Take A Thousand Cuts Read online

  Hugo beamed when he saw Julia arrive. He was sitting at a round table hidden away in a shadowy corner. He looks pale, she thought, but that could be the light.

  “Exciting times eh?” Julia greeted him with a warm smile, without sitting.

  “Yeah, like driving a runaway car down Highgate Hill after the brakes have failed.” He pulled a clown's grimace. Then laughed.

  That's the old Hugo, she thought.

  “What can I get you?” She pointed to his glass. “Maybe half to top up?”

  He nodded. Julia went to the bar, and returned quickly with two glasses. The bar was rammed with traders taking stock of the days wins and losses, but she didn't have to wait long. In a world where time was money, businesses served fast.

  “What d’you make of it all?” Julia picked Hugo’s brains about the market turmoil, as she sat opposite him at the small round table. “Is this for real?”

  “Our crazy markets?” Hugo took a sip of his beer. “Me? I'm an optimist. Markets go up and markets go down. Nature of the beast. They've been rising a very long time. Price you pay for easy profits. But you know that, and it's not why you called.”

  “The body in Soho,” she got straight to the point.

  “Adam Lee? Yes, I saw that paragraph. Met him a few times.”

  “Huckleberry Finn,” Julia said surprised. She knew Hugo had worked in Hong Kong, which is why she asked to see him. She hadn’t expected to strike gold and outsmart Pitcher with her first call.

  “Rather, I did know him,” Hugo continued. “But not well. Strange character. Not my type. And First State...” he shook his fingers loosely, as though ridding himself of excrement.

  “Shady?” Julia filled in for him.

  “Rotten to the core. Open secret it was full of dodgy contracts and loans. Probably worse. No one reputable would deal with them.” Hugo spoke in short, minimalist sentences, the language of the trading floor.

  “How d’you know him?”

  “Worked together at Tylers. He left to go to Peak. Now that is interesting. Peak is run by an old-world type, Warwick Mantel. Top man at Hemmings, before it hit the rocks in the Asian crisis.”

  “Scottish firm, sold to Chase,” Julia filled in.

  “That's right. Built on opium through its partnership with Jardine Matthewson. For three hundred years pay master of the British Empire. Mantel left long before it ran aground.”

  “He should know his stuff.”

  “Indeed. So well, he realised smaller banks, like Peak, could be blown away by the tsunami of money coming out of China. World economy rutting like a runaway train, banks around the globe running out of cash. Interest rates rock bottom, margins wiped out. You know the story. Banks can't exist without a turn. So, he put a small team together to find him a margin.”

  “When was this?”

  “About a decade ago.”

  “And Lee was part of this team?”

  Hugo nodded. “I never saw how he fitted into Peak Bank's top wizard team. What did they call them? The Golden Boys. Reckon they saved Peak.”

  “And did they? Find a turn?”

  “Peak survived the Asian crisis, when banks all around were falling over. Continued to prosper. Not entirely sure how, but before long champagne corks were popping in all the major centres around the globe. It was boom, boom, boom time.”

  “Here in London, too?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Bank shares went through the roof.”

  “And bank bosses were more famous than Hollywood stars. Governments deferred to them. They earned more than the economies of some small countries.”

  “Who else was on the team? Golden Boys you say?”

  “They all had golden hair. Well, lightish brown. You may know some of them. Scofield Crisp. He's still with Peak I believe in Hong Kong. Patrick Silverman set up his own funds, just off Cheapside. Made a serious fortune. Bought a castle. Probably retired already. Laura Wan Sun, the only woman. Anglo-Asian. Gorgeous girl.”

  “So there was a woman, too?” Julia asked.

  “One of the boys. You know how things were in those days. Only she wasn't, didn't fit.”

  “Neither a boy nor golden-haired. What happened to her?”

  “Don't know,” Hugo paused for breath and to sip his pint. “Parents both doctors - mother had a missionary background. Stephen Chandler – ”

  “Chandler!” Julia froze.

