East of the City (18 page)

We got back to court late, bobbed our heads at the judge, and then made for our seats. Justine was already in the chair, answering questions. I was halfway into my seat next to Clive when at the back of the courtroom, on the Ottoman side, I saw Detective Sergeant Fielding. He was watching me. Head cocked, he seemed genuinely surprised to find me there.

‘Sit,’ Clive whispered, tugging my sleeve.  I sat down. After a moment I leant back and looked again. Fielding’s eyes were still on me. I rocked forward and rested that side of my face in my hand. I tried to focus on the Ottoman barrister.

‘Miss Mortlake, could you tell us how much aviation business you wrote the lead on prior to the Ottoman Air policy?’

The barrister clasped his hands behind his back and swayed forward. He was tall and skinny, and on the same I side of the room as the witness chair. When he swayed forward like that he could almost have reached out and touched Justine. She said, ‘I’ve been involved with aviation policies for six years.’

‘Writing the lead line?’

‘I’ve been writing aviation business myself for three years.' She looked up at the judge. ‘The Ottoman policy was the first time I’d written an aviation lead line.’

‘And have you written any similar leads since?’ the barrister asked.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Since the Ottoman policy.’

Justine thought for a moment. ‘No,’ she said.

‘And why is that, Miss Mortlalke?’

‘The market’s been soft. We don’t think it’s a good time to be writing that kind of business.’

‘Oh really?’

Justine’s look turned icy, but she didn’t fly off the handle like she normally would have. She glanced over to Batri, who was nodding. Too much of that and the judge would pull him up for sure. But I guess Batri was pleased with her so far, she’d on the stand for a good half hour.

‘Yes,’ she told the Ottoman barrister. ‘Really.’

‘Come now, Miss Mortlake, isn’t the truth rather that you’ve been warned off writing leads by your senior underwriter?’

‘That’s not true.’

‘But it is true, is it not, that having Ottoman Air claim against the first aviation policy you’ve ever led has had a somewhat deleterious effect on your professional reputation?’

‘If no-one ever lodged a claim, there’d be no such thing as an insurance business.'

‘I concede your point.’ The barrister swayed forward again. ‘Do you concede mine?’

Justine muttered something to herself. The barrister gestured to the overhead microphones and asked her to speak up.

She lifted her head. ‘It hasn’t helped.’

‘No, it hasn’t, has it? But it would be fair to say that it would help, and help greatly, if Ottoman’s claim was successfully contested here. Your reputation could then recover from the knock it’s taken, and your parents could be reassured that you would have the credibility within Lloyd’s to successfully take over the family firm. Isn’t that what this whole dispute is about?’

‘No.’

‘You haven’t discussed this with your father?’

‘No. I mean—’

‘Yes, what do you mean, Miss Mortlake?’

‘My lord,’ Batri broke in, rising to his feet. ‘Perhaps if my learned friend would not interrupt, he might discover what Miss Mortlake meant.’

The judge gave the Ottoman barrister a mild ticking off. Fielding chose this moment to make his exit. He did a quick bob towards the judge on his way to the door. Out of sight of the judge, he turned and crooked a finger at me, beckoning me over like I was some snotty-nosed kid. I would have ignored him, but Clive saw it too.

Leaning across to me, he whispered, ‘I think you’re wanted.’

Out in the hall, Fielding rested his back on the wall and put his hands in his pockets. He asked, ‘Is it always that bloody boring?'

‘You don’t have to stay.'

He said, ‘I don’t intend to, smartarse,’ and when I turned to go back in, he raised his voice. ‘How’s it gonna look if I have to come in there and ask the judge for five minutes of your time?’

I faced him again. I asked what he wanted.

'I never been in that Lloyd’s place before. Mortlake’s office is somethin’, eh?.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘How much you takin’ outa them?’

‘What I earn is none of your business.’ The bastard could really get under my skin. It wasn’t just the aggressive bad manners, it was his whole attitude, the way he looked at things. To him I was still that brat from the dogs, Bob Collier’s kid, who’d somehow managed to pull the wool over the eyes of the suits at Lloyd’s. The bastard thought he saw straight through me. ‘What are you doing here, Fielding?’

He nodded towards the courtroom. ‘Nice lungs on the daughter. You wanna tell me in English what’s goin’ on in there?’

