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  Phillippe nodded in admiration. He had found an unexpected art expert and French speaker in Nancy.

  “Tom enjoys the depiction of epic narratives and draws much from art history.”

  “Does he believe history will repeat itself?” asked Nancy, turning towards Phillippe.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, so much despair. People plunged into such barbarism. I can’t help feeling an association with today’s economic crisis, terrorism. Perhaps we are on the brink too. La fin est peut-être proche!”

  Nancy paused. The idea struck her as a chilling revelation. She shrugged but Phillippe agreed.

  “Absolument. To be honest it had not crossed my mind but Tom has an uncanny way of seeing the world, of trying to introduce order into chaos.”

  Nancy was about to launch into a discussion about artists’ ability to sense the future but realised she had to prepare for her first meeting. Phillippe left his details and promised he would arrange a lunch with Tom.

  As she was getting herself ready Nancy could not help but wonder why Henry had chosen this piece. Was he also stricken by its premonitory power or was it simply an attempt at capitalising on an early talent before Tom’s pieces reached unimaginable levels? The question intrigued her. This could surely be debated over a drink. Nancy would extend an invite to Henry and quench her curiosity.

  * * *

  Henry was returning from his walk. He had forced his well-trained mind to stop dwelling on McCarthy. Henry had a plan and so far, so good … The weather had suddenly turned cold but the sharp wind was doing him good. His mobile rang.

  “Henry Crowne,” he said in his smooth baritone.

  “Good afternoon Mr Crowne, Inspector Jonathan Pole, Scotland Yard. I understand that you have been informed I may want to speak with you. Would it be convenient for us to talk at some point?”

  Henry would have dropped his tea had he not been balancing it on the railing of the pedestrian crossing opposite his office building.

  “Well … yes … what exactly are you expecting from me? Anyway, I am outside the office can I come back to you?”

  “We do not need to talk now. Shall I come at 5.30 tomorrow afternoon? I will text you my number in case you need it.”

  The voice was harmonious yet unequivocally firm. There would be no arguing. Henry knew he would be made available by his firm to the Yard, he had no choice and the voice at the other end of his mobile knew it full well. Inspector Pole would tolerate no setback.

  “Fine I’ll book a room.”

  “Excellent, see you then.”

  The wind that had invigorated Henry was now assaulting him, making him shiver. He rapidly crossed the street and disappeared into the building.

  Back at his desk Henry was assailed with urgent calls and emails. The market had moved dangerously again and some of the products his team had helped launch recently were now under stress. The Albert story disappeared in a flash as Henry engaged with the issues at stake.

  It was late when he finally reached his home that night. He had jumped into a black cab whilst still scrolling through his emails on his BlackBerry and swiftly replying. At the last traffic light before the cab reached his home, he had stopped. Henry enjoyed this small ritual, a way of preparing himself to let go of the day’s pressure.

  He entered the imposing yet welcoming hallway. Before he reached the lifts he passed a modern steel and wood table.. The janitor was on holiday and his replacement was a disaster. Henry swore in a low voice as he noticed his mail mixed up with that of his neighbour, Nancy Wu.

  “If this moron can’t put it through my letter box, at least he should allocate it properly.”

  He separated his mail from Nancy’s in an irritated gesture and dropped a bunch of letters on the floor. He swore again, this time louder. The little he had seen of Nancy intrigued him. The Chelsea Flower Show Committee had sent her a large envelope. The Henry Moore Foundation had sent her what looked like an official invitation, both letters indicating that she must be a trustee. Another letter from the Inns of Court attracted Henry’s attention. He placed his own mail underneath his arm and moved towards the lifts, still perusing his neighbour’s mail. Some more mail from abroad, China and France. Henry smiled at his own preconceptions. He walked out of the lift and rang her doorbell. No one replied. How irritating. He could have done with a little company. He could keep the mail and try later perhaps. Nancy had given him her phone number as the mixed-up mail incident was not the first of its kind. Henry realised it was the only time he’d had a conversation of any length with her and been invited into her home. But the mood soon faded. He slid the mail through Nancy’s door.

