Free To Trade

CHAPTER 5

I was busy the next morning. The phones didn't stop ringing. The market was active. Institutional fund managers were switching out of Deutschmarks into dollars ahead of what they believed to be an interest rate cut by the Bundesbank. The Street had been taken by surprise. The build-up of supply of eurobonds that had preceded the recent Sweden issue had almost all been bought, and a number of brokers had been caught short. Salesmen were calling us to try to tempt us to sell our positions to them. But we were hanging on. Let them sweat.

Debbie was late, so I had to answer all the phones myself. It was hard work.

At nine I called over to Karen, 'Heard anything from Debbie?' We hadn't had that heavy a night's drinking last night; she should have been able to make her way in.

'Nothing yet,' she said.

At nine thirty, Hamilton wandered by my desk. 'Any sign of Debbie?'

'Not yet.'

'You would think she would at least have the good grace to call in sick,' he said.

I didn't argue. If nothing else, it was a bit stupid just not to show up. Any excuse was better than no excuse. Debbie had days off sick quite frequently, but she usually called in with a story.

The morning progressed. I had managed to hold on to all our positions, despite the best efforts of Cash, Claire, David and the other salesmen to tempt them away from me.

My concentration was broken by Karen's voice. A note of concern, almost fear, in it attracted my attention and that of the others in the room.

'Hamilton! It's the police. They want to talk to someone about Debbie.'

Hamilton picked up the phone. We all watched him. Within a few seconds, his eyebrows had pulled together slightly. He talked quietly for five minutes or so. Then he slowly replaced the handset. He stood up and walked over to stand by my desk, by Debbie's desk. He motioned for everyone to gather round.

'I have some bad news. Debbie is dead. She was drowned last night.'

The shock of these words hit me hard in the face, leaving my ears singing and my eyes out of focus. I slumped back in my chair. When Hamilton was talking to the police, wild fears of what might have happened to Debbie had run through my mind, but they hadn't prepared me for this blow. I felt the emptiness of the desk behind me, usually the centre of gossip and laughter, now silent. I only half heard Hamilton continue.

'Her body was found at six o'clock this morning in the Thames by Millwall Docks. The police will be round this afternoon to talk to us. They asked me to check who was the last to see her last night.'

'1 was,' I said, or rather I meant to say. What came out of my mouth was just a croak. 'I was,' I repeated, more clearly this time.

Hamilton turned to me, his face grim. 'OK, Paul, they'll probably want a statement from you.'

Everyone looked at me, enquiringly. 'I last saw her about half past nine last night,' I said. 'We had just had a drink. She was walking along the Embankment. I didn't see anything else.' Despite the turmoil inside me, I managed to keep my voice under control.

'Do they know how it happened?' asked Rob.

'Not yet,' replied Hamilton. 'They are not ruling anything out, according to the policeman.'

How it happened? She fell in, surely. But how do you just fall into the Thames? That would have to be very difficult, however windy the night. That meant she either jumped, or she was pushed. The dead eyes and thin face of the man who had groped Debbie just before she left the boat, loomed up in front of me. I bet he had something to do with it.

The phones were flashing angrily. Hamilton said, 'We had better answer those.'

None of us talked to the others. It was difficult to think of anything to say. We each suffered our shock privately. Karen sobbed quietly into a handkerchief. Rob and Gordon stood around, looking for something to occupy themselves with.

I just stared across at Debbie's desk.

Until last night, I hadn't realised how close we had become over the last couple of months. I could still see her round cheeks glowing in the soft light of the boat, eyes bubbling with laughter. That was only hours ago, fourteen hours to be precise. How could someone who had so much life in her suddenly not be? Just cease to exist. It didn't make sense. I could feel my eyes smarting. I put my head in my hands and just sat there.

I don't know how long it was before I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up. It was Hamilton.

'I'm sorry,' he said. 'You were a good team.'

I looked up at him and nodded.

'Do you want to go home?' Hamilton asked.

I shook my head.

