The Crash, page 19
‘Maybe not. So what’s it about for you, if not the money?’
That’s not an easy question. Munis has always liked discomfiting me.
‘That’s hard to answer without seeming like a prat.’
‘We’re friends. We’ve known each other for years.’
Are we friends? Yes, I’ve known Munis since university. But you’re supposed to trust your friends, aren’t you, and I’ve never trusted him. Happily, he’s riffing and doesn’t wait for me to respond.
‘There’s no need for you to say,’ he says. ‘I know the answer. You’re addicted to power. You and I are the same. In fact you probably have more power than most members of the government. The difference is no one holds you to account. You can do what you like, with impunity.’
My hand moves to take a wedge of warm baguette, and then I think better of it.
‘That’s bollocks, Patrick. Journalists like me have influence. Of course we do. But that’s not the same thing as the power to raise taxes, or criminalise anti-social behaviour or go to war. My job is to give people the information they need to live their lives and also to decide whether to elect you lot or the other lot. We might have an impact on who has the power and what they do with it. But in the end the buck doesn’t stop with us.’
‘As I said, you have power without responsibility. It’s a drug. You are high on the noise you make. That’s why you don’t care about making proper money.’
He beams and swallows another twenty pounds’ worth of Burgundy. I hope to God this isn’t a two-bottle lunch.
‘Do you?’ I ask.
‘Do I what?’
‘Care about making proper money?’
He stuffs a wodge of bread in his gob and chews. ‘I didn’t used to. But so many of our friends, who went into the City, they’re now so wealthy. They live in a different world.’
‘So do you regret becoming an MP?’
‘I wouldn’t put it as strongly as that. But when I look at Chris Ravel, who has so much money, and at the incredible power that goes with being so rich, I do wonder whether I made a mistake.’
Ravel. Again.
‘Surely the power you care about is meaningless to Chris. He can live anywhere in the world he chooses, so what happens in any particular country, such as the UK, is irrelevant to him. Surely all he cares about is making sure his assets are registered in a tax haven.’
‘I think that’s to misunderstand Chris. He’s always had a purpose. The money is the means to an end.’
The starters have arrived; Munis takes a large mouthful of crab meat but keeps talking. ‘Billionaires like him think they know everything. They like to tell us what to do – and we indulge them, because we’re seduced by the proximity to all that wealth. We go to Chris’s dinners, to his parties, we give him the opportunity to bend the ear of prime ministers and chancellors. People equate his unconscionable amount of money with wisdom. A billion pounds shouldn’t give added weight to someone’s views, but it does.’
That is true. Both parties, Tory and Labour, pursue the billionaires for funding. And in return the billionaires assume they’ve bought the MPs.
‘Aren’t you overglamorising Chris?’
‘I’ve known him forever. He is terrifyingly clever, usually several steps ahead of the rest of us. Did you know I was his best man?’
I shake my head. ‘Obviously I came across him a bit at university, but we were never in the same circle. I didn’t even know he was married. No sign of his wife at parties and whatnot.’
‘Divorced years ago. Poor Mags lives in a mansion in Hampstead with two young children. Tennis courts, indoor swimming pool, private cinema. Round-the-clock nannies.’
It’s my turn to embarrass Patrick. ‘I’d forgotten you and he were so close. So were you also a Stalinist tankie at Oxford?’
Munis reddens. ‘Erm. It was a long time ago. Maybe for a term. Chris was seductive. You remember how confusing and exciting it all was in that first year. A rite of passage, you might say. I quickly learned the error of my ways and joined OUCA.’
OUCA is the Oxford University Conservative Association, the training ground for members of the Tory front bench. As for Munis’s flirtation with the Communist Party of Great Britain, that’s a wonderful scrap to throw to Justin, the BBC’s political editor, a peace offering.
‘Isn’t it wonderful how Chris is still trying to overturn capitalism,’ I say. ‘Rumour has it he’s behind the collapse in PTBG’s share price.’
