Free To Trade

CHAPTER 8

I was right on time for my appointment with Robert Denny. Denny Clark's offices were in Essex Street, a tiny lane winding down towards the river from the Strand. They were in an old red-brick Georgian building, with only a small brass name-plate to identify them. The receptionist, a well-groomed blonde with a plummy accent, took my coat and asked me to take a seat. I found a comfortable leather armchair and sank into it.

I looked around me. Books rose from floor to ceiling, old leather-bound books. In front of me on the mahogany table, next to a vase of orange lilies were copies of Country Life, the Field, Investors Chronicle, the Economist and The Times. It was clear what kind of client Denny Clark catered for. I was not surprised that Irwin Piper would seek the firm out. I was slightly surprised that they would feel comfortable with him, but then a fee is a fee.

After five minutes I was ushered into Mr Denny's office by the efficient secretary I had spoken to on the phone earlier. It was on the first floor, large and airy, with a view out on to the quiet street below. More bookcases with stacks of leather-bound books, although these looked as though they were actually used from time to time. On one wall, above a long conference table, hung a portrait of an imposing-looking Victorian gentleman, brandishing a quill. A former Denny, I assumed.

The current Denny was sitting behind his huge desk, finishing off a note. After a couple of seconds, he looked up, saw me, smiled and got up from behind his desk to welcome me. He was a neat, grey-haired, slightly small man. Although he was clearly in his sixties, there was none of the wise old senior partner put out to grass about him. His movements were agile, his eyes quick, his manner assured. A competent lawyer at the height of his career.

He held out his hand to me. 'Paul Murray, it's an honour to meet you.'

Slightly confused at this, I said rather lamely, 'I'm glad to meet you too.'

Denny laughed, his eyes twinkling. 'I like watching athletics on the box. I always admired your running. It was a sad day when you retired. I had you down for a gold in two years' time. Have you given up athletics entirely?'

'Oh, I still run regularly, but just to keep fit. I don't compete any more, though.'

'Shame. Would you like some tea? Coffee perhaps?' he asked.

'Tea, please,' I answered.

Denny raised an eyebrow to his secretary, who left the room swiftly, to reappear with a tray, tea, cups and biscuits. We sat in two armchairs next to a low table. I leaned back and relaxed. Denny was one of those men, confident in their abilities, who use their intelligence and charm to make you feel at ease, rather than intimidate you. I liked him.

Denny took an appreciative sip of tea. 'Felicity tells me that you were a friend of Debbie Chater's,' he said, eyeing me over his cup.

'Yes, I was,' I said. 'Or at least I worked with her. We only worked together for three months, but we got on pretty well.'

'That was at De Jong and Co., presumably.'

'Yes, that's right.'

'I'm sure Debbie was a real asset to you,' Denny said earnestly. 'I was very sorry to see her go. She was a brilliant lawyer.' He must have seen a slight look of surprise on my face. 'Oh, yes,' he continued. 'She lacked a little in application, I suppose. But she was always able to grasp the core of a problem remarkably quickly for someone of her experience. And she never missed anything. It's a shame she gave up the law.' He coughed, leaving unsaid the thought that crossed my mind. Not that it mattered now. 'What can I do for you?'

'I wanted to ask you about something Debbie was working on before she died,' I began. 'Something which was a little odd. It may be nothing important. But then again, it may be.'

'Could it be connected with her death?'

'Oh no, I'm sure it's not,' I said quickly.

'But you think it might be?' Denny was sitting back in his chair listening, picking up not only what I said, but how I said it. There was something about his posture that encouraged me to talk.

'Well, I may just be being fanciful, but yes, I think there might be. I really don't know yet. That's why I'm here.'

'I see,' said Denny. 'Go on.'

'It's to do with an American named Irwin Piper. Felicity said that you handled a case in which he was involved. Debbie worked with you on it.'

'Piper was a client of this firm's. I believe Debbie and I did act for him on one occasion,' Denny said.

'I was looking at a new bond issue for a casino in America,' I continued. 'The owner of the casino is Irwin Piper. I asked Debbie to go through the information memorandum. After she died I looked at the document myself. She had marked one or two passages. In particular a paragraph explaining that a gaming licence would not be granted to someone who had a criminal record.'

I looked at Denny, who was listening just as intently as before.

