Due Diligence

by Grant Sutherland

  Other voice: Very funny. I show you 55- 60, you show me 52-62. You good dealer. Very quick, lah.

  The tone is suddenly more friendly. I have an awful feeling that I know what is about to happen.

  Jamie: Yeah.

  Jamie actually laughs. A nervous laugh of relief; he thinks it’s all over.

  Other voice: Ten point spread, should be good for a hundred dollars, lah. Should be.

  Now the dealer from Bank Bunara laughs, and Jamie, completely lulled, joins in.

  Jamie: Yeah.

  Other voice: Hundred yours! . . . I send you the fax.

  There is a click, and then silence; it really is over now, so I stop the tape.

  Hugh removes his headphones, he turns to me. ‘It was a stitch-up,’ he says.

  I nod. Owen Baxter’s unusual lapse last Wednesday night is now explained. As Jamie tried to tell me later, when I was too busy to listen, it wasn't Owen’s fault. It was Jamie who made the mistake.

  Hugh asks if we lost much on the deal.

  ‘That’s not what worries me.’ I tap the timer: 1.24 a.m. Then I rewind the tape till I find the last time Owen speaks: 1.03 a.m. Next I wind forward, past 1.24 a.m., searching for the next time his voice comes. Finally I locate it.

  Owen: Brad? Owen. Put me on your box. I need to see everything you get in Dollar/ Yen.

  Owen's voice has a desperate edge. He’s speaking to a New York broker, getting ready to trade out of the 100 million dollar position young Jamie has landed him with.

  Hugh lowers his headphones. ‘So now Owen’s back.’

  Taking off my headphones, I point to the timer again: 1.47 a.m.

  ‘He’s back,’ I agree. ‘But where the hell has he been?’

  15

  * * *

  Jamie sits quietly, one hand on his headphones, and listens. As the tape plays, we watch his face turn red. When the timer hits 1.24 a.m., I stop the tape. For a while Jamie just sits there, then at last he peels off the headphones. ‘Am I fired?’

  ‘Where was Owen while this was going on?’

  Jamie tells us it wasn’t Owen’s fault. I repeat my question.

  ‘He said he was going for a leak. We couldn’t find him.’

  ‘What happened after they stuffed you?’ Hugh asks.

  ‘Dollar/Yen tanked. Those bastards dumped it everywhere, it really wasn’t Owen's fault.’

  ‘Who went to look for Owen?’

  ‘Me.’

  ‘Where did you look?’

  ‘The toilets.’ Jamie gestures to the door. ‘All along here. The offices. Up in the restaurant.’

  ‘You couldn’t find him?’

  ‘No. I went back to the desk, it was pretty crazy.’

  Hugh asks how long it was before Owen finally showed up again.

  ‘Ten minutes?’ Jamie says. ‘Not long, anyway. It felt like hours.’ He studies his hands. This is, without doubt, the worst moment of Jamie’s short career.

  Hugh looks at me over Jamie’s head. Silently he mouths the question, ‘Where’s Owen now?’ So I ask Jamie that.

  ‘I don’t know. I think he said he was going skiing somewhere for a few days.’

  ‘Where? The Continent?’

  ‘Yeah. I think he said Switzerland.’

  Hugh swears softly. Jamie repeats his earlier confession, that the mistake was his fault, not Owen’s.

  ‘I don’t want to get him in trouble,’ he says.

  I tell him not to repeat a word of this to anyone. He’s still apologizing for his mistake as I show him out the door.

  ‘Lad should consider a career change,’ Hugh remarks, when I come back in. 'Too pleasant for this business.’

  ‘Switzerland,’ I say.

  ‘Owen’s on the proprietary desk, isn’t he? e could dabble wherever he liked from there. And he gave Henry the Twintech slip just now. And he went missing at the same time Daniel was murdered.’

  I slap my forehead. ‘That night. Hell. Wednesday night, he was only looking after the nightdesk because Daniel put him there.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Daniel said it was punishment for something else, some stupid deal Owen’d done.’ I groan, seeing at last what I’ve been missing all along. ‘If Daniel suspected Owen was involved with Twintech, if he thought Owen was my patsy in the Dealing Room, what else would he do? He couldn’t sack him, that would've alerted me.’

  Now Hugh sees what I’m getting at. ‘So Daniel shoved Owen onto the nightdesk to keep a better eye on him?’

