Mr Lamb sat in a small cafe waiting for his employer to arrive. The place was upmarket and well off the beaten track, a combination, whether by luck or design, that would ensure the cafe was either a sure-fire hit or an abject failure. Sadly, from the lack of clientele, it looked like the latter would be the most likely outcome. However the cafe’s loss was Mr Lamb’s gain. He liked the anonymity of the place. No customers meant no eavesdropping and they made pretty good coffee, which was an essential part of life, he felt.
He had to smile to himself again as he cast his mind backwards. He’d sat in the back row of the auditorium, so far from Josh his face was only a smudge in the distance. Mr Lamb, who had made it his business of late to get under the skin of Mr Dedman and several of his colleagues, had to admit the performance had come at him from the blindside, like being taken out by a zealous defender in a two-footed, bone-crunching sliding tackle. Here was a relatively senior representative of the Bank, an erudite and frankly dull character, standing in front of a prestigious audience and...swearing. The profanities had tumbled out in an increasing torrent from Dedman’s mouth as he gained in apparent confidence. Initially the audience had reacted with disbelief, then disgust and then revulsion. Within minutes the listeners had stopped listening and were streaming away.
But no one attempted to stop Dedman until the ancient man from another millennium had remonstrated with him and then had him thrown out. Mr Lamb quite enjoyed seeing the pompous suits in such an unfamiliar position and he made a mental note that perhaps Dedman wasn’t quite as predictable as he’d assumed. However Mr Lamb knew Culpepper wouldn’t be quite so appreciative of the discovery and would instead be more concerned with the Bank’s image.
The cafe door burst open, shattering his thought process. He quickly adopted a poker face as a dapper, well dressed, tall, silver-haired man with the emotional presence of three people entered the cafe. After only a second’s pause the man located Mr Lamb, which wasn’t difficult as between them they were the only people in the cafe not adorned with an apron.
“Nice place,” said Ian Culpepper, not really meaning it. He pulled out a chair and sat down. The Chairman didn’t remove his jacket, a sure sign this would be a typically brief rendezvous.
“Excellent coffee too,” Mr Lamb said. He knew the Bank’s Chairman was a snob when it came to caffeine. It was one of the few things they had in common.
A waitress appeared at Culpepper’s elbow, pad and pen at the ready, which Mr Lamb thought somewhat optimistic.
“Double espresso,” Culpepper demanded without looking up. Mr Lamb shook his head at the questioning look from the waitress. His Americano (with an extra shot) was only half finished. She withdrew, her pad unsullied. A moment later a hissing sound erupted from the rear of the cafe as the staff gratefully busied themselves over the very shiny, expensive Italian import.
“I haven’t got long,” said Culpepper, glancing at his heavy gold watch to emphasise his statement.
“I won’t take up much of your time,” Mr Lamb assured him. He paused as the waitress delivered the espresso. Culpepper downed the powerful liquid in one and placed the diminutive cup back on the saucer none too gently.
“You’re right, it is good coffee.” Culpepper waved to get the waitress’s attention then pointed at the cup for a refill.
As the hissing sound filled the cafe again Culpepper focused his attention on Lamb and spread his hands wide to say, So? Although the Chairman habitually forced supplicants to wait for him (a simple but highly effective demonstration of power) he couldn’t tolerate this behaviour in others for precisely the same reason. Immediately a small part of Mr Lamb’s psyche took over and delivered the monologue on Dedman’s performance. But at the same time the larger element of his intellect watched with amusement over his shoulder as Culpepper’s expression grew gradually stonier. The espresso that had been deposited by the waitress only one sentence in sat untouched and rapidly cooling. When he’d finished speaking Mr Lamb sipped his coffee whilst Culpepper calmed down.
“Has this clarified your thinking?” Culpepper asked, his voice tight.
“I confess to still being…unclear. In fact now even more so. Dedman is displaying plenty of unusual behaviour, but no sign of anything criminal in nature. The others have also proven scrupulously clean so far.”
Culpepper barked out a short, humourless noise that sounded more cough than laugh. He liked facts, data, numbers, calculations. He lived in a world where everything was either black or white. When any situation was grey he brought Mr Lamb in, but it also meant he had to devolve a degree of power to the other man and he didn’t like it, not one bit. He felt the overwhelming urge to reassert himself. “A month ago £20 million was siphoned off from my Bank and today you still don’t know who the culprit is,” he stated.
“That is correct,” Mr Lamb nodded.
Culpepper shook his head. “Fucking poor, Lamb. By your usual standard, very fucking poor.”
