‘The bonds looked good value,’ I started, but Hamilton held up his hand.
‘Not the bonds, the shares,’ he said. ‘You bought the shares of Gypsum Company of America days before it was taken over.’
Alarm bells started ringing. Why would he ask me about that? He’s talking about insider trading, I thought. But I hadn’t done anything wrong. I was sure I hadn’t. Well, pretty sure.
‘Yes, that’s correct. But I didn’t have any information that the company was going to be taken over. I was just lucky, that’s all. And so was Debbie,’ I said before I could stop myself. Exactly how lucky had she been?
‘Well there are some people who think you did have inside information.’
‘That’s absolutely not the case,’ I said.
Hamilton looked at me for a few seconds. I held the gaze of his piercing blue eyes. I was telling the truth and I wanted him to know it. Finally, he nodded. ‘Well, I’m sure you are right. But it’s not me you have to convince. There are two men here from the TSA who would like to ask you a few questions. Would you like me to be present?’
This was extraordinary! Ridiculous. Crazy. I didn’t yet feel scared. Shocked, yes. And bewildered. But I was glad the men were here to interview me. With luck, I would be able to sort it out, there and then.
‘Yes, please,’ I said quietly.
Hamilton left the room to collect the two men from reception. I looked around the conference room. It was a lonely room. All internal walls, no windows. Expensive-looking but characterless reproduction furniture. Idiotic clippers sailing nowhere across the walls. White crisp note-pads and sharp yellow pencils on the table. Yes, it would serve as an interrogation room.
Hamilton returned, followed by the two officials. I supposed they must have been waiting there when I came in, but I hadn’t noticed them. Although it was early September and it hadn’t rained for days, they both carried fawn raincoats over their arms. They unburdened themselves of these, and their briefcases, took out their own pads of paper and sat down opposite me. Hamilton sat at the head of the table between us. I wished he had positioned himself right next to me. The three feet between us seemed a long way.
One of the men began to talk. He was mostly bald, the dark hair that remained was cropped close to his skull. He had a prominent nose and chin, but there was very little distance between the two features, giving his face an unpleasant squashed look. He wore black-rimmed glasses with very thick frames. He must be almost blind, I thought. The corners of his thin mouth turned up as he introduced himself. ‘Good morning, Mr Murray. My name is David Berryman, I work for the Securities Association. This is my colleague Rodney Short.’ The other man, grey-haired and timorous, nodded. That was the closest I would get to communicating with him. He was there to keep quiet and write everything down.
I knew all about the Securities Association, commonly known as the TSA; I had recently sat an examination to become a member. It was one of a number of self-regulatory organisations that had been set up following ‘Big Bang’, to police the City. It promulgated dozens of rules and had its own staff to ensure that they were complied with. It had the power to fine or expel members. In cases where criminal charges could be brought, then the TSA would hand over its investigation to the Fraud Squad or the Serious Fraud Office.
‘Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?’ Berryman began.
‘No,’ I said, my voice suddenly hoarse. Berryman strained to hear. Pull yourself together, I said to myself. I mustn’t look nervous, after all, I had done nothing wrong. ‘No,’ I repeated loudly, too loudly to be natural.
There was a pause as Berryman looked at me through those big lenses. I smiled a helpful, friendly smile. ‘I will tell you anything you like.’ My smile was not returned as Berryman fumbled through his notes. His sidekick, Short, was already writing furiously. What, I had no idea.
The questions began. ‘Your name?’
‘Paul Murray.’
‘Are you employed by De Jong & Co.?’
‘Yes.’
‘For how long have you been in their employ?’
‘Nearly a year.’
‘In what capacity?’
‘Portfolio manager.’
These questions came quickly, and I answered them quickly and clearly.
‘Did you, on the sixteenth of July last, purchase Gypsum of America bonds to the value of two million dollars on behalf of De Jong & Co.?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘And did you on the same date buy a thousand shares of Gypsum of America common stock for your own account?’
‘Yes.’
