Free to Trade (24 page)

I wanted to ask him where Tommy was, but something told me not to. The salesmen who were sitting round Tommy's desk glanced at me furtively. I had the impression they were not looking at me, but rather at the chair I was sitting on. Tommy's chair.

I felt as though I were desecrating a grave, sitting there. I leapt out of the chair. I felt a bit foolish, standing around, being ignored by everyone on all sides. I wanted to tell them it was not my fault that Tommy had gone.

I knew what they were thinking. Tommy was unlucky. It could easily have been one of them. Tommy had gone from successful salesman to failure in five minutes. They couldn't be seen to be associated with that failure. They wanted nothing to do with it, at least in public anyway.

A man in grey overalls with a large blue crate walked up to me. 'Was this Mr Masterson's desk?' he asked.

I nodded. He carefully placed everything that looked personal into the crate. As he walked off, dragging the crate behind him, I saw he had left Tommy's jacket on the back of the chair. 'Hey!' I shouted, but he didn't hear. My English accent sounded out of place in that big American trading room, and several people turned to look, although not of course those sitting nearest me, who remained steadfastly ignorant of my presence.

At last, I was saved by the head of research who came along to whisk me away. I spent the rest of the afternoon with a number of analysts, talking about the pros and cons of various junk bonds. I found the subject interesting. Separating those companies that would succeed from those that would fail was a challenge that was as much an art as a science. I learned a lot from the Bloomfield Weiss analysts which I would be able to use later.

At about half past five I came to the end of my meetings. I went back into the trading room to say goodbye to Lloyd. He made no mention of Tommy, so I said, 'If you see Tommy, wish him luck from me.'

'Sure will,' said Lloyd, 'he's a great guy.'

I walked with him to the lift, trying not to let my anger show. Bloomfield Weiss seemed to breed very unpleasant characters: Cash Callaghan, Dick Waigel and Lloyd Harbin. I supposed that sometimes some people had to be sacked. But I doubted the genial and successful Tommy deserved to be one of those people. And he had not just been sacked. His memory and every trace of him had been expunged from Bloomfield Weiss before the afternoon was even over.

As I said goodbye to Lloyd, I again managed to disrupt his bonecrushing handshake which gave me a small shred of pleasure.

The lift was empty as I got in, and I heaved a huge sigh as the doors closed behind me. I had had enough of ruthless bastards for one day.

The lift fell one floor and stopped. The doors opened to let in the tall figure of Cathy. My heart sank. I didn't feel I had the strength for polite chat, much less an argument. Cathy didn't look too pleased to see me either. In fact she looked quite upset. Her cheeks were flushed, and her lower lip was trembling.

'Bad day?' I said.

'Bloody awful day,' she said.

'Nasty place, this.'

'Horrible place.'

'There are some real bastards working here.'

'Real bastards,' she said. She looked at me and gave me a small smile.

'Do you fancy a drink?' I asked on an impulse.

She hesitated. 'Oh, why not? Do you know anywhere round here?'

We went to Fraunces Tavern, an old red-brick building squatting amongst Broad Street's skyscrapers, with a warm, dark interior. We sat down and ordered two beers.

'What's up?' I asked.

Cathy winced. 'Let's just say there was a clash of personalities.'

'And you came off worse?'

Cathy sighed, and leaned back in her seat. 'I just had a big fight with Cash,' Cathy said. 'For all his nice-guy image that man can be very difficult to work for.'

'What did he do?'

'It was the usual thing. Cash was trying to stuff one of our clients. The trading desk in New York is long fifty million of a dodgy insurance company. There was some bad news about it in the
Wall Street Journal
in New York this morning, so the prices are being marked down and our traders can't give away the bonds.'

Her long slim fingers fiddled with the beer mat in front of her. 'Well, this is Cash's chance to look good with the bosses in New York. So he rings one of our clients in London with a cock-and-bull story about how the article is wrong and the insurance company is really doing much better than everybody thinks it is. They believe it, and are falling over themselves to buy the bonds. They'll find out their mistake soon enough, when they try and get a price for them.'

