The Girl Inside

by Susan Culligan

  “Did I hear you say you are looking for Gazzer? Gary, I mean.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Are you from the newspapers?” again, the same question, although this time with a more eager tone.

  Same answer, “No, why?”

  “Just there’s been a few around. Since the whole, you know, Money Trust business. But Gary’s been away for a while. On holiday. He just got back.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “Actually, I think all this press attention is quite exciting. It’s like we’re celebrities or something. But Gary’s not so keen. He’s shy you see.”

  Ben was still standing on the threshold. “Well, Mrs. Dawson is it?” She nodded and giggled at the formality, the sound surprisingly girlish.

  “Yes, but you can call me Pam.”

  “Well Pam, I’m not from the papers, but I am from the press. The BBC in fact.” Ben presented his press ID card, which was greeted by obvious excitement by Pam.

  “Are you going to film him? Is my Gazzer going to be on TV?”

  “No, not today. I just want to talk.” Pam appeared deflated.

  “But maybe next time,” offered Ben. “I’m with Viewpoint, the current affairs program.” Pam’s expression remained unchanged. “A kind of news program. We would love to get an interview sometime with your son. And maybe you too.”

  “Oh, my goodness. Now I’m the one forgetting my manners. Come inside.”

  Pam ushered Ben over the threshold and down a narrow corridor, past the blaring music and into a small living room that gave the impression of tidiness despite the excess of furniture and decorations crammed into it.

  Pam motioned for Ben to sit on a flowered sofa. She closed the door and the music transformed to a duller thumping base beat. The setting incongruously reminded Ben of being in the rest room of a London nightclub.

  “Lovely place,” said Ben, slowly looking around, and nodding in appreciation of the scene. There were several large glass cabinets housing different collections, including miniature cottages, glass angels and porcelain dogs. However, the most noticeable feature was the vast array of framed photographs, mostly featuring one or two boys, which Ben assumed were Pam’s sons.

  The pictures spanned baby photos through school and some more recent snaps, although Ben noticed that Timothy’s piercings phase hadn’t yet made it to a frame. Pam made an appearance in some of the photos, recognizable for her red hair that had become shorter and more tightly curled over the last couple of decades, but there was no sign of a Mr. Dawson.

  Pam beamed. “Yes, I’m really proud of my boys. Especially Gary. That Money Trust place hired him right out of high school, you know. Part of some new recruiting experiment they were trying. They came to visit his school, all dressed up and everything with posh accents. Said they were looking for ambitious youngsters to train. That’s our Gary. Always ambitious. When he was little and people asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up, he would say ‘rich’. Really clever with numbers too. They picked him out right away. Took him to London, put him in a flat in Bethnal Green with some other trainees. He said he worked on a training floor.”

  “Trading floor,” corrected Ben.

  “Yes, that’s it, a trading floor, whatever that means. I never visited. It all went really well for a couple of years, until, well, you know, all that stuff went wrong at the bank – ”

  “Mum, who’s this?” They both turned toward the doorway, surprised by the voice. If Gary Dawson was a girl, he would have been flatteringly described as petite. As a man, at around 5ft 7 inches and 115 pounds, he was small and frailly thin. From the conversation with Gary’s mother Ben surmised he must be about twenty, although Ben would otherwise have guessed around sixteen.

  Gary’s down-like attempt at facial hair and traces of acne exuded an adolescent quality that seeped past his highlighted hair and wrapped sunglasses, which he continued to wear inside. His t-shirt was emblazoned with “Versace” and the leather jacket hooked over his shoulder has the perfectly worn patina that Ben knew could only be achieved by paying large sums in a designer store. Gary was considerably less pale than his brother, with his complexion more of a ruddy brown resulting from fading sunburn.

  “Hi, I’m Ben Faber. From the BBC.” Ben extended his hand. Gary ignored it.

  “Mum, I told you not to let them in.”

  Pam looked chastened as if the parenting roles were reversed.

