Frame-Up (2 page)

So what might Carlo want from me this time? Has he already gone
through the two hundred pounds I gave him on Wednesday last week,
although I recall that he then looked in better shape than during the last
nine months? There’s my Aikido practice at eight, and I don’t want to
leave him alone in the apartment. Last time I did, he walked off with one
of my valuable antique prints. Nor do I want another unpleasant
confrontation between him and Gary, my stockbroker boyfriend, who I
hope will join me later for the night.

Carlo’s face lights up when he sees me. He gets up and gives me a hug.
"I thought you’d never come home," he murmurs. "I was getting hungry."
He must have gleaned something in my expression and begs: "You won’t
turn me away, not your little brother." One of those disarming smiles
plays around his eyes. As usual, we converse in the local dialect of the
Ticino, one of the Italian-speaking parts of Switzerland.

"I think that I’ll be able to cook up some food, but I don’t have much
time. It’s Aikido night." As I open the door to the apartment, I notice that
he has no luggage. I don’t know whether this is a bad or a good sign, but
it probably means he does not intend to overnight at my place.

"Oh, I don’t mind spending the evening alone. I haven’t watched TV
for ages."

"No, Carlo. I don’t want to leave you alone here —"

"Don’t worry, Ceci," he interrupts with a chuckle, using my nickname,
pronounced ‘chechi’, meaning chickpeas, "I won’t nick anything. I still
have most of what you gave me last week." He saw right through my
reason for not wanting him alone in the apartment. "Let’s get some food
on the table. I’m starving."

He goes straight to the kitchen and opens the refrigerator.

"There’s a lasagna casserole," I call out, as I deposit my handbag
safely in the cupboard of my bedroom, kick off my shoes and then
quickly change into casual trainers and a loose top. By the time I return
to the kitchen, the casserole is already in the microwave, and he is setting
plates, glasses, cutlery and napkins on the table. At least in this respect,
I’ve trained him well.

"Any wine?" he questions, while opening the food cupboard and
bending down to the wine rack where I store the reds. He inspects several
and then settles on a Beaujolais. Taking two glasses from the shelf, he
asks: "And how are things at the office? Made a big killing this week?"

I give him a succinct rundown on the Sanvino affair. He listens with
his usual inattentiveness. While I talk, I prepare a salad dressing, Italian
style — balsamic vinegar, mustard, pepper, an organic condiment instead
of salt, a few chopped-up leaves of basil, and olive oil — and then empty
about half a bag of a pre-washed lettuce and rocket mixture into the bowl.
By that time, the casserole is hot.

"But they can’t hold that against you. You did what you judged was
the best action," he comments, as he places the casserole on the table.

"It’s not that simple. First, my reputation is in tatters, and if the client
puts the heat on the firm, the boss might still sacrifice me. But tell me,
why you are here, since you say you still have most of the dough I gave
you last week?"

"Do you have such a low opinion of me? Can’t I even make a brotherly
visit to my favorite sister without raising suspicion? Besides, there is
always something decent to eat in this joint," he replies with his
endearing smile.

"Talking about sisters, you still haven’t met Susan and Clara, have
you?" They are our half-sisters from our father’s second marriage.

"No. Why should I? As you well know, the old man told me to go to
hell."

"He was angry and disappointed. He didn’t mean it."

Carlo shrugs his shoulders. "I don’t need him either."

"But they are your sisters."

"Ceci, just leave it." His face has turned somber.

For a while, we eat in silence. He digs into the food as if he hasn’t
eaten for days. In contrast to other drug addicts I’ve come across, he
always maintains a healthy appetite even while under the influence,
which probably is his salvation from going under completely.

"Beside the food, what’s your reason for this visit?"

"I just wanted to let you know that I’ll be gone for a while."

"And your job?"

"Didn’t work out."

"Why?" I know it’s useless to even ask.

"That Croat boss was a really bad number."

"Where will you go?"

"Mama has begged me to spend some time with her. I haven’t seen her
for almost half a year. And then I might do some traveling."

"But hardly on the two hundred I gave you."

"Oh no. I finally got all my back pay and I also scored me some lucky
money on the side. Enough for a couple of months if I’m careful."

I find it difficult to believe what I hear. Carlo careful with money? He
takes greater care with his drugs. Maybe that’s how he scored. "You
didn’t deal, did you? You promised me never to do it again. I don’t want
to have to visit you in jail’

"Don’t worry, Ceci. It was all legitimate. Just this guy who wanted me
to do him a small favor."

How can I believe him? However, I decide to let it go. I don’t really
want to know. It would only make me even more anxious about him. If
he’s off to Montagnola, he will be off my back for a while, and right now
with the Sanvino affair still lurking in the background I welcome that.

Carlo actually hugs me good-bye after finishing off the casserole and
most of the wine. I’ve hardly eaten any, but I make it to Aikido in time.

Friday, 17
^th
October, 10:40 a.m.

A call on the internal office phone.

"Miss Walker, come to my office." It’s Garland. Addressing me by my
last name doesn’t sound promising, nor does the lack of ‘please’. What
now?

"Right away, sir," I reply, but he has already hung up.

Again, I compose myself for a couple of seconds before knocking on
his door. This time he calls out "enter" — not French, another bad sign.

As last time, he waves me into a chair and walks around the desk. "To
come right to the point, Miss Walker, I’ve received a highly abusive call
from this Carvaggio of Ventura."

