Amy-Lou nodded. Her office window faced south-east and light poured in behind her, hiding her face. She was pleased for the disguise, as tears trembled in her eyes. She shook her head.
‘I’ve wondered too, Zack. I’m afraid many of us have. He hasn’t been himself lately. And it’s been widely noticed how much you’ve been doing for him.’ She sighed deeply, and the light flooding in behind her couldn’t disguise the sorrow in her breath. ‘I’d better go and see him. But he’ll have to take a blood test. The bank will insist.’
She went off to find Gillingham and fate took its course. Gillingham went down into the basement with Mazowiecki. He rolled up his sleeve for the nurse and watched impassively as the prick of the needle raised a blood-red pearl on his arm. The nurse swabbed away the blood and gave him a blob of cotton wool to press down on the injury. Gillingham did as he was told, then, when the nurse was finished, left again with Mazowiecki.
The blood test would deliver its result within hours. The bank carried out routine blood tests on all new employees, and had the facilities to conduct tests wherever drug abuse was suspected. Cocaine was the commonest problem, especially in New York, but - the bank’s medical service was geared up to test for alcohol too. Gillingham retired to his office with Mazowiecki to await the news. Zack stayed away. He had a sense of delicacy and, besides, he liked Hal and admired him. Gillingham was a great man and Zack was one of the few people in a position to really understand his greatness.
Inside his office, Gillingham abandoned any attempt at control. He blubbed like a newborn, while Mazowiecki cancelled her meetings, ignored her phone, and cuddled her disintegrating middle-aged baby.
‘Oh, God, Amy-Lou. I can feel it inside me. I don’t need a frigging blood test, I know I’m pissed. You know I really thought I’d beaten it. I used to hear these poor bastards at Alcoholics Anonymous talking about crawling out of the pit and you knew with some of them that they’d fall back in. Not once, but again and again. And I used to think, God, do you guys not understand what it means to fall back? Have you really forgotten the horror of that place? I knew I needed AA. I knew the craving was inside me for ever, but I really thought I’d never fall back. And the worst, the very worst of this thing is this: I swear to you, I absolutely swear that I don’t remember taking a drink. Before, I used to lose my memory often enough, but at least I’d remember that there was a piece missing. I could feel the blank. I feel nothing like that now. I don’t even know where I bought the drink. I’m a wreck, Amy. No wife. No job. No life. At least I’m fucking rich. I’ll drink myself to death on twenty-year-old malts and be the sweetest smelling sinner at the Boozers Bar in hell.’
‘Oh, Hal,’ said Amy-Lou. There wasn’t much else to say. She could smell alcohol on his breath and he was clearly tipsy to say the least. It didn’t make much difference if he had had two sips or two bottles. The deal with the bank had been no alcohol, at all, ever. It had been a fair deal. She sat with the door closed and her arm around him. He sobbed, was silent and garrulous by turns.
Eventually, Amy-Lou had an appointment she couldn’t defer.
‘I need to go now, Hal. I’ll be an hour. Will you wait for me here, please? Whatever the news is.’
Gillingham nodded. The deep channels in his cheeks at last served the purpose for which it seemed they were intended. Tears ran down the grooves, tickled the comer of his mouth, and splashed disregarded from his chin.
‘Promise? You really have to promise me.’
‘I promise.’
Amy-Lou was scared that Gillingham would go out on a binge when the bad news came. If she could save him from that, she might be able to save him from total ruin. She left for her meeting. Twenty minutes or so afterwards the phone rang. Hal picked it up. It was the nurse.
‘We’ve had the results back, sir. I’m afraid the test was positive. I can give you the statement from our laboratory if you’d like. Or we can order a second test if you feel there’s been a mistake.’
‘No need. Thank you.’
Gillingham hung up. He needed a drink and he needed a piss. He’d promised Amy-Lou to stay put, but bars have drinks and loos. Addiction and his promise wrestled for his soul. He could always be back in time.
