Unable to tear herself away from such an unwelcome discovery, Jo went back into the MTR directory to see if there was any more incriminating information. There were files of accounting analysis showing quarterly results, and tracking various ratios such as debt to equity levels over time. There was also a price graph tracking the trading level of the stock which updated in real time. The profile from earlier in the day resembled a cliff, with the stock losing over forty percent of its value in the two hours of trading that followed the news announcement.
The graph hadn’t updated in the last several hours. Jo checked the Internet for news and quickly found that the stock had been suspended and was no longer trading.
Jo was about to leave the directory when she opened one last file with a nondescript title. It was an expense summary relating to the Money Trust trades. Some of the items were still blank, awaiting final numbers following closure of all the trading positions. Two items caught Jo’s attention. The first was legal expenses. Even with minimal business experience, the figure of £150,000 struck Jo as an excessive amount, and she wondered what kind of legal work would be required to execute such trades. The second item she noticed was an even larger amount of £250,000. It was entered under the miscellaneous section. Again, Jo wondered what service this could be.
Jo had exhausted her searches and was too tired to think about what she ought to do. Bray was absent from the office and hadn’t left her any further assignments so Jo took the opportunity to introduce herself to other members in the department.
She encountered the predicable mix of Oxbridge and Ivy League graduates, all of whom Jo guessed were in their twenties. Some were polite, others dismissive, but none of them appeared particularly interested in their new colleague.
On a couple of desks Jo noticed copies of the Money Trust report. She nonchalantly brought up the subject, commenting on what great research and timing must have been behind the lucrative trades. No one reacted to the mention of the subject, either to claim the accolades or escape their guilt.
Jo concluded that she wasn’t in the midst of any obvious confidantes. One thing many of the department members had in common was that they prominently displayed their Chartered Financial Analyst credentials. Although Jo was finding it hard to think beyond the present, the looming exam was at this point in time a welcome distraction.
For the next few hours she forced herself to concentrate on accounting for the amortization of intangible assets in cross-border merger transactions.
On her way home from the office, Jo called her sister Amy on the off chance that they could meet for a drink. Jo missed Amy, and hadn’t even been able to see her since Jo had returned from France.
Amy was at home with her baby, Jack.
“A night out sounds really good,” she responded to Jo’s suggestion in a voice that sounded like she was recalling a distant vacation, “but I don’t think I could fool anyone with a fake ID for Jack.”
Jo was disappointed. “Maybe next time then?”
“But wait; don’t let me spoil a good pub session. I’m sure Chris will be up for it since his group just closed a big deal today. Call him.”
“I might just do that,” perked up Jo.
“You should, he’d love to see you. I’ve even given him a late pass tonight as I have a date with some delivery pizza and an Italian art film.”
It struck Jo that Chris might be exactly the right person to confide in following her unsettling discoveries of the day. He was both a trusted family member and a partner at Whitfield Bowes. Before taking a career break to be at home with Jack, Amy had also been steadily rising through the ranks at Whitfield Bowes, the exalted City of London law firm that even counted Butterfly Investments as being one of its elite clients. Their marriage was the result of an office romance, where most of the seduction had taken place during caffeine-fueled all night work sessions, surrounded by empty take-out boxes.
Just the thought of talking with Chris about her discoveries seemed to lessen the burden of what Jo had uncovered. When he answered, Jo could only hear loud pub noise. Over the din she eventually made out her brother-in-law’s voice repeating, “Hello. Hello? Who is this?”
“Jo.” Then louder. “Jo Lavelle. You know, the one whose sister you married.”
“Oh, well hello my sister-in-law. Or très enchanté as they say where you are.” Chris had obviously been celebrating for a while.
“I came back from France, remember? To work in the City.”
“You’re in the City? Well come on over then.” Chris gave Jo the name of the pub near Liverpool Street station and Jo turned around to go and meet up with him.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A few minutes later, Jo opened the pub’s doors to the sight of a riotous crowd. Most of those present seemed intent on winning the drinking game which involved downing as much beer in as short a time as possible. In contrast to The Tavern, the décor was of light wood and the aroma was that of Asian appetizers; typical of the universal branding of the modern chain that had taken over many such establishments.
The atmosphere came as a relief after the hushed confines of her department at Butterfly Investments. Jo marveled at the fact that it had still not been a full week since her world had changed so dramatically.
She pushed her way through the crowd, eventually finding Chris’ group close to the bar. He welcomed Jo enthusiastically and put his arm around her shoulders. Chris’ looks and accent unmistakably bore all the hallmarks of having received an English private school education. He was tall and rakish with floppy strawberry blond hair. His cheeks were hollowed, and he wore round glasses that framed his hazel eyes now glazed from alcohol. He was wearing a shiny old school tie with a purple striped shirt and a dark suit. Now in his mid-thirties, Chris’ looks were at their peak and it was possible to imagine how he might look later on in life, when he would likely replicate the doughy appearance of the generations of private school products that had preceded him.
The only female in the group thrust a full pint glass into Jo’s hand.
