Piers Venmore-Rowland - Latent Hazard

At last, Moorgate tube station arrived. He got out and made his way to his office round the corner in South Place. At the front desk, Rafi greeted the security guard with a wave and headed upstairs for the coffee machine. He felt like death warmed up. The office was like a morgue. ‘You idiot,’ he had thought to himself, as he recalled the celebratory lunch and the previous evening’s festivities. His spirits rose a little as he realised that at least he would look much better than most of his colleagues.

The office started to fill up. The open plan floor on which he worked was the quietest he could remember; the telephones were being answered in hushed tones and no one was really in the mood to work. By all accounts, the previous night had been an unreserved success; the bar bills would have been huge and the accounts team would no doubt have to do some creative juggling with the expenses claims.

By 9 a.m. the office had started to regain some of its momentum and the noise level had moved up a notch from deadly quiet to hush. The coffee machines were in demand, but unlike normal days there was little gossiping going on around them. At one of them Rafi bumped into Jameel’s secretary.

‘Did he make his flight last night?’ he enquired.

‘’Fraid not! He missed it by a mile,’ she smiled. ‘It was a good session yesterday, though, wasn’t it?’

Rafi recalled seeing her perched on the edge of a table, enjoying the adulation of a group of dealers.

To his surprise, she said, ‘Didn’t you see Jameel first thing this morning? He told me he had a couple of things to sort out before he had to rush off to London City airport to catch his flight to Paris. Luckily, I managed to rearrange all his meetings.’

‘Is he still due back next Tuesday?’ Rafi asked.

‘As far as I know.’

Why had Jameel missed his evening flight? He’d left the party early and had plenty of time. Rafi wondered what he had been up to.

His thoughts were interrupted. Seb Warren, a colleague of Callum’s, phoned. ‘Judy Ballantyne of HR asked me to give you a call.’

Rafi could vaguely put a face to the young individual. He was of a similar age to Callum, but not in Callum’s class.

‘Is there any further news?’ asked Rafi.

‘Not really. All we can glean is that he’d finished his work and was on his way to Amsterdam. The Luxembourg police aren’t saying much. Callum’s body should be flown home early next week. I understand that his family are arranging the funeral for next Thursday somewhere near Bristol, I think.’

‘He was seeing some people for me,’ Rafi said, hoping Seb wouldn’t pick up his white lie. ‘Could you run through who he saw?’

Seb hesitated briefly, but then went on. ‘Yes, OK. He had a meeting with a REIT, followed by a couple of meetings with tax lawyers. He had lunch with a local investment fund manager and then went to see a contact in the same building for an afternoon meeting… Rafi, I spoke to Callum as he was leaving the afternoon meeting. He was very upbeat, saying, I’ve done some useful research… Rafi will be very interested. I don’t know what he meant. Do you?’

‘Not really,’ said Rafi disingenuously.

Seb paused and carried on. ‘He was in a hurry, said he was late for his rendezvous with the REIT director.’

‘I tried ringing him at around 6.30 p.m. but got put through to his voicemail,’ said Rafi.

‘So did I,’ replied the youngster.

‘Before you ring off, could you tell me who he had lunch with?’

‘I’m not certain if I should, but I know Callum was a good friend of yours so I’ll tell you off the record. He met Hubert Vynckt of CPR Investment Funds.’

‘Thank you Seb, you’ve been a great help – I’ll miss Callum.’

Rafi made a mental note of the name and was just about to go to the firm’s library when the whole building was rocked by a dull thump.

‘What the hell was that?’ yelled Gavin, a director who sat near to Rafi.

‘Oscar has self-imploded,’ quipped Dominic, to Gavin’s left.

A voice from across the room said, ‘That was a bomb blast.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Gavin.

All eyes in the open plan office focused on the office junior. He was seen but usually never heard. ‘Not close, but definitely in the Square Mile. I reckon it went off somewhere to the east of us.’ He paused before adding, and going rather pink, ‘I’m in the TA so I am used to explosions.’

‘So now what?’ asked Gavin.

‘There could be a follow-up bomb. People should move away from the windows.’

‘Gavin nodded. ‘OK, do as the man says and get away from the windows. We’ll wait for some news; it’ll be all over the screens very soon and then decide what to do.’

Rafi looked at the newsflash on his trading screen. Bombed – garage at Bishopsgate police station, near Liverpool Street Station. The newsflash continued. City of London police are unable to confirm whether there will be any further attacks. The London Stock Exchange and Euronext. liffe have closed. This was followed by, London underground and all mainline stations are shut.

Gavin stood up. ‘The office is closed for business. You are free to leave for home whenever you like, or to stay put if you wish.’

Rafi knew that news of the bomb blast would be plastered across the media. He phoned his sister at her university where a colleague answered. ‘Is Saara there? It’s her brother speaking.’

‘Not at the moment, she’s nipped out. I’ll tell her you rang.’

‘Thanks,’ he said, ‘Could you put a note on her desk to say that I’m fine.’

‘Will do,’ she reassured him and the line went dead.

Rafi decided it was time to leave. ‘See you Monday. Have a good weekend,’ he called across to Gavin.

Outside, it was bright February sunshine. In the distance there was the sound of sirens. The streets had an unreal feel. It was the expressions on people’s faces that were different. They had a sense of anxious determination. The buses and taxis were still working but the queues at the bus stops and cab ranks were very long.

Rafi had considered his options. He wanted to get home. There was nothing for it but to walk and hope he came across an empty taxi on the way. With a stop for a cup of coffee en route, the six mile walk was not too bad. It gave him the opportunity to think things over. He would take a holiday. If he went abroad and Prima Terra was investigated by the authorities, they might think he was escaping from them, so he decided to find a comfortable hotel in Cornwall. He would leave first thing the following morning and being a Saturday it would be a good time to travel.

Just under three hours later he had opened his front door. It had been a relief to be home. He stripped, showered and with a bath towel around his waist, headed for the dining room table, where he opened up his laptop and went surfing for hotels in Cornwall. Into the search engine he entered: Cornwall +hotel +sea and scanned through the very long list of possibilities. He changed sea to “good food” and looked at the new list. Near the top, the Headland Hotel, Newquay caught his eye. He clicked on the link. Its location looked great and its restaurant had two rosettes. Then he spotted they were doing special deals on stays of over five days – perfect. He opened up another window, pulled up the search engine again and found London to Newquay was a five-hour journey from Paddington and there was a 10.05 a.m. Saturday train.

He picked up the phone and dialled the Headland Hotel. In the space of a couple of minutes he’d booked himself a small suite with an ocean view for ten days, starting the following night.

He would travel light and packed some clothes into his computer rucksack and briefcase. He would look businesslike in the hope of concealing his escape plans. Tired, he turned in for an early night.