'Does Piper have a criminal record?' I asked.

'Not that I am aware of,' said Denny.

'Can you tell me anything about the Piper case that you and Debbie worked on?' I asked.

Denny was silent for a moment, thinking. 'It's difficult. Piper was my client. I wouldn't want to harm his reputation or disclose any of his private affairs.'

'But you will help me,' I said firmly. 'This isn't the time for legal niceties.'

'It is always the time to respect the law, young man,' said Denny. But he smiled. 'I will do my best to help you. Most of what happened is a matter of public record. I will leave out as little as possible.

'Irwin Piper had bought a large country house in Surrey with a partner-an English property developer. It was called Bladenham Hall. They refurbished the house and created the "Bladenham Hall Clinic". It was ostensibly an exclusive clinic for executive stress. It never had more than a dozen or so "inmates". It was like a health farm, providing rest and relaxation for overstressed businessmen. Needless to say, it was very expensive. Naturally, given the nature of the facility, it was sealed off from the outside world.

'Well, after a year or so, the police raided the establishment and arrested the manager and a number of female staff. They subsequently charged my client and his partner with running a brothel. At the trial, this allegation was never proved. The prosecution's case was shown to be a mixture of inconsistencies and inadmissible evidence.'

'Due to your efforts,' I interrupted.

Denny smiled. 'Well, we don't usually do criminal law here, so I referred the case on to a firm I know which does. But I thought it best to keep a watching brief, and I did point out some rather obscure inconsistencies that the prosecution had overlooked. Although I must admit several of them were uncovered by Debbie.'

'So Piper was set free?' I asked.

'He was, acquitted, yes,' Denny replied. 'He sold the house. I believe it is now a hotel. And a very good one too.'

'And were the police right? Was it a brothel?'

Denny hesitated. 'The evidence submitted by the police would suggest it was, but that evidence was not admissible.'

'So it was a brothel,' I said. 'Did Piper know what was going on?'

'He spent very little time in this country. Had it been proved by the police that Bladenham Hall was a brothel, I would have then shown that my client knew nothing about it.'

This was exasperating. Denny's evasiveness goaded me into being more direct. 'Is Piper a crook?'

'From what I learned during that trial, I wouldn't accept him as a client again,' said Denny. His strongest reply so far.

I thought for a moment. 'If this was brought to the attention of the Nevada Gaming Commission, would it cause Piper to lose his licence?' And the Tahiti, I thought.

Denny touched his fingertips together and tapped his chin. 'It's difficult to say. I know very little of Nevada law specifically. Piper was never found guilty, so he would not automatically be disqualified. It would depend on how much discretion the Commission has to judge good character, and how they choose to use it. But it obviously wouldn't help an application.'

I rose from my chair. 'Thank you, Mr Denny. You've been very helpful.'

'Not at all. Any time.' We shook hands and I walked towards the door.

Before I got there, Denny called after me. 'Oh, Paul.'

I turned round.

'I don't know what you meant when you said that this might have something to do with Debbie's death,' he continued. 'I caught a glimpse of how Piper operates. For all his gentlemanly affectations, he is dangerous. I liked Debbie. I am very sorry she died. If you need any more help, give me a ring.'

'Thank you,' I said.

'Be careful.' Denny's words followed me as I left the room.

It rained that evening, but I went for a run anyway. In the warm July evening the rain kept me cool as it seeped through my running vest and shorts. I came back to my flat wet, tired but refreshed.

As the effect of the endorphins wore off, my finger began to throb. I carefully peeled off the bandage and looked at the wound. It was deep, but because the knife was so sharp, the incision had been a narrow one and already the skin looked like it was joining back together. I leapt into the bath before I had a chance to get cold, dropped my finger underwater for a good soak, and let my muscles relax.

The phone rang. I cursed softly to myself and just lay there. It didn't stop. Reluctantly I hauled myself out of the bath and dripped over to my bedroom. 'Hallo.'

'I told you not to interfere.' The drops of hot water suddenly chilled on my skin. It was the flat tones of Joe Finlay.

I grabbed for words. He had a point there. He had told me not to interfere. Why on earth had I? My mind went blank. Finally I said, 'How did you get my number?'

'How did you get mine?'

Good question. It would be easy for him to have got my number off Cash, as I had his. In which case, he probably had my address. My skin felt colder. I picked up the duvet from my bed and wrapped it round myself.

