Robert Young - Gatecrasher

Asquith was shaking his head as Campbell spoke but with less vigour at each word. ‘It can’t be. It just can’t be Michael.’

Campbell walked to the desk that sat behind the two armchairs and slid open the drawer. Pulling out a plain brown A4 envelope he walked back to Asquith and held it out. Asquith looked at it for a moment but didn’t move. He stared at the brown paper as if it were poisoned, polluted. As if by taking it and looking inside he might be betraying his old friend the way this young man was telling him that he had been betrayed.

‘Some of it is what I have been able to find out through relatively straightforward means. If you know where to look. Shareholder registers, fund-holding information, registered directors of companies. That sort of thing,’ Campbell told him and continued to hold it out. ‘Some of it not so simply obtained.’

Hesitantly Asquith took it and tore it open, sliding out a sheaf of papers.

‘The top three sheets you will note are on original company letterheads. They are not copies or computer downloads. They are the original documents from the offices of the three companies for whom Michael Horner occupies a shareholding or executive role. These forms look slightly different but they serve the same purpose. Most companies of this type operate a ceiling above which major purchases of stock must be signed-off by a senior member of staff.’

Asquith was staring at them now, flicking between pages.

‘These forms give instructions to dealers for specific and significant purchase of stocks. You will recognise the names of the companies in which large investments were being made. Indeed you will also recognise other names. The orders against them are sell orders. You know what short-selling is?’

Asquith looked up at Campbell, half pleading with him to stop, to say it was all an invention. But the realisation was setting in. He nodded slowly.

‘Selling shares you don’t own.’

‘Pretty much. Basically betting that a share price will fall, rather than rise. Except it isn’t a bet when you already know the outcome.’

For a beat he felt almost sorry for the other man, but knew he had to arrive at the point.

‘You will recognise the signature at the foot of each page, authorising these trades.’

Slowly, Geoffrey Asquith moved back to the armchair he had sat in earlier and he dropped into it heavily and then he looked Daniel Campbell in the eye and he nodded.

Wednesday. 8pm.

Michael Horner reflected that in leaving so hastily and such a flurry of self-righteousness, Andrew Griffin really had not done himself any favours. Not only had he denied himself a rather lucrative payment for his silence he was also missing out on a quite delicious glass of wine.

Horner sat enjoying the peaceful silence of the room and watched the city relax into its evening routine beneath him, taking time to think everything through as he sipped the Bordeaux.

In addition to his costly, short-sighted reaction Griffin had failed to see that there would of course be other consequences.

He had never intended to involve Griffin to this degree but when the call had come from Griffin’s office requesting a meeting to discuss a personal and sensitive matter Horner had agreed to it with a sense of suspicion and caution. Things had already been allowed to go wrong, mistakes made and made again. But not this time. Not where he was personally in charge. The business with the young man in Fulham and his persistently slippery behaviour had worried him. What ought to have been a watertight operation had sprung a number of leaks and Horner had determined to plug them. When he heard that Griffin wanted to talk he decided that he would pre-empt the man and head off any further problems. He was surprised the other man had rejected him and stormed out with his wounded pride.

Now he would have to try something different. He could probably find some dirt on Griffin somewhere and if not, he could have it fabricated. Otherwise a simple threat or two might be more effective than appealing to the man’s wallet. A few photographs of his wife and child. Nothing nasty, just engaged in normal activities but the suggestion would be enough. This time we were only pointing a camera at them Andrew.

That could wait though, for the time being. He’d talk about that with Drennan once the data was handed over. Horner was fed up waiting and once Drennan had paid the useless rabble — something he’d had to think twice about approving given their incompetence — he would set about upping the pressure on Asquith a little, just as a reminder.

The old man was principled but he would not be stupid enough to risk everything for those principles. Standing up to Horner’s ‘blackmailers’ would be precisely the sort of thing he’d want to do but faced with this sort of leverage the old man would buckle, not least because he wouldn’t want to betray an old friend despite what mistakes that old friend might have made.

Horner tipped the glass up to his nose and took in a deep breath though his nostrils. It was almost done now, he though to himself, almost finished. Two years in planning and execution and once Asquith announced the contracts Horner would reap what he had sown.

Thursday. 5 pm.

The two men sat on either side of a dark stained wooden table with a nondescript glass ashtray in the centre and two cardboard beer mats with the pictures half peeled off.

Slater was hunched over his pint of lager, arms folded, jacket still on. His face was blank and his expression did not betray the crackling rage he felt underneath. He had been given a real run around in the past week and a half, made a fool of at every turn and he had probably dropped in his boss’s estimation as a result. It was, in all honesty, attributable to the man sitting opposite him.

Well dressed and looking faintly self-satisfied for reasons not apparent to Slater, Drennan sat rolling the long neck of a beer bottle between thumb and forefinger. Even his choice of drink riled Slater. Fucking poncy Italian lager, why couldn't the prick just have a pint? But he knew he had to play nice. He was here for a simple job and once it was done they could all relax again, in the clear and in the cash.

That was, of course, provided Campbell was right. Gresham had been reluctant to trust him at first although the man clearly seemed to know what he was talking about. But in the end the promise of further riches, not to mention the debt of gratitude for getting Angie back had swung it. Slater himself was far more cynical. The guy was as slippery as soap and Slater thought it was madness to listen to him, although his own pride had been wounded more than the others by Campbell’s best efforts. Though he had begun to feel a grudging respect for Campbell as a worthy opponent, a stubborn, determined and resilient man, he still wanted to knock his lights out.

But sat here looking at Drennan trying to catch his own reflection, or self-consciously watching every other passer by with theatrical suspicion, Slater had a new target for his fury. When this was done, he thought, Drennan might come after them. Drennan and his boss and whoever else they could muster.

For all Campbell’s tales of shadowy figures and men of great wealth and long reach, Slater didn’t feel in the slightest bit perturbed now. With Walker gone he feared no-one and the prospect of being able to vent some of the brewing frustration was delicious.

He was picturing Drennan’s nose broken and blood gushing from his shattered gums when the other man spoke.

‘You know for a while we thought you lot had fucked the whole thing. I mean, you only had to follow instructions and Tony made a right mess of that. And I had my suspicions you’d lost the stick too. This Campbell bloke, wherever the hell he’s vanished to, I thought he had it. Couldn’t figure out why you lot were so keen to follow him around when we said that we’d sort it out. I mean, Tony probably told him nothing after Keano got at him but still.’