I nod, and he shows himself out.
The voice in my ear keeps talking, saying he never really believed Carltons reneged on a deal; saying he'll look into it tomorrow; saying that he can’t make any promises.
I assure him, politely, that I quite understand.
15
* * *
Nights are the worst. For the past three months it’s usually been something in my dreams that wakes me, but not tonight. This time I simply open my eyes and stare into darkness. ‘Go to sleep,’ I used to tell Theresa when I woke to find her lying like this beside me. But I won’t sleep now, not until I’ve been downstairs, made a hot drink and maybe sat for a while. So after a minute I roll over and push back the bedclothes.
In the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil, I play a round of the Corporate Banker’s favourite game: Scenarios and Outcomes. Scenario One has everything going right from now on: we get all our trading lines back, Twintech turns out to be a chimera, Hugh and Inspector Ryan both find nothing, Carltons prospers as an independent merchant bank. But somehow at this late hour, sitting in bathrobe and slippers, I can’t quite bring myself to believe it. We’re already too far down a different road. Scenario Two is the bid: Sandersons launches a bid and gets us, or Sandersons launches a bid and we throw ourselves into the embrace of a white knight like American Pacific. Either way my family loses control of the bank. My father, I know, is preparing himself to accept this; but the best I can manage is to let the awful possibility skate briefly over my mind. Scenario Three, the big one, is full-scale disaster: the fraud is real, the whole Odin business comes out, Ryan arrests me on suspicion of Daniel’s murder, Annie is used as evidence, and the tabloids descend on my family. Even the glimpse I allow myself of this possibility starts a bead of perspiration down my neck. My hands turn moist. Please God, I think, not like that.
I take the hot drink through to the drawing room. If Scenario Three unfolds, I know exactly what will happen.
Slumped here in the armchair I try to relax, but instead the scenes of a family tragedy I witnessed five years ago come back to me. A slow-playing tragedy in which, month by month, the Amershams, a family much like my own, was destroyed. We’d had lunch with them just a fortnight before the news first broke in the press. Bernard Amersham was talking of buying more land, expanding the boundaries of their estate: I’m sure he had no idea what was coming. A week later his son James was arrested by the DEA in the States; that was enough for one tabloid headline. The parents were certainly embarrassed, but at that stage the charge wasn’t known. Only as the weeks passed, and they flew back and forth visiting their son, did it become clear how serious the problem was. James, it turned out, had invested family money in an air-freight business in Florida; and hand-in-hand with the legitimate business went a drugs distribution network covering most of the southern US. James claimed he had no idea, but the tabloids descended like a baying pack on the Amersham estate: one estate worker received five thousand pounds for her story of supposed debauches up at the big house; another sold photos taken in the Manor House bedrooms. And while these were being splashed across the tabloids, the full scale of James’ investment in the freight business came to light. He'd committed nearly everything, not just his own money, but his family’s. The Manor and a few hundred acres remained unencumbered, but almost every other asset was frozen pending the outcome of the DEA investigation. The investigation lasted almost two years. The Amersham saga became a running joke, a regular column in Private Eye.
But for those of us who watched at close quarters, there was nothing amusing in the family's fall. James’ sister, furious at her parents for letting it happen, walked out; she took her trust fund and disappeared to Australia. Bernard became ill. No sooner had his wife nursed him back to health than she collapsed. And through it all the lawyers had to be paid, the jubilant press dealt with, and the American investigators answered; it was a complete and utter dissolution of their lives.
James is in gaol now. The Amersham fortune and good name has largely gone. My father and I were driving by their house last summer, and on the spur of the moment we turned in. I can still remember the look on my father’s face when he realized the bent and shuffling figure putting out a sign for Teas in the Orangery was actually Bernard Amersham. ‘Don’t stop,’ my father told me in a shocked whisper. ‘Drive on.’ That’s what we did, straight back to the road, with neither of us speaking a word.