Through gritted teeth, I gave him a two-minute summary of our dispute with Ottoman. I told him that they were an air charter company, not a regular client, a piece of business that had gone wrong from the start. One of their planes had been stolen within weeks of us issuing the cover note for their fleet. And I explained that a string of other cases ahead of ours in the court’s schedule had been settled, that’s how come the Ottoman Air case had landed here so fast.

‘So where’s Ward fit in?’

‘WardSure was the broker on the policy.’

‘He stood to gain from all this?'

‘No.’

‘Lose?’

‘It didn’t matter materially to him either way. As it happens, he was probably recommending that Mehmet hold out for a bigger settlement than we were offering.'

Fielding asked who Mehmet was, and I told him.

‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘Sebastian didn’t broker the deal personally, he just got involved at the end.’

‘Says you.’

I took a deep breath. I told him, if that was all, I had to get back.

‘Not yet. I got a couple more.’ Stepping away from the wall he opened a notebook and licked the end of his pencil. Looking up, he said, ‘Where’s Eddie Pilke?’

‘I don’t know?'

‘Who wanted Sebastian Ward dead?'

‘I don’t know.'

‘What was your relationship with Sebastian Ward?'

‘This is bullshit.’

He flipped the pad closed. He poked his pencil at the air in front of my eye. ‘When we thought it was Pike in the fire, the first place I went was the Gallon. Who was there? You. Askin’ about Eddie, I found out later. Max Ward tells us his old man was havin’ trouble with some court case, so I came down here. You again. And between times that kidnap and ransom bollocks. Who was in the middle a that?’

‘Get serious.’

‘Oh I’m serious. I’m serious about turnin’ you over, Collier, and givin’ everyone a good look at what’s underneath.’

In the old days I would have laughed in his face. But in the old days he wasn’t working homicides, I didn’t have that much to lose, and nobody I mixed with believed in the bill. But this wasn’t Walthamstow. My life had moved on, and it had cost me to move it on. Not just the twelve-hour days I’d put in over the years with the Mortlake Group, but my bust-up with Dad, that was part of the price too. I’d paid big to get the life I had, and now this bastard was threatening to bring me down?

I looked up and down the hallway, made sure there was no-one about. Then I bent toward him a little and said, ‘You aren’t dealing with a geriatric SP bookie here, Fielding. Back off.'

Very evenly he said, ‘I told you I’d be around when you fucked up. And now, guess what?’

Maybe he would have said more if Clive hadn’t come out of the courtroom right then. All Clive saw was the two of us facing each other at the far end of the hall, and he called, ‘Private party?’

Fielding kept his eyes on me a moment longer. Then he repocketed his notebook. ‘Thanks for your time, Mr Collier.’ He smiled at Clive before turning and walking away. Clive came over to fill me in on the progress in court. Down the hall, Fielding stopped and looked back. ‘Mr Collier?’ Clive and me both lifted our heads. Fielding pistolled his fingers at me. ‘I’ll be in touch,’ he said.

W
hacking little white balls around a golf course is something I only learned to do after I joined Lloyd’s. Angela used to give me the occasional quiet afternoon off to practice. An investment in the future, she said, and I was so naive at the time I thought she was kidding. Golf. It wasn’t a pastime that featured much out our way when I was growing up. We went to the football sometimes, but mostly it was just the dogs. If you’d offered Dad a day at the golf course he’d have thought you were nuts. Me too, back then.

But once I’d taken a few lessons, and I could bit the ball in the general direction of the flag, I slowly came round to it. It could never beat the dogs — doing the form, the crowd at the trackside and the thrill of seeing the outsider at full stretch pipping the favourite — but it was better than sitting in the Room on a quiet day, twiddling my thumbs. Besides, it brought in business.

I got to be okay at it too, not great, but good enough to hold my own against most of the guys in the market. But Piers Crossland wasn’t most of the guys in the market.

‘You need to take it left,’ Allen said as Piers stepped up to the tee. ‘It gets you round the trees, you get a good second shot up the green.’

Piers nodded politely, eyeing up the fairway. You could see the flag flapping through the trees. Setting himself, he took a few practice swings.

‘Allen,’ I said, but Allen gestured with his hand, silencing me.

‘You think left?’ Piers said without looking round.

‘The best shot,’ Allen said. ‘Gives you a clear second.’

