The City Dealer

by Neil Rowland

  “You talk about your sufferings. Of your life in ruins,” Sep retorted brokenly. “But what about the effect on my daughter? On her mother and family? And even on your former colleagues?” he barked.

  “That was a strike ball for ZNT,” Clive countered.

  “Stuff and nonsense was it.”

  “Who gave you this raging thirst for revenge?” Clive argued.

  “You really think Viktor has arranged this?” the financier considered.

  “The very man,” Clive told him. “I’m his inside trade.”

  “Viktor seems more interested in couture...in acquiring his prestige labels.”

  “That’s all a fig leaf, I can tell you.”

  “Perfumery and frocks?” Sep replied. “What can possibly be sinister about dear Viktor? You are merely envious of his drive and ambition, his genius.”

  “You fixed a flotation of BIP for the fund. You set up a surprisingly low share offer. The firm was skimming off commission from fraudulent profits. You believe they saved your company, but the company’s in their pocket. ZNT are the fund and your firm is merely part of the hedge! They can destroy the firm at any time, or simply call it ZNT or even Di Visu for fun. Why not? What’s to stop them?”

  “What a ridiculous allegation! No, you were master of yourself, Pitt,” Sep argued. “Now get your clothes back on. Face the consequences.”

  “You have no authority. I demand to speak to the City of London police. They can put me in touch with the Serious Fraud Squad.”

  “They wouldn’t give you the time of day,” the financier insisted.

  The detectives pounced on him and there was a struggle. Gripping Pitt’s arms, they dragged him off the rickety bed, which clattered on its side. They managed to drag him over the floor, banging his spine, until pushing him up against a wall. As Muldrow or Oblomov put a huge mitt around his windpipe, the other one forcefully clothed him. It was like having a pair of brutal male nannies; as if Pitt could only recruit a dresser from Brixton prison.

  Meanwhile Winchurch observed proceedings, until he revealed a neat little silver pistol, female in its concision. But he managed to squeeze a finger on the trigger, and he began to wave the gun about self-consciously. Toting small arms was different to handling a shotgun on a grouse shoot. He perspired, flourishing it around, like an incompetent music conductor during a difficult passage, hoping everybody would catch up with his gestures.

  “How could you allow them to hurt Pixie?” Clive remonstrated. “Are you so spineless? You’re complicit. You’ll be held responsible.”

  “You can say goodbye to Pixie Wright. You’ll never hear her voice again or look into her eyes... nor fall into her soft embrace. From now on you’ll be enjoying the careful attentions of my detectives. You’ll be looking into their eyes instead... feeling the caress of their hands on your body,” Sep remarked. “You’ll never experience her love again.”

  Clive felt cramps and pains where Di Visu’s thugs had already worked him over. There was a burning effect in his throat and lungs, from the water.

  Sir Septimus cast a satirical eye over him, before signalling for the prisoner to be dragged away.

  It was a relief to escape the terrible nightmares of the past night, or week or month - whatever period of time had elapsed. He was glad to leave that ‘spare bedroom’, even under threat, slick with water and sweat. He exited with a gruesome henchman on either side; not to mention the narrow aperture of an elegant pistol at the base of his skull. Like God’s forefinger touching Adam.

  Douglas Breadham was nowhere to be seen - maybe he’d left for work - as Pitt was hauled like a dead dog across the financial lawyer’s luxurious living room.

  43

  Outside in the street - regardless of some passers-by - Clive was bundled into the back seat of a company BMW. This vehicle was used for ferrying visitors to and from the airport and between meetings. He was squeezed between that pair of lumpy and malodorous detectives, with Sep back in the driver’s seat, perched on his tartan cushion. All he saw of Winchurch was a patch of wavy silver hair that poked under a head rest.

  The automobile’s cream upholstery was gentle on bruises, and created an insulated atmosphere, although the compartment was even more claustrophobic.