But the promise prevailed. The bar meant total destruction for him. Amy-Lou would take him home or, better still, to the clinic where he’d dried out the last time. She’d keep her eye on him and bottles away from him. He’d resent it, but he’d recover. Gillingham got up to go to the loo. He’d come straight back.
In the loo, he peed and rinsed his face. Alcohol surged through his bloodstream and laughed at the water splashing around on the outside. All the soap and water in the world can’t wash away the drink. Next to him, he was aware of somebody crying, like him. A young guy. Ginger-haired, with a receding chin and a bulgy forehead. Gillingham had seen him around, working his knickers off for Zack, but he didn’t know his name. That young, he must be an analyst.
‘You upset too?’ asked Gillingham.
The young analyst nodded, pleased to have his grief acknowledged.
‘My grandmother died this morning. I’ve put off seeing her so many times because of work, and now she’s dead. I feel awful. I feel like the worst guy in the world.’
It was nice to see somebody else’s grief. Grief can be so lonely.
‘We all make more sacrifices than we should. The bank insists on it. Don’t beat yourself up just because you were the one left standing when the music stopped. We all do the same thing.’
The analyst, Smylie, smiled crookedly at Gillingham.
‘God, that’s a decent thing to say. Everyone else has just said, “tough luck, shit happens, and by the way how is that spreadsheet coming along?” and I end up feeling bad for even feeling bad.’
‘Yeah, well, maybe you’re a bit too much of a human being for this place. Coming from me, that’s meant to be a compliment, by the way.’
Smylie looked at Gillingham, who looked pretty rough himself.
‘I shouldn’t really say this, but d’you want to come out for a drink? Just a quick one?’
For a long moment, Gillingham paused, but even as he waited he knew what he was going to say.
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Just a quickie.’
7
Matthew came home depressed from another grim visit to his mother and sister. Now that he was London-based, he could hardly escape these visits, but they left him feeling lousy every time.
His mother’s state of dependence had an increasingly permanent feel to it, and once again he’d managed to squabble with Josephine before leaving. This time it had been about living arrangements. Josie asked Matthew to think about living with them in Kilburn so he ‘could help out a bit’. Matthew told her some nonsense about needing to be close to work, but they both knew that for a lie. The truth was that he didn’t want to live alongside his mother’s neediness and his sister’s saintliness; he didn’t want the burdens of daily care; he didn’t want the ugliness or economy or carefulness of his sister’s frugal existence.
To make things worse, when he arrived back, he found a note from Fiona stuck under his door. ‘Dearest M, I’ve gone to bed early - v. tired after work. Hope everything at home was OK. Breakfast together tomorrow? I’ll be going in about 6.30. Love, F.’
Damn! He’d been looking forward to a cuddle with her, maybe more. That was the beauty of their current living arrangements. They’d both been too busy over the New Year to look for a place of their own, so the bank had put them both up in expensive but ugly service flats in South Kensington. His flat was across the hall from Fiona’s, so they could be close when they wanted, separate when she needed.
Matthew had unravelled a little more of the mystery of Fiona’s past, as much as he needed to know or was likely to. Her mother had abandoned her when she was four, and her father had for the most part regarded her as an annoyance to be ignored or got rid of, as he set about his drinking and womanising. Had it not been for a kindly old couple who
had given the little girl every gift of love they could sneak past her savage and neglectful parent, Fiona would have grown up entirely ignorant of ordinary human love. Until her relationship with Matthew, she had had sex often and been intimate never.
Her wounds were deep and she still found intimacy tough, but, as she’d promised in Vermont, she was giving it her all. Quite often now, Fiona let Matthew stay in bed with her until morning, but when she found it too much, Matthew just slipped back across the hall. They ate together, worked together, had fun together. One day, Matthew believed and hoped, they would get married.
Although it was now gone eleven and he’d be getting up at six, Matthew didn’t fancy going to bed. There was a wine bar down the road that served booze until midnight. He’d go there and try not to think about Josephine. That shouldn’t be hard. With a string of phone calls to make the next day, he was on the brink of launching his Plan B.