Munis shakes his head emphatically. ‘It’s never that simple with Chris.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Sure he’s making a fortune betting against the banks. But my hunch is that any minute, when the price is low enough, he’ll do a reverse ferret and buy one.’
This feels important. I’m glad I dodged the Montrachet and kept a clear head. ‘Which one?’ Munis pulls a ‘search me’ grimace.
‘Maybe the City rumour is upside down?’ I hazard. ‘Could he be after PTBG?’
‘It’s possible,’ Munis replies. ‘He thinks that idiot Blackwell has overextended the bank. But its retail operation in the UK is a licence to print money. Come to think of it, I reckon when the shares are cheap enough, he’ll buy them all. He’s going to end up owning it.’
‘That’s quite a prediction.’
Munis gives me a look that says he knows more than he’s admitting.
‘If I wasn’t an MP, I would track PTBG’s shares and buy them on the turn. I’d literally fill my boots.’
‘I don’t think your constituents would understand.’
The waiter arrives with the main courses. Munis asks for another glass of white – not another bottle, thank God. For a few moments, we eat in silence, savouring. My turbot has the elasticity of fish that was in the ocean only hours earlier. I experience almost sexual pleasure.
‘I loved your interview with Tudor,’ Munis says. ‘Especially the moment when you asked him if he would nationalise NewGate. I was staggered he hadn’t prepared something less revealing to say. Such an obvious question.’
‘It was odd. They ought to nationalise NewGate, don’t you think? It’s the way to reassure savers and the markets, but Tudor’s terrified of being accused of reverting to pre-Todd socialism.’
Munis laughs. ‘Well that’s exactly what we’d accuse him of, if he did it. Reverting to Labour’s wealth-destroying, public-ownership habits.’
‘And if you were in government?’
‘We’d nationalise.’ No hesitation. ‘Our internal polling shows it would be a vote-winner, though you’ll never hear me admit it.’
‘You are such hypocrites.’
‘Thank you kindly.’
‘Don’t you think that kind of game-playing is destroying voters’ respect for all politicians?’ I stress ‘all’.
‘That horse has bolted, I’m afraid. Principle died when Margaret Thatcher was kicked out. Now it’s all about what the focus groups tell us they love and hate. As you know. So back to your marvellous interview: do you think Tudor will call the election soon?’
‘He should. According to the focus groups you worship, he’s enjoying quite a honeymoon. Labour is ahead in the polls.’
‘You don’t think he’ll wait until he’s had more time in Downing Street?’
I’ve asked myself the same question. ‘This turmoil in the markets is going to get worse. We’re heading for a recession, and he can’t go to the country during a recession. So he needs to have an election soon.’
‘A recession? Really?’ Munis looks sceptical. ‘None of the reputable forecasters are calling it. Why are you so gloomy?’
‘Pretty much every mainstream forecasting model has a structural flaw. They are built on an assumption that banks always finance economic activity in a steady and predictable way. They’ve got no way of incorporating the impact of a credit crunch, of the sort of financial crisis that we’re living through. Banks’ access to wholesale markets is impaired. And when banks can’t borrow, they can’t lend. And when banks can’t lend, the economy grinds to a juddering halt. If you’ve been around financial markets as long as I have, it’s blindingly obvious. Most professional economists are making the error of ignoring the evidence of their eyes. Tudor, as the longest-serving chancellor in more than a hundred years, also understands how serious it all is.’
Munis puts down his knife and fork. ‘If you’re right, and you usually are, then we’ve got to stop Tudor. We need the election to come after the economic shit hits the fan. Voters must feel poorer and angry so that we can blame it all on Labour and Tudor. It’s vital for us that there is maximum mayhem in markets and the economy before we go to the polls.’
Even by his standards, this cynical calculation is quite something.
‘Please stop saying “we”,’ I say.
‘Whether you like it or not, you and Chris Ravel are doing us a big favour.’
I stare at the detritus of beans and white fish on my plate. I hate the turn this conversation is taking.
