An Immoral Code (27 page)

Freddie sat in the silence of his flat, gazing at the letter in his faintly trembling grasp, then at the leafless branches and grey sky beyond his window, then at the letter once more. A little drift of steam wafted from the mug of Lemsip at his side. He’d had the gas fire full on all day – God alone knew what the bill was going to be like – but still he was cold. The last time he had placed a hopeful hand on the radiator on the other side of the room, it had been no more than warm. He had two pairs of socks on, a jumper, his jacket on top of that, and a muffler round his neck. It was all this sitting around that made a man cold. Could feel his toes like ice, and the ends of his fingers had gone mauve. If it weren’t for this blasted chest of his, he’d go out for a good brisk constitutional. Trouble was, he’d be wheezing like a walrus by the time he reached Museum Street, and this cold of his was bad enough without getting soaked in the icy drizzle which looked as though it might start at any moment.

Maud’s letter was welcome, and yet he could have done without it. An invitation to spend a month or so in the warm Madeira sunshine was tantalising – agonisingly so. In the face of this filthy January weather, it was almost too good to contemplate. Trouble with his sister was, she’d completely lost touch with reality. Well, his reality. She didn’t seem to understand
the extent of his Lloyd’s losses, seemed to think that he was living in some kind of palatial mansion flat, no worries … All very well for her and Jack to invite him out there, but how was he supposed to manage the damned fare? Now, if they’d offer to buy his plane ticket, that would have been another matter. The warmth of Madeira would be excellent for his health, clear up this touch of bronchitis in no time. But then, Maud and Jack weren’t exactly wealthy, either. It was good of them to invite him, really.

Feeling depressed and lethargic, Freddie put down the letter and drank off some of his Lemsip. Disgusting stuff, did no good, but he’d been told to take it. He sighed and got up from his armchair to look at the television page of the paper. Racing from Newmarket on Channel Four. Might as well. He was just about to switch the television on, when the phone rang. Eagerly Freddie crossed the room, picking up the whole telephone and placing it on the table next to his armchair before settling down to answer it. In his isolation, a phone call was a luxury to be enjoyed. At the sound of Basher Snodgrass’s voice, Freddie’s former lassitude left him, and when the words ‘settlement offer’ came down the line, he felt a prickle of hope and excitement. This was what they had waited for. This could be the change of all their fortunes.

Twenty minutes later, Freddie put the phone down and sat in thought, the dry ends of his fingertips stroking the salt-and-pepper bristles of his moustache. He could feel his heart still beating rapidly from the electrifying discussion he had had with Basher. This was the kind of thing he needed, something to jolt him out of his invalid state, give vigour to the days. So Lloyd’s wanted to settle, eh? Basher had mentioned something about one hundred per cent of line. He did a rough mental calculation. Good God, thought Freddie, if this settlement came off, that would mean a payment of £80,000. The difference it
would make to his life was too stupendous to contemplate. He could get out of this dingy flat, for a start, salvage something of the dignity which he struggled so hard to maintain these days. It was damned hard, when you had to pinch and scrape all the time. This would put an end to all that. He would get out of London, move somewhere quiet, somewhere he could make a few friends with people of his own class and outlook. Haywards Heath, or Woking. Games of bridge in the evenings, golf, a car to get about in, decent meals … What did he care if there was no cap on future liabilities? He was eighty-two, not likely to enjoy more than another few years, with his heart. Not even Lloyd’s of London could pursue him beyond his grave. His eye strayed to the letter which lay on the carpet where it had fallen, and he felt another little jolt of excitement. He stooped to pick it up, unfolded it slowly. The possibility of a settlement with Lloyd’s changed this, too. Madeira, a long holiday in the sun with his sister and brother-in-law. He could give up this flat and stay out there for a few months, possibly, before deciding where to settle. This time, when Freddie stared out at the bleak rooftops of Bloomsbury, he saw only the golden possibility of his changed fortunes. Then the fax began to chatter, and Freddie sat collecting the pages as they curled out, reading Murray Campbell’s missive to the committee members avidly, as though to make his dreams a reality.

‘How much would we get?’ asked Alison, leaning her head on her elbow, gazing across at her husband. Since his telephone conversation earlier that afternoon with the solicitors, Brian had sat in his cubbyhole for three hours, going over figures, scribbling calculations, sifting pieces of paper. Then he had emerged, and had told her that Lloyd’s had offered to settle. She had felt her heart lift – not so much at the news, as at the unaccustomed excitement which Brian clearly felt. Still she
did not allow her hopes to rise much. She was too used to disappointment, to the settled sense of financial hopelessness which this Lloyd’s business had fixed in her.

