It takes me all of ten seconds to decide.
10
‘You’ve just caught me,’ Penfield says, folding some papers and sliding them into his inner jacket pocket. ‘I’m making a speech over at Mansion House in twenty minutes. What’s this about? That note? How’s Morgan getting on?’
‘He’ll have something for you by Friday.’
Penfield hits the intercom and lets his secretary know that he’s on his way out. I tell him I was hoping for ten minutes of his time.
He comes over to get his coat and scarf. ‘No can do, Raef.’
‘It’s important.’
He makes a placatory gesture. In the constant clamour for his attention, he has heard that line too many times before. He says he’ll try to squeeze in ten minutes tomorrow morning. ‘The City and sodding Europe,’ he mutters, presumably referring to his speech. ‘Déja-vu all over again.’ He takes a quick glance in the mirror by the coat- rack.
‘Important enough to cost you your job,’ I say.
He continues to button his coat. He inspects himself in the mirror again. ‘I trust that’s not a threat.’
I remind him that with his Investigation Unit about to descend on us, I’m hardly in a position to be threatening him. He presses his rim of grey hair into place.
‘Ten minutes, Roger.’
He gives me a look. Then he touches his pocket as if feeling for his speech, and steps by me to the door. ‘We'll walk,’ he says.
On Sunday the Bank was empty, but now the men in grey suits are everywhere; they all bob to Penfield as we pass. It feels like I’m accompanying a cardinal down the nave of St Peter’s, and it's not until we’ve crossed the Great Hall and gone into the street that he speaks.
‘Better here than inside. Too many ears.’
Yes, I think, and out here too many eyes; but right now I have to take what I’m given. As we turn and head for the Mansion House, I keep my voice low and tell him my story.
‘Not such a problem, surely? A few trading lines full?’
‘This isn’t just a few, Roger. It’s damn near the whole market.’
‘How many?’
‘Ninety, ninety-five per cent. Our Dealing Room’s like a morgue.’
Before coming to see Penfield, I put my head in there again to find out how Henry was doing. Extremely sober now, he gave me a look of despair, it was visible from right across the room. This is not the birthday he’d' planned.
‘There’s a few names still doing us. But not many. And the way it’s looking, they won’t last long either.’
‘Since when’s all this happened?’ Penfield asks peevishly.
‘This afternoon. I put out some feelers, then came straight to see you.’
His peeved look lingers; I have ruined his day. He’s no doubt tracing the same line of thought I followed earlier: if our Treasury operations stay frozen out of the market, the bank will be badly destabilized; our credit rating will plummet; in the worst case, Carltons might even fall. And should that awful event happen, Penfield’s job will be right in the firing-line.
‘You’ve had no credit downgrade?’
I shake my head.
‘Nothing in the offing?'
‘No.' When I explain that we’re closing out as many positions as we can, he purses his lips. A crowd of young men spills from the pub in front of us, jostling and laughing: we step down into the road to skirt round them.
‘Bloody hooligans,’ Penfield mutters.
In fact they’re lawyers — at least one of them is; I recognize his face. He recognizes me too. Me and Penfield both. I am definitely not enjoying this stroll through the City.
‘We can twist some arms,’ Penfield says, ‘but if the market’s got a real reason for turning Carltons down, there’s bugger all we can do long term.’ He glances at me. ‘Not carrying any big losses, are you?’
I assure him that our balance sheet is fine. He doesn’t mention the note, but that’s obviously what’s on his mind.
‘If you need to close out any positions tonight,’ he decides, ‘you can do it with us. I’ll call our lot when I get to the Mansion House.’
A short-term life-line, a few hours’ grace: if we can close out with the Bank of England, we won’t be at the mercy of the markets overnight. I thank him, sincerely.
We turn into a narrow alley, pedestrians only, and halfway along he stops and looks behind. I stop and glance back too. No-one; we are alone in the alley. He takes my elbow and draws me into a recess between two pillars, where we face one another.
