Due Diligence

by Grant Sutherland

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘All right, I appreciate it. Is that what you want? I appreciate it.’

  ‘It’s not your appreciation I’m after, Mr Carlton.’ I can’t hold his gaze. He won't use what he knows about Annie against me, I see that now. He desperately wants to discover who killed Daniel, and why; but unlike nearly everyone I deal with each day, he won’t break the bonds of decency to achieve what he wants. He won’t sacrifice two innocents — Theresa and Annie — just to get there. Could I say the same? And if I was, as he is, a decent man, would Theresa ever have sought solace with Daniel? And would I be standing here, as I am now, on the very spot where Daniel was murdered, yet thinking of how soon I can get back to the bank? In the midst of my life, perhaps more than half of it over, it occurs to me that I’m not at all like the man I intended to be. And this man who probably doesn’t even own a dinner jacket — he is.

  ‘You knew Stewart better than anyone. And you know what’s been going on at Carltons better than anyone. I’m asking for your help,’ Ryan says. The traffic hurries by, someone beeps a horn. ‘You’re in the habit of keeping things to yourself. That really isn’t much use to me.’

  ‘What do you need?’

  ‘Cooperation.’

  I glance down at the bloodstain. I tell him that I will try.

  ‘How far do you think we are from your office?’

  ‘Why mine?’

  ‘From the bank.’ He looks pained. ‘It’s not a trick question. How far are we from Carltons? On foot.’

  ‘Fifteen minutes?’

  ‘My sergeant did it in a little less.

  Now I see what he's getting at. Shaking my head, I tell him that he has Vance wrong. ‘If Stephen says he was working, he was working. Believe me, I know him.’

  ‘You thought you knew Stewart.’

  That one stops me.

  ‘Anyway,’ he says, ‘Vance wasn’t the only one working late at the office.’

  ‘The nightdesk?’

  ‘I’ve spoken with Baxter. No, I was thinking of someone else.’ He gestures to the pavement. ‘This is where Stewart was found. Does anything strike you as curious?’ He sees that I am lost, and so he continues. ‘Why wasn’t the body dropped in the river? Sensible precaution. It might not turn up for days, Thames Barrier or somewhere. Put yourself in the murderer’s shoes. You’ve fired the shot, what now?’

  ‘He’d have to get away.’

  ‘You’d have to get away from the body. In the shadow here, no traffic passing, what’s to stop you from heaving Stewart over the wall?’

  I suggest that a man who has just committed a murder isn’t likely to be thinking straight.

  ‘If he was a professional he would be. Or if he’d planned it.’ Ryan pauses. ‘And there’s a third possibility. It’s possible he wanted to, but couldn’t. Stewart was what, about your size?’

  Yes, I tell Ryan, give or take a few pounds: around thirteen stone.

  ‘What can you tell me about the bank's chef?’

  My head comes up in amazement. ‘Win?’

  ‘We’ll talk in the car.’ Ryan glances at his watch. ‘I think we’ve seen enough here. Don’t you?’

  It takes me less than five minutes to give Ryan everything I know on Win Doi: the Vietnamese background, his escape in a boat after his parents were killed, his time in a refugee camp in Hong Kong. I learnt none of this from Win, it all came secondhand, from the friend of Mary Needham who recommended him to me. Ryan looks mildly surprised.

  ‘You hired him yourself?’

  I explain how it happened. How Mary Needham’s friend works with a refugee resettlement charity, that she specializes in browbeating acquaintances into offering employment to those in the charity’s care. My turn came with Win. I had no idea what he was going to do. And then, when I met him, he mentioned with a nervous smile that he hoped one day to do in England what his family had done before the war in Saigon: run a restaurant. Problem solved. I took him on as a kitchen-hand at Carltons and forgot all about him. Four years ago that was, and his hard work has done the rest. Now I’m not looking forward to the day when he tells me he’s leaving to start a restaurant of his own.

  ‘Win wouldn't hurt a fly. It isn’t in him.’

  We pull up outside the Carlton building; the Inspector turns to me.

  ‘Then perhaps you could explain why he keeps lying to me.’

  ‘What’s he said?’