  Sep roared out of the cobbled lane, heading back towards town. Apparently it was very early in the morning, as the sky was pitch black. The passing streets were practically deserted. Only buses and a scattering of other traffic circulated. Clive hadn’t often travelled through these London streets at such an early hour: only during the intense period of the BIP flotation; when he would be coming and going from the office virtually around the clock. They rode the markets night and day, as if they span against the globe, or someone had designed a programme to banish nature.

  Pitt’s incredulity had increased - disbelief turning to anger - as he had scrutinised the ZNT proposals in detail, examined all proposals for the takeover, with Sep’s notes and endorsements added, so that his initial enthusiasm completely guttered. After that every trip to the office had involved a violent inner conflict. He had turned his attention to the frauds, numerous massive illegalities, with a feeling of outrage, which could be blamed on his father’s infuriating small-town integrity.

  “Where are we headed?” Clive asked. “Planning on dumping me somewhere?” He’d endured a lengthy silence, with London’s grand architectural parade gliding past on both sides.

  “Glad you are still curious about your fate. Thought you were nodding off back there,” Winchurch replied. “Must have been exhausting for you.”

  “What’s next?” Clive persisted.

  “I’m the kind of chap who likes to get things done. You know that. Sometimes rules are there to be ignored. It’s like having a moral accountant. Creative justice, of the mind, so to speak. I’m a City man to the bone and l enjoy paying people back in kind. There’s still something of the old gent’ in me, Pitt. Yet while we may be involved with numerous charities, many worthy causes, we are certainly not one. Don’t you think that shows generosity of spirit?”

  Pitt made a lunge at his former employer. Finding his hands free he thrust them around the headrest. His fingers sank into bristly skin and rough sinew.

  Yet despite squeezing as forcefully as possible (until the veins and bones of his own neck bulged) no noise issued from the front, where his old boss was presumably being strangled. The car over-revved a touch, but didn’t even lurch or change direction; just cruised in the same line. Such was the determination, the self-control and resilience of the financier. After all, his direct ancestor had bargained loans and bonds with Lord Liverpool (not known for his compassionate heart) and with many of the crowned heads of Europe.

  Soon the crude detectives, in a state of alarm and panic, struggled to unlock Clive’s grasp. They made expert thrusts to the vulnerable areas of his anatomy. Within seconds Clive was safely back within their grasp, squashed back into the seat, like a schoolboy who had tried to flee on a museum trip.

  Finally choking noises gathered at the front. Despite his toughness Winchurch was not immune to physical pain and damage. Although remaining calm and in control he’d been half throttled by his errant employee.

  “Was that a desperate attempt..?” Sep enquired hoarsely. Then there was the explosion of a cough. “Is that your final word?” The broken pieces of his voice box began to reassemble. “Any more excuses?” The timbre of his voice had been damaged.

  “You’re going to bump me off, aren’t you!”

  “Don’t go jumping to obvious conclusions,” Sep retorted.

  “What else can you do?”

  “I could decide to retain you. Who can tell my plans?”

  “You’re having a laugh, aren’t you? How can you keep me on, after all this?”

  There was no immediate response. They listened to the rest
ful ticking of the indicator as Winchurch turned his BMW into the Strand.

  Sep tuned into a financial news programme on the radio. Not that he was paying much attention to the analysis - the volume was soft - but he required reassuring habit. Between revenge and anger there was a jangling of nerves; silent perhaps but felt as violently in his limbs as feedback guitar.

  Those grand buildings continued to slip sombrely around them. Traffic increased as morning drew on. The city shook off its relative slumber as the conventional working day commenced. Opposing red and white car lights gathered at junctions, like clogging spores: before they were released to circulate, as if dislodged by a gust. Pitt wished he was back as an independent agent, walking over those pavements that unravelled beyond the car’s windows. There was a young tramp going through spilling rubbish bins he noticed. Even social isolation was better than being trapped in this company.

