The Crash, page 24
Jess reflects. ‘In a way, that makes more sense, of the leaks to you, and everything else. And for her, whoever was threatening to shame her, it would have made no difference. Living with the imminent threat of such public humiliation would have been awful.’
Would that be reason enough for her to hang herself? Did reputation and career mean that much to Marilyn? Was it really everything?
‘The note from Q doesn’t say what she was supposed to do, it just threatens to send the photos to Breitner,’ I say.
Jess winces. ‘It’s brutal, sadistic. Marilyn knew what Q wanted. And from what you’ve told me, she would have refused to give in to blackmail. It makes sense that her backing for Jackson’s takeover was the opposite of what the blackmailer wanted.’
‘We don’t have to guess, do we? The diaries, the confirmation will be in them.’
Giving them to Luke was so dumb. I’ll text him and make a plan to retrieve them. He’ll be at school, so it may take a few hours.
I pour myself another cup of coffee. ‘The photographs were taken at Elliott’s place. It must be Elliott’s picture. I assume he took them,’ I say.
‘Probably right – but if he didn’t, he would know who did. We can ask him tonight.’
‘What’s happening tonight?’
She smirks. ‘Oh yes. When I was cross with you, I didn’t tell you.’
‘Tell me what?’
‘We’re going to a party, at Elliott’s place in the Cotswolds.’
‘We are?’
‘Well, me and a plus one.’
I’m trying to work out why I haven’t got my own invitation. Elliott and his mind games.
‘What’s the party in aid of?’
‘Primakov. He’s introducing Primakov to people who matter.’
‘Which presumably means Primakov’s paying for the party. But how do you know it’s for him?’
‘How do you think I know? When we were sniffing around the Russian, investigating him, word got back to Elliott and he rang me. Told me I should meet him, suggested I come to the party.’
It’s classic Elliott. Charm first, coerce later.
Jess stands up, leans down and kisses me. ‘Be my date tonight, honeybun?’
*
We leave London on the M40, and arrive at Elliott’s Worcestershire mansion in Jess’s VW Golf at 8.30. Large real-flame torches light the long drive. We are signposted to a field where hessian matting has been laid as a barrier against clagging mud. Pretty much every other car is a Range Rover, a Bentley or a Merc. I notice a couple of Ferraris and a Lamborghini. Show-offs. I am wearing Christian Lacroix, a double-breasted slightly rough-weave browny grey suit. The ostentatious lining is pinkish and blue floral. It’s what I love most about this suit, though only I know it’s there. It matches the flamboyant pink of my shirt. Jess is even more gorgeous than normal, in a red Marc Jacobs mini dress with a low neckline and laced leather boots. Maybe I am in love.
‘I think I should take these boots off before we get to the house,’ she says. ‘I don’t want them ruined in the mud. Will you help me?’ With the car door open, she swivels in the driver’s seat towards me. She ostentatiously hitches up her skirt so I can see she’s not wearing knickers. Am I supposed to say anything? ‘Bit of motivation for you,’ she smiles. Energised, I grip the foot of her boot and pull. ‘Grab my trainers from the back seat, will you?’
As we walk to the portico, she links her arm through mine. This is new. I like it. When we’re at the door, Elliott’s employees check our names against those on their clipboards.
‘Good to see you, Ms Neeskens, Gil,’ says one, a brunette in a short beige skirt that shows off her spectacular legs.
Jess digs an elbow in my ribs. ‘Stop gawping,’ she whispers.
‘She probably has a first in psychology and philosophy from Oxford,’ I whisper back.
‘That’s not what’s caught your attention’ she says.
Elliott hires the brightest, most attractive Oxbridge graduates, and persuades them to behave like hostesses. It’s so hideous.
As soon as we enter, waiters offer us Krug or a Sazerac, a cocktail of absinthe and cognac. I need to keep a clear head, so I take the champagne.
‘Where will I find Elliott?’ I mutter to Jess.
There must be three hundred people here. Cabinet ministers mix with ageing pop idols, British movie stars and feline Russian models. Like Elliott’s London parties, the drink – especially the first-growth claret – is painfully expensive, and the caviar flows like bitumen being ladled onto a road. I can’t see the host.
