CHAPTER TEN: JACK COSGRAVE
Hunter woke. slowly. He was in a small strange room, as bare and neat as a prison cell, with a window framing some kind of factory building. He yawned, and his mouth felt as though it had been lined with sandpaper. But his head seemed reasonable. He rolled over, and found himself nearly rolling out of his bed onto the floor. His clothes were strewn around haphazardly, and he dimly remembered drinking champagne with the Russians, and then growing bored, returning to the dancefloor with limited success, and closing off by sinking more champagne with Nash and one of his men.
He sat up, and stretched. The room had a tiny bathroom attached, complete with shower, fresh towels, soap, toothpaste, and pristine toothbrushes encapsulated in little plastic tubes. He showered quickly, shaving quickly with a waiting electric razor, and dressed. He must make himself beautiful for lunch with Jack and Arabella, and ensure that he had his act totally together. Perhaps Cosgrave had designs on Wonders as well.
A telephone rang beside the bed. It was Nash.
‘How are you, mate? How's your head?’
Hunter grunted.
‘Come and have some breakfast. Turn right out of your room, end of the corridor, down the steps. My man will be waiting for you.’
Nash was already breakfasting in a corner of his VIP Suite, alone amongst the empty tables and chairs, watched by an attentive barman. He beamed at Hunter, and waved at a place laid facing him. ‘We've got fruit juice, cornflakes, bacon and eggs, you name it.’
Hunter ordered toast and black coffee. Nash looked disappointed. ‘You should eat a good meal to start the day. How were the Russians?’
Hunter crunched. ‘They're trying to put a deal together, and they aren't sure how they're going.’ He was too polite to query Nash's interest.
‘You think they're going to do it?’
He shrugged. ‘Could be.’
Nash made a face, and carried on munching bacon and eggs, deep in thought. He did not speak again until he had finished eating. Then he sipped coffee, still thoughtful. Finally he cleared his throat. ‘What do you think?’
Hunter smiled non-commitally. Toast and coffee and a night in a cell rated pretty low as bargaining counters.
Nash chewed his lower lip. ‘Hmm.’ He was plainly uncertain. ‘Can I square with you?’
This sounded more promising. Hunter nodded.
‘I mean, you won't quote me, or nothing?’
‘Not a word.’
‘I've got a ...’ Nash hesitated, and then began again. ‘Me and some friends with a piece of the Russki’s action, we've been laying out some bread on Wonders...’
Things began to fall into place. Hunter sighed. ‘You want to know if you're on the right side.’
‘That's it, Richard.’ Nash nodded eagerly. ‘They come to us through this broker, he's really hot for a deal. He tells us Wonders is going to buy them: big, big money. But they need some support, a nice office here in London, a bit of back-up. Something to make them look good. So we look at them, we like them, and we dive in, fix them up smart in Mayfair. Then the broker tells us we should buy options in Wonders as well, build ourselves a position so we can clean up when the deal comes through. So we buy options.’
‘You dive in again.’
‘That's right.’
‘And then?’
‘Well, the fucking price began to fall, doesn't it?’ Nash looked as though he had chewed on something very bitter.
‘Croesus.’ Hunter murmurs Harris' nickname half to himself.
‘What?’
‘Ned Harris. He's trying to put a bid together.’
‘So?’ Nash seemed to be struggling to keep up.
‘Harris wants to break Wonders up and flog off the bits.’ Hunter spoke slowly, as though to a child. ‘But he wants it cheap.’
A light began to dawn. ‘You mean he's pushing the price down?’
Hunter nodded.
‘The bastard.’ Nash drummed his fingers nervously on the table. ‘How long is all this going to take?’
‘I don't know.’ Hunter had no money in Wonders, so he could afford to take a relaxed view. ‘Until he calls the turn.’
‘Come again?’
Hunter glanced at his watch. It was time for him to move - he must get get back to his flat, make himself beautiful, and buy Arabella some flowers. He got to his feet. ‘Wonders is in a bad way, Morissey needs a deal, or the institutions will have his guts for garters. Croesus counts on waiting until they get really jittery, then he can pounce.’
Nash had the strained look of a man hoping against hope. ‘Then the shares will go back up again?’
‘Maybe not much.’ Hunter knew that he was dealing Nash a blow, but he owed the man nothing. ‘Morissey hadn't got a lot of credit, unless he pulls a Russian out of his hat.’