  He might not be such a good company after all and, besides, Nancy might not live up to his expectations. Henry was about to step into his flat when a white envelope on the floor of the hallway stopped him. His name was elegantly penned across it and underlined.

  Henry tore open the envelope.

  Dear Henry,

  Your painting, The Raft of the Medusa, arrived this morning. I was hoping I could deliver it to you but a prior evening commitment prevents me from doing so. I thought you would want to see it as soon as you came in tonight and therefore asked the janitor to be allowed into your flat. I hope you won’t mind.

  I could not resist taking a look. I am impressed by the quality of the execution and the strength of the content. Would you care to join me for a drink later on this week? I would so much enjoy discussing this provocative piece with you.

  Yours

  Nancy

  All ideas of grabbing the janitor by the throat for having allowed a stranger in vanished. Instead, Henry felt flattered. He dropped his mail on the low table at the centre of his lounge.

  The painting was still wrapped and had been carefully positioned against one of the larger sofas. Henry had forgotten how large the piece was, not as large as the original Géricault but still imposingly big. He did not bother to change but ran to his kitchen to find a pair of scissors. He placed the painting on the sofa against which it had been leaning and started meticulously unwrapping it. The joy of knowing and yet not fully remembering gripped him until the bubble wrap paper lay discarded on the floor like the abandoned dress of a lover.

  Henry took a few steps back. Opposite sat The Raft of the Medusa. The shock was intense, the nakedness and the vulnerability, the despair and the savage need to survive. A few days ago death had been a controversial theme that called only for words. Today it had become reality. Why had he chosen such an uncompromising painting?

  Henry stood up, incapable of taking in anymore, rapidly covering the piece.

  “I am not in the mood,” he said aloud, as if it was a sufficient reason.

  Henry took off his jacket, threw it on the sofa and unknotted his tie in an irritated gesture. He looked around the room and the elegant antiquities reassured him. They were some exquisite dancing Shivas, a benevolent Buddha and his prize piece, a miniature terracotta warrior from the Emperor Qin Shi Huang’s Terracotta Army. All were expensive and suitably safe. Henry had never reflected on the decorative nature of his collection. The pieces had been purchased at a price. He had taken monetary risk, or perhaps that of fraud but what other risk had there been? And was it art?

  He climbed a flight of stairs to his bedroom and there again the large Matisse painting on the wall felt kind, a gentle presence, comforting in its origin and execution.

  Should art be more than simply pleasing to the eye? Why collect? And why The Raft of the Medusa?

  Henry shook his head again.

  “I am not in the mood,” he repeated. He would call Phillippe tomorrow. Maybe this piece was not the hit he thought it would be. Yet he had fought for its purchase against no other than Anthony Albert himself.

  Most surprising, they had both been invited to the exclusive preview of Tom’s work. Henry’s newfound love of contemporary art had led him to follow Phillippe’s gallery and its many young up-and-coming artists. When Albe
rt walked in, Henry knew he was there to close a deal. Anything as long as it was a good investment.

  Henry had challenged his rival with flair by welcoming him openly.

  “Anthony, how nice to see you here.”

  “Likewise,” Albert had replied unfazed.

  Henry had turned away towards Phillippe declaring in the low voice of a conspiring man. “I would buy the whole lot but it would feel very Saatchi-like.”

  “Why, bonus on the decline?” Albert had butted in, unashamed of his uncouth eavesdropping.

  “Noooo, but as you know to your own cost, I do not buy in the manner a rug merchant does. I pick and choose!”

  Henry had raised his champagne glass in humour and moved on. Albert had then walked straight to Phillippe and asked for a quote on the entire display. But Albert was no Saatchi and Phillippe knew to exercise caution. Henry had become a good client and both men managed to catch up whilst the artist presented his work and was interviewed by the FT art correspondent.