‘We should split up.’
‘OK, sweet cheeks.’
I walk to a heaving ground-floor reception room. At the door, a woman I can’t place says ‘Gil Peck’ warmly, and kisses me on each cheek. ‘I always watch you on the BBC. I especially like it that you enrage my husband.’
Heavens. It’s Lydia, Alex Elliott’s Russian wife. Wearing clothes. Did she notice I was in the audience for her recent performance? I blush.
‘Alex says you are the most important journalist,’ she carries on. ‘The only one who matters.’
She puts her hand against my chest to emphasise the point. Her wrist is garlanded with diamonds and emeralds, as is her neck – all Harry Winston, I assume. ‘Some of his friends say you hate rich people, but I tell him, no, Mr Peck hates only arseholes.’
I smile, despite myself. ‘Does he often discuss me?’
Either she doesn’t hear me, or she ignores the question. ‘I read in the newspaper that you were friends with the bank lady who died. So sad.’
‘Alex knew her too.’ I’m trying to remember how long Elliott and Lydia have been married. I have a flashback to Lydia’s bed, only this time she’s fucking Marilyn. I fight the image, try to kill it.
She doesn’t bat her sumptuous mascaraed eyes. ‘Alex has many friends.’
‘I noticed. Where is he, by the way?’
‘Oh somewhere, doing his business.’ There’s contempt in her voice.
And then, without even the pretence of an ‘Excuse me’, she detaches herself. Her antennae have detected someone more interesting. Meathead. I can’t be arsed to be berated by him again. I go in the opposite direction.
*
The party spills between opulent reception rooms and a parkland warmed by braziers. Through one of the picture windows, I notice Jess is chatting up Jackson on the terrace. I want to eavesdrop, but spot a banker lost in a corner. I stroll over.
‘Not my scene,’ Sir Stan Blackwell says, looking unexpectedly pleased to see me. ‘But everyone’s here, so I guess I have to be.’
‘How’s it going?’ I ask inanely.
He shrugs, ‘Our share price still hasn’t recovered. The hunt is on for the next banking basket case, thanks to you. Everyone’s a short seller these days. It’s not easy.’
‘Ravel’s the most aggressive of the lot,’ I observe.
‘He is and he isn’t. As I told you at that bloody conference, he isn’t shorting us. Owes us too much.’
I remember what Patrick Munis told me over lunch. ‘I heard a rumour Ravel might be in the market to buy a bank. When they’re cheap enough.’
At that, Blackwell’s Calvinist face cracks a smile. ‘He’ll not be buying PTBG.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Trust me.’
Trust you? Give me a break. I change the subject.
‘Do you fancy a glass of Elliott’s extraordinary claret?’
‘Does he have a fancy cellar here too?’
‘Oh yes.’
I lead him to the climate-controlled wine room. In this gaff it is a barrel-ceilinged room in the basement, five times the size of the one in London. Michael, the sommelier, serves Blackwell, gives me a wink, and then discreetly pours mine from a different magnum. I look at the label: Château Haut-Brion. I would guess the price as two thousand pounds. I smell it. Just the aroma compensates for the journey here and the need to suck up to some of the worst people in the country.
I still haven’t found Elliott, though, and Jess hasn’t messaged me. Who here are most useful to him? He’ll be with them.
‘Do you like the drink?’ says a deep, accented voice behind me.
I turn around. Primakov.
‘Whatever else I think about Alex, I can’t fault his hospitality.’ I take a gulp.
‘Actually, Mr Peck, I think you’ll find it’s my generosity you are enjoying.’
‘Of course. Thank you.’
‘This is my party. Tell me, why is making friends in Britain such an expensive business?’
‘Good question. Do you think it’s worse here than in other countries?’
‘Yes. Even when you say you are doing something for free, you send a bill the next day. You obviously need the money.’
‘In what way?’
‘I have never seen such shoddily built houses as those in your country. Walls made of paper, windows that don’t fit the frames, draughts, damp. And with a price of ten million pounds.’
‘You don’t have to live here, you know.’
‘There are compensations.’
