East of the City (29 page)

No reply. When I finally built up the courage to turn, I found Allen gesturing for Clive to leave, and Clive rising to go. So there it was. Allen knew.

‘Clive saw it too,’ I said quickly. ‘I think we need his advice.’

Allen considered the pair of us then waved Clive back to his seat. He asked me exactly how long the picture had been in circulation.

‘It turned up a few days ago.’

‘And you’ve been hawking it around?’

‘No,’ I said.

‘Two.’ He pointed at me, then Clive. ‘Plus Angela. How many others know? Frazer?’

‘No. Look—’ I pointed to Clive — ‘I showed Clive because I thought it might affect the Ottoman case. I thought,’ I admitted weakly, ‘that you and Angela wouldn’t have to see it.’

Allen closed his eyes. He wasn’t going to break, you could see that, nowhere near it. But Justine was his daughter, and that photo had cut him pretty deep. Then opening his eyes, he said, ‘What changed your mind?’ and that threw me. Because what changed my mind was Angela behaving like a cow to old man White. But before I could think of how to put that, Clive butted in.

‘Ian’s concerned a copy of the photo might have found its way into the hands of Ottoman’s legal team.’

Allen made a sound deep in his throat.

‘But in my opinion,’ Clive went on, ‘if they had a copy they would have approached you by now. Pressured you to settle so the picture never saw the light of day in court.’

‘Blackmailed me,’ Allen said.

Clive pulled a face. ‘Negotiated a just and equitable settlement agreeable to all parties.’ Looking past Allen, he added, ‘They haven’t done that, by any chance? Run a copy of the photo by you?’

‘No.’ Allen hands rested on his thighs, he studied the floor between his feet. In his mind he must have been weighing it up, what he’d do if it happened.

Clive said, ‘And if they did try it?’

‘They haven’t,’ Allen answered gruffly.

‘There’s another possibility,’ I cut in. Clive faced me but Allen kept his eyes on the floor. Nobody, I noticed, had said straight out, that maybe Justine was a crook. I said, ‘Say they’ve got a copy of the photo and they haven’t trailed it past you yet. There’s still got to be a chance they produce it in court. If they did that today, with me in the witness seat, I’d be stuffed.’

You could almost see the wheels turning behind Allen's pale blue eyes. At last he asked me, 'Why?'

‘Allen, you saw that photo.’

‘I saw a picture of two adults doing what adults do. And if it’s produced in court there’ll be questions asked about exactly how that photo was obtained.’

I glanced at Clive, hoping for support, but he stared right past me. If someone was going to send Allen off the deep end, it wasn’t going to be him.

‘This wasn’t just any two people,’ I said.

‘No,’ Allen agreed. ‘One of them was my daughter.’

‘One of them was writing the Ottoman lead. And one of them was meant to be the independent broker.’ I opened my hands. It was too late to pussyfoot around. ‘You must see how it looks. Justine was having an affair with Sebastian. He put the Ottoman business her way, she signed the lead. Wham. Mehmet files a claim. Next thing we’re fighting the claim in court, and Sebastian gets incinerated in his own home.’

Allen said, ‘I hope you’re not suggesting that Justine was involved in anything but signing up for what she thought to be a good piece of business.’

‘I’m telling you how the Ottoman lawyers might play it. That’s all.’

Allen pointed. ‘You were meant to be supervising her. I haven’t forgotten that.'

It was a low shot, but a good one, it stopped me dead. If I’d been doing my job properly way back when, maybe there would have been no Ottoman policy on our books, and no court case either. To my immense relief, Clive took pity on me.

‘I don’t think Ian’s suggesting any inappropriate behaviour on Justine’s part.’ Clive looked at me.‘Are you?’

‘No,’ I said, taking my cue. I faced Allen again. ‘No, I’m just saying that if the photo gets produced in court today, there’ll be some pretty awkward questions. And I don’t know how to answer them.’

Allen studied me. ‘Any thoughts, Clive?’ he said finally.

Clive doodled on a pad. ‘That photo looked to me as if it might be rather old.’

‘How could you tell?’ I asked.

‘Let him finish,’ Allen said.

Clive carried on doodling. ‘When you think about it, the problem’s not so much that there was a relationship between them, is it? As you said, Allen. Two adults. No, I’d think the worst of it would be, say hypothetically, if Justine and Sebastian had deliberately attempted to conceal the true nature of that relationship. If they’d kept it secret, say, from colleagues?'