  Hugo seemed not to notice and continued. “Lee was different. The others were all rocket scientists. He was more of a fixer. Local knowledge man. Knew where the bodies were buried.”

  “I didn't know Chandler and Lee were connected.”

  “I didn't say they were connected, only they worked together. That applies to most people in the Square Mile.”

  “True,” Julia conceded. Still one hell of a coincidence, she thought. “Tell me about Hong Kong. I've never been there.”

  “Seductive. Such a wonderful city. Worked for Tylers. Ten years.”

  “It's a huge financial centre, isn't it?”

  “Massive. Exploded with the Asian tiger. China is...what now? Second biggest economy in the world. First on some measures. Grew from nowhere. Wiped us away years ago.”

  “Hong Kong has always been a big banking and trading partner for the UK?”

  “I don't know about always. Certainly British banks date back to the 17th century. Most were heavily engaged in opium trading. Pushed the British Government hard to go to war when the Emperor tried to stop the damage it was causing.”

  “Opium dens, growing addiction?”

  “Exactly, though to be fair, opium wasn't illegal back then. They traded other stuff too – tea, silks. Funded by the City fathers here in London. Arrival of Japanese in World War Two put pay to all that temporarily, but most institutions got back on their feet pretty quickly.”

  “You liked working on the island?”

  “Loved it. The harbour is ...” he shook his head. “Magical, mesmerising, hypnotic, and much more. I don't have words to describe it.”

  Colour returned to his cheeks, as his thoughts shifted thousands of miles away.

  “Never homesick?”

  “Plenty of Brits doing a stint abroad. Local Chinese population's very anglicised.”

  “A civilised posting?”

  “Exactly, and exciting. Night markets, succulent street food, hustle and bustle. Utterly bewitching.”

  “You’re doing a brilliant job bringing it alive for me,” Julia laughed. “I must go. When all this...” she waved her hand vaguely in the air, “is over.”

  “Yes. And go soon.”

  “Before it changes? Or has it already changed?”

  “Since the handover?” Hugo referred to the end of British rule after 150 years. “Not so much when I was there, although...”

  “One nation two systems, isn't that how it's supposed to work? Hard call for the Chinese, I should have thought.”

  Hugo nodded. “It seemed plausible at the time given Hong Kong's genius for making money. Not just the money machines, but its huge port ships out China's massive manufacturing machine.”

  “I thought they were developing other ports in mainland China?”

  “Oh they are. So Hong Kong is exposed. Money will always be its most valuable commodity.”

  “If markets tank?” Julia couldn't resist.

  “Toast!” He blurted his brutal prophecy for the future of the island if the wheels of its money machines stopped whirring.

  “Journalists are having a hard time. Censorship. Sacked or worse. People disappear overnight.”

  “What sort of people?”

  “Sometimes, really important people. Top bosses of global companies.”

  “What?” Julia almost shrieked.

  “Oh it's OK.” Hugo reached across the table to reassure her. “These people usually turn up again.”

  “Do they always?” she asked softly.

  He shrugged.

  “What about the Golden Boys?�
� Julia leaned towards him, elbows on table.

  “Of that team, one is missing and one is dead.”

  She watched as he drained his glass and placed it gently down.

  “That's why I made the time to meet you,” his eyes were smiling kindly, despite a worried furrow of his brow.

  CHAPTER 11

  9am Friday July 30

  Southwark

  JULIA SCANNED the morning’s headlines. Serbian war criminal extradited to The Hague, US Presidential campaign plunges new depths, Chinese farmer dies from respiratory disease, no let up in the Pendle queues, savers baying for blood. Her eye lingered on the Obits page and the funeral of City luminary Jonathan Silverman; senior partner Manner & Pound, former Lord Mayor of London, Board of the London Stock Exchange. The main story and picture on the page depicted his son, Patrick Silverman, leading a procession of mourners.

  “Huckleberry Finn,” she muttered as Cody arrived, carrying two coffees. Her next move, after her chat with Hugo, was to hunt down each of the remaining “Golden Boys” to see what they could tell her about Lee and Chandler.