  “Well, he’d walked all the way up the stairs. And,” she added playfully, going to pinch his cheek, “it’s kind of fun having a celebrity son.” Gary swatted her hand away with disdain.

  Ben attempted to continue the conversation despite the reception from Gary.

  “So your Mum tells me you’ve been on holiday. Go anywhere nice?”

  “Ibiza.” Gary lit a cigarette, not looking at Ben.

  “Ooh, it was lovely,” interjected Pam. “Gary rented this big villa for him and his mates. More like a mansion really. He showed us it on the computer. Five bedrooms, big swimming pool, maid service, the lot. He wanted Timothy and me to come too, but he said he couldn’t get us flights, could you love? Although he did buy me this,” she pulled out a thick gold chain from under her sweater, “oh, and the speaker system for Timothy, although I asked him not to.”

  “Mum, will you just shut up.”

  “Right, sorry son. I do go on a bit. Tea anyone?” Pam left the room.

  “I suppose Money Trust paid their trading assistants well,” said Ben standing up to tower over Gary, “at least well enough so you could save up for an extended luxury holiday.”

  Gary was shifting around. “Look, I don’t have anything to say to you. I gave my statements to the investigators.”

  Ben wandered around the room and stopped to peer through the net curtains to the street below where he could see his parked car. There were several traffic wardens in the street together with the same group of youths that Ben had talked with earlier. They were all grouped around a car parked next to Ben’s. All Ben could make out was that it was bright red and very shiny.

  “And did you tell the investigators how you received a large payment for giving a tip-off about your whistle-blowing intentions? Or was it your benefactor’s idea in the first place that you should become the whistleblower?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” replied Gary, his voice rising. Ben was still looking down at the street trying to discern what was causing the commotion below, but his reporter’s instinct could sense his subject starting to fidget.

  “Oh, come on Gary. Butterfly Investments. How did it work? Did they suspect what was going on at Money Trust and approach you, or did you shop around your tip-off to a few private funds with deep pockets? Your mother mentioned you are good with numbers. Ambitious too.”

  Pam came bustling back into the room proffering a plate of fruit cake.

  “Kettle’s almost boiled,” she beamed, oblivious to the uncomfortable atmosphere. Ben enthusiastically took a slice of cake and savored a bite, looking back down at the street. Pam followed his gaze.

  “Oh was Gary pointing out his new car? Very posh don’t you think? A Porsche 900 or something. With turbo. Gary is always saying I shouldn’t forget that bit, whatever it means.”

  Ben whistled. “Wow, a brand new Porsche 911 turbo. Impressive. Mmm, this fruit cake is amazing Pam. It’s so hard to find good homemade food in London. Gary’s banking friends must love it when they come here.”

  “He doesn’t really bring his London friends here. Although I keep saying he should. Oh, which reminds me Gary, one of them called this morning. Said he couldn’t get hold of you on your mobile. Wanted me to give you a message if you called home. Actually he seemed kind of surprised when I said you would be back shortly. Said he thought you’d be away on your holiday much longer. Now, where did I put his name?”

  Pam reached for a pad of paper next to the phone. Gary makes a grab for his mother’s hand, but Pam was already reading aloud.

  “Here it is. Simo
n Wright. Said to call him as soon as you can. He was kind of rude about it actually.”

  Ben looked straight at Gary, who, in turn, looked at his shoes like a sullen schoolboy who has been found out. The sudden chirping of a cuckoo clock splintered the frozen scene.

  “Oh my, I must be going. Sorry Pam, I won’t be able to stay for tea,” apologized Ben. “I have to interview some celebrities in London.”

  Pam immediately began ushering him towards the front door, not wanting to hold up such an important mission.

  “We won’t keep you then. From the celebrities, I mean. Do you really think you might be able to get Gary on TV soon?”

  “I think your son has got himself involved in some very interesting business. My guess is that he may very well end up on TV.”

  “Oh, I always knew he would achieve big things,” beamed Gary’s mother.

