Michael Ridpath - Free To Trade

Hamilton looked at me for a long time. There is no better judge of character than Hamilton, I thought. He will know I am telling the truth.

But he didn't quite. 'It does seem odd to me that you would do something like this,' he began. 'But the TSA are quite convinced that you and others traded on inside information. You are right that they don't have conclusive proof. Prosecutions for this kind of thing are expensive and frequently don't succeed. However, they do always ruin the lives of those involved, whether guilty or innocent.'

He paused, and looked down at the table in front of him. 'I also have the interests of the firm to think of. It would be easy for the TSA to publicise this, and even fine us. I need hardly tell you what effect that would have on the institutions that give us money to manage. As you know, we are in the middle of discussions with some potential Japanese clients which could have great significance for this firm. I will not allow those discussions to be jeopardised.'

He looked up at me again. 'So I have done a deal. In the circumstances, quite a good deal for all involved. I will accept your resignation today. You will serve a two-month notice period, which should be enough time for you to find suitable employment elsewhere. During that period, you may come into work if you wish, but under no circumstances will you trade on behalf of the firm. No one outside this room will be made aware of the reason for your resignation.

'I'm sorry,' he said, 'but this is best for all of us, especially you.'

There it was. A fait accompli. A nice little deal done so that De Jong could carry on as though nothing had happened. And there was nothing at all I could do about it. That was hard to accept.

'What if I don't resign?' I said.

'Don't even ask,' said Hamilton.

For a moment I felt like making a stand, refusing to go along with him, demanding a full investigation. But there was no point. I would be crucified. At least, this way I could get another job.

I said nothing and just stared at the conference table. I could feel the colour rising to my cheeks. I felt several emotions all at once. There was anger, there was shame, and underlying both of these was a strong pull of despair. I opened my mouth to say something, but couldn't. I breathed deeply. Control yourself. You can sort it all out later. Don't say anything, don't blow your top. Just keep your composure and get out.

'OK,' I said hoarsely. I stood up, turned away from Hamilton, and left the conference room. There were one or two things I would need from my desk. Phone numbers, that sort of thing. I entered the trading room. All activity stopped. I could feel everyone's eyes on me. I ploughed through the atmosphere thick with discomfort. I didn't look at anyone. I just focused on my desk, my face set tight. My cheeks were still hot. No one said anything as I walked over to my desk, picked up my phone numbers and a couple of other things, put them in my briefcase, and walked out. God knows what they thought. I didn't want to worry about that now.

I grabbed a taxi on the street outside the building. The journey home went quickly by. By the time I reached my flat I had at least separated most of the emotions which boiled inside me. I placed them all in their own compartments; divided, I would conquer them.

Anger first. Anger at the injustice of being found guilty without having the chance to defend myself. My guilt had been accepted because it was easiest for everyone. Anger at the way Hamilton had let them do it. Surely he could have done something to protect me? Hamilton of all people should have been able to come up with a way out of this mess. He had put the firm before me. I thought I meant more to him than that. But, as I thought about it, I supposed Hamilton had in his usual fashion weighed the pros and cons of fighting it out to the bitter end, and had alighted on this as the better alternative. And it was pointless just screaming 'It's not fair.'

Then there was sorrow. I was beginning to fit into De Jong. I was learning how to trade and enjoying it. And for all that Hamilton had let me down, I had learned a lot from him. There was a lot more to learn; it was difficult to see how anyone else could be such a good teacher. But at least my time at De Jong had convinced me that I wanted to trade, and shown me I had the potential. I would just have to start again with someone else.

What if I couldn't get another job? A rush of panic flew to my head at this thought. What if I would never trade again? I didn't think I could face that possibility. And I needed to get a well-paid job too if I was going to raise the money to buy my mother's cottage. It would be impossible to raise twenty-five thousand pounds without a job. God knows what she would do if Lord Mablethorpe threw her out. I could already see the look of contempt on my sister Linda's face when she found out I had failed to prevent it.

But the panic soon subsided. People lost their jobs all the time. If they were any good, they soon got new ones.

I am a stubborn individual. I was buggered if I was going to be put off trading by what was no more than a piece of awful luck. You make your own luck. Sure, sometimes it runs against you, but if you keep plugging away, eventually events will run your way. The key was not to give up; every time something went wrong, just try harder.

So, I pulled out a pad of paper, and sketched out a plan of campaign for how I would get another job. Within half an hour I had outlined a series of steps that I was fairly confident would get me something. To work.

I rang two recruitment consultants I knew, and arranged appointments. I spent a couple of hours perfecting my CV. So far so good. The headhunters were pleased to have a new client, and I thought my CV didn't look at all bad.

The problems started the next morning. I had decided that a good place to begin would be the salesmen I spoke to every day. They would probably know who was hiring, and they should have a reasonable idea of my abilities. After careful consideration, I rang David Barratt first. He had been around a long time and knew a lot of people. He should have some ideas.

So I dialled Harrison Brothers. It wasn't David who answered the phone but one of his colleagues. He said David was busy but would get back. I left my number and waited. Two hours later and still no phone call. I tried again.

This time David picked up the phone.

'Hallo, David, it's Paul,' I began.

There was a short pause before David responded. 'Oh, hallo Paul. Where are you ringing from?'

'From home. You've heard then?'

'Yes, I have.' A pause. 'Have you found anything yet?'

'Well, not yet. In fact I am just starting. That's why I am ringing. Do you happen to know if there is anything interesting around at the moment?'

'Not much, I am afraid. The job market is quite quiet now,' David said. 'Look, I have got to go. A customer on the other line.'

'Before you go…' I said quickly.

'Yes?'

'I wonder if you could spend half an hour to chat about what I might do. You know the market much better than I do…'

'I'm afraid I'm quite busy at the moment.'

'Whenever you like,' I said, hearing the desperation creep into my voice. 'Breakfast, after work, I can come round to your place.'

'Paul, I don't think I can help you.' The voice coming over the phone lines was polite but firm. Quite firm.

'OK,' I said dully, 'I'll let you go,' and hung up.

I couldn't make sense of it. David was always helpful. For him to refuse to come to my assistance now was significant. I thought for a moment I had totally misjudged him. Perhaps he was a completely different person with clients than with ex-clients. But that didn't really seem to be like David.

With some trepidation I rang another salesman. Same result. Polite unhelpfulness. The third was even worse. I overheard the salesman, say 'Tell him I'm not here. And if he rings again, tell him I am off the desk.'