‘But that’s what they did,’ I said.

Clive winced. ‘Please.’

Allen told me to keep my ears open and my mouth shut. ‘You wanted advice, now listen up.’ He nodded for Clive to go on.

Clive said, ‘What might have happened here is that Justine and Sebastian had an affair that was over long before the Ottoman business was written. An affair that was well-known -’ here Clive gave me a meaningful look ‘- to at least one of Justine’s colleagues.’

Allen took up the thread. ‘And if that colleague was confronted by evidence. Say a photo?’

Clive shrugged. ‘He already knew all about it. Done and dusted years ago. He might even feel inclined to express distaste that anyone could pry, probably illegally, into such an intimate domain.’

I turned from one of them to the other, feeling like a cornered rat.

Allen stood up. He flicked at the creases in his trousers. ‘I won’t make it down to the court today, Clive, but if you could let me have a transcript?'

‘Hang on,’ I said. 'I’ll be under oath. I can’t lie.’

Allen reached over and squeezed my arm. ‘Nobody’s suggesting it.’

‘There must have been times, Ian,’ Clive volunteered, ‘when you saw Justine and Sebastian together. The syndicate taking him out to lunch. Drinks. Didn’t I see her in his box at Ascot last year?’

'That was all of us,’ I said. ‘Frazer and Angela and me. That was work.’

Clive shrugged. ‘Work. Play. I’m sure if you thought about it. I mean, memories. Not infallible, are they?’

Allen gave my arm a pat, then headed for the door. He paused there and looked back at me. ‘The Council wants the final word on who gets Angela’s seat on the 486 box. I think I’ll wait till I read tomorrow’s transcript before I let them know my decision.' He buttoned his jacket, and then strolled out and away down the corridor.

I
n the courtroom they were all in the usual seats, but not me. I was in the witness seat, where the clerk had directed me before he disappeared into the private chambers out back to get the judge. Looking across, I saw Batri pinch the bridge of his nose while he read his notes. When Clive and me told him about that photo earlier, and the possibility of it appearing in court, Batri had done his nut. But that was half an hour ago, and now it looked like he’d got over the shock. From a seat behind our barristers, Clive smiled at me encouragingly.

It wasn’t the first time I’d been in the witness seat. I’d been involved in my fair share of disputed claims, and more than a few of them had landed up in court. But this wasn’t like those other times, not by a long chalk. I concentrated on my own breathing and tried to relax. When I leant forward my hands trembled on the desk, so I leant back and rested them, bunched into fists, on my knees.

‘All rise,’ said the clerk, and when the judge came in behind him I felt my stomach turn over.

We did the stand up, sit down bit, then as everyone was settling the judge had a few words with the barristers. While this was going on the public door of the courtroom swung open. Heads turned. From my seat up front I didn’t have to turn, I just looked up and there he was, Fielding, bobbing to the judge then strolling across to take a seat behind the Ottoman solicitors.

I shot a questioning look at Clive. He shrugged and shook his head, like I should forget Fielding and concentrate on the job.

‘Mr Collier,’ the judge said, ‘I believe you understand the procedure.’

Shaken by Fielding’s arrival I mumbled, ‘Yes,’ and the judge had the clerk swear me in. Bible in my right hand, I repeated the words mechanically, really working hard to stop myself from glancing Fielding’s way. Whatever he was doing here, I knew it couldn’t mean anything good for me. After I was sworn in, Batri did the usual introductory bit, then he handed me over to his learned friend. The Ottoman barrister got to his feet, straightening his wig. I looked past him to Fielding, and that bastard actually smiled at me.

‘Mr Collier,’ the barrister said. Silence fell over the courtroom, all eyes on me.

Here we go, I thought. Just me, alone now, up here on the highwire.

‘Let’s start with your underwriting experience, shall we?’ He trotted me through it quickly, starting with when I joined the Mortlake Group and moving on through the promotions I’d had, right up to date. ‘And now you’re a senior underwriter on Syndicate 486,’ he concluded.

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘But you were the acting underwriter on Syndicate 486 when the Ottoman lead was written by that Syndicate.’

‘Correct.’

‘Demotion, Mr Collier?’

'The underwriter on the box was off sick when the Ottoman business was written,’ I explained. ‘Since then she’s come back.’