I take another sip of the liquid gold and brace myself. ‘Did you have any thoughts about what we discussed?’
‘Mr Jackson said the wrong man drowned. Should have been you.’ He is deadpan.
‘Oh dear,’ is all I can muster. What’s the etiquette? Am I supposed to laugh?
‘Don’t worry, Mr Peck. I am sure he was joking. By the way, it wasn’t him putting pressure on your girlfriend.’
My first instinct is to explain she wasn’t really my girlfriend. That Marilyn and I had an unusual relationship. And then I realise quite how nuts that would be, even by my standards. In that instant of reflection, Primakov pats my upper arm and walks purposefully away. I don’t know what to think about it. Some of what he says is patently untrue. Also he is dangerous. But I believe what he says about Marilyn and Jackson. It’s consistent with our view that she was psychologically tortured by the short seller.
So where is Elliott?
This is a house of corridors. I walk along one, away from the hubbub. At the end is a shut door. I knock, no answer, so I turn the handle and enter. It’s a family sitting room. There’s a baby grand piano in one corner covered with photographs. Let’s see what memories Elliott wishes to preserve. Most are studies in vanity, snaps of him with assorted world leaders and notables. Elliott with Paul McCartney, Elliott with Bill Clinton, Elliott with Nelson Mandela. One’s different. It’s Elliott as a student at Oxford, with nine others, all in double-breasted, velvet-collared, three-quarter-length frock coats, the boys in grey-striped spongebag trousers, the girls in miniskirts. They are leering, waving open bottles of Bollinger and conspicuously pissed. One girl’s breast is almost completely exposed, another is flaunting suspenders.
I know this mob. It’s the Malmsey, one of Oxford’s clubs for the spoiled and entitled, historically just for boys but latterly allowing in girls who didn’t object to rampant sexism or being wanked over by sexually dysfunctional Old Etonians. I wasn’t a member – their contempt for an oik like me would have been almost as much as my contempt for them – but their exploits were notorious.
I’m still staring at the photo when I hear voices at the door. Shit. How do I explain my snooping? I don’t want to try, so I hide behind the floor-to-ceiling rose damask curtain, just as the door swings open.
Two people – so far as I can tell – come in. I hear the click as the door closes, then the wheeze of upholstery as they sit.
‘I’ve spoken again to our Saudi friends,’ says a voice I recognise. Ravel. ‘They’re prepared to provide twenty-five billion in the form of a convertible pref, with an eight per cent coupon.’
‘That’s expensive money.’ Elliott’s voice, nearer to me.
‘Not if it’s the difference between life and death.’
‘I thought these guys were your friends.’
‘They are. Known them for years. But they are not morons.’
As silently as I can, I fish my little Olympus recorder from my jacket pocket and switch it on. The button makes a terrifyingly loud click, but Ravel’s voice drowns it out.
‘Do you think Stan will bite?’
Stan Blackwell. That’s why he’s here.
‘I bloody well hope so,’ says Elliott. ‘You can ask him yourself. He’ll join us in a minute.’
On cue, I hear the sound of the door opening and then Blackwell’s unmistakable Glaswegian. ‘Gentlemen. I understand you have news.’
‘The Saudis are willing to provide twenty-five billion pounds of capital,’ says Ravel. ‘Enough to tide you over.’ He repeats what he told Elliott earlier, which in essence means that the Saudis will provide enough money to prevent PTBG from collapsing, but at a steep price.
‘That’s prohibitive,’ Blackwell says. ‘There’ll be nothing left over for our other shareholders.’
‘Don’t be an arsehole, Stan,’ says Ravel. ‘If you go kaput, there’ll be nothing for anyone. You are up shit creek. You’re bust. The shares are effectively worthless. Your choice is between our Saudi friends, and the socialists in 10 Downing Street. Say the word, and I’ll tell the Saudis their money isn’t needed.’
Jesus. Ravel says the choice is between a Saudi rescue and nationalisation. Of Britain’s biggest bank.
‘Don’t be a cunt, Chris,’ says Blackwell. ‘You want to keep the government out just as much as I do. Neither of us needs government-appointed auditors looking at our books.’