‘But they don't want to do a fucking deal unless he can pile up the readies.’
‘There you are.’ Hunter smiled a little wolfishly. Nash had impaled himself on a hook, and his pain was a fitting penalty for sending Hella and Birgitta packing. ‘You're lucky you've got strong nerves.’
Nash winced, and paled, because he was gambling with money that rightly belonged to some tough acquaintances. But Hunter was already on his way downstairs and heading for the world outside. He had better things to do than provide villains with lessons in stockmarket trading.
Half an hour later he was exploring his flat. Elaine had gone, and might never have been. Every single last shred of her clothing, cosmetics, and knicknacks had vanished, and all consequent spaces had been tidily refilled. Hunter's bedroom was pristine, and his clothes now fill three fitted wardrobes instead of two. He pushed open his bathroom door, and stopped dead. Elaine had left just one souvenir: the word 'bastard' scrawled in huge crimson lipstick capitals across his bathroom mirror.
It was an ending. Hunter smiled wryly, and shrugged. He had things to do.
Later, just after twelve, he was a new man, standing outside the Cosgrave's front door, casually smart in a light brown Simpsons linen suit, pale blue shirt and pink tie, carrying an armful of carnations in a waxed paper cone. Arabella's Sunday lunches were generally high-powered, and he had no wish to look small.
Arabella opened the door in person. ‘Darling!’ It was a cry of joy, and her eyes crinkled up at the corners as she smiled in a way that could still make Hunter's heart skip a beat. ‘You've brought flowers. Oh, you are a pet!’
She stepped back to let him pass, kissing him quickly on his cheek, her blonde hair lightly brushing his skin as she turned her head, and her touch and her scent for a fragment of a moment cancelled ten years of Hunter's life, spiriting him back to a dreamtime when such a touch and scent had formed part of his each and every day.
‘You're such an angel.’ She half whispered the words, and Hunter looked at her quickly, half hoping against all belief that she might be unravelling time. But her smile was pure courtesy, quite cleansed of temptation. ‘Come on in. We've got quite a star-studded cast.’
She lowered her voice again, imparting a confidence. ‘And I've managed to tempt a cousin of mine called Alice Carew, who's just started at the Foreign Office as well. She'll be a bit late, because she has to use public transport. But I'm sure you'll like her.’
Another arrival now fidgeted behind Hunter. Arabella fluttered him into her house with her elegantly long fingers, wholly in keeping with the cool fluttering elegance of her new blue designer chiffon special, and cooed a fresh greeting as Hunter walked through the hall towards a conservatory where Cosgrave stood supervising two white-jacketed barmen behind a long table bearing a row of burnished silver ice buckets on a spotless white damask cloth.
The sight pierced Hunter with a sharp stab of jealousy. He wanted a hall bright like Cosgrave's with huge abstract paintings, to be able to pour expensive champagne, and host smart lunches. But he knew that he was outgunned, and the thought made him sour. He decided to stay only long enough to meet Arabella's cousin, recover Cradock's papers, and then push off. Perhaps work would purge his bile.
Cosgrave was already beaming. ‘Richard, wonderful of you to come.’ He was a big, red-faced man, with a loud booming voice, like a foghorn, and had underdressed for the occasion in a blue and white silk shirt and seersucker slacks. But both shirt and slacks flagged expensive living. Hunter could never fully encompass Arabella’s deserting him for such man. Money was nothing but corruption.
He forced a smile. He was playing an away game, on Cosgrave's home ground, and must play a straight bat. He joine a line of guests waiting to collect glasses of champagne, and looked around him curiously.
The conservatory was a riot of subtropical plants and Grecian statues, packed with a crowd mixing dark suits and middleaged spreads with elegant undress and the wilder reaches of the couture market.
He felt a hand on his arm.
‘We must have a word, after lunch.’ Cosgrave held out a crystal flute of champagne, and his smile was the shark smile of a merchant banker hungry to make a killing. ‘I need some guidance.’
Hunter sipped and sighed. Everybody was piling into Wonders, and everybody was seeking guidance. ‘You read my piece.’
‘It was wonderful.’
‘You have an eye on the Russians.’
‘They had snow on their boots.’
‘Not the ones I met.’ He smiled again, because now the hunger in Cosgrave's eyes was almost tangible. ‘Maybe we should swap notes.’ He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together and turned away before Cosgrave can reply. It was a rash thing to say, and a rash gesture to make, because eyes and ears were everywhere. But he had often dreamed of revenge, or major compensation at least, and perhaps a chance would now come.
