Carltons’ share price has been slipping since last Thursday. I’d thought nothing of it, but McKinnon seems concerned. I ask what he’s heard.
‘I’ve heard all’s not well in the House of Carlton. I’ve heard the murder investigation’s centred on the bank.’ He studies me. ‘True or false?’
‘The Inspector’s been in a few times.’
‘And?’
‘And nothing. He’s been in a few times. What do you expect?’
‘When I hold seven per cent of your company,’ he says, ‘I expect to know what’s happening.’
A nasty thought occurs to me. ‘Lyle hasn’t been in touch has he?’
Brian’s eyes stay fixed on mine, unsmiling. Not yet, he tells me.
A cold hand seems to close over my heart. A hard knot forms in the muscles of my stomach. If Lyle were to get hold of McKinnon’s stake in Carltons we could be in very serious trouble.
When the bill arrives, I pay cash.
11
* * *
Back at the bank, our Finance Director, Gordon Shields, corners me in my office. An accountant by both trade and nature — married, two children and one grandchild, a house in leafy Surrey and golf on the weekend — he’s the butt of every boring-accountant joke they dream up in the Dealing Room. He takes it all with good humour. He knows as well as I do that without his ant-like attention to detail, and his careful diligence, Carlton Brothers would grind to a halt within days. Now he gives me a fifteen-minute lecture on the latest recommendations from the Accountancy Standards Board; he says I should know about this before our audit committee meets next month.
I find my eyes wandering to the phone. Should I call Hugh Morgan now, or wait?
‘Raef?’ Gordon offers to go through it again, but this just isn’t a priority.
I tell him to leave the notes, that I'll have a look at them later. He drops the folder on my desk, asking me who will replace Daniel on the audit committee.
Daniel again. No escape. I mumble something about decisions-pending. Unsatisfied, Gordon leaves, and then as I reach for the phone Becky comes over the intercom: Ryan is here. My hand hovers then hits the button.
‘Send him in.’
He has on the same heavy grey coat he wore earlier, he doesn’t bother now to take it off. Raindrops shine on his shoulders.
‘If you want to see Vance, I think he’s out.’
‘I came to see you.’ Unlike McKinnon, Ryan has no need to follow any long and circuitous rituals: immediately we’re just where he wants us to be. ‘I’ve been to St Bartholomew’s,’ he says.
Bart’s. With every ounce of will I possess, I hold myself steady. The shock leaves me dumb for a moment. He has been to Bart’s. When I recover, all I can manage to say is, ‘Why?’
He waves this aside. ‘You told me you didn’t know of any private problems Stewart had.’
Get up, I think. Get up now, walk out. Contact a lawyer, maybe Aldridge.
But all I do is sit here. I can smell the wards of the hospital.
‘Mr Carlton, how long have you known Stewart was the father of your child?’
12
* * *
‘Mr Carlton?’
‘Three months.’
‘Only after she went into hospital?’
I nod, still stunned. I ask him how he found out.
‘My sergeant was checking Stewart’s holiday records,’ he explains. ‘He noticed an overlap with yours.’
‘Who told you Annie was at Bart’s?’
‘No secret was it? What exactly happened at the hospital?’
‘They ran some tests.’
‘That wouldn’t have told you who the father was.’
‘It told me who he wasn't.’ The words escape me with a real bitterness, but the Inspector stays pointedly silent. I rise and go to the window. On the street below, people are going purposefully about their business. That forgotten feeling hovers over me again now. Fear; that was the first thing, fear for Annie. Then the tests and the waiting. At last, knowledge. ‘Do you want me to say I didn’t kill him?’
No answer. When I turn I catch a fleeting glimpse of sympathy in his eyes, but the shutters go up immediately.
‘How did you find out it was Stewart?’
‘My wife. She wasn’t a compatible donor either.’
‘So she told you Stewart was the father?’
I nod.
‘Who told Stewart?’
‘She did.’
‘Was he reluctant to go in for the tests?’
‘No idea.’
