Michael Ridpath - Free To Trade

As I lay soaking in a hot bath afterwards, the problem fell into perspective. I had done nothing wrong. I had no inside information. A successful prosecution was highly unlikely; the record of the financial regulators on that score was appalling. As long as De Jong continued to support me I would be all right, and Hamilton seemed firm on that score.

I had been in the bath for twenty minutes when the phone rang. It was difficult to summon up the energy to answer it, but eventually I did. It was Hamilton.

'How are you, Paul?'

'Oh, I've just been for a run and I feel much better.'

'Good, good. I've just spoken to Berryman. I told him that it was important to De Jong and to you, that they should sort this problem out soon. Either you did something wrong and they can prove it, or you didn't and they can stop pestering us. They said they should be in a position to let us know by the end of the week. So, why don't you take the rest of the week off? You'll be no good at a trading desk anyway with this hanging over you.'

'OK,' I said. 'I'm glad they think they can clear it up so soon. I'll see you next Monday.'

But as I hung up the phone, I felt uneasy. If they were confident of resolving the case by Friday, it seemed more likely that it was because they felt they were close to proving my guilt than because they were close to giving up.

I was pulling on my clothes, my spirits sinking again, when the phone rang once more.

It was my sister, Linda. 'Now then, Paul, how's life been keeping you?' she said.

'Fine, fine, and you?' I replied, wondering what on earth she could be ringing about. We scarcely ever spoke to each other, and when we did, it was only because we were both with my mother at the same time. This was something Linda tried to avoid. I suppose we didn't like each other. It wasn't an active dislike. Like everything else it had its roots in my father's death. Linda had felt it was my role to be the man of the house and had disapproved deeply when I had gone to Cambridge and then London. She herself lived only ten miles away, in the neighbouring dale. She had married a farmer, a big brute of a man whom I disliked intensely. She worshipped him, and compared me unfavourably to him at every opportunity. As I said, we didn't talk much.

'What's up?' I asked, wanting to get to the point 'Is it something to do with Mum?'

'Yes,' Linda said. 'Don't worry, she's not ill or anything. It's her house. You know Lord Mablethorpe died a couple of months ago?'

'Yes, Mum told me.'

'Well, his son has told her she has got to get out.'

'What? He can't do that. Lord Mablethorpe promised her that house until she dies. His son knows that.'

'There's nothing on paper about that,' Linda continued. 'He says he can do what he likes. He says he has received a very attractive offer for it from a television producer who wants to use it as a weekend cottage.'

'What a bastard.'

'Just what I said. I told our Jim to go round and give him what for, but he said that was your job.'

Typical of our Jim, I thought, but he had a point. 'OK, I'll see what I can do.'

I thought of getting in touch with the new Lord Mablethorpe in London, but decided it would probably be best to see him in his ancestral home. Maybe then he would think about his ancestral responsibilities.

I rang Helmby Hall. Fortunately Lord Mablethorpe was there all week, shooting grouse. I made an appointment to see him the next day, and rang my mother to tell her I would be staying the night. She sounded distressed, but was relieved I would be coming.

I set out on the long drive early. I successfully put the Gypsum investigation out of my mind. There was, after all, nothing I could do about it. Similarly my desire to unravel the mystery surrounding Debbie's death and the Tremont Capital fraud had faded a little, or at any rate become less immediate. I was in a sort of limbo, and in a way I was grateful to this latest family problem for providing me with a distraction.

I arrived at my mother's in time for a late lunch. Over the shepherd's pie, she chattered on about her house and garden, about how it was so central in the village. She obviously was going to be very upset if she had to leave. I hoped I would be able to find her something else in Barthwaite. Without the considerate neighbours who knew and liked her, eccentricities and all, she would find life much more difficult.

It took just ten minutes to drive to Helmby Hall. An assortment of Range Rovers, Jaguars and Mercedes was drawn up outside, no doubt Lord Mablethorpe's shooting guests. I parked my little Peugeot beside them, walked up to the huge front door, and rang the bell. A butler showed me into a study where I waited.

The study was a comfortable place, full of the day-to-day bits of paper and books that the old Lord Mablethorpe had needed. I remembered the several occasions when I had been in this room as a boy, watching my father and Lord Mablethorpe laughing by the fire. Lord Mablethorpe had a huge laugh. His red face would split into a big grin and his massive shoulders would heave up and down. His hands were as large and well worn as my father's, as they cradled the whisky which he always broke out for these occasions. I checked the bookshelf behind me. Sure enough, a quarter-full decanter was propping up some old editions of Whitaker's Almanack.

Finally Charles Mablethorpe arrived. He looked very different from his father. Thin and anaemic, I was surprised he could survive a whole day striding across the moors in search of grouse, let alone a whole week. He was about my own age, and an assistant director in the corporate finance department of an old, but now very minor, merchant bank.

'Hallo, Charles. Thank you for taking the time to see me,' I said, proffering my hand.

He shook it limply. 'Not at all, Murray, have a seat.'

He gestured to a small chair by the side of his desk. He sat in a large chair behind it.

I bridled at being treated as a loyal retainer by this prat, but sat down.

'I've come to talk to you about my mother's house,' I began.

'I know,' Mablethorpe interrupted.

'You know that when my father was killed, your father promised my mother that she could live there until she died.'

'Actually, I don't. In fact, I can't even find a tenancy agreement for the cottage. It would appear that your mother is living there illegally.'

'That's ridiculous,' I said. 'She isn't paying rent because she is living there rent-free. There isn't a tenancy agreement because there was no need for one. Your father was very happy to let her live there.'

'That may well have been the case; my father was a very generous and charitable man. But we have only your mother's word that he promised her the cottage for life, and she isn't exactly reliable, now, is she?' Mablethorpe drew a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one. He didn't offer one to me. 'The problem is I have fearsome inheritance taxes to pay. I have got to sell off part of the estate, and fifty thousand pounds would come in very handy, thank you.'

'You can't throw her out,' I said. 'It's illegal. She's a sitting tenant. And don't think you can intimidate her to leave.'

'I'm terribly sorry, Murray, but I am afraid I can. You see, she has never paid any rent, and so she is not a tenant. She's really just a sort of squatter, you know. Don't worry, I have checked everything with my solicitors in Richmond. Technically, it may be difficult to evict her if she barricades herself in, but we will get her out eventually.'

'Your father would be furious if he knew you were doing this,' I said.

Mablethorpe pulled deeply on his cigarette before replying. 'You have no idea what my father would have thought. My father had many qualities, but financial acumen wasn't one of them. There is a lot of capital tied up in this estate, and it has to be made to provide a decent return. In the modern world, you can't just leave assets lying around generating no income. You work in finance-I am sure you can see that.'