Due Diligence

by Grant Sutherland

  I look to the women, then back to Vance. I lean towards him, our faces are very close now.

  ‘Somethings changed,’ I say quietly.

  For a second, I think he’s going to take a swing at me, I have never seen him look more angry. But at last all he does is turn on his heel and walk away. The women join him as he passes, he doesn’t speak a word to either one: two tarts and a banker.

  Stephen Vance, my sometime mentor, has just become the most expensive pimp in town.

  FRIDAY

  1

  * * *

  No call from Vance. There were plenty of other calls before I fell asleep: from my father, Hugh Morgan, Ryan, the journalists and fund managers, but none from Stephen Vance. Now when I wake the first thing I do is reach for the phone and call him. But he’s switched off his mobile, and at his home I get the answering machine. Crawling out of bed, I check the clock: 6.30 a.m. After ringing my driver, I drag myself into the shower. During the next twelve hours the fate of Carlton Brothers will be decided.

  Downstairs, eating toast, I make more calls. Gary Leicester hasn’t heard from Vance either, he wants to know if there’s anything new he can feed the press. I tell him he’ll have to keep pushing the same line, and that Vance should be in contact soon. Next I call Gordon Fields, his wife answers. She says he’s already left for the office. Good old Gordon. I consider calling Sir John, but decide against it. He can’t help us now, and my father has probably spoken to him anyway.

  I drop my plate into the sink and drink my orange juice. No postponements now: if the market doesn’t finish us first, Penfield’s Unit moves in tonight. That, or Hugh traps the fraudster.

  At last I put down my cup and grab my briefcase. Then out in the hallway, on the doormat, I find an envelope. I pick it up and turn it over as I open the door. Raef, it says. The handwriting’s Theresa’s, but there's no address, and no stamp. Pulling the door right open, I look out: the pavement is empty both ways.

  In the car I flick distractedly through the FT for ten minutes, trying to concentrate: Carlton Brothers has received a dishonourable mention in the ‘Lex’ column this morning, there’s speculation, yet again, on a possible bid from Sandersons. There’s a short piece on the Meyer bid, too, but nothing new. Finally I put the paper aside and take the envelope from my pocket. It’s years now since I received a letter from my wife. She used to send them all the time when we were engaged and first married; New York, Singapore, everywhere I went, I’d find them waiting at my hotel when I returned from the day’s work. But nothing for years, and now this. A hard knot forms in my stomach as I tear the envelope open.

  Three pages.

  Raef,

  I wanted to talk with you on Wednesday night — really talk, not argue - but there we were again, squabbling, and I didn’t get a chance to say what I meant. I hope you don’t think this is too cowardly a letter. It’s just that I can think first, and write what I mean, instead of meeting you and getting into another stupid quarrel. I’m sick of all that, I think we both are.

  I’m sorry. That’s what I want to say most of all. I know I’ve told you before, and I know being sorry can’t change one bit of what’s happened, you have every right to hate me, but it’s true, Raef, from the bottom of my heart, I’m sorry.

  It’s stupid to try and explain, so I won’t, but there are some things I've been thinking about that I wanted to tell you. I’ve thought about us a lot lately, about our marriage and how it was before all this. Raef, I don’t write this to hurt you, but those last few years before Annie was born, I really was desperately unhappy. When we married, I knew you had plans for the bank, I just never realized it would mean I wouldn’t see you for weeks at a time, or that when I did see you, you’d be too tired to do anything but sleep. (God, I sound like my mother.) Anyway, I can’t pretend I liked it. And when you kept putting off having children, that made everything so much worse. I went to see a doctor. Clinical depression, he said. He recommended a psychiatrist, but I never went. I never told you that, did I.

  I read those last few lines again. The things we glimpse but refuse to see. Clinical depression. My wife.