“Thank goodness. Another girl. I can’t keep up with them,” she said motioning to the pint. “I’m Liz by the way.”
Liz was both petite and attractive, with curly blond hair and freckles on her suntanned nose. She was a recent law graduate from Edinburgh University, and this was also her first week working in the City.
“It’s been tough,” Liz admitted.
“For me too,” Jo understated. “I’m Jo.”
“Not just any Jo,” Chris interrupted. He motioned for the group to move closer, and then continued conspiratorially. “Chères colleagues, we are in the hallowed presence of Miss Josephine Lavelle, one of the chosen ones who now strolls the sacred halls of Butterfly Investments. One of their latest hand-picked analysts.”
There was a collective intake of breath and all the lawyers proceeded to bow in mock homage.
“As you can see, we are all instructed to keep our number one client happy at all times,” quipped Chris. The group resumed their own conversations.
“I was just messing with you when you called. Of course I remember you’re back and where you work. I’ve been dying all week to find out the secrets of what really goes on inside.”
“Well, believe me; you may not really want to know.”
“Oh come on, it can’t be that bad. Your first few days must have been pretty interesting,” Chris pressed.
“Certainly not dull. Actually I did want to talk to you about some stuff. But maybe alone?” Jo looked around at the sea of people realizing the absurdity of her last request. “Or, at least where we won’t be overheard.”
“Sure, but have a couple of drinks first,” cajoled Chris. “All work and no play makes Jo a dull girl, and we all know from your table dancing escapades last New Year that you’re far from dull.”
Chris put his arm around Jo’s waist and yanked her closer. Some of his beer slopped over her arm, but Jo ignored the mess.
“Seriously Chris,
I just need a few minutes. Away from your drinking buddies if possible.”
“Understand.” Chris winked. “Want to keep away from this group of gossipy lawyers. Got some tasty inside information to dish?”
“Er, yes as it turns out.”
“Excellent! Well it’s my round, so let me take care of that and then we can go chat.”
Chris disappeared and Jo mingled with the Whitfield Bowes crowd for a few minutes. They were all so approachable and friendly. Jo wished she could swap them en masse with her department co-workers.
On his return, Chris ushered Jo to a bench in the back corner of the bar where any passers-by were more focused on their need to empty their bladders than to eavesdrop on a conversation.
They sat close.
“So, really, how’s the first week going?” began Chris.
Jo looked at him ruefully. He just laughed.
“Yeah, well I’ll remind you of that look when you are agonizing over the chateau in the Loire or the converted monastery in Tuscany for your second holiday pad in a few years’ time.”
“Actually, I wanted to ask you a couple of things. You’ve worked on Butterfly Investment’s account, haven’t you?”
“Yes, most of us have on our way to partner. It’s a kind of initiation. If you can handle the demands of Wright and Bray and Butterfly’s legal department, other clients are like kittens. You know, the cute ones with their claws removed.”
“So how is the company set up from a legal standpoint?”
Chris took a gulp of beer followed by a long intake of breath, “Well, do you have three hours and an enormous white board so we can cover the basics? The truth is that they use every legal means, including some questionable loopholes, to maximize returns, minimize tax and to avoid reporting requirements.” After taking another swig he continued on. “There is a labyrinth of offshore companies and so-called special purpose vehicles, which are set up, sometimes for just a single transaction.”
“How does the money flow for transactions, in general?”
“There is no ‘in general’ when it comes to Butterfly Investments,” replied Chris, “and if any single person understands the money flow, they are probably qualified to set up their own hedge fund.”
“But do you have access to those kinds of records at your firm?” Jo pressed.
“Yes, in theory,” Chris conceded. “Our tax department prepares their returns. There are usually several teams involved, but only the head of the department puts the numbers together in the final report.” Noticing that Jo was following his every word intensively, Chris paused.
“Why all the interest? Trying to nab the new analyst prize for the most information learned in a week?”
Jo managed a faint smile, but was unwavering in her line of questioning.
“Well, I was wondering, if Butterfly were making large payments to individuals, say to employees at companies whose stock they were trading …”
Chris interrupted her, his voice immediately lowering and changing in tone.
“Jo, what are you getting at?”
Jo decided to reveal what she had found out already.
“Well, I came across this file that I don’t think I was supposed to see …”
Chris cut Jo short.
“Jo, I don’t want to know, and believe me, neither do you.” He was suddenly very sober, looking around to make sure that no-one was listening.
“Have you not noticed that apart from Wright, Bray and a few seasoned pros on the trading floor and in legal, that there’s a distinct absence of anyone over the age of about thirty at Butterfly?”
Jo hadn’t noticed, but now Chris had mentioned it, she realized it was true. Her face turned pale.
“Why, does something happen to them?”
“Yes, something happens to them. They become obscenely rich while working at Butterfly and then take some managing director job at any number of outfits offering them extremely generous packages.” Jo looked relieved.
“But, you’re missing the point. You see there aren’t any management positions open at Butterfly, it all rests with Wright and Bray, and they intend to keep it like that. And I’m sure part of the means for maintaining the status quo involves a few things that they would like to keep to themselves. You’d be advised to keep your head down and find solace in your burgeoning bank balance.”
