Driven (30 page)

T
he next day, Human Resources circulated another email around Ptarmigan personnel – this time asking members of staff about their involvement with Charlotte Grant earlier in the year. From the responses, it was clear that she had been in contact with almost every part of the factory. Narrowing the investigation down was not going to be easy. Straker began with those people Charlie had interacted with in Design and Aerodynamics – logically the most obvious areas connected with the Fibonacci Blades, or ASDs, as they now knew Massarella called them.

Straker and Nazar set up a temporary interview room in the Ptarmigan factory. He and Nazar started questioning all members of these two departments in turn.

‘Jason, we’re in trouble with the FIA,’ Straker explained to his twentieth interviewee that day. ‘We’ve been accused of using Massarella’s proprietary technology. Can we talk about your involvement in the Fibonacci Blades, and where this idea came from? And, secondly, whether or not you had any contact with Charlie Grant over it.’

Jason, a somewhat shy thirty-year-old designer with glasses and carrying a couple more stone than he should, looked and sounded rather defensive.

Hesitantly, he explained: ‘I was brought a basic idea for these things by Charlie.’

Straker fought to control his reaction to this admission. He sat up and leant into the conversation. ‘She came to you?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you didn’t think it strange that she did this – when she had nothing to do with Design?’

‘Kind of,’ replied Jason, ‘but she said that she was working for us as an industrial spy, and she’d come back with this from the grid.’

‘Did she say which team she’d got it from?’ asked Nazar.

‘No.’

‘Did you discuss drawing this up and developing it with your boss?’

‘Charlie told me not to. She could be very persuasive,’ he said coyly as his voice began to break.

‘Okay. Did you talk about this with
any
one else?’

Jason nodded. ‘Only one other.’

‘Who?’

‘Andy Backhouse.’

‘Oh my God,’ hissed Nazar, as he slumped back in his chair.

Straker dismissed the exclamation, trying to keep Jason calm. ‘When did you talk to
him
about it?’

‘When we were testing it in the wind tunnel.’

‘That far into development? Can you remember what he said?’

‘He asked me how we’d come up with the idea.’

‘And what did you say?’

‘That the idea had come from Charlie.’

‘How did Andy react?’ asked Straker.

Jason looked unsure of himself. ‘He seemed relaxed about it all. I didn’t get the feeling there was anything wrong. He said it was important for us to get the best ideas – wherever they came from – to see our cars go as fast as we could possibly make them.’

‘Okay, Jason, thank you – and for being so open with us. You’ve been very helpful,’ said Straker with a reassuring smile. ‘I’m going to need more of your help, though.’

‘Anything,’ said Jason with an air of relief, sensing the tension might have abated somewhat with Straker’s investigation.

‘I need you to write down everything you can remember about this design – how you talked it all through with Charlie, how she gave you the idea, in what form, and what happened afterwards.’

O
scar Brogan QC came to lunch in Quartech’s London headquarters two days later. Hosted by Quartano in his private dining room on the top floor of 20 Cavendish Square, they were joined by Straker and Krall. Nazar was away.

‘I wanted to talk through the possibilities mentioned by the whistle-blower,’ said Quartano.

Brogan was helped to a fillet of beef by one of the stewards. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘But there’s little point, Dominic, if you’re not interested in mounting a counter-claim.’

Quartano was served last, with his main course and vegetables of red cabbage, spinach and roasted sweet potatoes. ‘My reservation about launching a counter-claim was before we lost Mandarin, Oscar. Now Massarella have cost me $750 million from that sponsorship deal, I want to hit them with everything we’ve got.’

Straker saw that Krall was fighting to contain herself.

‘Stacey, what’s your take on the substance of the counter-claim?’ Quartano asked.

‘We need hard proof of their acts of sabotage,’ she replied. ‘Oscar and I have been discussing some possible courses of action.’

When Krall finished, the lunch seemed to fall silent as the full possibilities sank in. Straker, aware he was breaking the silence, then said: ‘Andy Backhouse seems to have been involved in different aspects of this. Are we able to cross-examine
him
as a witness – if we needed to?’

