The Money Makers (28 page)

It was a decision she regretted. Although she worked in the foreign trade department, she’d been seated on a table filled with computer types, a well-meaning gesture to seat her with people her own age. Their conversation was cyber-yak, computer games, and alcohol; their cheeks more accustomed to zit cream than the razor. Josephine sat in her designer gown, wondering whether to leave now or hang on for the dance.

Just then there was an eruption further down the table. A couple of geeks had produced pocket chessboards with magnets for chessmen. One of the older computer nerds, who must have been touching thirty, was protesting, but, to Josephine’s accurate eye, was actually delighted by their appearance.

There was a chant of ‘Mik-
los
, Mik-
los
.’ A jacket was pulled over his head and tied unnecessarily with someone’s tie. The chessboards were set out, ready to play.

There was a complaint from inside the jacket. It appeared that the man within was unhappy at being prevented from drinking. There was some more cheering and the jacket was rearranged to allow him to drink while still unable to see. Further muffled sounds from inside the jacket. Josie didn’t follow what was being said, but all of a sudden a space cleared opposite the man and Josie was being ushered into it.

‘... play a beautiful woman,’ she heard as she sat down.

‘I’m no good at chess,’ she said.

‘I play without my horses,’ said the Jacket.

‘I don’t have a chessboard,’ said Josie, looking sideways at the two geeks who had first produced the boards. Neither of them looked like surrendering theirs.

‘I play three,’ said the Jacket, and too many helpful hands began tearing bits of paper and scribbling on them, until Josie was sitting in front of a paper grid with thirty paper chessmen ready to do battle. There were more chants of ‘Mik-
los
, Mik-
los
’.

‘We start?’ he asked. ‘Pawn to queen’s four all three times.’

Josie studied her board. She wasn’t much good at chess, but was mildly insulted at the suggestion that she could be beaten by a blindfolded man playing three games at once, drunk and missing two of his pieces. She moved her queen’s pawn out and looked up, wondering whether they had to take it in turns to give their moves. They didn’t. The two geeks, both of them more practised players, were singing out their moves and getting immediate responses from the Jacket.

‘I’ve moved my pawn out,’ said Josie. ‘The one in front of my queen.’

‘I am Miklos Kodaly,’ he said. ‘Pawn to queen’s bishop three. It is my delight to meet you.’

A glass of wine moved inside the jacket and returned empty.

‘Josephine Gradley,’ she said. ‘Nice to meet you.’ Other people’s hands moved Kodaly’s piece for him and suggested moves for Josephine to make. She complied, moving the piece and letting others translate what she’d done into chess-speak Kodaly continued to play on three fronts, briskly moving through a well­memorised opening sequence with the two geeks, thinking longer with Josie, where his absent knights made things harder.

‘I’m moving my bishop,’ said Josie.

‘Better to defend your castle,’ said Kodaly. ‘He’s not safe.’

‘I thought that was my castle. The paper’s not very clear.’

It wasn’t a great excuse to give a blindfolded man, but Kodaly waved his hand, as though permitting Josie another go conversationally as well as on the chess­ board.

‘Where did you learn your chess?’

‘Bishop takes castle,’ said Kodaly to one of the geeks.

‘Check. I learned it at home.’

‘Which is?’

‘Szekesfehervar.’

‘Not a Londoner, then,’ said Josie. So far, she was less impressed by him than by his chess.

‘Lake Balaton,’ he said. ‘Your move.’

‘Can I castle?’

‘No. My bishop checks your king. Hungary.’

‘I’ve got your plate here if you want it.’

‘No, no. Drink only.
Magyar vagyok.
I am from Hungary.’

‘I’ll take your pawn, then.’

‘Better. Queen takes pawn.’ Then to one of the geeks, ‘Checkmate in three.’

‘So what are you doing here?’

‘I have three skills. Chess, alcohol, and computers. In Hungary, I am only the eighth player, one time sixth. In Italy, I would be champion, but Hungary ...’ he shrugged, still inside the jacket. ‘Is not so easy to make a living playing chess or drinking.’