  ‘“I don’t know.” He says that rather a lot.’ Ryan taps the steering wheel. ‘He was here on Wednesday night. Your nightdesk, Vance, they all saw him. Vance even spoke with him. But Mr Win Doi doesn’t remember. Could he have had a grudge against Stewart? Was there any bad blood between them?’

  ‘They got along fine.’

  ‘I imagine he’s quite grateful to you for the job.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ In fact Win gives me a small present each anniversary of the day he joined us. A Vietnamese custom, he says.

  ‘Perhaps you might have a word with him,’ Ryan suggests. ‘If he’s got nothing to hide, I’d like to hear a little more from him than just, “I don’t remember.”’

  ‘I can try.’

  ‘Because if there’s any more trouble with this investigation, I’ll be conducting the rest of my interviews down at the station.’

  Eyebrows raised, he asks me if I understand. I assure him that nothing could be clearer.

  5

  * * *

  ‘We’re still on the skids,’ Henry informs me.

  But the Dealing Room looks to me much as it did earlier: quiet, certainly, but deals are being done at most of the desks. Henry sees my puzzlement.

  ‘Not here.’ He nods to the Equities desk. ‘The Carltons share price. We’re taking a bath.’

  He rises, and we go across there. The Carltons share price has slid to 250 — we’ve dropped 75p in two days. The senior trader relates the details of the slide. ‘Looks grim,’ he concludes.

  The number on the screen is red; the price still going down.

  The trader says he’s been pumping the market- maker in Carltons for information. He points to the off-Exchange screen, the order-driven market: no bid next to Carltons. ‘I think he got dumped on at the top, can’t get out.’ The market-maker, he means.

  ‘Can’t get out anywhere?’

  The trader shrugs. ‘Why else’s he chasing us for a bid?’

  I chew that one over. If Sandersons want to make a move on us, why aren’t they buying? I tell the trader to keep his ears open. Then on my way to the door, young Jamie - Mr Medieval French History - steps from the alcove beside me.

  ‘Mr Carlton?’

  I pause, one hand on the door.

  ‘I just wanted to say it wasn't Owen’s fault.’ He looks downcast. Then he seems to realize that I haven’t a clue what he’s talking about. ‘That big loss the other night?’

  I remember now. But that was last week, archaeological time to a dealer.

  ‘It was my fault,’ he says.

  A long memory, and scruples too. Maybe this lad really isn’t cut out for the Dealing Room. Opening the door, I tell him that we all make mistakes. ‘Live and learn.’

  Owen bawls at him from across the room, and Jamie drops his head and retreats into the alcove to fetch the custard creams.

  6

  * * *

  Win’s in the, kitchen, unpacking vegetables. When I step through the open doorway he says, ‘Too early, too early,’ and smiles.

  ‘What’s on the menu?’

  He moves between the vegetable rack and the box on the floor, reciting: three entrées, three main courses, two desserts. ‘Still some Henry birthday cake,’ he adds, sliding open the bread bin to show me.

  I find myself at a loss for a moment. I’ve always liked Win, and I don’t want to intrude: every man has his reasons, and if Win doesn’t want to speak with Ryan, what affair is that of mine? Looking at him now I couldn’t be more sure that he has nothing to do with Daniel's
death. But if I don’t intrude, Ryan will pursue him, something I’m not sure that Win understands.

  ‘Win, Inspector Ryan asked me to speak with you.’ If there were a noise, or any other distraction, I’d assume he hadn’t heard me. ‘He’s just trying to find out what happened to Daniel.’ Still no acknowledgement. Win dribbles the empty box across the floor like a football, then kicks it into the pantry. He takes three chickens from the fridge. ‘He thinks you can help,’ I say.

  Win picks up a knife. ‘He is your friend?’

  ‘No.’

  He starts to slice. ‘I don’t like him.’

  ‘You don’t have to like him. He just wants you to answer a few questions.’

  He glances out to the restaurant where the waitress is laying the tables. I lean back, pulling the door closed.

  ‘What’s wrong? The Inspector’s not going to go away, Win. He knows you were here on Wednesday night, and he thinks you’re lying to him.’ I pause. ‘You were here on Wednesday night, weren’t you?’

  He nods.

  ‘You have to tell him.’

