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  FREDDIE P. PETERS

  Henry Crowne Paying The Price Book 1

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  First published 2018 by Freddie P. Peters

  www.freddieppeters.com

  Text copyright © Freddie P. Peters 2018

  The right of Freddie P. Peters to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  ISBN: 978-1-9999811-2-9

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Cover design by Lucy Llewellyn at Head & Heart

  Typesetting by Aimee Dewar at Head & Heart

  This is entirely a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events or localities is purely coincidental.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  To Lucie

  Henry, mon ami,

  This letter took me a while. I realised I had not put pen to paper for such a long time. I do not mean emails or texts. I mean actual writing, the act of my hand on paper, the slight hesitation that precedes putting down what cannot be erased. Mais enfin la voici.

  A sketch of it came on the day I left you behind. The heavy doors closing on you brought a chill to my heart. So it felt right, maybe even necessary. And I have come to realise that a good letter must divulge something intimate about its writer, so I will start with my own news. I have decided to reconnect with my previous life, the one I thought I had left forever behind. Don’t be alarmed and think I am recanting after talking so much about giving up the rat race. I have found an unexpected use for my old talent, my new-found bohemian style joined up with the impeccable training of this legal mind – well, you have seen the result!

  Of course, you may already have gathered that I received a little nudge. It came in the shape of our mutual friend Mr P. I want, no … I need to plunge into the City once more, but this time on my own terms. A final test, maybe? Time will tell. To be completely honest, the gentleman in question attracts my interest terribly. There you are. How about this for a confession – ha!

  I think I should finish swiftly, and now that my letter lies in front of me I hope it will be the first of many. Please reply, for I know that coming to terms with the act of terror you lived through and the deceit you endured will bring you resolve. But for today I simply say – I understand. The rest is up to you.

  A très vite

  Nancy

  Chapter One

  A stretch, a barely disguised yawn … Henry Crowne was nonchalantly sitting in front of his four plasma screens on GL’s trading floor. He propped himself up in a sudden move, once more focusing on the vast room spread in front of him. He loved the position of his desk, not his office, no … his desk. From here he could see rows of machines and men, plugged into world markets, ready to take action as the markets moved, action that was wiping out, in seconds, billions of dollars.

  Today however the atmosphere on the floor was subdued. Henry started rocking slowly on his leather chair again. He was not a trader but a structurer. He knew himself to be good, in fact remarkably good, yet the takeover had unnerved him. His reputation and that of his team were spectacular. He had flair, nevertheless competition at HXBK was fierce. He knew his rival only too well, hard working, hand of steel. Anthony Albert was a force to be reckoned with. The two men had been unspoken enemies ever since they first met. Everything served to make them opposites, not only their attitude towards people and work but also their very cores.

  The phone ringing brought him back to reality with a jolt. He looked at it with suspicion. Should he answer? His black phone was hanging at the side of his desk. He preferred it the old-fashioned way and was one of the few people on the floor not yet wearing a headset. One of his team picked up for him; a phone never rang more than twice at GL.

  “Ted for you, line two.”

  “OK, thanks. Hey Ted, what’s up?” asked Henry, pleased to hear one of his best mates on the floor.

  “I need to speak to you outside the floor. Can you get to your office right now?”

  The voice on the other end of the phone sounded shaken, hardly recognisable, very much unlike Ted whose sense of humour had defused many an argument they’d had.

  Henry stood up, towering over his desk.

  “Sure, I will call you back on your mobile,” said Henry already moving towards his office. The distance he had to walk was minimal. Time was money. Henry closed the door and dialled Ted’s mobile.

  “Ted, what on earth is happening? Has the committee come to any decision about the team, I thought–”

  “Listen,” said Ted cutting him short, “nothing to do with your team Henry, Anthony Albert is dead.”

  The enormity of the news and its implications hit Henry in slow motion. It unfolded gradually, a mixture of relief, shock and disbelief. The phone stayed silent.

  “Henry, are you there?”

  “Impossible, I just can’t believe … what happened? I spoke to him only yesterday.”

  “Look. I don’t want to talk about this over the phone. I am at Canary Wharf. I want you here as soon as possible. Can you make it now?”

  “Sure, sure. On my way.”

  He stood at his desk for a few minutes, fighting the strong emotions raging inside him. The sombre news was confusing him, so much had been at stake and so much done because of Albert and now … now, the old enemy was dead, a twist of fate, brutal and unbelievable even by City standards.

  “Guess who is going to head the combined team now?” muttered Henry as an enormous weight was lifted from his shoulders.

  Henry was still standing at his desk, his CV spread across it so that he could give it the final touch before submitting it to the integration committee. It wasn’t as though the committee members were unaware of who he was and what he had achieved, but it was the rule.

