Jo was now the one fidgeting and looking about, and it took her a while to register that it appeared that Adam’s warning was for her benefit and not another scare tactic.
“Who’s interested?” asked Jo, deciding to gain as much information as possible before offering any.
“Who isn’t interested would be a shorter answer. Let’s see. My boss, Roger Clark, you know, the head of IT. He keeps disappearing into a bunch of impromptu high level meetings, which seem to be occurring every day now.”
“And the link with me is?” fished Jo.
“I’m getting there. Well after almost every meeting, Roger comes scuttling back and asks me for certain records and files to be pulled – phone records, e-mails, file access history, building security data – and the one thing that all the requests have in common is that you are the subject of the query. I eventually asked him who needed all this data and he became all secretive, looking sideways and stuff. And then he motioned to the sky.”
“What, God?” Jo deadpanned.
Adam laughed and slapped the table. “That’s exactly what I said! But Roger said that it might as well have been since the requests were coming directly from Wright and Bray.”
Jo exhaled a resigned sigh. “Thanks for telling me Adam. You should go ahead and give them anything they want. It’s not as if I have anything to hide.”
Adam looked down and stirred his coffee, speaking in a lowered voice. “What about those restricted files you twisted my arm into giving you access to just after you transferred to the Quant Group?”
Jo thoughts were suddenly hurdling over ten mental steps at a time. She was terrified, thinking that if the heads of Butterfly knew the date she first saw the Money Trust files, they might conclude that she had some real evidence. This would make her more dangerous; dangerous like Radcliff.
Jo’s hand was shaking as she too stirred her coffee with increasing vigor. Adam eventually stilled her hand with his own. He left his hand covering hers until she looked up at him.
“Don’t worry Jo. Let’s just say I accidentally omitted those files from the access report I submitted.”
Jo suddenly saw a small glimmer of light in the black tunnel she had been staring into.
“But I’m beginning to feel that my omission could have serious consequences if I’m found out. I don’t care about the job. I just received a firm offer from the Cayman Islands and half my mind is already thirty meters below, checking out the dive sites, but this whole thing is way beyond any standard employee monitoring. Despite some serious misgivings, I’m starting to think you should tell me everything.”
“Everything?” asked Jo. “OK, I’m going to give you one more chance. And I’ll always remind you that this was your choice. You want to know everything?”
“Everything.” Adam raised his right hand. “Yes, the truth the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.” He paused and pointed upwards, “So, help me God.”
“Well, you have the right idea. We will need all the help we can get.”
Jo moved her chair to the side of the small table, so they were sitting even closer. She proceeded to tell Adam everything starting from the overheard exchange between Bray and Ives over IBG, the Money Trust files she had mistakenly come across, the likelihood that the firm’s proprietary trading model didn’t work, Radcliff’s involvement and his subsequent demise, her encounter with Eric Manton, and she ended with Wright’s visit to her parents the previous day.
It felt cathartic to tell the whole story and re-validate the facts to herself. Jo tried her best to remember every salient detail. It was only after she had finished that Jo realized that she had omitted one thing; Ben’s involvement.
She noted to herself afterward that it hadn’t been intentional, but she felt like she was protecting something or someone – Ben, Adam’s feelings, or maybe just herself in some way.
Once finished, Jo downed the remainder of her now cold cappuccino. Adam hadn’t yet started his and the bun remained untouched. Neither of them had an appetite. Adam remained impassive for some time; for so long in fact that Jo began to fear that she had been too hasty. Of course, she thought, this was all too much for anyone, too dangerous, and nobody would want to get involved.
But when Adam did speak, the words brought relief to Jo. “So, what do we do now?” It was almost an exact echo of Ben’s words.
“I was hoping that you’d say that,” exhaled Jo.
“Thanks. I wasn’t exactly hoping that would be the explanation for all the interest in you. I was keener on the scenario where you had siphoned off a few million of the company’s money and was planning to run off on a sailboat around the world. Then you might perhaps need an experienced dive partner.”
Jo concealed a smile at the fact that maybe Adam wasn’t so indifferent to her after all. Jo was lost in a brief moment of satisfaction, when she noticed Adam was looking at her for a response.
“Sorry, what did you say?” she said, coming back to the present.
“A plan, I was asking if you have a plan.”
Jo didn’t want to scare him off with the prospect of fumbling around in the midst of evident danger.
“Of course,” she asserted confidently. “A plan. Definitely. The plan is to gather as much concrete evidence as possible, without anyone noticing of course, and then prove what I know.”
Adam looked like he was trying hard to be convinced, but couldn’t quite manage it.
“Um, okay. Anything more specific?”
“Look, we don’t have time to go into that right now, but I do know what I need from you.”
Jo proceeded to give details of the information she thought she would need including phone records, e-mails, access to files, and offshore bank records. Adam listened, occasionally thinking out loud of ways he could fulfill the requests without leaving traces of his searches.
“So you basically want me to do the same to them as they are doing to you? Any original ideas?” he teased at the end.
“Just beating them at their own game,” Jo answered back. “Since now I have won over the key player to my team,” she added, hoping that flattery would close the deal.
