CHAPTER
ELEVEN: MORISSEY
Sunday afternoons are normally leisure times, best employed making love, taking children and dogs for walks, or recovering from long boozy lunches. But Hunter dug Cradock's case out of the Cosgraves' cellar, ferried it back to his flat, and covered his kitchen table and floor with neat heaps of photocopies. He had an ominous sense of foreboding. Somebody was homing in on Cradock, and time might be running short. He must load an outline into his laptop as fast as he can, and modify his strategy. He worked his way methodically through the heaps and maps out a new plan, centering on picking one vulnerable plotter, one key target as a possible canary, piling in hard, and writing a spearhead feature to get things going. He had one chance, if wolves had begun prowling, and he must not fluff it.
He pounded on relentlessly through the evening, loading fact after fact as he built his case, weaving a net capable of trapping the wiliest of preys. Cradock's documents were wholly and totally damning, and blocked all escape. He broke off about nine to snack on cold Swedish pork pie, and brew a pot of strong black coffee, and pounded on. Finally, some time after two on Monday morning, he had both outline and target. Sam Goodman, the new Home Secretary was an ambitious man, a blustering, loud-mouthed lawyer hungry for publicity. He had been fishing for a Financeday interview to promote a tough new line on crime, but Hunter had so far been cool, because the man was a pain. But now he had a sheaf of rash letters and memos, signed some thirty years earlier by a blustering, loud-mouthed young lawyer when Goodman had been a good deal to the right of his present views, ranking as a man hungry to make his way in the world, and the letters were a noose.
He could set up an interview, let Goodman open nicely on law on order, lulling him into a false sense of security, flourish a fistful of photocopies, and race in for a kill. Bluster would be blustered, and he would blow the bastard away.
Hunter smiled at the thought, and saved his file, and closed down. He would sleep the sleep of a sleuth, and dream of flaxen haired maidens dancing naked in nightclubs, and perhaps he would picture Alice Carew on a paradise beach.
Monday morning began fine and promised to be hot. Hunter opted for a lightweight suit again, coupling it with a shortsleeved cotton shirt and knotted his tie at halfmast. His eyelids were heavy as he drank strong black coffee and munched on a solitary slice of toast, but his fatigue would pass. He had people to chase, and stories to write, and adrenalin would come to his rescue.
He tidied Cradock's papers and packed them back into the big leather suitcase, picked up his telephone, and dialled for a taxi. The case was too precious to leave in his flat. He would take it with him to Financeday and hunt again for somewhere secure.
Financeday's newsroom was already busy. Scott waved, and then beckoned. Hunter left his jacket on the back of his chair and parked Cradock's case with a nubile secretary.
‘Terry wants you to sit on conference this morning.’ Scott was in a buoyant mood. He had a good list of stories: trouble was brewing in New York, and the markets had opened weak. A nice little panic would make a fine strong lead. ‘How's Wonders coming along?’
Hunter looked knowing. ‘I'm seeing Bob Morissey at two.’
Scott nodded. He had already noted the interview, but star reporters always merit flattery. ‘Good. The market has started dull, but Wonders are rocketing. I'll give you a pic and five hundred words on the front if he comes on strong enough. What about Croesus?’
‘He's buying me lunch on Wednesday.’
‘Simpsons?’ Scott beamed. ‘Stay sober, and I'll give you another five hundred for Thursday, and I'll get Joe to pencil you in for a two thousand word background feature on Saturday. You've got a good story going there. Run it for all it's worth.’
Hunter thought of Cosgrave and the Russians and beamed back. He would be rich, and he would be famous, and fortune would smile on him with a truly beautiful smile.
Terry Manning always held his morning news conferences at eleven sharp. Hunter joined a queue of waiting senior editorial staff in the corridor outside his huge penthouse office suite, pretending not to notice the way Grant Madison, Financeday's industrial editor, was glowering at him. He also eyed a darkhaired girl with a perfect cupid's bow mouth tagged on to the end of the queue. She was a new face, a touch on the chubby side perhaps, but very nicely moulded, her pale yellow summer dress quite tight, and really quite sexy in a vampish sort of way. She smiled shyly, and Hunter preened.