‘You have a murdered Treasurer, a possible fraud, and at least one serious complaint lodged against you with the Takeover Panel. And now this business.’ His voice is low, but it quavers. He is, I see, simply furious with me. ‘You wanted some time to sort out that fraud note; I gave it to you. You need to trade out your positions with us tonight; very well, you may. But that’s all one-way traffic, Raef. Now it’s your turn.’ His large frame leans towards me. He enunciates the next words very clearly. ‘Sort. Your. Fucking. Bank. Out.’
The blood surges into my cheeks, my heart pounds. Whatever happens, I will remember this moment. And I will ensure that Penfield remembers it too. But just now I hold my tongue.
'And tell Morgan I want to see him this evening. Alone.’
He pivots, and stalks to the end of the alley, where he rejoins the stream of pedestrians. He looks like one of them now: just another grey man in a coat, a banker with the usual troubles; something in the City.
11
* * *
Returned to Carltons, my first port of call is the Dealing Room. No-one is kicking a football this time. But that’s because almost n- one is here. Each desk is the same: vacant chairs, and the few remaining dealers sitting quietly. The rest have gone. More than half our Dealing Room have walked out.
‘Where you been?'
Unbelievably, Henry actually smiles when he asks me this.
I gesture around the Room, struggling to keep the fear from my voice. ‘What’s this? What's going on?’
He looks around calmly. ‘No point everyone hangin’ about spreading rumours. When they got their books square, I sent them home.’
I make a sound: relief. Henry mistakes it for displeasure. I ask how our global position looks now, and he reads me our outstanding positions, the ones we haven’t been able to close out or roll over. Most of our interest rate exposure is covered. ‘Forex, not so good,’ he says.
One of the few remaining dealers calls across, ‘Henry!’ Henry swivels. The dealer swings his phone like a lasso. ‘They knocked us back for the fifty bucks.’ Fifty million US dollars.
'Try someone else,’ Henry tells him.
The dealer watches his handpiece whirling overhead, then catches it. ‘Yeah, right,’ he says despondent.
Henry gives me a look. He suggests I might want to let the positions run. This would leave Carltons at the market’s mercy, the bank would become little more than a casino chip. I don’t understand Henry’s smile at first. Then I do.
‘You think that might be fun?’
Not fun exactly, he says, but interesting.
Traders. Vance is right, these people really are not normal.
Reaching across, I tap the button marked Bank of England. ‘If you can’t raise anyone else in fifteen minutes, call them. They’ll take whatever we’ve got left. Interesting, I really don’t need.’
‘They called earlier,’ Henry informs me. When I look blank he adds, ‘The Old Lady. Checkin’ on rumours in the market, what’s happenin’, blah-blah- blah. Sounded jumpy.’
‘So what did you tell them?’
‘Everything I know. Sweet FA.’
Henry then recounts two wild and implausible stories he's been hearing. He keeps looking away, I have the impression I’m not getting the truth. And there seems to be a rather big omission.
‘Daniel was killed last week, Henry. That’s not part of the rumours doing the rounds?’
Henry circles some numbe
rs with his pencil, concentrating hard. It occurs to me that he is trying to spare my feelings.
‘Speak to me, Henry.’
He drops the pencil. ‘They reckon Daniel put some deals in the bottom drawer. The losses got too big, he was gonna be tumbled, so he topped himself.’
‘Suicide?’ I can’t keep the surprise from my voice. ‘That’s ridiculous. Daniel was murdered.’
‘You wanted the rumour.’
So I did. And when I recover from my surprise I turn this one over. Bad deals tucked away in a bottom drawer do not stay hidden for ever: sooner or later they explode. At a stretch, I can see how this suicide theory might have gained currency.
‘And what’s your theory, Henry?’
‘My theory is, theories are crap.’ He picks up his pencil and points to the door. ‘You wanna theory, go see Billy Bullshit.’
12
* * *
In the corridor I meet Sir John. He accompanies me back toward my office, explaining that Matthew Harris has phoned.
‘I'm just going to see him,’ he says.
I jerk my head back towards the Dealing Room. ‘He hasn’t reopened our trading line.’