‘A hundred per cent of line,’ said Brian, scanning the figures before him and then jotting something further down. Alison noticed that the plastic end of the biro he used was ragged, bitten and split. There was always something feverish about him these days, whether in hope or despair. But she was past worrying. This was how he was.

The words meant nothing to her. ‘I don’t understand,’ she replied, trying to keep the irritation from her voice. They were sitting together at the kitchen table, and behind them supper was overcooking on the stove. From the room above she could hear the children arguing, a door slamming, Paul’s stereo turned up, then more shouting. ‘What’s a line?’

‘It’s the amount of insurance which the underwriter can write on your behalf.’ He looked up at her, pushing his glasses back on his thin nose, his voice taking on the quiet, patient tone he adopted when helping the children with their homework. Not that Paul did much homework these days. ‘Let’s say your deposit with Lloyd’s is ten thousand. That means your line will be double that, twenty thousand.’

‘Our deposit was fifty thousand,’ said Alison, slowly working out the calculation. ‘That means—’

‘It means that if this settlement came off, we would get something in the region of a hundred thousand.’

There was a silence. Alison rose and went to the cooker, turning off the gas beneath the pan of rice. She turned, leaning against the edge of the work surface. She could feel the increased beat of her heart. ‘That’s what we would get? That much?’

‘Well, there would be tax …’ Brian stared vaguely at the figures before him. ‘It would depend how the payment is treated. But, yes, that’s the offer. There’s no cap on future
liabilities. We would still remain exposed. But it would mean—’ Brian hesitated, then looked up at her. ‘It would mean that we wouldn’t have to declare ourselves bankrupt.’

‘Bankrupt?’ She stared at him in astonishment. ‘You never told me it was that bad!’

‘We’re heading that way, certainly,’ said Brian, automatically beginning to pick at a little shred of skin on his index finger. Alison closed her eyes momentarily. It seemed to her that the future was a dark, dangerous tide which rose and fell, threatening to engulf them all one moment, and then ebbing away the next, only to roll remorselessly in again.

‘This settlement offer – will the Names accept it?’

Brian nibbled anxiously at his finger. ‘I don’t know. Murray Campbell says that there will be those who’ll want to hold out in the hope of getting more if they go on with the litigation.’ He shrugged. ‘Then there’s people like us. We’re not like half of those fat cat Names, people who’ve only lost their second home and have had to sell the Rolls and make do with a Jag. We need this settlement. We can’t afford to wait. We’ll go under long before the litigation ends. If we can get a hundred thousand out of the bastards who got us into this in the first place, it means I might be able to start something up again. I’ve got contacts. I’m not exactly a spent force.’ His smile was no more than a bitter spasm. ‘I started the last business with only a small amount of capital. I don’t see why I couldn’t get something going. I’ve done it once before.’

Alison stood gazing down at him, at his thinning hair, his dark, anxious eyes. He looked much older than forty-seven. But she was aware of his reserves of energy, knew that if his hope and ambition could be rekindled, then he might be capable of anything. For a moment she allowed her hopes to rise impractically. If Brian had enough to start a new business and make a success of it, as he had in the past, then they might
be able to get their heads above water. Brian had explained to her that, even if they accepted this offer, they would still have to face unforeseen future liabilities, but by then they might be able to pay those. It was just a question of building something. He was right. They had done it before. Why should they not do it again? All they needed was a fresh start. This offer could change their lives, turn Brian back into something of the person he had once been … But what if it fell through? What if the rest of the Names decided to go on with the litigation? God, what a monster hope was, the way it generated fresh fears to gnaw at one. ‘So what happens next?’ she asked. ‘Is there some sort of vote?’

‘There’s to be an Extraordinary General Meeting some time next week, I’m not sure yet which day. The Names will meet then and decide.’ He suddenly sounded tired, as though the excitement of kindling new possibilities had worn him out with its futility.

She knew she had asked the question before, but could not help repeating it. ‘Do you think they’ll accept?’

Brian shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know …’ He sighed. ‘I just hope to God, for our sakes, that they do.’