Manning's secretary opened his door on the dot of the hour and they filed in to take places either side of a long boardroom table, each with its own neatly printed little place card. Hunter was mightily flattered to find himself in a seat of honour at Manning's right hand.
Manning sketched Tuesday's main running list at speed - sliding markets for a provisional splash, grim economic statistics as fall-back, truculence in Brussels to make a trinity. He was cheerful - the euro had turned round, and had started to weaken.
He placed his right hand on Hunter's forearm. ‘I'm planning a bit of a redistribution.’ Financeday's top men and women stopped shuffling papers and preparing to return to their desks, and were suddenly alert. Something was up, and it smelled like a purge. Suddenly Manning's office suite was very quiet.
Manning looked along the table. ‘Richard here has done some really sharp industrial work on Wonders as well as a topnotch political piece.’
Two row of faces beamed at Hunter. But Madison had turned pale.
‘We need more punch.’ Manning formed a fist with his right hand and brought it down hard on the table. ‘From now on I want everyone with tricky stories to liaise with Richard.’
Madison held up a hand He knew that his head was in a noose, but he was not prepared to swing without a struggle.
Manning nodded.
‘You're asking us to give him our best leads.’
Manning frowned. ‘You haven't been doing them justice, Grant.’
It was both judgement, and damnation. Madison retreated into a barrage of affronted snuffling, but his wings had plainly been clipped, and Financeday seemed likely soon to have a new industrial editor. Chairs shuffled as journalists either side of him edged away to avoid contamination.
Manning rapped on the table for attention. ‘Two more things.’ He beckoned the girl with the pout to stand. ‘Veronica Finch is joining us for a month from the Foreign Office to learn how newspapers work.’ His hand waved her back into her seat, just as her cupid bow lips parted gratefully, and beckoned again to summon up a tall thin man in a grey suit with a mousy beard and heavy horn-rimmed glasses. ‘And Frank had upgraded our technology over the weekend.’
Frank Bailey, Financeday's information processing supremo, smiled modestly. ‘It's taken us a bit more than a weekend, I'm afraid, but we're on stream now. We're going to record all calls, both incoming and outgoing, and store them electronically.’
Financeday's top team twitched in collective alarm. Telephones were working tools. But they were also for calling wives and husbands and lovers, placing bets, and gossipping.
Bailey lifted a reassuring hand. ‘People who want to stay off the record will be able to do so by first hitting the star button on their phones.’
The table sighed in collective relief.
‘We've also computerised the library. Every single cutting had now been fed in, so you'll be able to call cuttings up on your screens, or continue accessing files manually, and you'll also be able to store documents you want to keep by copying them into our databank.’
Hunter lifted his hand. ‘How?’ He was thinking of Cradock's case.
Bailey spread his hands wide. ‘Just feed them into any of the big copiers. You'll see they all now have linked terminals. The terminals act as controls. You can set them to copy as conventional copiers, to store, or transmit to other terminals.’
‘Like faxes?’
‘Like faxes.’
The morning news conference broke up in a buzz of talk.
Hunter waylaid Bailey on his way out. ‘Can I store as much as I like?’
Bailey smiled proudly. ‘Millions of pages.’
‘What about security?’
‘Choose your own folder names and passwordd. It's as simple as that.’
Hunter walked slowly back to his desk, deep in thought. Cradock's case was a headache. But now he could copy all Cradock's documents into the Financeday computer, and lock the case away somewhere safe, and work from home accessing the Financeday computer through a modem. He had security, he had protection, and he was safe.
He smiled to himself, and caught the eye of the Foreign Office girl, parked at a desk a little way to his right, to be rewarded with another shy smile. Nice, perhaps not quite as nice as Arabella’s cousin, but still tasty. However he sternly suppressed an urge to stroll over and chat her up. He must get on with preparing Morissey, and count on working late. Loading Cradock would probably take most of the evening. He would dine in the Financeday canteen, and taxi home to a lonely nightcap, and Foreign Office girls would have to practise their shy smiles on others.
