Michael Ridpath - Free To Trade

'Maybe. But I don't think so. I think it's Callaghan.'

I hesitated. I wasn't sure whether to mention what was in my mind. Quietly I asked, 'Do you think Cash had something to do with Debbie's death?'

Hamilton looked at me, puzzled. 'That was an accident, wasn't it? Or suicide? Surely not murder?'

'I'm not sure what it was,' I said. 'Remember I told you that I saw a man just before Debbie's death?' Hamilton nodded. 'Well, that man turned out to be Joe Finlay, Bloomfield Weiss's US corporate trader. Now, I told the police this, but it appears that Joe had a couple of friends who said they shared a taxi with Joe immediately after they all left the boat.'

'Joe Finlay?' said Hamilton. 'I've met him. He's not a bad trader. But from what you said, the police have ruled him out?'

I sighed. 'Yes, they are going to put Debbie's death down as an accident. But I just don't believe it.'

Hamilton looked at me for a second. 'I suspect the police know what they are doing. In any event, I doubt that Cash had anything to do with it.' He lapsed into silence, an unusual fire in his cold blue eyes. Then, slowly, he began to relax. He rhythmically stroked his beard. He was back in control. Thinking. Calculating all the angles.

'What shall we do?' I asked. 'Shall we confront Cash? Go to the president of Bloomfield Weiss? Go to the police?'

'We shall do nothing,' Hamilton said. 'At least not for a while. My guess is that Tremont Capital will continue to pay interest for several years so as not to arouse suspicion. It is the principal we will never see again. So we have time. It is our turn not to arouse suspicion. As soon as Cash finds out we are on to him, then the money will be gone and we will never see it again. So we act as though nothing is amiss.'

'But we can't just do nothing!'

'We won't just do nothing. We will get our money back.'

'But how?'

'I'll find a way.'

And somehow, I thought he would.

I had quite a backlog of work to catch up on. Accounting discrepancies, monthly valuation commentaries, a pile of reading. I ploughed through it all afternoon and the early part of the evening.

I left the office at half past seven and sauntered down Gracechurch Street towards the Monument underground station. I couldn't work out how we could try to get the Tremont money back. I had no idea how Hamilton would go about it, although he seemed confident he would think of something.

I was interrupted by a voice next to me and a hand slipping through my arm. 'Paul, why so miserable?'

It was Claire. I caught the same subtle scent she had been wearing in Luc's the day before.

'I'm not, I'm just preoccupied.'

'With work. But work is over for the day! It's time to play.'

I smiled weakly. I couldn't tear my mind away from the Tremont Capital disaster.

'Look, you've been worrying too much lately,' Claire said. 'You take it all too seriously. I am meeting some old friends of mine tonight. Do you want to come?'

I hesitated.

'Oh, come on!' she said. She raised her arm at a passing taxi which screeched to a halt. She bundled me in. I didn't resist. She was right. All that I had learned over the last few days was weighing heavily on me.

Claire directed the taxi to a small wine bar in Covent Garden. It was dark and wooden and crowded. Her friends were there already. Denis, Philippe and Marie. They had all been to university together at Avignon. Denis was doing a Ph.D. in Anglo-Saxon history at King's College, London, and Philippe and Marie were both teachers in Orleans. They were in England on holiday. And only Denis spoke English.

My French is barely up to conversational standard, but I did my best. I was encouraged with enthusiasm by the others, who derived no end of amusement from my Yorkshire French accent. I got by pretty well, although the conversation took some strange paths since my comments were dictated more by what words I knew than what it made sense to say. The wine flowed. The volume of the conversation rose, punctuated by bursts of hysterical laughter. No one mentioned bonds, markets, interest rates, Tremont, Joe, or Debbie.

As the night wore on, I found it more difficult to focus on what was being said or where the conversation was going. I just sat back in my chair and watched.

In particular, I watched Claire. God, she was sexy! She perched, cross-legged on her chair, her tight black skirt riding up over her well-shaped thighs. Her white blouse was tucked firmly into her skirt, stretching over the curves of her breasts, as she leaned forward to make a point. Her lips were full and pouted frequently as she talked. The French language was made for lips like hers, I reflected.

Suddenly, at a signal that I had missed, everyone stood up. I looked at my watch. It was midnight. We left the wine bar and spent five minutes on the pavement outside in a confusion of goodbyes. Then Denis disappeared in one direction and Philippe and Marie in another, leaving Claire and me alone.

Claire put her arm through mine and we wandered down towards the Strand. We wended our way through groups of people shouting goodbye to each other, hailing cabs and laughing excitedly. The night air was warm and relaxed.

'I forgot to ask you whether you could speak French,' said Claire. 'You were good.'

'After all those years of learning it at school, some of it was bound to sink in, I suppose,' I said.

'That was a nice evening, wasn't it? Don't you like Marie? And Denis is very funny, isn't he? Oh, we all had such fun together at Avignon.'

'I enjoyed it very much. Thank you for bringing me along.'

'Shall we share a cab?' asked Claire. 'Where do you live?'

'Kensington, and you?'

'Oh, that's fine. I live just off Sloane Square.'

We walked along the Strand, trying to get a cab. Eventually we caught one coming over Waterloo Bridge from the south side of the river.

Neither of us said anything in the taxi, but I was acutely aware of Claire's presence beside me. She let her head rest gently on my shoulder.

We pulled up outside her flat. She clambered past me, opened the door, and dropped to the kerb.

'Goodbye,' I said, 'I'm glad I bumped into you this evening.'

The taxi had stopped under a streetlight, so I could see Claire's face clearly. Her eyes smouldered, dark and sensual, just as they had in the restaurant. She smiled. 'Come on,' she said.

I hesitated for a moment, then swallowed, climbed out of the taxi, paid the driver, and followed her into the building. Her flat was on the first floor. It was comfortable, stylishly furnished, with two large abstract paintings hanging on one wall.

That was all I had time to notice. As soon as we were inside, Claire turned and pulled my head down to hers. A long kiss, our bodies pressed against each other, both feeling the other's excitement. Eventually, Claire drew her lips away from mine, chuckled hoarsely and whispered, 'What do you want?'

I didn't get a chance to answer. She led me into the bedroom. She didn't turn on the light, but the curtains were open and the orange glow from the streetlamps outside lit the room. She loosened my tie and undid the top buttons of my shirt. I took off my jacket and undressed. In a moment Claire was standing before me, naked. The headlights of a passing car illuminated her. Her body was round and firm, almost muscular. I only just had time to take my socks off before she pulled me down on to the bed.

Claire was a vigorous, energetic lover. The bedclothes were soon strewn all over the floor. After an exhausting hour of the most intense pleasure, I rolled over on to my back, short of breath, sweating, spent. Claire lay down beside me and we talked and laughed as she ran her fingers over my chest and stomach.

Within a few minutes, relaxed and contented, I rolled over and fell straight to sleep.