Free to Trade

by Michael Ridpath

  There were already three empty bottles of Bollinger on the table. The unwinding process had begun. Cash introduced me to everyone. I attracted one or two suspicious glances. Traders are just as wary of their ‘customers’ as their customers are of them. But everyone was having a good time and they weren’t going to let me spoil it. Cash’s backslapping welcome was returned. Joe was greeted with a nod.

  Luckily I was not let loose in the middle of this pack alone. Cash sat me at one end of the table, and sat himself firmly next to me. I was grateful for the protection. As the traders screamed across the table at each other I leant over to Cash.

  ‘Do you often drink with these guys?’

  ‘Once in a while,’ he said. ‘It’s just as important to keep the traders sweet as the customers.’

  I sipped my champagne. ‘What was that in the cab?’ I asked.

  ‘That was typical Joe,’ said Cash, taking a large gulp from his glass. ‘He is weird. Seriously weird. It’s best to keep out of his way when he gets like that.’

  ‘So I can imagine,’ I said. ‘He’s not like that at work, is he?’

  ‘I don’t think he has ever actually injured anyone at work yet,’ said Cash. ‘Apart from himself, that is.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, I remember once he was long twenty million ten-year euros. He was under water, but the treasury market was ticking up. He had spent an hour or so staring at the Telerate screen waiting for the market to reach his ownership level so he could get out flat. Then his screen froze. There was some problem with the terminal connection. I was watching him. He didn’t shout or scream or anything. There was no reaction at all on his face. He stood up and slammed his fist into the screen. He cut his wrist quite badly. He just picked up the phone, sold his position at a loss, and walked out. Blood was pouring from his hand but he didn’t seem to care.

  ‘The story is he used to be in the army. The SAS, so they say,’ Cash continued. ‘Then one day he shot an unarmed sixteen-year-old boy in Northern Ireland. There wasn’t enough evidence to show conclusively that he knew the boy was unarmed. But he left the army soon afterwards.’

  ‘How did he end up working for Bloomfield Weiss?’

  ‘Oh, he was hired by an ex-US marine, who thought he recognised a kindred spirit. He’s been with us four or five years now.’

  ‘Is he any good?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh yeah, he’s good. Very good. The best on the Street. No one likes him but they have to put up with him. He has a very sharp brain and a good nose for value. But I try and keep him away from customers.’

  ‘Apart from me?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, sorry about that.’ Cash swallowed some of his beer. He leaned forward. ‘So, you said you wanted to talk to me urgently. What do you want to talk about?’

  I told Cash about my discussion with Bowen, the Bloomfield Weiss compliance officer.

  Cash listened carefully. When I had finished, he whistled through his teeth. ‘You’d better be careful. That Bowen is an officious bastard. He won’t let things drop easily.’

  ‘What do you know about all this, Cash?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, nothing,’ he said, as innocently as a schoolboy caught with a packet of cigarettes in his jacket pocket.

  ‘Oh come on, you must know something,’ I persisted. ‘Who were you buying all those bonds for? It wasn’t DGB was it? It must have been someone else.’

  ‘Now, Paul. You know I can’t tell you that.’

  ‘Bullshit. Of course you can tell me. This is serious. Do you know who bought those Gypsum shares before the takeover was announced?’

  ‘Gee, Paul, I’d really like to help you,’ said Cash, still the sweet innocent. ‘But you know how it is. I don’t know anything about the share price going up. I don’t even know who we were buying the bonds for. Another salesman was talking to the other side of the trade.’

  I gave up. Cash was a professional liar. He lied day in, day out, and he was paid a lot of money for it. He was not going to give in, I could see that. I had no idea whether he was just hiding the identity of the buyer of the Gypsum bonds or whether he was doing more than that.

  We sat in silence, watching the group around us. People were more relaxed now. The discussion had moved away from bonds and on to women and office gossip.

  Joe unsteadily got to his feet, and came over to sit by Cash and me. Although I wanted to talk to him, his presence next to me made me nervous. He was unpredictable and dangerous.