Adam finally caved. “OK then. I’m in. They’re a bunch of crooks, and I owe you anyway.”
“For?”
“You know, turning down your advances,” Adam winked.
They were getting up to leave when something occurred to Adam. “Wait. You said it was my choice if I wanted to know since I was the one asking. So what was it you wanted to meet here about?”
Jo shrugged.
“It wasn’t really a choice was it? You were planning to get me involved anyway weren’t you?” pressed Adam.
“Does it matter now? Let’s just say you made the right choice. I don’t think anyone will want to be on the other side when the truth comes out.”
Adam shook his head ruefully, as if he just realized he’d allowed himself to be seduced a second time. He left first.
Jo left a few minutes later, getting the bun to go, since it looked too good to leave. She felt almost buoyant as she made her way back to the office. She had the beginnings of a plan and two solid allies on her side.
Jo’s buoyancy may have been deflated if she had been aware of all the subjects discussed at Butterfly’s quarterly Board meeting that day. After the usual business of results, appointments and departures, forecasts and strategy talk, most of the Board members left, satisfied that Butterfly continued to deliver the impossible; double-digit annualized investment returns while some other funds struggled to conserve their original equity. How the impossible was achieved was not part of the official Board minutes and those that now took their leave were too astute to ask.
The remaining attendees were Wright, Bray, Ives and the head of the trading floor, Sam Conner. They shuffled papers around and poured more tea, wanting to be certain that the other members had definitely left. They then moved to sit closer together at the large antique table.
“Well gentlemen,�
� said Wright, crumpling up the meeting agenda and making an impressive shot into a trash can in the corner of the room. “No offense Sam, but I view you as one of the guys.”
“No offense taken,” replied Sam, “I’m sure you’re just jealous of my high heels.”
“Touché!” said Bray with glee.
“So we’re here for some sparring then?” shot back Wright. “Well how about we discuss your little protégée?”
“Hey, wait a minute,” defended Bray. “You signed off on her hire too.”
“Only on your recommendation. How’s that working out for us?” Wright asked with mock innocence.
“Well, she’s very bright…” started Bray, shifting in his seat.
“Yes, I think we all know that. A little too bright in fact. Pity she wasn’t the one who developed our proprietary model,” goaded Wright.
Bray jumped up and glowered at Wright across the table. Wright leaned further forward, smiling. “Touchy subject is it?”
Conner pretended to be studying a spreadsheet. Ives, who appeared to be relishing the scene, eventually intervened.
“Come, come, gentlemen. The issue isn’t how she got here, the issue is how much she really knows and what her future is here. Or what her future is at all.”
Bray reluctantly sat down, still looking menacingly at Wright.
“We’re pretty certain she doesn’t have any real evidence,” he began. “We had Roger Clark’s department run phone, e-mail and file records. Nothing unusual came up. Everything was legitimately work-related and I don’t think she’s been snooping around for evidence. Eric certainly caught her off guard and scared her. I think if she had anything concrete she would have been more defiant or run straight to the police – not that she has anything to say that they would believe. No, instead she ran away as fast as she could with that reporter, Faber isn’t it?”
“This Faber chap, what do you make of him?” asked Ives.
Bray shrugged. “Just fishing for a story. Hanging around. She probably fed him some line about something not being right here. But again, if he had anything real to go on he would have dropped her and run with the story. His girlfriend is Perdita Llewellyn, so let’s just say he’s hardly hanging out with Josephine for a better view.”
“Actually, the celebrity couple split up. Well you know, I have to follow these gossip magazines, make sure they photograph me in the best possible light. Anyway, I think Jo is a fine filly, wouldn’t mind taking her for… ” mused Ives.
Wright cleared his throat. “Let’s keep to the point, shall we? Charles, what about your model? Has she figured that out?”
“Once again, I’m reasonably certain we’re safe there. We found a copy of the model she had made in Radcliff’s study, and maybe he told her that he wasn’t convinced it was the source of our profits. But again, what’s she going to do?”
“So, the bottom line is that you are ‘reasonably certain’?” said Wright with more than a hint of sarcasm. “Well let’s hope that’s better than how reasonably certain you were about the model in the first place.”
Ives put his hand on Bray’s shoulder to stop him rising for a repeat confrontation.
“Let’s move on to Project Hougoumont. I don’t have to remind you that this is our biggest project yet. And are we are all agreed that this will be our last?” The other attendees nodded at Ives. “The timing is looking good. I’ve been surreptitiously having the spin doctors at the House of Commons stir up some negative press about new developments, all in the name of protecting the UK’s established industries blah, blah. Anyway,’’ said Ives turning to Sam, who had been keeping out of the exchanges, “do you think the floor can handle it? Can you set up trades that big without arousing suspicion in the market?”
“Yes, with enough notice. We can build investment positions in small increments and use derivates to leverage returns,” Sam replied with confidence.
“Well,” concluded Ives, “I suggest then that we all look to the future. After all, it is looking gratifyingly wealthy. Although let’s be especially vigilant this time around. We will deal with our bright young spark when the time is right.”
