Michael Ridpath - Free To Trade

'The story is he used to be in the army. The SAS, so they say,' Cash continued. 'Then one day he shot an unarmed sixteen-year-old boy in Northern Ireland. There wasn't enough evidence to show conclusively that he knew the boy was unarmed. But he left the army soon afterwards.'

'How did he end up working for Bloomfield Weiss?'

'Oh, he was hired by an ex-US marine, who thought he recognised a kindred spirit. He's been with us four or five years now.'

'Is he any good?' I asked.

'Oh yeah, he's good. Very good. The best on the Street. No one likes him but they have to put up with him. He has a very sharp brain and a good nose for value. But I try and keep him away from customers.'

'Apart from me?' I said.

'Yes, sorry about that.' Cash swallowed some of his beer. He leaned forward. 'So, you said you wanted to talk to me urgently. What do you want to talk about?'

I told Cash about my discussion with Bowen, the Bloomfield Weiss compliance officer.

Cash listened carefully. When I had finished, he whistled through his teeth. 'You'd better be careful. That Bowen is an officious bastard. He won't let things drop easily.'

'What do you know about all this, Cash?' I asked.

'Well, nothing,' he said, as innocently as a schoolboy caught with a packet of cigarettes in his jacket pocket.

'Oh come on, you must know something,' I persisted. 'Who were you buying all those bonds for? It wasn't DGB was it? It must have been someone else.'

'Now, Paul. You know I can't tell you that.'

'Bullshit. Of course you can tell me. This is serious. Do you know who bought those Gypsum shares before the takeover was announced?'

'Gee, Paul, I'd really like to help you,' said Cash, still the sweet innocent. 'But you know how it is. I don't know anything about the share price going up. I don't even know who we were buying the bonds for. Another salesman was talking to the other side of the trade.'

I gave up. Cash was a professional liar. He lied day in, day out, and he was paid a lot of money for it. He was not going to give in, I could see that. I had no idea whether he was just hiding the identity of the buyer of the Gypsum bonds or whether he was doing more than that.

We sat in silence, watching the group around us. People were more relaxed now. The discussion had moved away from bonds and on to women and office gossip.

Joe unsteadily got to his feet, and came over to sit by Cash and me. Although I wanted to talk to him, his presence next to me made me nervous. He was unpredictable and dangerous.

'So, are you enjoying yourself?' he asked, his dead eyes locked on my face. He was clearly drunk. His delivery wasn't slurred, but overly slow and deliberate.

'Oh, it's nice to see my adversaries in the flesh,' I said lamely.

Joe never removed his eyes from my face as he took a long slow swig from his champagne glass. Oh Christ, I thought, he has recognised me.

Cash did his best to break the tension. 'Paul used to be an Olympic runner, you know,' he said. 'You remember Paul Murray? The eight hundred metres? He won a bronze medal a few years ago.'

'Oh yes?' said Joe, still staring at me. 'I thought I recognised the face. I am a keen runner myself. Do you still keep fit?'

'Not really,' I said. 'I still run a bit, but for relaxation rather than fitness.'

'We should race sometime,' said Joe flatly.

I wasn't sure how to respond to this. Joe's eyes hadn't moved from my face since he sat down. It was making me very uncomfortable. I suppose he must have blinked, but I hadn't noticed it if he had.

I looked around the room, trying to throw his gaze, but it didn't work.

'So you work for De Jong?' he said.

'Yes.'

'Hamilton McKenzie is a bastard, isn't he?'

I laughed, trying to keep the tone conversational. 'He may seem that way, but actually he is a very good boss. And he's an excellent portfolio manager.'

'No he's not. He's a spiv. And a bastard.'

There didn't seem much I could say to that.

'That tart Debbie used to work for you, didn't she?'

I didn't say anything. Joe continued. 'I hear she fell in the river the other day. Tragic that.' All this was delivered in a slow matter-of-fact way that gave his last comment an unpleasant irony, which I pretended to ignore.

'Yes, it was,' I said. 'A terrible tragedy.'

'Did you fuck her?'

'No, of course not.' I fought hard, and succeeded in controlling my anger. I held his stare and returned it.

'Didn't you? That's funny, everyone else did,' said Joe, a thin smile curled on his lips. 'She was a popular girl, that Debbie. She was always begging for it. I fucked her myself a few times. Slut.' He smiled a bit more.

There was silence round the table. All eyes were on me. I knew he was goading me, spoiling for a fight. But I was angry.

Slowly, I stood up. He just looked up at me, that thin smile still on his lips.

Then Cash jostled into me. 'Hey, come on, Paul. You told me you wanted to get an early night. Let's share a cab.'

I knew he was right. I let him push me out of the bar.

'Man, let me tell you, the last thing you want to do with that guy is get into a fight,' Cash said as we climbed into a passing taxi. 'Look at it this way. He wanted to pick a fight with you and he didn't succeed.'

'Scum,' I said. 'That man is scum.' I sat in the cab fuming. Acting over in my mind the things I would have done to him in the Biarritz if Cash hadn't stopped me.

After a couple of minutes, I asked Cash. 'Is it true what he said about him and Debbie?'

'Well, I don't know. I think he was seeing her for a few weeks a year or two ago. But I think she told him where to get off. Maybe that's why he is still sore at her.' Cash touched my arm. 'Look, forget what he said. She was a good kid.'

'Yeah,' I said as the cab drew up outside my flat. 'Yeah.'

I was still furious the next day. I had seen that bastard at the scene of Debbie's death. He was obviously the violent boyfriend Felicity had referred to. The one who had ordered Debbie around and who had beaten her when she had confronted him about his marriage.

The more I thought about it, the more annoyed I was that I had walked out the night before without hitting him. I resolved to go round to his house that night and find out what had really happened. I knew it was stupid, but I was determined to do it.

I called Cash for Joe's address. He didn't want to give it to me, but I insisted. I waited until seven o'clock, by which time I judged Joe would be home, and set off for the Wandsworth address.

He lived in a cul-de-sac. The small road was lined with large red Edwardian houses, the dwellings of middle-ranking bankers at the turn of the century.

It had been a hot day, and the air was still stifling. It was very quiet in the little road. The houses were not in good repair, windows were smudged and dusty and some were cracked, paint peeled from doors and sills. Most had been converted into flats for single people or unmarried couples commuting into the City. I was startled by something small and lithe darting between some dustbins. A cat? An urban fox?

I began to feel uneasy. I had no idea what Joe's reaction to me would be when I met him. All I knew about him was that he was unpredictable, and sometimes violent. All day the words I would use to confront him had been running through my mind; suddenly they had lost their conviction. I stopped in the middle of the silent street. Then I saw Debbie leaning back at her desk, the Mail spread out in front of her, her eyes shining and her broad grin teasing me. The anger welled up in me again.

I strode up the road. Joe's house was at the end. Tall, thin and red, it stood alone, decorated with two miniature Victorian-Gothic turrets. I walked up the short drive, and was immediately hidden from the street by a cluster of large rhododendron bushes, their shiny dark green leaves providing some shade.