The crowd in the conservatory sipped champagne, and traded courtesies, flattered importance, and gossipped busily. Hunter spied Mary Bowman, sometimes better known as Delilah, half hidden behind a small banana tree, and they exchanged waves. He swapped polite small talk for a moment with a tall German banker, bantered lightly with a Treasury minister about his VAT story, and pitched his ears to tune in on the gossip flowing around him.
A podgy hand rested on his sleeve. ‘Richard, what were you saying about the Russians?’ The speaker was short, and fat, a bossy property tycoon with links to Downing Street, but mean with his lunches and a treacherous source.
Hunter twisted deftly free. ‘They're snowball salesmen.’ He moved on quickly, heading for a mane of titian hair topping a green silk summer suit. It was hard to tell whether the owner was young or old, but the green silk suit was smart, and the mane glowed, and the combination was a magnet.
He circled to secure a better view, and stopped short. The titian hair belonged to a woman with green eyes that shone like dark emeralds. She was holding a champagne flute and talking to a dark man, but she looked up as she spoke and smiled at Hunter quickly, the smile of a woman flattered by admiration, but occupied for the time being. Then she continued talking, and Hunter realises that both she and the man were speaking Spanish, and that she had a large square-cut emerald and a gold ring on the second finger of her right hand, and these were dismissals.
Somebody behind him laughed. ‘Bad luck.’ Delilah was standing at his shoulder, looking greatly amused. ‘Her husband is the Chilean ambassador.’
Hunter sighed. Delilah had short dark hair, and much too much ambition to dally with pressmen. He reconfigured quickly into serious mode. ‘How's the plot coming along?’
‘Sssh, naughty boy.’ She touched a forefinger to her lips and rolled her eyes, looking as though she had already sampled several glasses of bubbly. ‘We don't talk about those things, not when ministers are about.’ She nodded towards the Treasury minister, now deep in conversation with the tall German banker. ‘Plots are bad for promotion.’
She dimpled, and suddenly she was really rather close to Hunter, and he raised a questioning eyebrow. This was a new Delilah, in temptress mode, and he was a little taken aback. But he was also curious, and warmed in champagne-fuelled response, even though common sense warned that he might be counting rather too much on hope.
‘Not when plotters win.’ He murmured his words softly, willing her even closer.
Delilah giggled, and drew back, just as Hunter thought they might be on the point of engaging bodily contact. She had baited a hook, and must now play it skilfully.
‘We'll probably have to buy some heavy votes first.’
Her voice flagged temptation. Hunter leered.
‘You mean Croesus needs Wonders?’
Mary Bowman looked baffled for a moment, and then shook her head, and her scent was a cloud of enchantment. ‘Oh, no, there's plenty of cash in the kitty. But we've got to get people like you on side.’
‘Me?’ Now it was Hunter's turn to draw back. ‘Terry Manning and Charlie Archell wouldn't stand for it.’
‘No.’ Mary Bowman paused. She was entering a minefield, and now she must step very carefully. ‘We know that. But Ned's worried that some people that don't like us might rake up some dirt from the past.’
Hunter's eyes narrowed. ‘Go on.’ His voice suddenly held a hard edge.
She smiled winningly. ‘He'd like to head you off.’
‘You mean he wants to do a deal with me?’
‘Something like that.’ Her eyes searched Hunter's, seeking some spark of interest and consent. But now Hunter was wary, offering nothing but rejection, and she knew that she had been defeated, and wondered for a moment why she had ever agreed to such a mission. Butt she had promised to pass on an offer, and she would be faithful to her word. ‘He's afraid that some of the people involved might turn rough.’
‘Rough?’
‘You know how it is.’ She sighed. Making eyes at men was one thing, but now she was on unfamiliar and dangerous ground. ‘Some people are frightened, and frightened people can be dangerous.’
Now they were very close again, quite close enough to kiss, but neither had kissing in mind.
‘Ned just wants you to be careful, and come out of this with some kind of gain.’ Her voice was little more than a whisper. ‘He really doesn't want anybody hurt at all.’
Hunter nodded briefly, acknowledging her words, and she stared at him for a moment, as though willing his agreement. But his face was stone, and she turned abruptly away, and a moment later she was gone, melted into the crowd around them.
