East of the City (17 page)

I didn’t say anything.

She picked up the half-empty bottle of wine. ‘Get a life, Ian,’ she said, and then she went by me and crossed to her room, the door closed behind her with a bang.

Once I’d wiped down the kitchen bench I dropped the cloth in the sink and went out to the lounge. There was a smell of Lee’s perfume in there, some kind of  flower. Sliding open the balcony door, I let in a blast of air.

Finally I sunk into a chair, picked up the remote and turned it over in my hand. Then I looked over my shoulder. Music came through Katy’s door, I knew I wouldn’t see her again till the morning. So I reached across, turned out the light, and pointed the remote at the video recorder.

Why? I thought. Give it up and go to bed. Sleep.

And then I hit Play.

The TV hissed for a second, the screen snowed a moment before the picture came. The news team had got the chopper up just in time; beneath the smoke you could still see the outline of the mansion, the collapsed roof and the walls lit by the uneven light of the flames.

Turning down the volume, I drew my legs up beneath me in the chair. Then hunched in the dark safety of my own home, I watched Sebastian Ward’s house burn.

'A
ll rise,’ said the court usher.

We got to our feet as the judge came in through his private door. He was wigged-up, red robes flowing, and he went up behind his bench and sat down. Then we sat down. He seemed to be getting things in order in front of him, but you couldn’t see exactly what, his bench was up on a podium.

At the back of the court, Clive Wainwright leant across to me and whispered, ‘Five quid he says, "Let’s not waste any time then." ’

The judge glanced around the court. The usual faces, the barristers and solicitors from both sides, the court stenographers, and the usher or associate, or whatever he was, and Ottoman’s finance director and me. There were two new faces as well. Up front, in the witness chair, was Dean Potter, Ottoman’s expert witness on aviation underwriting. I had a vague memory of his jutting jaw from his time in the Room. I never knew him, but Angela reckoned he was okay. The judge gave Potter a nod but pretended not to notice the other new face sitting two seats along from me, the far side of Clive. He pretended not to, but he noticed her all right. You couldn’t help noticing Justine Mortlake.

Turning to the court usher, the judge said, ‘Shall we begin?’ and Clive slid me a fiver.

 The usher swore Potter in, then Ottoman’s lead barrister got up.

‘Mr Potter, is the report you have submitted to the court your full and fair opinion?’

‘Yes,’ Potter said.

The barrister mumbled something I missed and as he sat down, Batri rose. Batri half-turned to Potter, from behind we could only see one side of Batri’s face.

‘Mr Potter, I see from your resumé that you’re not actively underwriting at the moment.’

‘I’m managing the run-off of a syndicate.’

‘You’re not actively underwriting at the moment?'

‘That’s correct.'

Batri looked down, consulting his notes. ‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to spend a few minutes reviewing your experience.'

‘Yes.’

Batri lifted his head and smiled. ‘That wasn’t a question, Mr Potter.’ Potter smiled back coldly. Batri put him through the hoops then; who he’d worked for, in what capacity, and how long. Potter answered each question briefly. After five minutes of this, Batri seemed to wind up. ‘And you left active underwriting a couple of years ago?’

‘Yes,’ Potter agreed.

‘Only a couple?’

‘A few.'

‘A few isn’t a couple, Mr Potter.'

‘I stopped active underwriting six years ago.’

‘Six?’ Batri seemed surprised. ‘But you still believe you’re sufficiently well informed about current market practice - notwithstanding the plethora of recent reforms at Lloyd’s - to offer a valid opinion on a policy signed not twelve months ago?’

‘I’m administering the rum-off of a Lloyd’s syndicate. It’s not as though I’ve retired to a convent.’

‘Well, you wouldn’t have, would you?’ said Batri.‘I’d expect a monastery might be more the thing.’

‘I meant I’m still in touch with the market.'

‘I dare say you truly believe that, Mr Potter.’ Batri turned and handed a sheaf of pages back to his assisting barrister, leaving Potter with his mouth half-open. He’d been made to sound like he wasn’t just out of touch, but maybe a little self-deluded. ‘Perhaps we should move on to the substance of Mr Potter’s report, my lord,’ Batri said.

The judge nodded. ‘Thank you, Mr Batri.’ He laid a finger along his cheek and rested his chin on his thumb. He looked bored. There was no jury. The whole case was being laid out for the benefit of the judge, in the end it would be for him to decide whether or not we paid up. His were the only pair of ears in the courtroom that really mattered, and so far the morning’s performance didn’t seem to have impressed him.