  ‘So, are you enjoying yourself?’ he asked, his dead eyes locked on my face. He was clearly drunk. His delivery wasn’t slurred, but overly slow and deliberate.

  ‘Oh, it’s nice to see my adversaries in the flesh,’ I said lamely.

  Joe never removed his eyes from my face as he took a long slow swig from his champagne glass. Oh Christ, I thought, he has recognised me.

  Cash did his best to break the tension. ‘Paul used to be an Olympic runner, you know,’ he said. ‘You remember Paul Murray? The eight hundred metres? He won a bronze medal a few years ago.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ said Joe, still staring at me. ‘I thought I recognised the face. I am a keen runner myself. Do you still keep fit?’

  ‘Not really,’ I said. ‘I still run a bit, but for relaxation rather than fitness.’

  ‘We should race sometime,’ said Joe flatly.

  I wasn’t sure how to respond to this. Joe’s eyes hadn’t moved from my face since he sat down. It was making me very uncomfortable. I suppose he must have blinked, but I hadn’t noticed it if he had.

  I looked around the room, trying to throw his gaze, but it didn’t work.

  ‘So you work for De Jong?’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hamilton McKenzie is a bastard, isn’t he?’

  I laughed, trying to keep the tone conversational. ‘He may seem that way, but actually he is a very good boss. And he’s an excellent portfolio manager.’

  ‘No he’s not. He’s a spiv. And a bastard.’

  There didn’t seem much I could say to that.

  ‘That tart Debbie used to work for you, didn’t she?’

  I didn’t say anything. Joe continued. ‘I hear she fell in the river the other day. Tragic that.’ All this was delivered in a slow matter-of-fact way that gave his last comment an unpleasant irony, which I pretended to ignore.

  ‘Yes, it was,’ I said. ‘A terrible tragedy.’

  ‘Did you fuck her?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ I fought hard, and succeeded in controlling my anger. I held his stare and returned it.

  ‘Didn’t you? That’s funny, everyone else did,’ said Joe, a thin smile curled on his lips. ‘She was a popular girl, that Debbie. She was always begging for it. I fucked her myself a few times. Slut.’ He smiled a bit more.

  There was silence round the table. All eyes were on me. I knew he was goading me, spoiling for a fight. But I was angry.

  Slowly, I stood up. He just looked up at me, that thin smile still on his lips.

  Then Cash jostled into me. ‘Hey, come on, Paul. You told me you wanted to get an early night. Let’s share a cab.’

  I knew he was right. I let him push me out of the bar.

  ‘Man, let me tell you, the last thing you want to do with that guy is get into a fight,’ Cash said as we climbed into a passing taxi. ‘Look at it this way. He wanted to pick a fight with you and he didn’t succeed.’

  ‘Scum,’ I said. ‘That man is scum.’ I sat in the cab fuming. Acting over in my mind the things I would have done to him in the Biarritz if Cash hadn’t stopped me.

  After a couple of minutes, I asked Cash. ‘Is it true what he said about him and Debbie?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know. I think he was seeing her for a few weeks a year or two ago. But I think she told him where to get off. Maybe that’s why he is still sore at her.’ Cash touched my arm. ‘Look, forget what he said. She was a good kid.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said as the cab drew up outside my flat. ‘Yeah.’
/>   7

  I was still furious the next day. I had seen that bastard at the scene of Debbie’s death. He was obviously the violent boyfriend Felicity had referred to. The one who had ordered Debbie around and who had beaten her when she had confronted him about his marriage.

  The more I thought about it, the more annoyed I was that I had walked out the night before without hitting him. I resolved to go round to his house that night and find out what had really happened. I knew it was stupid, but I was determined to do it.

  I called Cash for Joe’s address. He didn’t want to give it to me, but I insisted. I waited until seven o’clock, by which time I judged Joe would be home, and set off for the Wandsworth address.

  He lived in a cul-de-sac. The small road was lined with large red Edwardian houses, the dwellings of middle-ranking bankers at the turn of the century.

