The Deal (15 page)

Amanda read the text she had received from Oliver again.

“Must ask. Are you serious about renegotiating? O x.”

She was in a buoyant mood. She’d had a successful afternoon with Claude – he’d increased his order from her previous visit and taken three of the five new titles she’d shown him. They’d enjoyed eating dinner together and Claude had realised there was to be no further contact that evening. He had kissed her with a certain fondness and left her at the hotel. She was now alone in her hotel room, feeling slightly light-headed. Was it the wine? Perhaps it was the atmosphere of Paris in June. She picked up her phone and prepared to send a text. She decided on a simple response. She pressed the button.

“No negotiation needed. A. x.”

Back in London, Oliver read the message. What did she mean? Was it as obvious as it appeared to be? He was desperate not to illicit a wrong response. He quickly replied.

“You have too much time to change your mind. O. x.”

On reading his message she smiled. She felt unbelievably turned on. She texted back.

“I have five days to anticipate your affection. A. x.”

Oliver read the text and groaned. He typed his response and hesitated before pressing the ‘send’ button.

“No practising with handsome Frenchmen. x.”

She read the message and laughed. She knew immediately what her response would be.

“No Frenchman can match you. Goodnight Oliver. xx.”

He replied immediately.

“Take care. I wish I was with you. x.”

She read his words and smiled.

“I have a vivid imagination. Bon soir, mon ami xx.”

She took off her towelling robe and threw it on to the chair beside the bed. Naked, she slipped between the sheets and wrapped her arms around herself, embracing a distant man. She felt as though the final barriers between them were beginning to break down.

Just after midday, the Ealing police thought they might have the vital breakthrough in their search for Tabitha.

Superintendent Obuma called DCI Rudd from an address only half a mile from where the girl had disappeared. When Sarah arrived she saw two police cars outside a neglected terraced property. A police constable showed her inside the entrance and into the lounge. Daniel was sitting with a man of around sixty. He was untidy, unshaven and smirking. A cigarette dangled from his lips.

“Mr Watson,” said the officer, “this is DCI Rudd. Mr Watson has agreed to invite us into his home.”

“Oh yes, ‘kindly agreed’. You’d have come in anyway!”

Sarah looked at Daniel. He turned back to the man.

“Mr Watson, please tell DCI Rudd where you were yesterday afternoon.”

He looked at Sarah. “Six years ago I allowed myself to get a bit too friendly with a little girl on Ealing Common.”

“You brought her here,” said Daniel, “and held her for twenty-four hours against her will.”

“The weather was bad and I was worried she might catch cold.” Eugene Watson wiped his nose with the sleeve of his shirt. “I looked after her very well.”

“You abused her, Mr Watson, and put your hands where you shouldn’t. That’s why you spent two years in prison.”

A police officer came into the room. “It’s here, sir,” he said and handed Daniel the authorised search warrant. Four more officers went into the various rooms.

“We now have a warrant to search your house, Mr Watson.”

“Go ahead. I would have agreed anyway.”

“Where were you yesterday afternoon, Mr Watson?” asked DCI Rudd.

She watched as he signalled he was lying. His head kept dropping, although he knew enough to try to avoid this mannerism. He also kept looking to the left rather than meeting her eyes.

“I was on the Common all afternoon in the sunshine.”

“Who did you meet?”

“No one. I keep myself to myself.”

“How often do you visit the Common, Mr Watson?”

He was poking a finger inquisitively into one of his ears. He took it out and wiped it on his shirt before replying to the question.

“Most days, I suppose.”

“Was it busy yesterday?”

“Oh yes.”

“So people hadn’t gone to watch the accident on the high street?”

“Oh that. Somebody said a car had crashed.”

“You didn’t hear anything then?”

“What was I supposed to have heard?”

“The sound of police cars and fire engines, perhaps?”

“What, for a car crash? I heard there was a bit of a commotion.”

“You weren’t on the Common yesterday, Mr Watson, were you?”

Two police officers came into the room and reported that they’d found nothing. Eugene Watson appeared to have neither a computer nor a mobile phone. They were asked to search again and to concentrate on the back garden as well as the rooms.

