The Crash, page 22
‘They’d think I was doing my job.’ I’m losing patience. I need to put out the imminent nationalisation of NewGate in my Peckonomics blog. Government to buy NewGate. A Peck scoop will lead the Ten O’Clock News. Again.
‘Can we talk about it later?’
Jess can tell my focus is not on her. ‘You’re really not bothered, are you?’
‘I respect what you say.’
‘Bog off. You just want to get the story out.’
I raise my eyebrows, but don’t deny it.
‘I’m glad I was able to patch you up.’
‘Jess, I’m sorry.’ She knows I don’t really mean it.
‘I’ve got to go. Amy needs collecting from a birthday party.’ She picks up her rucksack, and takes out a packet of Nurofen. ‘Take a couple of these. We’ll talk later. Maybe.’
After she’s gone, I have an annoying thought: what if she is really fed up with me? No more Jess hugs? I dismiss the horrible notion as soon as it registers, and open the laptop, to tap out my story.
After self-publishing on the BBC’s website, I call Emma.
‘Yeah, I just saw it,’ she says. ‘They’re bound to want a live on the Ten.’
‘Phono?’ I ask if I can broadcast over the phone from home, just audio, with a still photo of me on screen.
‘Nah, boss,’ she says. ‘You’ve got hours yet. They’ll want you in the studio. On yer bike.’
She laughs and rings off. I check the time. I’ve got time to kill. I’ll go to the gym and work out, to stop my bruised muscles seizing up. And to displace any annoying thoughts that I’ve let Jess down.
*
My gym is a huge, echoey former warehouse, by the edge of the Barbican on Aldersgate Street, with an indoor track and row after row of running and climbing machines. Banks of televisions face the machines, all switched to the BBC News Channel and CNBC, so that City traders can keep an eye out for news that could wreck the books they’re running.
I’ve been coming here for fifteen years. The endorphins are another addiction, in my life’s list – as is the need to retain the definition of my show muscles. They are useless for anything practical, like scaring off gangster oligarchs, and they haven’t been tested in a fight since I was nine in my school playground. That last scrap was a frenetic slapping contest that little boys confuse with actual fighting, a lot of sweat and energy. Since you ask, I won on points, against Danny Goldsmith, who went on to become a GP.
There’s hardly anyone in the gym so late on a Saturday afternoon. A quarter of an hour in, I’m speed walking on a sharp incline on a running machine and am drenched with sweat. My bruises are a rumbling ache, and I’ve successfully displaced any nagging anxiety about my quarrel with Jess.
I’ve got my headphones on, so it takes me a while to register that the girl from the front desk is in front of me, trying to flag me down, as it were.
‘Do you want me?’
‘There’s a man in reception asking for you. Says it’s important.’
‘Did he give a name?’
‘Prikov. Something like that.’
I miss my step on the machine and almost get spat off the end of it. ‘Primakov?’
‘Think so.’
What the hell does he want? Since I haven’t finished my workout – and since it seems unwise to keep an oligarch waiting – I go with her in my damp sports gear. When I get to reception it’s not Primakov, but a flunky, in a narrow-fitting black suit.
‘Mr Primakov is outside. He would like you to join him in his motor car.’
It’s not an invitation. It’s an instruction. Should I tell him to piss off? No: he’s given his name to the receptionist. If I disappear, even Kim Jansen would be able to work out who to pursue. Probably.
I follow the minder. Outside, with hazard lights flashing, is a gleaming black Bentley. It must have cost the same as a decent-size house in the suburbs. The flunky opens the back door, revealing the square-faced, shaven head of Petr Primakov.
He takes in my dishevelled state and roars with laughter. ‘Come in, come in. The seats are leather. Yuri can wipe them down when you leave.’
The Bentley has been converted into a stretch format. I didn’t even know that was possible. I sit on a bench with my back to the driver, opposite Primakov. The driver is behind a glass screen in the front, and the flunky has been left on the pavement.
