Free To Trade

CHAPTER 19

It was Thursday afternoon. I was watching athletics from Oslo on television. It was profoundly depressing, but somehow I couldn't bring myself to turn the set off. As I saw the eight hundred metres being won by a Spaniard whom I had beaten on several occasions, I asked myself yet again why I had given up. I had been so good! Why the hell had I bothered with trading? And it was too late to go back to running now. I would never be able to recapture my old form. It was all gone. There was nothing left for me to do but sit here and regret it.

I gazed round my small flat. My bronze Olympic medal mocked me from the mantelpiece. God, the flat was a mess! It was so small, it didn't take much to make it untidy. There was a big pile of dirty laundry in the corner behind the door. I really ought to take it to the launderette, I thought. No, it could wait another day. I hadn't quite run out of clean clothes.

The phone rang. It was probably one of the recruitment agencies. I had recently told them to give up searching for trading jobs, and asked them to look for a vacancy for a credit analyst instead. They had muttered about how difficult the job market was these days. I had evidently worked my way swiftly down on their list of likely placements, from near the top to near the bottom. I let the phone ring ten times before pulling myself out of my chair to go and get it.

'Hallo?'

'Hallo, is that Paul?' Cathy's voice came clearly down the line.

My heart started beating fast. A brief surge of elation was quickly tugged down by my surly mood. I had played over that rejection a hundred times in my mind in the past two weeks; I didn't have the strength for another one.

'Paul, is that you?'

I cleared my throat, 'Yes. Yes, it is. How are you Cathy?' I could hear my own voice cold and formal. I didn't mean it to come out like that, but it did all the same.

'I'm very sorry to hear what happened. It must have been awful for you.'

'Yes, it was a bit.'

'There were all sorts of silly rumours flying around about why you left.'

What was she trying to do? Gloat over the gory details? Pick up some good gossip? I wasn't going to help her. 'Yes, I'm sure there were.'

'Look, I was thinking,' she began nervously, 'it's a long time since we saw each other, and it might be nice to catch up.' Catch up on what, I thought cynically. 'I wondered if you were doing anything on Sunday afternoon?'

My pulse quickened again. 'No, no I'm not.'

'Well, I wondered if you would like to come for a walk in the country somewhere. I know a lovely place in the Chilterns, it's only an hour away. That is, if you'd like to.' Cathy's voice trailed off at the end. She must have plucked up some courage to ring me, and I was not being exactly helpful.

'Yes, I'd like that very much,' I said, trying to put some enthusiasm into my voice, and to my surprise, succeeding.

'Good. Why don't you pick me up from my place at two?' She gave me an address in Hampstead.

It would be an exaggeration to say that my depression rolled away, but the sun was definitely shining through the clouds. I managed a passable interview with a Japanese bank the next day, and spent much of Saturday methodically going through the Financial Times, looking for job advertisements and getting up to date on the current financial news. I was going to have to get some sort of job soon, I reasoned, and so I might as well get as good a one as I could. That was a great step forward from the beginning of the week.

'Tell me what happened, Paul.'

I had known she would ask this. We were walking down the side of a grassy hill towards a small stream. A group of black and white Friesian cows stared at us from the other side of the field, debating whether they had the energy to amble over to get a closer look. In the end they decided it was too far, and bent down for more grass. It had rained the day before, so the air was fresh. In the sunshine it felt more like spring than September.

It was a question I had wanted to avoid. I knew I was innocent, the rest of the world held me guilty. There was nothing I could do to change their minds, so why deny it? There seemed to be more dignity in keeping silent than in professing innocence to all and sundry. And Cathy was the last person in the world to whom I wanted to appear a whining complainer.

I had been apprehensive on the way to Cathy's Hampstead flat. I had run through all the points of potential conflict in my mind. Our argument about her career, Cash, my failure to get another job, and this. I was prepared for a difficult afternoon picking through the minefield.

But it hadn't been like that at all. Cathy had been obviously pleased to see me. We had chatted comfortably on the way up to the Chilterns. We had parked outside an old Saxon church, and Cathy had led the way. We had strolled through a medley of typical English settings, a village, an old beech wood, a farmyard and then this small green valley leading down to a stream.

So when she asked, I told her. She listened carefully, accepting everything, so I told her more. Not just about how I had got into the mess, but also about how I had felt over the last couple of weeks. It was easy. The words tumbled out to be met with sympathy and concern. As I talked I relaxed. I realised I was no longer striding through the countryside, with Cathy struggling to keep up with me; we were now slowly meandering our way along the side of the stream. My words also put the last two weeks into perspective. I saw my indulgent self-pity for what it was.