The Extraordinary General Meeting of the Names was called for Friday of the following week. Rachel had left for Sydney the day before, and as Leo sat at the kitchen table that morning, drinking his coffee and scanning the notes spread out before him, Jennifer came in with Oliver balanced on her hip. She glanced at Leo and murmured good morning, conscious of a small, inner excitement as she spoke. Every utterance, now that she and Leo were to be alone together for two weeks, seemed charged with extra significance.

Leo sighed as he gathered his papers together. ‘Morning,’ he murmured absently. He rose and glanced briefly at Jennifer. He was perfectly well aware of the finely tuned atmosphere that the girl had created recently, was only too familiar with the modulations of voice and body language which signified availability. He had not lived and loved so long without learning those lessons. As he put on his jacket, slipping his spectacles into his pocket, she turned away, splashing some water into a glass at the sink and murmuring to Oliver. He smiled to himself. She was perfectly aware that he was watching her. It was spoken
in the very curve of her hip, the movement of her head as she tossed her hair from her face. Games. Adorable, tantalising little games. Leo did not think he would ever grow tired of them. How he loved the cunning innocence of the young.

He put his papers into his briefcase and closed it. ‘Right. I’ll be off,’ he said. For all his sense of control over the situation, he realised that whatever he said to her must sound stuffy, middle-aged, betraying nothing of his own delicate perception of matters. What else did one say to the nanny on leaving the house? Whatever currents might run beneath it, the situation demanded platitudes, polite smiles and enquiries. ‘Got anything special planned for the day?’

Jennifer slipped Oliver into his high chair. Leo noticed that all her movements were slow and studied, as though part of a performance. Part of the game. She looked up and smiled. She wished that she could prevent herself from smiling so much when she looked at Leo, but the sense of pleasurable excitement that bubbled within her was irresistible. ‘Oh, I’ll take him to Tumbletots, maybe to the park,’ she replied idly. ‘The usual. You know.’

Leo nodded, and then there was a momentary silence. ‘Right. Well, I’ll see you this evening, I suppose. Shouldn’t be too late.’

Jennifer nodded in reply, relishing the domestic intimacy of the situation. ‘Have a good day,’ she called as he left the house.

Anthony stood on the steps of Church House in Westminster, where the meeting of the Names had been convened, amusing himself by studying the individuals as they passed through the doorway, listening to the odd snatches of conversation which he caught. Everyone attending the meeting seemed well dressed, regardless of the impecuniosity of which they constantly complained, with only the occasional touch of flamboyance or eccentricity, and all the voices were middle-aged or elderly,
silvered with gentility, fractious with grievance. Every eye gleamed with a certain determination, an eagerness to get down to the matter of this offer. If there was one thing the Lloyd’s Names never tired of, thought Anthony, it was the business of talking about their money, past or present, existent or non-existent. Thinking ahead to the proceedings which would unfold that morning, he felt a slight nervousness in the pit of his stomach. He had not yet decided, despite long confabulations with Leo and Murray and Fred Fenton, whether this offer from Lloyd’s was a good thing or not. Listening to the shreds of discussion from the Names as they made their slow way into the building, he could glean no hint of the general mood. Well, they would all know by the end of the day.

He and Leo caught sight of one another at the same instant, just as Leo was crossing the square, and each felt the same pleasurable rise of the heart at the sight of the other. They went into Church House together, past the table where Camilla and some assistant solicitors from Nichols & Co were handing out name tags and agendas to the arriving Names, and mounted the broad stone steps. The discreet rumble of voices from those already seated greeted them as they entered the hall.

‘That’s us,’ murmured Leo, nodding towards the platform which faced the audience at the far end of the circular hall, and on which stood a long table, with a microphone and lectern in the centre, and chairs ranged on either side. Anthony glanced round at the sea of faces and hoped that neither Murray nor Fred would palm off any questions from the audience on him. He might feel perfectly at ease speaking in the intimate, civilised surroundings of a courtroom, but the idea of having to address this belligerent lot was not one which he relished. He had no doubt that, when their mood got ugly, these well-dressed, respectable members of the middle classes might be a force to be reckoned with. He was thankful that it was Leo, and not he,
who had the task of advising the Names that day, especially since a proportion were bound to disagree with whatever he said.