'Can I suggest something?' said Hamilton.

My voice cracked as I said, 'What?'

'Pick up the phone and talk to people.'

He was right. I needed to enmesh myself in the safety of the daily routine. Prices, gossip, yields, spreads.

I couldn't bring myself to tell people about Debbie. But it was not long before word got around the market. The rest of the morning was more difficult as I spent most of it agreeing with everyone what a wonderful, fun-loving person Debbie was and how awful it was that she was dead.

At lunchtime the police came. They spent half an hour with Hamilton. He then called me into the conference room, where two men sat waiting for me. The larger of the two introduced himself as Detective Inspector Powell. He was a stocky man in his mid-thirties with a cheap double-breasted suit hanging open, and a loud tie. He moved quickly as he stood up, his stockiness was muscle, not flab. He looked like a man of action, uncomfortable in the rarefied atmosphere of De Jong's conference room. His colleague, Detective Constable Jones, merged into the background, pencil at the ready to take notes.

'Mr McKenzie says that you were the last person here to see Miss Chater alive?' Powell began. He had a flat London accent, and a tone which made a simple question sound more like an accusation. He oozed impatience.

'That's true. We went out for a drink last night.' I told them all about the previous night. The constable took copious notes. The questioning became closer when I got to the man who had accosted Debbie and disappeared into the night. I answered well under pressure, giving a pretty accurate description, and said I would spend some time with a police artist if necessary. Then Powell's questions changed tack.

'Mr McKenzie said that you were the closest to Miss Chater?'

'Yes, I suppose that that is correct.'

'Would you say that Miss Chater was depressed lately?' he asked.

'No, not really.'

'No problems with boyfriends?'

'None that she told me about.'

'Any problems at work?'

I hesitated. 'No, not really.'

'None at all?' Powell looked me straight in the eye. He had caught my hesitation.

'Well, she was a little upset recently.' I told him about Debbie's disagreements with Hamilton and her conversation with me in Finsbury Circus. 'But she wasn't nearly upset enough to commit suicide,' I said.

'It's always difficult to tell that, sir,' said Powell. 'It's surprising how often apparently stable people take their own life because of something that friends or relatives think of as trivial.'

'No, you don't understand,' I said. 'She was never depressed. In fact, she was always having a laugh. She enjoyed life.'

Powell looked as though he only half heard this. He nodded to his colleague, who closed his notebook, and then said, 'Thank you for your time, Mr Murray. You will of course be available should we have any more questions?'

I nodded, and with that the two policemen left.

I struggled through the day somehow. At about six, I turned off the machines and went home.

As I was waiting at the lift, I was joined by Hamilton. There was an awkward silence. Small-talk with Hamilton was tough at the best of times. In the present circumstances, I did not have the energy to think of anything bright or interesting to say.

Eventually the lift came and we both got in. As the lift descended, Hamilton spoke. 'What are you doing now, Paul?'

'Nothing. Going home,' I said.

'Do you want to stop in for a drink at my place on the way back?' Hamilton asked.

I didn't answer at first. I was amazed by the invitation. It was completely unlike Hamilton to invite anyone to do anything socially. A half-hour of difficult conversation with Hamilton was the last thing I felt like right then, but I couldn't refuse.

'That's very kind of you,' I said.

Hamilton lived in one of the grey-streaked concrete towers of the Barbican, which guard the northern approaches to the City. It was only a fifteen-minute walk from the office, which we spent almost in silence as we dodged through traffic and commuters. The Barbican is a maze of concrete walkways and towers, which wind round the old walls and churches of the City at about twenty feet above street level. It is so disorienting that yellow lines painted on the walkway guide you to various places you may or may not want to go. A soulless place to live.

We eventually came to Hamilton's tower and took a lift to the top floor. His flat was small and convenient. Expensive, but unremarkable furniture provided most of the functions that someone needs, to live, but little more. The only pictures were a set of nineteenth-century prints of the abbeys of Scotland. Walls have to have pictures, but it would be difficult to find any greyer than these. I looked curiously through an open door where I could just see a desk.