‘You and Chris are the Horsemen of the Apocalypse,’ he chuckles. ‘With his short selling and your reporting, you are destroying confidence in banks and the banking system. The more chaos you cause, the weaker the banks become and the less money they’ll pump into the economy. Which means everyone is getting poorer, as you’ve been pointing out so astutely. And we’re going to make sure voters know the real villain is Neville Tudor. You and Chris are ushering in the first Tory government for more than a decade.’
Just fuck off.
I have to pop his bubble. ‘The election will happen when Tudor wants it. He has the power, not you.’
I excuse myself and go for a wee. When I am stressed, I drink even more coffee and water than normal. One price of ADHD is too many trips to the loo. When I get back, Munis is on the phone, concentrating too hard to notice me.
‘Obviously we can’t let the election happen now,’ he snaps. ‘For God’s sake, Jimmy, it’s time to bring out the dogs.’
He glances up, catches sight of me and hurriedly says, ‘Thanks, my friend. See you soon.’
I sit down, and take a guess at who he was speaking to. ‘I’d forgotten how close you are to Breitner.’ Jimmy Breitner is the owner of Media Corp, one of the world’s most powerful media empires that includes a clutch of influential UK newspapers.
Munis is hunting in the sole’s elegant skeleton for just a touch more of the delicate flesh. ‘Different Jimmy.’
I snort. I don’t believe him. Banks are failing, the economy’s on a precipice, and for people like Munis and Ravel, the only question is how they can exploit other people’s misery.
*
As I speed-walk from Scott’s to Bond Street underground station, I rehearse in my head how I’ll explain a lunch bill just shy of three hundred pounds. I can’t pass it off as a goodwill gesture to woo the Tories, since I have a dispensation from the BBC that means I don’t have to disclose the identity of those I entertain, to protect my sources. The only thing she’ll see is the bald number. I brace myself for Janice’s censorious email.
When I get to TVC, I run to tech support, to pick up the Nokia. It’s shit, but better than nothing. I suppose. My next priority is to log on to my PC and email the temporary number to contacts. Almost immediately after sending, the Nokia plays its annoying signature tune. It’s Dad.
‘Everything all right?’ is my neurotic question. The lesson of history is Dad rings when there’s a crisis.
‘Yes. In fact, that’s what I was ringing to say. The doctors believe Mum’s illness may be in remission.’ He still can’t bring himself to say cancer.
‘I’m so relieved. I bet you are too.’
He brushes off the question. Dad would never talk about his feelings. ‘What’s your news, son?’
‘Keeping busy.’
He chuckles. ‘I’ve seen all the criticism you’ve faced for your story about that bank. Ignore it. Mum and I think you are doing an important job. A great job.’
I smile. This is unusual. Dad almost never remarks upon my work in any way. And praise is almost unheard of. Mum insists he’s proud of me, but I’ve never heard him say it. Till now.
‘I hope the government isn’t making things difficult for you. They should be grateful you are finding out what’s going on.’
‘I am not sure they are, to be honest. But that’s OK.’
Despite the good news about Mum, I hear weariness in his voice. I should ask if he’s all right, but he wouldn’t tell me the truth, so I broach another difficult subject.
‘Guess what? On Saturday I’ll be in the directors’ box at the Arsenal. For the North London derby.’
‘That’s going to be tricky. What will you do when we score?’ By we, he means Spurs, the erratic North London team he bequeathed me as the nearest thing we have to practising religion.
‘I don’t think I’m allowed to shout or cheer in the directors’ box. It’s an etiquette thing. But Dad, quite honestly, Spurs’ chances of winning are slim.’
‘Never lose hope, son.’ He goes quiet, and I guess he’s scratching his right temple, which he always does when stressed. ‘Gilbert, you’re not going over to the enemy, are you?’
Gilbert? He only uses my full name when worried.
‘No, Dad. It’s business.’
‘Glad to hear it. No Peck has ever been a Gooner. Will you come and see us soon? It’s been a while.’
‘I promise. We can celebrate Mum’s good news.’
I hang up and hunt for Janice. I need to brief her on the furore at the bankers’ convention, in case it’s written up in a newspaper. She’s not in her office, but her PA tells me she’s downstairs talking to the Ten O’Clock News team.
