Ben tried to visualise the suited man skulking up the stairs at the Admiral Byng obscured in a puffa jacket. Yes, it was possible. He held out his hand. ‘Mr Jepson? I’m Ben Milne. Thank you for meeting me.’
The man shook it. ‘I’m Stephen Torrington from Devonshire Communications. This is Mr Jepson.’
Ben glanced at the IT geek. He was short, had mousy brown curly hair, and unnaturally white teeth. He was staring at his array of split screens, occasionally jabbing with his mouse. He didn’t look a day over twenty-five.
At first Ben thought he was having his leg pulled, but the smooth PR guy in the suit seemed deadly earnest.
‘Sorry. Mr Jepson?’
Jepson, if that’s who he was, ignored him. Ben glanced at Torrington, who nodded ever so slightly, suggesting that they wait. Which they did, for a full minute, until Jepson wiggled his mouse violently, clicked twice, and pushed his chair back from the computer with a flourish.
He turned to Ben, and stared at him. He had dark, intense eyes, almost black. He was wearing black jeans and an orange, un-ironed shirt with a Ralph Lauren polo player on its chest. Probably a knock-off, Ben thought. Could this man really be worth eighty million quid?
On the other hand, his slightly jumpy body language fitted with the unidentified visitor filmed going up to the Admiral’s Bridge. Greg Jepson was definitely Rat Man.
‘Well?’ Jepson said. He pursed his small lips into a disturbing little pucker.
Although he hadn’t been asked, Ben sat down in one of the chairs in front of the desk, and Torrington sat at another to the side.
‘Thank you for seeing me, Greg,’ Ben said, opting for the matey touch.
‘I’m very careful to preserve my privacy,’ Jepson said. That fitted in with the absence of any visual images of him online. ‘If you’re planning an exposé on me, don’t. And forget trying to film in here.’
‘It’s something I would like to discuss with you alone,’ Ben said.
‘And I’d like Stephen to be here,’ said Jepson.
Ben didn’t want the PR guy hanging around. ‘It’s to do with the Admiral Byng.’
Jepson stared at Ben. Ben held his gaze. ‘Could you leave us, Stephen?’ Jepson said.
The smooth PR man looked as if he was going to protest, but then left the office, and stood alone in the trading room, staring out of the window.
‘What have you got to do with the Admiral Byng?’ Jepson asked.
‘Have you heard Geoffrey Fitzsimmons is dead?’
‘Suicide, I hear,’ said Jepson, his eyes flicking to his screens.
‘Maybe,’ said Ben. ‘I understand you saw him the day he died? Monday.’
Jepson ignored him and turned his chair towards the screens. He swore under his breath. ‘Gaston has no balls.’ He tapped a message furiously on the keyboard, presumably sending a little missile to the luckless Gaston in Paris or Geneva or wherever. Then he turned back to Ben.
‘Why on earth should I tell you who I saw on Monday afternoon?’
‘My company is producing a reality television show. We were filming in the Admiral Byng on Monday, the day the Admiral died. Naturally we are interested in his death.’
Jepson’s eyes flicked to the screens beside him. ‘OK. I get why you want to see me. But why should I tell you anything?’
Ben was ready. ‘We have you on film going up to meet the Admiral that day. It would really make our programme if we could show a wealthy hedge-fund manager going to speak to a murder victim the day he died.’
‘I’m not that wealthy,’ said Jepson.
‘Net worth eighty-two million last year?’
For the first time Jepson smiled, a swift rearrangement of those puckered lips. Ben almost missed it. ‘It’s a bit more than that now,’ he said.
‘I’m sure,’ said Ben, flatly.
‘And if I tell you what I was doing, you’ll leave me out of the programme?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Ben, thinking the opposite. He should be able to manufacture some ‘public interest’ justification to go back on his word, once he found out a little more about what was going on.
Jepson’s eyes flared at him. Pure aggression. He was a little guy, but he reminded Ben of a drunken football hooligan on a Saturday night looking for a fight.
‘Do you know why my fund is called Mamba Capital?’
‘You liked the song?’