  “What’s with Huckleberry Finn?” Cody placed one of the cups on her desk.

  “Save the other “F” word for when it counts. I need to interview someone, and it will have to wait. Loved Mark Twain as a child. How d’you get on yesterday?”

  “Not sure,” he replied, wrestling off his jacket.

  “Try me, but be quick.”

  “Well,” he said, opening a bacon roll. “These accounts belong to the Whittingdale Trust. Tracked it down – easy. Massive London charity with tentacles stretching across the City and beyond. Looking good, if you like social history,” he made a face. “Not sure it helps unravelling these documents,” he waved his hand vaguely towards the wad of papers.

  “Something to do with City Hall?”

  “That's the thing – the Whittingdale Trust is an independent charity. Goes back hundreds of years to Shakespeare's day. It's as old as the oldest churches in the City.”

  “You mean the old City of London?”

  “That's right. There were hundreds of little churches. Many of the rich merchants who made fortunes in trade, shipping, insurance, left money to local churches when they died.”

  Cody bit into his roll, and chewed for a few seconds.

  “Explains why so many of them are still in such good nick,” Julia handed him a serviette as a trickle of butter oozed down his chin.

  “Thanks,” he nodded, wiping his chin. “Not exactly. It's easy to forget for many centuries the City of London was a normal city like any other. Full of fishmongers, bakers, ferrymen, merchants, cobblers, tailors. Before the welfare state when families fell on hard times...” he was fired up by the story.

  “There was only parish poor relief. Well done, Cody, hugely interesting,” she didn't have time for a long drawn out history lesson. “We'll finish this later. I’m sorry, I need to get on. Could you take a look at secret societies operating in London, particularly, any with Chinese connections.”

  “You mean Triads?” he raised his eyebrows. “I mean secret societies,” she repeated.

  “I'm on it,” Cody started tapping his keyboard.

  She turned back to the Silverman funeral, this time concentrating on the deceased's non-business roles. He advised a number of London charities. Her eye jumped to the bottom of the article. Widower for 30 years. Never remarried.

  She stared again at the grainy photograph of Patrick Silverman. Who are you? She pulled various biographies and articles onto her screen. He was a handsome devil, no denying. Most billionaires were short, fat, and bald with squidgy eyes, as though making money was the only way they could prove themselves. Silverman had a thick thatch of hair, kindly looking eyes, and a well-chiselled bone structure. Educated Winchester, Cambridge and Harvard. Aged 33, founder and Chairman of a firm called SAM, Silverman Asset Managers, with £150 billion funds under management. Without an interview with Silverman, how could she hope to find Chandler, or learn more about Adam Lee?

  “Adam Lee. First State,” she tapped his name into an internet search engine. First State had little on its website, other than the date of Lee's appointment as chief executive three years ago. Julia found a business magazine online, where Lee had posted a full biography himself. Studied at St Paul’s School, and Chinese University of Hong Kong – joined Tylers' office as a graduate trainee, before moving to Peak.

  “All interesting but this is getting me nowhere,” Julia mumbled, as Cody dropped a piece of paper on her desk.

  “My job application form,” he said. “I sorted it last night.”

  Julia looked up, glancing at the piece of paper disinterestedly. Her gaze snapped back, and she began snorting with laughter.

  “Rose Codrington,” she collapsed into giggles. “Rose. You can't be called Rose.”

  He wriggled uncomfortably.

  “I'm from Antigua, OK? Slaves took their names from their owners. The Codringtons were one of the founding families of the Leeward Islands, and one of their estates was called the Rose Plantation. Someone in my family must have liked that, because we have a Rose Codrington somewhere in each generation. I got lucky this time.”

  “No wonder you prefer Cody. So you were born on...”

  “At St Thomas’s.” Cody cut her short.

  “On Westminster Bridge Road? Have you ever lived on the island?”

  “Sadly not. Beautiful place. Visited plenty for holidays and to catch up with cousins.”

  “So?”