Primakov presses an intercom button and speaks to the driver in Russian. The car pulls away from the kerb. ‘I would be grateful if you would indulge me for a few minutes, Mr Peck. I won’t keep you long.’
‘Are we going far? I’d like to finish my workout.’
‘Just far enough so that we can talk sufficiently to understand each other.’
The blood that’s pumping through me owes nothing to the running machine. I have been naive in getting into his limo. Jess would go nuts if she knew. If Primakov shoots me here, I already know Yuri would wipe down the seats. The girl in the gym would be paid off or would be ‘disappeared’. I haven’t even got my phone with me.
‘What do you want to know?’
Primakov leans back in the leather seat. ‘I understand that your friend from the Financial Chronicle, Ms Neeskens, has been making enquiries about me.’
Shit. How does he know about Jess? I should have listened to her and called the police immediately.
‘I am not a complicated man, Mr Peck. You have questions, you ask me.’
There’s menace even in an anodyne invitation. ‘I understand one of my Russian colleagues asked questions and he ended up at the bottom of a lake.’
‘Children’s stories, Mr Peck. But you’ll understand that it suits me for people to think I am the wrong person to cross.’
He smiles. Although he has the physique of a martial arts black belt, his lopsided grin and wide blue eyes are disconcertingly charming. His voice is resinous syrup.
‘Is there something about me that worries you, Mr Peck?’
I gather my thoughts. I am locked in and could not get out even if I wanted to. I have nothing to lose from simply doing what I always do, which is to ask the questions that may yield a story.
‘I am pretty sure you wouldn’t want this car at the bottom of a lake,’ I say.
He laughs. ‘I like your Jewish humour.’
He knows more about me than I do about him. I need to correct the imbalance.
‘Were you involved with Jackson in the bid for NewGate?’
He fiddles with the watch on his wrist, something slim, Swiss and probably worth more than I will earn in a lifetime. ‘Mr Elliott said you were brighter than most journalists and that I should be careful what I say to you. But I see no reason why I should not talk to you about this. Yes, I am working with Mr Jackson.’
‘Why?’
‘I like Johnny. He introduced me.’
Ah, Johnny Todd. Of course. ‘So what is your arrangement?’
‘Well, as you presumably know, I have access to capital, quite a lot of it. I smoothed the path to acquisition by buying substantial quantities of NewGate shares.’
‘You’re not on the share register.’
‘There are ways to disguise ownership, as I’m sure you know.’
Should I point out that buying shares to help a takeover by a third party, without declaring the purchases, is an illegal concert party? Maybe later. ‘How much have you invested on his behalf? Tens of millions of pounds? Hundreds of millions?’
‘Enough.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘Yes. Oh dear.’
‘So you realise you’re set to lose the lot, when the government nationalises?’
‘I am aware.’ He reaches deliberately into his jacket pocket and extracts a blinged-up BlackBerry. ‘I read the blog you just put out.’
He sees me gawping at what looks like diamonds studded around the screen.
‘A gift,’ he says. ‘Too much?’
I shrug. ‘I was thinking about my BlackBerries. They were stolen. Yesterday.’
He lays it on the seat. ‘Everyone talks about lawlessness in Russia. The only place I’ve ever been robbed is here.’
‘Are we still talking about NewGate?’
He looks at me. It’s unnerving, but I press on. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘I do not blame you for what happened to NewGate. You were just the messenger, or more accurately the puppet.’
I think about arguing that it was in the public interest for me to reveal NewGate’s plight, but reckon he’s not really interested in journalistic integrity.
‘My interest,’ he says, ‘is in who tipped you off and why.’
It’s my turn to stare and say nothing. I do my best to hold the gaze of eyes that seem permanently amused by the frailties of man.
‘We understand each other now, Mr Peck. Is there anything else I can help you with?’
There is. I think of the photo of Marilyn and her urgent scribbled message to find her.
‘Two of my friends have died. Both were involved in what’s happened to NewGate.’
