by William Boyd
“All right,” Adam said. “We can work something out, I’m sure.” All he could do at this juncture, Adam realised, was buy time. He could pay Turpin off over the next days and weeks while the Zembla-4 plan progressed. All he needed was time. He reached into his pocket for his wad of notes.
“I can give you £150, now,” he said, and began to count out the notes.
“Why don’t I just take the lot?” Turpin said, as his big hands swooped and grabbed the money. “Let’s meet here, again, same time, next Wednesday night.” He gave Adam his full smile, showing both rows of teeth. “No funny business, John. You can sell that scooter tomorrow—set it on fire and throw it in the river—but something tells me Ugly Bugger will still know how to find you.”
“OK,” Adam said, “I’ll be here, don’t worry.”
“Make it 200 quid, next time. Nice seeing you again, John.” He stood up, gave a brief wave and wandered off over the bridge towards the Battersea shore.
Adam drove back to Stepney in thoughtful mood. Turpin was right, all that his pursuer—Ugly Bugger—required was the number plate of his scooter. There was, now, a paper and electronic trail that pointed the way directly from the scooter to Primo Belem and his Oystergate Buildings apartment, even if he dumped the scooter, resold it, even if he moved to a new address. There were tracks out there in the world, now, tracks that led to him for the first time. He’d have to change identity again, stop being Primo Belem—but how would he do that? Go underground once more?…Stay calm, Adam told himself, soon all this will be irrelevant: all he had to do was keep Turpin quiet and contented for a short period of time. He mustn’t be distracted from his key mission; he should just continue as if this unfortunate encounter had never occurred.
53
IVO, LORD REDCASTLE WONDERED IF THERE HAD BEEN SOME KIND of sign or omen that he had missed. He was also wondering if he was beginning to lose his grip. That guy who had rung him up about the T–shirts, for example—he hadn’t even asked his name. What kind of entrepreneur was he? Pathetic. And, worse still, he had invited this unknown, nameless man for a drink at his house to discuss the T–shirt crisis—to which, it went without saying, he hadn’t even bothered to turn up. Of course he had drunk a bloody mary and a half—no, practically a full bottle of wine at lunch. Maybe that was why he hadn’t been thinking straight. Anyway, the guy not showing up that night had been a real downer (and he had behaved appallingly to Smika, he admitted, and taken far too much cocaine in compensation, later that night—got totally pranged—trying to make everything seem better, and failing). He made no excuses for himself, though he was cross that he had bragged about it to Ingram at the restaurant, as if the T–shirt problem had been finally solved. Fool. Idiot fool.
And then, on succeeding days, had come the solicitors’ letters, three of them, horrible, stern missives listing his serial failings as human being and businessman and detailing his mounting debts to various creditors. More worrying—in a kind of disturbing existential way—had been the jpeg that Dimitrios had sent him. It showed a pyre often thousand of his sex-instructor T–shirts ablaze on a beach on Mykonos. He had always regarded Dimitrios as a pretty decent guy, almost a mate, even though he didn’t know him that well…But after this—Jesus, it was totally out of order. Beyond the bounds, etcetera.
What, however, to do about this latest communication?…It was only ten o’clock in the morning but Ivo felt he needed a drink so he opened a bottle of cold Chablis from the supply he kept in his fridge at the home office and called Sam at RedEntlnc at Earls Court.
“Any news on tracing that call?” he asked. He was hoping to find a number for the nameless man who had telephoned him about the T–shirts. He had not only not asked what his name was but he’d also neglected to find out how he could be contacted.
“We think we’ve got it,” Sam said.
“You did tell the police that it was obscene? Really obscene.”
“Absolutely—that’s why they were so helpful. They say it came from a payphone in Sloane Square.”
“Fuck. Thanks, Sam.”
Ivo took a large gulp of his Chablis—a great morning drink, he thought, light and very palatable—and picked up the piece of paper that, according to the evidence of his front-door CCTV camera, had been pushed through his letter-box at 7.47 that morning by a helmeted motorbike courier.