  Win suddenly drops the knife. Hands braced on the bench, he looks at the wall. ‘I don’t go back Vietnam,’ he says, ‘I don’t go back Hong Kong.’

  His shoulders rise and fall. When he turns, his face is set hard, a fierce determination blazes in his eyes. So this is it, the hidden rock upon which Ryan foundered. Win Doi has no intention of returning to hell.

  ‘That won’t happen, W1n. You’ve got a family here, a life, no-one’s "going to send you back.’

  ‘I don’t go back.’

  ‘No one can send you back. You’ve got to understand that. Ryan can’t, no-one can.’

  Words. I see they make no impression. God knows what real horrors Win can set against them. I turn left and right in frustration.

  ‘For Christ’s sake. The only way you’ll go back there is on some damn package tour.’

  He looks at me now. The title, Boddington and the bank, they count for nothing with Win: he sees only the man who gave him a new chance in life. But he still isn’t convinced.

  ‘You’re not being accused, Win. The Inspector just needs to find out what happened that night. I’ve told him you couldn’t have been involved.’

  No response. I ask him if he can at least tell me what happened. It’s like watching some wild creature moving tentatively out of the shadows.

  ‘I come back here, twelve o’clock.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘The big bowls. I bring them back.’

  The giant glass bowls, I remember them from the party on the boat; full of desserts and fruit. It would be just like Win to take them into his personal charge. I pinch the bridge of my nose. The Inspector is not going to understand this at all.

  ‘And when did you leave here?’

  ‘Maybe fifteen minute.’

  ‘Did Vance see you leave?’

  Win turns his head. ‘My wife. She see me.’ He explains that his wife picked him up from the boat, she helped him bring all the bowls up to the restaurant.

  ‘Win. There isn’t any problem for you then. Your wife was with you the whole time?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I could stand here the rest of the day assuring him that he has nothing to fear, and still I might not reach him. I give it one final shot. Taking Ryan’s card from my wallet, I place it on the bench.

  ‘If you don’t call him, he’ll come back anyway. And he’ll keep coming back until you answer his questions, Win. He’s investigating Daniel's murder. That’s his job. That's the law. But if you just tell him the truth there won’t be a problem. And I think you should. I really do.’ His looks harden. I raise my hand. ‘But even if you don’t speak to him, no-one’s going to send you back to the refugee camp. I give you my word, Win. You understand?’

  The chicken joints make a crunching sound as they break. I slide Ryan’s card closer to the cutting board, then I leave.

  7

  * * *

  Hugh digs through the paperwork in the box I’ve just taken down from the shelf. When he arrived, he said he wanted to look through the paperwork on all the Twintech deals, so we’ve come up to the filing room to search. I have borrowed Sandra’s key. I ask Hugh what he’d be doing if he wasn’t doing this.

  ‘Habibi,’ he says. ‘Remember?’

  ‘I mean if you wanted to give up the City. Isn’t there something else you always wanted to do?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nowhere you want to go?’

  He tells me he goes to plenty of places right now. ‘From what I’ve seen,’ he says, ‘the grass isn't much greener. Does this have some mysterious connection with Twintech?’

  Not at all. It has a connection with me, personal doubts, but nothing I wish to discuss. So I take down the last box, and crouch beside him. He’s been referring to a printout on the Twintech deals; now he pushes it across the floor to me.

  ‘The past twelve months,’ he says.

  A surprisingly long list. He asks if anything strikes me.

  ‘There aren’t many big amounts?’

  ‘Correction. There aren’t any.’

  Looking through it again, I see that he’s right. More deals than I expected, but the amounts are small.

  ‘What else?’ he says. ‘See how they’re paired up?’

  ‘A lot are in-and-out the same day.’

  ‘Most, but not all. And not every in-and-out gave Twintech a profit.’ He rummages in the box. ‘Take the paperwork,’ he tells me, nodding to the pile he’s already dug out. ‘Match it up with the deals on the list. Make sure it checks out.’

  ‘Are we looking for a dealer’s name?’

  ‘Fat chance. Whoever this is, he’s no dummy.’