Primakov tilts his head. It could be sympathy. Or predatory. ‘My condolences.’
‘One is Robin Muller.’ No reaction. ‘A partner at Schon. Someone else who sank to the bottom of a lake.’
Still no hint of recognition or emotion. ‘Lawyers, accountants, bankers . . .’ He gives a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘I know many. I pay their bonuses.’
‘Did you know Marilyn Krol?’
‘That poor woman from the Bank of England who took her own life. I have been told you were close to her. Mr Elliott informed me.’
Of course he did.
‘Marilyn was blackmailed shortly before she died. I wonder if you have any insight to offer?’
He smiles. This time, not in a friendly way. ‘You ask me because I am the Russian thug, so obviously I must be the blackmailer.’
I wince. The smoothness of the Bentley had lulled me into reckless overconfidence.
‘Look, I take you at your word that I should not believe the gossip about you.’ Nothing registers on his face. ‘But she was a close friend. I need to know why she killed herself. It was in the interest of Mr Jackson and Mr Todd to put pressure on her.’
‘OK. We are being frank with each other. I don’t know if there was an attempt to, shall we say, influence her, but Mr Jackson said she was friendly to us, in favour of our plan to buy NewGate. They were relieved she was on our side; they said it was crucial. In the end, they seem to have been wrong about that, as about so much.’
The car is back where we started, outside the gym. Yuri is by the door, ready to let me out. I hope.
‘It would be good to keep in touch,’ I say.
‘If I find out anything relevant, you will hear from me.’
Primakov presses the button to open the window and nods at Yuri. ‘Back to your workout.’ I shuffle to the door. I can feel my bruises again. ‘Mr Peck, you and I know how important it is to stay fit and healthy.’
Chapter 19
D
ESPITE THE BENTLEY’S VELVET SUSPENSION, I feel queasy and on edge. In the gym, I charge up the running machine’s mountain, but I’ve misjudged. Rather than purging my stress, I am ready to throw up. I need to call Jess. As soon as I get to the changing room, I try her. Her mobile rings once and then cuts me off. Is she blocking me? I try again. Same response. She is blocking me. I’ve messed up.
I shower, change and head home. Walking through the grim concrete tunnel under the Barbican, empty of people on a Saturday evening, I am exposed. There is nowhere to run if Primakov or one of his employees were to pull up beside me. I hear footsteps accelerating towards me, but when I turn there’s no one. I breathe in to the count of three, out through pursed lips, and from the back of my throat, to the count of five. My equanimity returns, gradually. I am in such a self-obsessed trance that I hear ringing and don’t instantly recognise it.
My Nokia. Thank goodness. Except it’s not Jess.
‘Gil?’
‘Who is this?’
‘Susan, from the press office.’ The BBC press office. ‘Pete Law would love a quick word.’
‘What about?’
A lorry rattles past, drowning her out. All I hear is ‘. . . quite a big story.’
‘I didn’t get that. Say again?’
‘It’s best if Pete talks you through it.’
As I walk, my anxiety level rises. Why on earth would Pete Law need to talk to me late on a Saturday? After what feels like an eternity, but is probably five minutes, Pete calls.
‘What’s up, Pete?’
‘Never a dull moment with you, old cock.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We’ve been contacted by the Globe on Sunday. They’ve got a story about you, about your relationship with Marilyn.’
‘Oh,’ is all I can muster. ‘What story?’
‘They say they have proof of your affair with Marilyn.’
‘What does “proof” mean?’
‘They’re not saying.’
They don’t have to. They’ve obviously got the stolen BlackBerries.
‘Pete, there’s a chance they’ve got my BlackBerries. They were nicked.’
‘Sorry to hear it. Presumably they contain messages you’d rather the world and his wife didn’t see?’
‘We were both single. Why is there a story?’
He scoffs. ‘Don’t be an idiot.’
‘Should I say something to the Globe. Will the BBC make a statement?’
‘It all depends on what you think they’re going to print. What’s your guess?’