  ‘Owen was isolated there. He wouldn’t have any chance to do what he just did with Henry. He couldn’t cover his tracks.’

  Hugh ponders a moment.‘If Owen guessed Daniel was onto him, then Owen had a motive as well.’

  We look at one another. Then Henry comes in, knocking at the open door.

  ‘They think Owen went home.’ He hands me a slip of paper. ‘That’s his number and address.’

  The address is in Notting Hill Gate. Henry’s still waiting for an explanation as we rush past him out the door.

  16

  * * *

  ‘Flat battery,’ Hugh says, switching off his mobile’.‘We can’t wait, Raef.'

  Sliding open the glass partition, I hand Owen’s address through to my driver. We will just have to tell Ryan later.

  We go up the Strand, and Piccadilly, to Hyde Park Corner, then up to Marble Arch. Then passing Lancaster Gate, Hugh suddenly asks me what Owen Baxter is like.

  ‘A good trader. Not someone I’d have over for dinner.’

  ‘Violent?’

  ‘You mean can I imagine him shooting Daniel?’

  He turns his head; not what he meant at all. ‘Did I ever give you my Couchet arrest story?’ he says. ‘It was in Paris. I ferreted away at Monsieur Couchet’s accounts for six months, I thought I’d finally nailed him. When we got the order for his arrest, I tagged along with the gendarmerie.’ He screws up his face at the memory. ‘They didn’t want me there. They thought I was up to something with Couchet. They told me that later. It was “quelle dommage’ and “beaucoup apologies’ later.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘We went trooping up to his flat, me and three gendarmes. They knocked on his door. Couchet invites us in. Old man, over seventy, the first time I met him he was charming. Next time he had a lawyer and an accountant with him, and after that it was all downhill. Anyway, the gendarmerie told Couchet why they were there.’

  'To arrest him.’

  'Right. He'd ripped off some pretty big fish. He knew his number was up. But when they told him he was under arrest he just looked like “no problem”. He asked if he could get a few things first.’ Hugh repeats it to himself. ‘A few things.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘A gun,’ Hugh says. ‘When he came back out of his study, he tried to shoot me.’

  I look at Hugh. The memory has turned him white. He is not joking.

  ‘You weren’t hit?’

  ‘Not me. One of the gendarmes was. In the spine.’ Hugh turns and looks out at the traffic rushing by. A light perspiration beads on his brow. ‘Seven years ago. And he’s still in a wheelchair.’

  We turn up by Queensway, and the remainder of our journey passes in a sober and thoughtful silence.

  17

  * * *

  Owen’s house is a Victorian terrace at the end of a row.

  Crossing the street, Hugh suggests that I stay out of sight for a moment. ‘If he sees you on the security camera, he might not open the door.’

  He points to the neighbouring doorway, and I go and stand there. Hugh rings Owen’s bell, he presses it twice before Owen answers on the intercom.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Mr Baxter?’ Hugh says. ‘I'm from the council. We’ve adjusted the tax-band in this street downward, I just need your signature.’

  Owen doesn't reply. After a few seconds Hugh looks across at me, and I signal for him to push the doorbell again. When he shakes his head, I step out from my hiding-place. He gestures a
ngrily for me to go back, but right then the door suddenly opens; and there is Owen.

  He focuses on Hugh first, then he looks across and sees me. The scene freezes. Me looking at Owen, and him looking at me. Before Owen can recover, Hugh rams his shoulder hard against the door. There is a crunching noise, and someone bellows in pain.

  I move fast, following Hugh through the breach, and in the hallway we find Owen bent double, hands over his face, and swearing. There appears to be blood. Hugh looks at me apologetically.

  ‘Fuck,’ Owen says. ‘Fuck.’

  Still bent double, he turns and stumbles down the hall, a trail of red droplets forming on the pale wooden floor behind him. We follow him into the kitchen. Hugh keeps asking if he’s okay.

  Owen hangs his face over the sink. ‘You broke my fuckin' nose.' He snorts blood.

  Hugh wets a tea-towel, Owen snatches it and starts dabbing. This isn’t working out as we’d planned.

  ‘Owen,’ I say. ‘This is Hugh Morgan. He’s an investigating accountant. He has a few questions for you.’

  ‘Jesus H. Christ! Questions? What about my 'fuckin’ nose?’ Owen splashes his face. He doesn't sound quite so bad this time.