  “What a vicious and ungrateful chap you have been,” Sep remarked.

  “As you like,” Pitt retorted.

  “I’m making you a new job offer. Are you turning me down?”

  Clive made a contemptuous noise.

  “Admittedly it isn’t as attractive as your previous job,” Sep confirmed.

  “Stop piking me.”

  “I’m deadly serious about this, Pitt. We’ll offer you a contract.”

  “I joined the firm ten years ago, it has to be now,” Pitt recalled. “Full of hope and expectation...yes, and ambition too...youthful energy...maybe a bit of greed, who can deny it? Starting off in a great career at Winchurch Brothers...the pride and fear of my family. And how did you reward me in the end?”

  “You didn’t keep your bond of trust,” tolled his employer’s voice.

  “Do you think that was easy for me? To consider turning whistle-blower?”

  “You’re going to stick with us through thick and thin. How do you think it was for us? It’ll be just like the good old days of tight regulation. When we could play by gentlemen’s rules,” he said teasingly.

  “Now we’re the servants of criminals,” Clive said.

  Sep jeered. “You’re still satisfied with your performance? Even as head of that team, you were never indispensable. But you can redeem yourself. Even after being dismissed you can find a new place... there’s unfinished business.”

  “You can say that again, mate,” Clive replied, shuffling his bones.

  “Quite correct, so let’s concentrate on terms and conditions. You made a dossier about the BIP deal, about ZNT...even my involvement.”

  “Do you think that gave me any pleasure?” Clive replied.

  “Fair enough... you don’t know where your memory files may be stored right now.” Septimus concentrated on a turning. He emitted a groan as he relaxed into the next street. “You don’t have any clue what you did with them...even encouraged by Viktor’s staff...to bring them back. Viktor tried every technique available to him. Were you going to inform the police, or were you plotting to blackmail me?”

  “The plan was to hand everything over to the authorities,” Clive insisted.

  “So you’re not a blackmailer?” Winchurch considered.

  “Did you think I could be?”

  “I have a duty of care towards Winchurch Brothers. The way I structure this company, steer through the present climate... to secure our future financial health... my management style is designed to benefit everybody... as well as the board and shareholders. Everything I do is for this company and for my family,” Sep insisted warmly.

  “Even when you’re ignoring the law,” Pitt argued, stubbornly.

  Sep continued to navigate the streets smoothly and to keep his eyes on the road.

  “Do you think that I approve of everything our clients do? Of all the individuals we deal with here, in all their colourful variety?” the financier challenged. “Didn’t you learn to hold your nose, Pitt, from time to time...for the good of the company? Even for the good of UK plc.?”

  “You put me into a terrible position, by asking me to break the law,” Clive objected. “Then to cover everything up. Or to pretend not to notice.”

  “You’re not remiss to say that ZNT practices were not legal...or transparent. Viktor has his own management style... with an international, if nationalist outlook. Exposure would have ruined my reputation, harmed us on the markets. I might have been forced to resign.”

  “For a time the company had tanked. You faced bankruptcy,” Clive insisted.

  “Did you really think you could disgrace me? Bring down such an influential figure? No, this was a little indiscretion among powerful friends. No, I had the Chancellor’s ear...GQ’s young politician of the year no less. It is you who is the diseased cell, Pitt, which has to be eradicated.”

  “This new job definitely sounds less attractive,” Pitt remarked.

  “Ah, you need to read the small print.”

  “You would have faced a fraud squad investigation, a parliamentary committee, a public enquiry. Not to mention those reporters and photographers waiting for you outside the Old Bailey.”

  “The establishment of this country doesn’t want to upset us. Not even after we overreached ourselves last time. They don’t know how to put the international house in order. You can see that Pitt, the world economy needs to breathe, but it has to be strangled too. They’re too afraid we’ll unplug our algorithms and relocate to a small duchy... sacking our UK labour force, stop paying any UK taxes and dividends - such as they are - as a consequence,” Winchurch mocked.