  For the next fifteen minutes we are silent. I match the paperwork with the list of Twintech deals while Hugh rummages through the last box. Here in the quietness, amidst the dusty records, it’s almost possible to forget what’s happening outside: Ryan is looking for a murderer; Vance, the chief suspect, is trying to pull off our biggest deal for years; and Darren Lyle is trying to cripple us. And so far only Darren seems to be having any success. All this, while I sit up here amidst the boxes, turning pages.

  Hugh finishes his search; he stands and stretches, bending from side to side as he asks me how things ended up with Ryan.

  ‘We went for a walk down by the river.’

  ‘A walk?’

  ‘Don’t ask.’

  Then the door swings open, and the sounds of the back-office come flooding in. Karen Haldane. She looks from the two of us, and down to the open boxes scattered at our feet.

  I turn to Hugh. ‘Are we done here?’

  Yes, he tells me, all done.

  ‘What’s this?’ Karen says.

  But I’m not feeling like a lecture just now. I usher Hugh past her out the door, pausing to give her Sandra’s keys. She glares.

  ‘You could’ve asked me,’ she says.

  Nodding, I pass right on by.

  8

  * * *

  Back in my office, Hugh and I go through the paperwork together. As he expected, our search throws up no particular name.

  ‘So what does that tell us? There’s more than one person involved in Twintech?’

  ''Tain’t necessarily so.’ Hugh rocks back in his chair. ‘Say someone does a deal, forgets to do the ticket. He’s out at lunch when he remembers. What does he do?’

  ‘Rings in.’

  ‘Right. Whose signature goes on that ticket?’

  I pull a face. If the dealers didn’t do each other favours, the whole operation would grind to a standstill. In the normal give-and-take of things, it wouldn't be at all difficult to get an unsuspecting innocent to sign off a deal. I push both hands up through my hair.

  ‘Same everywhere,’ Hugh consoles me.

  He opens his briefcase: more paper. He’s says he’s done some analysis on the Twintech deals, the losing deals are marked in red ink; beside these, the highs and lows in the
market that day. I study the numbers awhile. Then I notice something.

  ‘None of the losses are in-and-out the same day.’

  'That’s right. We’ll make an investigator out of you yet.’

  I tell him that he'll have to spell it out for me, exactly what this seemingly inconsequential fact means.

  ‘Okay,’ he says, 'try this. The fraudster sees some price diving, so he writes himself a deal against Carltons. Then either A, for some reason he can't get the other deal written, the close-out; or, B, he thinks it’s going lower so he lets it run. But when he comes in the next day, the market’s tinned against him. He cuts the loss.’

  I examine the numbers again. It makes sense.

  ‘He kept dealing in small amounts,’ Hugh speculates, ‘because he didn’t want to trigger a credit-check from your back-office. As long as he didn’t get greedy, odds were you wouldn’t notice him.’

  This, too, makes sense. We have hundreds of corporate customers, there’s no way we can keep tabs on all of them. We generally rely on the ratings agencies, Moody’s, or Standard and Poors; but with many of our smaller clients it’s easier to simply set low dealing limits, and if they don’t exceed these, and they pay their bills on time, we tend not to ask too many questions.

  ‘He was right,’ Hugh says. ‘You didn’t notice him. He's pulled nearly two million out of the bank without anyone seeing it.’

  ‘You’ve traced the money?’

  ‘Destination Switzerland, by the look. He probably churns it through half a dozen places after that. Liechtenstein, the Caymans, it could be anywhere. Frankly, Raef, unless you find who’s behind Twintech, the money’s gone.’

  I should be relieved - the amount is paltry - but what I am is angry. For less than two million pounds, the bank has been put in jeopardy; for less than two million pounds, Daniel might well have been murdered. I feel now what any decent man would have felt from the start: a deep burning rage.

  ‘But see this?’ Hugh points to Twintech’s recent deals, his fingers resting on the last one. ‘See the date?’

  Last week. Two days before Daniel died. Twintech, it seems, bought into the CTL bond issue. When I smile, Hugh asks me what's up, and so I explain about the CTL paper that Carltons got left with. ‘Nice to know our friend here got caught out too.’ Then I notice something else: there’s no close- out on Twintech’s CTL deal. 'Twintech’s position is still open?’