  His last year at Dublin University; a first in mathematics; his interview at BZW, the then investment banking arm of Barclays. Mathematicians earn nothing but it’s the bankers that make the money, he remembered saying to Liam, his old university pal as he celebrated his departure for London. And the first innovative structured transaction he completed there. He touched the CV lightly and a smile rose on his face.

  “Yes, the combined team.”

  His own words shocked him. This relief, this near elation, was based on someone’s death. The rapidity at which his mind had assessed the situation, decided it was a ‘good thing’, without regard for Albert, unsettled him. But Henry knew how to rein in his feelings.

  Come on, come on, he was a manipulative little shit – still. Henry had always prided himself on being a considerate man.

  His PA tapped at the glass partition, she needed to have a word.

  “Are you OK? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.” Her strong Scottish accent grounded him into reality.

  “Morag, that is not funny.”
/>   “Why? You really look pale. You’re not losing your sense of humour. I couldn’t bear it.” Her intelligent smile beamed at him.

  “Sorry, sorry – a lot on my mind. I need to go to Canary Wharf straightaway. Cab, please.”

  “Done,” said Morag.

  He grabbed his jacket and mobile and strode towards the rear of the building where his black cab was waiting. The cabbie would wait fifteen minutes before calling the office to enquire about his passenger. Henry walked out of the building and took a sharp right. The small newsagents he had earmarked in case of emergency a few months ago sold burner phones. Henry picked one up and paid cash. He walked back towards the building checking his watch. It had taken him less than ten minutes.

  Henry had hardly sat in the back of the cab before he took the mobile and dialled a number he knew by heart.

  “Liam, it’s me. Are you still in the UK? … OK, back in Dublin then.”

  Henry listened to what was being said on the other side of the phone and frowned.

  “This mobile is not traceable … I know, but a situation is developing and I might have to speak to the cops.”

  “I don’t think it has anything to do with our business.”

  “Listen. LISTEN. It probably has no bearing on the transfers. I will contact you again only if I need to. OK. Bye.”

  Henry inhaled deeply and put the mobile back in his trouser pocket. He would get rid of it as soon as he could.

  Henry started scrolling down his emails on his BlackBerry. The call with Liam had been securely stored in the impenetrable part of his mind. He was not expecting to see any details of the Albert incident yet but the habit of using his time to do business whilst on a cab ride gave him a sense of security. He noticed a mail from his art dealer and was tempted to call but he chose not to. A conversation about his latest acquisition would unfocus him. Henry however smiled at the challenge surrounding the purchase of the piece. Anthony Albert and he had found themselves invited to the same preview of a young up-and-coming talent.

  “Sorry mate but I think we’re there, right?”

  The distant voice of the cab driver reminded Henry that he was on his way to meet Ted. Henry bent over to see the building on his left-hand side through the black cab window. He could now see the slick glass and steel offices of HXBK.

  “Yep, we’re there.”

  Whilst the cabbie was looking for a place to park, Henry took a meticulously rolled Hermés tie from his top pocket and quickly knotted it around his neck. A few years back GL had adopted a dress down code on its trading floor but Henry felt uncomfortable without his Savile Row suit. The only concession he made to what he regarded as a ridiculous policy from Silicon Valley was to wear his shirt with rolled-up sleeves and without a tie. However, tie and matching cufflinks were always kept in his pocket, ready to be used on the first occasion. Henry stepped out of the cab, his shoulders squaring up to the imposing building.

  HXBK’s atrium was rumoured to be the largest in Canary Wharf and spread over two floors. The ground floor resembled an art gallery with its Andy Warhol that covered the far side of the entire wall – four immense panels of pop art.

  Henry walked up to the reception desk where a well-spoken Japanese woman took his name. He climbed the escalator two steps at a time, passing on his left another valuable piece of art, this time an installation by Damien Hirst. The reception area lost its serenity when he reached the first floor. Two large metal gates had been installed in the wake of 9/11. He was met by a couple of security guards who approached him with the required stern expression.

  “Please put your keys and mobile in there, sir.”

  The man was pointing at a small tray on the side.

  “I know, I know … been here before,” Henry grumbled.

  The news of Albert’s death had started to sink in. It remained incredible, an insane joke only the City could produce.

  Ted was sitting down, stirring a cup of coffee when Henry opened the door to the meeting room. The pool of coffee in Ted’s saucer indicated his nerves. He looked tired, his curly blond hair was a mess, shadows lodged deep beneath his baby blue eyes. Lack of sleep and extreme pressure were the lot of those appointed to serve the integration committee. Ted did not complain.

  “Coffee … Henry?”

  “Thanks, I’ll pour. You tell me the story so far.”

  “I’ll tell you what I know. Got a call this morning at around 8am, I was with Jason Gateway and Mathias Wunderlink. We were reviewing the consolidated presentation to be handed over to the integration committee. Anyway.”

  Ted took a mouthful of coffee, pulling a face at the liquid’s bitterness.