  “The gentleman you spoke to wants the whole lot,” Phillippe had said. “This is unusual for a first-time buyer.”

  “My fault, Phil. I mentioned Saatchi… but I think The Raft of the Medusa is the one I truly want so just tell him I desperately want Minotaur. He will buy that one and a few more I am sure.”

  “Understood. By the way… The Raft is an excellent choice!”

  And today The Raft of the Medusa was sitting in Henry’s lounge.

  Chapter Three

  The room Henry had booked was small but comfortable. He assumed Pole would be coming on his own. He was standing by the large bay window overlooking the City’s roofs. The top floor of the newly converted building was solely dedicated to meetings. The place had been given a professional but comfortable feel. Teams of staff were dedicated to the welfare of the bankers and their clients. Henry would press a button on a remote control lying on the small desk adjacent to the meeting table and refreshments would appear swiftly, a well-rehearsed choreography Henry took for granted and hardly noticed.

  Biscuits and cakes came to mind … He remembered some of his first meetings where the joke invariably turned on the ‘quality’ of the snacks provided. It sounded rather frivolous now but the memory made him smile at his own reflection in the window. He was trying to spot the roof of the Bank of England when the phone rang. A male voice announced his guests, asking Henry whether he should send them through. Henry noticed that the plural had been used.

  “I’ll be with you right away,” replied Henry.

  Fucking hell. How many coppers does it take to interview one bloody banker?

  Inspector Pole was a tall man, with greying hair. Henry noticed that he was also sporting a well-trimmed goatee. His colleague was an equally tall Asian woman.

  “How do you do,” said Pole whilst extending his hand to Henry. “I am Jonathan Pole and this is my colleague Nurani Shah.”

  “How do you do?” said Henry.

  Henry shook hands with both of them. He had kept his right hand in his trouser pocket ensuring the tissue within it absorbed the moisture of his sweaty palm.

  “Shall we move to room sixteen?”

  “Certainly. Thank you for taking the time, I am sure you are very busy.”

  “Well business is not exactly as usual. A merger imposes restrictions on what a bank can do as you know.” Henry’s voice stayed remote, matter of fact. He had no need to befriend Pole.

  “Of course, I suppose the acquiring company wants a period of status quo to ascertain past performances and risk levels in particular in the current subprime context,” replied Pole.

  “This is not a takeover, this is a merger.” The firm’s mantra Henry did not believe in would however do for Pole. He pushed open the door of room sixteen.

  “Tea, coffee, water?”

  Everybody went for tea. Henry placed the order and sat opposite his two unwelcome guests.

  The conversation started with a bland exchange of information until refreshments had arrived. This took less than three minutes after the call had been made.

  But the biscuits looked sad.

  “Well Inspector Pole, I presume you have not come here to enquire about the rate of inflation so let’s get on with it, shall we?”

  “Certainly, I know that Ted Barnes has given you a quick summary of what happened to the flight Anthony Albert was on. We have also contacted GL’s internal legal team to ensure that we can gain access to relevant information. This is important since I am afraid we will be treating the incident as suspicious.”

  “Do you have any proof of this?” said Henry in a tone he thought too eager.

  “Very sorry but I can’t discuss this with you Mr Crowne.” Pole’s voice remained even. “However, in this context we have to try to map with exactitude the movements of Mr Albert. So, tell me, when did you last make contact with him? Is there any information you think is relevant?”

  “Sure,” said Henry, settling down into his chair comfortably. “Today is Wednesday. We spoke on Monday. Anthony was asking for details of all structured products we were working on. I was preparing this report but wanted a bit more time.”

  Henry shifted slightly, he was suitably vague, knowing that the subsequent conversation had been made from an anonymised phone in one of the meeting rooms.

  “Could you be a bit more precise, was the conversation tense, amicable?”