'That's my study,' said Hamilton. 'Let me show you.'

We went into the next room. There was indeed a desk facing the window. The walls were lined from floor to ceiling with shelves and filing cabinets. Thousands of books and papers were held in that small room. It was a bit like a don's room at a university, except that it was perfectly tidy. Everything was in its place. The desk was completely bare except for a computer.

I scanned the shelves briefly. The titles of nearly all the books I saw had something to do with finance or economics. Many of them were written in the nineteenth century. There was one set of shelves which aroused my interest. It held titles such as Gleick's Chaos Theory, Rude's The Crowd in History and even Darwin's On the Origin of Species. There were works on psychology, physics, religion and linguistics.

Hamilton drew up beside me. 'You should read some of these. It would help you understand our job better.'

I looked at him, puzzled.

'Markets are about movement of prices, about groups of people interacting, about competition, about information, about fear, greed, belief,' he went on. 'All these things are studied in detail by a range of academic disciplines, each of which can give you an insight into why the market behaves the way it does.'

'Oh, I see,' I said. Now I understood. In Hamilton's world the great scholars of matter and the mind had made a significant contribution to financial theory. They did have some use after all.

I pulled out The Prince by Niccolo Machiavelli. 'And this?' I said showing it to Hamilton.

He smiled. 'Oh, Machiavelli understood power. That book is all about power and how to use it. And so are the financial markets. Money is power, information is power, and analytical ability is power.'

'But doesn't he write about how to become a ruthless dictator?'

'Oh no, that's much too simplistic. Certainly, he believes the means justifies the ends. But although a successful prince will do whatever is required to achieve his goal, he will always maintain the semblance of virtue. That is vital.'

I looked puzzled.

Hamilton laughed. 'In the markets that means be smart, be imaginative, but at all costs keep your reputation. Remember that.'

'I will,' I said, putting the book back on its shelf.

'I like this room,' Hamilton said, relaxed. 'I spend most of my time here. Look at that view.'

It was indeed a remarkable view, looking out over the offices of the City from St Paul's to the East End. De Jong's offices were clearly distinguishable. A source of inspiration for Hamilton whenever he was bogged down in his studies of the markets.

We went back into the living room. 'Scotch?' he asked.

'Yes, please.'

He splashed generous portions into two glasses and added a small amount of water to each. He handed me one and we both sat down.

After a moment's appreciation of his drink, Hamilton asked, 'Do you think she committed suicide?' He studied my face closely.

I sighed. 'No,' I said. 'No matter what the police said, Debbie would never do anything like that.'

'She was concerned about her job, though, wasn't she?' said Hamilton. 'I don't know whether she told you, but we did have a slightly difficult discussion about her future not long before she died.'

'Yes, I know,' I said. 'She did tell me about that conversation and it did upset her for a bit. But she soon forgot it. She was not the kind of person who would allow a little thing like work get in the way of her enjoying life. I am quite sure that is not the reason she died.'

Hamilton relaxed. 'No, suicide doesn't seem like her at all,' he said. 'It must have been an accident.'

There was silence for a moment.

'I'm not so sure,' I said.

'What do you mean?'

'I saw someone just before she died.'

'Saw someone? Who?'

'I don't know who it was. It's probably someone who works in the City. Thin. Mid-thirties. Very fit. Mean-looking.'

'What was he doing? Did you see him do anything to her?'

'It was just as we were leaving. He just walked up to her, groped her breast, and walked off into the night. A couple of minutes later, she set off as well.'

'What an extraordinary thing to do! Didn't you do anything?'

'Debbie stopped me,' I said. 'And she looked frightened. I don't blame her. There was something very strange about that man.'

'Have you told the police?'

'Yes.'

'What did they think?'

'Well, they took lots of notes. They didn't actually say they thought anything. But it looks to me like he must have pushed Debbie into the river. Don't you think?'