There’s a pause. Looking at Ryan I have a sense of deep disconnection. Where am I? Four months ago Daniel was my friend, I loved my wife, and Annie was my daughter. Now a police Inspector sits in my office and wants to know if I have killed Daniel. How did I get to this place?
‘Who else knows about this?’
‘Theresa. The doctors.’
‘What about Stewart’s wife?’
I shake my head. There has never been the slightest hint from Celia that she suspected anything between Daniel and Theresa.
‘Did Stewart actually say he hadn’t told her?’
‘He didn’t actually say much of anything the past three months. Not to me anyway.’
‘You had to work together.’
‘We sat in the same meetings. He got memos from me, I got memos from him.’ Retaking my seat, I tell Ryan, ‘We didn’t seek out each other’s company.’
‘Not an ideal situation.’
‘No,’ I agree. ‘It couldn't have gone on much longer.’ I am very far from comfortable, but the initial shock at Ryan’s discovery seems to be wearing off. I smile crookedly. ‘So much for doctor-patient confidentiality.’
Ryan doesn’t bother to apologize. ‘That scuffle by the boat. Stewart didn’t accuse you of an affair with his wife, did he. What was it about? Your wife?’
‘I don’t know. I said something. He said something.’ I truly don’t remember how it started. I look over Ryan’s shoulder now at the books I seem to accumulate but never have time to read. ‘I didn’t kill him.’
Ryan makes no comment on my unsolicited plea. ‘How’s the girl?’ he asks. ‘Annie.’ And right then I feel an almost ungovernable urge to strike him. What right has this stranger to go stumbling through the most private places of my life? But as the angry words rise to my lips I notice Ryan’s eyes: they have changed.
‘You have children?’
‘A daughter,’ he says.
A daughter. Momentarily we aren't adversaries, we are just two fathers, equally hostage to the fate of our children. ‘She’s in remission,’ I say, returning to my desk. ‘The doctors seem hopeful.’
He studies me a moment longer, then rises from his chair. ‘I’ll be speaking with your wife, later.’ At the door he looks back. ‘And in the meantime you might like to consider if there’s any way of verifying that you went straight home from the boat last Wednesday night. It could be helpful.’
Before parting, he nods to me in a very Inspector-like way.
13
* * *
When the pressures of work became too much, I would go and talk with Daniel. After my first few years at Carltons I realized the City was changing fast, and that we weren’t keeping up. After my grandfather died it got worse, I had to fight tooth and nail to get even the most necessary changes past the watchful eye of Sir John. Daniel, early on, became my ally in Treasury. Nothing was off-limits between us, a fact that Darren Lyle guessed, then used, when he tried to bring me down. Immediately after Lyle’s resignation, Daniel and I became more circumspect, but we soon drifted back into the old routine: Daniel in my office or - after he became Treasurer - me in his, relaxed and giving voice to frustrations and ambitions we both kept well-buttoned outside. Even with Vance I have never had that kind of freedom.
Now I step out past Becky and glance up and down the corridor undecided. Sir John will be in his office but it’s past three o’clock: his drinks cabinet, I am sure, is alre
ady open. Anecdotes about the Old Days do not appeal right now, so I turn and head the other way.
Trust, that’s what I had with Daniel. A trust deep and familiar, its roots in our childhood, a thing unquestioned. At nine years old we cut our thumbs with my pocket knife and pressed the bleeding cuts together. Walking the corridor at Carlton Brothers thirty years later, I nod calmly to the young corporate bankers, while that boyhood memory pierces.
Vance steps from his office in front of me, looking harassed. Immediately he pivots on his heel. ‘I need a word,’ he says, going back in.
Curious, I follow him. Tony Mannetti, the head of Funds Management, stands by Vance’s desk; he looks grim. It seems I have walked into something.
‘There’s been a cock-up,’ Vance says.
‘There was no TV,’ Mannetti tells Vance, apparently restarting the conversation Vance walked out on. ‘No papers. Nothing.’
‘Must have been very pleasant for you.’
Mannetti stabs a finger at Vance. ‘Get a fucking life.’
Now I intervene. ‘Okay. What’s up?’