As if I didn’t know the man’s affiliation.

"He accuses us of incompetence, or worse, of deliberately having cost
him two million pounds."

Yes, Carvaggio would talk as if it were his own money. It’s more
likely to be laundered Mafia funds. I brace myself to lose the Ventura
account.

"He demands that we compensate him for the loss. He also demands
that I assign him to another broker."

So the axe has fallen. "Sir, he agreed to the sale," I barge in. "He
cannot hold us liable."

"It’s not that simple, young woman. He claims that your advice was a
deliberate ploy to make him agree to the sale, and that you must have
known the real situation. To put it bluntly, he is convinced that you
arranged for another broker to buy the shares and then sell them again
after the Sanvino announcement on the Singapore Airlines deal."

"But that’s outrageous! I would never do anything of the sort. Not only
is it unethical, but it’s also illegal. If it’s discovered, it would lead to my
immediate and permanent ban as a broker, as well as a lengthy jail term."

"That may be so, but let me ask you frankly, and I expect a truthful
answer. I may still manage to limit the damage. Did you or didn’t you do
what he accuses you of?" He is towering threateningly over me, his eyes
boring into mine.

"Sir, I did not."

He looks at me for several seconds, slightly bending his head, as if he
could penetrate my scull and scan the chemical connections in my brain
to unravel the truth. "This is your final word?"

"Yes, sir. I’ve never engaged in any fraudulent trading of any sort."

Again, he remains silent for a while. "I hope you understand that I
have no choice but to give the Ventura account to somebody else. Pass
the entire dossier, including all electronic files, to Grant Hanson."

"But, sir, Signor Carvaggio hardly speaks English. He always insists
on conversing in Italian."

"His English was good enough to abuse me." He dismisses me with a
wave of his right hand.

I make a detour via the ladies’ room, to gain time, to compose myself,
before returning to my desk. It takes me almost an hour to assemble all
papers and send all electronic files on Ventura to Grant Hanson. Edward
Long several times looks over the partition, wanting to know what I’m
doing.

"Cleaning out, sheila? Did you finally get the sack? I’d be willing to
help out, if you run short of money … obviously you understand, for a
little service of an intimate nature." He expels his usual goat snigger.

By the time I’m finished, I see Hanson and Long walk past my cubicle,
out for lunch. From the snippet of conversation I overhear, Hanson is
telling Longs that Garland assigned him the Ventura account.

"How unfair!" Long exclaims. "It should have been mine."

I don’t catch Hanson’s response. I place the box of paper documents
on his desk and then also leave for a bite at a nearby café, staying well
clear of the pubs and bars in the City’s financial district frequented by
most of my colleagues and other brokers. Again I wonder whether I will
ever be fully accepted by them or remain no more than the firm’s token
female stockbroker, a sop to the Securities and Futures Association’s call
for greater gender equality.

Friday, 2:50 p.m.

Back at my desk after lunch, I ignore several of Long’s gibes. I’m just
closing a small purchase order for a client when heavy footsteps, coming
to a halt behind my chair, make me turn around. Two men stand at the
entrance to my cubicle, one in the dark uniform of a constable, the other
in a well-cut gray suit. Police? What now?

"Are you Miss Walker?" the one in mufti questions. His tone is polite
and not unfriendly.

"Yes, I am."

"Miss Walker, I’m Detective Inspector Willis, and this is Police
Officer Barlow. Will you please accompany us to the district police HQ
to answer a few questions?"

I get up, my training in assertiveness, all part of Aikido, taking over.
"Sir, am I under arrest?" It takes no guessing to realize that this is my
boss’s doing. He didn’t believe me and reported it to the police. Although
the general office culture accepts that insider trading — a broker illegally
taking advantage of insider information to trade on his or her own account
— that this occurs from time to time, everybody will deny any knowledge
and distance himself or herself if you get caught.

"Not at this time. It is only to talk in an environment where we have
more privacy."

And which is also more threatening goes through my mind. "We have
a conference room along the corridor there where we can be alone."

"Miss, we prefer to interview you at the Snow Hill police station."

"All right. Let me just quickly log off."

Without waiting for his response, I log off, but leave the three screens
updating share prices on, inform Maggie, our receptionist secretary, that
I will be out of the office for a while, and then put on my jacket and
retrieve my handbag from the bottom drawer of my desk. After a quick
glance over my desk, I join the detective, the police officer trailing
behind. Keeping my head high, I ignore the curious stares of my
colleagues. Fortunately, Long has just gone out to the toilet. It spares me
being the target for one of his snide remarks.

They have a car waiting on Lombard Street a few steps from our
offices and drive me to the Snow Hill Police Station, several blocks west.
I’m led into an internal interview room, which reminds me very much of
the scenes on TV crime shows — a sizable room, well lit, somewhat
shabby, bare walls, intentionally intimidating. Willis invites me to take
a seat on one of the four metal chairs at the table in the middle of the
room, chairs that must have been intentionally chosen for being
uncomfortable, and leaves. Officer Barlow remains ominously next to the
door. A microphone and a small electronic control unit stand on the table.
Two closed circuit cameras are centered on me. A dark glass wall — a
one-way mirror, I figure — reflects my image. I can just imagine a group
of detectives standing on the other side, watching me, my every
expression, my every movement, occasionally commenting on what they
observe. The very thought of it feels intrusive.