Now, here in the darkness of the drawing room, moist hand clasping my cup, I think of my own family. And I pray. I pray with all the strength I can muster. Please God, I pray, not like that.
THURSDAY
1
* * *
‘They should call any minute,’ Sir John says.
My father and I have arrived at the bank to find Sir John already at his desk. On my way through, I checked the Dealing Room; the dealers on the nightdesk told me that Henry waited till Tokyo opening last night before going home. It didn't help. The lie has gone global: no-one is accepting our name.
‘Had a rather torrid night of it,’ Sir John says, elaborating on his meeting with Harris and the others at the clearer. ‘They asked some very uncomfortable questions.’
‘You said they’re reinstating the line.’ He rang to tell me this at 2 a.m.
‘They’ll confirm it when they call. With luck, they’ll get one or two others on board.’
At the clearer they wants to cover their back. If they support Carltons alone now, it could invite queries about the relationship between us: the last thing they want is a journalist turning up our 'arrangement'. I’m pleased that Sir John's succeeded, but this really isn’t my kind of banking — my father’s either — and our congratulations are rather less than effusive. My father relates the results of his night’s work: he’s convinced half a dozen market players to deal with us again. I excuse myself and go back to my office.
Here I flick around the Reuters screens, checking prices: London trading hasn’t opened yet, and there’s no mention of Carltons on the news screens; that could change very suddenly. Gary Leicester calls.
‘So,’ he says. ‘What’s our story?’
I’ve spoken with him once already this morning, as soon as I woke. Like Sir John, he’s had a torrid night. He has been responding to a barrage of questions from the financial journalists about the rumours.
‘Just keep denying it,’ I tell him. ‘Anyone says they’re going to print it, you can put them through to me.’
‘They won’t disappear.’
‘They will if there’s no story for them, Gary.’
He tells me one of the broadsheets is going to run a piece on Daniel. ‘Their angle is he was tied in with some City suicide a few months back. I told them it was bullshit, but they’re running it anyway.’
I thank him for the warning.
‘I’m not sure I can hold these guys off much longer, Raef. If the situation at Carltons improves, they’ll go away. If it doesn’t . . . I do PR, not miracles.’
On that sombre note, our conversation ends.
Five minutes later my father comes to tell me that the expected call from Harris has come through. He can’t keep the relief from his voice.
‘They’re reopening the line.’
‘Who else?’
When he mentions the names of two more clearers, I take a deep breath, breathing out slowly. The pressure applied by Sir John has worked, we might get through this yet.
My father says he doesn’t think he can do any more, he has business at Westminster to attend to. ‘None of my lot should go back on their word.’ My lot, I presume, being those banks from whom he extracted promises last night. ‘If they do, call me, Raef. I’ll be back at lunchtime to see how you’re getting on. Unless you want me to stay now.’
But I decline the offer. It will be best if we maintain the illusion of normality. I can see he wants to say something else, but all he does finally is reach across and squeeze my arm, a gesture of affection and encouragement, before he
goes.
At boardroom tables around the City our fate is being decided. But it’s out of my hands now. I sit here, quite alone, and wait.
2
* * *
Activity: deals being done; numbers shouted. 8.30 a.m., and Henry and I stand in the Dealing Room surveying the scene. It’s not as it was two days ago, but there is life.
‘Must’ve been some arms you twisted,’ Henry remarks, and then we do a slow circuit of the Room together, stopping at various desks to chat with the dealers. There’s an almost palpable sense of relief in the air: they still have their jobs; their employer, it seems, is not going under. Owen Baxter shouts a profanity and everyone laughs, but the laughter has a strained quality - they’re trying too hard to be normal. The banks which made promises to my father have come through, and Sir John’s three clearers have reopened their lines to us. One of mine called-in-favours is already trading with us, and the other one’s reopening its line in an hour. We look like a Dealing Room; we look, for the moment, like we’re going to survive.
‘This permanent or temporary?’ Henry asks as we turn at the far end of the Room.
‘Permanent.’ I glance at him and smile. ‘In case anybody asks.’