All the envelope had written on it was his name ‘IVO’ in capital letters, and inside was a sheet from Ingram’s personal memo pad—his name printed across the top—saying, written in biro, also in capital letters: “SELL YOUR C-D SHARES NOW. I WILL DENY EVERYTHING. I.”
The T was Ingram’s recognisable initial-signature—the two horizontal bars of the T widely separated from the vertical stroke. Unmistakable.
Let’s face it, Ivo said to himself, I’m fucking broke—or as broke as people like me ever become. The whole T–shirt fiasco⁄debacle had cost and would cost him tens of thousands. He had a small collapsing pyramid of unpaid bills on his desk. The rent of Smika’s gallery and the vernissage party had still to be settled. Not to mention Poppy and Toby’s school fees…
So, he thought, this instruction comes, hand-delivered…Maybe Ingram had sensed the crisis brewing when they had met that day at the restaurant and he was offering him this semi-anonymous lifeline with built-in deniability: “SELL YOUR C-D SHARES NOW…” Of course Ingram had to ensure he was distant from such a transaction: he couldn’t openly advocate this—it had to be done within the family, as it were. Fair enough, he could keep a secret as well as the next man. He would just run a quick check.
He called Ingram on his mobile.
“Ingram, baby, it’s Ivo. Have you got a second?”
“I’m about to go into a meeting.”
“I was thinking of selling my Calenture shares. Cashflow problems.”
“Don’t sell, Ivo. Don’t be a bloody fool. Do not sell.”
“Fair enough. Thanks, mate.”
He called his stockbroker, Jock Tait, senior partner at Swabold, Tait and Cohen. After the introductory pleasantries he asked him directly.
“Jock—hypothetical question—could you unload my Calenture-Deutz shares today? Like pronto?”
“All of them?”
“Hypothetically.”
Tait hummed and hawed and asked to be given ten minutes. Ivo drank another glass of Chablis and listened to some calming music before Tait called back. He said he could sell them: indeed, he had a single buyer who would take the lot.
“How much would I make?” Ivo asked.
“Well—ballpark figure at 420 pence a share, say…About 1.8 million. Less commission, of course.”
“You say you’ve got a buyer.”
“Yes.”
“Then sell. Sell, sell, sell.”
There was a silence at the end of the line.
“Jock?”
“How would Ingram feel about this?” Jock said, cautiously. “It might send the wrong kind of signal to the market. Not that it’s any of my business.”
“Precisely. But you can relax—Ingram’s cool. All the same, you know, keep it under your hat. Omerta.”
“Good as done,”Jock said.
Ivo hung up, finished his glass of Chablis and refilled it. It was a strange feeling—to move from an anxiety-ridden, near bankrupt to a millionaire in under half an hour. Funny old world. He was essentially a good guy, was Ingram—au fond—even though Ivo knew that neither of them really liked each other much at all. He wondered if he could detect Meredith’s hand in this covert rescue mission—sweet Merry, always looking out for little brother. It was Meredith who had persuaded Ingram, much against his will, to put him on the Calenture-Deutz board, to guarantee some income in a pretty much income-free existence (apart from the trust fund). And now this. Ivo would be in a position to pay off everybody—even that cunt on Mykonos—and still have a million clear (less bloody tax, of course). He wondered: maybe this was the time to go non-domiciled, reinstate the Irish residency…
He poured himself another glass. Perhaps he and Smika should go out to lunch and celebrate—discreetly. Actually, he wouldn’t tell her about the money—just say some film deal looked like coming off—in fact he’d better make sure it didn’t go anywhere near the joint account, come to think of it, stick it in the Isle of Man bank for a while, yes. He picked up the phone and dialled Ingram’s home number—praying for voicemail—if anyone answered he’d just hang up. Voicemail—thank Christ.
“You’ve reached Ingram and Meredith Fryxer’s number. Please leave a message.”
“Ingram, it’s Ivo. I just want to say thank you. Thank you. Bless you.”
Ivo hung up. Ingram would know what he was referring to—so no need for him to make any histrionic ‘denials’. All was suddenly well in the Redcastle household. He wandered out of his study and called up the stairs to Smika’s studio.