There’s a knock at the door, Karen Haldane comes in.
‘Just in time for the good news,’ Vance says, turning to Mannetti again. ‘That parcel of Parnells that went through before the bid. Guess who bought them?’
We all look at Mannetti now. He looks at the floor.
‘No,’ Karen says, appalled. ‘You fucking didn’t?’
Mannetti’s head jerks up, he rounds on Vance. ‘This is bullshit.’
Karen speaks over him. ‘You know the rules, Tony. You buy shares, you buy through us.’
She is less than pleased. And so am I. If Mannetti has been insider trading he’ll have to resign or be sacked. Then I notice Vance slowly shaking his head.
‘Tony wasn’t buying for Tony,’ he explains, directing another withering glance at Mannetti. ‘He was buying for us.’
Mannetti passes a hand across his forehead. Karen swears.
‘For Carltons?’ I say, the magnitude of it finally registering. ‘You bought for one of our funds?’
Mannetti screws up his face. ‘Johnstone bought them for the Alpha Fund while I was on holiday last week. He got his wires crossed.’
‘He couldn’t have,’ Karen protests. ‘He couldn’t have got it past the systems.’
Mannetti erupts. ‘He did, all right? We own a piece of Parnells, what the fuck you want me to do, pretend like it didn’t happen? Jesus Christ, I’ve got enough with fucking Johnstone, I don’t need you up my friggin’ ass.’
I tell him, very firmly, to shut his mouth. He sways forward on the balls of his feet, the muscles of his neck bulging. Karen looks furious. Vance too. And well they might. Because Johnstone’s purchase of the Parnells shares has placed us in clear and serious breach of the Takeover Code: we are in serious trouble here.
I ask Vance if he has told the Meyers yet. He says he hasn’t.
‘The Stock Exchange?’
‘Not yet.’
Next I ask Karen if she has heard from the Stock Exchange’s surveillance team. She shakes her head curtly. Policing this kind of infraction is her responsibility, the cock-up makes her look bad. She calls Mannetti a name.
‘Karen.’ I raise a hand. ‘This isn’t the time.’
She can barely restrain her anger, her hands are clenched into fists. Mannetti suggests that maybe we can unwind the deal. For a moment we all look at one another, four erring children wondering who will tell the teacher. At last I speak to Mannetti.
‘Pull those Parnells shares out of the fund and stick them in an empty account. Book them out at the purchase price, and don't let anyone else know. Do the paperwork yourself.’
He nods unhappily, and when I jerk my head towards the door he goes. Then I face Karen.
‘I’m not even going to ask how this got past you, we'll sort that out later. You and Stephen are going to see the Meyers. Get your coat.’ She makes to speak, but I cut her off. ‘Now,’I say.
Still furious, she retreats. The door slams. Vance drops into his chair, props his elbow on the desk and rests his head in his hands. Quietly he swears.
‘This isn’t good, Stephen. We look like half-wits.’ He massages his temples. I ask him who else knows.
‘Nobody. Mannetti came straight in. He’s only just found it. Unbelievable.’ He looks up. ‘How was McKinnon?’ he asks distractedly, and I tell him about the Crest shares. Vance nods, but we both know it will take more than McKinnon’s acquiescence to save the bid now. ‘David Meyer will go ballistic,’ he mutters. ‘What the hell did Johnstone think he was doing?’
I offer to take Mannetti down to the Stock Exchange; our only hope is to throw ourselves on their mercy. Vance agrees. He suggests that I speak with Sir John before I go. ‘His cronies on the Panel might help,’ The Takeover Panel. Sir John has two friends on the executive, and one on the Panel itself.
I clap my hands to my pockets and look around.
‘You didn’t bring anything in,’ Vance says; and then as I’m heading to the door he asks, ‘What the hell do I tell the Meyers?’
This question rises from the midst of the whole sorry disaster and catches me raw. When Darren Lyle hears what has happened, he’ll laugh his fat head off. Brooding, I go out to fetch my coat.