‘This is Angela Mortlake?’

‘That’s right.’

‘The mother of Justine Mortlake who wrote the Ottoman lead.’

‘Yes.’

‘Thank you, Mr Collier.’ He put aside his notes on my CV. He opened a folder and set it down on his lectern. ‘I’d like to move on now, to the Ottoman Air policy.’ He glanced up to the judge and added, ‘My lord, I note that we may have cause to take further consideration of Mr Collier’s work record at a later time.’

The judge jotted a note to himself. I glanced across at Clive, but he seemed really relaxed so I tried to put the barrister’s last remark out of my mind.

‘Would you say, Mr Collier, that Justine Mortlake was a bad underwriter?'

‘No.’

‘No? Then is she a good underwriter?'

‘If you want my opinion, she does her job well.’

‘So she’s a good underwriter?'

I thought about Allen Mortlake reading the transcript later. I thought about my job. ‘Justine’s a good underwriter,' I said.

He consulted his notes on the lectern again. ‘What underwriters would you say require supervision?’

The question stumped me. I said, ‘You want me to name people?’

‘Please don’t,’ the judge interrupted. ‘I think the intent was a more general question. That is, What type of underwriters require supervision?'

‘Thank you, my lord,’ the barrister said, bobbing his head. He turned back to me, mildly pissed off at the judge’s intervention. ‘Just so. Within a syndicate, what type of underwriters require supervision?'

‘Pretty much all of them.’

The barrister made a surprised sound, completely fake.

‘There’s no hard and fast rule,’ I explained to the judge. ‘But even the Syndicate underwriter has the Managing Agent looking over his shoulder. It’s not so much a question of who gets supervision, but how much they get.’

‘And what factors would determine that?’ the barrister asked. ‘How much each underwriter gets.’

‘It comes down mainly to experience.'

‘The less experienced get more supervision?'

‘Yes.’

‘And what form would this supervision generally take?’

‘It’s not really that formal. You’re sitting at the box, brokers are bringing in slips. You talk to your colleagues, get a few opinions. Maybe someone warns you off some business you thought you’d write.’

‘That doesn’t sound like supervision.’

‘I did say it wasn’t that formal.’

‘And an underwriter with the degree of experience Justine Mortlake had, she’d expect to be offered rather more advice than, say, someone like yourself?'

‘That doesn’t mean she wasn’t up to the job.'

‘Please address yourself to the question, Mr Collier.’

The muscles in my neck went tense. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘She’d expect more advice.’

He asked me another, and then another; he must have banged away at it for a good fifteen minutes, establishing again what everyone knew anyway, that Justine wasn’t the most experienced person on the box. Finally he produced the original Ottoman policy slip, stepped around from behind his lectern and placed the papers in front of me.

‘Do you agree that this is the slip, presented to your syndicate by WardSure, outlining the Ottoman Air policy?’

I flipped back and forth through the pages. ‘It looks like it.’

‘It is it, is it not?’

There didn’t seem much point arguing the toss, so I said, ‘Yeah, this is it.’

‘Do you see Justine Mortlake’s signature?'

‘Yes.’

‘And beside it the figure, seven per cent?’

‘Yes.'

‘Please look carefully at the paper just above that signature and number. What do you see there?’

‘You mean where it’s been rubbed out?’

‘Yes, do you see that?’

I nodded, then glanced up to see him pointing to the microphones overhead. ‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Can you see that a number has been rubbed out?’

‘Seven per cent,’ I said, and suddenly Batri got to his feet.

‘My lord,’ he said, ‘is Mr Collier being asked to give evidence on something he can’t even see?’

The judge considered, and then said, ‘He seems to have seen it well enough.' He nodded for the Ottoman barrister to continue. Batri sunk back into his seat, looking vaguely unhappy.

‘Can you explain,’ the barrister asked me, ‘what the rubbing out indicates?'

‘Sure.’ I rested my forearms on the desk, touching the slip occasionally as I explained what had happened. ‘The broker brought Justine the slip, she discussed it with me, and I agreed she could sign the lead for seven per cent of the risk. Subject to some clarifications from the broker. So we pencilled ourselves in for seven per cent. Once the broker made the clariications, he brought the slip back to us. Justine rubbed out the pencilled number, inked in a seven, and signed.’

‘That’s common practice?'