The Crash, page 12
‘How far advanced are you in your preparations?’
‘We’ve done a lot of work. And it’s not just about the finances. It’s also vital that we’re seen to be going with the grain of what local people want. You know that Meathead has thrown his weight behind us?’
Meathead is a Geordie rock legend, and international campaigner for peace in the Middle East. His recent Concert for Palestine raised millions of pounds to improve the supply of potable water in Gaza. Having him as the figurehead of the takeover will increase the popular pressure on the authorities to allow it.
‘And of course, you have our former prime minister Johnny Todd on the board. Is he very involved here?’ I nod at the photos of Todd, to Jackson’s left. I am praying they are in shot, and cursing myself for not checking before I sat down.
‘He’s a great source of advice,’ Jackson enthuses. ‘We’re lucky to have him.’
‘And does he share your view that it would be better for NewGate customers and the wider economy for MHH to take over the bank, rather than see it nationalised?’
‘Johnny agrees with me that nationalisation would be a huge mistake.’
I look at my notes and see a scribble: ask about the Russian complaining of losses.
‘Is that because you are sitting on huge losses on NewGate shares, and buying the whole bank is the only way of getting the money back?’
At this point, his habitual smiling pose vanishes. His lips scrunch up, as though slapped. ‘I can’t imagine why you would ask that. We have no shares in NewGate.’
‘But you were negotiating to buy NewGate before the run on the bank, before its financial difficulties became acute. You were the potential white knight.’
He shuffles his left leg. This is not what he wanted to be asked. This is not what Elliott told him he would be asked. I am prepared for Elliott’s bollocking.
The lilting easy charm has vanished. He says coldly, ‘NewGate needed a stable owner. We were happy to be that owner. We still are.’
‘It’s a bit of a pain for you that you couldn’t do the deal back then. Since the run, the Bank of England has injected more than twenty billion into NewGate. Who is going to lend you that kind of money to replace all the Bank of England’s support?’
He shakes his head. ‘Obviously we’re going to need Bank of England funds until markets recover. But the government’s best chance of getting all its money back is to sell to us.’
I can see Jackson looking hard at Emma, hoping somehow he can signal he is desperate for the interview to end. He’d probably tear off his mic and walk away, if he didn’t know how bad that would make him look, how much we’d love that. I assume he regrets that Alex is not here to protect him. It’s time I asked the one question that matters to me.
‘The Bank of England’s director of financial stability, who tragically died recently, she was backing your takeover, wasn’t she? How did you persuade her it was a good idea?’
Jackson realises petulance would be the wrong look. He becomes grave. ‘I was shocked and saddened to hear of Marilyn Krol’s death,’ he says. ‘As it happens, I wasn’t aware she was in favour of our offer. But if she was, that would be because she grasped the national interest.’
Do I imagine it, or is there the faintest trace of a smirk on his face? I’m going to study that back in the edit suite later. I glance at my notes, to check there’s nothing else vital. There isn’t.
‘We’ll see what the government thinks about that,’ I say. ‘Thank you for talking to us, Mr Jackson.’
And that’s it. I unclip my mic, stand up and walk towards Jackson. Petra is gently pulling his mic out, careful not to snag the cashmere. Jackson fixes me with his blue eyes.
‘God, you’re a pain, Gil,’ he says. ‘I thought you agreed we’d talk about our future plans, not our earlier offer.’
‘But the two are the same, aren’t they?’ I bullshit. ‘And surely it’s important for people to know just how serious and committed you are.’
‘Don’t kid a kidder, my friend.’
I smile.
He relaxes. ‘Just awful about Marilyn. Really shocking.’
‘Did you know her?’ I wasn’t aware he did, other than in a distant professional sense.
‘We met a few times, over the years.’
He’s not telling me something. But he doesn’t leave me time or space to probe. As he guides me into an adjacent meeting room, the charm is replaced by focused interrogation: ‘You blew up our deal. Who set you up? Who leaked to you?’