  “Well this is a difficult merger, it is not easy but in the current context it was professional and sufficiently courteous.”

  Anthony Albert and Henry had had a courteous enough conversation on the Monday, however the subsequent call had degenerated into an almighty row. Henry knew the game too well. Under the pretence of ‘future cooperation’ and teamwork, Albert was trying to find out what the competing team was working on. His aim was also to adapt his own pipeline of product development and tailor it accordingly. The idea was of course to look at least as good if not better than Henry. They had exchanged information but both camps had surrendered ideas that were already known to the market. The cutting-edge technology that made Henry’s team so spectacular remained hidden.

  “I understand that you and Mr Albert were not particularly friendly,” said Pole.

  His eyes rested on Henry and he let him feel their weight. Pole was in the game of information gathering, an opponent worthy of Henry’s attention.

  “Well, this is a tough environment, banking is hugely competitive, at best people may respect each other …”

  “Would it therefore be fair to say that there was respect between you and Mr Albert?”

  “I think that is right,” Henry gave a soft roll to his r. Pole did not seem to blink at Henry’s first lie.

  “Could we now show you a number of documents that have come to our attention this morning? We recovered them from Mr Albert’s computer.”

  * * *

  To: Roger Kodorov Global Head of Equities Trading

  Date: 08 September 2008

  From: Anthony Albert European Head of Structured Products

  Subject: Henry Crowne

  Roger,

  A quick mail as agreed to update you on the latest conversation with Crowne. I simply cannot understand the man. He suggested we fly together to Switzerland tomorrow and now he has changed his mind. He will not take the plane with me! He was the one who suggested we take the company’s jet so that it gives us some privacy for a discussion about the teams which I thought was the first reasonable idea I have heard from him so far.

  However, Crowne is now too busy, this is frankly a lame excuse. Anyway, I will see you later in Geneva. At least and at last ... Crowne has prepared some documents I can work on. I will pick them up myself so that I can work on them on the plane before we meet.

  Best

  Anthony

  Anthony Albert, ACA, FTII

  European Head of Structured Products

  * * *

  Henry read the note once, and again. He finally pushed the page back to Pole with two
fingers. He folded his hand on the table, lifted his head and took a moment to speak.

  “I do not understand this email at all, he had mentioned a trip to Switzerland but never firmed up on it.”

  Henry’s mind was now working quickly and in anger. Why would this crazy fucker want to send such an email? Henry had expressed surprise but had he been convincing to the well-trained eyes of Pole?

  “You have no explanation why Mr Albert wrote this mail?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  “What about the papers Mr Albert mentioned in his mail, would he have really come to pick them up or send for them? Why not email?”

  Henry had delivered some papers but all had been done by mail and the latest batch had not been ready on time hence the row with Anthony Albert. Henry knew he was late and pressure had been mounting. The game had to be played with precision, too much resistance and he would lose the hand.

  “Well, papers were ready but he never picked them up,” Henry’s voice dipped a little – his second lie.

  “You mean there was a bundle to be picked up prepared by you, specifically for Mr Albert, with all the required information?”

  “No, not printed but that could have been printed had he asked for it. He never did.”

  “Well, we have another email dated two days previously asking for the documents to be delivered, what do you make of this?”

  “Can I see it?” asked Henry slowly sinking into the half-truth that made survival in his job possible. His answers would not be incorrect but would be open to interpretation.

  Control at all cost.

  “The documents refer more, I believe, to general figures about P&L.”

  “OK, but I presume P&L can be gathered from your accounts department.”

  “Yes, but we also have projections.”

  “Now Mr Crowne, what do you make of this mail?” said Pole moving around pieces of papers so that they landed precisely in front of Henry.

  This time the mail was addressed to Albert’s PA. It was asking her to confirm the booking of one of HXBK’s private jets and inform security of Henry’s identity and details. Albert was also giving specific instructions about Henry’s pick up at his home address.