Michael Ridpath - Free To Trade

'Yes, in many ways I do,' she said. 'I like the excitement of the markets. I like dealing with people. And I think I am genuinely quite good at it. What I don't like is the lying, the posturing, the politics, the need to show that you are tougher than the next man.'

'Well, why don't you just give up the tough-guy image?' I asked.

'No,' she said. 'Bloomfield Weiss would eat me alive. You are just going to have to put up with it.' She laughed, not looking at all like the all-conquering corporate woman.

In fact, shorn of her cool self-assurance, she seemed like a normal, intelligent girl, with lovely eyes and an attractive smile. A few moments of silence passed, both of us trying out each other's company.

'Tell me about Rob,' I said.

She smiled. 'You tell me about Rob,' she said.

'No. I asked you first.'

'OK,' she said. 'He's a nice enough guy. Quite sweet really. We went out together a couple of times and had some fun. Then he suddenly got serious. Very serious. It was scary. He wanted to marry me and we hardly even knew each other. I felt bad because I thought I must have led him on without realising it, although thinking back, I can't see how I can have done.

'So, I thought the best thing to do was to try and avoid him. I didn't want him to persist with the wrong idea. But then he lured me to a restaurant, pretending to be a client of mine. I felt such a fool. I was furious. I haven't heard from him since then, thank God.' She paused. 'Is he always like this?'

'Quite often, I'm afraid,' I said. 'In your case he seems to have got it pretty bad. I don't think you have heard the last of him.'

'Oh dear,' she said. 'If there is anything you can say to him to put him off, please do. I have tried everything I can think of. He's a nice guy, but enough is enough.'

I thought about what Felicity had told me about Rob's phone calls to Debbie, about Claire feeling that there was something weird about him, and about what I had seen of him myself that night in the Gloucester Arms. 'Be careful,' I said.

Cathy raised her eyebrows at this, but I refused to explain further. We carried on talking for an hour or so, lingering over another beer. Cathy coaxed me to talk about my family, something I am usually reluctant to discuss with strangers. I told her about my father's death, about my mother's illness, and about how I had dashed my mother's hopes of my becoming a farmer. She was sympathetic. Much to my surprise, I didn't find her sympathy embarrassing, nor did it make me bitter as it sometimes did when given insincerely. It was comforting.

'Is Hamilton McKenzie the cold fish he seems?' she asked. 'He must be difficult to work for.'

'He isn't a very easy person to read,' I admitted. 'And he can be a bit of a taskmaster. He is very sparing with praise.'

'But you like him?'

'I wouldn't say exactly that. But I do admire him. He is so good at what he does, one of the best in the market. He is an excellent teacher. And he has this way of making me work hard for him, of bringing the best out of me. To tell you the truth, I would do anything for him.'

'It must be good to work for someone like that.'

'Yes, it is.'

'A bit like having a father?'

I squirmed in my chair. 'I hadn't thought about it that way. But I suppose you are right.'

Cathy reached across the table to touch my hand. 'I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that,' she said.

'No, no, that's OK. It's a relief to be able to talk to someone like this. Someone who understands. One of the worst things about losing a parent is that it imposes a sort of loneliness upon you. It is one of the most important things in your life, but you can't share it with anyone.'

Cathy smiled. We sat in silence for a few moments. Then she looked at her watch. 'Is that the time? I must be off. Thanks for the drink. I feel much better now.' She got up to leave.

I found myself reluctant to let her go. 'So do I,' I said. Much better.

We parted, each of us heading towards our separate subway stops.

First thing the next morning, I cancelled my meetings for the day. Something had come up I said. I wanted to spend my day in New York following up on what I had heard the day before.

Two questions intrigued me. First, what had happened to Shoffman, and second, could I find out anything more about how Waigel had put the Tremont Capital deal together?

I tried to deal with the first one first. I rang information to find out the number of the nearest police station to Bloomfield Weiss. I suspected that would be where his disappearance would have been reported by the firm. I dialled the number from my hotel room.

I was transferred a couple of times until I ended up with a friendly woman who told me that the disappearance had been reported to that station, but that the inquiry had been taken up by another precinct, on West 110th Street, which was near where Shoffman had lived. I thanked her, left my hotel room, and took a taxi up to the Upper West Side.

Fortunately, the police station was fairly quiet. Even more fortunately, the desk sergeant turned out to be one of that rare breed of ardent anglophiles that are scattered throughout America.

'Hey, are you English?' he asked in response to my greeting.

'Yes, I am,' I said.

'Welcome to New York. How do you like it here?'

'Oh, I think it's a fine city. I always enjoy coming here.'

'So you're from England, huh? My mother was from England. A GI bride, she was. Where are you from in England?'

'London.'

'Oh yeah? So was my mother. Maybe you know her family. Name of Robinson.'

'I'm afraid there are quite a few Robinsons in London,' I said.

'Yes, I'm sure there are. I went over there to visit them a couple of years ago. I had a great time. Anyway, how can I help you?'

The policeman standing next to him was big and beefy, and his name tag had Murphy written on it. His scowl deepened as he listened to this conversation.

'Yes, I am trying to find something out about an old university friend of mine, Greg Shoffman. He was reported missing at this station four months ago, and I would like to try and find out what happened to him.'

'Sure. Wait a moment and I will see if I can find his file.'

I waited for about five minutes, and then the policeman returned, a very thin file in his hands.

'We don't have much on him. He was reported missing on April twentieth. No trace of him found at all. No body, no empty wallet, no driver's licence. His credit cards remained unused. The investigation is closed.'

'But how can a man disappear without trace?' I asked.

'This is New York. We have six murders a day here. Sure, we find the bodies of most of them. But not all of them.'

'Where was he last seen?'

The policeman referred to his file. 'The last reported sighting was when he left his office at seven o'clock on the nineteenth. Neither his doorman nor any of his neighbours reported seeing him arrive at his apartment. He lived alone. No wife, no girlfriend we know of.'

'What was his address?'

The policeman glanced at me, his eyes narrowing a little. 'I thought you said you were an old friend of his,' he said.

'Yes, I'm sorry. I left his address in England. I have his work number, so when I came over here I rang him at work to fix up dinner. Then they told me about his disappearance. It was a real shock. I would very much like to find out what really happened.'

The policeman's face softened. He gave me an address just two blocks away from the police station. Then he said, 'Look, mister. You are not going to find out anything, however hard you look. I have seen dozens of cases like this in the past. Unless the victim's body or his possessions are found and reported to the police, you never get anywhere. It's true that if we had more manpower and less murders we could have spent more time on this case, but I doubt whether we would have got any further.'