When I cross to my desk, Sir John stays by the door. ‘He’s asked for a few more hours, Raef. It’s not entirely in his hands.’
‘He’s got till eight tomorrow morning. They open our line and trade with us then, or we drop them in it. Make sure he understands. No extensions. No excuses.’
Sir John disappears down the corridor. Becky puts her head in to tell me that Vance is on his way to see me. ‘And Allen Fenwick from the FT's been trying to get you.’
Great, I think dismally. The press is onto this already. I instruct her that if Femwick calls again, she is to refer him to Gary Leicester.
‘And Mr Johnstone called again,’ she says.
Johnstone, the cock-up, who we fired. I give her a warning look, and she withdraws. I’m not sure I could trust myself with Johnstone just now.
Vance, when he enters, is beaming. ‘Three cheers for young Master Haywood,’ he says dropping into a chair.
I am disoriented for a second, completely lost: this is not the time for good cheer.
‘Ian Parnell took a fall,’ he says. ‘Haywood hacked back to the stables with him.’ The hunt. ‘Pair of them spent the afternoon in the pub apparently. All very chummy.’ Vance pauses for effect. ‘Ian Parnell wants out.’
My smile is forced. Vance thinks I haven’t grasped his point.
‘Raef, Ian Parnell wants to accept the Meyer bid. Haywood’s setting up a private meeting tomorrow. If this comes off, we’re home.’
‘No we're not.’
He looks at me askance. Evidently news of the freeze-out in the Dealing Room has somehow passed him by.
‘Stephen, we’re in trouble here. Maybe serious.’ Then I lay it all out for him, recounting the events of the afternoon. The only interruption he makes is when I tell him about my conversation with Roger Penfield: at this, Vance moans. Concluding the sorry tale, I ask if he has any ideas. He sinks into himself, thinking. To Vance this probably has the makings of an interesting corporate banker’s puzzle. But initially all he can offer is that we need to twist some arms.
‘Sir John’s working on it,’ I say. Vance looks sceptical. He knows nothing of Sir John’s arrangement with the clearer, and I have no intention of enlightening him now. It is just the kind of cosy deal he despises. If he heard of it, I wouldn’t put it past him to resign.
‘Your father would be more useful than Sir John,’ he suggests. ‘Does he know what's happening?’
‘Not yet.’
Vance seems to read what’s in my mind. ‘Something like this, it isn’t your fault, Raef. No-one’s going to blame you. Your father’s got more clout than Sir John. Call him.’
Henry comes in. ‘All done,’ he says, giving Vance a quick nod. ‘Old Lady rolled it over to Monday. Everyone’s gone home except the nightdesk. They've got orders to watch the screens and sit on their hands.’ Then from behind his back, he produces a bottle of champagne. He asks if we’d like to wish him Happy Birthday.
The very last thing I feel like, but it would be churlish to refuse. So I go and fetch the glasses. Henry pops the cork, and the three of us kick back for a minute with the champagne. We discuss the events of the afternoon, crossing and recrossing the same ground: what happened, when and why. Finally it’s Vance who says what’s on all our minds.
‘It has to be connected with Daniel.’
Henry, loyal to the memory of the man who watched over his career, remarks that the rumours of Daniel hiding deals are just bullshit. I stare into my glass, thinking about that fraud note. Neither one of these two knows. Then Henry remembers something else.
‘Sandersons were turning us down yesterday.’
‘They’re too small,’ I say. ‘This is the whole market.’
Vance sets his glass aside. ‘Lyle?’
‘We don’t know that.’
‘No,’ Vance agrees. ‘But he sounds to me like the number one candidate for stirring this up. And if it is him, I’ll wring his bloody neck.’
The truth is I’ve had the same uneasy suspicion myself. But suspicion isn’t certainty, and I tell them both not to go off half-cocked.
‘So, what?’ Henry interjects. ‘We let them screw us?’
‘Leave it to me,’ I say. ‘There’ll be some trading lines open in the morning.’ He doesn’t seem convinced. He swigs the last of his drink, then rises as I tell him that I’m sorry about ruining his party.