She sighed. 'It isn't even really his client. It's someone I have been trying to develop a relationship with for months. They were just beginning to trust me. After this, they won't want to talk to me again. Cash will look a hero, and I will lose a client.' She looked up at me. 'I shouldn't be telling you all this, should I? It's just sometimes I get so sick of the whole thing I could explode. And it's nice to talk to someone about it.'

'Don't worry,' I said. 'I had worked out Cash wasn't a hundred per cent trustworthy myself. Does this sort of thing happen a lot?'

'All the time,' she said. 'I hate lying. I'm not really much good at it. I'm sure the only way to develop relationships properly is by building up trust.' She looked up from her beer. 'We may have had our differences in the past, but I have always been honest with you, haven't I?' Her eyes looked for support and encouragement.

I thought about it. She was right. And she had been very straightforward with me in telling me about her run-in with Cash. I nodded. 'I can't think of a time when you haven't been straight.'

Cathy was pleased with my response. 'It's frustrating. I do my best to tell the truth to my customers and they don't deal with me. Cash lies through his teeth to them, and they do masses of business. It's like that with De Jong, isn't it?'

'I haven't really thought about it. I suppose it is,' I admitted.

She looked glumly down at her beer mat. 'But I shouldn't go on about my troubles all the time. What about you? You didn't look too happy yourself in the lift. Have you had a bad day too?'

I told her about the disappearing-salesman act I had witnessed, and about my lunch with the obnoxious Waigel.

'Oh, him. He's known as "the poisonous frog".'

I laughed. That did seem an apt description.

'There are a lot of people like Dick Waigel and Lloyd Harbin at Bloomfield Weiss,' she said. 'In fact they are actively encouraged. It's the same with most of the Wall Street firms. Competitiveness and aggression are extolled as virtues. Only the toughest will survive. It makes me sick.'

This seemed a bit rich. 'You don't always give that impression.'

She looked at me enquiringly. Then she sighed. 'Yes, you are right, I know I can be aggressive. I think that's why they gave me a job. And I play up to it. They like it, even if my customers don't. The problem is, I hate it.'

'Why do you do it, then?'

'I want to succeed, I suppose. I want to make a lot of money at Bloomfield Weiss.'

'Why?'

'Why? Isn't it obvious?'

'Not really.'

'Mm. No, I suppose you are right. It isn't obvious.' She paused to think. 'Both my parents are university lecturers, and they have always had great ambitions for me. My brother is the youngest director of one of the merchant banks in London. He got a scholarship to Oxford, so I had to get a scholarship to Oxford. Now I have to do well in the City. Silly, really, isn't it?'

I nodded. It was silly. But I had to admit it was a motivation that applied to lots of people toiling in banks and brokerage firms. And the frankness of her reply impressed me.

'Do you enjoy it?' I asked, trying to make my voice more friendly.

'Yes, in many ways I do,' she said. 'I like the excitement of the markets. I like dealing with people. And I think I am genuinely quite good at it. What I don't like is the lying, the posturing, the politics, the need to show that you are tougher than the next man.'

'Well, why don't you just give up the tough-guy image?' I asked.

'No,' she said. 'Bloomfield Weiss would eat me alive. You are just going to have to put up with it.' She laughed, not looking at all like the all-conquering corporate woman.

In fact, shorn of her cool self-assurance, she seemed like a normal, intelligent girl, with lovely eyes and an attractive smile. A few moments of silence passed, both of us trying out each other's company.

'Tell me about Rob,' I said.

She smiled. 'You tell me about Rob,' she said.

'No. I asked you first.'

'OK,' she said. 'He's a nice enough guy. Quite sweet really. We went out together a couple of times and had some fun. Then he suddenly got serious. Very serious. It was scary. He wanted to marry me and we hardly even knew each other. I felt bad because I thought I must have led him on without realising it, although thinking back, I can't see how I can have done.

'So, I thought the best thing to do was to try and avoid him. I didn't want him to persist with the wrong idea. But then he lured me to a restaurant, pretending to be a client of mine. I felt such a fool. I was furious. I haven't heard from him since then, thank God.' She paused. 'Is he always like this?'

