Michael Ridpath - Free To Trade

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.