Frame-Up (3 page)

About five minutes later, Willis returns in the company of a solidly
built female officer whom he introduces as Detective Sergeant Somes.
Her hooded gray reptile eyes stare devoid of any expression. I take an
instant dislike for that woman. She asks if I would like a drink. I decline
with thanks. Both take seats on the other side of the table, their backs
facing the glass wall.

"Miss Walker, I guess you’re apprehensive," Willis commences. "Who
wouldn’t be in your situation?"

Although said in a friendly, sympathetic tone, it sounds threatening.

 "So, to put you at ease," he continues, "let me make clear that this is
only an informal and preliminary interview. Hence, we will not record it.
Do you nevertheless wish to have your lawyer present?"

I really don’t have anything to hide. My conscience is clear. I’ve done
nothing illegal or unethical. Although I know that my father will chide me
for not having insisted on the presence of a lawyer, I decide to play it by
ear. "Not at this point. I may though wish to change my mind depending
on the questions you are going to ask."

"Fine. Let us know if you do."

He first inquires about my background, my academic qualifications,
my employment at Lewis Stockbrokers, and my functions. Then he
broaches what I reckon is his real interest: "I understand that you are in
charge of the Ventura Consolidated account. What does that imply?"

"To put the record straight, I was in charge of it. I’m no more. The
account is now handled by one of my colleagues. Being in charge of an
account simply means that the client always deals with the same broker
who is thoroughly familiar with the needs of the client, his or her
transaction history, the preferences as to the type of investments in terms
of risk, diversification, industry, geographical location, and so on, rather
than having to deal with several different brokers within the same firm.
So I handled all buy and sell transactions for Ventura, provided them with
investment advice, and, as part of that, made them aware of potentially
attractive ventures."

"You also advise them if they should sell stocks they hold?"

"Yes."

"Why? Could you elaborate on that?"

"For instance, as recently happened, the number of new housing
construction permits has taken a dive. This will most likely result in a
slump in industries that manufacture building material. So the moment a
conscientious broker discovers such a trend, she would advise a client
who holds large parcels of shares in such industries to sell these shares
and reinvest the funds in some more attractive industries."

"Isn’t this though insider trading?" questions Somes. "He would
violate stock exchange regulations."

"No, not if she bases her advice and any subsequent transaction on
publicly known information, such as the monthly report of new housing
constructions permits." I purposely use ‘she’ again, just to make a point.

     
"But the advice you gave Ventura to sell the …," Somes searches
through her notes.

"Sanvino shares," I suggest.

"Yes, the Sanvino shares. That was not based on publicly known
knowledge," she asserts, frowning.

"The wine industry was aware that the Sanvino contract with
Lufthansa is to expire shortly. There was also a rumor that the airline
might dump Sanvino in favor of another supplier of Italian wines."

"But that is insider information, so acting on it is illegal," she
continues rather aggressively.

I almost laugh. I seem to be facing the stereotype duo of a benevolent
and a nasty interrogator. But I also realize that she is way out of her
depth. Or is she only feigning and if so what is she aiming for? "Rumors,
by definition, are public information," I counter.

A fleeting frown of annoyance crosses her face. "Since you knew of
that, you must surely also have been aware of the other, that Sanvino was
going to get the Singapore Airlines contract."

"No, I did not, and if you persist in this sort of aggressive questioning,
I insist that I have a lawyer present." I’m not going to be bullied by this
woman.

Willis casts her a brief glance — is it a warning, I wonder? — and then
says: "Look, Miss Walker, the stock market is always a bit of a mystery
to most outsiders, so, please, don’t take our questions wrong. Enlighten
us. When did you learn that Singapore Airlines was considering signing
with Sanvino?"

His use of language hints that he knows more about the dealings in the
stock market than he lets on. "Yesterday morning, about ten o’clock,
when it was announced on Reuters’ electronic newsflash our firm
subscribes to. You can easily check this out. It was the first public
announcement posted on the Web on this matter."

"So, you claim that this was the first time you heard of it?"

"Yes. If I had been aware of this contradictory rumor the day before,
I would hardly have advised Ventura to sell. It does not look good on my
record to have given Ventura advice that turns out to be bad the next day.
And since we are talking about that advice, I had the rumor that Sanvino
was going to lose the Lufthansa contract checked out with a reliable
source at another stockbrokerage firm and got it confirmed. So I acted
with due caution."

"Would you be willing to name that source?"

I hesitate for a moment. Should I pass on such information without
consulting a lawyer? What if they check with Gary? He might blame me
for being questioned. Furthermore, I overstated my case by claiming a
‘reliable source’. I don’t know Gary’s informant inside Goldsax. But
again, I reason that I’ve nothing to hide. "Yes. My initial contact was
Gary Buxton at Goldsax."

So far they haven’t brought up Carvaggio’s accusation. Is this only a
fishing expedition and the end of the interview? My hopes are quickly
dashed. Willis takes me once more through the Sanvino transaction, this
time painstakingly step by step, including the timing of each aspect.

It is close to five before I come out of the Snow Hill Station. As I walk
back to the office, I wonder what will happen next. I try to reassure
myself that I have nothing to fear since I have committed no crime. The
worst that can happen, has already happened, is that my reputation as a
stockbroker is in tatters.

By the time I reach my desk, the office is empty. Friday. All my
colleagues have left early for the weekend.

Friday, 7:30 p.m.