  It had been a hot day, and the air was still stifling. It was very quiet in the little road. The houses were not in good repair, windows were smudged and dusty and some were cracked, paint peeled from doors and sills. Most had been converted into flats for single people or unmarried couples commuting into the City. I was startled by something small and lithe darting between some dustbins. A cat? An urban fox?

  I began to feel uneasy. I had no idea what Joe’s reaction to me would be when I met him. All I knew about him was that he was unpredictable, and sometimes violent. All day the words I would use to confront him had been running through my mind; suddenly they had lost their conviction. I stopped in the middle of the silent street. Then I saw Debbie leaning back at her desk, the Mail spread out in front of her, her eyes shining and her broad grin teasing me. The anger welled up in me again.

  I strode up the road. Joe’s house was at the end. Tall, thin and red, it stood alone, decorated with two miniature Victorian-Gothic turrets. I walked up the short drive, and was immediately hidden from the street by a cluster of large rhododendron bushes, their shiny dark green leaves providing some shade.

  I could hear the muffled sounds of a baby crying, probably from the back of the house. I rang the doorbell. No reply. The baby had heard, though, and put new force into its screams. Hoarse and angry, they cut through the stifling silence of the close.

  Had Joe left his child to scream alone in the house? Possible, but what about his wife? I picked my way through the beds in front of the house to look in the windows. I saw a large kitchen with the debris of a half-prepared meal all over the counter. On the floor were scattered pieces of chopped onion, and a kitchen knife. Some mincemeat bubbled over the edge of a frying pan on the cooker, dripping meat and grease on to the gas flame.

  I moved on to the next window. There she was, huddled up on a sofa in the living room, a woman sobbing silently. Her knees were pulled up to her chin, and I couldn’t see her face, but her shoulders were shaking unevenly.

  I knocked on the window. No response from the body on the sofa. I knocked again, hard, rattling the glass. A thin, tear-stained face looked up between damp wisps of light brown hair. Her eyes struggled to focus on me, and then she let her head flop back on to the cushions.

  I saw some french windows at the back of the room, opening out on to a small garden. I walked round the side of the house and climbed over a locked side gate into the garden.

  I stood at the threshold of the french windows, the evening sun streaming over my shoulder into the prettily decorated sitting room. I could just see the woman’s sandalled feet from where I stood. The baby had shut up for a moment, no doubt listening for more signs of adult life. I could hear the woman sobbing, deeply, quietly. I coughed. ‘Hallo?’

  No reply. She must have heard, but she was ignoring me.

  I moved round to the front of the sofa. ‘Are you all right?’ I said, touching her gently on the shoulder.

  She pulled herself up awkwardly, so she was sitting upright on the sofa, her arms still wrapped round her knees. She took some deep breaths and the sobbing stopped. ‘Who the hell are you?’

  She had a thin face that was pretty but pale and washed out. It was a face that had felt tears many times before. Now they streaked her cheeks, running in thin rivulets from her red, puffed-up eyes down to her quivering lips. As she rocked backwards and forwards, I could see that one hand was grasping her upper arm, and the other her ribs. She was in pain.

  ‘My name is Paul Murray. Can I get you a cup of tea?’

  She looked at me doubtfully, clearly weighing up whether to tell me to go to hell. In the end she nodded.

  I went into the kitchen, turned off the mince, and put on the electric kettle. The baby was silent. It must have finally gone to sleep. I stayed in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil. I didn’t hear anything from the woman.

  I found a tea-bag, threw it in a mug, poured boiling water over it, added some milk from the fridge, fished out the bag and took the tea through.

  I handed it to her. ‘Sugar?’

  She looked at me, not seeming to hear what I had said, and then reached up for the mug. She winced as she stretched upwards. I sat down in the armchair opposite.

  ‘Are you hurt?’

  She didn’t answer, just hunched over her tea.

  I was quiet for a minute or so. ‘Shall I call a doctor?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Are you sure? That rib might be broken.’ I got up to move to the phone by the desk.

  ‘No.’ Her voice was suddenly clear. ‘No,’ she said again, this time in a whisper. ‘Please.’