Hamilton sat for a moment, gently touching his chin, in his habitual thinking pose. 'It certainly looks like it, doesn't it. But who is he? And why would he do it?' We sat in silence for a minute, each wrapped in our own thoughts. Hamilton was no doubt trying to figure the problem out; I was missing Debbie. It had been a long day.

I gulped my whisky. 'Let me get you another,' said Hamilton.

With another glass safely in my hand, I changed the subject. 'How long have you lived here?' I asked.

'Oh, about five years,' Hamilton answered. 'Since my divorce. It's very convenient for the office.'

'I didn't know you were divorced.' I said, tentatively. I wasn't sure how personal Hamilton would allow the conversation to become. But I was curious. No one at the office knew anything of Hamilton's life outside it, but it was something about which we all speculated.

'Didn't you? I suppose you wouldn't. I don't talk about it much. But I have a son, Alasdair.' He pointed to a photograph of a smiling seven- or eight-year-old boy kicking a football. I hadn't noticed it before. The boy looked a lot like Hamilton, but without the gloom.

'Do you see him much?' I asked.

'Oh yes, every other weekend,' he said. 'I have a cottage in Perthshire near where his mother lives. It's very useful. And it's much better for him to be up there than in this dreadful city. It's lovely up there. You can get up on to the hills and forget all this.' He gestured out of the window.

I told him about Barthwaite and my own childhood there roving over the moors. Hamilton listened. It was strange to be talking to Hamilton about something like that, but he seemed interested, and as I talked on I began to relax. It was good to talk about a place hundreds of miles and ten years away rather than about today, here.

'I sometimes wish I had stayed in Edinburgh,' Hamilton said. 'I could have had a nice easy job up there, managing a few hundred million for one of those insurance companies.'

'Why didn't you?' I asked.

'Well, I tried it for a bit, but it didn't suit me,' he said. 'Those Scottish funds are good, but they have no sense of adventure. I needed to be down here. At the sharp end.' He looked into his whisky glass. 'Of course Moira didn't like it. She didn't understand the hours I worked. She thought I could do my job properly between nine and five and spend the rest of my time at home. But this job requires a lot more than that and she just didn't believe me. So we split up.'

'I'm sorry,' I said. And I was sorry for him. He was a lonely man, and cut off from his wife and son, he must be lonelier still. Of course it was his own decision; he had put his work squarely before his marriage. None the less I sympathised. I could see myself in the same situation in ten years' time. I shuddered. I remembered my conversation with Debbie. I was beginning to think she was right.

Hamilton looked up from his whisky. 'So how are you finding De Jong, now you have been here six months? Enjoying it?'

'Yes, I am. Very much. I am very pleased I joined the firm.'

'How do you find trading?'

'I love it. I just wish I was better at it. Sometimes I think that I am getting the hang of it, and then it all goes wrong. I wonder if it isn't just all about luck.'

Hamilton laughed. 'You shouldn't ever think that, laddie. Of course it's all about luck, or at least each individual trade is. But if you discipline yourself to trade only when the odds are in your favour, in the long run you will certainly come out ahead. It's basic statistics.'

Hamilton saw my expression and laughed again. 'No, you are right, it's not quite that easy. The trick is to work out when the odds are in your favour, and that can take years of experience. But don't worry. You are on the right track. Just persevere, keep thinking about what you are doing and why, learn from your mistakes, and you will turn out very well. We will make a good team.'

I hoped so. I felt a surge of excitement. Hamilton wouldn't say something like that unless he meant it. I was determined to keep trying, and to do all he said.

'I remember seeing you run,' Hamilton said.

'Oh, I didn't know you watched athletics.'

'Well, everyone watches the Olympics, even me. And I do like athletics. Something about the sport appeals. I watched you a number of times, but what I really remember is the final, when you pushed yourself into the lead. The television had a close-up on your face. Total determination, and pain. I thought you were going to win, and then that Kenyan and Spaniard drifted past you.'

'Irishman,' I mumbled.

'What?'