“Darling? Fancy a spot of lunch?”
54
THERE WAS A GOOD TURN-OUT, INGRAM COULD SEE, AS LUIGI DROVE them past the entrance to the Queen Charlotte Conference Centre in Covent Garden—some dozens of people still queuing to pick up copies of the agenda and press release and to have their names verified as bona fide shareholders. Can all these people own bits of my company? Ingram demanded, as he looked at the shuffling queue. He realised he was in his usual troubled state of wonder: it always happened at the AGM, as well, when he had the chance to contemplate these earnest amateur speculators—these mums and dads, these eccentrics with their thermos flasks and packs of sandwiches. All these hundreds, thousands of individuals around the world who possessed a little bit of Calenture-Deutz paper and who turned up, along with the smart young men and women from pension funds, the investment banks and the financial institutions, to listen to what the chairman and the board had to say about the proper functioning of the company they had invested in. It seemed extraordinary and, as at the AGM each year, he found himself in two minds, trapped: was this a healthy sign of the democratic, accountable base of Western capitalism, or was it an indication that the system was hopelessly soft and too lenient? Due diligence, fair practice, corporate responsibility—or raw, lean, energetic commerce being forcibly called to account for its actions and agenda on an annual basis, in an unreal situation where it could find itself at the mercy of rivals, special interest groups, selfish investors and the occasional random lunatic.
Talking of which, Ingram thought, there was a peach, a prime specimen. They were driving past an elderly pony-tailed man in a wheelchair holding up a placard that said: “ZEMBLA-4 KILLS CHILDREN”—and underneath that the address of a website that Ingram couldn’t read. He chuckled, heavy irony colouring his semi-laugh. He was used to these posters—he’d seen worse. There had been a ‘FRYZER = MENGELE’ banner a couple of years ago. He smiled again—this drug was specifically designed to save children’s lives, for fuck’s sake. Here was the problem when you opened your doors to the public, even an interested public—such gatherings were announced weeks in advance, discretion was an impossibility, word was circulated everywhere—you didn’t even need to be a shareholder to cause trouble. Big Pharma was a legitimate target these days—like the banks, the arms dealers and the oil companies—any anarchic, eco-madman-warrior could take it on himself to make a symbolic protest, even against a perfectly harmless medium-sized Pharma company like Calenture-Deutz. At one AGM Ingram had had green paint sprayed over his £2,000 suit by a demonstrator wearing a skull-mask; at another, people in loin-cloths and with suppurating wounds painted on their bodies had Iain on the pavement outside the venue feigning toxic death. All their public meetings were routinely picketed and targeted—moronic ape-chanting carrying into the hall as the financial report was read out, banners draped over the building, silent lines of young people wearing gas masks—and so it was something of a relief to see they only had one solitary dickhead to deal with this year. Security would see to him but the sooner the whole thing was over, the better.
As he stepped out of the car Ingram experienced one of his new disorientating swoons. He staggered, Luigi grabbed his elbow, and after a couple of deep breaths Ingram felt fine again. Blood spots, ferocious itches, fainting fits, the word confusions—plus, he had to say, intermittent nausea and very short-term headaches that were so short term they were over by the time he had reached for the analgesic. It could only be stress—stress caused by this whole delicate, secret accommodation with Rilke and Rilke Pharma, the aggravation imposed by Keegan and de Freitas, not to mention extraneous factors like the brutal murder of his chief researcher: all these symptoms must stem from these pressures—he was only human after all.
Lachlan McTurk had said he had run out of tests—everything had shown up completely clear—all there was left now was the body-wide ultrasound and the MRI brain scan and so he had been duly booked in. There ‘was no alternative, Lachlan said, he could find nothing. Perhaps once this whole Zembla-4 licensing was over and as soon as the company was safely sold to Rilke Pharma his health would return to its old state—robust, uncomplicated, normal.