Gary and I agreed to meet at
Il Corno d’Oro
, my favorite Italian
restaurant in South Kensington. Last night, he was very supportive when
I told him about the Sanvino debacle, although I sensed that he was
concerned that Garland guessed who had confirmed the rumor about the
Lufthansa contract likely to be dropped.

"Look, you acted cautiously," he reassured me then. "You were just
unlucky and nobody can blame you for that."

And that night I really needed his comfort. Even the meeting of our
bodies, soothing in its gentle familiarity, offered comfort. He is a
considerate lover. I like his body, the smell of him. Maybe he isn’t the
most exciting lover I’d ever had. He is a creature of habit, lacking a sense
of sexual adventure, sticking to the familiar, but then our jobs keep both
of us under constant pressure, which takes a deliberate effort to shake off.

My thoughts last night before sleep quieted my mind were that maybe
we were good for each other, not only in companionship, but also in our
shared interests. I even liked his parents, particularly his mother, and the
one time he accompanied me to Switzerland, he seemed to get along well
with my relatives, except for Carlo whom he dismisses as a druggie. I
suspect that there may be some jealousy of my closeness to my brother.

Maybe I should explore his feelings about getting married. I’m twenty-six and want to have a child or two before reaching thirty.

So now I’m looking forward to another pleasant evening with him.
Good food and a nice drop of wine first, then a bit of dancing at a disco
and finally to bed in my apartment. Rather than wait outside the
restaurant, as he usually does unless it is raining, he is already sitting at
the bar with a half-finished drink, whisky by the looks of it, rather
untypical for him. I immediately sense that something is wrong. No hello
or pleased smile greeting me. I offer him the customary three kisses into
the air next to the cheeks. His response seems perfunctory, reluctant.

"What are you drinking?" I query, wondering if I should order the
same.

Ignoring my question, he asks in a sulking tone: "Why did you have
to give the police my name? Couldn’t you have kept me out of this
affair?"

I’m rather taken aback. "DI Willis has already contacted you? I’m
sorry."

"No, it was a woman. What a bitch! She wanted to know who had
confirmed the rumor about Sanvino. It’s bad enough that I’m now
involved. But I don’t want that other people at work are also questioned
by the police."

I spot Silvio, the restaurant’s manager, behind the kitchen counter,
giving orders to his two chefs. When I first returned to London four years
ago, it was his flair as the head chef that established the restaurant’s fame
as one of the best Italian eating places in London. It is always full of local
Italians and one hears more Italian than English. Since taking on the role
of manager as well, he mainly supervises the food preparation. Seeing
me, a broad smile lights up his face, and he comes around the counter to
greet me. "
Ciao bella
. A Barbaresco, as usual?"

I return his flirting smile. "Yes Silvio, please."
Il Corno d’Oro
only
serves the real thing, not simply generic brands. Turning back to Gary, I
reply: "Gary, I’m really sorry. They questioned me in detail on the whole
matter and when I said I had the rumor confirmed at Goldsax, they
wanted to know my contact there. What else could I do? But even if I had
withheld your name, they would have had little difficulty in finding out.
Both Long and my boss knew."

Silvio places the glass of wine on the counter. He bends forward with
a conspiratorial smile and murmurs in Italian: "Don’t let your lover’s
shitty mood spoil your enjoyment." He turns away with a wink. I take a
sip and savor the silky taste of the liquid.

"Why’s that guy always flirting with you? What did he say?"

"Oh nothing. Just that I should enjoy the wine."

"He’s far too forward. Why does he have to speak Italian?"

"Come, Gary. He’s Italian and Italians simply love the sound of their
own language. Nothing else."

In fact, it’s true that Silvio always flirts with me, and I enjoy it, often
respond to it. Like myself, he takes great care of his body, keeping in
shape. I suspect that it’s more than simply flirting on his part, particularly
if I come alone or with Carlo. He always offers me little extras. A second
glass of wine free; nibbles; a small complimentary platter of cheese. He
sometimes even makes it a point to wander over to my table for a chat.
And he has asked me out more than once, but I’ve always gently refused.

"Your trouble really catches me at the wrong time," Gary resumes his
complaint. "You knew my name was put forward for promotion to senior.
Even a whiff of a scandal can sink me. If I don’t get it now, it could be
years before another senior position comes up. I wish you’d kept me out
of this. I’m really pissed off."

I’ve already said twice that I’m sorry. A third time will hardly make
any difference. He is exaggerating, is my defensive reaction. Why should
a bad deal at another stockbroker affect his chances for promotion? Is he
already looking for a scapegoat in case he misses out? Or is he simply
trying to forestall any potential accusation that it was his advice that
landed me in trouble. That thought hasn’t even occurred to me until that
moment. I find my own reaction uncharitable.

"Look, Gary. Neither you nor I did anything wrong. Let’s not let this
thing —"

"It’s easy for you to talk," he interrupts. "It isn’t you who’s now at
risk. If this reaches the wrong ears I can kiss that promotion goodbye."

He is exaggerating, but he also raises my hackles. "What do you mean,
it’s easy for me to talk? I just happened to be grilled for almost two hours
by the police. And who knows what will happen next? Garland needs a
scapegoat to placate Ventura, and it looks like I’m it. So I’m in deep shit,
as Long took great pleasure in telling me repeatedly."

He has the decency to blush. "I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that
way. It’s all just happening at the wrong time." He looks away
embarrassed and then empties the rest of his whiskey in one go.