Arbitrage

by Colette Kebell

  He turned, hearing footsteps. Pamela joined him in the large kitchen, approached Logan and hugged him. Then they kissed. Logan could no longer think of a life without Pamela. There had been other women in his life, but nothing was comparable to what he was feeling for that beautiful creature who now stood next to him. He sniffed her wondrous red tresses and kissed her again.

  ‘You’re missing breakfast in bed,’ said Logan.

  ‘How romantic,’ answered the woman sitting at the kitchen table. She briefly opened the newspaper from the day before without finding an article of interest while Logan was ready to serve breakfast. He did not move at ease in that large room, often only visited to prepare coffee or grab a beer from the refrigerator. It was a kitchen tastefully decorated by the previous owners, who probably spent every night cooking food. The worktop was in dark marble, the panels of beige lacquered shelves. An Aga was the centrepiece of the kitchen, but Logan had never learned how to turn it on and therefore had installed a gas hob. Not that he used that either, preferring to dine in the pub or in some restaurant in the area. The table where he and Pamela sat was somewhat rustic, vast, and made of oak. No elegance but remarkable features. Ideal for a home with children, that table had definitely resisted weathering from bands of rampaging little whelps and had survived without a scratch.

  ‘Doesn’t he care if you’re out all night?’ That was a topic they had discussed earlier, they both knew it was time for a decision.

  ‘Who, Bruno? He doesn’t even notice it. After the birth of Carla, I’ve become virtually invisible. The important thing is that I attend a few gala dinners and play my part. He has this idea of presenting himself as part of a united family. Do you know he has a lover?’

  Logan laid the tea and breakfast in front of Pamela. ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘She isn’t the first. I was jealous at the beginning, and I even had them followed by a private investigator. But I never confronted him with the evidence. Sometimes he can be ruthless and even if I loved him in the past, it’s now all gone. I’m left with doubt about Carla.’

  ‘What doubt?’ The two looked each other in the face, no one had yet started breakfast, although Pamela kept sipping tea. The woman put down her cup on the table.

  ‘He has a lot of friends, and I fear that he could get custody of Carla. You don’t know what he’s capable of.’

  ‘He can’t do that. The children remain with their mother, no judge would think otherwise.’ He had never dealt with divorces, but the law was quite clear in this respect. Bruno Mortcombe was supposed to prove serious misconduct on Pamela’s part to have any chance for custody over their daughter. As far as he knew that option wasn’t available to him. Aside from their secret relationship.

  Pamela tasted her breakfast; she suddenly stood up and ran to the bathroom. She returned after a few minutes, white in the face.

  ‘I didn’t think I was that bad as a cook,’ said Logan to relieve tension. ‘What is it, it’s now one week that you’ve not been feeling well? Have you been to the doctor?’

  ‘It’s not that … Ryan, I’m pregnant.’

  Logan stopped in his tracks, unable to utter anything for a few moments. He had no doubt he was the father. Ryan knew the relationship between Pamela and Mortcombe was, in fact, empty. Then he approached her and held her in a big hug.

  ‘Darling … how long have you known?’ he asked.

  ‘Only a few days.’

  ‘This is wonderful! We must not waste time and prepare to file for a divorce.’

  ‘As soon as possible, I’m sick of this subterfuge and living this way. Are you sure about Carla?’

  ‘There will be no problems whatsoever,’ Logan reassured her. It was time to change his life, he thought. A son, or daughter, would change everything. No more drinking, no more working until late at night for the sole purpose of filling the time. He didn’t care anymore about career or living a life of excesses, the only thing he could think of was the idea of raising a family in this very house in Surrey. He didn’t care anymore of the daily battles in the office. He knew he would have left after the merger, regardless. Why not now? Cutting the bridges was the most sensible thing to do.

  He thought of all those rooms in that house, which seemed to him always empty whenever he returned from work. It wouldn’t be anymore.

  Logan didn’t know how wrong he was.

  CHAPTER 7

  1990

  Newsham Saunders lived in a luxurious apartment at Lowndes Square, Knightsbridge. It was in the heart of wealthy London, and he was indeed proud of where he lived. In some circles, people were judged by their postcode. People let slip during a conversation, ‘I live in Knightsbridge’ before even saying their first name. If the other party didn’t counter with something more renowned, the hierarchies were established.

  That evening Logan was at dinner with the managing partner. No one knew yet of his affair with Pamela, but yes, there would be repercussions after the divorce. He knew he wouldn’t stay long in the new company. Contrary to what he had expected, Saunders had assumed an important role, almost higher than Mortcombe. How he had succeeded in that was a mystery.

  Logan had arrived early for dinner, and at that moment, he was sipping a gin and tonic in one of the armchairs in the living room. The house had been renovated with taste, undoubtedly the work of some architect, thought Logan, since everything seemed to make sense. The style of the sofa, the paintings on the walls. The place oozed class, and it was ultimately the opposite of Saunders’ office. Had he been married, his wife would get credit for such great elegance. Italian marble everywhere, adjustable lights in the ceiling, the Victorian fireplace restored and polished. No, Saunders wouldn’t be able to achieve that.