The bar was called the Apollyon, done up in red leather and blackened oak. The effect was corny, but it apparently justified charging two pounds fifty for the cheapest bottle of beer. Matthew took a seat at the bar and ordered a Czech pilsner.
A few groups sat at tables. At the bar there was only Matthew and one other man, also in a suit. The man was short and extremely neat, the way short men often are. Maybe they think people won’t laugh at them if their hanky is neat and matches their tie. The man was also drinking Czech beer. Matthew glanced at him and forgot him.
Despite himself, he began to think about Josephine and his mother. He wasn’t going to change course now, but he knew that it was a struggle for Josie to make ends meet, even with the help that George gave her, and the knowledge made him guilty. He wondered whether to pay her something by standing order, but he knew he wouldn’t. If he’d had a larger bonus, he might feel he had some money spare - but again, he knew he wouldn’t. He’d be generous to Josie once he had made his million, or was sure he’d failed. Until then, every penny counted. The one thing he had agreed to do was get her a portable computer. ‘It’s a hobby,’ she’d said. ‘Maybe in time it might be a career. But for the moment, it’s one of the few things I can do with my evenings, what with needing to be there for Mum and everything.’ It was an easy enough request. Especially as Matthew knew the bank was replacing its existing portables, flogging the lot at bargain prices to anyone who wanted one.
Matthew sipped his beer and mused dejectedly. A voice at his elbow interrupted him.
‘May I get you another?’
It was the neat little man. Close up, Matthew could see how ugly he was. At a distance, all you could see was neatness: folded hanky, immaculate parting, trim little suit, fat little knot on his silk tie. But near to, you could see his features were all wrong. His nose was too big, his mouth too small, his eyes too close together. He smiled almost all the time, but as Matthew got to know him, he realised that the smile was more like a sneer, almost a look of hatred.
‘OK,’ said Matthew. ‘I’m drinking Budvar. Thanks.’
The little man got the drinks and introduced himself. His name was James Belial and he was to become a very important person in Matthew’s life.
‘Do you live round here?’ asked Belial.
‘Yes, for now at any rate. I’ve got a temporary flat just up the road.’
Belial raised his eyebrows, which were too hairy for his little face.
‘Not Blenheim Court, by any chance?’
‘Yes, actually,’ said Matthew, surprised. ‘Just until I find myself somewhere permanent.’
‘Ah! I know it well. I spent a few months there once, when I worked in the City.’
‘The City?’ said Matthew, more interested now. ‘Which firm?’
Matthew’s question was not innocent. What he meant was: Did you work for a first-rate bank or not? He meant: Do I need to respect you, or can I continue to look down on you? Whenever two bankers meet and ask each other this question, the purpose is always to establish pecking order.
‘Madison. Mostly based in Geneva, but in London for a while too.’
‘Really? I’m with Madison. I’ve been in New York the past year and I’ve just started with a new group here.’
They exchanged gossip. It turned out Belial knew Brian McAllister well but didn’t think much of him. ‘Very judgemental. Jumps to conclusions. Bit of a god-complex.’ Matthew told him about his new job trading distressed debt and Belial was interested. ‘A very exciting area. Lots of opportunity for personal initiative.’
Belial now worked for a Swiss investment outfit called Switzerland International Capital Partners. He described himself as an investment executive and gave Matthew his card. Belial’s hands were small and hairy and his neatly manicured nails were thick and hard. There was really something rather repulsive about him. Matthew stared at the card. Switzerland International. The name and even phone number were! familiar to him. In a locked drawer at work, he had a list of names and phone numbers, beginning with this one. He had been about to start calling them tomorrow, about to launch Plan B.
‘Switzerland International,’ said Matthew, trying to keep his voice calm. ‘I’ve been meaning to call. I wanted to find a decent investment manager. Probably Swiss, but in any event - how shall I put it? - somebody discreet.’
‘Discretion!’ sighed Belial with pleasure. ‘Yes, we are very discreet. It’s the reason why most of our customers come to us. There’s the taxman. There are greedy wives. There are alimony attorneys. There are business partners. There are regulators. There’s police, Interpol, vice squads, drug agencies, you name it. People come to Switzerland for discretion, and you don’t get more discreet than us at Switzerland International.’