  “We’re supposed to serve the nation...raise finance to boost business expansion...to help produce a successful economy. Aren’t we?”

  The financier guffawed. “Is that what your old Dad used to tell you, Pitt? When he was listening to some Halifax social worker, deciding whether to offer him a loan for a new patio... or not?”

  “They’ll put us bankers in our place one day,” Pitt vowed.

  “Not very likely, as we always had these politicians by the short and curlies. What’s a small City player like you going to do, anyway? You tried to take us on. Did you get to the top of your profession? Our transactions bankroll the public sector... the entire UK welfare state, actually. We deliver twelve billion in tax, in return for a light touch. We’re the electricity for Frankenstein. The British government knows that. We are the chaps keeping our ignorant thugs off the street... bankrolling single mothers’ clubs, leisure centres...and drug addict drop-in centres.”

  “We’ve been an extra tax on the economy,” Pitt argued. “We’re basically skimming off the profits to...to do what? Hand out bonuses to ourselves, inflate our salaries, and to enrich a select group of robber barons!”

  “Nonsense, Pitt, they know who’s buttering their bread... keeping their society from breaking down altogether...these socialist or social liberal types. Do they want complete honesty and transparency? Or do they want a percentage?”

  “Are you serious, Winchurch? Half of the business is about avoiding taxes,” Clive said.

  “If only you had the same dedication to your job... your former job. You could have continued to live the life, couldn’t you? ...to enjoy spending it all,” Winchurch argued. “Didn’t you enjoy putting on the style? You could have stayed inside the bubble, rather than trying to pop it... hiding out in Clerkenwell...conducting your investigations into my affairs...running your little office there... like some kind of financial Mickey Spillane. But where is your damning evidence now, Pitt? Where did all your work get you, exactly?” he taunted.

  “The location of my evidence...remains obscure,” Clive admitted.

  “You’re absent minded, aren’t you? Now you’ve lost your records. In fact you’ve lost everything, haven’t you, Pitt,” he laughed. “While you were labouring to destroy me, to blow apart the deal, you actually ruined your own career.”

&nb
sp; “But I don’t regret it. I know that this report existed...I note your determination to retrieve the evidence contained,” Clive noted.

  “Do you, actually?”

  “That would totally vindicate my accusations, you tricky little fraudster!”

  “I will not tolerate you prying into private and company affairs. You broke the trust and loyalty we placed in you. You betrayed us. Ruining our reputation! Not only is it dishonest and disgraceful, it is loathsome.”

  “Whatever you say,” Pitt told him.

  “Luckily we caught you red handed. There was also an attempted break-in at Viktor Di Visu’s house near Regent’s Park.”

  “Are you saying I tried to break into his place?”

  “Do you remember his marvellous house? A burglary narrowly foiled by his returning early from the Lord Mayor’s banquet last year... incidentally.”

  “What a relief for the nation,” Clive remarked.

  “I would have sacked you years ago,” Winchurch declared. The temper rose in his voice, although he kept control. “At least I don’t have to throw myself at the arcane mercies of that haunted house,” he remarked. He was referring to the Old Bailey, the law courts, which they had then driven past.

  “You could have distanced yourself from ZNT,” Clive suggested.

  “Allowed myself to be screwed, do you mean?”

  “We could have recommended a rejection. On the basis of the company being undervalued, of improper governance ... we might have stopped the fraud and pitched for another buyer.”

  “No Pitt, you reached your limits, you lost your nerve. You fell back on your bloody-minded provincial ethics. You developed a vendetta against the company. Against me. You even transformed yourself into an Occupy style campaigner, didn’t you? Nothing would get done here, with ninnies like you.”

  “You can’t see how Viktor has played this?” Clive commented.

  “You would like to have a gram of the talent he has.”

  “He’s a destroyer of the world,” Clive replied.