Piers stepped up to the ball, rolling his shoulders. I leant against my two wood, still not quite sure why I was there. Allen had phoned me at seven thirty, telling me to bring my clubs and meet him for tee-off at ten o’clock. I’d arrived to find him and Piers Crossland waiting for me at the first. There hadn’t been time for small talk, we were getting straight into it.

Privileged, that’s how I felt. Curious too, but mainly privileged. Allen and Piers were serious people, they didn’t play golf with just anyone who happened along, and yet here they were with me. Not with Frazer, with me. Angela’s job seemed to be right at my fingertips, there for the taking. Threats from Detective Sergeant Fielding seemed like bad but distant memories.

Piers drew back, paused, then swung. It was smooth and strong, there was a thwack, and the ball went sailing out, not left but straight as a die. On, on and right up over the trees. I lost sight of it then, but the last I saw the thing it was headed straight for the flag. Piers bent and picked up his tee, then he strolled back over.

Allen smiled, but you could see it was a struggle. He went and teed up and smacked his ball down the left of the fairway. I did the same, about twenty yards past Allen’s, then the three of us set off with our buggies.

By the third hole the pattern was set. Allen and me were fighting it out for second place.

‘You’ve got a nice swing,' Piers told me as we stood together on the fourth fairway. He’d been giving me his views on the London property market, how he thought it was set for a big rise. But when he sensed that London property wasn’t my best subject right then, he dropped it. He watched Allen at the edge of the bushes, searching for his ball in the rough. ‘You’ve been with Allen quite a while.’

‘Twelve years.’

He took out a club and swung it gently a few times, clipping the grass. ‘Seen a few ups and downs then.'

‘Mainly ups.’

‘Mainly?’ He smiled confidentially.

It was an awkward moment. I wasn’t even sure if he was asking for what I thought he was asking for, a quick rundown on the Mortlake Group’s blunders. A kind of informal due diligence on the company. My gaze drifted across to Allen. ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Mainly.’

Piers dropped his head, practice-swinging gently again. ‘What’s the feeling on your boxes about the merger with us?'

‘Positive.’

‘And what’s your personal feeling?' He glanced up. ‘And don’t say positive.’

I mumbled a few words about inevitable changes in the market, corporate capital, get big or get out. He stood up straight, squinting towards the green.

‘In a word,’ he said, ‘positive.’

‘In a word,’ I agreed.

He smiled then, a genuine smile, and I got a glimpse of the real Piers Crossland. Behind all that good breeding there was someone I might even get to like.

Allen found the missing ball, we watched him shape up to it and belt it back out onto the fairway. Then I took my shot, then Piers, and we trundled off with our buggies again.

The merger was going to happen. I’d never quite believed it until then, but something in Piers Crossland’s manner finally convinced me. A merged company made sense, sure — half the market was doing it — but things that made sense didn’t always happen. Now that so many Names had pulled out, the financing for the Lloyd’s syndicates had to come from somewhere. Bright guys like Piers had seen the change coming, they’d set up limited liability companies to invest in the syndicates, and now these companies were pairing with managing agents like the Mortlake Group. But Piers must have known Allen had his sights set on the Lloyd’s Council. And to get there, his best chance was if he was running the merged company. So where did that leave Piers? Getting fat on a yacht in the Bahamas? He didn’t strike me as that kind of bloke.

Piers asked me about Angela's impending retirement.

‘She’ll be a big loss,’ I said.

‘Irreplaceable?’

‘She’s one of a kind.’

A bit further on, he said, ‘I understand she wasn’t there on the box when her daughter wrote the Ottoman lead.’ I told him that was right. ‘But you were,’ he said.

I kept my eyes on the grass. I suppose I could have mentioned the death of my parents, but I didn’t. I said, ‘I made a mistake.’

He studied me a moment.‘You know I’ve worked with Frazer before.'

I didn’t care for where this was going. It occurred to me that I might have read this all wrong, that I might not have been invited to the golf course to be promoted, I might have been brought here to be dumped. If Piers Crossland had any say in it, who was he likely to want as the new underwriter, Frazer Burnett-Adams’s, or me?

He glanced across at Allen who was thirty yards away. ‘I tend to think there shouldn’t be any extended period before Angela's successor is appointed. Bad for morale on the box,’ he said. ‘Don’t you agree?’