Putney suddenly seemed so restful, particularly for central London. Straker found himself dropping down to a walk to breathe it all in.
Everything about the place seemed different. Most obvious was the offer of a view — impossible in most parts of the capital. He could see for quite a distance in both directions along the river, inducing a relaxing feeling — a feeling of open space.
The multi-arched stone road bridge across the Thames also played its part, making the place seem more like a county market town, than the suburb of a frenetic metropolis. Adding to this impression, the architecture along the waterfront had a distinctive unregimented style, too, which suggested it was somewhere other than central London. And then, with the prominence of the boathouses, there was the very obvious devotion of the place to leisure and an altogether different focus of life. Straker realized for the first time how much Putney was content to live at its own pace, irrespective of whatever hubbub chose to go on around it.
He found it utterly calming.
He looked the place up and down, drinking in as much of the space and atmosphere as he could.
Catching his eye was a For Sale board in front of a stylish Georgian villa, right on the waterfront. Walking up to the front of the house, Straker took in its façade: fanlights over a heavy panelled door; large well-proportioned windows; and an elegant first-floor balcony edged by a set of ornate railings. Then, peering in through the windows, he tried to get an idea of the inside.
Straker was immediately hooked — on the house, its architecture, its outlook, position, the Thames — everything.
He ran on down the waterfront to cross Putney Bridge, making his way back to the flat in Fulham.
But as he ran across the bridge on the upstream side, he couldn’t stop himself looking back across the river — to the slipway, to the row of boathouses, to the houses along the waterfront — and to that Georgian villa with the For Sale board out front. He found himself pulling out his phone and typing in the name and number of the estate agent.
The follow-up hearing of the Ptarmigan industrial espionage case was held at noon that day in the spectacular Edwardian clubhouse of the Royal Automobile Club in Pall Mall, London. Outside the RAC, there was the familiar press mob crowding the entrance.
As the Ptarmigan party arrived, they were met with the same baying and shouted questions — challenging, as earlier, the team’s ethics and integrity. The excitement of Sabatino’s drive and victory the day before did not seem to count for anything. Even so, she and Nazar chose, once again, to stand calmly in front of the journalists, allowing them to take their photographs — hopefully reflecting some dignity — before they went in.
Sabatino, Nazar, Treadwell, Straker and Brogan were met by an FIA official inside the RAC and ushered through the magnificent rotunda and up the stairs to the right. Around the gallery on the first floor, they were led to the south of the building and into the library. There, they were asked to wait until being called into the committee room next door.
To Straker, Brogan seemed almost agitated this time. It was unnerving. What did that mean? Was the barrister’s demeanour giving away his true thoughts on the strength of their case?
Sabatino continued to express her fear of having points deducted because of the FIA inquiry, and harming her Championship chances. The expression on her face clearly showed that such anxieties were weighing heavily on her mind, completely overriding any buzz from her drive through the streets of London the day before.
Finally, the Ptarmigan party was called in.
The surroundings for this hearing could hardly have been more different than the last: there was none of the clinical starkness of the décor in the Paris Council Chamber. Here was London clubland at its finest. The committee room was magnificent. A high ceiling. Intricate and elaborate plasterwork. A marble fireplace. Portraits, in oil, of grand-looking men around the walls. In the centre of the large room was a highly polished antique table, across which were numerous silver models and statuettes of famous cars and their drivers since the dawn of motoring and motor racing. Directly above this was an eye-catching crystal chandelier. And incongruous to the Ptarmigan team’s mood, bright sunshine poured into the room through the open double doors from the conservatory.
This time twenty people — including the thirteen voting members of the Council to make the meeting quorate — were sitting around the table for the follow-up hearing.
The President of the FIA, the Marquis of San Marino, as before, rose as the Ptarmigan party entered the Council hearing. ‘Ms Sabatino, gentlemen. Please take a seat at the table.’ The Massarella contingent was already seated, across the table to their left.
As proceedings began, San Marino said: ‘Mr Brogan, may I assume that you accept this as a continuation of the FIA hearing, on 25th July in Paris, to assess Massarella’s allegations of industrial espionage against Ptarmigan?’
‘You can, Mr President. May I confirm that you have now received our revised statement of facts and that, on this occasion, you will also admit our counter-claim against Massarella’s conduct this season?’
‘You may. Now, Mr Brogan. We had established, in Paris, that an employee of your client, a Ms Charlotte Grant, had been in contact with Massarella. Would you care to comment on this — now that your client has had some time to consider it?’
Brogan opened up his notebook and straightened his pen on the RAC-embossed leather blotter in front of him. ‘Indeed, Mr President. Can I first explain that Ms Grant was indeed an employee of Quartech, Ptarmigan’s owner. She was on secondment to the team. I do not wish to slander the dead, but I need the Council to be aware she had already behaved in a disloyal fashion within Quartech — leaking top secret blueprints for a cutting-edge rifle system to a German rival. Mr President, I am prepared to elaborate further, but only to you, personally, in private session. I do not feel comfortable discussing her conduct, or the impact on Quartech’s defence business, any further in a public forum. Quartech International is, after all, a publicly quoted company.’
San Marino’s face registered some surprise at the revelations. Even so, he nodded his acceptance of Brogan’s request.
‘In summary, we would describe Charlotte Grant, therefore, as a rogue employee, Mr President.’
Straker looked over at the Massarella people. Van Der Vaal clearly looked disquieted. He wondered whether the South African was going to challenge either the description of Charlotte Grant or the imposed limit on discussing her any further.
Van Der Vaal seemed to be keeping quiet. For now.
‘Mr President,’ Brogan went on, ‘this description of Ms Grant is offered to the Council to indicate that she had already attempted to do Quartech and its interests serious harm in one area. We contend that she was out to do my client serious harm in another. If I may, I’d like to refer, now, to my client’s revised statement of facts in the light of this news. Under the new Tab 10, there are transcripts of some text messages we’ve recovered from Ms Grant’s mobile phone.’
At this point there was a grunt and a growl from Van Der Vaal. ‘Mr President, if we are not to discuss this Ptarmigan employee any further, how are we now able to discuss her mobile phone messages? Ptarmigan can’t have it both ways.’
San Marino held Van Der Vaal’s agitated stare. ‘I am satisfied that enough information has been shared with the Council, without having demeaned or defamed someone who can no longer defend herself, Eugene. Please continue, Mr Brogan.’