He powered up, to bury himself in the Wonders file. Morissey would expect him to be well briefed, and he must not disappoint. He glanced at his watch. He had a couple of hours’ for homework time. Then he could lunch quickly on a canteen salad, pick up his photographer, and be on his way.
He found Colin Blakeley, Wonders' director of public affairs, already waiting in the Wonders reception area as he marched in trailing his photographer. Blakely hurried towards them, an immaculately handsome PR man in an expensively tailored suit, deference at its best, charm at its smoothest, and the trim blonde receptionist looked suitably impressed.
‘Welcome, Richard, how good to see you.’ He eyed the photographer. ‘We could have given you a picture of the chairman.’
The photographer pretended not to hear. Hunter matched smoothness with smoothness. ‘Terry prefers us to use our own people. We like action pictures. PR pics tend to be rather posed.’
Blakeley twitched, and madefor the lifts. He punched a button. ‘Bob will give you an hour.’
They rocketed up to the top floor in silence. Blakeley left Hunter and the photographer in a small reception area staffed by an even classier girl and disappeared through a doorway. The photographer began unpacking camera gear, and Hunter eyed him suspiciously. This was going to be a key interview, and he needed to make sure it would not be eroded.
‘We go in, I'll get him talking, and you can take all the pics you like.’ His voice held a sharp edge. ‘But don't try setting up any static shots to kick off with. Keep them for the end.’
He had bitter memories of taking a freelance photographer to see a top banker and losing ten minutes of vital time while the photographer hopped about taking vanity shots in a bid to make a bob or two on the side.
The photographer grunted non-commitally. He had been on more bloody shoots than this man has had hot dinners.
Blakeley hurried back. ‘The chairman is ready.’
Morissey's office is huge, an even bigger penthouse suite than Manning's, furnished in pink and grey pastels. Morissey is standing by the corner of his desk, a balding pink and grey man in his shirtsleeves.
He advanced to meet Hunter, beaming. ‘Come and sit somewhere comfortable.’ He led the way to a sofa and two armchairs, and watched as Hunter sets his small CD recorder up on a low coffeetable.
‘Right.’ He rubbed his hand together briskly. ‘We're negotiating a deal with Elektron, we've notified the regulatory authorities, and we hope to sign all the papers by the end of the week. How's that for a start?’
Hunter looked suitably impressed. ‘Big deal?’
Morissey nodded masterfully. ‘We're setting up a joint venture, fifty-fifty, using our money to back their technology and open up the Russian market.’
Hunter looks at him sharply. ‘Have you got enough?’
The photographer danced around in the background, taking action pictures.
‘It's going to be new money.’
‘Some kind of bond issue with warrants?’
Morissey's eyes narrowed. ‘You're well informed.’
Hunter had a vision of Wonders' share price climbing and climbing. He smiled modestly. ‘I try to keep my ear to the ground.’
A maid entered the suite carrying a tray. She had a crisp white blouse, starched pinafore and black silk skirt, possibly a touch too tight for bending, and Hunter and the photographer both salivated as she set tea, coffee, and pretty little cakes out on the coffeetable, for the skirt outlined her backside to perfection.
Morissey smiled in a proprietorial sort of way, and the photographer knelt on one knee to take a couple of quick shots for his scrapbook.
Hunter sipped coffee from a bone china cup. ‘How big overall?’
The maid shot him a quick look as if she was being questioned on her vital statistics, and he averted his eyes. Morissey plainly had fun in his teabreak.
Wonders’ chairman pursed his lips, and a pink hand fluttered in the air. ‘We're still working things out. But you can take a guess at four hundred million, or thereabouts, as long as you don't put a figure in my mouth.’