  ‘Concerning Twintech,’ Hugh puts in.

  Owen pivots now, and stabs a finger in Hugh’s direction. ‘That was assault. I’m gonna do you for fuckin’ assault.’ Blood trickles from both nostrils, but the nose doesn’t look broken. When the blood touches his top lip, he swears again and turns back to the sink.

  Hugh fetches a roll of kitchen towels from near the bread bin, and for the next few minutes we watch Owen tear off sheets as he tries to staunch the flow of blood. The kitchen smells of detergent. All the shiny black surfaces have the look of being lifted from a magazine, a bachelor’s idea of good taste. Expensive enough, but this is one life that a million and a half pounds worth of fraud could have changed. Finally Owen faces us again, holding a crumpled sheet to his nose. He says he’s going to find a doctor.

  ‘You’re going nowhere,’ Hugh mutters.

  Owen lunges at him, and Hugh darts around the table. When I step between them, Owen tries to jostle me aside.

  ‘Get out of my fuckin’ house,’ Owen shouts, pushing me.

  And right then something in me gives way. I grab Owen and drive him backwards; he slams into the fridge door. I hold him there, my hands on his throat, and I begin, quite deliberately, to throttle him. His eyes open wide. He kicks, but I just keep right on squeezing. Hugh shouts my name, but that doesn’t touch me either. Owen clutches at me, struggling. I have him in my hands, the man that killed Daniel. Steadily I squeeze.

  And the next moment I’m on my back, Hugh has his knee planted on my chest, and Owen is slumped at the table, holding his throat and trying to breathe.

  ‘Jesus, Raef,’ Hugh says.

  Lifting his knee from my chest, he casts an anxious glance at Owen as I sit up. Owen coughs and tries to swallow. Blood drips from his nose. Hugh brings over the roll of kitchen-towel and puts it down at Owen’s elbow.

  ‘Fuck,’ Owen says. When he asks for water, Hugh fetches him a glassful.

  After a few seconds I get to my feet. My hands, I notice, are trembling. All that rage, where did it come from? Hugh points to the far end of the table, and I go and sit there, a good distance from Owen. Owen drinks his water and towels his nose, glancing nervously my way.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Hugh asks him, and Owen nods, he seems to have recovered.

  ‘What the fuck is this?’

  ‘We told you,’ Hugh says. 'Twintech.’

  Owen doesn’t respond. He dabs at the blood while I produce the list of Twintech deals from my pocket. Hugh takes it and smooths out the page. Then he reads the numbers aloud. After half a dozen deals, he stops and looks at Owen. ‘Twintech,’ he says.

  ‘And there was one went through today,’ I add. ‘This afternoon in CTL.’

  Owen holds the kitchen towel to his nose, saying nothing.

  ‘Owen, why did Daniel put you on the nightdesk last week?’

  ‘Bananas,’ he mumbles through the towel. ‘I got caught long in that stupid banana market, some idiot dumped two barrowloads in reception.’ The same reason Daniel gave me: Owen, bored, got involved in one of those dealers’ games. When it went wrong, Daniel sent onto the nightdesk as a punishment.

  ‘So where did you disappear to on Wednesday night?’

  Owen goes to the sink, his back is turned to us. ‘Nowhere,’ he says. He opens the tap and says something about calling a doctor. But he doesn’t mean it this time, the fight seems to have gone out of him. He knows now that this is serious. It looks, at last, like he might even be thinking.

  ‘We’ve listened to the tapes. You went missing between 1.03 and 1.47 a.m.’

  ‘Because I’m not on the tapes doesn’t mean I wasn't there.’

  ‘We’ve spoken to your colleagues. You weren’t there.’

  Owen faces us, a fresh towel to his nose. ‘Maybe I went for a leak. ‘Last Wednesday, I mean give me a break.’

  ‘They couldn’t find you in the building,’ Hugh tells him.

  ‘They didn’t look hard enough.’

  ‘They couldn’t find you because you weren’t there. You were gone for three quarters of an hour.’

  Owen tilts his head right back, eyes to the ceiling. But there’s no fresh blood on the towel. I have the impression he’s simply buying a few seconds in which to think. When he drops his head again he says, ‘So we took a loss, big fuckin’ deal. We came out square on the night.’