Brogan nodded, looking slightly surprised. ‘If you think that would help? The World Council is keen to give people a fair hearing. If a witness is required – even a hostile one – they’ll sanction their being called.’

With brusque scepticism Quartano asked: ‘And you think that would be helpful, do you, Matt?’

‘If we can put the man under oath, sir, yes.’

F
or the following few days Straker watched Stacey Krall work frenetically. After Quartano’s go-ahead for filing a counter-claim, she was completely pumped up with preparing to take the fight to Massarella.

Straker helped Krall work up a supporting application to the High Court. In it, she set out Ptarmigan’s charges of sabotage against Massarella F1.

Once filed with the Court, Straker saw Krall’s stress levels go stratospheric – as she waited anxiously for the judgment.

S
traker had been involved in many intelligence-gathering operations in the Royal Marines, but these had typically involved concealment and stealth. This was to be his first civilian, up-front, and intrusive experience.

Moving out of London to base themselves at the Ptarmigan factory, Straker helped Krall pull together the finishing touches and details of their plan.

At three o’clock in the afternoon, Straker and Krall drove into Gaydon, behind a police car and a civilian saloon. Parking the three cars on the verge outside Flax Cottage, there was a moment’s huddle in the single-track country lane before Ptarmigan’s court-appointed solicitor turned with two colleagues and, accompanied by a uniformed policeman, walked through the gate and across the gravel to Michael Lyons’s front door.

The doorbell was rung.

Straker and Krall stood back in the driveway.

The door was answered.

Hesitantly, and looking more than a little alarmed, Michael Lyons peered out and saw three men in suits standing in front of him, along with the uniformed policeman.

‘Mr Lyons?’

‘Yes?’

‘I am Arnold Close, a solicitor with Grumman & Phipps. I have here a Search Order issued by the High Court under the Civil Procedure Act 1997. This order states that as the Supervising Solicitor I have been given the power to search your house for intellectual property, technical documents, and any postal, email, or SMS correspondence relating to the Ptarmigan and Massarella Formula One teams.’

Michael Lyons suddenly looked like he had seen a ghost.

‘Do you understand the situation, Mr Lyons?’

The man stared at the solicitor. Then he looked at the policeman, then at Krall and Straker, whom he seemed to recognize, standing at a distance. Finally, he looked back to the solicitor again.

Lyons seemed to be processing this information. ‘What’s all this about?’

The solicitor handed him the Search Order. ‘It’s all set out in here, Mr Lyons. Ptarmigan and Massarella are accusing each other of industrial espionage. Ptarmigan assert that their cars have suffered from certain acts of sabotage on the race track, while Massarella allege that some of their secrets have been stolen. Ptarmigan believe you have documents or information that could clarify the situation.’

Lyons looked down at the order. His face registered shock.

Straker could see the man’s eyes flit across the document, but Lyon’s stare indicated that he was soon deep in thought. Was he weighing up his adjusted loyalties – now that he’d been sacked? Straker wondered. Somehow, though, the man looked resigned.

After a pregnant pause, Lyons looked back at the policeman as if for confirmation and reassurance.

‘Okay,’ he said flatly. ‘Maybe the truth should come out,’ with which he stood back and let the Supervising Solicitor and his colleagues into his house.

An hour later a computer, a laptop, several boxes of files, a small credenza, and a handful of rolled-up tubes of paper from Lyons’s house were loaded into the back of the solicitor’s car.

As Straker and Krall walked out of the drive, Straker snatched a glance back at Michael Lyons standing on the doorstep of his quintessential English cottage.

He was bemused by the man’s expression.

If he had to describe it, Straker would have said Lyons showed, of all things, relief – an odd emotion given that his privacy and possessions had just been so unceremoniously violated.

A
n hour later Straker and Krall were in a similar convoy, this time pulling up outside the entrance of Trifecta Systems on an industrial estate on the outskirts of Leamington Spa. They alighted and walked as a group up to the glass front doors, and through them into the main reception area. Arnold Close approached the reception desk and addressed the elder of the two women sitting behind it.