Hunter stood alone, his mind whirling. Croesus was offering a bribe, and an easy road. But Cradock would make him famous. He wondered momentarily how much he might ask, but then pushed the thought away as ignoble. He had promised, and he would keep his word. But it was plain that both he and Cradock were threatened, and he must crack this story at speed.
For a moment Delilah’s eyes filled his mind, and he swallowed. She might have made a tasty morsel. But he pushed lechery away - he was plainly fated to have bad luck with women, and duty called.
Cosgrave broke in on his reverie. ‘Come on, we've got a buffet in the diningroom.’ He steered Hunter back into the house. ‘We can chat in the library after you've eaten.’ He rubbed his thumb against his forefinger. ‘You'll be grateful.’
The buffet was lavish. Two chefs in tall white hats were busy piling plates with smoked salmon, lobster mayonnaise, cold lamb, pickled beef, and salads of many kinds, and Cosgrave's guests peeled away from the buffet to divide into grouplets of serious talkers, picking at small helpings and eating on their feet, and serious foodies, seated at the diningroom table and stuffing themselves.
Hunter collected a modest helping of lobster, decorated with a border of asparagus and wondered whether Arabella's cousin had yet arrived. Then he stopped short, fork and a tasty morsel of lobster frozen in mid air.
Arabella was waving at him, and behind her he could see a tall girl with long dark hair, slim in a simple dark brown silk shift, holding herself very straight. They both made their way to him, and Hunter recovered himself enough to return his lobster to his plate. But he could not take his eyes off Arabella's companion. She had a long, open face and luminous eyes, the face of a beautiful mediaeval madonna, and she was smiling faintly, in an amused sort of way.
‘Alice, this is Richard, our man from Financeday, our top media star.’ Arabella's voice was pure honey. She smiled a most benevolent smile as Hunter and the girl shook hands. ‘Richard, meet Alice Carew, my cousin from the Foreign Office. Jack says she's destined for great things.’
Hunter was tongue-tied. He racked his brain for a well-turned compliment, but Arabella's cousin was shaking her head demurely.
‘I'm really just an office girl at the moment.’ Her voice was light, and danced along her words. ‘I read the papers when they come in, and type up a summary, that sort of thing.’
She was watching Hunter, and it was plain that she knew his name, and was waiting to see whether he was vain.
Hunter smiled sweetly. ‘I write the odd story.’
Now she laughed. ‘My bosses think you come straight from hell.’
‘My Vat story?’
She nodded.
Hunter lowered his eyes demurely. ‘Fridays are my days for pestering ministers.’
Another laugh, tinkling like a small wind chime. ‘Ah.’ It was a long-drawn sound, almost a small song. ‘So that's why they all take long weekends.’
Hunter was enthralled. He parked his plate, to fetch more lobster and a clean fork, and manoeuvred this dream of a girl into a safe corner where they could talk undisturbed, practising his very best charm. Alice Carew was everything he remembered of Arabella, and more, with beauty and grace and intelligence, charm enough to tempt birds out of their trees, and a sharp, sharp wit. They traded gossip and jokes, snippets of life and experience, and it was as though they had been friends for life.
Cosgrave passed, making beckoning gestures, but Hunter ignored him. This girl was worth many, many Cosgraves.
Cosgrave returned, and this time his manner was insistent. ‘Come on, Richard, we must chat.’ His foghorn boom was not to be gainsaid.
Hunter nodded reluctantly. He smiled, still absorbed. ‘Can I buy you lunch this week, say on Thursday at the IOD?’ He was not a member of the Institute of Directors, but he had an entrée to the basement diningroom, and it was a class place to eat.
‘I’m not allowed out for long.’ Alice Carew's eyes laughed at him.
‘It’s a stone’s throw from Calton Terrace.’
‘I hope none of our people recognise me with you. They might think you were spying.’ She paused. ‘You’ll be able to tell me what you think of Veronica.’
Hunter raised an eyebrow.
‘We're lending her to Financeday for a month.’
Hunter waited.
‘The men in my department call her a honeypot.’
Cosgrave was hovering, but Hunter scented a tip. However Alice Carew shook her head. ‘Wait until Monday. You'll find out for yourself.’
Hunter followed Cosgrave, his mind filled with luminous eyes and long open face. He had a feeling that he had been smitten, and he was in a whirl.
Cosgrave closed his library door behind them. ‘Nice girl.’
Hunter was in a daze.
‘Come and sit down.’ He was already reaching for a decanter of brandy. ‘I need some guidance on Wonders.’