Think, think. There’s so much on those phones I wouldn’t want anyone to read. There’s my fling with Tracy, from the Downing Street press office. What if they print the abuse she sent me after she dumped me? This is a nightmare. I assume the BBC will feel obliged to sack me. I had a good run, while it lasted.
‘Can I have a few minutes to think about it?’ I say.
‘Sure. Call me back. But don’t take too long about it. The reporter was giving me grief about how close he is to deadline.’
I’ve used that precise line so many times when trying to pressurise an unwilling source to cough: I know the game. ‘He’s had all day to ring us. He can fuck himself.’
I need advice. Not from Mum and Dad. Can you imagine? What will they say when friends and relations ask them about ‘that story in the Globe’? Jesus. I have to talk to Jess.
I text: Something bad has happened. Please please ring?
Surely she can’t read that and keep me dangling. She’s my best mate. And of course she was right that I bent the rules in counselling Tudor. She said I am too easily seduced by proximity to power. Is that why I had the fling with Tracy, why I was so obsessed with Marilyn? I text again:
You were right about my unhealthy relationship with power. I get it.
The phone stays silent.
I send another text. Jess, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. You know that.
Nothing.
The phone rings. Pete. Damn. ‘We need a plan now, old cock.’
‘I know.’
‘So?’
‘Can this be strictly between us? As mates. We go back a long way.’
‘Of course it can’t. We may go back a long way, but the BBC comes first. Everyone gets sacrificed on the altar of the corporation. The public good and all that. You know it. I’ve got to brief Janice, and she’ll brief the DG.’
This is humiliating. But I have nothing left to lose. ‘It will look bad, but I don’t think they can prove I crossed an editorial line. As you know, Marilyn and I were sort of together, on and off, for well over a decade. But we were respectful of the rules of each other’s worlds, if you know what I mean.’
‘You’re talking to me, not your fucking rabbi. I presume you and Marilyn fucked each other up the arse while off your heads on coke and sharing state secrets. You and I went to the same parties in the nineties. I know the score. If your relationship was shipshape and Bristol fashion, you wouldn’t have lied about it for so long. The whole of the Globe’s story is that they are revealing something that you concealed. It will look terrible for both of you, except she’s in no state to complain.’
‘I’d forgotten quite what a cunt you are.’
‘I’m the only cunt you’ve got, and you should thank your lucky stars I’m working for you, not against you. Now stop pussying around and tell me everything.’
I’ve never really thought about this. Or at least not properly. When Marilyn and I first started sleeping together all those years ago, we had to keep it quiet. The FC ’s political editor in a relationship with the Labour Party leader’s closest advisor: a clear breach of propriety. Our respective bosses would have been horrified. But why didn’t we normalise it as the years rolled by?
‘It seemed simpler to hide from the world,’ I venture. ‘We’re both commitment-phobes. She was,’ I correct myself. ‘I am.’
The line is deathly quiet. Has he hung up?
‘Pete? What should we do?’
‘My instinct, but I’ll have to run this past Janice and the DG, is that we should say something like, “The BBC does not believe Gil Peck breached impartiality rules, but it will be talking to him to receive assurances that is the case.”’
Talking to me. I’m on probation. ‘How bad is this?’
‘Depends what they print. It’s obvious they’ve got chapter and verse. As you say, presumably from your BlackBerries.’
‘But if they’ve taken private messages and correspondence from a stolen BlackBerry, aren’t they breaking the law by publishing information obtained through a criminal act?’
‘They’d claim a public interest defence. You work for the licence-payer-funded BBC, and Marilyn Krol was an official whose salary was paid by taxpayers. They’ll argue your relationship created a conflict of interest that the public has a right to know about. I’ll run it past our lawyers in case there’s the possibility of an injunction, but I doubt the lawyers will think it’s worth it. Also, it’s not a great look for us to be using the courts to restrict the freedom of the press. The DG would ask me for advice and I’d caution against.’
