Harry took the overground from Clapton train station the next day, changing at Liverpool Street and standing with his back to the wall on the tube, out of habit, as the Central line shuttled him into Tottenham Court Road. The sun was bright and the chill of the crisp morning air revived him as he walked, admiring the details of the buildings that stretched across a blue sky, making his way towards the address Nigel had given him the night before.
Harry’s interest had immediately been aroused as he sat listening to Nigel, the boat rocking steadily beneath them.
‘From what we know of Clive Witherall, he started the business as a legitimate commodity trading firm back in the Eighties. Over the years the company has grown to incorporate everything from the trading of oil, metals and minerals to asset management, through a subsidiary company.’
Nigel had topped up their glasses, then continued.
‘But it seems that with expansion has come, shall we say, diversification … Our client, the one who is paying us to look into all this, has reason to believe that TradeSmart is embroiled in a number of trading activities which don’t feature under its official FTSE 100 listing.’
‘Drugs, you mean?’
Nigel had shrugged nonchalantly. ‘The thing is, the client would rather we move into this without external influence. He wants to see what we come up with of our own accord …’
Then came the ace card – a truth that when he heard it, Harry could not deny.
‘Look, I could sit here all night engaging you from a moral standpoint and that would be perfectly legitimate, but the fact is, beggars can’t be choosers. What have they offered you as severance from the paper – three months’ pay? You need a job. And I’m offering you one …’
Who was Harry to argue with that?
He ran a hand over his hair as he moved through the automatic doors into a discreet but capacious reception area. He had intentionally dressed down in his most crinkled shirt and scuffed boots – anything to demarcate himself. I’m not one of you, he wanted them to know, while continuing to tell himself he still didn’t know who ‘they’ were. Newspapers were all corporations these days anyway, their stance dictated by the agendas of the billionaire owners and the advertisers who funded them. What was the difference between that and accepting payment from the coffers of a corporate intelligence agency?
The main difference, it seemed to him in this moment, was the amount of money and the transparency of the transaction.
‘Harry!’
Nigel beamed at his former protégé as Harry made his way towards the reception desk.
‘Delighted you could make it.’
Harry followed Nigel into the lift and out again three floors up, noting the interior architecture as they passed through the office floor. White walls, sealed meeting rooms, corporate coffee machines all creating the illusion of effective neutrality. Function over form. None of the employees looked up as the two of them walked through the main floor. Whatever happens in this building stays in this building, the subtext read. An important message, presumably, to clients whose payments flowed out of bank accounts in the Cayman Islands, Switzerland, the British Virgin Islands, anywhere their provenance could not be traced.
‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘Wouldn’t say no,’ Harry replied, looking around the room as he moved towards the table and chairs; a meeting area that could accommodate some twenty attendees, set aside for just the two of them.
Nigel leaned forward towards the phone system and pressed a button. ‘Bring us in a couple of coffees would you, Marika? And a bottle of water.’
He sat back and surveyed Harry, smiling.
‘Water?’ Harry raised an eyebrow. ‘Thought you didn’t touch the stuff. Fish fuck in it. I’m pretty sure that’s what you said last time we had lunch – how long ago was that, two years?’
Nigel leaned back in his chair. ‘Gosh, I really do have a way with words. Well, that was then, and this is … Maybe it’s what happens when you get old, and have to have one of your balls lopped off …’
Harry winced. ‘I heard something about cancer but I didn’t know …’
Nigel lifted a hand as a middle-aged woman came into the room carrying a tray of drinks, setting them on the table between the men. ‘Thanks, Marika.’ His face transformed effortlessly into a smile.
‘I’m sorry to hear it, Nige,’ Harry said once she had left the room.
‘Well, so am I. But one bollock is better than no bollocks. And you know what they say, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. So here I am. Gave up the newspaper game, moved over to the corporate dark side – sold out. And bugger me, I’m making more money than ever, and I have a woman who delivers me coffee. It’s awful.’
He smiled and Harry frowned. ‘So you’re a journalist for hire these days, Nige? Who would have thought it?’
Nigel made a so-shoot-me expression. ‘What journalist isn’t for hire? It’s just a matter of who’s doing the hiring – and what they’re prepared to pay.’
Harry looked up at him. ‘Well, I wasn’t going to bring it up, but now that you have …’
A crooked smile formed at the edge of Nigel’s lips. He reached into the bag by his feet and pulled out a wad of A4 papers, neatly stapled together.
‘As you’ll appreciate, our clients expect the highest levels of discretion.’
‘Is that an NDA?’
‘It’s a contract,’ Nigel replied, sliding the papers in front of Harry. ‘It’s all there.’
Harry looked down, flicking through the pages until he found the one he was looking for.
‘That’s how much we’re prepared to pay … More than enough to buy yourself some help, should you need it,’ Nigel confirmed.
‘Holy shit.’ Harry spoke before he could stop himself. When he looked up, Nigel was grinning back at him.
‘Couldn’t have put it better myself … Once that’s out of the way, we can set to work.’
Reaching back into the bag, half an hour or so later, Nigel pulled out a series of photos, which he spread across the table.
‘So now that’s all sorted, this is Witherall with his right-hand man, Jeff Mayhew. Nominally, Mayhew is just the money man, but he’s also in charge of the ethical foundations and, from having put the feelers out, it seems he’s a bit of a live wire. Might be worth looking into. That one there is a minder, Jorgos Constantine …’
Harry cast his eyes over the image. From the suits and sunglasses and the champagne glasses in hand, he imagined it must have been taken at a party. In the background were mountains, and a flash of blue sea. As his eyes moved away from the figure of Jorgos, his dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, he felt his attention settle briefly on the younger man on the other side of the photograph, in conversation with someone just out of frame.
He felt a bolt of recognition.
‘Who is that?’
Nigel sensed the urgency in his voice.
‘That?’ He turned the photo to face him, leaning in to get a better look. ‘That’s Witherall’s son, David.’
‘Fuck.’ Harry sat up and fixed Nigel with his eyes. ‘I’ve met him.’
Nigel smiles, leaning back into his chair. ‘I know.’