He went in through a back entrance and was guided along corridors to a form of green room where the board of Calenture-Deutz was gathering before it went on stage. Pippa Deere busied around him and had him fitted out with a lapel microphone. She assured him that all the international video-links had been checked and were fully functioning. Yes, yes, fine. Ingram couldn’t really concentrate—he still felt a little light-headed and he ordered a coffee to quell his resurgent nausea. He smiled and nodded at his colleagues—the doctors and the Oxbridge professors, the ex-cabinet minister and the banking supremo—and there too were his nemeses, Keegan and de Freitas, looking over at him knowingly—
There was a gentle squeeze on his elbow and he turned to find his very own ‘Lord on the Board’, his brother-in-law, Ivo, smart in a tight dark suit, his thick hair gelled into glossy quiescence.
“Ivo…” Ingram said, drawing the name out, playing for time, then paused legitimately to accept the coffee brought to him by Pippa Deere. He took a quick sip, searching for a topic of conversation. “Did you see that lunatic outside?”
Ivo chose not to answer his question, posing instead a question of his own.
“Did you get my message?”
“I did. But I didn’t understand it.”
“Exactly.”
“Exactly what?”
“I knew you’d say that. Exactly.” Ivo pulled down the lower lid of his right eye. “Exactly.”
“Why would you leave a message I wouldn’t understand? Why were you thanking me?”
Ivo leaned close. “For what you did.”
“I did nothing.”
“Quod erat demonstrandum. Q. E. D.”
“What has been demonstrated?” Ingram was growing irritated at this ambiguity.
Ivo sighed. “I had to say thank you, for god’s sake. It’s only reasonable, decent.”
“For what?”
“For what you did.”
“I did nothing.”
“You did not do nothing.”
Ingram began to feel he was in a Harold Pinter play, involved in a sinister duologue that could conceivably go on for ever.
“I. Did. Nothing.” He repeated the words with heavy emphasis.
“I know.”
“You admit I did nothing.”
“Yes, so to speak. But I thank you all the same.”
“For what?”
“For doing ‘nothing’.” Ivo used his fingers to make histrionic air-quotes. “I know that you know. And you know that I know you know.” Ivo tapped the side of his nose. “I can read,” he said, conspiratorially.
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
“Exactly. Point taken. No worries. Good man, Ingram, I love you.”
Pippa Deere interrupted to guide them on to the stage and their appointed seats.
Ingram forced himself to stay awake as Professor Marcus Vintage, who was chairing the press conference, spoke about the
year’s progress the company had made, and the tragedy of Philip Wang’s sudden and shocking death (silence in the hall), making no mention of Zembla-4, in his Yorkshire-accented monotone before handing over to Edward Anthony, the company secretary, who would present a brief financial report. The hall was nearly full, Ingram saw, full of part-owners of Calenture-Deutz, all apparently listening intently. He glanced down at the agenda: welcome from the chairman, welcome from the company secretary, statement from Ingram Fryzer, CEO. “Statement”—that was when he would detonate his little fiscal bomb. Little did they know, he thought, looking out over the audience, that everyone in this room was going to leave richer than when they’d come in. Theoretically. He allowed himself a small smile.
It seemed several hours later that he was called to the microphone, though a glance at his watch told him only thirty-five minutes had passed. Ingram waited for the mild applause to die down and unfolded his notes.
“My lords, ladies and gentlemen. I want to make a brief special announcement that greatly affects the future of the company. As you all know, Rilke Pharmaceutical holds a 20 per cent stake in Calenture-Deutz. I want to let you know today that I have agreed to sell my personal shareholding in the company to Rilke Pharmaceutical. This will give them a controlling interest.” The room was completely silent. “However,” Ingram continued, “Rilke Pharma are proposing a complete buy-out of Calenture-Deutz as a share offer with cash alternative. Rilke is offering 600 pence a share, some 20 per cent higher than our current capitalisation. I, and the entire board of Calenture-Deutz, strongly recommend that you accept this generous offer. We envisage the takeover—”
“Point of order!” came a loud shout from the rear of the room. “Point of order, Mr Chairman!”
Ingram felt an itch spear through the sole of his left foot. He stamped down on it hard behind the lectern.