  ‘Inspector Ryan isn’t interested in how much money the bank lost,’ Hugh says.

  Owen does a double-take. ‘You what?’

  ‘Ryan questioned everyone on the boat that night, from the party. You weren’t there, so he didn’t question you.’

  ‘What is this bullshit?’

  Owen takes the towel from his nose, he’s stopped bleeding. When I rap the table with my knuckles, he looks my way.

  ‘Daniel was murdered that night. Right around when you went missing.’

  ‘Hey,’ he says raising his hands. ‘Hey. Nothin’ to do with me. No fuckin’ way.’

  ‘The Bank of England knows about the Twintech fraud. And Inspector Ryan’s waiting to hear from us.’

  Tapping a forefinger on the table, I conclude, ‘If you have any kind of explanation Owen, now’s the time.’

  A cornered rat could not look more frightened. His bravado deserts him completely, he steps forward and drops into a chair. He rests his elbows on the table, and puts his hands to his face. Blood begins to trickle from his nose again, he lifts his head, looking around helplessly. Hugh hands him another towel.

  ‘It wasn’t a fraud,’ Owen says, wiping the blood. ‘It was a systems check.’

  Hugh snorts in derision. ‘A what?’

  Behind his bloody towel, Owen mutters, ‘Ask Aldridge.’

  For a second the world tilts, as though everything is knocked completely askew. Charles Aldridge and Twintech?

  ‘Why come breaking down my fuckin’ door?’ Owen whines.

  When I look at Hugh he’s shaking his head: he doesn’t believe a word of Owen’s story. Recovering, I tell Owen that he’d better explain.

  ‘Explain what? He asked me to put through some deals. Keep it quiet, he said. The audit committee needed to check our systems.' Owen is all wide-eyed innocence.

  ‘Daniel wasn’t told?’

  ‘Search me. Ask Aldridge.’

  ‘Who chose Twintech’s deals?’ I ask.

  ‘Look, what is this shit?’

  ‘And you reported the deals to Aldridge?’

  Owen nods. Then he pauses as if he’s just figured it out, the reason for us bursting into his house like this, and the meaning of all these questions. ‘Jesus, he was telling you guys, wasn’t he?’

  I turn to Hugh. He is watching Owen carefully now. Intently.

  ‘Shit.’ Owen suddenly stands, his chair topples over. ‘If he wasn’t, I’ll kill the bast
ard.’ He thumps the table with his fist, and the fruit bowl jumps. Not a very convincing display of outraged anger.

  Hugh says, ‘You didn’t explain where you were that Wednesday night.’

  ‘He called me. Aldridge. He wanted to meet me.’

  ‘At St Paul’s Walk?’

  ‘No fuckin’ way. Down at Cannon Street. He didn’t show up, so I went back to the office.’

  Hugh tells him he’d better think of something a little more believable before he sees Inspector Ryan. Owen’s mouth drops open.

  Hugh nods to the phone in the hallway. ‘No skiing for you this weekend. You want to call and cancel?’

  Owen is absolutely gutted. The terrible reality has descended on him at last: after twelve months of pulling the wool over everyone’s eyes, he has finally been caught. He stands gaping, then like a sleepwalker he wanders out to the hall. We watch him make the call.

  Lowering his voice, Hugh says, ‘Worst piece of acting I ever saw.’

  ‘You think he’s lying?’

  Hugh rolls his eyes. ‘The man’s a crook, of course he’s lying. What else can he do?’

  ‘What about Aldridge?’

  ‘Bollocks. You employed me to catch your fraudster.’ He points to the hall. ‘That’s him. And if you ask me, he’s probably the murderer too. But once we take him down to Ryan, my job’s over. Whatever else Ryan or Penfield can shake out of him isn’t my concern.’

  Perhaps not, but it might well be mine. I ask Hugh if he’d consider staying with this for a couple more days.

  He looks at me very directly. ‘No,’ he says.

  I can see there’s no point arguing, he’s had enough of this case. Enough too, I suspect, of me.

  ‘And by the way. The next time you want to choke someone to death, leave me out of it.’

  We hear Owen’s conversation ending. I rise, asking if Hugh minds taking Owen on alone to see Ryan.

  ‘I’ve got some business to sort out with my father. Take Owen in my car, you’ll have the driver.’

  Owen overhears this as he returns from the hall. ‘Take Owen where?’ he says.