‘Stan, calm down. We’re on the same page.’
‘I’m not sure you hyperactively short selling the banks puts us on the same page,’ says Blackwell tartly.
‘Maybe you and the others shouldn’t have stuffed your balance sheets with toxic shit.’
‘Ladies, ladies, behave yourselves,’ Elliott pacifies. ‘And by the way, neither of you should count your chickens. The Sheikh says there’ll be no cash unless and until we deliver Athena.’
‘I am well aware,’ says Ravel. ‘It’s being sorted.’
There’s a shuffling of chairs and feet as they stand up. ‘Let me know how you get on,’ says Elliott. ‘Stan, the Sheikh is upstairs being entertained by two of Lydia’s friends. Try not to piss him off.’
Blackwell grunts. I hear the sound of the door open and close as they head back to the party. I stay behind the curtains long enough to be sure they’re all out and well clear of the room.
Blackwell didn’t lie to me about one thing. Chris Ravel isn’t trying to destroy PTBG; he wants to rescue it. But Stan has been lying to everyone about the financial health of PTBG: it’s in dire straits. Maybe that’s why he and Ravel are so desperate for the bank’s books to be kept away from government auditors, but my hunch is there’s something else. And what’s ‘Athena’?
I take the risk and emerge from behind the curtain. There is something I want before I leave. At the piano, I remove the Malmsey Club photo from its frame and put it in my inside jacket pocket. After hiding the empty frame under a sofa, I gingerly open the door and exit.
When I’m halfway along the corridor, heading towards the party, Elliott comes out of a loo on the left. He’s not pleased to see me.
‘What are you doing here?’ There’s aggression in his voice.
‘Just looking for a loo.’
‘You’ve found one. Congratulations.’
He holds open the door for me with an ironic bow. But I don’t go in, because I’m paralysed by what he’s wearing. Under a black baggy silk jacket – maybe Yamamoto – is a black T-shirt. The picture on the T-shirt is Charles Laughton in his classic 1939 performance as the Hunchback of Notre Dame.
Quasimodo.
‘You’re taking the piss.’
His eyes are wide and mocking. ‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘You’re Quasimodo. You sent me the message warning me off. You paid someone to nick my phones, and you gave my texts to the Globe.’
He puts a condescending arm around my shoulders. ‘Oh dear. You’ve enjoyed too much of my wine again. Maybe have a glass of water and a sit-down.’
I brush him off. ‘What is your game?’
‘You’re nuts. Shall I find someone to look for Jess? Maybe it’s time for you to go home.’
‘Don’t patronise me. You know what I’m talking about.’
Without me registering, Elliott’s been shepherding me back to the main party room. But if he thinks the presence of his poncy guests will make me shut up, he’s misjudged.
‘You sent those pictures to Marilyn, you scumbag.’ He just smirks. I rarely feel tempted to physical violence, but right now I want to smash his face in. ‘Why were you blackmailing her? Whose interest were you serving? Ravel’s?’
‘“Blackmail” is an ugly word. I’d be careful what you say in front of witnesses. You wouldn’t want to find yourself in court facing a suit for slander, would you?’ And then he leans in and whispers in my ear. ‘You’re out of your depth, Gil. I hope you can swim.’
Before I can react, there’s a shout of, ‘Fireworks. On the lawn now.’
The crowd surges through the French windows. Elliott uses it to break away from me. I’ll find him later. Now I need Jess.
The room has emptied. She must be in the park. A waiter loitering by the doors thrusts a Sazerac at me as I step outside. I take a huge mouthful, as the first rockets fizz up into the night sky.
Among the flickering torches and the flashes from the fireworks, it’s impossible to find anyone in this crowd. I meander aimlessly, until I spot the glamorous, long-legged woman from the entrance.
‘Have you seen Jess Neeskens?’
Overhead there’s a shower of gunpowder stars that bathes the woman’s face in gold. Her lips and cheeks glisten with the moisture in the air.
‘I think I saw Jess down by the lake. I’ll show you.’
The grass is slick with autumn dew. I am a little groggy – wow, this cocktail is strong – and I almost slip twice. The second time, the woman slides her arm under my jacket to steady me.
