MONEY TREE (14 page)

‘Are you sure, daughter of mine? This is so big! No-one in this village has ever done anything so big. What if it doesn’t work out?’ Her mother’s eyes searched  hers.

‘It will, mother. It will. Now get up and come inside. Everyone is looking at us.’ She lifted her mother up and shook the dust from both their saris before gathering her own daughter under her arm and walking them both inside to wait for the morning.

I
n Warwick Stanstead’s mind was a familiar image. It was a runner. Thin and wiry, breathing hard and forcing the pace. Behind was the pack. The runner occasionally looked behind him but mainly faced forward, into the distance. He waved to the viewer – a shadow figure on one side of the rugged cross country track – as he scythed past, arms pumping and legs flailing and feet thumping on the frozen ground. The runner smiled and kept going. It was a winter scene with the trees frosted and rimed, and the sun hung without warmth on the horizon. But its light was strong, and sometimes when the runner erupted from the cold dark places where the tall fir trees kept the sun out, he had to fling his arm up to see where he was going.

The runner always shouted something to the viewer as he went past. But Warwick could never catch it. Nor could he hear the words flung back by the viewer as the runner receded quickly into the
shadows ahead. He knew it was a warning, but it was always tantalisingly indistinct. He was never sure if the runner or the viewer was him.

Warwick tumbled forward, feeling he’d fallen a great distance. But it was only a fraction of an inch. Enough to wake him with a star
t. He’d been nodding on and off for some time without becoming fully conscious. He checked his watch. He’d been ‘out’ for half an hour following the first glorious warm rush, the delicious weighting of his limbs, until he was swept into unconsciousness. Into the dream. He could never quite recall it. The shreds clung to his waking mind for a moment but not long enough to remember details.

He
stumbled to his washroom. He tidied away his kit, throwing the used syringe in the metal bin. Duschene would empty it later and leave a clean needle. He needed to clear his head. He threw water on his face and took a cold drink from his fridge. He took out his silver tin and the polished steel plate. From the tin he took out the solid silver tube and blade, and tipped a small heap of white powder onto the plate. He drew three ‘rails’ with the blade. He pressed the cold tube into his nostril and hoovered the plate clean. He wet his finger and cleaned off all trace of white. He rubbed his finger on his gum and towelled his nose. Light flooded his head. Confidence and well-being poured through his body. Better. Much better.

He went back into his office, unlocked his door, and returned to his
soft leather seat. He called up the discreet bank of video screens that folded seamlessly into the polished surface of his desk. He began playing his keyboard, opening up a different picture on each screen. They showed scenes inside offices. Seven of the ten were occupied. A steady murmur washed over him as the occupants talked on the phone, dictated or spoke to other people in the office. Now and again the volume on one screen rose above the others until Warwick leaned over and quietened it with a touch.

He
was pleased with the system installed by Joey Kutzov and his team. A hidden camera and microphone sat in each of his subordinate’s offices continually monitoring their every word and deed. He could input key words at any time. Triggers. Whenever any of his first line reports uttered them, the volume rose to an audible level. Warwick was currently running with a list of forty words including his own name and a set of swear words that indicated high emotion.

There wasn’t an idea floated, or a problem
bubbling that he didn’t know about before the executive belatedly brought it to Warwick’s table. He was always one jump ahead. As though he could tap into their thoughts. Warning him of any sign of revolt. Telling him of any whispered negative word or doubt about the bank’s direction. Flagging up any weakening of faith in his own infallibility. Enabling him to snuff out the faltering sparks before they caught light.

Kutzov had persuaded him to install
the system – or a rudimentary form of it – after one of the several upheavals that had threatened to tear the bank apart. It had proved its worth many times over. Each time, he knew how to smooth the waters, who to back, who to cut, and which strings to pull. The great conciliator.

L
ately, running the bank had seemed to require harder skills. People were becoming more difficult, less tractable. Like Doubleday about a year ago. Stirring up his fellow executives to form a cabal to confront him with demands – demands! – for an easing of the spending restrictions. Well, he was history now. And not just with Global American. Warwick had made sure there wasn’t a bank in the country – maybe the western world – that would take him on as anything higher than a messenger. Kutzov’s boys, with their special bent in negative PR had seen to that. Doubleday had the problem of disproving it. In this community, you didn’t need to have evidence of doing something wrong. Shit sticks.

But now there was a problem of a different order. José Cadenza, regional head of Central and Latin America – had begun asking questions about
his old boss, Bill Yeardon. Cadenza was one of the old American Mart guys, and Warwick had assumed that like all Latinos, Cadenza would be even more susceptible to being bought off. He was also a born leader, and his numbers were some of the best around. It was such a pity he’d begun digging up old bones.

He’d almost missed it. It had been so long since anyone had mentioned
him. But the word Yeardon was still there in the system from the early days when Warwick needed to be vigilant for disaffection after the merger. So the incoming call to Cadenza from Yeardon’s wife, or more accurately, his widow, had surprised Warwick. When Yeardon dropped dead six months back, it seemed like that was end of story. Loose ends all tied up.

Warwick remembered meeting Veronica Yeardon three years back when they were all trying to put on an amicable front for the shareholders. She was a stuck-up Southern Belle. A drawling, charming blond
e who hid a tough streak behind lace and breeding. So when the volume on Cadenza’s screen went up, Warwick found himself listening to some very bad news indeed.

Veronica
was bitter and distraught. She’d finally got around to clearing out his desk and found a key to a safety deposit box at her local bank. Inside was material about the merger. What the hell was it?

