Frame-Up (8 page)

For any trading done through the stock exchange, seller and buyer do
not know each other’s identity, although their names are recorded by the
exchange transaction system. But since the Sanvino transaction was a
direct deal with another stockbroker, I know the purchaser. So the name
of the account holder, I-Consolidated Holdings, strikes me immediately,
as does the debit of 9.94 million — the amount that firm paid for the
Sanvino shares. Puzzled, I take the sheet and scan over it. Yes, I’ve heard
correctly. The account holder is the purchaser of the shares. The incoming
balance of the account is £481.64. Why is the account addressed
‘Attention C. Walker’? My initial and name. Who is C. Walker? I never
opened this account and prior to the sale of the Sanvino shares I had never
heard of the firm I-Consolidated. Is the ‘C. Walker’ a coincidence or is
it more ominous, an attempt to frame me?

"Before I give you a partial answer to your question, I want to know
where this statement comes from? How did you get in possession of it?"

"I’m not obliged to answer that, but it will hardly matter if I do. It was
mailed to Lewis on the 22
^nd
October, and handed to Fred Garland, who
opened it. He suspected that it had something to do with the Sanvino
transaction, and therefore he passed it on to me this morning. The reason
for calling you in again today is to question you on the meaning of this
bank account, seemingly addressed to you."

Crawford intervenes: "The fact that the initial and name are the same
as Miss Walker’s does not prove that the statement is addressed to her. A
quick check of the phone listings will reveal that there are dozens, if not
hundreds of C. Walker in London."

"Maybe Miss Walker can enlighten us. What is your response?"

I quickly look at Crawford. He shrugs his shoulders. I take this as his
okay to reply. "First, I-Consolidated Holdings is the firm that acquired
Ventura’s Sanvino shares through a private deal with a stockbroker at
Goldsax, and 9.94 million is the settlement amount. Second, I suppose
that the deposit of 11.98 million is the proceeds of selling these shares on
that day, but that’s only a guess. Checking Sanvino’s share price
movements for that day might confirm it. Third, the first time I heard of
a firm called I-Consolidated Holdings was on the day of the Sanvino
transaction. Fourth, I don’t know the identity of the C. Walker shown on
the statement. I never opened this account."

A fleeting smile flashes over Somes’ face, as if she had caught me in
a lie. I don’t have to wait long to find out.

"Miss Walker, I have here a copy of the application form for opening
that account, dated 1
^st
of October of this year," she states with a slight
smirk. "It shows C. Walker as the only person authorized to sign on the
account. Will you please confirm that this is your signature?"

It looks deceptively similar to mine, the same rounded W and final tail
after the r, except that I never sign just C. I always write out Cecilia.
"This is not my signature. I always write out my first name in full."

"You never simply sign C. Walker?" Somes questions, clearly
unconvinced by my reply.

I hesitate for a moment. "I may have done so several years back, but
not recently."

"This account was opened only fourteen days before you arranged the
Sanvino transactions," she retorts triumphantly. "You still maintain you
didn’t open it?"

I shrug. "I never opened this account, and this is not my signature. And
besides, where would I get ten million pounds for depositing in this
account?"

"From your accomplice who seems to have a numbered account with
a bank in Liechtenstein."

"I have no accomplice, nor do I have a numbered bank account
anywhere. I again repeat strenuously, I did nothing wrong, except heed
a false rumor."

"You are lying, Miss Walker. Your ex-boyfriend warned us about
that."

"So he told me, but then did he also tell you that he wanted me to
perjure myself by retracting my statement that he was my contact at
Goldsax who confirmed the Lufthansa rumor? So, can you believe the
accusation of a man who doesn’t hesitate to perjure himself?
Furthermore, the scenario in which you are trying to implicate me is an
insult to my intelligence. It is so primitive that any stockbroker would
blush with embarrassment to even think of such a transparent scheme.
Any rookie of the Securities and Futures Authority would immediately
smell fraudulent trading. This looks more and more like a setup to
implicate me and hide the real culprit." I surprise myself by how I
manage to keep my voice calm and even — again my Aikido training —
despite feeling that the noose around my neck is tightening. Maybe, it
might have been more politic to show some nervousness.

While I talk, Somes scowls again. I can see that she gets ready to blast
another salvo, but Willis quickly preempts her: "You said the Sanvino
transaction was as a private deal arranged through a Stockbroker at
Goldsax, not one going through the London Stock Exchange. Isn’t this
rather irregular? What was the reason for that?" His tone of voice reveals
that he is suspicious.

"Offering a large parcel of shares on the stock exchange, particularly
ones that are not regularly traded, is likely to cause a substantial drop in
price. Privately arranged deals usually do better."

"Who was the stockbroker at Goldsax?"

"Bob Gough."

"Do you know him well?"

"No, I only met him once for about a minute."

"To come back to the signature. We will have it compared by a
graphologist with your handwriting and signatures we obtained from Mr.
Garland."

Again Crawford intervenes. "Detective Inspector, you have not
produced a single piece of hard evidence that links my client to a possible
fraud. All you have presented so far is circumstantial. Even if your expert
confirms that the signature for the account is in all likelihood the same as
the signature of Miss Walker, that does not exclude the possibility that all
you have is a very good forgery. As Miss Walker so rightfully expressed,
you seem to be barking up the wrong tree. If this is all you have, I will
advise my client to leave with me now." He starts to rise. I follow.