‘I’d like to see Justin Greening, the legal officer of the company,’ he said firmly. ‘Please explain that I have a Search Order from the High Court – please make sure you say that: a Search Order.’

The receptionist looked at the solicitor, and then across at the uniformed police officer standing a few feet back. Straker could see the woman was taking the request seriously. Sheepishly, she picked up her phone. When it was answered, she equally sheepishly passed the message on to the legal officer.

It was just as well the police officer was with them this time.

A few moments later a man burst through a pair of inner doors and strode aggressively into the reception area.

‘What the hell is this?’ he shouted as he cast his eyes across the six strangers. ‘What the hell are you people doing here?’

Arnold Close turned to face him. ‘Are you Trifecta’s legal officer?’ he asked.

‘What if I am – what the hell’s it got to do with you?’ the man bawled and moved uncomfortably close to the visitor asking the question.

‘Mr Greening – I’m assuming that’s who you are – I have a Search
Order, here, issued by the High Court on behalf of the Ptarmigan Formula One Team. We have the authority to search your premises,’ and offered the order up for inspection.

Greening flicked the document away with the back of his hand.

Sensing trouble, the policeman stepped forward – extending an arm out in front of him, as if to separate the two men: ‘Excuse me, sir, if you’d like to take a step back.’

‘No, I fucking well
don’t
like – not in my
own
fucking offices.’

Arnold Close realized this wasn’t going to get anywhere. Turning to the policeman, he said: ‘Perhaps Mr Greening would like to call Trifecta’s own solicitors – in case he’s not familiar with the Search Order process?’

That could so easily have been taken as a professional insult by Greening. Looking at the policeman as Arnold Close said it, though – and, with the policeman nodding his agreement to the idea, Greening seemed to calm a fraction. Turning to the receptionist, he barked: ‘Get me Rafe Cushing at Cushing & Partners.’

There were several moments of silent standoff, until, cowing slightly, the receptionist declared curtly: ‘I have Mr Cushing for you,’ and tentatively offered up the handset.

Greening grabbed the phone and conducted a conversation in hushed tones, shielding himself from the visitors. Handing back the receiver he said defiantly: ‘Mr Cushing will be here within five minutes. Then we’ll kick you all off these premises. In the meantime, you are prohibited from setting foot beyond this area,’ and stormed away, back through the inner doors of the reception hall.

Five minutes later, through the glass windows of the entrance hall, Straker could see a car swing wildly into the Trifecta parking area, and, sweeping round at some speed, screech to a halt on the neat asphalt surface. A short man with red hair and brown-rimmed glasses jumped out. Leaving the car – with its door open and engine running – the man ran towards the glass doors and barged through them into the reception area. At the same time, Greening reappeared from inside the building. The two men converged in the middle of
the hall, with Greening saying – and pointing: ‘These are the people, Rafe, to be thrown off the premises.’

Arnold Close turned and, calmly addressing the new arrival, said: ‘This is a High Court Search Order, and I am the Supervising Solicitor – here to enforce it on behalf of the Ptarmigan Formula One Team,’ and handed the document over.

The solicitor raised his glasses and started to read. He flicked the pages over several times, backwards and forwards, seemingly to check and recheck the document.

Having finished he looked up at Justin Greening. ‘This is a valid High Court Search Order, Justin,’ he said gently, ‘I can’t advise you to do anything but comply with it.’

Justin Greening looked fit to burst. Grabbing Cushing by the arm, he wheeled him away from the visitors into a corner of the reception area. Strong words were clearly exchanged. After nearly five minutes, Justin Greening stormed off, barging back through the inner doors of the office, and disappeared.

Walking slowly over to the reception counter, the recent arrival said: ‘I am Rafe Cushing, Trifecta’s solicitor. I
will
accompany you to the documents identified in the Search Order. They are not in an accessible state at the moment. Please wait here until they are, and then I will
personally
escort you through the building to get them.’

It was over an hour and half before Cushing accompanied them into the Trifecta office building to access the files and email traffic identified in Ptarmigan’s High Court Order.

Straker shared his concerns with Krall. With such a long delay, Justin Greening had had plenty of time for all kinds of deleting and shredding.