‘You will be aware that later that day the share price of Gypsum of America rose from seven dollars to eleven and a quarter dollars. Within a few days an offer to acquire Gypsum of America was announced. Did you have any knowledge that this offer was pending?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Then why did you buy the bonds and the shares?’
I knew my answer to this question was important. I leant across the desk and tried to look Berryman in the eye. It was difficult with those bloody lenses.
‘Bloomfield Weiss had offered to buy a small position of Gypsums which De Jong had held for a while. I did some research on the company, and it seemed to me that a takeover was a distinct possibility. The company had been badly run, and the previous chief executive had died recently. He had always blocked a takeover in the past.’
‘I see.’ Berryman tapped his chin with a biro, and thought for a moment. ‘There was nothing else that made you suspect a takeover was imminent. What you have told me seems precious little on which to risk De Jong’s capital, let alone your own.’
‘Well…’ I started, and then cut myself off.
‘Yes?’ Berryman raised his eyebrows so they were just showing above his spectacles.
I had to finish. ‘I was suspicious that Bloomfield Weiss knew something. It seemed odd to me that they were willing to pay such a high price for the bonds, all of a sudden.’
‘Who was it at Bloomfield Weiss who expressed interest in the bonds?’
‘Cash Callaghan, one of their salesmen.’
‘I see. And Mr Callaghan gave no indication that the company was about to be taken over.’
‘No, he didn’t. But then he wouldn’t, would he? Not if he wanted to buy the bonds from me cheaply?’
‘Are you suggesting that Mr Callaghan knew about the proposed takeover?’
I hesitated here. For a moment, I thought this could be the chance I had been looking for to nail Cash. But only for a moment. I was on dangerous ground; I had better play it straight. But Berryman had noticed my hesitation, no doubt he was putting his own interpretation on it.
‘No, I’m not. I have no idea what Cash knew or didn’t know. I am merely saying that, at the time, I suspected that he might.’
Berryman didn’t believe me. I could tell he didn’t. In a way I wished he would come right out and say it, give me a chance to convince him of my innocence. I thought of launching into an impassioned plea to be believed, but I held back. It would probably just make things worse.
‘This is an important question, Mr Murray.’ Berryman leant forward. ‘Did you discuss with Mr Callaghan the possibility of buying shares in Gypsum of America for your own account?’
‘No, I did not,’ I said firmly.
‘Are you quite sure?’
‘Absolutely sure.’ I wondered where Berryman had got this idea from. Perhaps Cash had been trading on inside information himself. Perhaps he had claimed that he had tipped me off. I didn’t know.
The corners of Berryman’s mouth twitched upwards again. He seemed very satisfied with my response. I felt as though I had fallen into a trap, but I couldn’t for the life of me work out what the trap was.
Berryman continued. ‘Did you call the compliance officer at Bloomfield Weiss shortly after the takeover was announced?’
My heart sank. Berryman saw this. ‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Why did you d
o that?’
‘Our compliance officer here was a girl named Debbie Chater. She died recently. When I was clearing up her desk, I found a note to her from Bloomfield Weiss about an investigation into the Gypsum of America share price movements. It asked for her to give them a ring. I called the man at Bloomfield Weiss, a Mr Bowen I think it was, to see if I could help.’
‘I see.’ Berryman rummaged through his notes. ‘You told Mr Bowen that Miss Chater had informed you about the Gypsum investigation.’
‘No. Not at all. Well, I mean …’ Christ, what had I said? ‘I think I said that we had been working on Gypsum together, which we had, in a manner of speaking.’
‘Hmm. Mr Bowen is of the opinion that you had discovered that Miss Chater had tipped him off about her suspicions about the movements in the Gypsum share price, and you rang him to try to find out how the investigation into yourself, Callaghan and others was going.’
‘That’s just not true.’
‘It’s convenient that Miss Chater died just then, isn’t it?’ Berryman went on, his tone wheedling.
I exploded. For the last ten minutes I had become confused and afraid, not sure exactly what they thought I had done, or even really sure whether what I had actually done was right or wrong. I had been on the defensive, reeling from one veiled accusation to another. But this last insinuation went one step too far. I wasn’t exactly sure who had killed Debbie, but I knew for sure it wasn’t me.