‘Oh come on, Harvey. You know I can’t talk to you about any of that.’
‘Did you know you were blowing us up? Were you in on it?’
‘Good grief. Of course not.’ My ego has got the better of me. I shouldn’t respond at all, but my entire professional identity is as an impartial journalist. ‘It was a story. A bloody good story. That’s all.’
‘Then you were used, my friend. And that should bother you.’ The seduction has gone. There’s an uncomfortable edge to his voice, perhaps an implied threat.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Someone wanted NewGate’s share price forced lower. To make a killing. And when you told the world it needed a bailout, that’s what you achieved. You’ve been manipulated.’ His hands have become balled fists. ‘You went on TV to tell the world NewGate had run out of money. Its customers then went to their computers to check their accounts. But they couldn’t. The website had been sabotaged. No one could log on. They panicked and headed straight to the branches. Hey presto, you triggered the first bank run of modern times, and in the process you fucked me up.’
I process. ‘You are saying there was a conspiracy to break the bank?’
‘That’s exactly what I am saying. It was genius. Whoever shorted the shares has made a fortune.’
He doesn’t attempt to disguise his admiration for the short seller who frustrated him. His contempt is for me. ‘It’s not brilliant for your brand to be turned over like that. You were done up like a kipper, my friend. And I reckon you already know who played you.’
I want to protest, but I know he’s on the money. The customers in the queue told me they became anxious after the website crashed. I sowed the initial uneasiness with my scoop. I’d been assuming it was a terrible coincidence that the website couldn’t cope when NewGate customers tried to log in. But what if the servers were hacked, taken down?
Marilyn’s warning that this is all much bigger than I thought is in my head again. Did she know who was pulling the strings?
‘So who wanted to blow up NewGate?’ I ask.
He looks at the ceiling. ‘You know the answer.’
Maybe. Journalists like me obsessed with getting scoops are susceptible to manipulation but I pride myself it never happens to me. I need to get out of here, and I have to go back to my source, Robin Muller. What was his game? Who was he acting for?
I have a suspicion my former partner in small-time dope dealing at Oxford has flogged me dodgy gear.
Chapter 10
I
F YOU WANT TO KNOW which boss is trying to get his millions of share options into the money by flogging his lacklustre company to private equity, have a meal in the Wolseley, on Piccadilly. It’s the works canteen of Le Tout Money: hedge funders being schmoozed by bankers being schmoozed by MPs being schmoozed by newspaper editors being schmoozed by PRs. No one goes there for a discreet rendezvous. It’s a place to see and be seen.
It’s London’s take on a Parisian brasserie, art deco and cavernous, built in the 1920s to show off sleek Wolseley sedan cars. I’ve got my normal table, middle left as you look from the entrance, in the central area reserved for what Bruno the restaurant manager marks in his book as PWK, or People We Know. It’s the best place to spy PWM, or People Who Matter. Lucian Freud is at his regular table, a pewter mug of cold Atlantic prawns in front of him. While I’m waiting for Jess to arrive, Kate Moss is escorted by Bruno to her seat next to him. The Wolseley is the best show in town. I can’t help but gawp at the tableau of the artist and the model. The owners Chris and Jeremy walk the floor, assiduously checking we’re all being properly looked after. Everywhere I scan, deals are being finessed, secrets traded.
Unusually, I’m on time. Jess isn’t. While I wait, I look at the BlackBerry, and note that I missed a call from Mum. I must ring her later. See how she’s getting on. I text Lord Ravel. Do you have two mins for a quick chat?
He rings instantly. ‘How can I help?’
‘It’s been suggested to me the collapse of NewGate’s servers, the night before the run, was more than just the sheer weight of too many of its customers trying to get online at the same time. I’ve been told they were sabotaged. Do you have a sense of whether that’s true?’
A pregnant pause. Theatre? I still don’t know whether Ravel knows as much as he implies. ‘Who is your source?’
‘Someone close to NewGate. I can’t say more.’