Eventually the torrent abated. 'I'm sorry for talking so much,' I said. 'You are very patient.'

'No, that's OK,' she said. 'It sounds as if you have had a horrible time.' She climbed down a bank to the stream. 'Why don't we stop here a bit? We must have walked four miles. I could do with a paddle.'

She took off her shoes, rolled up her jeans and stepped into the fast-running brook. She let out a yell as the cold water rushed around her ankles. I lay down on the bank and let the sun beat down on my face. Through half-closed eyes I watched her pick her way around the wet stones. She was wearing a white shirt and a pair of old jeans. Her hair blew into her tanned face as she jumped from stone to stone. She had a carefree, tousled scruffiness I had not seen before. And I liked it. I liked it very much. I smiled and closed my eyes.

I was pleasantly dozing on the cool grass of the bank when I felt a gentle tickle under my nose. I sneezed, spluttered and opened my eyes. Cathy was lying next to me, poking a long blade of grass under my nose. I made a half-hearted attempt to grab it but she pulled it away, giggling. Her face was only six inches away from mine. Her big brown eyes were shining as she looked down at me. The smile drifted from her lips. I reached up and pulled her down to me. We kissed tentatively at first, and then fell into a deep embrace. Cathy pulled back, giggled slightly, pushed the hair away from her face, and kissed me again, hungrily this time. Just then I heard a shout not fifty yards away, 'Benson, come here! Come here, you bloody dog!'

We broke apart, laughing. Cathy got to her feet. 'Come on, we've still got three miles to go before we get back to the car.'

'OK,' I sighed, and stood up.

We made our way further down the stream in silence. As we turned up the other side of the valley, Cathy said, 'It was sad about Debbie.'

Another difficult subject, but once again I found myself able to talk about it. 'Yes, it was.'

'I didn't know her that well,' Cathy went on. 'Did you?' She looked at me enquiringly.

I understood her question and smiled. 'No, not in that way. But we got on very well. I liked her.'

We walked on a few yards further.

'What happened to her?' Cathy asked.

'What do you mean?'

'Well, they said she committed suicide, but that can't be right. And an accident seems unlikely.'

'Hmm,' I said.

'You know what happened, don't you?' Cathy said.

I nodded.

'Will you tell me?'

I took a deep breath. Suddenly I wanted to tell her everything. Wanted to tell her very badly.

'OK.' We were walking up a steep bit now, and I waited till we had reached the brow of the hill, before stopping. I looked down on the small brook gurgling through the little valley. A quiet, innocent corner of England.

'She was murdered.'

'I guessed as much,' said Cathy quietly. 'Do you know who did it?'

'No. At first I thought that it was Joe Finlay, but he denied it. And I believe him.'

'Oh. Well, do you know why she was murdered?'

'I think so.' I told her all about how I had discovered that the Honshu Bank guarantee for Tremont Capital did not exist; about how I suspected Debbie had discovered this before me. I told her about my investigations in New York, about my encounter with Joe in Central Park, about Phoenix Prosperity Savings and Loan, and about its investment in the Tahiti.

Cathy listened, eyes wide, taking it all in. 'How do all these companies link together?'

'Tremont Capital issued forty million dollars of bonds with a fake guarantee from Honshu Bank. Cash then sold twenty million to De Jong; because of the fake guarantee, Hamilton didn't get the documentation checked. He then sold the other twenty to Harzweiger Bank in Switzerland. Herr Dietweiler was no doubt bribed in some way to buy it on their behalf. It looks as though Cash was pretty heavily involved. He and Waigel go back a long way.

'The forty million raised by the private placement was used to buy the majority of a savings and loan, Phoenix Prosperity, or "Uncle Sam's Money Machine". With the extra capital Phoenix Prosperity was able to borrow large amounts of money with a government guarantee. It, in turn, intended to invest this money in a number of high risk, high return ventures. One of the first of these was a 20 per cent stake in Irwin Piper's Tahiti Hotel.

'So far so good. Then things started to go wrong. First, Greg Shoffman became suspicious. He called Honshu Bank and discovered that the guarantee was bogus. I don't know what else he may have discovered or how they knew he was on to them. But he was murdered, probably by Waigel, and his body was dumped near Waigel's house. Then Debbie Chater became suspicious. And she was murdered.'

'So who do you think is behind all this?' Cathy asked.