‘I don’t have to take all this crap. Just because you don’t have a clue what happened, you can’t throw allegations around at random, hoping one will stick. Debbie was a good friend of mine. I didn’t kill her, and you have no grounds for thinking I did. If you think I did, let’s go to the police and discuss it. If you don’t, then shut up.’
Berryman was taken aback by my outburst. He opened his mouth to say something, and then thought better of it. He turned to Hamilton, who had been watching all this impassively.
‘Do you mind if I ask you a question or two?’
‘I will answer questions of fact, not unsubstantiated allegations.’ Hamilton’s voice was reasonable but firm. Berryman shrank.
‘Was Murray authorised to purchase the Gypsum bonds?’
‘Of course he was,’ Hamilton replied. ‘He is authorised to trade for the firm.’
‘Did he receive specific authorisation to buy the bonds?’
‘No. I was in Japan at the time. But he didn’t need authorisation from me.’
‘When you returned, did you approve of the purchase?’
Hamilton paused. Berryman waited. Eventually Hamilton said, ‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Paul had a hunch that Gypsum of America would be taken over. In my view, he didn’t have enough information to back that hunch.’
‘But if Murray had known for certain that Gypsum was going to be taken over, then the trade would have seemed a good one?’
‘Yes, of course. A sure way to make money.’
‘In retrospect, doesn’t it seem likely that Murray did in fact know for certain that Gypsum was going to be taken over, and that is why he purchased the bonds?’
Hamilton stood up, ‘Now, Mr Berryman, I told you that I would not respond to unsubstantiated allegations. I think you had better leave.’
Berryman tidied up all his papers and put them in his briefcase. The other man, Short, scribbled on for a few seconds and did the same.
‘Thank you for your co-operation,’ Berryman said. ‘I should be grateful if you could send me copies of your own internal records of the bond and share purchases made by Mr Murray, and the tape of all Mr Murray’s telephone conversations on the sixteenth of July.’ All phone calls in trading rooms are taped, either to settle disputes on who said what, or, very occasionally, to assist the authorities in their inquiries.
Hamilton showed the two men to the lift. I sank back in my chair, shocked and confused. Berryman clearly thought he was on to something. What false trail he could have picked up, I didn’t know. Whatever it was, it didn’t look good for me.
Hamilton came back into the room. ‘Well?’ he said.
I sighed. ‘I bought the bonds and the shares because I guessed Gypsum was going to be taken over. I had no inside knowledge that it would be.’
Hamilton smiled. ‘OK, laddie, I believe you.’
I felt a surge of relief rush over me. It was good to know someone believed me. ‘It didn’t sound too good, did it?’ I said. I wasn’t at all sure how I had done, and I needed to know what Hamilton thought.
He stroked his beard. ‘They can’t prove anything yet, but they seem quite sure they have something on you. Look, why don’t you just tidy up your desk for the next few minutes and then go home. You are in no fit state to trade.’
I nodded thankfully, and did as Hamilton suggested. As soon as I got home, I put on my running kit and set off pounding round the park. I did two circuits, eight miles, pushing myself all the way. The pain in my legs and lungs tugged my mind away from the morning’s interview, and the steady emission of adrenalin into the bloodstream soothed my nerves.
As I lay soaking in a hot bath afterwards, the problem fell into perspective. I had done nothing wrong. I had no inside information. A successful prosecution was highly unlikely; the record of the financial regulators on that score was appalling. As long as De Jong continued to support me I would be all right, and Hamilton seemed firm on that score.
I had been in the bath for twenty minutes when the phone rang. It was difficult to summon up the energy to answer it, but eventually I did. It was Hamilton.
‘How are you, Paul?’
‘Oh, I’ve just been for a run and I feel much better.’
