Due Diligence

by Grant Sutherland

  ‘How did it go?’

  My father. Arms folded, he stands beside me, looking down on the City. Behind us, Gifford’s still busy with Sir Charles.

  ‘We’re down to half our funds. Last trade 219, but the fall’s slowing.’

  ‘We can’t change the number, Raef. Not now.’ The agreed 195 he means, the trigger for the sale of Carltons to Gifford. Presuming, of course, that Gifford can finally be persuaded to buy. Not the certainty we’d first imagined.

  ‘No,’ I agree. ‘We can’t change it.’

  ‘I noticed the 209 bid wasn’t touched.’

  I swirl the ice-cubes round my glass. My father has spent the afternoon glued to a dealing screen, waiting for the single trade at 195. This realization descends on me like a dark, drizzling cloud.

  ‘Can I ask a question?’ I say, glancing back over my shoulder: Gifford and Sir Charles are still talking. Then I face my father. ‘Do you want to get rid of the bank no matter what?’

  ‘It isn’t like that Raef. How could anybody plan for what’s happened this past week. I couldn’t. You couldn’t. Our responsibility's to salvage what we can.’

  ‘What if we can salvage the bank? What if I stop the slide before it hits 195? We’ve still got a bank.’

  ‘Badly weakened.’

  ‘But still ours.’

  He purses his lips. ‘We’ve agreed the figure, Raef. I’ll stand by that.’

  ‘If I stop the slide now, we’ll keep the bank, but lose Boddington. We won’t have the funds to redeem your pledge.’

  Rather pale now, he inclines his head. Whatever the cost to him, he’ll stand by his word. Edward Carlton has a strength I never suspected, and I feel beneath the warring emotions of this moment a real stirring of pride. My father is an honourable man. He takes my arm, intending to guide me back to rejoin Eric Gifibrd and Charles; but just then my mobile rings. Hitting the button, I step aside.

  David Meyer. He wants to know what is happening on Parnells. And he wants to know right now.

  22

  * * *

  When I ask for Stephen Vance’s room the Savoy concierge points to the lounge. ‘He’s just gone through.’

  I find Vance seated at a table in there. He’s alone, considering his drink.

  ‘Where are Haywood and whatsisname?’

  He starts in surprise, lifting his head. ‘I thought you weren’t free.’

  ‘I wasn’t. Where are they, upstairs?’

  Vance nods. There’s a good scattering of people here tonight; most of the tables are taken. A man in black tie plays the piano. I sit down and try to relax.

  After fifteen more minutes at Gifford’s flat, I couldn’t endure any more of his grindingly reasonable objections to the possible merger. He’s sensed that we need him, and he’s doing everything possible to screw down the price. He intimated that it might be best if the Carlton family severs its ties with the bank immediately. He even suggested that if the merger were to go ahead, Charles Aldridge might be a useful interim chairman. I didn’t bother to wait and hear what he had in mind for me. And it might not come to that anyway. That’s what I tell myself. I want, even at this late stage, to hope.

  ‘David Meyer wants to know what’s happening.’

  ‘Bloody man.’

  ‘Can I tell him we’ve bagged a Parnell?’

  Vance turns his head, glancing towards the empty doorway. ‘Tell him to get off our backs,’ he says.

  ‘He’s worried.’

  Vance gives me a look. He says, pointedly, that David Meyer is not alone. Then his finger traces the rim of his glass. ‘You can let him know we’re making progress. We might have something concrete for him tonight.’ He takes another swig, emptying his glass.

  David Meyer won’t be happy with the brush-off, but I find myself slipping quite easily into Vance’s downbeat mood: my session with Eric Gifford has prepared the way. To hell with David bloody Meyer, I think. I order a drink, and another for Vance. Here we are, once again, in the Savoy lounge. We must have been here scores of times over the years, sometimes with clients but often just the two of us; a quiet drink on those rare evenings when work was put to one side. And suddenly that’s what I seem to want now, not to discuss Parnells or David Meyer, but to regain some personal connection with a friend.

  My grandfather gone now, and Daniel, Stephen Vance is the one man left who understands what I feel for the bank. But I don’t want his sympathy. In fact I don’t know what I want really. Maybe it’s just that with the sword of Damocles hanging over us, I want to be reminded of those early years when I worked in Corporate Finance. The good years. Vance drove me hard then; I drove myself hard, I had something to prove. If the dreary summing-up must be made, it was during those years that I did my best work. Pride. Is that all this is? Perhaps what I want is to be reassured by Vance that I have actually achieved something, anything at all, in my career.