‘So computers it is.’ Josie sipped her wine. In the time it had taken her to drink half her glass, four glasses had disappeared inside the jacket. ‘I think I’ll take your castle.’

‘Then I think I take your queen.’

Summer 1999

A tired old century ends with a whimper. A rainy summer fills photo albums with washed-out picnics, soggy weddings, and slug-eaten gardens. The mood is downbeat, uninspiring. It wasn’t much of a century as centuries go, and at this rate no one’ll miss it.

It is 19 June 1999. There are 755 days to go until Bernard Gradley’s deadline.

1

Val began to load the dirty washing into the machine: her black knickers, his jeans, a few socks and some towels. With the jeans, she felt automatically in the pockets before shoving them in. Just as well. He’d left his wallet inside. She put it aside, added the rest of the washing and set the machine running, his wallet lying on top.

Although it was Saturday, George would be at the factory until tea time, walking the rain-swept buildings, obsessively doing whatever needed to be done. Once Val had arrived to pick him up to find him sweeping the factory’s reception area. ‘Looked a bit untidy,’ he’d explained. ‘Creates a bad impression.’ George wouldn’t need his money there. She got out a mop to wipe the kitchen floor, leaving the wallet where it was.

She wiped the floor, dusted the living room, cleaned the cooker, hoovered upstairs and down. The washing machine shuddered and finished. The factory was making money now, and George had started to pay himself a small salary, mostly so he could send Josephine some money each month. He didn’t pay Val rent, but he was keen to contribute to household expenses and she needed a new hoover. She’d ask him that evening.

Val hung up the wet wash and loaded the machine with the whites. His wallet sat there, unmoved.

The next job was shopping, which meant a trip downhill into Ilkley. Val was low on cash and would need to go via the bank, unless she borrowed off George. She hesitated. His wallet was his, part of a man’s private world. But then again, weren’t they lovers? Why have secrets? Why should it seem so important that his wallet sit on top of the washing machine, untouched? Besides, it was raining and the walk to the bank would be a wet one. She picked up the wallet and opened it.

There was cash enough for the shopping. She could have taken what she needed and left the rest. But she didn’t. They were lovers, after all. No secrets. She examined the wallet. There were some credit cards, a couple of receipts, boring stuff mostly. And there were some photos. Three in all, dog-eared and waxy with use. Two were of the French girl, Kiki, looking impossibly slim, young, tanned, flighty, attractive. She was posing on a beach somewhere, in bikini and sarong, looking straight at the camera and laughing, all white teeth and waif-like figure. The third photo was a group shot, George and Kiki beside each other in a group of their beautiful young friends. There were snowy mountains in the background, and piles of ski gear. George looked solid, plain, cumbersome. Kiki, as ever, pretty, alluring, one-foot-off-the-ground, desirable. On the back of the photo was scrawled, ‘Georges, I had to send you this. You look so
adorable,
you big bear.
Gros bisous,
love Kiki.’ Big kisses, love Kiki.

There were no photos of Val.

Val left the wallet and the money, went to the bank, did the shopping. That evening, she gave George a photo of herself, which he accepted awkwardly but with thanks. She didn’t mention his wallet or the photos of Kiki. A week later she looked in his wallet again. The photos of Kiki were still there, facing the front, smooth with use. The photo of Val was there too, tucked away at the back. When Val pulled at it, it stuck to begin with, then, with another tug, the picture jerked itself free of the leather wall. It was the first time it had been moved.

2

Scott Petersen, now a government bond trader and, like Matthew, part of the smaller institutions group, crossed the trading floor. He was going to speak to Rick and Alan, as both he and Matthew did many times a day.