  I left it and sat down again. I made my voice as quiet and comforting as I could. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Sally. Sally Finlay.’

  ‘Did Joe do this?’

  Sally didn’t answer, but her shoulders began to shake, and she let out another deep sob.

  I walked over to her and touched her shoulder. I could feel her relax just slightly.

  ‘Where has he gone?’

  She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. ‘To the off-licence. To get some beer. He always likes to drink after …’ Her voice trailed off.

  I felt useless standing there. I lifted my hand off her shoulder.

  ‘Stay,’ she said, looking up at me, pleading. She attempted a smile but her lower lip shook too much.

  So I just stood there, not saying anything, my hand resting on her shoulder, waiting for Joe.

  I wanted to leave. Common sense told me to go. But I couldn’t bring myself to abandon Sally to Joe. I had to stand there and wait for him. And I had no idea what I would do when he came.

  So we waited, Sally’s hand pressing mine on to her shoulder, determined not to let me go, both of us listening to the tick of a clock in the hall and the birds squabbling in the garden.

  I was just about to pull myself free from her and leave when I heard the quick crunch of hurried footsteps on the path outside. A pause. The rattle and click of a key in the front-door lock. The squeak of the hinges as the door opened and the muffled crash as it shut. Light footsteps in the hallway.

  I stood watching the open door. Beneath my hand Sally tensed up and then went absolutely still.

  He was surprised to see me but only for the barest of moments. His eyes flicked quickly from my face to Sally’s and then rested again on mine. A cold, unmoving, lifeless stare.

  Sally’s hand fell away from mine, and her eyes dropped to the floor.

  Joe smiled his thin smile. ‘I see we have a guest. Can I get you a beer? Let me put these in the fridge.’ He showed me the six-pack in his hand and disappeared into the kitchen.

  Sally and I waited, motionless.

  He was back in an instant with a knife. It was the one that had fallen to the floor in the kitchen. It was small, but I could see it was sharp. Two cubes of onion clung to the lower edge of the blade.

  ‘Why don’t you go up to bed, darling? You look tired,’ he said.

  Sally stood up shaking, threw me a glance which mixed fear with pity, and slunk out of the room into the hall. I heard her feet tapping quickly up the
stairs.

  Joe had a knife, and he probably intended to use it. I couldn’t kid myself that I could protect his wife, and this wasn’t the time to ask difficult questions.

  Stay calm and get out.

  Joe blocked my path to the french windows. My eyes flickered over his shoulder. Three strides would take me to the hallway. I took two of them, but Joe had seen my eyes move. I stopped my headlong dive for the door just in time to avoid impaling myself on his knife.

  Joe slowly waved the knife in front of me, forcing me to back up into the corner. The sun flooded into the room, bathing Joe’s face in a yellow light. His eyes narrowed, and the pupils shrunk to tiny black pinpricks. The knife flashed white in the sun.

  The clamour of the blackbirds’ furious evening chorus rang in my ears from the garden. I could feel the fabric of my heavy white cotton shirt, sticky under my suit jacket. A bookcase jutted into the back of my legs. And my eyes kept following the knife.

  Dive for his knife hand. It’s only a small knife, it wouldn’t hurt much if it grazed me, would it? Unbalance him and then run. Fast.

  His wiry frame was perfectly weighted on the balls of both feet. The knife was held loosely in his right hand. Relaxed, but ready to move in an instant. Joe knew how to fight with a knife.

  I looked at Joe’s eyes. He’s daring me. He wants me to jump him.

  So, I let my hands flop down by my sides. ‘Just let me go,’ I said in as reasonable a voice as I could muster. ‘I won’t tell anyone about Sally.’

  ‘You annoy me, Murray,’ hissed Joe. ‘Why did you come here anyway?’

  ‘To talk to you about Debbie’s death,’ I said.

  ‘And what should I know about that?’

  ‘I was with her when you walked past her on the boat. The night she died.’

  Joe chuckled. ‘I thought I recognised you. So you think I killed her, don’t you? Well, if you want to know whether I killed her, ask me.’ He was smiling now. Enjoying himself.