  Looking around, I remark that not much changes. Vance brought me here for the first time many years ago after I'd led the Dyer defence, my first big success.

  ‘I’m,thinking of getting a lawyer,’ he says, voice lowered. At the tables to either side of us the other patrons are engrossed in their own conversations.

  ‘What kind of a lawyer?’

  ‘One that’ll get Ryan off my back. He’s contacted Jennifer.’ His ex-wife. ‘He’s digging around in my private affairs. I don’t like it.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘She phoned this afternoon.’

  I tell Vance that if it's any consolation, Theresa’s been contacted too.

  Vance makes the connection, he looks shocked. ‘The man must be out of his tree.’

  ‘He’s thorough, Stephen, that’s all. And he’s not convinced you’re telling the truth about last Wednesday night.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Vance mutters.

  ‘I told him that if you said you were working late, he could take your word for it.’

  ‘I bet that went down a bundle.’

  ‘A lawyer’s not going to stop him.’

  ‘It might slow him down.’

  I look at Vance curiously after this unguarded remark. It reminds me of something else Ryan said. ‘Stephen, do you remember when Ryan went and interviewed the Meyers?’

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘You told him Daniel had a run-in with David Meyer.’

  He shrugs; no big deal. ‘What if I did? They had an argument, I thought I should mention it to Ryan.’

  But he knows very well what I’m getting at. Maybe David Meyer did have an argument with Daniel, but David Meyer has arguments with everyone, that’s his nature. And even if they did argue, why tell Ryan? Vance couldn’t seriously have believed David was involved in Daniel’s murder. Telling Ryan that story has just caused us problems, and pointed Ryan in the wrong direction. Stephen Vance is not being absolutely straight with me.

  Our drinks arrive. There are some familiar faces around the lounge, a few from the City, but mercifully no-one comes over to see us. Why am I questioning him? That's not why I’ve come here. I’ve been spending too much time with Hugh Morgan. Trying to lighten things now, I remind Vance of the time we brought Arnold Petrie here. Petrie made a complete ass of himself, the particular highlight was when he ordered his steak tartare well done. I’ve heard Vance roar with laughter at the memory of that night, but now he barely smiles.

  So at last I give up. Time for me to bow out gracefully and go home. Vance has Ian Pamell upstairs, the bid in the balance, and Inspector Ryan breathing down his neck. He doesn’t need me sitting here getting gently pie- eyed, and waxing lachrymose about the good old days. The porter comes and tells Vance that his guests have arrived.

  I look to the door, expecting to see Haywood and Ian Parnell. Neither one of them is there.

  Vance rises. ‘Stay. Finish your drink. Haywood’s got him on a string, there’s not much you can do to help. I’ll call later.’ He follows the porter away.

  Great. So now here I am, alone in the Savoy loung
e late at night, staring into my drink. This wasn't how the night was meant to end. Unneeded by Vance and his team, that wasn’t how my career was meant to end either. I seem to have reached some kind of significant new low-point in my life. I’ve lost my oldest friend, who it seems was one step away from marrying my wife before he died; I am not the father of my own child; I have nearly lost the bank, and in the only work in which I’ve ever achieved anything, I find that I have suddenly become surplus to requirements. Step forward the Honourable Raef Carlton.

  I finish my drink and head out.

  ‘Mr Vance,’ the porter calls across me in the foyer. ‘Your key?’

  Vance and his guests; I see them, but it takes a moment to register. Vance returns to the desk and picks up the key. Then he sees me. He turns ashen. I take his arm and lead him away a few paces.

  ‘What the hell is this?’

  On the far side of the foyer, two attractive young women stand waiting for Vance and the key. They smile at me. When he shrugs my hand off, I grab him again.

  ‘Christ,’ he whispers hoarsely. ‘They’re not for me.’

  Stephen Vance, my mentor, the corporate banker’s banker, can’t look me in the eye.

  ‘Get rid of them.’

  ‘You want to win the bid? This is part of the price.’

  ‘It’s too high.’

  Stung, Vance rounds on me. ‘You’ve been out of the business for three years. Raef. Don’t give me any lectures.’ He glances left and right, but no-one is within earshot of his angry whisper. ‘For the last three years I’ve busted a gut doing things the old way. And every year the bonus gets a little bit smaller.’

  ‘In a moment you’ll be telling me right and wrong don’t come into it.’

  He pulls free. ‘I don't like it any more than you do. But this is the business now. Do you think Lyle would balk at this? Do you think he’d even notice there was a question here? The City’s changed.’

  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.