  Ben decided to leave the definition of achievement to Gary. With the door barely closed behind him, Ben could hear Gary yelling at his mother, the sound rising above the relentless screaming of the acoustic onslaught being enjoyed by Timothy.

  As Ben approached his car, he noticed that the group encasing the Porsche appeared not to have moved since he observed them from thirteen stories up. However, as Ben unlocked his VW Golf, a female traffic warden approached and handed him a ticket, which Ben accepted with a quizzical look.

  “You didn’t put any money in the meter,” she explained, still staring at the 911.

  “But it’s broken,” reasoned Ben.

  The warden looked nonplussed. “Complain in writing to the council then. After you’ve paid the ticket though.”

  Once off the estate, Ben called Jo.

  “Well our whistleblower whistled again. This time on the people that paid him off. Well technically it was the mother who whistled, although she didn’t know.”

  “Get to the point, what did you find out?”

  “Blimey, you remind me of my producer. Apart from the fact you’re not a bald two hundred and fifty pound Scottish bloke.”

  “Ben!” pleaded Jo.

  “Yes, we have enough. To satisfy us anyway. And of course, it’s all recorded,” Ben added, producing a small device from his pocket.

  “Do you think Gary will tell anyone about your visit?”

  “Highly unlikely. Pretty sure he likes his new ride too much.”

  Jo exhaled with relief and excitement. “Well we’ve been busy here too. I’ll explain later.”

  “Who’s ‘we’?”

  “Adam and I.”

  “I’m not sure I like the whole ‘we’ business.”

  “I’m telling you, the competition is tough,” teased Jo. “How about you meet your opponent tonight? Bull and Bush pub near Hampstead Heath around nine. It’s far enough from the City that I don’t think we have to be too careful about being watched.”

  “OK, but you know at some point I might have to spend some time on my other job. You know; the one that pays me.”

  “But you have to admit, despite your initial nonchalance, this is turning into an interesting assignment.”

  “Well it does have certain elements. Financial intrigue, a mysterious death, political connections, rescuing a helpless woman in distress.”

  “Hey, I’m far from helpless and I’ve been trying to limit the distressed episodes. So I certainly don’t need rescuing,” objected Jo.

  “But we could have fun acting that one out.”

  “So you think so? Well maybe later.”

  “We all know what ‘maybe’ means.”

  “Yes, it means maybe.”

  Jo hung up.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Jo and Adam arrived at the Bull and Bush at around eight thirty and chose a table toward the back of the old Hampstead pub. They had shared a taxi, although Jo had taken the precaution of picking up Adam a couple of blocks away from the office. Jo ordered wine and several packets of chips to snack on.

  “Let’s stick to glasses this time shall we, not bottles?” suggested Adam, grinning. “After all, wouldn’t want you to get any ideas again.”

  Jo gave him a shove, but grinned back, grateful that any awkwardness over their previous encounter had been overcome.

  Jo had purposely planned their arrival before Ben’s. Adam hadn’t been able to tell her everything he had found out during the day and Jo hadn’t yet told Adam about Ben’s involvement. Jo reasoned to herself that she hadn’t wanted Adam to be immediately scared off by the idea of outside involvement, especially from the media.

  Adam took out his laptop and proceeded to open up the files and spreadsheets he had downloaded.

  “I’ve limited my search so far to anything that could potentially be linked to the IBJ and Money Trust trades since those are the ones you have the strongest suspicions about,” he began.

  “Actually, we may have some real evidence on the Money Trust trade,” Jo interrupted.

  “Good progress. What’s the evidence?”

  “I’ll update you in a bit. Keep going, what have you got?”

  “Well unfortunately, no one involved appears to be blatantly stupid,” continued Adam.

  “Pity. Unintelligence and self-made millions is admittedly not a frequent combination, but it would have helped our cause.”

  “Well let’s put it this way. I haven’t found any e-mail from Wright to Bray saying it’s time to pay off Herr so-and-so in Germany for that excellent insider trading information that generated X million pounds in illegal profits for us.”