  ‘Good evening, Ryan,’ said a voice behind him.

  Logan put down his glass on a crystal table in front of him and turned around. ‘Good evening, Commodore. Are you keeping me company?’

  ‘Sure, sure, though I should not, considering my age.’

  Logan nodded to one of the waitresses and ordered another gin and tonic. It was not the first that evening for the Commodore, nor the second. He was unsteady and visibly excited. He had probably been drinking all afternoon, mixing beers, whiskies, and who knew what else. He was still a sailor, after all. No trace of Saunders at that point, but he had said he would arrive later, so Logan remained in charge of being the caregiver for the Commodore. He had never had the opportunity to visit the old boy and ask about Mortcombe. Maybe this would be the ideal opportunity to do so.

  ‘Nice house, furnished with taste,’ said Logan.

  ‘An old girlfriend of Newsham’s, an architect,’ said the Commodore. As if that could explain everything.

  ‘Newsham should arrive soon,’ said Logan, more to fill the silence than anything else.

  ‘We were supposed to meet here this afternoon because of my will, and he obviously forgot.’ Then, after a pause, he added, ‘I do not like this story, Ryan.’

  ‘What are you talking about, Commodore?’

  ‘About Mortcombe, of course.’ The elder, although he was half drunk, tried to keep the tone of a naval officer of Her Majesty. No uniform that evening, only a blue suit and a red tie that had seen better days.

  ‘Not liked by many, but sometimes business is business.’

  ‘Did you know that the man served under me when I was Chief Superintendent? A disgrace to the Navy.’ Commodore Saunders began to tell. They were stationed in Malta, and Mortcombe was a young lieutenant on the ship with Saunders.

  A malingerer according to the Commodore. One day the local police came out in force to catch a rapist. According to the information supplied by the victim, the offender was a young British male. The poor woman was not only raped but also brutally beaten one evening in one of the side streets of Valletta, not far from the venues and pubs attended by sailors. The description she gave to the investigators was clear and precise. The woman was the daughter of a senior Maltese politician, a girl above suspicion, wh
o was returning home after visiting her grandparents. The local newspapers cried scandal aloud, especially since she later died from the injuries, after weeks spent in a coma due to complications. But she’d been able to provide an adequate description to the authorities.

  The police made hell trying to board the two British ships that were in port at the time, diplomatic pressure was applied. At that time, Malta was a strategic port for the Navy of Her Majesty, at the height of the Cold War.

  Saunders continued to tell, Logan dangled from the Commodore’s lips. After numerous pressures, they ordered all components of the two ships to disembark, officers included, to allow the local authorities to continue their investigation. Unfortunately, the description did not match anyone on board the two boats, which were left to sail away a few days later.

  It was only later they understood that a second lieutenant received a bribe from Mortcombe, a hothead but with family money, to hide in a closet in the engine room. No one had paid attention to his absence. To prevent further scandal, the Navy gave a dishonourable discharge to both of them in disgrace but failed to inform Malta about their discovery.

  ‘And how did you come to know about this whole thing?’

  That second lieutenant had falsified the attendance log, unbelievable!’ added the Commodore, still lost in his thoughts. ‘One day during a fire drill, as soon we set sail, they found Mortcombe hidden in that closet. He wasn’t supposed to be in that place at that time. The officer involved in the fire drill, at first gave him a reprimand, but the rape story was well present to all of us, and then I was informed. Can you realise? A British naval officer, for God’s sake. None of us could believe it. The little bastard spent the rest of the journey in the brig until we returned to Plymouth and then the military police took care of him.’

  Logan remained silent. If the old man was telling the truth, and he had no reason to doubt it, that fact complicated things further. Not only was Mortcombe a bastard but he was also capable of violence. He needed to speed things up with Pamela, find a way to keep her safe.

  ‘Have you told anyone else this story?’ asked Logan.

  ‘To Newsham, of course, about a year ago. I was reading the Financial Times and suddenly, turning pages, what do I find? An article on new banks in England and a picture Mortcombe. Several years have passed but some things you don’t forget.’

  ‘They convicted him?’

  ‘Unfortunately, no. The sod got away with a dishonourable discharge. The command decided that it would be better to avoid a scandal. If it was up to me instead …’

  Logan refrained from commenting, but some things were starting to make sense. The sudden decision to merge with the Mortcombe Bank was not a financial move, it was blackmail. The fact that Newsham had acquired a prominent position in the new company and hadn’t seemed to stop in his rise. But Logan knew there was always a price to pay. Blackmailers don’t ever stop. They get something quickly, and then they want more and keep squeezing. Until something breaks.

  Logan changed tack, asking about some nautical club of which the Commodore was part of.

  Newsham arrived shortly after, just in time for dinner. The Commodore killed another bottle of Burgundy and when he wasn’t able to stay on his feet any longer was taken to his room by one of the waiters. The others were released shortly after, leaving Saunders and Logan alone.