This afternoon, a third person sat in Alan and Rick’s little alcove. She was medium height, thirtyish, thick dark hair framing a porcelain-perfect face. The face itself should have been beautiful - it was flawless, long, and elegant - but there was something missing: nothing to invite you in, nothing to make you feel welcome. She was in perfect shape, both in the athletic sense and in the sense that usually mattered to Matthew. It was clear from everything about her that she was in a position of authority. It was equally clear that that suited her just fine. Petersen beamed his wide Pacific Ocean smile at Alan, Rick and the woman.

‘Hi, Al, Rick,’ he greeted his two colleagues. Then stretching his arm out to the woman, he introduced him­ self. ‘Hi, I’m Scott from the government bond desk.’

His outstretched hand asked to be shaken. The woman looked at it, said nothing and continued her conversation with Alan and Rick. Petersen paused. Where he was brought up, people didn’t behave like that.

‘I hope you don’t mind me interrupting for a second. I just want to confirm a couple of things with Rick here.’ This was standard. A trader needs to talk to his sales force continually. The etiquette of the trading floor recognises that, and nobody from the janitor to Dan Kramer himself could expect to hold a conversation uninterrupted. Rick and Alan made no move to help Petersen. Their eyes were on the woman, who stood up. The alcove where Rick and Alan had their desks was slightly raised above the surface of the trading floor. With the advantage given her by the step, she was almost as tall as Petersen. She spoke calmly.

‘You may interrupt, but first you will kiss my feet.’ Petersen smiled. It was a reflex response when he was unsure of himself. People just didn’t behave like that. He checked the faces of Alan and Rick, but they had turned completely impassive. No help there. He laughed.

‘Sure I will,’ he said. ‘But I’ll speak to Rick first.’

He made as if to step forward, but she blocked his way.

‘I mean it. You will kiss my feet.’

What happened next, happened very fast. Petersen decided the whole thing had to be a leg-pull, besides which, what exactly was this five-foot-six woman going to do to prevent him? He put one foot up on to the step, intending simply to step round his adversary. But before he could even shift his weight, her hand darted down. She grabbed him hard between the legs and yanked him close.

‘Kiss ‘em.’

She twisted, squeezed and lifted. She was not strongly built, but her appearance of being in shape was accurate. Her knuckles whitened and the strength of her grip was unmistakable. Petersen’s mouth moved, soundlessly to begin with. He just about managed to croak an ‘OK’ before he went back to an inarticulate groaning.

‘So go ahead. Kiss ’em.’

She didn’t move either foot, which lay about five feet below Petersen’s gasping mouth. Neither did she release him, just squeezed a bit harder and lifted a little more. She began to jiggle him up and down, just a tiny bit - Petersen was a big lad, after all - but her victim was impressed by even a little jiggle.

His face went white beneath the suntan. Choking, he stooped as far as he could towards her feet. In order to make the last six inches, he virtually had to allow the woman to carry his weight in her clenched fist, as he pivoted his body down. He managed to land a just about adequate kiss on her foot and she let go at once, sending him crashing to the floor.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Please take your time with Rick.’

Petersen got to his knees, gasping. He didn’t believe what had just happened, though if he’d been able to focus on the circle of traders watching the spectacle, he might have figured out, as Matthew had, that this was a fairly regular floorshow. Petersen recovered enough to walk, and limped off to the john to examine his hurts. The question he had for Rick could wait. Matthew turned to Saul Rosenthal.

‘What the hell was that all about?’

Matthew had heard stories about all kinds of aberrant behaviour from the eighties, outrages permitted by the general flood of wealth and greed, with persecution of junior traders not merely commonplace but mandatory. But the nineties were meant to have changed all that. Firms were more disciplined, the courts quicker to jump on discriminatory behaviour.

‘Ain’t she great?’ Rosenthal leered. ‘Fiona Shepperton. One of the senior folk in sales. A real cutie. Management keep telling her to stop, but none of the guys ever presses a complaint, and the firm doesn’t want to kick her out unless it has to. So she gets away with it.’

‘Jesus Christ.’ Despite himself, Matthew had folded his legs. Rosenthal saw him and chuckled.