Mr Lamb did not reply, did not respond in any visible way.
“I have considered the fact that this could be deliberate,” Mister Lamb said, voicing a notion that had been bouncing around his brain cavity for some time.
“How so?”
“Perhaps Dedman is attempting to get himself fired?”
“Personally, after stealing a small fortune I’d be keeping my head down rather than drawing attention to myself.”
“Maybe it is a double bluff.”
“For fuck’s sake I can’t be doing with all this psychological crap.” Culpepper sat back in his chair. “What do you suggest?”
Mr Lamb had considered that extensively and had an answer ready. “Continue to keep Dedman close at hand. Away from the office it would be much harder to keep a focus on him.”
Culpepper wasn’t happy but deferred to the suggestion. “Whatever happens, once this is over he’s fucked nevertheless. Anyway, I can take it out on Valentine instead,” Culpepper smirked. Then he stood and stalked out without a goodbye. A moment later the waitress was beside Mr Lamb.
“Can I get you anything else?” she asked, eyeing Culpepper’s untouched cup with barely disguised distress — no pleasure had been obtained from the coffee beans which had been sacrificed for nothing.
“No thank you, just the bill please.”
Mr Lamb didn’t mind settling up. He probably wouldn’t even put it on expenses. It wasn’t a question of whether Culpepper would pay, simply that Mr Lamb had more money than he knew what to do with. Nothing and no one to spend it on, that was the problem.
Culpepper slid into his Jaguar, parked illegally directly outside the cafe. He hadn’t got a ticket, but even if he had it wouldn’t have been a problem as he knew the highest law in London. He had driven himself over as he’d no wish for his driver to see Mr Lamb a second time in one day. He clasped a palm over his sweating forehead, which pounded with the pressure of a thousand problems, any one of which could bring him down. Yet again he thought back to that shocking night a month ago, back to when this turmoil had all begun...
He had been at his desk poring over a set of accounts with his Financial Director, Edward Shoe, hovering by his side. It was Shoe, the bastard, who’d alerted him to the irregularity and, although he knew that ultimately there was no one that he could trust other than himself, at least Shoe could be scared sufficiently to keep his mouth shut. Culpepper knew far too much about him.
“I can’t fucking see what you’re on about,” he said.
“There,” Shoe replied in his perfect Queen’s English and pointed to the screen. “It’s actually very easy to spot.”
“So why the fuck didn’t we catch it sooner?” Culpepper growled. He tugged open a desk drawer, noisily popped out a couple of pain killers from a packet and downed them with a slug of single malt.
“Because we had to know specifically what to look out for and where. The year-end accounts had been signed off and closed so there was no reason to hunt for any irregularities. It was really rather clever of him. We shouldn’t have found it.”
Culpepper glared at the FD, not liking the appreciative tone in his voice. ‘Clever’ was not the word he’d have chosen.
“If you’re expecting me to congratulate you you’ll have a fucking long wait,” he said. Shoe pursed his lips. He didn’t like the Chairman swearing.
Culpepper steepled his fingers and thought for a moment. Shoe stayed quiet, knowing too well it would be unwise to intrude. Culpepper reached over to a pad sitting atop his desk and pulled it towards him. He picked up his pen and began to write.
“Transfer the money from this account to plug the hole,” he ordered. He tore off a sheet of paper and handed it to Shoe. “And do everything to fucking hide the transaction.”
“Are you sure, sir?”
“Just fucking do it. Whatever’s necessary.”
“Yes Mr Culpepper,” Shoe bobbed his head and retreated out of the office as quickly as his short legs would take him.
The actual trouble was one not even Shoe fully appreciated. It wasn’t that £20 million was missing. Yes, that was embarrassing and yes, that may cost the Bank some customers, but the Chairman knew he could ride that difficult horse. No, it was the prospective bad debt that he’d hidden and if someone in authority started snooping around too much and that came to light then all hell was going to break loose. The mere thought gave him nightmares...
Culpepper started as someone rapped on his window. It took him a moment to focus on the policeman leaning down to stare in. He buzzed the window down.
“Are you all right sir?” the policeman asked.
Culpepper forced a smile. “I’m fine officer, thank you.”
“Then perhaps you wouldn’t mind moving on. You’re on double yellows.”
“Sorry, I only stopped for a moment.”
“Well don’t let me hold you up sir.”
Culpepper buzzed the window shut and twisted the key in the ignition. Hiding the look of pure fury on his face he put the car into gear and drove away.