'I don't know. Whoever are the shareholders of Tremont Capital. I am sure Waigel must be one of them. And…'

'And what?'

'Well, I wouldn't be at all surprised if Cash were in on it too.'

'And anybody else?'

'Maybe. I just don't know.'

'And who killed Debbie?'

'That is a difficult question. We know it wasn't Waigel since his diary shows he was in New York at the time of Debbie's death. As I said, Joe denied it completely, and I am inclined to believe him. It could have been Cash, or it could have been someone else entirely.'

'Like Irwin Piper?'

'No, I don't think it was him. I confronted him in Las Vegas and he seemed genuinely surprised that Debbie had been murdered.'

'So who was it?'

I turned to look at Cathy. 'It must be Cash. He must have known what he was selling to Hamilton. He's also the one with the relationship with Phoenix Prosperity Savings and Loan. And he and Waigel are old friends.'

She frowned. There was silence as we both mulled over everything I had said. We trudged on. 'I know this may sound odd to you,' Cathy said, 'but I don't think Cash would be a part of something like this. He's sleazy and he looks after number one. But he does have his own set of moral principles that he wouldn't breach.'

'What do you mean?' I said. 'He is one of the slimiest people I have ever met!'

'He may be most of the time,' Cathy said. 'But I have worked closely with him for a year now, and I don't think he is all bad. I just don't think he would have anything to do with anyone being killed.'

'What about that bloody Gypsum of America business. That was hardly straight, was it?'

'Oh, didn't I tell you? The investigation cleared Cash of all involvement. It was Joe who was trading on inside information. The Gypsum bonds were on his book, and he bought a bucket-load of shares through some nominees.'

'Really? That does surprise me. I was sure Cash had known something about the takeover.' I digested this new piece of information, and tried to put it together with what else I knew. I still couldn't quite believe in Cash as the bond salesman with principles.

'Apparently they are still investigating who else was involved,' Cathy said.

'Meaning me?'

'I haven't heard. I suppose so,' said Cathy. 'We did have a policeman come round on Friday night asking questions about you.'

'A policeman? Not the TSA? Are you sure?' I had thought the deal that Hamilton had come to was that the TSA would not pursue their investigation against me as long as De Jong agreed to fire me.

'Yes, I'm sure. His name was Powell. Inspector Powell. He asked a lot of questions about you and Debbie.'

Now, that did seem strange. I had thought Inspector Powell had closed his investigation into Debbie's death. Why was he asking questions about me? Odd.

We walked on. The village where I had parked my car was just in sight now, watched over by the squat church a hundred yards or so away from the rest of the village, on a slight mound. The site of a pre-Christian place of worship, I thought vaguely.

'So what are you going to do about it?' Cathy said.

'About what?'

'About Debbie's death. About Tremont Capital. About Phoenix Prosperity.'

'Nothing.'

'Nothing?'

'Why should I. There is not a lot of point is there?' I said sullenly.

'Bullshit,' she said. I looked at her. 'Bullshit,' she said again.

'What do you mean?'

'It's about time you pulled yourself together, Paul. OK, you've had a tough break. But someone, or some people, have stolen forty million dollars and killed two people in the process. If you do nothing, they will get away with it. You can't just let that happen, can you?'

She was angry. Her eyes were burning and her cheeks had reddened. But I got the feeling she was angry with me rather than against me. I shrugged my shoulders. 'You are absolutely right.'

She smiled and took my arm. 'Good. I'll help you. What shall we do first?'

'Well, I suppose I should talk to Hamilton, but I don't see how I can do that with this Gypsum business hanging over me.'

'I see what you mean,' said Cathy. Then a thought struck her. 'If Cash has been cleared, shouldn't you be? I mean, if he didn't have inside information, how could he have passed it to you?'

I looked at her. She was absolutely right. Hope began to flow through my veins.

'Let me talk to Cash about what happened to you. I am sure he will be able to help.'

'I don't think that's a good idea,' I said.

'Look, I am quite certain he had nothing to do with killing anyone, let alone Debbie Chater. Let me talk to him.'

'OK,' I said. 'But don't mention the Tremont business.'

'I won't.'

The village was much closer now. I spied a pub. 'Enough of all this. I'm thirsty. Let's have a drink.'

We sat outside the sixteenth-century inn and dawdled over a couple of drinks as the sun set over the wooded hills. It was a magical evening, and neither of us wanted to end it. So, since the pub had a dining room, we stayed for a supper of home-made steak-and-kidney pie.