‘That’s mambo. The mamba is not only one of the most venomous snakes in the world, it’s also the fastest. I like to strike fast. That’s my trading style, that’s how I have made all that money.’
‘And your point is…’
‘My point is that if you put me in your little film, you are finished. I’ll finish you. Professionally. No one will want to touch you or your work.’
Ben looked at the geek in the fake designer shirt threatening him. How could he be scared of a loser like that? On the other hand, if the loser had that much money and was willing to use it, maybe he should be.
Jepson turned to his screen again, swore, and typed something furiously. As he watched, Ben wondered whether the geek was sleeping with the gorgeous receptionist outside. Surely not; she looked like she had too much taste, even though the guy was loaded. Surely not.
But the thought, once sparked, began to burn.
Ben tried to regain control. ‘Well, let’s not just threaten each other, shall we? No doubt whatever you were doing at the pub was perfectly harmless. How did you know the Admiral?’
Jepson didn’t answer for a few seconds, and then turned to face Ben. ‘I was brought up in Crabwell, my mother still lives there. My parents were old friends of the Admiral, I’ve known him since I was a child. He’s always shown an interest in my career. I was seeing my mother for a brief visit, and I thought I would drop in and say hi.’
‘I see. So what did you discuss with him?’
‘I said “hi”.’ Jepson’s lips puckered.
‘Is that all?’
‘That’s all.’
‘Did he seem agitated about anything? Excited?’
‘Not particularly,’ said Jepson.
‘Because he told other people that he was going to get drunk that night. That it was his “Last Hurrah”.’
Jepson shook his head.
Just then the door flew open and a young man of about thirty burst in. Like Jepson, he was wearing casual clothes, but unlike Jepson’s, they looked like they had cost a lot of money. Ben took in the watch, the carefully trimmed stubble, the expensive haircut, the Italian shoes.
‘Greg, the market is still being bid up! We’re twenty million under water. We have got to cut our position now!’
The accent was strong and French.
‘Did you sell those four million shares, Gaston?’
‘Sell four million? Of course not! We need to cover our short, and we need to do it now!’
‘Calm down, Gaston,’ said Jepson. ‘Just calm down. Then sell four million more shares like I told you.’
‘This could destroy our performance for the year, Greg!’
‘It could, but it won’t,’ said Jepson. Even Ben was impressed by the geek’s authority. ‘This stock is way overvalued, and it will go down. All we have to do is be patient. And sell four million more shares.’
The Frenchman, his chest heaving, stared at his boss. He looked tense. Frankly, he looked scared. ‘Are you sure, Greg?’
‘Am I ever wrong?’ said Jepson.
‘Sometimes,’ said the Frenchman. ‘Sometimes.’
‘But not this time, eh?’
The Frenchman shrugged. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll sell four million more.’ He left the room.
Jepson glanced at his screen and then turned back to Ben. ‘You didn’t hear any of that,’ he said.
‘Certainly not,’ said Ben, thinking about just how much damage he could do to the financial markets with the hundred and fifty quid he had taken out of the cash machine that morning. ‘Do you have any idea why the Admiral might have killed
himself?’
The lips puckered. Jepson gave a tiny shrug.
‘Or why anyone else would want to kill him?’
Jepson snorted. ‘You must be joking. No one would ever kill anyone in Crabwell. I doubt there has been any major crime since the outbreak of cow-tipping in 2000. Now if you want to know who was behind that, I might be able to help you.’
Ha bloody ha, thought Ben.
‘Nothing ever happens in Crabwell, Ben,’ Jepson continued. ‘That’s why I got out of there as soon as I could, and rarely go back.’
‘Except on Monday?’
‘Except on Monday,’ said Jepson.
‘I don’t understand why a busy guy who hates the place should suddenly decide to return on a working day and say hi to the alcoholic friend of his parents.’
A pucker. A shrug. ‘Somehow, I suspect that there is a lot you don’t understand, Ben.’
Ben decided to try one last tack. ‘OK. There was a whole procession of people who went up to see the Admiral that day. We have the names of some of them, but not all. Did you see anyone come and talk to him?’
