Aftershock

Twenty-three

Bet Rose looked at her sister from the doorway. ‘Are you on that bloody computer already?’ The question was pointless since Maggie was staring at the monitor, with her right hand on the mouse.

She twisted round in her chair. ‘Sorry. Do you need to go on line?’

‘No, that’s all right. I can work on my lap-top and copy stuff across for transfer later. It would help if you had a wireless network, though. Then we could both access the Net at the same time if we needed.’ She paused. ‘But Margaret, it’s not even quarter to nine yet; you’re up, dressed, Steph’s fed and changed, and you’re at it already. This is not what recuperation’s supposed to be like.’ She peered at the screen. ‘What are you doing anyway?’

‘Working on my memoirs. Now bugger off and get designing.’

‘Okay, you old charmer. By the way,’ she called out, as Maggie turned back to her computer, ‘you’ve got your wig on back to front.’

‘No, I haven’t.’ She laughed. ‘I checked where the label was when I put it on.’

Alone again, she focused on the screen once more; she was logged on to the Fishheads website once more and, when Bet had interrupted her, had just clicked on the biography of Godric Hawker, BSc (Acc), CPFA, the chief executive officer.

There was a photograph at the top of the page, showing a clean-cut, immaculately groomed young man in his early thirties. He was pictured, jacketless, in an open-necked shirt, seated on the arm of a chair, rather than in it. Clearly, she thought, the company’s publicity advisers believed that their clients should look like young politicians rather than business leaders.

Hawker’s biography told her that he was a graduate of the University of Southampton, and that he had completed his professional training with a leading, but unnamed, firm of London accountants. He had spent three years as a manager, specialising in corporate finance, before being head-hunted by Fishheads to become its finance director. He had been chief executive for only a month. The section gave minimal career information and said nothing about the man.

On impulse, Maggie went to the foot of the screen and clicked on ‘Press Releases’. A list of announcements made by the company over the previous twelve months unrolled before her eyes. Two of the most recent were headed, ‘First major order from Hong Kong’, and ‘Fishheads.com climbs suppliers’ league table’, but when she scrolled up, at the top of the list was one titled ‘Board Appointments’. She checked the date and saw that it had been posted that morning. She opened it.

It read:

The directors of Fishheads plc wish to confirm a number of boardroom changes, which have been in place on a provisional basis for the last two months. These follow the decision of David Barnes, the founder of the company, to withdraw from business life, and are designed to ensure continuity in the upper tier of management.

Mrs Sanda Boras has been confirmed as a director and as non-executive chair of the company.

Mr Godric Hawker has been confirmed as chief executive officer, with day-to-day responsibility for all operations. With Mrs Boras, he will exercise oversight of all financial matters and will continue to act as finance director.

Mr Ifan Richards continues as an executive director, assuming responsibility for investor relations and corporate communications.

The board also wishes to announce that agreement has been reached on the acquisition of the shareholding of David Barnes by the LTN Trust. In consequence of the sale Mr Ignacio Riesgo is appointed as a non-executive director of the company.

‘Who the hell is he?’ Maggie murmured. She returned to the biography section. The name of the new director was listed there; she clicked on it, and read:

Mr Ignacio Riesgo, 30, is the son of the late Hilario Riesgo. He was born in Panama, and was educated there and in the United States. He is a trustee of the LTN Trust, which is based in Bermuda, where he is resident.

’That tells me precisely fuck all,’ she said. ‘But I suppose … Dražen has to disappear, so he cashes up by selling his fifty-one per cent share in Fishheads, which is worth, going by the company’s current market value, about two hundred million. Where does the money go?’

She picked up the phone and dialled the number of Levene and Company, hoping that Jacqui Harkness was an early starter. She was.

‘Who’s Ignacio Riesgo?’ Maggie asked, not spending time on pleasantries.

‘Hah.’ The analyst laughed. ‘I thought I’d be hearing from you this morning, once you caught up with the Fishheads announcement. The answer is that I haven’t a clue who the bugger is, other than that he’s tied into the LTN Trust. It has investments around the world, in computing, property, and even football.’

‘Is Ignacio a director of those companies?’

‘Not that I know of, but most of them aren’t in my sector so I don’t study them.’

’Will this make it more difficult for me to locate Dražen?’

‘If he doesn’t want you to find him, and it seems clear that he doesn’t, it makes it bloody near impossible. These old Bermuda trusts are very difficult to penetrate. Dražen’s money will be locked up in Switzerland by now, and you’ll never pick up the trail.’

‘He’ll be long gone, with a new identity anyway,’ said Maggie, gloomily. ‘What do you know about the LTN Trust?’

‘Nothing, other than it’s an investment vehicle that’s been around for years. There are loads like it, there and in other offshore places. It’ll be legit, though; I’d vouch for that. Bermuda isn’t lawless; investment is its main industry and it’s regulated. You have to be these days, or the G8’ll shut you down. Sorry, Maggie, you’re stuck. You’ll have to try something else.’ Harkness chuckled. ‘How about tapping his mother’s letters, phones and e-mails?’

‘I could do all that. I could follow her every movement, and Davor’s too. But, Jacqui, this man is way too smart to be sending his mum postcards from exotic locations, or dropping her a quick call on the mobile, and his folks aren’t going to put him at risk by meeting him.’ She paused. ‘Have you got any literature on Fishheads, anything that goes back to the time he was there?’

‘I’ve got a copy of the last annual report. I’ll send you that. Where do you want it?’ Maggie gave her the Gordon Terrace address. ‘That doesn’t sound like a police station,’ she said.

‘It’s not. It’s my home; I told you, I’ve got Special Branch status on this, but I’m working on my own, with my boss’s approval.’

Harkness whistled. ‘Wow! Go on, Maggie, tell me what’s he done? I won’t breathe a word, I promise.’

As she spoke, Stephanie stirred in her carry-cot, and began to cry.

‘Do you hear that wee one in the background?’ her mother asked.

‘Couldn’t fail to. Yours?’

’Yes. Just before she was born, Drazen killed her dad.’