Coming back down the second aisle, we pause by the bond desk: there are two empty chairs. Henry asks where this missing pair are, but no-one has seen them this morning. Henry doesn’t make a scene of it, he enquires about the gilts market, then strolls back with me to his own desk.
‘Those two have bolted. We’ll need replacements.’
I suggest that we should wait, that we can’t be sure they have gone.
‘I’m sure.’ Henry keep his voice low. ‘I heard they were sniffin’ around. Yesterday must’ve made up their minds. Two out of how many? After yesterday, you can’t complain, Raef.’
He is, I know, absolutely right. If all we’ve lost out of yesterday’s débacle is two bond dealers, we should be thankful.
I ask Henry to make a list of any bond dealers in the market looking for a change. He jots a note to himself. I don’t tell him right now, but I've just made my decision about Daniel’s replacement: it will be Henry. He has proved his mettle in the past twenty-four hours; at very least he deserves his chance. But this news can wait till Monday; in the meantime the job, and its responsibilities, are mine.
Out in the corridor I run into Vance. ‘Well?’ he says.
‘It looks all right. The lines are opening up, we’ll get through it.’
There is the hint of a smile. ‘Darren’s going to hate this.’
Then Vance’s face changes. I glance back over my shoulder to see what he’s looking at. Inspector Ryan. And just behind him, Hugh Morgan.
‘Mr Carlton,’ the Inspector says. ‘I presume your office is free.’
3
* * *
‘I could charge both of you.’ Ryan points at Hugh then at me. ‘Obstructing a police inquiry. Withholding evidence.’
‘Evidence of what?’ Hugh objects. ‘We haven’t got anything.’
Hugh just had time, before we entered my office, to tell me that Inspector Ryan has discovered I’m involved in carrying out Penfield’s investigation. Hugh whispered that Ryan wasn’t best pleased. And I can see that myself now. Ryan has a tight rein on himself, he isn’t shouting, but he is extremely angry.
‘We would’ve passed it on if we’d found something concrete,’ Hugh says. ‘We knew Penfield was keeping you informed.’
‘You aren’t the police, Mr Morgan. Neither of you. And nor is Penfield.’ He glares at Hugh. ‘Didn’t it occur to you that by stampeding through Shobai you might queer the pitch for us? Us, the police?’
‘Shobai has nothing to do with this.’
‘The gentlemen at Shobai gave you their word, I suppose.’
‘Daniel Stewart’s murder isn’t connected with Shobai. That’s my professional opinion.’
‘Your professional opinion cuts no ice here, Mr Morgan. Not after this cosy little operation you’re been running.’
Chastened, Hugh looks at the floor now, so I take up the baton.
‘You saw the fraud note? What was I meant to do, sit on my hands?’
But before Ryan can answer, Hugh speaks again. ‘Anyway why didn’t the Met follow it up straight off? You got me in for the Shobai suicide, why not for Stewart?’
‘For what it’s worth,’ Ryan says grimly, ‘we thought we had the fraud angle covered. Penfield assured me he had his own investigation underway. I received a daily report.’ Ryan looks at me. ‘Only Penfield’s report on Shobai arrived at the same time as I was taking a call from Shobai’s Treasurer about Mr Morgan here’s visit. I asked the Treasurer if any other investigator had been around. Apparently not.’
I take a moment with this. Then I ask Ryan if Penfield mentioned Carltons' other problems.
He nods. ‘You seem to be in the fortunate habit of receiving the benefit of the doubt, Mr Carlton. That isn’t something I’d rely on much longer.’ When I turn toward my chair he says, ‘I wouldn’t bother. We’re going out shortly.’
The significance of this remark eludes me.
‘Listen,’ says Hugh. ‘We’re as far along with this thing as anyone would’ve been. Whatever we’ve found, you’ve got. Penfield’s given us till tomorrow night, so what’s to stop us working this together? I mean, if this fraud thing's connected with Stewart’s murder, and we figure out the fraud, that must help you, no?’