  “So what?”

  “So how did you come to be born here?”

  “Dad was a cricketer. Mum's a nurse, trained at the Antigua medical school. They visited London when he played at Lords. Fell in love with the place.” He raised his eyes to heaven. “Don't ask me why. Mum found it easy to find work as a nurse. They stayed. Dad went into coaching.”

  “And you all lived happily ever after,” Julia was still laughing, when the phone began to ring.

  “Not quite. They split up when I was eight. Dad went back to Antigua. Mum stayed, said the NHS needed her.”

  “Well she was...” still chuckling Julia reached for the call, but killed her snigger stone dead, when she heard the voice at the other end of the line.

  “Hello, my name is Patrick Silverman.”

  Patrick Silverman, she was stunned, momentarily lost for words.

  “Hello,” the voice repeated. “Is this a difficult time?” Still no reply. “Would you prefer if I call back later?”

  Oh no, no, no. The reporter found her voice. “Mr Silverman, how can I help you?”

  He moved straight to business. “I've been reading your columns on the current economic turmoil. Some good articles,” he began.

  “Thank you,” she offered gingerly, wondering where this was going.

  “Some absolute garbage too. Even so, you seem to be one of a tiny number of commentators ahead of the pack. Would you like to talk?”

  Julia swallowed hard for a few seconds, not sure whether she had just been insulted or congratulated. Either way this was the interview she craved, and pride would not stop her grabbing it.

  “I can be at your office whenever you like, in fact I can walk across now if it suits.” Strike while the iron's hot – always her motto.

  “I'm not in town. You’re welcome to come here.”

  “Where are you exactly?” she hesitated.

  “Cornwall. I'll get my secretary to email you details.”

  Of course, he retreated to the castle to nurse his grief. A vision of a long, cold train journey, without mobile signal or wifi loomed depressingly. With all that was going on, there was no way she could desert her desk. Not with competition like Matthew Hopkins breathing down her neck.

  How can you turn down an interview with Patrick Silverman? a little voice inside whispered.

  “I'll leave you to decide whether I’ll be worth the trouble,” he concluded the conversation. The line clicked dead.

  “Goodb
ye,” Julia mouthed, staring at the receiver. Almost immediately an email from his secretary pinged in.

  “What a joker,” she exploded to Cody. “He's offered me an interview, but I can't possibly accept.”

  “Why not?”

  “It's in Cornwall.”

  “He's not exactly a mad pirate wielding a blunderbuss.”

  “How can I? I have to be in London on Friday to partner Andrew Ludgate at the Chinese Embassy. I haven't begun to think about that and need to prepare.”

  “You could fly up and down the same day. There must be a service,” Cody started tapping his keyboard. “Or get the sleeper. That way you could go, say, Wednesday night, catch the next sleeper back and be at your desk Friday morning.”

  “I'd be throwing you in the deep end.”

  “You were thrown in at the deep end, weren't you? Isn't that the way in this job? Anyway, you’ll be travelling at night – you won't miss any working time.”

  She was torn between a compulsion to go, and her duty to stay at her desk to supervise Cody.

  Curiosity won the better of her. “OK, book the night train.”

  Travel details confirmed, she emailed Silverman's secretary, then turned to the Chinese economy. Couldn't show herself up in front of Andrew.

  As she read about growth rates, earnings, imports and exports, the conversation with Silverman played at the back of her mind.

  Why did he call? He doesn't know me. Is he honestly interested in my economic analysis? Or is he more intrigued by my story about the disappearance of his old sparring partner Stephen Chandler?

  CHAPTER 12

  Monday August 2 – early evening

  Soho

  CHIEF INSPECTOR PITCHER raised his eyes at the sight of the young PC dressed, not in uniform, but jeans and T-shirt, leaning against the bar of the Lyric, Great Windmill Street.

  “Under what false pretences have you dragged me back to Soho, Constable?” he growled.

  “You said to make inquiries. That's what I've been doing,” PC Day said with a smile. “I'm the man on the beat, remember?”