‘I’m gettin’ too old for that shit anyway. You did me a favour.’
Once Henry has gone, Vance and I sit silent a moment, reflecting on our troubles. Then he says, ‘You know this isn’t a maybe, Raef. This has got to be Lyle. He’ll use it to save Parnells.’
‘This is a Dealing Room problem.’
'Tell that to Lyle’s PR people.’ Vance waves a hand. ‘By the time they’ve finished with it, we’ll all look like monkeys.’
Chewing his lip, he goes over and flicks on the screen, calling up the closing price on Carltons. I see the name but not the number, so I ask him how much we're down.
'35p on the day. Last deal a sell.’ When I remark that it could have been worse, Vance flicks off the screen and watches till the shrinking star of light disappears. ‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘By tomorrow morning, it will be.’
13
* * *
‘The things I’m hearing, Jesus, who wants to use the phone?’ Keith Trevalyn, hands in his pockets, leans into the cold wind as we talk. We are at St Katharine’s Dock, close by his office. ‘I thought Carltons was meant to be having a good year,’ he says.
‘We are.’
He grunts. There’s a metallic jangling from the yachts moored in the artificial lagoon; the wind whistles in the masts, and the stays hum. We pass into darkness nearer the river. ‘By the way,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry about Daniel.’
I nod a cursory acknowledgement. But when he asks after Celia, I remind him that he said he had something to tell me.
‘Yeah.’ He stops at the river-wall and looks out over the dark water. ‘You won’t like it.’
‘Try me.’
‘We’re not having such a great year ourselves,’ he says. ‘I tell you, the way it's looking I’m not worried about my bonus these days. More my job.’
His job. Now I see where this is going. I ask him if it’s really that bad.
‘Reuters. Electronic dealing systems.’ Still gazing over the river, he pronounces his verdict. ‘We’re history. Ancient history.’
‘It’s possible we'll need another senior dealer at Carltons soon. If we do, Keith, you’re top of the list.’
He nods without enthusiasm. ‘When you called up, I thought, “Here’s my chance”. Then I do the ring-round. Jesus.’
‘I’ll help you if I can.’
‘The way I hear it, Raef, that's a fucking big “if”.’
A horn blasts somewhere
down-river, we both turn. When I look back to him he’s staring across at the far bank again.
‘Okay,’ he says, ‘this is what I hear. The big rumour is Daniel. He was hiding deals and they blew up in his face. Suicide.’ He pauses. ‘That’s bullshit, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well that won’t stop our knuckleheads from spreading it. No-one else either. I picked up about four variations on the theme in half an hour.’ He looks at me. ‘There’s another story too. One that’s real enough to get your line pulled everywhere.’
‘Ahha?’
‘You really don’t have a clue, do you.’
‘Keith-’
‘The story is you reneged on a payment.’
I sway back. ‘We what?’
‘Some deal done last Friday,’ he says, ‘payment due yesterday: it didn’t reach the counterparty’s account.’
He gives me the details. The story is that Carlton Brothers has refused to pay a legitimate obligation of some two million pounds; not a large sum, but were it true, a betrayal of trust that would make our name dirt everywhere. If we’ve reneged on one payment, the reasoning goes, what’s to stop us from reneging on another?
‘That's rubbish,’ I say. ‘A bloody lie.’
Keith tells me not to shoot the messenger.
‘And people believe it? They don’t ask me — no-one’s asked me - they just believe it?’ I slap the river wall. I thought I’d seen the worst of the City, but this craven shrinking back from Carltons because of a lie, it plumbs new depths. I swear. Loudly.
Keith looks embarrassed. Like everyone else, apparently, he’d assumed the story was true. ‘You’ve been badly stitched up,’ he decides.
I thank him, ironically, for his belated vote of confidence. ‘Where’s the story coming from?’
He takes out a handkerchief. ‘All over the place. Look, I can ask till I’m blue in the face, but that’s it, I won’t get any more.’ He blows his nose.
I have a feeling that I already know the answer to my next question, but I ask it anyway. ‘Who are we meant to have reneged on?’
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