Never.’

  ‘And one which, in addition, always includes shares in Costins itself.’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘Every year for eighteen years.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tell me, how many shares in Costins did you own on the day that Mr Campbell’s disastrous trades came to light?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘The shares, Mr Dove. The ones that had been building up every year for eighteen years. You must have had quite a few in your possession by that time. How many?’

  Michael pointedly tapped a file next to him as he spoke. A clear message that he had the answer right there beside him.

  From what Daniel could see, Dove got the message.

  ‘None.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Dove. Your voice has gone all quiet again. Did you say none?’

  ‘Yes. None.’

  ‘Well that’s a surprise. Because Costins was doing very well, wasn’t it? Or at least it seemed to be. It must have been very irritating to know that but to have none of your shares left.’

  No response.

  ‘And, out of interest, Mr Dove. When did you sell your shares?’

  Michael tapped the file again. The same message.

  ‘The previous month.’

  ‘The previous month?’

  Michael sounded amazed. The part of the act that always amused Daniel most.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What, all of them? At once? Or had you been selling them off over the years, a bit here and a bit there? Which was it?’

  ‘All of them at once.’

  Daniel shook his head. It was a pleasure to see Dove so uncomfortable – so helpless – as he reached the questions he had not expected.

  ‘So by some stroke of luck, you sold all of your shares when the market was at its highest, just a month before Nathan Campbell’s trades almost destroyed the bank?’

  Dove did not respond immediately. And nor did the prosecuting barrister rise to her feet, despite the fact that Michael’s last question broke all the rules.

  It seemed that everyone was stunned by the turn the case had taken. Everyone but Daniel and Michael.

  It was an outcome more common than it should be. Something Daniel knew all too well. When the police are presented with a clear-cut case – all the evidence wrapped up in a nice neat package and pointing at an obvious offender – often they don’t think it’s necessary to look any further. Human nature is human nature, after all, and so the prosecution tend to pursue the obvious suspect, even when just a little digging – a little legwork – would point to the real culprit. And so that legwork was left to Daniel.

  It had not taken long for him to uncover the truth behind Campbell’s account. And now Michael would reap the benefits.

  Michael opened the file that had threatened Dove and removed a single sheet of paper.

  ‘Mr Dove, have you ever heard of a company called Red Corner Inc., registered to the Cayman Islands?’

  Dove did not respond. But this time he did not need to. The speed with which the colour drained from his cheeks said enough.

  Michael continued.

  ‘Red Corner Inc. is the company which purchased over ten million shares in Costins on the day after Mr Campbell’s losses were revealed. Were you aware of that, Mr Dove?’

  No response.

  ‘And they did so for just a quarter of what you were paid by another buyer for your five hundred thousand shares,
less than a month before. Were you aware of that, Mr Dove?’

  No response.

  ‘And, of course, since the apprehension and prosecution of Mr Campbell, and the revelation that the bank will survive this little “blip”, the Costins share price has risen again, with those ten million shares now being worth ten times what Red Corner paid for them. Were you aware of that, Mr Dove?’

  No response.

  Michael fluttered the sheet of paper in the air as he continued.

  ‘OK, let’s try some questions that you must know the answer to, shall we? Can you tell me, Mr Dove, the name of the man who set up Red Corner Inc. in the Cayman Islands? The name of the man who is its only shareholder and only director? The name of the man who thought he could hide behind the Cayman Island rules on anonymity and never be revealed as the controller of Red Corner? The name of the man who intentionally tanked Costins? Who offloaded his own shares at full price just before the losses came to light? Who then used his offshore company to mop up millions of Costins shares when they hit rock bottom? And who thought he could get away with all of this by setting up a man he regarded as being below the class that should be employed at Costins in the first place?’

  No response. But Dove’s head was now in his hands.

  ‘I’ll give you a hint, Mr Dove. It’s the same answer to all of them.’

  Still nothing.