'I told you not to interfere,' Joe repeated. 'I have had two lots of policemen round here in the last twenty-four hours. First there was a police tart asking about me and Sally. Sally didn't tell her anything. And she's not going to. She knows what would happen to her.' Menacing words delivered in a dull monotone. 'Then there was a plod detective asking me questions about that slut's death. Well, he didn't get anywhere either. But it got me annoyed. Very annoyed. You were lucky not to lose your finger. You will lose more than that unless you back off. Do you understand me?'

I was scared. Why had I got mixed up with him? Because I thought he had killed Debbie, I reminded myself. Well, if the police were already talking to him about it, then perhaps I could leave it all to them. 'I understand you,' I said.

Joe's voice lowered an octave, which somehow added a touch of extra menace. 'Look, Murray, I don't want to hear anything more about the slut. And if you go anywhere near my wife again, or talk to anyone about her, you are dead.'

I was frightened, but I didn't want him to know it. I was determined not to be intimidated. 'If you just treat her properly, then no one will bother you,' I said. 'Threatening me won't help now.' With that I hung up. I dried myself off, and rang Powell at the home number which he had given me. I was curious to find out what Joe had told him about Debbie.

'Powell.' His voice was gruff, irritated at being disturbed.

'It's Paul Murray here.'

'Yes, Mr Murray?'

'I just had a phone call from Joe Finlay. He says you have been in touch with him.'

'Yes, that's right. We interviewed him today.'

'How did it go?'

'A dead end. Finlay says he shared a taxi with the two people he had been drinking with immediately after they all left the boat. They both corroborate his story. None of them says they saw Debbie after they left her with you.'

I protested. 'That can't be right. Have you found the taxi-driver?'

Powell's sigh echoed down the phone. 'No, Mr Murray, we have not. That would be next to impossible without major publicity. But unless you think all three of them did it together, I think we can rule Finlay out.'

'But, you can't. You should have seen him. I'm sure he must have killed her. Have you checked into his relationship with her?'

'We have spoken to Felicity Wilson. It's clear Finlay is a nasty piece of work, but there is no evidence at all that he murdered Debbie Chater. In fact there is no evidence she was murdered at all. And if she was, you were the last person seen with her before she died.'

'You don't think I killed her?'

'No, Mr Murray, I don't think you killed her either,' said Powell, his voice long-suffering. 'Personally, I think it was suicide, but there is precious little evidence of that either. The inquest is tomorrow and I wouldn't be surprised if an open verdict was returned. They don't like classifying cases as suicide unless they are sure, it causes unnecessary grief for the relatives. Now, thank you for all your help in this inquiry, Mr Murray. Good night.'

'Good night,' I said, and put the phone down. So somehow Joe had got himself ruled out. I didn't believe it. I didn't believe it one bit.

I poured myself a large whisky, and tried to get to sleep. The nursery rhyme 'Three blind mice' ran through my mind as I finally dozed off. I dreamed of a thin farmer's wife running around brandishing a carving-knife.

Cash picked me up on Saturday morning. He was dressed in his Henley gear; blazer, white trousers, and a garish purple, gold and silver striped tie. He drove a grey 1960s Aston Martin. I am no expert on classic sports cars, but it looked to me to be the same model as appeared in the James Bond film. I couldn't hide my admiration for the vehicle. I almost expected to see the controls for the machine-guns and the ejector-seat.

Cash saw my reaction and grinned. 'Like it?' he asked. 'I'm a sucker for old cars. I've got an old Mercedes and two Jaguars back in the States. I just love to drive around in the Merc on the weekends in the summer with the roof down.'

'Grey old London must be a bit of a change,' I said.

'Oh yes. But I like it here. Mind you, it takes a bit of time to get used to Europeans, especially the Brits.'

'What do you mean?'

'When you first meet them, they all seem unfriendly. You feel like you are breaking some social taboo just by saying hallo. Once you get to know them, they are good guys. No offence meant.'

'None taken. I think I know what you mean. People here are wary of dealing with people they don't know.' I could imagine the most aloof of Cash's clients being horrified by him when they first met him, and then falling gradually under his spell.