‘But not someone at NewGate?’
‘Does that mean you think it’s not true?’
He goes silent again. I think I can hear him scratching his face. ‘I can’t give you a definitive answer,’ he says. ‘There may be something in it. Leave it with me.’
‘Thank you.’
‘We should find a date to meet and talk properly.’
‘I’d be delighted. When would suit?’
‘I am not sure you are going to approve, but I am on the board of a North London football club, not the one you hold in highest affection.’
On Radio 4’s Saturday Live, I’ve talked about my tribal and familial obsession with Tottenham Hotspur: Spurs till I die. He’s talking about the other club, the hated Gunners.
‘Why don’t you come to the Emirates for the North London derby? Directors’ box. Surprisingly decent food these days. But I’m afraid you’ll have to wear a jacket and tie: we’re old-fashioned like that. Her Majesty’s football club, as you know. I’ll get the details to you.’
Oh no. How will I explain to Dad that I’m going into the enemy’s bunker? I’ll say it’s for work, but he’ll see it as a compromise too far.
I try to keep the anxiety out of my voice. ‘That’s a date.’
I hang up, and see Jess manoeuvring around black-uniformed waiters. She looks flustered, a bit red in the face, hair in need of a brush. Very unlike her.
‘Sorry I’m late. I had to go to Amy’s school. There’s been a bit of a thing with her. The head called me in.’
‘Oh no. What happened?’
She keeps talking as she bends down to kiss me on the cheek in a maternal way and sits down. ‘It was during assembly. Some of the children were asked to go to the front and tell an interesting fact about their parents. When it was Amy’s turn, she told the whole school that her dad is – and apparently these were her precise words – “a world-class cunt who never rings and never helps Mummy”.’
I burst out laughing. ‘Oh my God.’
Jess looks around for a waiter. ‘I’m desperate for a drink but I’m going to have a coffee.’
‘How did the school react?’
‘The head has experience of the world, thank God. She was understanding. I told her it was all my fault, that Amy was repeating what she’d heard from me. Obviously I’ve promised to be more careful about what I say in front of her.’
I see a mother’s anxiety in her eyes. ‘I get this is difficult. For what it’s worth, you are obviously a brilliant mum. I have no idea how you keep the show on the road.’
‘I’m not. There’s a pattern developing with Amy. A worrying one. There was another incident, last week. One of her friends was being bullied by a boy. Amy doled out what she insists is justice. She pushed him up against a wall in the playground and told him if he did it again he would know the meaning of the word “pain”.’
‘OK. I think we can see what’s happening. She’s taking after her mother.’
‘It’s not doing her any favours. The boy ran away in floods of tears and his parents have made a formal complaint.’
‘Bloody hell. Will she be OK? Is she being punished?’
‘The head is on Amy’s side. But they can’t condone or turn a blind eye to threats of physical violence. If she does anything like that again she’ll be suspended for a couple of days.’
‘I’m so sorry. Please give Amy my love.’
‘She’ll like that. When are you coming over to hang out?’
‘As soon as I’m invited.’
Robert, a waiter I’ve known for fifteen years at assorted fashionable London restaurants, arrives to take our order. I’m having the marinated herring, with horseradish, the Wolseley’s version of Jewish schmaltz herring; and then a Niçoise salad with fresh tuna. Jess is less fastidious than me about what and how much she eats. I don’t know whether it’s her metabolism or her relentless nerve-fuelled activity, but she seems to be able to consume anything and everything. She has a prawn cocktail – which is a Wolseley retro classic – and the Wiener Holstein, a huge piece of breaded and sautéed veal, topped with a fried egg and anchovies.
‘Still or sparkling?’ asks Robert, though he knows it’s always sparkling.
‘And can I have a black Americano, now if possible?’ says Jess.
As soon as he’s gone, Jess runs her hands through her hair and asks me if she looks a frightful mess. ‘Not at all,’ I fib.
‘You’re a rubbish liar, always were,’ she says. ‘How are you doing?’