  Michael turned to the prosecuting barrister. Even she looked desperate. Worn down by the combination of blows Dove had just received. She indicated to the sheet of paper in Michael’s hand. He passed it across.

  A certificate of incorporation in Grand Cayman. The company was Red Corner Inc. The director and sole shareholder? Richard Dove.

  Daniel smiled a final time as he watched Michael lean close to the prosecutor’s ear and say, ‘I think that’s your case done, isn’t it?’

  ELEVEN

  Daniel watched Michael exit one of the six elevators that opened onto the Old Bailey’s ground floor. Nathan Campbell had left the building twenty minutes earlier. Daniel had been waiting for the tall Irishman since then.

  Michael’s destruction of Richard Dove had forced the prosecution to abandon its case. With Dove behind all of Campbell’s actions and with his motives exposed, it had become hopeless. What then followed had been inevitable. A fixed process. The judge had directed the jury to find Nathan Campbell ‘Not Guilty’.

  Daniel was sure they would have done the same even without the direction. Still, that extra guarantee was always welcome. The Devlin/Lawrence partnership had won. It was becoming a habit.

  Michael glanced towards the top of the building’s main staircase as he stepped out of the lift. The spot where Daniel always liked to wait.

  He had stayed upstairs while Daniel saw Campbell off the premises. Only once the client was gone did the barrister reappear.

  It was a practised routine. Michael had always lacked the patience for the ‘social work’ side of their job. Struggled with the handholding. Not that it mattered; working with Daniel meant there was always a compassionate colleague to pick up the slack.

  ‘It takes you an hour to look respectable these days, does it?’

  Daniel glanced at his watch. Tried to fake annoyance. He was no actor.

  Daniel might have been joking, but he could not have chosen a better description. Everything about Michael screamed ‘respectable’. His impeccable black pinstriped suit and starched white shirt complimented his six-foot-one athletic physique. He was every inch the TV idea of a barrister, which could not be more ironic. Not just because so few barristers actually resembled the clean-cut actors who played them, but because so few came from a background as unprivileged as the boy from the wrong side of Belfast.

  ‘If I didn’t know better I’d think you didn’t want to speak to Nathan,’ Daniel continued. ‘He says “thanks”, by the way.’

  ‘So he should!’ Michael laughed. ‘C’mon, let’s get going.’

  The Old Bailey’s ground floor was not at street level; an oddity caused by the building’s expansion over the course of a century. So there was a final flight of stairs for Michael and Daniel to walk down before they could exit the building.

  At the top of this staircase – embedded in the wall, far above head-height – was a lone piece of shrapnel. A morbid reminder of an IRA bomb that had exploded in the street outside in 1973. Daniel watched as it drew Michael’s eye. It always did. Michael had been raised in the more sectarian part of Ulster, where acts of terrorism could be tragically commonplace. He had long ago walked away from that past, but Daniel knew that he had never forgotten it. Now, every time Michael set foot on the staircase his eyes darted to the shrapnel. And every time it made him think of how far he had come. Of what he had left behind. A reminder that always seemed to stir mixed emotions.

  No words were spoken as they left the building. They passed the ever-present paparazzi. Turned left and walked the short distance to Ludgate Hill.

  It was one of London’s most iconic locations. Left out of Old Bailey – the road that gave its name to the court – was St Paul’s Cathedral. Old London’s dominating landmark. To the right were Ludgate Circus and Fleet Street. The historic home to Britain’s printed press. The journalists had moved on decades ago. The lawyers, who had been there even longer, remained.

  Daniel wore his shirt unbuttoned at the collar. Michael – who wore a tunic shirt in court, in line with tradition – had no collar at all. Both carried their jackets slung over the shoulder. It was a relief to be free from the formal dress of Britain’s courts. Especially for Michael, Daniel thought. The eighteenth-century outfit still worn by criminal barristers did its job. It made the advocates stand out. Gave them a status that put witnesses at a disadvantage. But that did not make it any more comfortable, particularly in courtrooms built before the invention of air conditioning. It was no doubt a welcome respite that Michael could now enjoy the rare October sunshine in fewer layers.