14
* * *
The Takeover Code is overseen by the Takeover Panel, a collection of worthies selected from the City’s self-appointed top drawer. The day-to-day running of its affairs is conducted by an executive of bureaucrats. Mannetti and I sit outside the closed doors of the Panel's Executive office. We’ve made our wretched pitch to them, thrown ourselves on their mercy, and now we await their verdict in silence. The minutes tick by.
‘Go on,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll see you back at the office.’
‘I can wait.’
I turn my eyes towards the exit.
‘I think it went okay,’ he says.
When I made no response he starts rehashing the whole stupid episode: who misunderstood what, and when; but I'm already thoroughly sick of it. I give him a warning glance, and his voice trails off.
‘As soon as you get back there, have Johnstone’s swipe-card number wiped off' the system.’
‘I already fired him.’
‘Good.’ I look at my watch. ‘If Vance is there, tell him I’ll be back within the hour.’
Mannetti wants to say more, but he knows that this isn’t the time. He gets up and departs down the corridor, touching his hair into place as he goes. The golden boy at bay.
I turn back to the closed door. I'm on the outside for once, the wrong side, not a very comfortable place. It feels a bit like the night of my seventeenth birthday, which I spent it in a police holding cell, waiting for my father to come and bale me out. Those hours haunted my nightmares for years. Seventeen and drunk and foolish, Daniel and I were relieving ourselves against a parked car when two policemen happened by. They were quite amused at first. But then Daniel started. I was still struggling with my flies as he gave them his opinion on harassment and his ‘Why weren’t they looking for real criminals anyway’ speech. He asked for their names, he said he was going to report them. When I tried to lead him away he clapped me on the shoulder. ‘Don’t you know,’ he asked the increasingly annoyed pair, ‘don’t you know who his father is? And his grandfather?’
They didn’t, so he told them.
Twenty minutes later we were enjoying the hospitality of the local police holding cells. For the next three hours, before my father arrived, I sat and listened to Daniel snoring: the lessons of life.
Now the door opens. The Chief Officer of the Takeover Panel Executive beckons me in. The office is spartan, strictly functional, there isn’t even a picture on the wall: the unadorned workplace of the City referees. Earlier there were four of them, but two must have retired to the adjoining office. The Chief Officer takes a seat by his younger deputy.
The deputy reads aloud, from his notes, a summary of the situatio
n as narrated by Mannetti and me. When the deputy finishes, the Chief Officer says, ‘Fair?’
Yes, I tell him. To the best of my knowledge, that’s how it happened.
‘It’s a serious breach. You realize the Panel will have to be convened.’
‘It was an honest mistake.'
‘I don’t doubt it,’ he says in a tone that tells me he doubts it very much. ‘But I don’t feel that the gentlemen from Parnells or Sandersons will be inclined to let it pass. Do you?’ He opens a folder, and launches into an explanation of where things will go from here.
The Takeover Panel and the Stock Exchange are at the top of the list of those to be informed, but right now I really don’t care. All I want is to get out of here, to speak with Vance and prepare for the onslaught that’s bound to come when Darren Lyle gets wind of this. The deputy appears to be enjoying my discomfiture. When the Chief Officer finishes, his deputy pushes a sheet of paper across the desk to me.
‘Just as a token of good faith before they convene. The Panel Chairman’s requested that you sign it.’
Two paragraphs. A guarantee that Carlton Brothers will pay difference cheques to those Parnells shareholders who sold to our Alpha Fund, a total of half a million pounds perhaps. I sign. When I hand back the sheet, the deputy doesn’t bother to thank me.
‘You can go now,’ the Chief Officer says.
And it’s there in his eyes too, the same thing I glimpsed in the eyes of his deputy How long has it been like this? And is it just me, or all of us out in the land of seven-figure bonuses?
I offer my hand; he reaches over his desk without rising.
‘Goodbye,’ he says.
His cool look was hardened, it’s quite obvious now: he doesn’t respect me. But only when I’ve left his office do I let the proper word form in my mind. It flares up, one more piece of unwanted knowledge. What those two men felt for me was contempt. Not just disrespect, not even envy, but contempt.
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