The meeting was adjourned.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Ben checked his watch. It had taken him over three hours to make the drive from London to the council estate where Gary’s Dawson’s mother lived, on the outskirts of Birmingham.
He drove around slowly for about fifteen minutes, craning his neck up at the small city of identical concrete and pebble-dash 60’s high rise blocks, interspersed with low flat-roof housing in the same style. Ben was hoping to stumble across the street or apartment block name he was looking for, since the navigation on his phone merely showed a large white expanse for the sizeable welfare housing estate. He soon realized the task was all but futile since almost all of the signs were either broken or had been obscured by graffiti.
Ben eventually slowed to a stop near a concrete and dirt expanse with a couple of rusting swings and a hopeful sign reading, “Walden Estate Community Garden”. It was the current hang out of group of youths skateboarding and blasting music.
Ben wound down his window. He was going to call out, but found it wasn’t necessary. As his car had drawn to a stop, the music had abruptly halted and eight pairs of curious but defiant eyes were now trained on him. Ben waved a piece of paper with the address he was looking for and attempted to look unthreatening, although he was certain his old VW was already achieving that aim.
The children advanced towards his car in a triangle formation, the largest at the front with the younger ones fanned out behind him, protecting the smaller ones at the back. As they approached, Ben noticed that the teenagers in the group were all attired in brand name sports gear complete with the latest urban footwear.
The leader of the group, a lanky youth of about seventeen, with close shaved blond hair and a diamond stud in his ear, stubbed out a cigarette as he approached Ben’s car. At about two feet away, he outstretched both arms and the small army behind him halted in unison.
The head boy tilted his head upwards, while sneering and raising his eyebrows. Ben surmised this was as close to a “How may I help you?” that he was going to get.
“I’m looking for Tabard Tower on Nelson Mandela Way.”
“Why?” came the response.
“I’m looking for someone.”
“Who?”
“Gary Dawson.”
“You from the papers?”
“No. Why?”
The boy shrugged, as if he didn’t really care anymore and that the prospect of his next smoke was far more interesting. He pulled out his cigarette packet and was visibly disgusted to find it empty. Ben reached into his jacket pocket and tossed half a pack to the boy, which he caught in one hand. The boy tilted his head up again, but this time without the sneer.
“Keep going down here. Second turn on the left.”
“Thanks mate.” Ben wanted to ask why they weren’t in school, but decided it was not his business and the probable response would be to tell him so.
Ben parked on the street and tried to feed the parking meter only to find it was broken. The entrance to the high rise apartments read, “T_BAR_ _OWER”.
“Close enough,” thought Ben. He looked again at the address, Flat 1308. He guessed it must be on the 13th floor. Ben pressed the button for the elevator and waited.
After five minutes and repeated pressings on the button, he heard a clanking sound coming down the stairway next to the elevator. An elderly lady, her grey hair secured by a hair net, was hobbling down in big black boots with thick socks and a flowered housecoat. She was pulling a shopping cart on wheels behind her, which was responsible for the clanking sound.
Ben moved forward to help her, but she shooed him away. “Thank-you dear, but since I’ve made it down from the tenth floor, I think I can manage the last five steps. Bloody lift’s on the blink again.” She wandered out of the building, still muttering.
Ben started to
climb the stairs. The peeling institutional green colored paint reminded him of the local state comprehensive school he had attended, and which had been built in the same era. A time when an idealist socialist government believed that modern state facilities and affordable housing should be made freely available to the masses. However, the designs, including grey sardine can apartments constructed from cheap materials, had ensured that the class system in Britain had been reassuringly maintained.
By the time Ben reached the ninth floor he was breathing heavily and the acrid smell of dried urine, combined with own his sweat, lead to him to resolve to be more assiduous with his gym visits and to mount a media campaign for the better upkeep of state buildings.
Four floors later, Ben knocked on the door of flat 1308. For a horrible moment he considered that if no-one was there, then he would be forced to make the Everest-like descent and ascent again later in the day. Fortunately, after a shuffling sound on the other side, the door cracked open a little to reveal a young man’s face. His jet black spiked hair was in sharp contrast with his powder white face. The boy’s eyes were also heavily rimmed in black.
“I’m looking for Gary Dawson,” ventured Ben, attempting not to stare at the painful looking piercings in the youth’s nose and lips.
“Not here,” came the reply, which allowed Ben a glimpse of a large barbell tongue piercing.
“Do you know when he might be back?” The door was suddenly flung open to reveal a short, ample woman in her mid forties with tightly permed red hair. She was drying her hands on a dish cloth.
“Timothy,” the woman scolded, “what are you doing? Where’s your manners? Fancy leaving guests on the doorstep.”
Timothy turned back down the entry corridor and slammed a door. The woman’s smile remained wide and fixed, making up for the boy’s lack of hospitality.
“Teenagers hey?” she said loudly above the thrash metal music that was now blaring from behind the slammed door. “Well, they all grow out of it, don’t they?” There was a pause. “Don’t they?”
Ben realized that the woman actually needed reassurance. “Yes,” he leaned in towards her to be heard over the music, “they all grow out of being teenagers, I suppose.”
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