  They made their way west, down Ludgate Hill. Neither spoke. The comfortable silence that can only exist between the closest of friends. Minutes passed as they pushed their way through the crowds. These pavements were always busy. Bustling. Like everyone familiar with the city centre, both Michael and Daniel were accustomed to being jostled as they walked.

  ‘That was a hell of a closing question.’

  Daniel’s face broke into a grin as he finally spoke. They were already halfway along Fleet Street.

  ‘What’s that old rule about only asking one question at a time, Mike? God knows how Kennedy let you get away with it.’

  ‘Don’t see why you’re surprised.’ Michael’s smile was just as wide. ‘I’ve asked worse questions than that without getting into trouble.’

  ‘Bullshit! If you had I’d have heard about it. Especially with your big mouth! You’ll be calling everyone you know to brag about this one tonight!’

  ‘You’re the only one who still lets me boast, Danny. The others just hang up!’

  ‘Then you’re calling the wrong people. I’m sure my dad will want to hear all about it.’

  Daniel did not mean to silence Michael. But he’d managed it anyway.

  Daniel’s father was Hugh Lawrence QC, one of England’s most eminent barristers. Hugh had been disappointed to see his son become a solicitor instead of following in his father’s footsteps. And Michael had been his consolation for that decision. Hugh Lawrence had taken the interest he would have had in Daniel’s career and invested it into that of his son’s friend. Daniel had long accepted this. But it was not something they ever discussed.

  Whatever his pedigree, Daniel had always felt unsuited to a career at the Bar. It was a doubt that had remained unspoken. Until it was confirmed by a young man with every attribute he lacked. Michael Devlin.

  They had met as students. Luck had placed them in the same university group, but their backgrounds had been poles apart. Daniel had always been wealthy. A privileged rich kid with the best education money could buy. Michael had
come from a very different world. He had fought tooth and nail to break free from his upbringing. To build a better life away from a family he never discussed.

  They had been equals from the start. The outstanding students in a law class that was quickly a two-horse race. But their approach to their subject differed drastically.

  Crucially, Michael was capable of the one thing that Daniel was not. He could argue in favour of anything. Michael’s feelings on a subject never affected his ability as an advocate; he could deliver winning performance after winning performance, regardless of the moral rights and wrongs. In this way Daniel could not compete. Daniel could fight a cause as well as anyone. But only when it was a cause in which he believed.

  Which was going to be a problem. A barrister must accept any case offered, regardless of personal feelings. It is an ancient rule that guarantees a person will have someone to defend him, no matter how terrible the allegation. But, to be effective, the rule demanded Michael’s ability to argue any case. Daniel lacked that talent and he knew it.

  It led to the choice that had disappointed Daniel’s father. Daniel’s ability was bound to his morality, meaning he was more suited to the life of a solicitor. It gave him the freedom he needed. Freedom to champion good causes. And freedom to turn away cases that offended his sense of justice.

  It was this life that Daniel had chosen fifteen years ago. A decision he had never regretted.

  ‘Any plans for lunch?’ Michael asked, breaking the short silence that had fallen between them.

  ‘A fat sandwich and a fast car. It’s Harry’s sports day. I promised I’d be there for his race if his Uncle Mike got us out in time. You want to join us?’

  ‘I think Uncle Mike’s done enough by getting you there, don’t you? Besides, I’d only be watching him lose if he’s anything like his old man!’

  ‘Bollocks!’ Daniel laughed in mock outrage. ‘I never had any trouble outrunning you!’

  ‘Yeah, but that was then. I’ll give you a head start any time these days, you chubby bastard!’

  Daniel laughed aloud, conceding defeat. Michael was right. They had been equally athletic in their university days. But Daniel hadn’t kept himself in the same shape as his friend. That was natural. Daniel returned home each night to the comfort of his wife, his son and – more often than not – a big family meal. Michael did not.