Майкл Ридпат - The Marketmaker

I sat on the floor, surrounded by the debris of the attack. Books were everywhere, drawers were opened. My body hurt, my head was befuddled. I had no job. I had months of boring rewriting ahead of me. And Isabel was either dead or shut up in some flea-pit thousands of miles away.

The phone rang. I crawled over to the patch of floor where it lay, and picked it up.

‘Hallo.’

‘Nick?’

I felt cold. I recognized the deep voice. It was Eduardo.

‘Yes?’

‘How are you getting on?’

‘You know damn well how I’m getting on. You just had me beaten up and my flat wrecked!’

‘You’ve been attacked? Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that.’ Eduardo made no attempt to hide the mockery in his voice. ‘There was a very unfortunate piece in the Brazilian press yesterday. Very unfortunate. Now, remember, I’m watching you. And I want you to keep quiet, do you understand me?’

‘Fuck you!’ I shouted, and slammed down the phone.

Tidying up took me a long time. I was dispirited, stiff and slow. I was interrupted by a police constable, who came round to take details of what was missing. I told him. I also told him about Eduardo’s phone call. Why the hell not? I doubted very much that they would be able to find any evidence to link him to the attack, but it might make his life a bit difficult. The constable treated me a bit like a paranoid ex-employee, which of course I was, but he promised to look into it further.

I finally finished clearing up and rang Russell Church, the head of my old department at the School of Russian Studies.

‘Nick, how are you? I was just about to phone you to thank you.’

‘Oh, really?’ What the hell was he talking about?

‘Yes. For the Dekker Ward sponsorship.’

My heart sank. Bloody hell! ‘What sponsorship?’

‘I’ve just been on the phone with a man called Ross. He says that Dekker Ward would like to provide substantial commercial sponsorship to SRS. They’ll start with a trial period of a year, and then see how it goes from there.’

‘In return for what?’

‘Well, they will want access to some of our people and our contacts. They say they’re planning to do more business in Russia. But they’re willing to pay good commercial rates for any consulting work they commission. It’s perfect. It’s just the sort of external funding we need! Well done.’

‘Actually, I knew nothing about it.’

‘Oh. I rather assumed you were responsible. You must have made a good impression at any rate. So, how are things going there?’

‘Well, they’re not.’ I tried not to let my voice sound sulky, but I couldn’t help it. ‘I’ve left. You said I should give you a call if I decided the City wasn’t for me.’

Russell was full of enthusiasm. ‘Well, now we might be able to find something for you here. We haven’t thrashed out the details of the sponsorship deal yet but perhaps you could take up some sort of liaison role.’

I stopped him. ‘Wait a second, Russell. I’m not sure that would work. Dekker and I didn’t see eye to eye when I left.’

‘Oh.’

‘What would be useful for me is if we could carry on our conversation about openings at other universities. And I’d like to use you as a referee, if I may.’

It clicked. Russell’s voice became more cautious. ‘OK. Let’s have a chat.’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘All right. Say eleven? See you then.’

I was nervous as I knocked on Russell’s half-opened door; as nervous as I had been the first time I met him for that interview five years before.

‘Come in.’

I could see that Russell had spoken to Dekker as soon as I entered. Neat, with thinning grey hair, he usually greeted me with a beam. This time he rose awkwardly from his desk and shook my hand, not meeting my eyes.

‘Oh, hallo, Nick. Have a seat.’

It was almost as though he wasn’t expecting me. I perched on the small chair crammed against his desk. I recognized much of the debris that cluttered it. Most of it was under the School of Russian Studies headed memo paper. Admin. Piles of it. There was not a single page of Cyrillic script to be seen.

He removed his glasses, and wiped them, frowning. ‘Now, what was it you wanted to talk about?’

‘I need a job. I wondered if you knew of anything?’

‘I haven’t heard of much since you left here. I think the post at Sheffield might still be open. There’s a chance something might come up soon at the University of Surrey. Apart from that, not much.’

This was my mentor, almost my friend over the last five years. The man who had gone out on a limb for me, despite my lack of formal qualifications in Russian. He could do better than that.

I had to know. ‘You will be able to provide me with a reference, won’t you?’

A reference from Russell was crucial. He was well respected in the academic community in the UK. Worldwide, for that matter. Without a good one, I had no chance of getting a job.

The glasses came off again for another polish.

‘That might be difficult,’ said Russell. ‘I can provide you with something, of course. But it will be difficult for me to make it enthusiastic.’

‘Why? What’s wrong? What have they said to you?’

‘Mr Ross at Dekker Ward explained to me the circumstances under which you left their firm.’

‘Which Mr Ross?’

Russell hesitated. ‘I think he said it was Eduardo Ross. I’m not sure.’

‘Oh, yes. And what did he say?’

Russell shifted in his chair. ‘He told me that you had been caught bribing the authorities in Brazil over a transaction there, that this had become public knowledge, and that they’d had to let you go.’

‘That’s bullshit!’

‘I’ve seen the newspaper article, Nick.’ He pulled out a photocopy of the article from Bocci’s newspaper.

‘But Dekker Ward planted that. I can show you another article that says the opposite!’

‘Ross told me you had gone to the press behind their backs as well.’ Russell’s demeanour had changed. He was leaning forward, his jaw jutting out, ready for confrontation.

‘But don’t you want to hear my side of the story?’

‘OK. Fire away.’

So I tried to explain. It was difficult without going into too much detail, but I thought I did a pretty good job of it. But Russell wasn’t listening. He didn’t hear; he didn’t want to hear.

When I had finished, he tapped his pencil on his desk. ‘Basically, Nick, it’s your word against Dekker’s, and the Rio press.’ He tapped the Bocci article in front of him. ‘And at this moment Dekker Ward are crucial to this institution’s future. I can’t afford to doubt them.’

I’d had enough. ‘Russell! You’re being bought!’

‘That’s an absurd accusation!’

‘No, it’s not. If I had come to you from a faceless City institution and said I wanted to go back into academia you wouldn’t have asked any questions. It’s only because these people are promising to pay you money that you’re listening.’

‘I can’t give you a reference in good faith when I know you’ve been involved in bribing government officials.’

‘You know no such thing. All you have is Eduardo Ross’s word, that’s all. This sponsorship comes with strings, and the first string is to ditch me. Your first commercial sponsorship deal, and within a day you’re letting it compromise your independence!’

Russell held up his hands. ‘Now, calm down, Nick. Let’s talk about this Surrey post, shall we?’

‘Forget it!’ I said, and stormed out.

I pedalled back to Primrose Hill in record time, ignoring the pain in my aching back and leg. Russell’s reaction was all too predictable but nonetheless severely disappointing. Since he had become head of the department three years ago, he had made commercial sponsorship the central plank of his strategy for preserving the funding base of the department. Until now, he’d had little concrete success. His position internally within the School was not yet secure. And he was ambitious. So why give it all up for some promising Russian lecturer who still hadn’t got his Ph.D. under his belt?