Due Diligence

by Grant Sutherland

  ‘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 wants 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 minut
es 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 shafts 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.’

  Retiring. The word goes echoing around my mind. Retiring. Sir John, at long last, is retiring. I’ve been waiting for this moment every day for the past three years, waiting and hoping; but all I do now is stare at him in silence. The bank is on its knees, I’m fighting with every weapon I can find, and Sir John, years too late, is retiring. Thanks, I think. Thanks a million.

  ‘I can imagine what you must think. But it hasn’t been easy for me either, Raef, these past few years.’

  ‘For you?’

  ‘Who could take me seriously as MD with you waiting in the wings?’ He opens his hands. ‘Not your fault, I know.'

  It catches me oddly. I’ve never thought of the situation from his point of view before.

  ‘I won’t make an announcement’ - he nods to the screen - ‘not until this is all over. But I thought you and your father should know.’

  ‘What brought this on?’

  ‘The past few days. Daniel. Intimations of mortality, I suppose. I started wondering if I really wanted to spend the remainder of my life swearing into a telephone.’ He gives me an uncertain look. ‘I’ve not been much use to you with all this, have I? And before. Your father wanted to be sure you were ready. I never meant to stand in your way, Raef.’

  He is, I see, absolutely sincere; and before this moment I never saw that. How much else of my life have I passed through blind? What else, even here at the ofice, have I failed to notice? Sir John's head is bowed.

  ‘Not your fault either,’ I say.

  He looks up, immensely relieved, and asks if I’m sure there’s nothing he can do now.

  ‘Just take those calls for Becky.’

  A great burden seems to have lifted from him. Absolution. He comes over and shakes my hand.

  ‘Offer of 220,’ the broker calls, ‘against your 210 bid.’

  Snapping back to the present, I hit the switch. ‘Okay.’

  Sir John leaves, saying he’ll come and see me later. Now I take yesterday’s deal-sheet from the drawer and check the numbers: I have around six million pounds left. I confirm the exact number with the broker, then tell him, ‘If we finish that, I’ll have some more transferred over.

  A blatant lie, but at this stage a little disinformation won’t do Carltons any harm.

  Then I ring through to Henry and get his assessment of the market. He puts me through to our senior equities trader who gives me a second opinion. The trader is about to pass me on to Billy Bullshit, but I tell him not to bother. It’s too late to be trawling for opinions now.

  On the screen my bid stands at 210. My father, somewhere, will be watching.

  6

  * * *

  Time passes with the flickering numbers. After an hour my bid’s still 210, and the offer’s down to 213. I’ve bought two and a half million pounds’ worth of Carltons, absorbing small parcels, but it doesn’t feel like yesterday. As the broker predicted, the institutions are waiting for something to break. I flick across to the bond screen. CTL is falling; falling fast. Henry might have misgivings, but he’s following his instructions to the letter. The person or persons behind Twintech won’t be feeling too well just now.

  When I phone Hugh upstairs, he’s still cheerful but there’s no sign of the trap being sprung. Becky brings me a cup of tea, there's a lull in trading, and I walk around the office, cup in hand.

  Karen Haldane, I decide, has deliberately deceived Ryan. But why? She implied that there was something between Daniel and Vance, something it might be better the Inspector never heard. Was that the truth? She’s the last person I ever thought I’d doubt, but my faith in her has been badly shaken.

  Who wins? This was always Hugh’s big test. When I worked on the Petrie case with him, this was the measure he laid over every dubious transaction: the web of lies was impenetrable, the only way of really telling what happened was to ask that one simple question. Who wins?

  But here, I just don’t see it. Karen was at the office on Wednesday night, but that’s a long step from murder. And what possible motive could she have? And Vance was here too, but I can’t see him involved with Daniel’s death either. Then the blindingly obvious hits me. I stop and put down my mug. Karen and Stephen, they were both here. I brace my hands against the desk, thinking it through. Inspector Ryan is adamant that Vance knows more about Wednesday night than he’s saying. And after a minute more considering, I’m almost sure of it. Stephen Vance doesn’t Want Ryan to know what he saw here that Wednesday night; and what Stephen saw here that Wednesday night was Karen Haldane.

  Becky’s voice “comes over the intercom. Stephen Vance has arrived.

  7

  * * *

  ‘It’s done,’ Vance tells me. ‘We’ve got it? He makes this announcement in a flat, dead tone, absolutely devoid of emotion. That’s how he looks too, completely drained. ‘Young Parnell’s just signed. Haywood’s got him in my office if you want to see him.’

  I turn my head; no.

  This should be a great moment. The Meyers have bagged Parnells, we have beaten Darren Lyle, Carltons have won. But instead of an eruption of high spirits, a round of back-slapping and mutual congratulations, we look at one another awkwardly, unsure of what to say. Because we both know the price of this victory.

  ‘I’ll get Leicester to arrange the press conference for twelve,’ Vance says at last, and he glances at his watch.

  This, I think, is too ridiculous. And rising now, I offer him my hand. ‘Congratulations.’ He seems doubtful, but he reaches across. ‘I overstepped the mark last night,’ I tell him. ‘I was out of order.’

  ‘Right on target actually.’

  ‘Forget it.’

  Then he releases my hand. ‘I’d rather not,’ he says, and at this curious remark, I give a sideways look. ‘Lesson learned, and all that.’ He pu
shes a hand up through his hair. ‘Christ. What a night.’ He slumps into a chair and takes a moment with himself. Strong, brilliant, able; I thought I knew all the adjectives for Vance. But this is a new one: wretched. He looks awful. ‘At the Savoy, I came back downstairs to see you. You were going to get a piece of my mind.’

  ‘I thought I had.’

  ‘There was more. Thank God you’d gone. I ended up at the bar.’

  ‘You don’t owe me an explanation, Stephen.’

  ‘I owe you an apology.’

  The broker speaks over the box, so I turn the volume down.

  ‘Apology accepted,’ I say.

  Vance nods, but I can see this isn’t over with him yet. The real score he has to settle is with himself. For the first time it isn’t just respect and admiration I feel for Stephen Vance, it is sympathy. He is, after all, a man of flesh and blood like the rest of us; like the rest of us, he can sometimes err. But now isn’t the time for reflection or regret: there’s still a lot of work to do. And Vance, being what he is, in the next moment puts his feelings aside. He reaches for his briefcase, in an attempt to move us on.

  ‘I thought we might invite Lyle over for the press conference.’

  The vanquished at the victory dance. I tell him it sounds like an entertaining idea. He runs through the other calls we have to make: the Stock Exchange, the Boards of both companies, Gary Leicester and several others. I wait till he's finished, and then I tell him.

  ‘Stephen, Big Win saw Karen here last Wednesday night. Ryan’s taking Win's statement right now.’ It’s a second before Vance absorbs this news; and then he looks stunned.

  He stares into space. ‘Win?’ he says.

  ‘Karen went down to the kitchen for a sandwich. Win was bringing a few things back from the party on the boat. Stephen, if you saw her, why didn’t you just say so? Ryan’s been crawling all over you, is this what you weren’t telling him?’ He doesn’t answer. ‘Stephen?’