'Have you seen anything of Rob since we got back from America?' I asked.

'Yes, I have,' said Cathy unenthusiastically.

'What's the matter? Has he been bothering you?'

'Yes, I'd say he has,' Cathy said, looking down at her plate.

I waited for her to say more. She didn't. I was interested. More than that, I was worried. I could not easily forget the venom of Rob's words in Las Vegas. 'What has he done?'

'Well, I have bumped into him once or twice at various functions. And recently he has taken to hanging around Bloom-field Weiss's building, and following me on my way home. He always comes up to talk to me, and he is always rude.'

'What does he say?'

'Oh, he says I am shallow and fickle. He says I betrayed him. He calls me a tease. And he says some pretty unpleasant things about you.'

I sighed. 'I'm not altogether surprised.'

'He told me that you had something going together with Debbie.' Cathy looked up at me, her eyes questioning.

'Well, that's wrong. I told you that. We just worked together and became good friends.'

'Rob said he saw both of you having a romantic dinner on a boat, just before she died.' Cathy saw the shocked look on my face. She smiled. 'Don't worry, I believe you. Anyway, it's none of my business who your girlfriends are.'

I waved my hand. 'It's not that. I was just thinking how Rob could have seen us on the boat. We left him in the office that night. He must have followed us.'

'Why would he do that?'

'I'm afraid you are not the first woman Rob has behaved like this with. He once went out with Debbie. She got rid of him, but Debbie's flatmate said Rob had been bothering her recently. He had asked her to marry him and been turned down.'

'Wait a second! If Rob saw you together just before Debbie died, then he might have seen who did it,' Cathy said. Then she saw my face. 'You don't think it was him, surely?'

I sighed. 'It could be, I'm afraid. You've seen what he is like when he is angry. And he doesn't give up. I must admit, when he said he was going to kill both of us, I almost took him seriously.'

Cathy shuddered. She looked scared. We ate on in silence. Finally, I broke it. 'Well, there is nothing we can do about it now. Let me get another bottle of wine, and let's change the subject.'

So we did. We talked on through the evening, our conversation gliding happily from subject to subject. We listened and laughed at each other's inconsequential stories. Eventually the publican hovered over us, and looking around, we saw that the pub had emptied. Reluctantly, we got up from the table to leave. My eyes caught a sign. 'It says they do bed and breakfast here.'

Cathy looked at me and grinned. 'Does it?'

They had a free room with a warped ceiling, cracked oak beams and a small crooked window out of which we could see the silhouette of church and mound against the full moon. We didn't turn on the light, but undressed in the moonlight slowly and carefully. Naked, Cathy stepped over to me and nestled her head in my chest. I gently pulled her close to me. Where our bodies met, the first touch of skin against skin sent a shiver through both of us. We savoured the intimacy of that embrace, gradually getting accustomed to each other's body. My fingers drifted slowly down her spine and round the smooth firm curve of her buttocks.

She looked up at me, her dark eyes bigger than ever in the moonshadows. 'Come to bed,' she whispered.

I looked out of my window, sipping a well-earned cup of tea as the early evening sun glinted on the rush-hour traffic creeping along the road beneath my flat. I had had a good day.

It had been a busy day, a day when my life had begun to slip back into some sort of order. Cathy and I got up at five-thirty so that I could drive her back to London in time for her to get changed and get into work. I went for my first run in two weeks, just a gentle jog to get the circulation going. I rang headhunters and pestered them. I applied to a few of the firms that I had seen advertising over the previous week, and for the first time I rang a few old contacts in banking, who I thought might be able to help. If only I could clear my name with the TSA, there was a future for me.

My thoughts were interrupted by the buzzer of the entryphone. I looked down and saw a police car parked right outside my building.

I pressed the intercom button. 'Yes?'

'Police. Can we come up?' What did they want? I remembered what Cathy had said about Powell asking questions about me.

'Certainly.' I pressed the button to let them in downstairs, and opened my own door. Two uniformed policemen clumped up the stairs, and asked me to accompany them to the station.

I thought for a moment, and didn't see the harm in it. Besides, I was curious to find out what Powell had discovered.

I joined them in their car, and we drove off to a police station somewhere near Covent Garden. I tried to make small-talk, but without much effect. They all but ignored me. This did not look good.

They led me into the police station, and into an interview room furnished only with a table, four chairs and a filing cabinet. I sat on one of the chairs, declined a cup of tea, and spent half an hour reading and rereading the brightly coloured posters urging all the villains who sat where I was sitting to lock their cars and look after their handbags.