The photographer swallowed hard, and took another picture for his scrapbook. He also scrabbled quickly in his pocket, located a crumpled card, and managed to flip it deftly onto the maid's tray as she prepared to leave. She dimpled, and the card vanished under her cake plate.
Hunter sipped again, his brain clocking up numbers at lightning speed. Jim Nash was going to save his bacon. Jack Cosgrave was going to make a killing. Arabella would grow even richer. But he no longer cared, for Richard Hunter was also going to do pretty well, and he was lunching with Alice Carew on Thursday.
He remembered Croesus. ‘What about Ned Harris?’
Morissey got to his feet and walked to his desk. He punched the power button on a Reuters terminal, tapped quickly at a keyboard, and straightened up. ‘We're back above 170 and climbing against the market. He's going to have to move fast if he wants to make this bid he's been bragging about.’ His voice was contemptuous. ‘I hear he's bolted abroad.’ He waved his hand dismissively. ‘He's better off playing politics.’
‘You think he's out of the running?’
Morissey shrugged, and tapped the side of his nose with his finger. ‘My man in the market says he had closed all his short positions and switched to calls. I think he's thrown in the towel.’
Hunter travelled back to Financeday by taxi, watched the photographer disappear into the Financeday building, and scrabbled for his mobile. He had calls to make, to Cosgrave and Gorbodey, and he needed privacy. Star buttons might claim to block call recording, but he was taking no chances.
Cosgrave purred with delight. Hunter had called his mobile to evade prying ears, and it crackled alarmingly. But the crackles were ecstatic.
‘We designed a package last night, and sold it this morning.’ Cosgrave's foghorn boomed joyously. ‘The price touched 180 a few minutes ago.’
Hunter pressed a finger in his free ear to drown out the sound of passing traffic, and calculated that he already stood to make more than sixty grand. He smiled happily at a passing traffic warden, and the warden glowered with the deepest mistrust.
Cosgrave crackled again. ‘Did you tape him?’
Hunter looked around him quickly. Even pavements could have eyes ears at crucial moments. He grunted a quick affirmative.
‘We've got a man waiting outside your building, at the back door. He's in a black BMW. He'll copy it while you wait.’
The BMW stopped in front of Hunter as he listened. The nearside front window rolled down and a black gloved hand reached out, palm upwards, and vanished again holding his small CD recorder. Hunter stepped back, away from the car and looked around him quickly again. Ten metres from the Financeday main door was not the best place in the world for doubtful transactions. He retreated around a corner of the building to call Gorbodey.
‘You are a good, good friend.’ The Russian's voice filled with grateful emotion. ‘We must meet tonight, and drink vodka together.’
Hunter shuffled him off to Tuesday evening, and returned to the BMW. The car's window rolled down again, and a black gloved hand dropped his CD recorder into his outstretched hand, and the car pulled away.
Hunter made for the main Financeday entrance. Now he must get his copy away while he still had his story fresh in his mind. He had scooped, and would profit handsomely. He toyed, as the Financeday lift carried him up to the newsroom, with the idea of buying a house. Perhaps a holiday home somewhere in the south of France. Somewhere to hide away and write Cradock.
He raced straight to his desk, ignoring a friendly wave from Scott, and powered up. His opening paragraph was bursting to get out, and his story line would run on seamlessly. He must write.
The piece rolled out in record time. The story flowed from his fingertips, dynamic punchy phrase after phrase, embossed with a couple of nice quotes and dotted with big numbers, and it was perfect.
He finished, scrolled through his text quickly, and smiled the smile of a victor. The piece was good: he had notched up a star performance. He had hunted, and he would win. He hit his save key, and called the Home Office to set a trap, before heading for the coffee machine feeling euphoric. He felt on top of the world, and it was a moment for triumph.
The Foreign Office girl was already brewing up. Hunter smiled at her, because he was in the most amiable of moods.
Her cupid bow lips quivered. ‘You look as though you've had a good day.’
‘Not bad.’ Hunter was modest. He could afford to be.
She filled a cup and held it out to him, and her eyes were dark and very tempting. ‘It must take a lot of practice.’