Hunter took his glass and waited. He had dispensed a sight too much free guidance already.
‘Croesus is writing traded puts like there's going to be no tomorrow.’ Cosgrave took a generous swallow. ‘He's put the fear of God into some of Wonder's institutional holders. He's convinced them that Morissey hasn't a clue, that Wonders is going to hell on a fast train, and that the price is going to follow. He's whispering that he'll mount a break-up bid, but at a much lower level. They've hocked their holdings to him, and he's piling up cash.’
Hunter allowed himself a small sip. It was good brandy, the very best, but he needed to keep his head clear. ‘You want to know if Morissey can pull off a deal.’
‘Everyone wants to know if Morissey can pull off a deal.’ Cosgrave twitched. He has been writing some puts himself, both for clients and on his own account. But his clients had holdings in Wonders, wantedto sell, and were writing puts to square their books, whilst he was taking cash, and gambling without cover. Wonders was sliding, and it was bad news, because he risked finding himself stuffed with stock, and short of money to pay. He needed advance news of a nice deal by Morissey, and a chance to switch his takings into buying traded calls. Then he would be on the right side, and heading for fortune.
‘Everybody is gambling.’ Hunter sipped again. It was really good brandy, and he would have liked to swim in it. But Cradock called.
‘Do you think he will?’ Cosgrave's boom was tinged with just a shade of uncertainty.
Hunter raised his hand and rubbed his thumb against his forefinger.
Cosgrave sniffed. ‘You haven't told me anything yet.’
This was true. But they were playing poker in a world where information commanded the highest price when most secret. They eyed each other warily, like dogs circling, and both were waiting.
Hunter smiled, and decided to show a corner of his hand. ‘I met the Russians last night. I'm going to try and set up an interview with Morissey tomorrow. I'm having lunch with Croesus on Thursday.’
Cosgrave was suddenly alert. ‘Will you tape them? Morissey and Croesus?’
‘Possibly.’
He mused for a moment. ‘We could cut you in for a slice, in return for the tapes.’
Hunter shook his head. ‘They're my notes.’
‘We could copy them.’
They eyed each again, and now they were both smiling.
‘Get someone to meet me with a CD burner when I come out.’ Hunter began to rough out a plan. ‘You'll be way ahead of the herd. I could introduce you to the Russians.’
Cosgrave was now beaming, but Hunter rubbed his thumb against his forefinger again. Merchant bankers promise much, but cannot always be counted on to deliver.
Cosgrave's beam was a lighthouse. He barely hesitated, razor-sharp merchant banker brain spinning faster than a superfast computer. ‘Okay.’ He bound himself, but he knows that he would be a winner. ‘I've got ten million to run, plus portfolios, possibly a bit more.’ He knew that he was giving too much away. But knowledge was gold in the City, and ignorance was death. ‘I could cut you in for five percent of any uplift past a hundred and five percent of Friday's closing price.’
Hunter calculated quickly in his mind. Wonders was hovering around 150, so Cosgrave was offering a slice of the uplift from 160 or so. He pursed his lips. ‘Where could they go?’
Cosgrave shrugged. Jigsaw pieces were falling into place, but the Russians would be the key. ‘I don't know. The price had come down from over two hundred in the past six weeks. maybe it would climb back, maybe it would go better. Something really clever could wing it up past three hundred.’
Hunter calculated again. They were talking anything from quarter of a million upwards. He pictured Alice Carew on a paradise beach, and it was a vision of heaven. ‘How about Elektron?’
Cosgrave caught his breath. Elektron was a big target, a dream target, and everything began to fall into place.
‘He's going to need cash, big, big bucks.’ He spoke thoughtfully - he might have been talking to himself. Financing a tie-up with Elektron could rank as the banking coup of the decade. ‘We'd have to organise a really massive bond wassue, wrap it up with warrants, and syndicate it.’
He got to his feet and began walking a circle around Hunter's chair. Wonders would have to raise millions, tens of millions, possibly even hundreds of millions. There would be commissions, and nice fat fees, and a nice fat slice for Jack Cosgrave.
He stopped. The deal would be challenging, but not beyond reach. His eyes shone. ‘We can do it, by God we can do it.’ His foghorn boom had regained its full blast. He grabbed Hunter's hand, pumping it hard. ‘I'm going to make you rich, my boy. We're going to clean up. This is your lucky day.’