Jepson thought a moment and decided to throw Ben a bone. ‘Yes. After I left the pub that afternoon I was sitting in my car with my iPhone, checking up on some trades. And while I was there in the car park I saw Griffiths Bentley going in, carrying a briefcase.’
‘Griffiths Bentley?’ said Ben, feigning ignorance.
‘He is my parents’ solicitor. Well, my mother’s, since my father died.’
Ben smiled. ‘Thank you. Possibly the Admiral’s solicitor too?’
‘I wouldn’t know about that.’
Jepson turned back to his screen, squinted at it, and tapped out a message.
Ben watched, waiting for him to finish, and trying and failing not to think of Jepson sleeping with the receptionist. How could such a loser have so much money? It wasn’t right. It wasn’t right at all.
‘Are you still here?’ said Jepson, his eyes not leaving his screen.
Greg Jepson waited a couple of minutes for the TV scumbag to get out of his office. Gaston had sold another two million shares of the ailing pharmaceutical company short, and was working on the last two with the broker Bloomfield Weiss. Although the share price was still ticking up, Jepson was confident. He had a good feeling about this one.
He was a little nervous about Ben’s threat to put his visit to the Admiral Byng on TV. Stephen the PR guy had said Ben could be dangerous. Jepson was confident he could find a way to spend money to intimidate him, even if he wasn’t quite sure how. Maybe he should talk to Stephen after all. He glanced out into the trading room, but Stephen had left.
The talk of the Admiral’s death reminded him he needed to call his personal banker. He picked up the phone and speed dialled.
‘Rupert?… It’s Greg Jepson… About that funds transfer I made on Monday afternoon, have you checked whether it went through?… The name of the account was Geoffrey Horatio Fitzsimmons, and the amount was two million pounds, I told you that!… It must make some difference if he’s dead… Well, find out and get back to me!’
Jepson slammed down the phone. He stared at the rows of numbers blinking at him, and switched one of the screens to the high-quality colour CCTV feed of Jemima bending over the filing cabinet out in reception. It never failed to soothe him.
Jepson saw her straighten up and turn to the lift doors. The journalist appeared, said something cheery to her, and then swept out of view.
Jepson quickly switched the screen back to equity prices, and hunched his shoulders in intense concentration. A moment later, there was a quick knock on the door. Jepson decided to ignore the journalist.
‘Sorry. Forgot my bag. Won’t keep you.’
Jepson ignored him, but with his peripheral vision, he saw the journalist bend down and pick up a canvas shoulder bag, which was hidden almost out of sight beside the chair Milne had been sitting in.
‘Cheers, Greg,’ Milne said, and he was gone.
Outside, in Berkeley Square, Ben sat on a bench and lifted the digital voice recorder out of his open bag. It was a trick he had been taught by an old documentary maker, who had now passed on to the great boozer in the sky. It only worked one time in ten. Usually someone pointed out the bag, or the subsequent conversation was irrelevant. But every now and then when a journalist left an interview having asked some awkward questions, the interviewee decided he wanted to discuss those questions with someone else right away, and it was worth it just for those times.
Ben turned on the machine and listened.
Bingo!
CHAPTER NINE
Amy wasn’t at the pub when Ben came in off the lunchtime train, in fact there was no one in the bar other than Meriel, who asked him if he fancied anything on the menu. Backing out of the door as swiftly as he’d come in from the rainy afternoon, Ben assured Meriel he’d eaten on the train, but oh dear, he’d forgotten to post a letter. Ignoring Meriel’s plaintive cry that the day’s only collection in Crabwell went in the morning, Ben hurried back along the seafront. Amy was the only person he wanted to share this news with, and Stan had pointed out her cottage the other day. It was cold, and wet, she couldn’t turn him away if he arrived on her doorstep, could she?
She hadn’t, though she hadn’t seemed too pleased to see him either. Nevertheless, he’d got himself across the threshold with the promise of a revelation, and when he’d played her the recording Amy sat back in the tired old armchair, suitably impressed.
‘Shame I can’t whistle.’