Hunter suddenly realised that she was transmitting strong signals, and remembered what Alice Carew had told him. This was certainly a pot filled with honey. His smile blossomed. ‘You'll learn.’
‘I'll probably end up processing passport applications somewhere hot and sticky.’ Her mouth turned downwards a little at the corners, and she lowered her eyes, and her eyelashes were provocative curtains. ‘I'm quite good at asking questions, but I'm still learning. That's why I'm here. I guess my bosses thought somebody would mentor me. But newspapers don't seemed like that. Everybody rushes around doing their own thing.’
A cupid bow lower lip quivered, and she looked up, and Hunter looked into two dark eyes filled with hope and trust, and he was quite swept away.
‘I'll give you a hand.’
‘You will?’ The girl's voice was breathless. ‘That really would be nice.’
For a moment Hunter had the feeling that she was about to kiss him, but she drew away. ‘I could stay on a bit later...’
He remembered Cradock. ‘Not tonight.’ He remembered Gorbodey. ‘Tomorrow's a bit of a problem as well.’ He tugged one of his business cards from his wallet. ‘Here's my mobile number. I'll show you some ropes on Wednesday. But call me if you line up a date between now and then.’
The girl smiled, and turnd to take a biro from a nearby desk, and scribbled on the back of a scrap of paper. ‘Here's my flat number. Call me tomorrow, and I'll tell you then.’
She smiled a long, slow, wholly seductive smile, before turning away to drift back towards her desk, still smiling, for now she was really very pleased with herself. Playing a temptress business was proving rather fun. She wondered if one day she would rank as a top secret agent.
Hunter retrieved Cradock's case and made for a lonely copier tucked away in a corner, half hidden from the main body of the newsroom by two tall grey metal filing cabinets. He had much work to do. But he would have some fun when his work was done.
He was busily copying Cradock's documents when he realised that Cowan had joined him. He eyed the diary editor doubtfully. Cowan had strange preferences, and Hunter had no desire to share them.
‘Be careful of that Veronica girl.’ Cowan stared at him appraisingly. ‘She's got designs on you.’
Hunter smiled the smile of a man admired for his talents.
Cowan moved a little closer. ‘She's a trap.’
‘Huh?’ Hunter was lost.
‘Grant’s working with Whitehall to set you up.’ Cowan's voice was soft and syrupy. ‘She’s going to compromise you, and scream rape.’
Hunter listened in mixed shock and anger. ‘Grant?’
‘He’s jealous.’
He shook his head in disbelief. ‘But he wouldn’t do a deal with the enemy. He’d be cutting his own throat.’
‘He never was very bright.’
‘Can you prove it?’
‘He told me himself.’
‘Bastard.’ Hunter thought for a moment. ‘You’d better let Terry know.’
Cowan smiled softly. ‘I have.’
Hunter shuffled his papers, and a sheet slipped out to fall on the floor. He bent to pick it up, and straightened again, to find himself alone. Cowan had vanished, and it was as though he had never been.
Three hours later he had duplicated the whole of Cradock's case into the Financeday computer. He sighed with relief and made for the main entrance, to park Cradock's case with the duty security guard.
The guard was the same military man as on Saturday morning, but he was no longer concerned, for Cradock was now safe. He headed downstairs from the Financeday entrance hall for the basement canteen, taking the steps two at a time, and thought about food, and about betrayal. He was hungry now, and he must try and locate Terry Manning, or else Martin Scott, and put the boot in on Madison. The bastard. Hunter reckoned he could hold his own in office politics, but this man was trying to link up with powerful outside forces.
The Financeday canteen had two sections - a large open-plan self service area, and a separate and slightly ritzier diningroom with waitress service. Hunter made for the diningroom. Manning and Scott often dined late, and he would cut Madison’s throat at speed if he found either eating.
He found Scott and Naismith tucked away at a corner table, finishing a meal. He hurried towards them. Fury had begun to mount in him, and he wanted vengeance.