'Irishman. It was an Irishman, not a Spaniard.' I said. 'A very fast Irishman.'

Hamilton laughed. 'Well, I'm very glad you are working for me now. I think together we can really make something of De Jong.'

'I would like that very much,' I said. Very much indeed.

Debbie's funeral was in a quiet churchyard in a small village in Kent. I was there, representing the office. It was a gorgeous day, the sun beating down on the mourners. I was hot in my suit, and I could feel the sweat trickling down my back. A group of rooks cawed half-heartedly in a small copse by the gate to the churchyard. The noise complemented the silence rather than disrupting it. The perfect accompaniment to a small country funeral.

The vicar did his best to relieve the sadness of the occasion by saying that Debbie would have wanted her mourners to smile, and that we should give thanks for the time she spent with us. Or something like that. I didn't quite follow his logic, and anyway it didn't work. There is something heart-rendingly sad about the death of any young person; nothing you can say can change that. That it was Debbie who had been taken so early from a life she had enjoyed so much, did not make it any better.

Her parents were there. There was something of Debbie in the face of each of them. Two small round figures, drawn together in their grief.

As we all made our way slowly back towards the road, I found myself walking next to a tall thin red-haired girl. She was wearing heels and got one of them caught in the paving-stones of the path. I bent down to help her free her shoe.

'Thank you,' she said. 'I hate these bloody shoes.' Then, looking around, 'Do you know all these people?'

'Very few,' I said. 'And you?'

'One or two. I shared a flat with Debbie, so I got to know a number of her boyfriends.'

'A number?' I said surprised. 'How many are here?'

She looked around. 'Just one or two that I knew. You weren't one of them, were you?' she said, her eyes teasing me.

'No,' I said sharply, a little shocked. 'I worked with her.'

'No offence meant. She usually had good taste,' said the girl. 'Are you going past the station?'

'Yes, I am. Can I give you a lift?'

'That would be very kind. My name is Felicity, by the way.'

'Mine's Paul.' We walked on out of the churchyard and into the road. 'This is it,' I said as we came to my little Peugeot.

We got in the car and headed for the nearest station, which was three miles away.

'I must say, I never realised Debbie had many boyfriends,' I said. 'She seemed to me to be the stable relationship kind.'

'She wasn't entirely a loose woman. But she did enjoy herself. There were different men in and out of our house all the time. Most of them were OK, but some were quite unsavoury. I think one or two may have been from work.'

'Not the unsavoury ones, I hope?'

Felicity laughed. 'No, I don't think so. Although there was one who gave her a hard time very recently. I think he might have had something to do with work.'

I wondered who on earth that would be. Unable to restrain my curiosity I asked her.

'I can't remember his name,' she said. 'I last saw him a couple of years ago. He was a right pain.'

I let it drop. 'How did you meet Debbie?' I asked.

'Oh, we both did articles at the same firm of solicitors, Denny Clark. I still work there, but Debbie went on to do greater things, as you know. Since we were both looking to rent accommodation in London, it seemed natural to share if we could.' She bit her lip, 'I shall miss her.'

'You are not the only one,' I said as we approached the station. I pulled up in front of the entrance.

'Thanks very much,' she said as she got out of the car. 'I hope we'll meet again on a slightly happier occasion.' With that she disappeared into the station. As I drove back to London I tried to come to terms with the picture Felicity had given of Debbie sleeping around with a succession of men. It didn't seem in her character. But, on the other hand, why shouldn't she?

Debbie's desk looked just the same. It was scattered with the debris of half-done tasks. There were notes on little yellow stickers reminding her of things to do and people to call back. The AIBD directory of bonds lay with its pages open, face-down, waiting for her to pick it up again at the page she left it. I would have preferred it to have been tidy, the desk of a life ended rather than a life interrupted.

She had a large black desk diary, which had Harrison Brothers' logo on it. Last year's Christmas present. I leafed through the pages. Nothing very interesting. The appointments were quite densely packed over the next week, and then thinned out as July became August. September onwards was just blank white paper.