Sarah carried on with her questions.

“As I said, you were not in this area yesterday. If you were I find it hard to believe that you did not meet one of your friends and you were not aware of the major incident in the high street.”

“You mean, did I meet another person on the register?”

“If that’s the case, well, at least it proves you were there.” Sarah went into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water.

“The little girl you’re looking for. It’s not me.”

“I think it could be.”

Eugene stood up and went over to the corner of the room. He found a piece of paper and wrote something down before handing it to Daniel Obuma. He’d written the address of a house less than a mile away.

“That’s where I was,” he said.

“What were you doing?” asked DCI Rudd.

“Watching movies with my friend. You’ll find out when you get there. He’s usually so drunk he won’t care.”

As DCI Rudd was leaving the house, he turned to her.

“I’ll never lay my hand on another little girl,” he said.

An hour later police officers arrested a fifty-six year old man for the possession of child pornography. A search of the house failed to find the missing child.

Oliver looked around the restaurant and noticed some familiar faces. The underground location of Gow’s in Old Broad Street, adjacent to Liverpool Street Station, was where the City wealthy dined their clients. A combination of superb wines and the best fish dishes made this a popular venue for the investment community.

Andrew appeared and seemed a little tense. He settled down and drank some of the Riesling that Oliver had ordered and poured before he’d arrived.

“How was he?” Oliver asked.

“Not too good. There’s no news on where Tabitha might be. There are police everywhere and they were filming the media appeal that’s going out tomorrow.”

He picked up the menu and gave it a cursory glance. He indicated to the waiter that he wanted to order a crab bake starter and the sea bass. Oliver chose the oysters and Dover sole off the bone.

“She disappeared yesterday afternoon?” he asked.

“Yes. Lucy was late arriving from the surgery and they think Tabitha must have wandered out of the school gates and into the high street. A local shopkeeper spotted her being forced into a car. The whole series of events was complicated by the tanker accident and the chemical spillage. The police can’t find any evidence of the car, though they still have hours of CCTV to watch.”

“What is Charles proposing to do?”

“There’s not a lot he can do. The police are insisting he and Lucy stay at home. They’re phoning neighbours and the parents of Tabitha’s friends and looking after their two girls. The phone never stopped while I was there.”

“Well, I suppose life for the rest of us must go on, Andrew. You wanted to talk about Gavin?”

The waiter arrived with the starters and, at Oliver’s request, produced a bottle of sparkling water.

“You’re head of corporate finance, Oliver. The atmosphere in the office is not good and Gavin seems to be running wild.” He sipped some water. “We can’t afford to lose him. If the brokers can’t, or don’t, raise the money, we will simply lose our place in the pecking order. Deals are few and far between at the moment and the latest economic reports are worrying. We have to pull this around. Are you going to raise the funds for City Fiction?”

“It was you who imposed Sara on all of us, Andrew. You never discussed it with me. You and Charles made a unilateral decision. And now you expect me to clear it up.”

“She’s good though, isn’t she?”

“She’s different. She’s unconventional. She understands corporate finance already. She doesn’t care, either. She’ll say anything to anybody.”

“What did you think of her report on City Fiction?”

“The long report was remarkable given the time frame she had. She’s an exceptional talent. The shorter version was inspirational. I accept that to some extent it stated the obvious. City Fiction needs to find winners. But she caught the imagination and the section on the evolvement of eBooks was brilliant. It’s helped Abbi with her work a lot. No question, Andrew. She’s good and we need her abilities.”

“It’s a matter of time. She’ll settle in particularly well if she gets on with Jody and Abbi.”

“Gavin is the problem, Andrew. He’s aggressive by nature, but he’s also drinking heavily and taking Duncan with him. We actually have a good sales team and they lead it well. It’s the office side that’s the issue.”

“I’m afraid it’s your problem, Oliver. Get it sorted.”

As their starter plates were cleared away, their discussion turned to the current market conditions and the shortage of corporate finance opportunities. A number of the smaller brokerage businesses had either closed down or merged with their rivals.