‘And if I wanted to set up an account?’ asked Matthew. Belial took him through it. The minimum balance was fifty thousand Swiss francs, but that would be more than covered by Matthew’s bonus. The commission rates weren’t cheap, but Switzerland International could deal in anything that Matthew wanted to invest in. The service was absolutely private. If Matthew preferred, they wouldn’t even mail him regular statements but simply give him the balance by phone when he called. Belial was very helpful and very encouraging. Matthew could have his account opened within the week.
Matthew thanked him and left the bar. The ugly little man watched him with a smile. And when Matthew had collected his coat and could be seen walking away down the darkened street, James Belial began to shake in sobs of silent laughter.
Spring 2000
Snow still ices the Yorkshire hills, but in the valleys the snow is melting, and on the bravest trees, buds dare to show. It is the first day of spring, the first of March. The days are already longer, and in three weeks the clocks go forward. There are 499 days to go until Bernard Gradley’s deadline.
1
George knocked on Wilmot’s door and, without waiting for a signal, swept on into the accountant’s meticulous office. A packet of biscuits was open on the table and Wilmot tidied it hurriedly into his drawer. He flushed slightly.
‘I’ll have a biscuit, if you don’t mind,’ said George, who enjoyed embarrassing Wilmot in small ways.
Wilmot got the biscuits out again, his blush more acute than before. George took one.
‘How are we doing, Jeff? Do you have last month’s profit numbers?’ asked George. Val still wasn’t talking to him, and he’d taken to wandering the building in search of company.
‘Yes, indeed. Profit should come in over target at about seven thousand pounds after interest. At least something’s looking healthy.’
‘What d’you mean, “at least”?’ asked George, whose grip of the company financials was only a little better than Kiki’s would have been. ‘We’re making a profit, right?’
‘Yes, but that’s profit, not cash flow,’ said Wilmot.
‘Remember that we paid a lot of people late while you were, er, absent.’
‘So what? We can pay them back now, can’t we?’
‘Well, not exactly. We need to pay our suppliers for those month
s, as well as pay for all the stuff we’re buying now. What’s more, most of our suppliers have shortened our payment terms, because we got into arrears previously. And we’ve got an interest payment date coming up. All in all, we have a bit of a cash-flow crisis.’
George could never understand the difference between profits and cash flow. As he saw it, his job was to increase profits, but whenever he did so, Wilmot usually started blathering about a cash-flow crisis.
‘What d’you want me to do about it?’ asked George shortly.
‘Well, er, the very best thing would be a temporary cash injection.’
‘What d’you mean?’ George sounded cross, but he was impressed. By Wilmot’s standards, this was assertive.
‘Well, I couldn’t help noticing, er ... that is ... during your absence, in your capacity as shareholder, er ... you depleted the contingency reserve of certain funds ... quite legitimate, of course, and understandable, but ...’ Wilmot wasn’t finding it easy.
‘I took forty-five grand out of the company,’ said George.
‘Exactly. Now if, er, you didn’t have a compelling use for those funds within an immediate time horizon, er, some restoration of the contingency reserve capital, if only for a brief - one might say interregnum - period, er ...’ He tailed off. He could go no further. He took another biscuit and nibbled at it furiously. A shower of crumbs fell from his mouth and he didn’t even tidy them away.
‘You think I should stick some cash into the company?’ Wilmot didn’t look at George. He couldn’t speak and couldn’t nod. He hunched over another biscuit, hardly even daring to nibble. In Wilmot-speak, that was a firm yes.
‘Well, I’d love to put some cash in, but I don’t have any. When I do, I’ll tell you.’
George was being truthful, but not honest. In his pocket, a diamond ring pressed against his heart. Thirty thousand pounds of ready money, if the hideously expensive shop in Bond Street would refund it. Even if he just sold it outright, he could probably get fifteen or twenty for it. But George said nothing and let the ring throb away in silence.
The Money Makers Page 34