There was one entry which caught my eye. It was a meeting with Mr De Jong. It was for the day after she died, at 10.30 a.m. It was strange that Debbie should have an appointment fixed up with him. We hardly saw him. Although he would have meetings with Hamilton occasionally, the only time I had been in his office was the day I joined. He was a nice enough fellow, but hardly what you would call approachable.

I began to put everything in order. I started by putting all Debbie's personal belongings into an old copier-paper box. There wasn't much; certainly nothing that would have value to anyone else. An old compact, some tights, three yoghurts, a horde of plastic spoons, a paperknife with the name of a deal she had worked on during her legal days engraved on it, some packets of tissues and a well thumbed Jilly Cooper novel. I considered throwing it all away, but couldn't bring myself to. With the exception of the yoghurts, I packed it all into a box. I would take it round to Debbie's flat to put with her other belongings.

I then began the task of sorting out all her papers and files. Most of them I threw away, but I put some to one side to take to the library for filing.

I came to a pile of prospectuses. They mostly related to bonds which were issued by Netherlands Antilles companies. On top of the pile was the Tremont Capital prospectus, which Debbie had thrown on my desk. She had said it was fishy. I picked it up and flicked through it. There didn't seem much odd about it to me. There were one or two lightly pencilled notes in the margin. None of them seemed to have any startling meaning.

I put the prospectus down on one side and worked my way down the pile. I soon came to the information memorandum for the Tahiti. I leafed through it slowly. Debbie had used a yellow highlighting pencil on it. There were only two or three passages marked. These were much more interesting. She had highlighted Irwin Piper's name and also references to the Nevada State Gaming Commission. One statement in particular was picked out in fluorescent yellow:

'Potential investors' attention is drawn to the policy of the Nevada State Gaming Commission to refuse a licence to any person convicted of a criminal offence. The good character of the applicant is an important consideration in the granting of any licence.'

Cathy Lasenby had referred to this policy in our meeting as evidence that Piper was straight. Maybe her confidence was misplaced. Maybe Debbie had discovered something that suggested this was far from the case.

Maybe that was why she was dead.

I stood up and looked out of the window westwards over London. I was sure Debbie wouldn't kill herself. An accident was possible I supposed, but I didn't believe it. Someone had pushed her and it was almost certainly the man who had frightened her so badly as we left the boat. And if she had been killed, it must have been for a reason. There was no obvious reason why anyone should want to kill Debbie.

I sat down again and continued the job of sorting through papers. After an hour and a half I had just finished when Karen came over with a letter.

'What shall I do with Debbie's mail?' she said.

I wondered how long dead people continued to receive mail. 'Give it to me, I suppose,' I said.

Karen handed over a white envelope with Bloomfield Weiss's logo stamped on it. It was marked 'Private and Confidential: To be opened by Addressee only.' Not much chance of that, I thought, gloomily. I opened it.

Dear Ms Chater, Thank you for your recent correspondence regarding trading in the shares of the Gypsum Company of America. We have started our own investigation into possible irregularities by employees of Bloomfield Weiss regarding this same stock. I suggest that we should meet to share information on this matter. I will ring you early next week to arrange a time.

Yours Sincerely,

Ronald Bowen

Senior Compliance Officer

I was intrigued. Gypsum's shares certainly had moved up sharply before the takeover by DGB was announced. This letter suggested Debbie was right to be suspicious. I wondered who should deal with it at De Jong. I supposed I should really give the letter to Hamilton since we no longer had an official compliance officer. But I was curious. I was dealing with all the rest of Debbie's work, why shouldn't I deal with this as well?

I picked up the phone, dialled Bloomfield Weiss and asked to speak to Mr Bowen.

'Bowen here.' His voice was gruff and officious. Large firms such as Bloomfield Weiss took compliance seriously. A scandal could cost them not only a fine of several million, but also the loss of their reputation. After the Blue Arrow affair when a compliance officer at County Natwest had been ignored and overruled, big institutions ensured that their compliance officers had teeth. They were the sort of people who did everything by the book and who could not be pushed around.