Basher Snodgrass came forward to greet them, but his manner was somewhat distracted. ‘This overhead projector that they’ve given us,’ he muttered, indicating a small table where the apparatus stood, ‘I don’t think it’s working properly. The arm keeps swinging down.’ In his capacity as chairman, Basher clearly felt some trepidation. ‘Anyway,’ he sighed, ‘let me show you both where you’re sitting. Anthony, you’re next to some chap from
The Guardian
– can’t remember his name – and Leo, you’re here next to me.’ Basher glanced up and saw Freddie Hendry making slow but firm progress towards the platform, and hurried away. Freddie approached Leo and Anthony and began to talk to them, leaning on the table with tremulous, bony hands. He appeared prepared to stand there talking all day, until Brian Carstairs arrived, sheaves of paper under his arm, and hustled Freddie into a seat further along the table.

A sense of anticipation seemed to run through the hall as Basher mounted the platform and tapped the microphone, blowing into it experimentally. Anthony averted his head to hide a smile, and caught sight of Brian further along the table. His face was drawn and pinched, and he kept blinking agitatedly, glancing nervously out at the audience and then up at Basher as he prepared to speak. There might be a lot riding on this for someone like Brian, thought Anthony. He noticed that Freddie, having divested himself of his overcoat, had forgotten to take his woollen gloves and scarf off. Still, he looked happy enough, in a self-important way. Anthony leant out slightly to get a view past Basher, and saw that Leo was seated next to Charles Beecham. They were chatting together with an easy familiarity and, as Charles laughed at something which Leo had just said, it occurred to Anthony that Charles was an
exceptionally attractive man for his age. Then he wondered, with a faintly cold shock, whether Leo thought so, too. But at that moment the journalist from
The Guardian
slid into the seat next to Anthony, out of breath, just as Basher began to speak, and Anthony put the thought from his mind, and turned his attention to the meeting.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said Basher, ‘we are here today to consider the matter of the offer which, as you all know, has recently been put forward by Lloyd’s in settlement of our claims. I propose to run this meeting in the following way: Mr Henshaw, of the council of Lloyd’s, is going to speak to you in favour of the settlement—’ Basher turned with a courteous smile towards the narrow-shouldered man in glasses, who was sitting with his arms folded in a somewhat defensive posture near one end of the table. There was a brief pause, during which all eyes in the hall swivelled towards this quisling in hostile appraisal. ‘—and then James Cochrane, who is known to you all already as a member of the committee, will speak against the offer. After we have heard from these two gentlemen, I shall ask our leading counsel, Leo Davies, to address us with his views on the matter. But first of all, to supply some background as to the precise nature of the offer which has been put forward, I will ask the committee secretary, Brian Carstairs, whose work on behalf of us all has been so invaluable over the past few months, to speak a few words.’

Basher sat down, and Brian, gathering up some papers, moved to the middle of the table, where the overhead projector stood. He glanced nervously at the screen behind him, and then began to address the meeting on the matter of specific figures, using slides to give breakdowns and show how money would be apportioned.

After a few minutes, Anthony found his attention wandering. He glanced round the hall, admiring the light panelling,
wondering if it was made of ash or some other wood, then up at the brass rails of the gallery. He found himself craning his neck to decipher the gilt lettering which ran round the base of the circular window crowning the roof of the hall. ‘Holy is the true light and passing wonderful, lending radiance to them that endured in the heat of the conflict; from Christ they inherit a home of unfading splendour, wherein they rejoice with gladness evermore,’ he read slowly. He wondered how much comfort any of those present today might derive from that. Not that the attention of any one of them was likely to stray as far as the ceiling; they were too busy concentrating on the vital matter of their money, and what Brian Carstairs was telling them about it. If they were ever to get it.

Then suddenly there was a small clatter, and Brian stopped speaking. Anthony glanced across and saw that the arm of the projector had dropped down, halting Brian’s slide presentation. There was a moment’s confusion while Brian tried to prop it up, and Basher rose from his seat and left the platform. A faint murmur rose from the audience. Brian, who was clearly upset by the interruption, tried to carry on speaking, but the projector arm swung wildly down again and this time there was laughter. Brian turned away from the projector and announced that he would carry on without benefit of the charts. He looked nervous and flustered as he tried to find the place in his notes where he had broken off, and Anthony was just beginning to feel sorry for the man when he became aware of a movement behind his chair. Glancing down, he was astonished to see Basher crawling along behind the chairs on his hands and knees, a screwdriver in his hand. While Brian was still speaking, he rose up slowly from behind and tried unobtrusively to mend the projector, which merely succeeded in distracting Brian even more. When the entire arm of the projector fell on the floor, convulsing Anthony and the man from
The Guardian
, and most of the audience,
Brian sat down in mute fury. Basher murmured to him for a few seconds, and Brian eventually rose and resumed his talk. But the whole incident had thrown him, and whatever points he tried to make seemed to have lost their force. As he sat down at the end, he felt that he had been made to look ridiculous.