'You're telling me. At first they feed you some bull about how cautious and conservative they are. They make it sound like buying a T-bill was the most adventurous thing they have ever done in their lives. But after a little coaxing they just gobble up those bonds. I've been over here a year now, and I have already done some sweet trades.'

We were at a traffic-light. He paused to concentrate on accelerating away from it as fast as possible, leaving the Porsche in the next lane standing. As he wove between the traffic he continued, 'Some of these guys in London don't know what selling bonds is about. They think if they stuff some Swiss gnome with a million dollars of some issue, they are selling bonds. They don't know nothing. Selling bonds is about moving big blocks of money around the world. It's about making one part of the world finance another. Know what I'm saying?'

I nodded, cowering in my seat as we sped up the wrong side of the road to get by a particularly congested stretch.

Cash seemed unconcerned by the horns blowing around him. 'I'll tell you something about moving money round. I once had a guy in Boston who wanted to put five hundred million dollars into the eurobond market. So we launched three new issues, and gave him half of each issue. Three months later we own five hundred million of mortgage-backed bonds we can't get rid of. Triple sales credits on those. So, I make this guy in Boston realise he didn't want eurobonds after all, he wanted mortgages. He sells his eurobonds, and buys our mortgage-backed bonds.

'The firm has solved one problem. Trouble is, we now have five hundred million eurobonds nobody wants. So I wait a week. The trader gets desperate, he can't sell his eurobonds. Then they put the sales credits up to triple again. So then I decide to ring another friend of mine at a Californian insurance company, who has a billion dollars in cash which he wants to invest and doesn't know what to buy. It so happens I have the ideal investment for him.' Cash laughed as he recounted this.

'You want to know why they call me Cash? You ever heard the saying "Cash is King"? Well, I'm the king of cash. I control it. These portfolio managers think that they control the cash in their funds. But they don't, I do. It's guys like me that move cash around the system, and I'm the best of them. And every time it moves, some of this cash rubs off on me. Any idea how much the commission is on a five-hundred-million-dollar trade on triple sales credit? Think about it.'

I thought about it. Different houses have different formulae, but my calculations made it just under a million dollars. I began to see how Cash could afford his expensive toys.

'But I can see you are different from the others, kid,' he continued. 'You're not afraid to take risks. You are prepared to bet big money when the opportunity is there. I think you and me are going to do some good business together.'

Here was a man who really was at the centre of the bond markets. This was the world that I had left my staid old bank to see. Certainly I could become a big player in the market. Cash and I together would make fools of the rest of the crowd.

Then I snapped out of it. Cash probably talked to all his customers like this. Not that he was making it up. Cash's reputation preceded him. But I couldn't help wondering whether when Cash was driving his Boston customer around in his Mercedes convertible he wouldn't talk about his clients in London in such a disdainful way.

'Do you still talk to any of your American customers?'

'Only the one on a regular basis. I have what you might call a "special relationship" with him. But if I ever wanted to renew the relationship with any of the others, all I would have to do would be pick up the phone. People don't forget me.'

We drove up the ramp on to the M4. There was a lot of traffic, but it was flowing steadily. Cash moved the Aston Martin into the outside lane, and worked his way through the cars in front, flashing his headlights to intimidate them out of the way.

'How did you get into the business?' I asked.

'I met a man in a bar. He was Irish. We came from the same part of the Bronx, only I hadn't seen him before. We got on great. We got drunk together. The only difference between us was that I was twenty and in jeans and he was fifty and in an expensive suit. He had had a bad day. I was sympathetic. He asked me what job I did. I told him I worked in a hardware store. He asked me whether I would like to work in his store for a while. So I did. I started in the mail room and worked my way up from there. It was a ball all the way.'

'What was it like in the Bronx, then? Wasn't it dangerous?' I asked.

'Sure it was dangerous, but only for people from a different neighbourhood. In your own neighbourhood you were safe. Everyone would protect you. Of course it's all different now, now that there is crack all over the streets. Before, there was violence, but there was always a reason for it. Now there can be violence for no reason. It makes me sick.' I looked at Cash and saw his jaw clenched and the colour beginning to rise in his cheeks. He was angry.

'Some of the greatest people in the world live in my neighbourhood,' Cash continued. 'But we are all ignored by the rest of the country. I never forgot what that guy in the bar did for me. Did I tell you I bought my own bar?'

'No,' I said.