Batri started in on Potter’s report then, pulling it to pieces bit by bit. Did Potter really believe that Justine Mortlake would have been given the authority to sign up the Ottoman business unless her syndicate thought she was quite capable? Did Potter expect the judge to accept that supervision of Justine Mortlake was so superficial? Hadn’t Potter overstated the case when he'd said that no-one of Justine’s relative inexperience should ever be permitted to write that business? And behind all this, Batri kept tapping away at the idea that Potter was so out of touch anyway that his opinion in this case was worthless.

Unfortunately for us, Potter was a model witness. He conceded points that weren’t worth arguing about but held firm to the rest. After more than an hour of push and shove Batri had got nowhere with him.

Then Batri said, ‘Mr Potter, your position seems to be that Justine Mortlake was in no way competent to write this business. Is that correct?’

Hands clasped on the table in front of him, Potter said, ‘Yes.’

‘And yet she was allowed, by her syndicate, to write it.’

‘Evidently.’

‘Yes, evidently.’ Batri clutched the lapel of his own robe, standing upright now, and peering over Potter’s head. ‘Why would the syndicate do that?’

‘You’d have to ask them.’

‘You’re here as an expert witness, Mr Potter. You’ve been very free in your opinions as to Miss Mortlake’s competence. Now I’m asking you, in your position as an expert, to give us your opinion on this matter.' Batri dropped his gaze to meet Potter’s. ‘Why, in your opinion, was Justine Mortlake permitted to write this business?’

Potter glanced towards the Ottoman barristers. All I could see of them was the back of their wigged heads. When one of them shrugged, Potter turned to Batri again and said, ‘Her name. She’s a Mortlake.’

Two seats along from me, Justine swore quietly. Clive whispered behind his hand, telling her to keep it down. 

‘She’s a Mortlake,’ Batri said, ‘which implies—’ He paused, as if puzzled. ‘Tell us, Mr Potter, exactly what does that imply?’

Potter looked up at the judge. ‘It’s possible her family gave her too much leeway too early.’

‘Possible?’ Batri said. ‘Meaning maybe they did and maybe they didn’t?’

‘I think they did.’

‘You’re saying, are you, that Justine Mortlake was promoted by her family above her level of competence.' Potter nodded. Batri pointed up to the microphones suspended from the ceiling.

‘Yes,’ Potter said aloud.

I leant across to Clive and whispered behind my hand, ‘What’s Batri doing?’ but Clive just shook his head, concentrating on the exchange up front.

‘So,’ Batri said. ‘Allen Mortlake, the chairman and managing director of the Mortlake Group, promoted his daughter Justine too quickly.’

‘I believe so.'

‘And the consequence of that is that we are all here in court today.’

‘Yes.’

Batri turned to his assisting barrister and was given a sheet of paper. He glanced over it then propped it on his lectern. He addressed Potter again. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong. You have just said that the managing director of a Managing Agency, a man with all the fiduciary duties which that position implies, has materially disadvantaged the shareholders of that Agency by vesting an unwarranted authority in one of the company’s employees.’

Potter hesitated, caught by the question. For the first time since he’d started he seemed confused, unsure of his ground. He asked for it to be repeated.

‘Certainly,’ Batri said, and stooping to read from the portable PC, he repeated the question word-for-word. Then he stood up and scratched his throat theatrically.

At last Potter said, ‘All I’m saying is, she’s his daughter.'

‘With respect, Mr Potter, you were saying rather more than that, were you not?’

Potter moved from side to side in his chair, suddenly uncomfortable. Up on the bench, the judge had his eyes fixed on Potter. It was obvious that Potter was having second thoughts about his whole line of answers. Batri had led him out further than he’d meant to go.

‘I wasn’t suggesting anything illegal happened,’ Potter said.

‘Good. Now that your mind is quite clear on the matter, perhaps I might revert to the initial question.' Batri rocked forward, hands resting on the table, and levelled his gaze right on Potter. ‘Justine Mortlake is a member of the Mortlake family. Exactly what, in your opinion, does that imply?'

Potter was quiet a long time. Everyone in the court, apart from the stenographer, was watching him. At last Potter said quietly, ‘Nothing.’

‘I beg your pardon, Mr Potter?’

Potter lifted his head, all the confidence knocked out of him now. ‘It implies nothing,’ he said.