  ‘There are disturbing rumours about you,’ said Saunders. They had moved back into the living room, sitting on two cream-coloured sofas opposite each other. Saunders had just lit a cigar and puffed out more smoke than a Cuban bus.

  ‘Of what kind?’

  ‘You’re about to go to the competition? I was in touch with Rodderick Finance a few days ago, and they told me you had made veiled allusions to corporate changes. In short, the usual chatter that people make before changing jobs and poach a handful of customers in the process.’

  There wasn’t much time left. As soon as Pamela made the divorce announcement, Logan would be politely, but firmly, conducted to the door and fired. It didn’t upset him in the least, as he had already decided to leave. Ryan had contacted the best customers, and these had given him a nod of assent in the case he decided to open a law firm on his own. But he would have not been alone in this new venture, he would have brought with him a handful of trusted associates.

  He had already arranged everything. An office in Chancery Lane, for which he had already paid a deposit, the announcement in two weeks and then the tremendous job of protecting the customers that he stole from Saunders. The partners would go to hell and back trying to recover their clients, they would call them daily, making promises they couldn’t keep. They would try to block the funds that Logan held in the company, perhaps they’d take him to court, but those were only tactics that would not have led to anything. Aside from annoying him. No law prohibited changing job and customers were free to choose.

  Logan passed a hand through his hair, smoothing them backwards. ‘Those of Rodderick are a bunch of morons who couldn’t distinguish their own ass from a hole in the ground.’ However, if they had spoken to Saunders, it was a problem. Logan would leave irrespective, with or without Rodderick Finance. They were not necessary for his plans.

  ‘Maybe, but the matter got me thinking so I dug a little deeper.’ Saunders got up from the couch and walked to a desk near a window. From one of the drawers, he extracted a large manila envelope and retraced his steps. Once he sat down again, he opened it at a glacial pace. They were photographs, of that Logan was sure.

  ‘I had you followed. You know how much those investigative agencies cost? A blunder, they are almost worse than us when it comes to billing a client’s work, but in this case, they were efficient. Here, take a look.’ And so saying, he laid the pictures on the glass table that stood between the two.

  Logan picked one up. There was no need to look at any others. The picture portrayed him in an unambiguous position with Pamela. He was unimpressed, it was not in his nature to lose his temper, but the fact that Saunders knew was an unexpected complication.

  Saunders pulled a small container from his pants pocket, disposed a little amount of cocaine in two parallel rows on one of the other pictures, just above the face portraying Logan, and he sniffed.

  ‘So, this is what we are going to do,’ continued Saunders, ‘when the office re-opens on Monday, the first thing you do is to prepare a nice letter of resignation. Then you bugger off immediately, and if you make a move to take even one of our customers, these pictures end up on Mortcombe’s desk. From what we learned, he’s quite the vengeful type, and if you care about this woman, well, it’s best if you quit silently. What you do after that, is none of my business, open a law firm somewhere in the countryside, take care of buying and selling real estate, draft wills and all the other crap low-life lawyers do nowadays. If I see you in London or if you try to contact one of the other law firms that do business in our industry, I will tell them so many lies on your account they will be horrified at the thought of hiring you. Do we understand each other?’

  ‘Illuminating. So now both of us have a new career in front of us. How is it going your new endeavour as blackmailer?’ The disdain was evident in Logan’s voice. He deposed the photo on the coffee table; certainly, Saunders had other copies.

  ‘Come on, Ryan, this isn’t blackmail. It is simply a business transaction where you got the worst of it.’

  ‘Is this what you told Mortcombe to convince him to merge the two firms?’

  For a moment, Saunders hesitated. He opened his mouth to say something but then thought better of it. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said in the end.

  ‘Look, your old man does not hold his liquor anymore. He told me about that affair of Mortcombe’s in Malta. So, I think this is what we need to do: you take these pictures, and you shove them up your arse. I’m resigning Monday, but if a customer decides to follow me, you’re not going to do a damn thing to stop them. And if you don’t like it, I can always go to
Scotland Yard and give them my side of the story. Mortcombe ends up in a Maltese prison and you in a British one for blackmail. What do you say?’

  Saunders put out his cigar and stood up abruptly. Then headed toward the window with slow, measured steps. It was clear he was considering several options in his mind, apparently without coming to a conclusion. It was a few minutes later when he spoke again. He undid his tie and said, ‘Bugger off, Ryan. And do it quickly.’

  The conversation was over. Logan stood up in turn and walked right out of the apartment. No greetings or pleasantries, it wouldn’t have been wise.

  When Saunders was alone, he took out his phone and dialled a number he knew by heart.

  ‘Hello?’ said the voice on the other end of the phone.

  ‘Mortcombe, this is Newsham. We have a problem.’

  ****

  The Monday morning newspapers reported the news of the gruesome death of Newsham Saunders as a possible burglary in the apartment gone wrong, although investigators did not commit to a clear explanation.

  One of the waiters found Saunders on Saturday morning, after dinner with Logan; according to the first reports Saunders was killed with one of the kitchen knives found in the apartment. Signs of a struggle were evident and, according to witnesses, some valuables were taken.