'Good morning, Mr Bowen, this is Paul Murray from De Jong & Co.,' I said. 'I'm ringing regarding your recent letter to Debbie Chater, our compliance officer.'

'Oh yes.'

'I am afraid to say Debbie died very recently.' Several days and many explanations after the event it was getting easier to say this bit.

'I'm very sorry,' said Bowen, sounding as though he didn't care in the least.

'I wonder if I can help you regarding the Gypsum Company of America? Debbie and I worked on that together. I read your letter to her this morning.'

'Perhaps you can. Let me just get my file.' There was a rustle of papers down the phone line. 'Yes, one of my colleagues in New York alerted us to the unusual movements in the Gypsum share price. Our investigation has turned up a few useful facts, but nothing we can take action on yet. We were very interested to receive Miss Chater's letter outlining her own suspicions. You will appreciate that the whole investigation is still very confidential at this stage?'

'Yes, of course,' I said.

'Good. We are investigating two employees of Bloomfield Weiss, and one client of the firm. There is also someone else…' His voice trailed off as I heard him turning the page.

'Mr Murray, didn't you say your name was?' said Bowen, his voice a note lower, a note graver.

'Yes,' I said. I swallowed.

'Ah, I'm sorry, I am afraid we don't have anything more on file. Goodbye, Mr Murray.'

'But shouldn't we meet as you suggested?' I asked.

'I don't think that will be necessary,' Bowen said firmly. 'Goodbye.' He rang off.

I slumped back in my chair to think. I didn't like the sound of this investigation.

Vague thoughts of trials and prison floated round my head. Then I pulled myself together. I hadn't done anything wrong. Debbie had said so, and she did know the law. I had no inside information. It was only natural that people would check me out, given my purchase, but I had nothing to worry about. Nothing at all.

Still, best to make sure. I rang Bloomfield Weiss again. Cathy answered the phone.

'Is Cash there?' I asked.

'No, he has just popped out to fetch a cup of coffee,' Cathy's clear voice replied. 'He'll be back in a minute.'

'Perhaps you can help,' I said.

'If you think I can,' said Cathy, a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

She was probably offended I had asked for Cash instead of her, I thought. Perhaps she thought I doubted her capabilities. I was about to apologise when I stopped myself. Sod it. Some people are just too touchy.

'I was curious about all those Gypsum bonds you were buying last week,' I said. 'Were they for your own books?'

'No, they were for a client.'

'He must have done very nicely,' I said.

'He certainly did,' said Cathy. 'In fact…'

She was interrupted by Cash growling at her. 'Hold on,' she said, and clicked her phone on to hold. A moment later she was back. 'I'm sorry, I've got to jump. I'll tell Cash you were after him,' and she hung up.

Rob walked past my desk and saw me staring gloomily into the receiver. 'What's up? Seen a ghost?' His smile only lasted a second. 'Sorry. Stupid thing to say.'

'Life goes on,' I said. 'But I will miss her.'

'So will I,' said Rob.

'She had a lot of boyfriends, didn't she?'

'Some, I suppose.' Rob caught my glance. His cheeks reddened. 'Some,' he said again, and turned away.

I shrugged my shoulders and got back to work. I looked at the small box of Debbie's possessions at my feet. I should take them back to her flat, I thought. I pulled out the phone book and rang Denny Clark. I asked to speak to Felicity. There was only one woman of that name who worked at Denny Clark, and she was in.

'Hallo, it's Paul Murray,' I said. 'We met at Debbie's funeral.'

'Oh yes,' she said. 'You are the guy she used to work with.'

'That's right. I've got some things of hers. Not much and none of it's very important. Can I bring them round?'

'Sure, when would you like to come?' she said.

'This evening OK?'

'Fine. Come round at seven. The address is twenty-five Cavendish Road. Clapham South is the nearest tube. See you then.'