'Quite often, I'm afraid,' I said. 'In your case he seems to have got it pretty bad. I don't think you have heard the last of him.'

'Oh dear,' she said. 'If there is anything you can say to him to put him off, please do. I have tried everything I can think of. He's a nice guy, but enough is enough.'

I thought about what Felicity had told me about Rob's phone calls to Debbie, about Claire feeling that there was something weird about him, and about what I had seen of him myself that night in the Gloucester Arms. 'Be careful,' I said.

Cathy raised her eyebrows at this, but I refused to explain further. We carried on talking for an hour or so, lingering over another beer. Cathy coaxed me to talk about my family, something I am usually reluctant to discuss with strangers. I told her about my father's death, about my mother's illness, and about how I had dashed my mother's hopes of my becoming a farmer. She was sympathetic. Much to my surprise, I didn't find her sympathy embarrassing, nor did it make me bitter as it sometimes did when given insincerely. It was comforting.

'Is Hamilton McKenzie the cold fish he seems?' she asked. 'He must be difficult to work for.'

'He isn't a very easy person to read,' I admitted. 'And he can be a bit of a taskmaster. He is very sparing with praise.'

'But you like him?'

'I wouldn't say exactly that. But I do admire him. He is so good at what he does, one of the best in the market. He is an excellent teacher. And he has this way of making me work hard for him, of bringing the best out of me. To tell you the truth, I would do anything for him.'

'It must be good to work for someone like that.'

'Yes, it is.'

'A bit like having a father?'

I squirmed in my chair. 'I hadn't thought about it that way. But I suppose you are right.'

Cathy reached across the table to touch my hand. 'I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that,' she said.

'No, no, that's OK. It's a relief to be able to talk to someone like this. Someone who understands. One of the worst things about losing a parent is that it imposes a sort of loneliness upon you. It is one of the most important things in your life, but you can't share it with anyone.'

Cathy smiled. We sat in silence for a few moments. Then she looked at her watch. 'Is that the time? I must be off. Thanks for the drink. I feel much better now.' She got up to leave.

I found myself reluctant to let her go. 'So do I,' I said. Much better.

We parted, each of us heading towards our separate subway stops.

CHAPTER 12

First thing the next morning, I cancelled my meetings for the day. Something had come up I said. I wanted to spend my day in New York following up on what I had heard the day before.

Two questions intrigued me. First, what had happened to Shoffman, and second, could I find out anything more about how Waigel had put the Tremont Capital deal together?

I tried to deal with the first one first. I rang information to find out the number of the nearest police station to Bloomfield Weiss. I suspected that would be where his disappearance would have been reported by the firm. I dialled the number from my hotel room.

I was transferred a couple of times until I ended up with a friendly woman who told me that the disappearance had been reported to that station, but that the inquiry had been taken up by another precinct, on West 110th Street, which was near where Shoffman had lived. I thanked her, left my hotel room, and took a taxi up to the Upper West Side.

Fortunately, the police station was fairly quiet. Even more fortunately, the desk sergeant turned out to be one of that rare breed of ardent anglophiles that are scattered throughout America.

'Hey, are you English?' he asked in response to my greeting.

'Yes, I am,' I said.

'Welcome to New York. How do you like it here?'

'Oh, I think it's a fine city. I always enjoy coming here.'

'So you're from England, huh? My mother was from England. A GI bride, she was. Where are you from in England?'

'London.'

'Oh yeah? So was my mother. Maybe you know her family. Name of Robinson.'

'I'm afraid there are quite a few Robinsons in London,' I said.

'Yes, I'm sure there are. I went over there to visit them a couple of years ago. I had a great time. Anyway, how can I help you?'

The policeman standing next to him was big and beefy, and his name tag had Murphy written on it. His scowl deepened as he listened to this conversation.

'Yes, I am trying to find something out about an old university friend of mine, Greg Shoffman. He was reported missing at this station four months ago, and I would like to try and find out what happened to him.'

'Sure. Wait a moment and I will see if I can find his file.'

I waited for about five minutes, and then the policeman returned, a very thin file in his hands.