I felt guilty sitting there. I didn't know what of yet, but I definitely felt guilty.

Finally, the door opened and Powell came in, followed by Jones. Powell was on his home territory, and clearly felt much more comfortable now than he had been when I had met him in De Jong's polished conference room. He sat down on a chair opposite me. Jones pulled out one of the other chairs, placed it by a wall, and sat on it, notebook in hand.

Powell leaned forward, and stared at me hard for what seemed like a full minute. I already felt uncomfortable. This didn't make it any easier. But I managed to sit motionless, legs crossed, hands resting on my lap.

'Have you got anything to tell me, Murray?' he asked, his voice quick and powerful.

'About what?' attempting to make it sound casual. But it was ridiculous to pretend that it was usual for me to be hauled into a police station on a Monday night. I was nervous, and Powell knew it.

'About the murder of Debbie Chater.'

'Murder? I thought you said it was an accident or a suicide.'

Powell didn't like to be reminded of his earlier views. 'We know now it was murder.'

'That's just what I told you all along,' I said.

Powell leaned even farther towards me. 'Don't get clever with me, sonny. I know it's murder, and you know it's murder. And we both know who did it, don't we?'

Oh, my God, I thought, he thinks it's me. I just looked at him blankly.

'Now, take me through that evening again,' said Powell.

I went through it in as much detail as I could, but Powell wanted more. I became uncomfortable when he asked me about my trip back on the tube from Temple station. All I could remember were my thoughts about Debbie; I remembered those vividly. But I couldn't remember what time I had got on the tube, or when I had got off at Gloucester Road, or indeed very much else about the later part of the evening.

Powell sensed my discomfort. When I had finished he said one word: 'Bollocks.'

I looked at him blankly.

He stood up, and began pacing round the small room. 'Let me tell you what I know. The victim and you left the boat together. Some drunks bumped into you. You both set off towards the Embankment station. It was dark, raining hard, and visibility was poor. When you thought no one was watching, you picked up the victim and threw her into the river.'

I swallowed. Why the hell did I feel so guilty? This was ridiculous. I should be outraged. But all I could manage was a simple 'No'.

Powell moved up to me in two swift paces. He didn't touch me but put his face three inches away from mine. I could smell onions on his breath, see his shiny acne-marked skin. 'I know that's what happened, Murray, because I have a witness who saw it all.'

A witness? That was crap. Suddenly I pulled myself together. My brain cleared.

'Who was the witness?'

'I can't say.'

'Why not?'

'Look, Murray, it doesn't matter who it is, I have a sworn statement.'

'From someone who knows me?'

'I said I wouldn't tell you.'

Rob! It had to be. Cathy had mentioned that he had seen me and Debbie go to the boat together that evening. What the hell had he told the police?

'So, do we get a statement? We know you did it.' Powell was pacing again. 'It would be better for all of us if you told the truth, now. There is no point in pretending that what happened didn't. As I said, we have a witness. We have proof.'

I was damned if I was going to let Powell intimidate me any more. I nodded to Jones, who had been taking notes furiously. 'Get him to type up what I have said already and I will sign it. Until then I will not say any more without a solicitor present.'

I remained silent for the next five minutes as Powell tried various approaches to goad me into saying something. Finally he gave up. 'You're a stubborn bastard, Murray. But don't worry. I'll be seeing you again shortly.'

Powell and Jones left me alone in the interview room whilst I waited for my statement to be typed. I checked it carefully, signed it and left the police station. My knees felt weak as I spilled out into the street. I was in a very dangerous position. I knew Powell had been trying to scare me into saying something I shouldn't. I assumed he must not have gathered enough evidence yet to arrest me, but there was no doubt I was in trouble. Powell wouldn't have gone to the effort of resurrecting the case if he hadn't been convinced that he had good cause.

Powell himself worried me. I had seen that he was a man who made judgements quickly. He was tough and impatient, and I had no comfort that he would be scrupulous in the way he gathered evidence. He knew I was guilty and he was going to nail me one way or another.

And I was sure Powell usually got his way.

Murder! Insider dealing had seemed a bad enough crime to be accused of, but it was nothing compared to murder. And of Debbie as well, of all the injustices.

As soon as I got home, I called Denny. Luckily he was working late. His advice was clear. Treat Powell's suspicions seriously. However, it was unlikely that Powell had enough evidence to charge me yet. If Powell wanted to talk to me again, I should refuse unless Denny was present. Until then, all I could do was wait and see what happened.