‘You thought we might work together.’ Ryan’s tone is ironic.
‘We crack one, we crack them both,’ Hugh says. ‘If we pool what we have, we’d both stand a better chance. That's all I’m saying.’
Hugh doesn't seem so much like a trader now, more a corporate banker, wheedling an advantage. Ryan sniffs, but he sees that what Hugh is proposing makes sense.
‘My investigation isn’t a bargaining chip,’ he decides. ‘If you have information that might help me, you’re obliged to hand it over. So. Beyond what I’ve seen from Penfield, what do you have?’
‘Not much,’ Hugh says.
‘How much?’
‘Nothing,’ I cut in.
Ryan studies me a moment, then he turns to Hugh. ‘You can go now, Mr Morgan.’
Taken aback, Hugh asks if he can continue with his investigation of the fraud.
‘Your arrangement with Penfield still applies,’ Ryan tells him. ‘But from now on, you keep me directly informed.’
Ryan nods toward the door. Hugh has no choice now, and with an apologetic shrug to me, he departs. Ryan crosses to the window and looks out. ‘Morgan knows nothing about your daughter, I suppose?’
‘No.’
He continues to stare out, perhaps waiting for an explanation of why I, a suspect in Daniel’s murder, have chosen to become so deeply involved in an investigation of my own. At last he faces me again. ‘There’s something I’d like you to see.’
4
* * *
We take Ryan’s car, and after driving through the City streets we emerge by the river and continue a short way before he slows, mounts the pavement, and parks. He flips over a small sign on the dashboard: Metropolitan Police. Then we get out.
Walking by the river wall, he asks me, ‘You know where we are?’
I do. We’re approaching St Paul’s Walk, where Daniel was murdered. There’s a constant hum of traffic, and a cold breeze coming off the river.
‘Two people,’ Ryan says. ‘Early hours of the morning. Not much traffic — it’s drizzling anyway, so the drivers are all concentrating on the road. It’s dark. Who’s going to notice us?’ He leads me down the steps to the pedestrian underpass beneath Blackfriars. There are a few cardboard cartons along the wall, where the tramps sleep. ‘According to forensics, the muzzle was within inches of the point of entry when it was fired.’ A short way along he stops and rests against the river wall.
‘I’ve got a bank to run.’
‘I’m sure they can spare you awhile.’
This must be wher
e it happened, where Daniel died. When I shiver, Ryan asks if I’m cold.
‘What’s your point, Inspector?’
‘Let’s say I'm just sharing some information. What you wanted, isn’t it?’ When I make no comment, he goes on in that matter-of-fact tone. ‘The bullet entered at the base of the skull. Stewart died instantly.’
A sound escapes me, I cannot help it.
‘He slumped against this wall and slid down,’ Ryan says, and then I follow his gaze down. Beneath our feet, we’re actually standing on it, there is a dark stain on the pavement, and I instinctively step back.
‘Considerable bleeding,’ Ryan remarks, and now I feel bile rises in my throat. Swallowing, I take another step back. Then turning, I breathe in the cool air from the river. Ryan watches me. I can’t do or say anything for almost a minute, the brutal fact of the murder seems finally to have pierced. And that bloodstain. A part of Daniel. Ryan stands very still. At last I face him.
‘Why am I here?’
‘To see.’
‘So I’ve seen. Can we go now?’
‘It's not like a balance sheet is it, Mr Carlton? Not something that a bit of fooling with the profit and loss account can put right. He’s dead. Last Wednesday night someone stood here, put a gun against the back of his head and pulled the trigger. Can you picture that?’
He sees by my look that I can.
‘Good,’ he says, and when I go to step by him he grips my arm. ‘We haven’t finished yet.’
‘I've finished.’
‘No,’ he says. ‘Not yet.’ Releasing my arm he asks, ‘Have I been fair with you? About your wife and Stewart? Your daughter? Do you see the journalists pounding on your door?’
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