Cadenza was a smart guy. Warwick
was sure none of his directors knew about the surveillance – otherwise there would be hell to pay - but some of them were naturally more cautious than others. He cut her off and arranged to call her later and meet up with her.

Kutzov
had tailed them and tapped Cadenza’s cell phone. They’d met on Saturday at a discreet Village restaurant. A directional mike got the details. The safety deposit held political dynamite. Maybe enough to blow up Warwick Stanstead, Global American and a number of senior officials in the banking business.

E
rin Wishart – not knowing her boss was watching – was also staring at her office screen, stomach knotted, silently cursing Ted Saddler. She was calling up various old emails and spreadsheets to see if she could see anything amiss. Oscar had assured her the Lone Ranger programme was undetectable and would self-destruct leaving no trace if anyone started poking about. Erin wasn’t so sure. She reached for the pill pack and washed two down with a swig of cold tea.

She just prayed that Warwick wouldn’t summon her today. She could
n’t stand even the mildest questioning. She knew nothing stood in Warwick’s way when he wanted something or someone, so Erin had Madge Peters, her PA, fix a slew of meetings with her team leads. Back-to-back, no lunch and no interruptions unless it was life or death.

At 3pm
Erin was interrupted by death.

Madge called her to the outer office where there was already
pandemonium. José Cadenza hadn’t made it in today. After checking all known locations, Viv Stanley, the head office assistant for the regional bosses when they were in town, had called his apartment block. The concierge was persuaded to ring the door of his apartment, then when there was no reply, to use his pass key to enter.

José’s body was found draped in black PVC and dangling from a hook in the ceiling. Around his head was a plastic bag.
The TV was in a loop advertising a hard core streaming service. The last movie played was about large men having sex with small children. Forensics had found that the time of download tied in roughly with the time of death. The police’s initial diagnosis was an auto-asphyxiation that had gone wrong. Further evidence of sexual perversion was found in a library of videos and magazines in a locked cupboard. His home computer was full of similarly harrowing download material. It looked like a tragic accident to a closet paedophile.

No-one could believe it. He had kids of his own. It just was too out of character. Warwick Stanstead volubly and publicly refused to accept that José was capable of such a double and distorted life. He immediately sent his head of HR in his personal jet down to Rio to inform José’s wife and family face to
face. Mrs Cadenza was to be offered the services of Warwick’s jet and private staff to fly up to New York or whatever she wanted to do. Money was no object. Warwick took personal control of the press release and went to some considerable trouble with the NYPD and press corps to quell any mention of José’s quirky death.

Erin
’s mind shut down. It was unthinkable either that José had hidden a vile streak or that Warwick had instigated his death. All she could do was watch Warwick in action. It veered from masterful to bizarre. There was no knowing which character would emerge from his office. His eagle head, with its slick blue-black hair, bobbed in and out throughout the afternoon and early evening, controlling and ordering, making sure nothing was left to chance then throwing everything up in the air in a tantrum over delays to his orders being executed. In his saner moments, the very epitome of the caring leader, dealing sympathetically and equably with secretary and executive alike. Exuding calm and deep concern. Then Mr Hyde emerged, an emotional wreck with no safety valve for his anger or torment. Even Madge was moved to comment:

‘Mr Stanstead’s really upset, isn’t he?’

‘Isn’t he though,’ Erin managed.

At his most perverse h
e summoned the corporate psychiatrist and demanded to know how someone this perverted could be working for him. She’d heard some of Warwick’s thoughts on gays, so this was no surprising divergence. Throughout the performance Erin tried desperately to stop her brain straying into the dark paths of conspiracy and murder. It couldn’t be countenanced. It was insane. Just coincidence. Bosses fired troublesome subordinates. They didn’t have them executed. Finally, Erin fled the building and sent herself early to bed with a very strong vodka tonic and a double dose of Melatonin, her jet lag pill.

Next day she stumbled into work, hung over and drained. Throughout the day the coincidences mounted, became farce, became nightmare. It was only a line or two on the daily web clippings, but the name caught Erin’s eye. Veronica Yeardon the widow of the former CEO of American Mart, had gone missing. Her daughter was anxious as her mother had been depressed for months following the sudden death of her husband. There was speculation she may have taken herself off for a few days to New York to be on her own, or had broken down completely and wandered away. But her daughter insisted that this wasn’t how her mother behaved.

Erin
concurred. Veronica was sweet and feminine in the way of Southern women of good stock. Beneath the unblemished white skin was a steel core. When it came to managing husbands or family estates, those girls were made of stern stuff. Erin recalled a ten minute conversation that started innocently enough with Paris couture and switched rapidly to capital punishment as an example of New World decadence. It was easy to draw the opinion that Veronica Yeardon would have been one of the last people to vanish without cause. Just before she met José Cadenza and revealed some dreadful news about Warwick Stanstead.

Erin
nursed her feelings of dread to herself until she got to Oscar’s apartment that evening. She’d arranged the meeting to check out the success or otherwise of the Lone Ranger bugging. It was also an opportunity to put a call in to Ted Saddler in Kolkata to share news with him. Oscar had advised – strongly – that she make no calls or emails from her office. Or indeed from her apartment. Before Monday Erin would have rubbished such fancies, until Oscar had shown her how easy it was to turn her phone and every other internet-enabled device in her apartment into listening and recording facilities. Erin had begun to be afraid of the dark. She told him about José

‘
. . . but what’s worse is that I chatted with José just last week.’

She told Oscar
about Veronica’s call to José just a few days before.

‘This is beginning to sound a little more severe than spreading nasty stories, my dear.
’

‘Don’t say i
t! I can’t –
won’t
believe my boss is a . . .’