Then Freddie rose and began to make an entirely irrelevant point about Names’ subscriptions coming out of the litigation fund, and had to be told firmly by Basher that the time for questions would come after the speakers for and against the motion. Freddie raised his eyebrows and resumed his seat, mumbling, and then Henshaw, the representative from Lloyd’s council, got to his feet.

His speech urging the Names to accept the offer was quietly impressive. He did not cajole them, did not belittle the litigation which they had undertaken, but merely recited the facts coldly and baldly, reminding them that only a limited amount of money was available, and that this, too, might be lost to them all if they continued with litigation which might intimately prove fruitless. When he sat down, he had done his job by reminding them all of the awful possibility – or was it a probability? – that if they did not accept what Lloyd’s had offered, they might end up with nothing more than a bill of costs. The mood in the hall was quiet and sober at that moment, the amusing distraction of the projector forgotten. Basher glanced and nodded at James Cochrane, who rose from his chair, a tall, craggy figure, and moved across to the microphone.

Cochrane’s mode of address was entirely different from Henshaw’s impersonal approach. This was a man accustomed to addressing businessmen and captains of industry in robust tones, and he wasn’t going to pussyfoot about.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began, ‘what we’ve got here is an offer from Lloyd’s for forty-nine point four million pounds, and Mr Henshaw here has just told us that that’s pretty good.
Well, not from where I’m standing. From where I’m standing, I can see collective losses – all yours and all mine – estimated at a hundred and fifty-four million at least.’ He paused, then repeated the figure slowly. ‘A hundred and fifty-four million. In the face of that, I say this offer is chicken feed. It’s ludicrous …’ He had his audience. Anthony listened in admiration as he swept them along with him, enumerating all the reasons for rejecting the offer, talking about protecting the hardest hit, seeking a greater contribution from Lloyd’s to the litigation fund. By the time he had got on to the failure of the DTI and the government to regulate Lloyd’s, and dragged in the Inland Revenue for good measure, even Freddie was nodding reluctantly. Cochrane ended on a high note, quoted briefly from Shakespeare, and sat down. The murmur which rose from the audience was clearly sympathetic. Anthony looked along the table and saw that Brian Carstairs was looking pale as he raised his water glass to drink. He tried to catch Leo’s eye to gauge his expression, but Leo seemed to be gazing distractedly at the table.

Leo was, in fact, staring at Charles Beecham’s hand. It was resting on the table, and Leo watched with fascination as the slender, expressive fingers toyed with a pencil, then drummed abstractedly on the table. He studied the clean, curved lines of the broad nails, the light hairs on the back of his hand, and felt himself totally consumed by that dizzying sense of infatuation which he had experienced in Charles’s company before, and which he had almost forgotten until now. It was adolescent, he told himself, to be so moved and touched by the mere sight of his hand. It was some months since he had last seen Charles, and he had been totally unprepared for the emotion which surged up in him at the sight of the man. For an instant he felt a touch of sympathy for Jennifer. He knew exactly how she felt. Then he lifted his gaze, trying to concentrate on what Basher was saying in response to some question from the audience. The questions
went on for several minutes, the different voices, the sleek, the plummy, the fine and reedy, all the clear, assured tones of the middle and upper-middle classes, drifting across the hall. Leo scarcely listened. He already knew what he had to say to these people. He had little interest in them, in their perceived injuries, and felt no pity for them as they aired their petty grievances. His attitude was entirely professional. This was just a case, one which he felt was good in law, and which he knew in his heart he could win. How much the Names might get out of it in the end, he hardly cared. He half-listened as Freddie Hendry made a surprisingly good point about reconstruction and renewal, and then as another Name, presumably a broker himself, provoked the derision of the rest of the Names by enjoining them not to push the brokers too far, Leo’s eyes strayed once more to the strong, clean lines of Charles’s hand, and then to his thigh stretched out beneath the tabletop.