'Yeah. It was a great little place right by my neighbourhood. I had to close it down a few years ago. With crack, things were getting just too wild. But I put thirty kids on Wall Street. Some of them are doing real well.'

Cash looked at me and smiled. There was no doubt that he was proud of what he had achieved, and also what he had helped others achieve. And I thought he had a right to be proud.

Henley was just as bad as I feared. It was a typical July day in England. A blustery wind, and rain showers which were more on than off. All pretence of watching the rowing was forgotten. About a hundred people, employees of Bloomfield Weiss and their clients, were crammed into the tent, gobbling down cold salmon and champagne. The air was damp and oppressive, it was difficult to breathe in the clammy atmosphere. There was a constant din of rain drumming on the roof of the tent, caterers clanking plates and fifty people talking at once, interspersed with the hysterical cackle of champagne-induced laughter. A great day out.

Over the heads of the crowd I saw the tall figure of Cathy talking to a group of Japanese. She caught my eye, extricated herself and slowly made her way through the crowd over to me. Oh God, here we go.

'I hope you are enjoying yourself,' she said.

I mumbled something about how it was good of Bloomfield Weiss to arrange such a nice occasion.

She looked at me and laughed. 'Yes, ghastly, isn't it? I don't know why we do it. Still, I suppose there are always some people who will take any excuse to get drunk on a Saturday afternoon. But I have to be here. What drags you out?'

I hadn't seen her laugh before. It was a relaxed, genuine sound, not a bit like the drunken braying around us. I thought I had better not go into the details of Rob's pleading, so instead I said, 'Cash is very persuasive, you know.'

'I certainly do,' she said, smiling. 'I'm the one who works with him all day.'

'That must be a joy,' I said.

Cathy grimaced and then smiled at me over the lip of her champagne glass. 'No comment,' she said.

'So who is this American client Cash has a "special relationship" with? Is it the savings and loan in Arizona which bought the fifty million Swedens?'

Cathy's smile disappeared. I had overstepped a boundary. 'Now I really can't comment,' she said brusquely, the imperious saleswoman again. 'I can't discuss one client in front of another.' She had taken to heart the reprimand Cash had given her earlier. My curiosity would have to go unsatisfied.

Chastened, I was searching for a less controversial topic of conversation when Rob appeared at my elbow.

'Hallo, Paul,' he said. Then he looked hard at Cathy. 'Hallo.'

'Hallo,' she replied coldly.

'How have you been?'

'Fine.'

'Why haven't you answered my phone calls?'

'Oh, I didn't know you had rung,' she said.

'I rang four times last night, and six times the night before. Your flatmate took the messages. She must have told you. Didn't you get the note with my flowers?'

'I'm afraid she's very forgetful,' Cathy said, looking around her with an air of desperation.

'Well, what are you doing tonight? Perhaps we could get a bite to eat.'

Cathy caught the eye of someone at the other end of the tent, and then turned to Rob and me. 'I'm terribly sorry. There's a client of mine over there who I simply must see. Bye.'

With that she was off.

'You know, I think she might be trying to avoid me.' Rob looked puzzled as he said this.

I couldn't help smiling. 'Do you really think so?'

'But you don't understand. I don't understand. She's a marvellous woman. We've been out together three times. She's not like any other girl I've ever met. There is something special between us. I'm sure of it.'

'You haven't proposed to her, have you?' That was the most usual reason why Rob's girlfriends ran away from him, but I thought a proposal on the third date might be too fast going, even for Rob.

'No, we haven't got that far yet,' he replied. I could tell, though, that for his part Rob didn't have much further to go. 'But I did tell her exactly how important she was to me.'

'Rob, I've told you before, you've got to pace yourself,' I said, exasperated. 'That's the third girl you have frightened off like that.'

'Fourth,' said Rob.

Ordinarily I would have had the strength to console Rob. But I had had a lousy week, the weather was awful, and I just wanted to go.

I knew Cash wouldn't be leaving for several hours yet, and I couldn't face his bonhomie on the way back. So I slunk out of the tent, caught a bus to the station, and then a train home. As I stared out of the window across the rain-drenched Thames flood plain, my thoughts drifted towards Cathy. For a moment there I had thought she was almost human, and I had liked what I had seen. Perhaps Rob wasn't so daft after all.