“We must look east,” said Andrew. “I’m thinking of going to Hong Kong and China.” He raised his glass to his lips. “I’ve been looking at several of our competitors. They’re picking up their opportunities across Asia. That’s clearly the message for us.”

“What about Africa? There’s Chinese money going in there to back the mineral exploration companies.”

“Yes. Possibly. But we must go to Asia.”

“I’m dreaming of raising two million pounds for City Fiction,” laughed Oliver.

“You won’t do it without Gavin and Duncan.”

They were well into their main courses when Andrew suddenly coughed.

“You seem nervous,” said Oliver. “Why don’t you tell me the real reason we’re having this lunch?”

“There’s talk in the office and Jody has spoken to me.”

“About what?”

“You and Amanda Wavering. You were seen in Queen Street. You seemed to be arguing. Are you two involved?”

“That question is out of order, Andrew. Definitely not for discussion. I’m amazed you would listen to rumours.”

“If you
are
involved with her I would consider it unfortunate.”

“Are you questioning my professional integrity?”

Andrew pushed his plate away and gulped down some wine.

“Of course I’m not. But she’s a client. You’re on dangerous ground. And I note that you’re not denying it.”

“I’m not bloody well discussing it,” Oliver snapped.

“Take it from me, Oliver. I probably know more than you realise. Tread carefully and think about what you’re doing. Think very carefully.”

It was unusual for Alistair Wavering and David Singleton to exchange words, but the tensions at City Fiction were mounting.

“You’re acting as though we already have the two million,” said David. “It’s a long way off and, meanwhile, I’m the one who has to deal with the cash-flow pressures.”

“Oliver will raise us the money. I simply want to expand the business.”

“You want to commission this book,
The Legacy of Gordon Brown
? Crazy. There are books two a penny about bloody Gordon Brown.”

“This one is what City Fiction was set up to do, David. The author is a very bright man at Goldman Sachs. He understands what happened and he thinks it was Brown’s understanding of the crisis which saved the day. Don’t forget Europe thought so at one point too.”

“It was Brown who spent all the money, which is why we have a crisis now!”

“That’s what Cameron peddles and there are some of us in the party who think he’s taking it too far. A pal of mine says that if Labour had won the 2010 general election the bond market would have supported Alistair Darling’s debt reduction programme and we wouldn’t have the lack of growth we’re seeing now.”

“But what proof have you got, Alistair, that the book will sell?”

“The author is paying us ten thousand pounds in promotional costs.”

David laughed. “Oh well, in that case, I take it all back – it sounds like an excellent book! Good work, Alistair!”

There seemed to be activity at the Harrimans’ house all day long. The media process took over three hours and Charles in particular found the filming very difficult. At one point, he became extremely agitated and disappeared for over half an hour. When he returned he had taken a shower and changed his shirt.

They became confused about who represented the television company compiling the parents’ appeal, who the plain clothes police officers, who the several civilians attached to the police, who the neighbours that seemed to come in from streets all around them and who the general media.

Around five o’clock it slowly became quieter and two hours later Lucy and Charles were together in the lounge, and Scarlett and Lily were upstairs watching a Harry Potter DVD.

Sarah Rudd arrived at the house at ten o’clock that evening. At her suggestion they went into the lounge and closed the door. Lucy’s legs turned to jelly as she anticipated news she did not want to hear.

“We can’t find her,” she told the parents, before taking them through the whole of the police activities for the day. She took a long time over the detail because she knew they would want to know everything.

“Tomorrow we will use the media, which will be mainly TV, radio and newspapers. We are processing the pictures of Tabitha now,” said Sarah. “Thank you for your co-operation. I’ve seen some of the footage and it looks good.”

“How effective will that be?” asked Charles.

“It can be very helpful. Tabitha is a local child and will evoke enormous public sympathy. That’s why we use media. They’re great and will have the whole community looking for a lost child. We think Tabitha has been abducted. There is the risk that the publicity will scare her abductors, but we must take that chance.”