My hands are on the table and she reaches out with her right and squeezes my left. Just for a few seconds. I look down, then back up at her and blurt: ‘A package arrived. From Marilyn. She sent it before she died. You were right all along. I was wrong. She killed herself.’
My black rucksack is under my chair. I pull it out, unzip it and hand the Márquez paperback to Jess. She reads the inscription at the front.
‘I’m so sorry. I can only imagine how you feel.’
Oh God, I’m about to cry.
I gulp and keep talking. ‘There’s something else.’ I remove the photograph and Post-it notes from the back of the book. I am careful to make sure no one but Jess can see the photo as I pass it to her.
‘Heavens,’ is all she can manage. She’s too embarrassed to talk for what feels like an age, and I don’t know what to say.
‘Did you take this picture?’ she eventually asks.
‘No. That’s part of why it’s upsetting. She was with somebody else. I’ve no idea who.’
‘So why did she send it to you? It feels cruel, needlessly cruel.’
I shut my eyes and try to think. This is hard.
‘There were two Post-it notes with the photo,’ I say. ‘One was old, written in block capitals. All it said was “DON’T FORGET YOUR FRIENDS”. The other was from her to me.’ I show it to Jess.
‘“Find me, Gil”,’ she reads. ‘Marilyn wants you to find her?’
‘So it would appear.’
She looks carefully at the photo, and squeezes her lips together. ‘She looks totally off her head, almost unconscious. Any idea at all who took this?’
I shake my head.
Jess reaches across and squeezes my hand for the second time. ‘You should have rung me, you idiot.’
I nod meekly.
‘Even though I never liked her,’ she says, ‘I am sure she cared about you. She wasn’t trying to hurt you. My hunch is she’s asking you to be her knight in shining armour.’
‘Really?’ I am definitely going to burst into tears. I fight it.
‘Somebody did something really bad to her, and she wants you to stand up for her.’
I wince. It sort of makes sense. But not completely.
‘Why not give me a name? Why involve me in a guessing game?’
‘I am not sure. But she was distraught enough to kill herself. Which means, in my book, she wasn’t thinking straight. Or maybe she thought you’d be able to work out who was behind the camera from what’s in the picture.’
‘Well I can’t.’
Up to now, Jess has resisted handling the photo, as though it’s toxic. Now she picks it up and studies it, holding it gingerly at the very edge, between finger and thumb.
‘She was with someone ostentatiously wealthy,’ she remarks. And then I see in her face that eureka moment I’ve seen so many times, when she’s made a breakthrough in a story. ‘Marilyn has told you who it is. See behind the sofa. The red and brown. That’s a Rothko. Won’t be hard to find a dealer or expert who knows the owner. Within the art world someone will know who it belongs to.’
I hadn’t properly grasped the significance of the fuzzy rectangles of intense colour behind the sofa. I was too mesmerised by Marilyn. ‘It could be a repro.’
‘Possible, but nah. Your ex-girlfriend didn’t write down the name, because she thought you would know him the moment you saw this.’
I am sceptical, but say nothing.
‘And another thing,’ Jess continues. ‘That note, “Don’t forget your friends”. Surely you’ve thought about that?’
Now I feel embarrassed. I’ve been so focused on my own misery that I dismissed it as a random piece of paper, maybe a bookmark.
‘The photographer wrote that,’ Jess says. ‘I’m almost certain of that. It’s really nasty. Reads like a threat.’
‘Blackmail?’
‘Don’t you think?’
‘But it’s sloppy. If he can be identified by the painting . . .’
‘Except that he assumed she would never show it to anyone. He wouldn’t expect his victim to commit suicide and send the evidence to her lover.’
Jess hands the photo back to me just as the waiter arrives with the starters and Jess’s coffee. I eschew the rye bread and concentrate on the clove-infused herrings. Jess ignores hers completely.
‘I didn’t know Marilyn well,’ she says. ‘Actually, I think she had a problem with women, she definitely preferred men.’
