Michael Ridpath - Free To Trade

'How did you get mine?'

Good question. It would be easy for him to have got my number off Cash, as I had his. In which case, he probably had my address. My skin felt colder. I picked up the duvet from my bed and wrapped it round myself.

'I told you not to interfere,' Joe repeated. 'I have had two lots of policemen round here in the last twenty-four hours. First there was a police tart asking about me and Sally. Sally didn't tell her anything. And she's not going to. She knows what would happen to her.' Menacing words delivered in a dull monotone. 'Then there was a plod detective asking me questions about that slut's death. Well, he didn't get anywhere either. But it got me annoyed. Very annoyed. You were lucky not to lose your finger. You will lose more than that unless you back off. Do you understand me?'

I was scared. Why had I got mixed up with him? Because I thought he had killed Debbie, I reminded myself. Well, if the police were already talking to him about it, then perhaps I could leave it all to them. 'I understand you,' I said.

Joe's voice lowered an octave, which somehow added a touch of extra menace. 'Look, Murray, I don't want to hear anything more about the slut. And if you go anywhere near my wife again, or talk to anyone about her, you are dead.'

I was frightened, but I didn't want him to know it. I was determined not to be intimidated. 'If you just treat her properly, then no one will bother you,' I said. 'Threatening me won't help now.' With that I hung up. I dried myself off, and rang Powell at the home number which he had given me. I was curious to find out what Joe had told him about Debbie.

'Powell.' His voice was gruff, irritated at being disturbed.

'It's Paul Murray here.'

'Yes, Mr Murray?'

'I just had a phone call from Joe Finlay. He says you have been in touch with him.'

'Yes, that's right. We interviewed him today.'

'How did it go?'

'A dead end. Finlay says he shared a taxi with the two people he had been drinking with immediately after they all left the boat. They both corroborate his story. None of them says they saw Debbie after they left her with you.'

I protested. 'That can't be right. Have you found the taxi-driver?'

Powell's sigh echoed down the phone. 'No, Mr Murray, we have not. That would be next to impossible without major publicity. But unless you think all three of them did it together, I think we can rule Finlay out.'

'But, you can't. You should have seen him. I'm sure he must have killed her. Have you checked into his relationship with her?'

'We have spoken to Felicity Wilson. It's clear Finlay is a nasty piece of work, but there is no evidence at all that he murdered Debbie Chater. In fact there is no evidence she was murdered at all. And if she was, you were the last person seen with her before she died.'

'You don't think I killed her?'

'No, Mr Murray, I don't think you killed her either,' said Powell, his voice long-suffering. 'Personally, I think it was suicide, but there is precious little evidence of that either. The inquest is tomorrow and I wouldn't be surprised if an open verdict was returned. They don't like classifying cases as suicide unless they are sure, it causes unnecessary grief for the relatives. Now, thank you for all your help in this inquiry, Mr Murray. Good night.'

'Good night,' I said, and put the phone down. So somehow Joe had got himself ruled out. I didn't believe it. I didn't believe it one bit.

I poured myself a large whisky, and tried to get to sleep. The nursery rhyme 'Three blind mice' ran through my mind as I finally dozed off. I dreamed of a thin farmer's wife running around brandishing a carving-knife.

Cash picked me up on Saturday morning. He was dressed in his Henley gear; blazer, white trousers, and a garish purple, gold and silver striped tie. He drove a grey 1960s Aston Martin. I am no expert on classic sports cars, but it looked to me to be the same model as appeared in the James Bond film. I couldn't hide my admiration for the vehicle. I almost expected to see the controls for the machine-guns and the ejector-seat.

Cash saw my reaction and grinned. 'Like it?' he asked. 'I'm a sucker for old cars. I've got an old Mercedes and two Jaguars back in the States. I just love to drive around in the Merc on the weekends in the summer with the roof down.'

'Grey old London must be a bit of a change,' I said.

'Oh yes. But I like it here. Mind you, it takes a bit of time to get used to Europeans, especially the Brits.'

'What do you mean?'

'When you first meet them, they all seem unfriendly. You feel like you are breaking some social taboo just by saying hallo. Once you get to know them, they are good guys. No offence meant.'

'None taken. I think I know what you mean. People here are wary of dealing with people they don't know.' I could imagine the most aloof of Cash's clients being horrified by him when they first met him, and then falling gradually under his spell.

'You're telling me. At first they feed you some bull about how cautious and conservative they are. They make it sound like buying a T-bill was the most adventurous thing they have ever done in their lives. But after a little coaxing they just gobble up those bonds. I've been over here a year now, and I have already done some sweet trades.'

We were at a traffic-light. He paused to concentrate on accelerating away from it as fast as possible, leaving the Porsche in the next lane standing. As he wove between the traffic he continued, 'Some of these guys in London don't know what selling bonds is about. They think if they stuff some Swiss gnome with a million dollars of some issue, they are selling bonds. They don't know nothing. Selling bonds is about moving big blocks of money around the world. It's about making one part of the world finance another. Know what I'm saying?'

I nodded, cowering in my seat as we sped up the wrong side of the road to get by a particularly congested stretch.

Cash seemed unconcerned by the horns blowing around him. 'I'll tell you something about moving money round. I once had a guy in Boston who wanted to put five hundred million dollars into the eurobond market. So we launched three new issues, and gave him half of each issue. Three months later we own five hundred million of mortgage-backed bonds we can't get rid of. Triple sales credits on those. So, I make this guy in Boston realise he didn't want eurobonds after all, he wanted mortgages. He sells his eurobonds, and buys our mortgage-backed bonds.

'The firm has solved one problem. Trouble is, we now have five hundred million eurobonds nobody wants. So I wait a week. The trader gets desperate, he can't sell his eurobonds. Then they put the sales credits up to triple again. So then I decide to ring another friend of mine at a Californian insurance company, who has a billion dollars in cash which he wants to invest and doesn't know what to buy. It so happens I have the ideal investment for him.' Cash laughed as he recounted this.

'You want to know why they call me Cash? You ever heard the saying "Cash is King"? Well, I'm the king of cash. I control it. These portfolio managers think that they control the cash in their funds. But they don't, I do. It's guys like me that move cash around the system, and I'm the best of them. And every time it moves, some of this cash rubs off on me. Any idea how much the commission is on a five-hundred-million-dollar trade on triple sales credit? Think about it.'

I thought about it. Different houses have different formulae, but my calculations made it just under a million dollars. I began to see how Cash could afford his expensive toys.

'But I can see you are different from the others, kid,' he continued. 'You're not afraid to take risks. You are prepared to bet big money when the opportunity is there. I think you and me are going to do some good business together.'