Майкл Ридпат - The Predator

But she had. Carpathian owned them. And they had no means of selling them.

The phone rang. It was Duncan.

‘You remember you gave me some junk bond recommendations the other day?’ he began.

‘Yes.’

‘Well, my client checked them out. He said they seemed to make more sense than anything anyone else had told him.’

‘Good.’

‘Do you think you could have lunch with him?’

‘Duncan! There’s a lot going on here, and only me to do it now Lenka’s gone.’

‘Come on, Chris. This guy’s my best client. He’s stuck with me since United Arab International. I know you’d give him an honest idea of what’s going on out there. I’ll pay.’

‘Oh, all right,’ Chris said. ‘Who is he, anyway?’

‘His name is Khalid. Royal Bank of Kuwait. Smart guy. Don’t underestimate him. How are you placed next week?’

Reluctantly, Chris agreed a date. He put down the phone, reflecting that Duncan couldn’t be that useless a salesman: he seemed to possess that essential ability to make people do things they didn’t really want to do.

Now what the hell was he going to do about the Eureka Telecom bonds?

He stared across at Lenka’s desk. Tina had put some fresh flowers in her vase, delphiniums or something. But they didn’t know the answer.

If only he had been there the previous week. Although they trusted each other, he and Lenka always discussed major investment decisions. She would certainly have gone over this one with him. He had given her his phone number in Courchevel before he went skiing, but she had refused to use it, saying he needed a complete break from the office. If only he could at least have listened in to her end of the phone conversation with Ian when she had bought the bonds.

At Bloomfield Weiss, that would have been possible. All phone conversations were taped to resolve any disputed trades. But they hadn’t installed any recording equipment at Carpathian. The firm was too small, and both Lenka and Chris hadn’t liked the Big Brother aspect of bugging phones. Besides, if there was a problem they could always rely on the broker’s recordings.

That was it!

Chris hit the number for Bloomfield Weiss.

Ian answered. ‘Where are the Eurekas trading this morning?’ Chris asked without preamble.

‘One tick.’ Chris waited. He knew the Bloomfield Weiss trader would have to think about this one. Eventually Ian returned. ‘He’s indicating ninety to ninety-two. But that’s only good in a million.’

‘That’s down five points!’ protested Chris.

‘What can I say? There’s a big seller out there.’

‘I can’t believe this market!’

‘I told you it was different from trading govvies,’ said Ian, with little sympathy in his voice.

Chris didn’t bother to ask where the bid for his ten million block would be. He knew the answer would be below yesterday’s price of seventy and he didn’t want to hear it. There was no point going to any other houses in the market, either. Eureka Telecom was a Bloomfield Weiss deal, and if Bloomfield Weiss were moving the price down sharply no other dealer in his right mind would want to buy the bonds. They might pretend to make a price, but if Chris tried to hit the bid it would fade immediately. No, he’d have to argue this one out.

‘Ian, why did Lenka buy this deal?’

‘It looked great last week, before the numbers came out.’

‘No, it didn’t. I’ve looked at the prospectus. It was a dog. It’s not the kind of deal she’d do. And certainly not in twenty-five million.’

‘I don’t know. It yields three per cent more than Buck Telecom.’

‘Yeah, but Buck has a network already in place. And a market cap of three billion quid. This is a totally different deal. Didn’t she say anything about why she liked it?’

Ian didn’t reply.

‘Come on, Ian. Help me here. This is a major headache for me. Lenka’s dead, it’s not as if she and I can talk about it.’ Chris had no compunction in using Lenka’s death as a means of getting what he wanted. It was her company’s survival that was at stake; he was sure she wouldn’t mind.

‘Sorry, Chris. I’ve no idea.’

Although Ian was an experienced salesman, he couldn’t keep the guilt from his voice. Chris knew him too well. And he knew he was lying.

‘I’d like to listen to the tapes,’ Chris said.

‘What?’

‘I’d like to listen to the tapes of Lenka buying the bonds.’

‘Come on, Chris. There’s no need for that.’

‘Yes, there is. There’s something funny about this and I want to find out what.’

‘But you can’t listen to the tapes unless you query the trade.’

‘Then I’m querying the trade.’

‘But it’s already settled.’

‘Ian. These are special circumstances. The person who did the trade is dead, and I have reason to believe that the deal was never done.’

‘What reason?’

‘It doesn’t make sense.’

‘What kind of reason is that? If everybody who bought a bond argued about it when the price went down, the market would grind to a halt.’

Ian was right. Chris didn’t have any evidence. But his suspicions were growing.

‘Look, Ian,’ he said, trying to take on a more conciliatory tone. ‘If there’s nothing wrong with the trade, then it won’t do you any harm if I listen to the tapes, will it?’

‘I told you, there’s no need.’

‘I demand to listen to them.’

‘No.’

Ian was hiding something. Chris was now certain of that.

‘Put me on to Larry Stewart,’ Chris said. He wasn’t exactly sure how the reporting lines worked at Bloomfield Weiss, but he knew Larry would be somewhere up above Ian.

‘Do you think he’d listen to you?’ said Ian, with something close to a sneer.

For a moment, Chris’s confidence nearly deserted him. Ian knew Chris’s reputation. If it was his word against Chris’s at Bloomfield Weiss, Ian was pretty confident that his would be believed. Then Chris pulled himself together. Larry knew Chris had done nothing wrong three years before. Chris was willing to gamble that Larry had at least a scrap of humanity left in him somewhere.

‘Yes, Ian. I think Larry would listen to me.’

There was silence at the other end of the phone as Ian tried to decide what to do. Chris had got him!

‘Chris, I really don’t think it would be a good idea for you to listen to those tapes.’

‘Put me through to Larry, or I’ll hang up and dial him direct.’

‘I can explain.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Not here,’ said Ian in a whisper. ‘Let’s talk about it later. Out of the office.’

‘Let’s talk about it now.’

Chris could hear Ian exhaling down the phone. ‘OK. There’s a café at the bottom end of Liverpool Street. Ponti’s. I’ll meet you there in half an hour?’

‘See you there,’ said Chris.

It took Chris twenty minutes to get there, but Ian was already waiting. The ten years since the programme showed. Lines had begun to etch his face, in particular a frown crease between his eyebrows. He was still trim; in fact, he exercised at the gym three times a week. His suits were tailor-made, his shirts hand-made, his ties the latest fashion from the latest fashionable house. His hair was cut rakishly and frequently. He looked older than his thirty-three years, and more experienced. The only clue that belied the veneer of elegant self-confidence was his fingernails, which were still bitten down to the quick.

Chris fetched a black coffee and joined him. ‘Well?’

Ian played with the froth on his cappuccino with a spoon. He stirred the bubbly cream for several moments before replying. Finally, he looked up, straight at Chris.

‘Lenka and I were seeing each other,’ he said simply. ‘That’s why I don’t want you to hear the tape.’