"Miss Walker may leave, under two conditions: First, she will have to
hand in her passport, and second, she is required to reside at her current
address, or if she changes address, she will have to notify us in advance
and in person. Police officer Barlow will now accompany Miss Walker
to her apartment and take possession of her passport."

"You may have my passport, and I have no intention of moving since
I own my apartment," I reply. I even manage to produce a smile. Nor does
it bother me to hand in the British passport. They don’t know that I also
have a valid Swiss passport. Once a Swiss citizen, always a Swiss citizen,
unless you apply to the Swiss parliament to have your citizenship
revoked.

Friday, 3:20 p.m.

My peace, if the state of being in limbo can be given that label, is again
broken barely an hour after Barlow brought me home and collected my
British passport. The entrance door intercom chimes once more.

"DI Willis here."

Not again
is my immediate thought.

"We have a search warrant for your apartment. Please, let us in."

I probably should have expected that this is going to be his next move.
Although his manners are benign, underneath he works more like a
bloodhound. Once he has a sniff of suspicion, he doesn’t let go. I release
the door. A minute later he and Somes appear, together with three
uniformed police officers.

"Please, search," I say, "just don’t ruin anything."

He assigns the three police officers to the kitchen, living room, and
guest bedroom, which also serves as my study, while Somes goes into the
bedroom.

"What are you actually looking for?" I ask.

"Anything that could be related to the Sanvino transactions," he
answers. "Do you have a safe?"

"No."

"Where are your cell phone and your computer?"

On the spur of the moment, I decide to play a trick on him. A year ago
I purchased an iPhone with e-mail and web-browsing facility. Since then
I’ve rarely used my old card cell phone, but that’s the one they will get.
Except for its ‘contacts’ list, all SMS registers are empty. Fortunately my
iPhone happens to be hidden in my loose trouser pocket. "Both are on the
desk in the guest bedroom cum study over there."

"I regret we will have to take them to the station for detailed analysis."

What can I do? Nothing. The thought of Somes reading through my e-mails and copies of personal letters feels like a violation. I just hope that
they won’t keep the computer too long. There is nothing incriminating on
it.

"Sir, the computer is password protected."

"We will be able to overcome that, but it would speed up things if you
gave me the password, Miss Walker." He opens a small notebook and
retrieves a ball pen.

"QT312H764. When will I get the machine back?"

"If it’s clear, within a day or two," he remarks as he writes down the
password, and then moves toward the study.

"Sir, all documents, bank and credit card statements, bills, and
correspondence are in the right-hand drawers of the desk," I say,
following him. Since I’ve nothing to hide, I might as well make it easier.
There is a small risk that he might discover the hidden compartment at the
back of the desk drawers where I keep my Swiss passport and a few other
documents. I bank on the fact that it is well camouflaged and thin enough
not to be noticed unless the desk is turned upside down. Willis inspects
the desk, removes the drawers and places them on top. Then he briefly
shines a flashlight into the opening. He misses the secret compartment.

I leave him to it and watch the other officers do the search, glad that
everything looks in perfect order. It is quite an experience seeing them
remove the upholstery from the leather sofa, checking the seams carefully
— fortunately they do not cut them open — looking behind pictures,
going through the CDs and shaking out all books, even checking my food
supplies and spices.

Somes is by far the messiest. She strips the bed, lifts the mattress, and
then empties the wire baskets that contain my undergarments, blouses,
tops, and so on, onto the bed, flicking through them. As she continues, I
sense her increasing frustration.

"What do you expect to find in my bras and nickers? Two million
pounds in bank notes?" I taunt her. Somehow this woman provokes me.

She ignores me and tosses another basket of socks and stockings onto
the pile on the bed.

"You are wasting your time. You’ll find nothing, because there is
nothing to find."

"We will find it," she grunts and moves into the bathroom.

"Will you, please, not mess up my cosmetics and medicines in the
mirror cabinet?" I call after her.

Half an hour later, they are finished. Willis gives me a receipt for the
items they are taking along: the old cell phone, the laptop, several CDs
and DVDs, and two memory sticks. Before they leave, I ask Willis to
follow me into the bedroom where I point to the heap of clothing and
undergarments piled onto the bed.

"Detective Inspector, would you teach DS Somes some manners, both
in behavior and attitude? Was it necessary to make such a mess?"

"Miss Walker, I will try, but I cannot promise to get any results." He
smiles ruefully.

Friday, 7:15 p.m.

After the day’s double whammy, I have the urge to spoil myself a bit. I’ve
been good all week and cooked simple dinners, surprised by how little
that cost. What treat could I offer myself? I feel like seeing a friendly
face. Silvio of
Il Corno d’Oro
springs to mind. Twenty minutes later I
enter the restaurant. He comes to meet me at the door with a pleased
smile. "
Ciao bella
."

Yes, that’s what I expected, that’s what I need.
We exchange the
customary brushing of cheeks. He usually refrained from doing it when
I came with Gary.

"A drink at the bar first, Cecilia?" he asks in Italian, guiding me
toward it. "The usual Barbaresco?"

I nod. "Yes, I need it."

"Alone?" he questions, when he returns with two glasses, one for me,
the other for himself.