Майкл Ридпат - The Predator

Duncan shook his head. ‘I liked Pippa. I was attracted to her. But I never loved her. That was the trouble.’ He drank his beer. ‘I’ve been thinking about Lenka a lot recently, ever since things went wrong with Pippa. Although I’ve never really been able to get Lenka out of my mind. I know we were only together for a few months, but those are the only months when I felt truly alive.’

Chris thought Duncan was exaggerating, but he didn’t want to argue with him. ‘She was a special person,’ he said.

‘She was, wasn’t she?’ said Duncan, smiling for the first time. ‘She was so warm, so generous, so full of life. And she was the sexiest woman I’ve ever met. What she saw in me, I don’t know. I’m not surprised she got rid of me.’

‘It was a long time ago,’ said Chris.

‘But it seems like yesterday to me,’ said Duncan. ‘I can remember her touch, her smell, her laugh so clearly. You know that perfume she wears? What is it, Annick Goutal? There’s a French woman in the office who wears it. Whenever I smell it, I think of her. It brings her back.’ His eyes misted over, and he looked down. ‘We had something back then. I’m sure she felt it as well as me. If we’d stayed together after the programme, my life would have been very different now.’

Once again, Chris wanted to argue, to point out Duncan’s inconsistency. But he didn’t. No doubt Duncan’s life would have been different if he and Lenka had stayed together. And Duncan had not had a good last ten years.

Alex’s death had nearly destroyed him. Duncan had been so filled with guilt that it seemed to ooze out of every pore. It ruined what little self-confidence he had, it made him bitter, angry, full of self-pity. The naïve puppy-like innocence had disappeared. His fresh face became lined, jowls appeared under his chin and a small paunch emerged above his trousers. The winning smile disappeared completely. He lost most of the friends he had, driving them away with complaints and bitterness. Chris had stuck by him. It wasn’t just that he felt loyalty to a friend. The cover-up of Alex’s death made Chris feel not exactly guilt, but complicity. He couldn’t abandon Duncan. Ian could, though, and had.

As expected after his performance on the programme, Duncan had been fired from Bloomfield Weiss on his return to London. Over the next few years, he limped from job to job as a Eurobond salesman at minor foreign banks in the city. The big bonuses of the boom years passed him by; he was one of the foot soldiers in the struggle to spread bonds to the four corners of the globe, a cheap body for a new boss of a revamped sales desk to call upon in his efforts to meet a headcount target. Duncan wasn’t necessarily bad at his job. He was honest, he could be reasonably personable when he tried, and some customers bought bonds from him. But he had about him an air of defeat, so that when the reorganizations came, as they did on an almost annual basis at every bank in the City, his was always the first head to roll.

After several years of this, things started to look up. He met Pippa, a straightforward trading assistant a couple of years younger than him. They married. He held down the same job at an Arab bank for nearly four years. They bought a house in Wandsworth. He became good company over a pint again.

Then it all went wrong. Pippa threw him out, Chris was never clear exactly why. The Arab bank fired him, and it took him four months to find another job. And now Lenka.

Duncan was down and out again. This time, Chris wasn’t sure he could face picking him up.

‘How’s the new job?’ Chris asked, in an effort to change the subject.

‘It’s a job. They’ve given me a list of accounts to contact who never return my calls. Same old story. We’ve got no product to sell, and no customers to sell it to.’

‘What’s your boss like?’

‘He’s a decent enough bloke. Ex-Harrison Brothers originally, although he’s been around since then. I’m not complaining. They pay me.’

‘That’s good,’ said Chris lamely.

Duncan’s eyes flicked up to him. ‘There’s something I wanted to ask your opinion on.’

‘Oh, yes?’

‘One of my Arab clients wants to invest in some European high yield. He doesn’t know anything about it, and all the big investment banks assure him that their deals are the best and the competition’s are all crap. We haven’t got anything we could give him, but I’d like to help him out. You couldn’t give me some ideas could you?’

‘Lenka was the expert on high yield, but I’ve picked up a little bit,’ said Chris. ‘I can try. It’ll all be Eastern European stuff, though.’

‘Go on then,’ said Duncan.

Although he was slightly irritated to have his brains picked for free, it was a relief for Chris to talk about something other than Duncan’s misery. He listed four issues that he and Lenka liked. Duncan dutifully jotted them down on the back of one of his business cards.

‘What about Eureka Telecom?’ he asked, when Chris had finished. ‘My client said that was strongly recommended. Very cheap, he was told.’

Chris grimaced. ‘I’m not at all sure about that one. We own some, but I fear it might be a Bloomfield Weiss special. I’d say it’s better to start off with the expensive stuff the brokers want to buy. Avoid the cheap stuff they’re desperate to sell.’

Duncan smiled. ‘Sounds good advice. So Eureka Telecom is one of Ian’s, then?’

Chris nodded. ‘Yes. I’m going to talk to him about it tomorrow.’

‘Jerk,’ muttered Duncan.

Chris shrugged and looked around the gloomy pub. The three of them had had many a long evening in there, many years before. ‘It’s a pity,’ he said.

‘You’re getting sentimental,’ said Duncan. ‘Ian Darwent has always looked after himself. He could be perfectly charming when he thought we might be useful, but as soon as he decided we were no good to him any more, he couldn’t be bothered to give us the time of day.’

Chris sighed. ‘Perhaps you’re right.’

It was sad. Ten years ago the six of them had seemed to have such a bright future. They were going to be the humane investment bankers of the twenty-first century. But it hadn’t quite worked like that. Duncan was a wash-out. Chris had lasted longer, but he had been fired from Bloomfield Weiss as well, and more spectacularly. Ian hadn’t really fulfilled his potential, and, as Duncan said, he was a jerk. Alex, and now Lenka, were dead. Only Eric was doing well, in some high-powered corporate finance job at Bloomfield Weiss in New York.

Chris shook his head and glanced at his empty glass. ‘Your round.’

Chris could tell it was bad news just by looking at Tina’s face, and the slight tremble with which she held the fax. His heart sank. He had had enough bad news, surely.

She passed it to him wordlessly, and he laid it on the desk in front of him.

To: Chris Szczypiorski, Carpathian Fund Managers

From: Rudy Moss, Vice President, Amalgamated Veterans Life

Subject: Investment in The Carpathian Fund

I am writing to inform you that Amalgamated Veterans Life hereby gives 30 days’ notice of its intention to redeem its €10 million investment in The Carpathian Fund.

With best wishes

Chris exploded. ‘With best wishes! Jesus Christ! No mention of Lenka. Nothing about how sorry he is to hear of her death, about how he wants to support us in this difficult time.’

Tina shook her head. ‘Wanker, innee?’

‘Yes, Tina, he is.’ Chris grabbed at the phone, ready to scream at Rudy.

‘Tell you what, Chris,’ said Tina as Chris jabbed out his number.

‘Yes?’ said Chris, putting the receiver to his ear.