Chris downed the remains of his pint and looked at his watch.
“Anyway, better be heading home. Amy made me promise to be home by eight-thirty, and you know what a bind it is to get to Hampstead on the Northern Line.”
He kissed Jo on both cheeks and made a swift exit. Jo didn’t think that reminding Chris of his late pass would have made any difference and she hoped she hadn’t just ruined her sister’s ‘big date’.
Jo went home too, surprising her parents by being on time for the evening meal for a change. While they enjoyed the home made lasagna and crusty French bread, Jo was too tired and preoccupied to talk, and her father was comfortable, as usual, with his own silence.
They both listened to Nancy chatter on about how pleased she was with her meditation teaching certification, and how she now had a waiting list of students for her courses. She was also excited that the Singh Center for Realization was now offering advanced yoga instructor courses.
“At the bargain price of £5,000 no doubt,” remarked Joseph Lavelle, dryly.
“Don’t be silly dear. The Center is in Colorado. It’s only $5,000.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Chris’ warning was not lost on Jo. She was only a week into a promising career and while the work was demanding, the challenge appealed to her nature. There was also the fact that she no longer had any proof of what she had discovered about Money Trust, and the IBG evidence still remained circumstantial.
Reasoning that it was the lack of evidence rather than a lack of courage that was preventing her from launching accusations, she decided that for the time being she would let things be and focus her efforts on her job and her upcoming exam.
Work settled into a routine. The hours were long, but Jo got used to it. Some of her colleagues even began to stop by, ostensibly to offer advice on her exam, but mainly to relive tales of their own triumphs and near misses on ambiguous multiple choice questions.
Bray gave her more assignments increasing in their complexity and Jo excelled at the tasks. The work week was always punctuated with lavish lunches at expensive venues.
Due to Bray’s faith in Jo’s abilities, he instructed her to start doing her own research in designated markets. She worked directly with the trading floor to uncover arbitrage opportunities based on in-depth study and complex analysis. Jo found that she was no longer intimidated by the traders, not even by the more irascible ones. She had become used to the frenetic atmosphere of the floor, and members of the Quantitative Group were generally extended more courtesy given their ability to identify profitable trades.
The average return on capital produced by Jo’s trades was impressive and Jo conceded that the efficient market theory taught in many economics classrooms was just that, a theory.
Over a period of a few intensive weeks Jo had gained the respect and confidence of Bray. He even began to impart on her his idea of a sense of humor. On one occasion, Jo went to deliver a report to him and found him flicking through a large stack of papers. He held one up for Jo and she could see it was an applicant’s résumé.
“These are the top five percent of candidates that applied this month. Personnel passed on their résumés to me,” explained Bray.
Bray proceeded to divide the pile in two. He then threw the top half of the stack into the trash.
“Well, we wouldn’t want to hire anyone unlucky, would we?”
Jo must have looked comically taken aback since Bray tried to appease her by saying, “Look, it’s irrelevant anyway. Butterfly always identifies its own candidates, whether they’ve applied or not, and we have a one hundred per cent acceptance rate.”
&nb
sp; On a rare free Saturday, Jo eventually got the opportunity to take the tube out to Golders Green in north London to visit her sister Amy and her family. They had recently moved to the Hampstead Garden Suburb, a leafy enclave of upscale domesticity. The hundred year old quaint cottages, built on the ideal of developing a socially balanced community, now only housed affluent families playing at country life.
The sisters were ecstatic to be reunited. Jo had always been slightly in awe of her older sister and, as a child, had secretly aspired to morph into a twin version of Amy. Jo had coveted Amy’s taller, slimmer physique and fairer hair, as well as her graceful social aptitude and talent for ballet. Jo’s wish had never fully materialized and she had gradually come to accept that Amy would consistently be cast in parts such as Mary in the school nativity play, while Jo would have to be content playing the role of second shepherd. For her part, if Amy had ever recognized opportunities to gain the upper hand in any games of sibling rivalry, she had never exploited them.
Amy prepared a delicious meal in between entertaining Jack, feeding him, bathing him and putting him to bed. Chris spent most of the time sitting on the sofa reading a legal magazine or checking his e-mail. Jo offered to assist, but wasn’t very practical when it came to the domestic side of things. She did, however, discover that she had a talent for making Jack laugh by building precarious block towers and letting him knock them down.
During conversation over dinner, Chris was friendly but made no reference to their last conversation. Jo chatted with Amy while she helped her with the dishes.
“I had fun with Chris a few weeks back, when we met up for drinks. The people he works with seem nice.”
“Just as well given the amount of time he spends with them. I didn’t know you met up with him.”
“Yes, remember that evening I called to see if you’d come out and you told me to call Chris instead.”
“Vaguely. Oh, yes. That was the night he rudely interrupted my evening plans with ‘I Soliti Ignoti’. It was kind of sweet though. He said he missed me and wanted to come home. Although he did then promptly pass out on the sofa, which may account for why he didn’t mention the two of you had met up.”
The Girl Inside Page 8