  I know that doesn’t excuse anything, but it might help you understand how the rest of it happened. What I told you about Daniel was true too. It wasn't an affair, it was just the one time, he was drunk, and it was my fault, not his. You know how weak he was sometimes. He never came near me again, except if Celia or you were there. I think he was as ashamed as I was. Even after Annie’s diagnosis, when Daniel went to the hospital for the tests, he could barely look at me. He told me he’d do whatever he could to help save Annie, but that was all. After he’d done that he’d walk away. He wasn’t Annie’s father. He said that, and it’s true, Raef. In any way that matters, you’re Annie’s father.

  Now Daniel’s dead, and that still seems completely unreal. Celia’s asked me to go to the funeral, but if you’re going, and you don’t want me there, let me know, And I think you should go, Raef. Even after this terrible mess, he would have wanted that.

  I don’t want us to finish like this, Raef. I don’t want us to finish at all, but if you want a divorce I won’t make it difficult. I’ve been seeing the press reports about Carltons and I spoke to your father this morning. He didn’t say much but I could tell he was worried. I don't need an answer by Saturday — about the divorce, I mean — you’ve got enough to think about right now. But later, when things are quieter, we’ll have to talk.

  The last thing I wanted to say was about Annie. None of this is her fault. I couldn’t forgive myself if she grew up thinking she wasn’t wanted, and I’m afraid that might happen if you're not sure what you feel about her. If we get divorced it won’t matter so much (I’ll never stop you seeing her, though) but if we try to stay together I’ve got to be sure you want Annie too. It just wouldn’t work otherwise, I think you realize that. I’ve made some terrible mistakes, Raef. There are so many things I’d change if I could, but the truth is — and I hope you can understand it - I wouldn’t change Annie for the world. But if you can’t understand that, it would be wrong of us to even try to stay together.

  But I do want to try, Raef, I’m sure of that. If you can somehow bring yourself to forgive me, and if you can still love Annie, that’s what I want most of all, the chance to try.

  Anyway, when things are sorted out at the bank, I hope you’ll think over what I’ve said.. Please think it over carefully, Raef. There’s nothing else to say.

  All my love,

  Theresa.

  I read the letter twice. Theresa. I think. Theresa, how in God’s name can I trust you? Daniel meant nothing, yet you bore his child? You meant nothing to him, but he was ready to divorce Celia? Finally I slip it into my pocket. The words are ashes. Outside the first pedestrians are hurrying to their work, the streetlamps glowing orange in the morning dark. Rain falls in torrents on the passing umbrellas. It will be weeks yet before the first signs of spring.

  2

  * * *

  ‘Don’t look so worried.’ This from Hugh Morgan, who has nothing riding on the day but his fee. I remind him of that, and he laughs. ‘You chose the risk business,’ he says, ‘don’t blame me.’

  The lift opens and we go through to Settlements where his PC is set up where we left it yesterday. I ask him what else he needs.

  ‘Keycard for the door.’ Hugh looks around. ‘Coffee machine?’

  Pointing to the machine in the far corner, I tell Hugh that Becky will bring a keycard up for him later.

  He sits and runs through the procedure, miming the actions. ‘Right. So one of the girls comes in here with the deal-slips. I take a look — no Twintech — I give them back. She takes them to be processed, I drink my coffee.’

  ‘Karen might start badgering you. If she does, send her down to see me.’

  ‘Sounds like a pain.’

  ‘Compliance. Part of the job description,’ I say ‘Gordon knows you’re here; he’s told the senior girls.’

  Hugh want
s to check his trap one last time, so I give him my mobile number and go down to the Dealing Room.

  Henry and several other dealers are already in. Selecting an empty desk, I punch Twintech into the system. Hugh rings immediately: everything is in order. So I delete Twintech’s name.

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  Henry. I turn to find him at my elbow. ‘Nothing,’ I tell him, pocketing my phone. ‘A glitch with the IT people. They’ve sorted it out.’

  Henry glances at the screen, now blank. ‘Dow’s up thirty points. Should give the Footsie a leg up.’

  ‘And Carltons?’

  ‘Can’t do us any harm,’ he decides. ‘You still buying?’

  ‘Depends if anyone wants to sell.’