‘Sorry?’ Ben asked. ‘Whistle?’
‘Two million. It’s worth a whistle, at least. No wonder Fitz was so cheery.’
‘And now dead.’
‘Yes, thanks, I hadn’t forgotten.’
Ben kicked himself. He’d rather enjoyed spending the afternoon in this cottage – warmer since she’d banked up the log-burner, wanting to set the scene for his revelation. The wind and rain beating against the windows, a whisky each – Amy had at least been forthcoming there – it was all quite cosy, and he was a fool for forgetting she clearly had a very big soft spot for the old man.
‘I’m sorry, that was crass of me. He was your friend.’
‘Fitz was kind to me at a time when I very much needed kindness, I arrived here…’
‘Go on.’
Amy looked up from her drink and studied Ben for a moment, maybe she could tell him, maybe this was someone she could trust after all, and then she looked down at the recording gear on the battered coffee table sitting between them, and remembered what he did for a living. Puppy dog eyes or no, she wasn’t ready to tell that story yet.
There was one thing she was prepared to reveal however. Ben was clearly good at this investigating lark, he’d found a key piece of the story – though neither of them had any idea where the money might fit in – it was only fair she shared her latest thinking too.
‘I’ve been thinking about the note.’
‘The suicide note?’
‘Yes. The one that Fitz definitely didn’t write.’
‘You are absolutely certain about that? Because Cole and Chesterton seem pretty convinced that he did write it.’
Amy tutted contemptuously. ‘Well, that says everything that needs to be said about the competence of Cole and Chesterton. I’ve seen a lot of Fitz over the last few years, and I know he didn’t know one end of a computer from the other, he couldn’t tell a PC from a Mac, refused to get a mobile phone – not that reception’s great in the pub anyway. He hates… hated,’ she added, correcting herself, ‘technology of any sort. He had an old wireless radio.’
‘For the shipping forecast?’
‘Exactly, and the same landline telephone he’s had since the seventies, that’s the closest he got to anything from the twentieth century, let alone the twenty-first. The idea that he could suddenly teach himself how to print up a suicide note – and address an envelope – is just nonsensical.’
‘All right, I’ll buy that. In fact,
I had already bought it. You told me before. So what are you telling me now that’s new?’
‘Well, I’d been thinking… if Fitz didn’t write the suicide note, then who did?’
‘A reasonable question.’
‘And I’ve decided it couldn’t be anyone who knew him very well.’
‘Because they’d have known about his aversion to computers?’
‘Exactly.’ Amy was impressed by how quickly Ben caught on to ideas. He was bright all right. But that still didn’t make him trustworthy. She hurried on. ‘And the person who planted the note hadn’t thought things through, anyway. He or she had just plonked it on the rolled-up cover of the dinghy. It wasn’t even damp, though. Nobody would be fool enough to imagine that Fitz had written the note and put it there himself.’
‘Unless that “nobody” happened to be DI Cole or DC Chesterton. I get the impression they’d be fools enough to do anything.’
‘Yes,’ Amy agreed glumly.
‘Incidentally,’ said Ben, adroitly changing the direction of the conversation, ‘I think we should keep doing this.’
‘Keep doing what?’ asked Amy suspiciously. If Ben thought she would welcome him making a habit of dropping around to her place, then he needed to be quickly disabused of the idea.
A sly smile showed that he had anticipated her thought. With an expression of brown-eyed innocence, he replied, ‘Keep telling each other of any advances we make on the investigation. Keep pooling our information.’
The suggestion was not one with which she could disagree. But part of her wondered why he had made it. Was his main concern an altruistic search for the truth about how Fitz had died? Or did he have a different, more personal agenda? With people like Ben Milne, it was always hard to be sure what they were up to.
But for the moment his behaviour was impeccable. ‘I must go,’ he said, rising from his seat. ‘Thank you for the drink.’
‘My pleasure.’
‘Yes. Do you have plans for who you’re going to talk to next?’
‘I thought I should have a word with Bob Christie.’
‘Crabwell’s very own intrepid boy reporter? Good idea.’
The Sinking Admiral Page 10