Майкл Ридпат - The Marketmaker

The phone was picked up on the first ring. ‘Donnelly.’

‘Good morning. This is Nicholas Elliot from Dekker Ward in London. Donald Winters at United Bank of Canada gave me your name.’

‘Oh, yeah.’

‘I have some information relating to Francisco Aragão, who I believe you’re investigating.’

‘Shoot.’

So I told him about Martin’s fax, Martin’s death, and my own attack. I could hear the scribbling on the other end of the line.

‘Do you have a copy of this fax?’ Donnelly asked.

‘No, but you can get the information from Donald Winters if you need it.’

‘OK.’ More scribbling. ‘Have you reported your suspicions about this Martin Beldecos’s murder, or the assault on you?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m not sure who to talk to about it.’

‘I understand. Well, thank you very much for the information Mr, ah, Elliot. Can you give me a number where I can reach you?’

I gave him my home number. But I didn’t want him to disappear without telling me what he was going to do.

‘Are you going to investigate this?’ I asked.

There was a moment’s pause, a pause of impatience.

‘This may be useful intelligence, Mr Elliot. We are pursuing a number of investigations at the present time, and this might help us.’

‘But will you investigate Dekker?’ I asked, unable to keep the exasperation from my voice.

‘I’m sorry, I can’t disclose who or what we’re investigating. But thank you for the information, Mr Elliot, and we know where we can reach you. Now, goodbye.’

I put down the phone. I was disappointed. I supposed I had hoped that squads of agents would fly out to London immediately to question Ricardo and Eduardo. But that obviously wasn’t going to happen.

I tried to think of it from the DEA’s point of view. They probably had a target in mind. Perhaps it was Francisco Aragão. Presumably they would use any information they could to help them nail that target, but they wouldn’t necessarily allow themselves to be sidetracked by suspicions that were, I had to admit, unsubstantiated.

In some ways I felt better, though. I had done my duty, I had reported what I knew to the proper authority. Maybe now I could forget Dekker.

But I couldn’t forget Isabel.

‘Well, you have caused a stir, haven’t you?’

We were in my local, the Pembroke Castle. Jamie had dropped by for a quick pint, as he had promised.

‘Tell me.’

‘There’s the story in the Rio papers. But you know about that, presumably.’

‘I knew it was coming. What did it say?’

‘It said that last month’s finance scandal involving Humberto Alves and narco-traffickers in the favelas was entirely fabricated by Dekker Ward. That Oswaldo Bocci agreed to publish the story in return for finance to expand his empire.’

‘Sounds accurate to me,’ I said.

‘Well, it certainly touched a nerve. Ricardo is disturbed. Seriously disturbed. And Eduardo is positively raving. He’s not a happy bunny.’

I smiled. I liked the idea of niggling Eduardo.

‘You’ve got to watch it, Nick,’ Jamie went on. ‘These are powerful enemies you’re making.’

‘I don’t care,’ I said. ‘The way Ricardo torpedoed the favela deal was outrageous, you know that. All Luís is doing is setting the record straight.’

‘Well, Ricardo holds you responsible.’

‘That’s absurd.’

‘You tell him that.’

I sipped my pint. ‘I saw Dave today,’ I said.

‘How is he?’

‘Pissed off. Ricardo has dumped on him. He hasn’t been able to get another job in the City.’

‘So what’s he going to do?’

‘He’s got some mates of his to buy a pub somewhere. He plans to manage it with Teresa.’

‘Not a bad job for him.’

‘Yes.’ I paused a moment. ‘You know, he thinks there’s something going on at Dekker. That Martin Beldecos was murdered because he stumbled across something at Dekker Trust.’

‘Does he have any proof?’ asked Jamie.

‘No. He spoke to the police, but they weren’t interested. And I spoke to the DEA in America today.’

‘You did?’

‘Yeah. They took down the details, but they didn’t seem that interested either.’

‘Ricardo doesn’t know you’ve been talking to Dave and the DEA, does he?’

I shook my head. Then I thought about Dave’s suspicion that Eduardo was tapping his phone. Oh, no.

‘Well, make sure he doesn’t find out,’ Jamie said. ‘I don’t know whether there is anything in this money-laundering stuff. And I don’t want to know. But I do know that Ricardo is angrier than I’ve ever seen him. It’s scary.’

‘Can you keep your eye out for anything suspicious?’

‘No, Nick, I can not. I will keep my head well down on this one. Here, let me get you another beer.’

I was woken by the sound of glass shattering and wood splintering. I sat up in bed, and tried to get my bearings. There was loud banging from the sitting room. I threw myself out of bed, and lurched through the door, still wearing only my underpants.

There were three of them, big, hard men dressed in T-shirts and jeans. I threw myself at the nearest one, sending him crashing into a bookshelf.

‘Get him!’

Strong hands pulled at my arms. I clung on to the man underneath me, trying to force my arm round his throat. He bucked and kicked. The two others broke my grip free, and hauled me to my feet. The man I had jumped on, staggered upright and kicked me hard in the balls. I cried out, and felt sick. Then there was a blow to my back that just missed my kidney, and a knee came smashing up into my face. My cheek stung and I tasted blood, but it was my groin that still hurt most. I tried to double up but they wouldn’t let me. Then something hard hit me on the side of the head and it all went black.

‘Ambulance! Quick!’

The crackle of a police radio. Someone kneeling down next to me. ‘He’s breathing. Hit on the head. Check the bedroom!’

I lay there, playing dead. I didn’t have the energy to move, even to open my eyes. My body hurt all over. There was the continued sound of movement around me, the gentle weight of a blanket laid over my semi-naked body and then the wail of a siren. Strong arms lifted me on to a stretcher. I felt cold air against my face. I opened my eyes.

I was in the street outside my flat. Although it was night, there seemed to be lights everywhere, orange from the street lamps, flashing blue from the ambulance.

A man dressed in bright green overalls leaned over me. ‘Hang on. You’ll be all right, son.’

They slotted me into the back of the ambulance. The pain screamed throughout my body. I was enormously tired. Everything went black again.

My second visit to hospital was briefer than my first. I was let out late the next morning with instructions to come back if my headache got worse. There was a sore spot on my skull, but my head felt fuzzy rather than in pain. I had bruises all over me; one in my back and one in my thigh really hurt.

I took the taxi home with trepidation. The flat was a mess. They had stolen a couple of things, some gold cuff-links my parents had given me for my eighteenth birthday, and the video recorder. And my Apple Mac.

Oh, shit! There was three years’ worth of unfinished thesis on that. I fell into the sofa and stared at the space on the desk where it had sat. Now, think. It can’t be that bad. Under the desk were three cardboard boxes. My notes. Please God, let me have kept the rough printouts!

I rushed to the boxes and tore them open. My notes were all there and drafts of three of the chapters. But the rest? All gone. I put my head in my hands. It would take months just to re-create what I had written.