  ‘Oh, there’ll be sellers,’ he assures me dryly. ‘Don’t worry about that.’

  As we walk towards the door, I ask him if he’s seen Vance.

  ‘He’s not in yet. By the way, I heard a whisper he's got something up his sleeve on the Parnells bid.’

  ‘Don’t worry about what he’s up to, just make sure the CTL paper gets offloaded when the market opens.’

  When I look up, Big Win is looking down at us through the glass wall of the restaurant; he’s dressed in a suit and tie — the first time I’ve seen him like this. He sees that I’ve seen him, but he doesn’t move. I wave, and he gazes down unsmiling.

  3

  * * *

  Win looks solemn, solemn and grave, not like himself at all. His dark suit is several sizes too big for him.

  ‘I have the meeting,’ he says levelly, ‘for Mr Ryan.’

  ‘You met Ryan?’

  Win shakes his head. He explains that he’ll be meeting Ryan at nine o’clock. I don’t quite know what to say to him. In Win’s mind the forthcoming meeting seems to have taken on a deadly earnest aspect. Perhaps I should call Ryan to warn him.

  ‘You don’t have to wear a suit, Win.’ Win frowns. ‘It’s good, though,’ I reassure him. ‘I’m glad you decided to see him. It’s the right thing. You won’t have any trouble.’

  ‘Mr Carlton. I say everything?’

  ‘Sure, you’ve got nothing to hide.’

  ‘He ask me who I see here.’

  I tell Win not to worry. ‘Ryan already knows Vance was here that Wednesday night. The nightdesk, too. Don’t worry.’

  ‘Miss Haldane?’ he asks hopefully.

  I have been edging back to the door, but this stops me dead. ‘Karen?’

  ‘She ask me was the party good. She come here.’ He gestures to the kitchen.

  No mistake, it was Karen; but what does this mean?

  ‘Did she say what she was doing?’

  In answer, Win turns his head.

  ‘Had she just arrived from somewhere? Was she on her way out? She must have said something, Win.’

  '"Working," she say.'

  ‘That’s it?’

  He nods. Ryan won’t like this when he hears; and I don’t much like it myself. Win sees my concern, he asks if I still think he should tell the Inspector everything. I would dearly like to tell him not to, at least until I’ve had a chance to figure this out. But after all of yesterday's pieties about having nothing to fear from the truth, I am trapped, hoist by my own petard.

  ‘Win, whatever he asks, just answer as best you can. You’ve got nothing to be afraid of.’

  ‘This will make trouble for her.’

  ‘Tell the truth and everything will be all right.’ This trite homily brings a crooked smile to Win’s face. Life, it seems, has taught him an altogether different lesson.

  4

  * * *

  Karen Haldane is watering her plants.

  ‘Karen.’

  ‘Just a minute.’

  She goes from the pot on her window-sill to the flourishing rubber-plant in the corner, mug in hand. She concentrates hard as she pours, the thin trickle comes with painful slowness. I have interrupted her early-morning routine. She finishes and places the mug back on the window-sill. ‘What are you going to do with Tony?’ she asks me bluntly.

  ‘I’m not here to discuss Mannetti.’

  ‘Haven’t you read my memo? It wasn’t Johnstone’s fault, I’ve interviewed Pauline again, it was Tony.’

  ‘Karen, where were you last Wednesday night?’

  She pauses. ‘What?’

  ‘Last Wednesday night. You weren’t at the party on the boat.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where were you?’

  She seems momentarily wrong-footed. ‘Wednesday?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Wednesday night.’

  She picks up her diary and flicks through it, but I have the impression she isn’t looking too closely. At last the diary snaps shut. ‘I was here.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Watering the plants.’ She drops the diary onto the desk. ‘I was working, Raef. I’ve been told that’s what I’m paid for. Is that a problem?’

  ‘Did you mention it to Inspector Ryan?’

  ‘That I was working late?’

  ‘Karen, did you tell Ryan you were here on Wednesday night? Yes or no.’

