Free to Trade (38 page)

The consequences were difficult to take. To trade was quite simply all I wanted to do. To trade well was my ambition. Until a week ago it was something that looked clearly within my grasp, given a couple of years of effort. No chance now.

I suppose some people drift through life happily enough without any goal. Not me. When I focus on an objective, I strive for it with all my heart. Subsume my life in it. Sure, when I finally accepted I was not going to be the fastest eight-hundred-metres runner in the world it had been hard, but I couldn't deny to myself that I had achieved a lot to get close. To be denied even a clear shot at trading was more than I could take.

The next two weeks were the worst of my adult life. I still sent off letters, and even went to a couple of interviews, but my heart wasn't in it. I knew it was a lost cause.

Depression quickly set in. A deep black depression which I had never experienced before. I was dispirited down to the bottom of my soul. It became difficult to do anything. After a day or so, I gave up running, always telling myself that one more day's rest wouldn't hurt. I tried to read novels, but couldn't concentrate. I spent a long time in bed, just staring. I went for long aimless walks round London. But the din of traffic, the exhaust fumes and the heat left me tired and jaded. The collapse of will, for one who has drawn sustenance from it for so long, is debilitating indeed.

I was also lonely. It never usually bothered me to be by myself, but now I craved someone to talk to. Someone who could help put everything into perspective. But who was there? I could hardly talk to anyone from work. I did not have the courage to admit what had happened to me to the odd scattering of friends and acquaintances I had picked up over the years. I should have done, but I didn't. And the last person on whom I could lay the burden of my troubles was my mother. I was well aware that I would soon have to instruct solicitors about buying her cottage. How would I get finance for it? Indeed, with trading now closed to me, it would be impossible for me to get a job that paid enough.

I ignored that problem, or tried to. But the longer I left it, the more it gnawed away at me. I was responsible for leaving my mother without a home; I was too feeble to do anything about it.

In my moments of loneliness, thoughts of Cathy frequently emerged. When I wished to myself that there was someone I could talk to, that someone always became her. I thought of the easy understanding we had developed in America, her sympathy and interest in my life. I needed someone to be interested in it now.

And then her rejection came back to taunt me. Her accusations that I was ruining her career, my crass pleas to her to come out to dinner with me. She would no doubt have heard about what I had done--correction, was supposed to have done. She would be thanking God that she avoided getting involved with me, and kicking herself for even considering it. A relationship with an insider trader would be no help at all for her progress up the greasy pole.

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.'