  “Disappointing, and I thought you were good at this.”

  “I am,” Adam carried on, “unsurpassed in fact. Wait until I unveil what I have put together.”

  Adam opened what at first appeared to be several versions of the same document. “Remember how you inadvertently pulled up that file that gave details on the Money Trust trade, even before the whistleblower went public?”

  Jo nodded.

  “Well, it turns out the same kind of file existed for IBJ. A sort of pre-deal summary for investors without the final trading or profit numbers. I have been able, in both cases, to recover all the versions of the files and to track who created and modified them. In both instances, the files were created by Bray and only three people accessed and modified the files prior to trades taking place; Wright, Bray and Sam Conner.”

  “Talking of that threesome,” said Jo, “they have been locked in meetings in Bray’s office most of the day, along with the forth stooge, Ives. I get the impression something big is brewing.”

  “Well, it gets more interesting. You remember the other document you came across? The one with the deal expenses with the mysterious ‘Miscellaneous Fee’ for the Money Trust trade? Well the same kind of document exists for the IBJ trade and, once again, there’s a miscellaneous fee, a rich three hundred and fifty thousand this time.”

  “Very interesting,” mused Jo. “What about phone conversations?”

  “Well if we tap the phones, I’m not in on it. But remember when someone leaves a voice mail, the recording ends up in your e-mail? I do have access to those messages. I haven’t had time to listen to them all, and obviously the parties involved are going to be cautious, but in the days leading up to both trades there was definitely an increase in the call rate between the four people we talked about. A number of the messages appear to be quite cryptic as well. Prior to the IBJ trade there is frequent reference to…” Adam checked his notes, “Ocana, and prior to the Money Trust trade the word Ligny comes up a lot. But nothing conclusive, I mean it’s not unusual to give a legitimate project or deals code names too.”

  “Both sites of Napoleonic era battles,” observed Jo.

  “Blimey, you know your history,” said Adam, looking impressed.

  “Well I didn’t in this particular area until I was outsmarted by an American.”

  “Ouch. Anyway, one more interesting fact. Prior to the IBJ trade there was one voice mail from Johann Schmidt, you remember, the CFO who resigned, also referring to Ocan
a – so if it was a project name, he was part of the project.”

  Jo shook her head, mulling over all that Adam has just told her, but again, unable to put all the elements together.

  “Something still doesn’t quite make sense. If my theories are correct, and Butterfly is generating a large proportion of its profits from insider information, why would they take unnecessary risks by producing documents ahead of time?”

  Adam shrugged. “I’m guessing they just got complacent and decided to risk running an analysis of the numbers in advance. These probably aren’t the first trades of this kind they’ve done or the last they are concocting. There are also two other key factors. Hedge funds are required to disclose very little publicly, so no-one from the outside is going to be trawling through these internal files. Secondly, insider trading is notoriously difficult to prove and, based on past cases, even more difficult to obtain convictions on. These documents wouldn’t be enough evidence. With enough warning, Wright and Bray could arrange for all the draft versions of these documents to be permanently deleted leaving only the files modified after the event, or even if surprised, they could argue that the file dates are incorrect – a systems glitch. No, the files and the voice mails are good corroborating evidence, but not enough on their own.”

  “So, what would be enough?” asked Jo.

  “We need a direct link between Butterfly Investments and Schmidt and Dawson. Preferably a money trail. Concrete evidence that they received a payoff from Butterfly in relation to these trades. Anyway, I have an idea…”

  Jo and Adam’s conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Ben. Jo had lost all track of time and there would be no preamble.

  “You look like you’re getting some good scheming in. That’s what I like to see,” said Ben with a wide smile, placing his hand on Jo’s shoulder. Adam looked quizzically at Jo.

  “Adam this is Ben. Ben this is Adam,” introduced Jo, taking a gulp of wine and avoiding looking at either of them.