  She hesitates. ‘No,’ she admits at last.

  I really don’t understand this woman. And I wonder how Ryan is going to react when he hears. Badly, I imagine.

  ‘He didn’t ask me. Why should he?’

  ‘Don’t play games.’ I point. ‘You knew he was on Stephen’s back just because Stephen was here on Wednesday night.’

  ‘That’s different.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Stephen hated Daniel.’

  The firmness of this judgement sets me back on my heels.

  ‘He didn’t hate Daniel,’ I say.

  She takes off her glasses, and presses her fingertips to her eyes. ‘Yes, he did. He hated him. I never told Ryan that, how much Stephen hated him. I didn’t think anyone would want me to. I didn’t think you’d want me to, Raef. I still don’t.’

  I am suddenly lost; all at sea. What is she telling me, that she actually believes Stephen killed Daniel? I cling to the few facts I know like a drowning man to the wreckage.

  ‘Last Wednesday night Karen, Win Doi saw you here. And he’s just gone down to meet Ryan. On past form, you can expect Ryan knocking at your door within the hour.’

  She drops her hand. There are dark rings around her eyes, and the eyes are puffy and red.

  ‘Karen, do you want to tell me anything before he arrives?’

  ‘He might not come.’

  ‘Don't kid yourself.’

  She sits down, telling me she’ll deal with it when it happens. I glance up at the clock: the market is just about to open, I need to get my Carltons bid in right now. Heading for the door, I warn her, that this isn’t finished.

  ‘Where’s Stephen?’ she calls.

  ‘No idea. And I wouldn’t worry too much about him. You’ve got your own problems, Karen.’

  For the first time in years she doesn’t answer me back. She sits there quite still, looking down.

  5

  * * *

  ‘Bid 210,’ I tell the broker.

  ‘What’s the big rush?’ he calls back over the squawkbox.

  I glance at the dealing screen: no prices up yet. Settling into my chair, I ask him what he’s hearing in the market, and he gives me three minutes on everything that might have an impact on the Carltons share price: a general overview, then specific information picked up from his contacts. Apparently the City pubs were buzzing last night.

  ‘So what’s the consensus?’

  ‘No consensus. The big boys are staying out of it till they see which way it breaks.’

  The best news I’ve had for quite a while. The buying I did yesterday has raised serious doubts in a few minds, Carltons is no longer the one-way bet it appeared.

  ‘Bid 210 for how much?’ the broker asks.

  ‘Up to two million. But let me know how it’s going.’ I flick the switch, and swivel in my chair. Outside the clouds are lifting, a few sha
fts of sunlight slant down. Friday morning. This time last week I was up in the boardroom, and Sir John was breaking the news of Daniel’s murder to me. Seven days. As Penfield said, a long time in the City.

  There’s a knock at the door. Sir John.

  ‘Well,’ he says, coming in. ‘Quite a stir.’

  I begin to apologize for not keeping him as informed as he might have expected. In fact for the past two days I’ve had a job finding him, he keeps disappearing from his office. He waves a hand now, dismissing my apology.

  ‘So where are we?’ he says, coming around the desk. I tell him the market hasn’t opened yet, but that I have a bid in, ready. He enquires about yesterday’s trading, and I explain the position. ‘Anything I can do Raef?’

  ‘Becky’s being swamped by calls. Perhaps she could redirect some of them your way.’

  ‘Journalists?’

  ‘Fund managers, brokers, the whole bloody market.’

  He smiles encouragingly.

  The broker speaks to me over the box, but Sir John, to my mild annoyance, makes no move to leave. When I finish with the broker, I reach for some papers in a purposeful and businesslike way. But Sir John still doesn’t take the hint. Worse, he wanders across to the sofa and sits down. He senses my displeasure though.

  ‘This won’t take a minute, Raef.’ His elbows rest on his knees, his hands clasped. He seems to be building up to something. ‘I wanted to tell your father first, but I suppose he’ll know soon enough.’ He raises his eyes. ‘I’m retiring.’