‘Good, good. I’ve just spoken to Berryman. I told him that it was important to De Jong and to you, that they should sort this problem out soon. Either you did something wrong and they can prove it, or you didn’t and they can stop pestering us. They said they should be in a position to let us know by the end of the week. So, why don’t you take the rest of the week off? You’ll be no good at a trading desk anyway with this hanging over you.’
‘OK,’ I said. ‘I’m glad they think they can clear it up so soon. I’ll see you next Monday.’
But as I hung up the phone, I felt uneasy. If they were confident of resolving the case by Friday, it seemed more likely that it was because they felt they were close to proving my guilt than because they were close to giving up.
I was pulling on my clothes, my spirits sinking again, when the phone rang once more.
It was my sister, Linda. ‘Now then, Paul, how’s life been keeping you?’ she said.
‘Fine, fine, and you?’ I replied, wondering what on earth she could be ringing about. We scarcely ever spoke to each other, and when we did, it was only because we were both with my mother at the same time. This was something Linda tried to avoid. I suppose we didn’t like each other. It wasn’t an active dislike. Like everything else it had its roots in my father’s death. Linda had felt it was my role to be the man of the house and had disapproved deeply when I had gone to Cambridge and then London. She herself lived only ten miles away, in the neighbouring dale. She had married a farmer, a big brute of a man whom I disliked intensely. She worshipped him, and compared me unfavourably to him at every opportunity. As I said, we didn’t talk much.
‘What’s up?’ I asked, wanting to get to the point ‘Is it something to do with Mum?’
‘Yes,’ Linda said. ‘Don’t worry, she’s not ill or anything. It’s her house. You know Lord Mablethorpe died a couple of months ago?’
‘Yes, Mum told me.’
‘Well, his son has told her she has got to get out.’
‘What? He can’t do that. Lord Mablethorpe promised her that house until she dies. His son knows that.’
‘There’s nothing on paper about that,’ Linda continued. ‘He says he can do what he likes. He says he has received a very attractive offer for it from a television producer who wants to use it
as a weekend cottage.’
‘What a bastard.’
‘Just what I said. I told our Jim to go round and give him what for, but he said that was your job.’
Typical of our Jim, I thought, but he had a point. ‘OK, I’ll see what I can do.’
I thought of getting in touch with the new Lord Mablethorpe in London, but decided it would probably be best to see him in his ancestral home. Maybe then he would think about his ancestral responsibilities.
I rang Helmby Hall. Fortunately Lord Mablethorpe was there all week, shooting grouse. I made an appointment to see him the next day, and rang my mother to tell her I would be staying the night. She sounded distressed, but was relieved I would be coming.
I set out on the long drive early. I successfully put the Gypsum investigation out of my mind. There was, after all, nothing I could do about it. Similarly my desire to unravel the mystery surrounding Debbie’s death and the Tremont Capital fraud had faded a little, or at any rate become less immediate. I was in a sort of limbo, and in a way I was grateful to this latest family problem for providing me with a distraction.
I arrived at my mother’s in time for a late lunch. Over the shepherd’s pie, she chattered on about her house and garden, about how it was so central in the village. She obviously was going to be very upset if she had to leave. I hoped I would be able to find her something else in Barthwaite. Without the considerate neighbours who knew and liked her, eccentricities and all, she would find life much more difficult.
It took just ten minutes to drive to Helmby Hall. An assortment of Range Rovers, Jaguars and Mercedes was drawn up outside, no doubt Lord Mablethorpe’s shooting guests. I parked my little Peugeot beside them, walked up to the huge front door, and rang the bell. A butler showed me into a study where I waited.
The study was a comfortable place, full of the day-to-day bits of paper and books that the old Lord Mablethorpe had needed. I remembered the several occasions when I had been in this room as a boy, watching my father and Lord Mablethorpe laughing by the fire. Lord Mablethorpe had a huge laugh. His red face would split into a big grin and his massive shoulders would heave up and down. His hands were as large and well worn as my father’s, as they cradled the whisky which he always broke out for these occasions. I checked the bookshelf behind me. Sure enough, a quarter-full decanter was propping up some old editions of Whitaker’s Almanack.
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