When I get there, Janice is deep in conversation with the programme editor and Emma. Janice waves me over.
‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you.’ She is tense. Has she got wind of the cost of lunch? How?
‘Lost my phones. I was mugged at lunchtime.’
‘What a pain. Are you OK?’
‘A bit bruised.’
She steers me and Emma to the Ten’s small meeting room. Is she going to bollock me for losing BBC property?
‘Emma tells me Robin Muller was an old friend of yours.’
‘Er . . . yes.’ What does she mean, ‘he was a friend’? Do they know he leaked the NewGate story to me?
Janice looks at Emma. Emma’s mouth tightens; she takes a step towards me and puts her hand on my arm. ‘When was the last time you looked at your phone?’
‘About eleven o’clock.’ Just before I went on stage with Stan Blackwell.
‘You haven’t heard, then?’
She’s still clutching my arm. ‘What’s happened? What have I missed?’
Janice looks at Emma, and then at me. ‘Robin Muller is dead.’
Chapter 16
H
IGHGATE MEN’S BATHING POND is a rectangular, artificial pond, on the eastern edge of Hampstead Heath, below the summit of Parliament Hill. It was dug in the eighteenth century as a reservoir for London’s water supply. The water came from a tributary of the River Fleet, the same river which gave its name to Fleet Street – which is now populated by overpaid bankers, replacements for alcohol-abusing journalists. The subterranean river has become a sewer. What goes around, comes around.
The pond is in a hollow surrounded by sloping grass banks, trees and reeds. In summer, the lawns are filled with dog walkers and picnickers, while pink-fleshed men queue along the pontoon dock for the diving board. On a cold October afternoon, twilight, the pond is closed. There is police tape by the entrance.
I am on the edge of the water with Kim Jansen. ‘We got a call at just after seven this morning, from one of the other bathers,’ she says. ‘Muller was struggling to breathe. Two swimmers dragged him to the bank, and rang for an ambulance. He was dead before the paramedics arrived.’
I stare at the still water, which is a gunmetal grey as dusk gathers. I’d known Muller more than half my life. Although it was always a relationship based on trade – first dope, then information – I might have called him a friend. If I called anyone a friend.
‘What happened?’
She shrugs. ‘I’m waiting for the coroner’s report, but it looks like a heart attack. His wife Meghan says he’d been swimming here for years, but maybe there was something wrong that never got picked up.’
‘That would be odd,’ I say. ‘Bankers like him have medical check-ups all the time. If he was prone to a cardiac arrest, he would have been told.’
‘Well, let’s wait for the report.’
‘I saw him recently. He was behaving oddly.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘He was anxious, almost as if in danger.’
Kim starts to laugh and then thinks better of it. ‘He was a banker. They’re all worried these days, aren’t they?’
‘Not like that. Something, someone, was scaring him.’
She sighs, perhaps anticipating another of my conspiracy theories. ‘Seriously, Gil, this doesn’t look suspicious,’ she says. ‘I came here as a favour, and because he was my friend at Oxford too. But it’s open-and-shut.’
Kim is right about one thing. I do miss him. Even if he was the most self-serving person I’d ever known.
‘It’s hard for you,’ she says. ‘First Marilyn, now Robin.’
I wilfully misunderstand. ‘As you say, it must be more than coincidence they’ve died, so close together.’
‘That’s not what I’m saying. How can a heart attack be connected to a suicide?’
A Canada goose honks and lands in the middle of the pond. Yeah, she’s talking shit, I agree.
‘As for Marilyn, I followed up your question, Gil. No joy.’ I’ve no idea what she’s talking about. ‘The diaries. The team didn’t find them. Are you sure she kept them?’
‘Maybe I misremembered.’ This is not the moment to admit I’ve removed evidence from a crime scene. ‘Thanks for coming here, Kim. Much appreciated.’
*
Muller’s death is a short item on the local news, but isn’t big enough for national bulletins. I am speaking to Jess from my office. She says it will be a nib on the front page of the Financial Chronicle. He was a big fish in the City.