  “Apparently the plane carrying Albert crashed early this morning. He was flying on one of the bank’s private jets. A rumour was circulating that you also were on board. They don’t know what happened but I have been told that they may not be treating this as an accident.”

  Ted had spoken the last words quickly, swallowing yet another mouthful of his over-stirred coffee. Henry frowned and pulled his chair over, sitting uncomfortably close to Ted.

  “No. This is ridiculous. Which bloody newspaper has been stirring it up this time? BANKER MURDERED IN HOSTILE TAKEOVER BID. I can see it from here.” Henry gestured in the air as if to underline a title.

  “This is not a takeover. This is a merger.”

  The company approved mantra had clearly sunk in with Ted.

  “Anyway. Nobody knows yet, Henry … this has not been released to the press. The police are involved … hell I don’t know. I am so bloody tired. This is going to be such a fucking nightmare.”

  “We are all tired Ted, but who would realistically want to murder the old fart? You, me? Half the City …”

  “Don’t say that,” Ted protested. “This is not funny.”

  “OK … OK,” said Henry, dropping his sarcasm.

  “I still can’t believe he is dead, let alone that there’s foul play. I have a shedload of catching up to do here. Maybe I am just too bloody whacked to take it all in.”

  “I have been told the police want to interview anyone who has been in recent contact with him,” said Ted without looking at Henry.

  Henry observed Ted closely for a few seconds. Was his friend holding back information? No, he wouldn’t dare.

  “Understood. Let me know when,” replied Henry standing up. He left the room without waiting for Ted’s reply.

  Henry walked out of HXBK’s building and took a sharp left towards Canary Wharf’s main concourse. He turned left again onto a large plaza and crossed towards the water’s edge. He spotted a small bench on the waterfront, secluded enough. Henry sat down and placed his work mobile to his ear. He looked around. There was no one in sight. He stood up abruptly, still pretending to be involved in an animated call, took the burner mobile out of his pocket and let it slide into the water. Still no one around. Good.

  Henry retraced his steps and terminated his fake call. He hailed a black cab. He so wished he had called Charlie for the return journey. This thought propelled him back to a journey he had made three months earlier with his driver.

  Charlie had rung the doorbell at 5.25am on the dot. Henry’s private car had been booked for 5.30am. Charlie made it a point to arrive five minutes early, avoiding for his best client the where-is-my-wretched-car morning stress. Henry was ready and acknowledged his driver as soon as he rang the doorbell, a little punctuality game the two men enjoyed playing. Charlie had been Henry’s chauffeur for the past five years and was always made available to him by his Limo service. Henry managed to smile at the memory.

  “Morning Charlie, quick trip to Biggin Hill today. Boy, it’s cold.”

  “Good morning Mr Crowne, indeed dreadful weather for late spring,” Charlie had replied in his reassuringly manicured voice. Henry appreciated Charlie’s eccentricity. He spoke an impeccable English unexpectedly combined with the bulk and allure of a CIA agent.

  As he left his building Henry had looked up towards his a
partment. He had moved in a few months ago. The sumptuous old building still impressed him. He had noticed a light on in the duplex apartment opposite his. His neighbour, the enigmatic Nancy Wu, was already up. Their brief encounter had aroused his curiosity. But Charlie was standing at the door, patiently holding it open. It was time to leave.

  Henry sat in the S-Class Mercedes and reached for the large cup of Assam tea waiting for him in the cup holder in the middle of the rear seats. One of Charlie’s many personalised touches. He was about to switch over from Jazz FM to Radio 4 to catch the early morning news when Henry stopped him.

  “A little jazz will do us good. I am not sure I want to hear more news about the global collapse of the financial markets right now.”

  “As you know Mr Crowne, jazz is always my music of choice.”

  “I have not asked for a while, Charlie … how is the jazz club doing?”

  “There may be a financial crisis but we are doing fiendishly well. Our latest Arun Ghosh Sextet show has been a roaring success.”

  “I’m not surprised. You guys know your stuff. I did listen to the Miles Davis CD you recommended. I might be getting the hang of it, I think,” said Henry.

  “A genius, all about timing of course.”

  “Timing is everything Charlie – everything.”

  “I am glad we share the same view, Mr Crowne.”

  “Talking about timing. How is your other business going?”

  Charlie features tensed. From the very moment Charlie had become his driver Henry had guessed that he had done time. A childhood in Belfast had made Henry more familiar than he would ever admit with the Nick – or rather the Paddy. He had managed to gain Charlie’s trust and convince him that his past did not worry him, somehow impressed by Charlie’s determination to rebuild his life. Charlie would be on parole for a little while longer though.

  “My parole officer is not a bad person, but I am looking forward to not having to meet him again.”

  “But all going fine, right?”

  “It is. Thanks for asking. The jazz club and my driver’s job make all the difference.”