Batri thanked him, made a few brief remarks to the judge, then sat down.

‘One-nil to the good guys.' The court had recessed for lunch, Clive and me were standing on the pavement outside St Dunstan’s. He seemed pretty pleased. ‘At least smile,’ he said. ‘That was a good session for us.’

We watched Batri leading Justine away. Batri wanted to run her through the morning’s Q and A over a sandwich, I noticed Clive’s gaze linger on her arse.

I said, ‘They’ll go for her, won’t they? This afternoon?’

‘Batri’ll prep her for it. She’ll be right.’

I wasn't remotely convinced. Potter was ten times steadier than Justine, but Batri had managed to rattle him. When Batri’s opposite number was let loose on Justine, anything might happen.

Clive said he knew a pub nearby that did decent food, if we hurried we could beat the rush. We started of that way but we hadn't got twenty yards before someone back near the court called out, ‘Wainwright!’

‘Bugger,’ Clive said when he saw who it was. ‘All I need.’

Nigel Chambers came up to us, jogging, a folder gripped tight in one hand. I nodded to him but Nigel wasn’t interested in me. ‘I want a word,’ he told Clive.

Clive said he’d be back at his office at five thirty, that he'd see Chambers then. But as Clive turned away, Nigel grabbed his shoulder.

‘You’ll see me now,’ Nigel said, and it was only then that I realized how angry he was.

Wainwright shrugged the hand off. ‘If you want to make a prat of yourself in public, go ahead.'

I told Clive I’d meet him after lunch, but he said, ‘Stay,’ and then he looked at Chambers again. ‘If Nigel has something to say -’

‘You knew!’ Nigel pointed. He really was too angry to worry about the scene he was making. ‘I came to get some advice—’

‘And I gave it to you.’

‘You gave me the shaft is what you gave me.’

Clive’s jaw clenched, Nigel didn’t seem to notice.

‘When I asked what I should do,’ Nigel said, ‘you said "Be open. Spell it out for them." Well how open were you? Was that professional?'

‘When you came to me, Nigel, I hadn’t been taken on by WardSure. They hadn’t even discussed it with me.’

‘Bollocks.’

‘No, Nigel. It’s the truth.’ Clive looked him straight in the eye. ‘And really, I don’t want to discuss this in the street.’

A few pedestrians went by, Nigel managed to contain himself until they’d passed. He seemed, suddenly, to be having second thoughts. He shifted his weight from foot to foot. Finally he said, ‘What the fuck do I do, Clive?’

‘Get a lawyer.'

Nigel gave him a desperate kind of look.

‘I’m sorry, Nigel, I can’t help you. I’ve taken WardSure on as my client.’

‘What about me?’

‘You were never my client.’

Nigel nearly burst. ‘I could sue. Professional negligence.’ He tapped Clive’s chest with his folder. ‘See how you like it when the lawyers take the shirt off your back.’

Clive brushed the folder aside. He seemed about to give Nigel a piece of his mind, then he thought better of it. Turning, Clive said to me, ‘We can still beat the rush,’ and he walked off towards the pub.

I nodded to Nigel in an embarrassed kind of way and then hurried after Clive. When I caught him up I couldn’t resist asking, ‘Not the WardSure staff equity scheme, by any chance?’ but when he gave me a sideways glance, I told him to forget I’d asked.

 His lips went tight. ‘Hardly matters now, I guess. Must be all over the market, the way he’s carrying on. Nigel got out of his depth on the WardSure incentive scheme. Borrowed up to his eyeballs. He came and asked for my advice a while back when the WardSure shareprice was looking shaky. I told him he either had to stump up the cash or lay his cards on the table.’

‘And did he?’

‘Did he hell. He borrowed more from WardSure against his future salary and bonus. Dug himself in deeper.’

I put two and two together. ‘Now they’ve pulled the plug on him?’

‘Ahha.’ Wainwright jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘He’s not taking it too well.’

‘How much did he lose?’

'The lot.' We stopped before crossing the street. I looked back towards St Dunstan’s, Nigel was disappearing into a crowd of pedestrians with his head hanging down. ‘I filed the papers yesterday,' said Clive. 'WardSure got a lien granted against Nigel’s house and the rest of his assets this morning.’  Clive was a decent bloke, you could see he didn’t like the idea that he’d just helped send someone down the pan, even a prat like Nigel. ‘You know,’ he said, as we crossed the street, ‘I really could do with a beer. Maybe even the full liquid lunch.’