Oh, God. Just what I needed.
‘Fine,’ I said.
‘I think I can remember where Dekker’s offices are. They haven’t moved, have they?’
‘I don’t work there any more.’
‘What?’ He sounded shocked.
‘I resigned. Yesterday.’
‘Whatever for?’
I groaned inwardly. How could I explain this?
‘The City is just not for me, Father.’
There was silence. ‘OK. I see.’ His voice blew cold down the phone line from Norfolk. ‘It was a terrific opportunity for you to make something of yourself, Nick.’
‘It’s not a good place, Father. Honestly. I’m better off out of it.’
‘Well, your mother will be most disappointed,’ he said. Actually I thought she’d be quite pleased.
‘I’d still like to see you,’ I said, almost to my surprise.
‘Um, yes, well. Maybe another time. I was hoping to see you in situ, as it were. But if you’re not working, then there’s not much point, is there?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘Goodbye, then.’
‘’Bye.’
I put the phone down. Despite myself, I felt guilty and angry. Guilty that I had disappointed him, angry that he hadn’t wanted to see me.
I felt alone.
My thoughts turned back to Dekker. Jamie had said they were doing a Dave on me. I wondered what had happened to Dave. I hadn’t had time to get to know him very well, but I had liked what I had seen of him. And now I felt some kindred spirit with him. A fellow ex-Dekker non-person.
I dug out the phone list I had been given when I had joined Dekker. It listed all home numbers, Dave’s included. Dekker employees were expected to be able to deal round the clock.
He answered the phone. ‘Nick! All right, mate? That’s a blast from the past. I thought I’d never speak to another Dekker man again.’
I explained my situation, and I asked if I could come round and see him.
‘Course you can. Come round this afternoon, if you like. It’s not like I’ve got anything to do. Have you got wheels?’
‘Only two.’
‘Motor- or pushbike?’
‘Pushbike, I’m afraid.’
‘Well, never mind. Take the tube to Theydon Bois, and give me a ring from the station. I’ll pick you up.’
Dave met me in an old Ford Escort. We drove through a succession of well-kept suburban roads to a large modern house at the end of a private road. Two ‘For Sale’ signs guarded the short driveway. He fiddled with a remote control to open the doors of a huge empty garage, and then drove the Escort into the middle of it.
‘Lots of room for this little car, isn’t there?’
‘Don’t,’ said Dave. ‘I had a Porsche 911 I parked just there, and a four-wheel drive just there. And the missus had a little MR2. All gone now.’
He led me through a door in the garage into the house. ‘Have you met my wife, Teresa?’
She was big, like Dave, with dyed blonde hair and a wide smile. ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’
‘Love one.’
Dave led me through a couple of miles of corridor to a huge lounge, with picture windows overlooking a large lawn and a swimming pool. Now Dave was about my age. And this place had cost a packet.
‘Nice place, innit?’ he said, following my eyes. ‘Shame it’s not mine.’
‘Oh, you mean the building society own it?’
‘Worse. Dekker. If I can’t meet next month’s mortgage payment, which I can’t, they’ll repossess. I’m desperate to sell it before then.’
‘Don’t you have any savings?’
‘All tied up in the employee trusts, aren’t they? I can’t get hold of them if I’m dismissed for bad faith. So, you could say I’m up shit creek.’
‘Have you tried to get another job?’
‘Yeah. I tried. No chance. I don’t know how Ricardo did it, but you’d think I was Nick Leeson, the way they treat me.’
‘So what are you going to do?’
Teresa came in with two mugs of tea. ‘Thanks, love,’ said Dave, taking his. He sipped it and then answered my question. ‘Sell this place. I’ve got some old mates from my forex days who’ll back me to buy a pub. Then Teresa and I’ll run it. Quite honestly, I’m looking forward to it. I’ve had enough of the City.’
‘So have I,’ said Teresa.
‘I know what you mean,’ I said.
‘So you got the boot too?’ Dave asked.
‘Not quite. I jumped.’
‘Why?’
I told him about my reservations about Dekker, and about Isabel’s kidnapping. He was shocked.
‘She’s a nice chick. Bright, too. So, they don’t know whether she’s still alive?’
‘No.’
‘Nor who the kidnappers are?’
‘No, again. Kidnapping is an industry in Brazil. This kind of thing happens all the time.’
‘Like bankers getting topped for their wallets?’
I looked at him sharply. ‘You told IFR you were suspicious about that. Why?’
‘It was no more than that, a suspicion. But a strong one. There are all those numbered accounts at Dekker Trust, supposedly overseen by Eduardo. Ricardo says he knows where all that money comes from, but I’m not convinced he does. And you know Eduardo. He’d happily turn a blind eye.’
‘OK, so there might be some dodgy money there. But that’s not proof, really, is it?’
‘No. But there’s talk in the market.’
‘Talk?’
‘Yeah. Everyone knows Chalmet handles dodgy money, and they own twenty-nine per cent of Dekker Ward. Now they’re beginning to talk about us, too. Ricardo doesn’t hear that stuff, of course, no one would dare to say that kind of thing to his face. But I’ve heard stuff down the pub over a few pints.’
‘And you think it’s true?’
‘I wasn’t sure at first. I ignored it. But I thought it was interesting when that bloke Martin Beldecos started rooting around. He was asking difficult questions, and waiting till he got answers that made sense. Then he was conveniently murdered. And when you got yourself stabbed, it was too much of a coincidence.’
‘So you talked to someone at IFR?’
‘Yeah. Big mistake.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he wrote about “sources inside Dekker Ward”, didn’t he? Then he spoke to me on the phone here. I reckon Eduardo was tapping it somehow. That’s how they caught me.’
‘But why did you talk to him? You knew Ricardo wouldn’t like it if he found out.’
Dave sipped his tea, and glanced at Teresa. ‘I dunno. It just seemed wrong. A bloke murdered, another guy attacked, everyone wringing their hands, no one asking the right questions. I’d been thinking a lot about it, and it didn’t make sense. I’d probably have kept my trap shut but we’d had a few beers, and I thought, What the hell? It just sort of slipped out. I didn’t think it’d blow up in my face like that.’
I nodded. Maybe I should have asked more questions.
‘I went to the police, you know,’ he said.
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. After they fired me. I was so pissed off I wanted to get back at them somehow.’
‘And what did the police say?’
‘It was a complete waste of time.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, a murder in Venezuela is hardly their jurisdiction, is it? And Martin Beldecos was an American citizen, technically resident in the Cayman Islands. I mean, it was a total non-starter.’
‘What about the money-laundering? Weren’t they interested in that?’
‘They was. Sort of. But Ricardo’s clever. You see, most of his activities are not really regulated by anyone.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, to start with, Dekker Ward, the stockbroker, is regulated by the Securities and Futures Authority, not the Bank of England. The SFA is less worried about money-laundering. Then Ricardo’s biz is all run from Canary Wharf, and the SFA deals mostly with head office in the City. Most emerging-markets trading is unregulated anyway, it’s not like trading on the London Stock Exchange. They keep a close eye on that. Anyway, many of Ricardo’s trades are booked through Dekker Trust in the Caymans, which is a legally unrelated company, so it’s outside the UK authorities’ control.’