What the Nanny Saw (36 page)

“The idea that the crisis in the banking system is somehow isolated from the rest of the economy is bullshit,” Felix told Bryony excitedly as he entered the room. “It’s like a Russian doll. Everything is connected. CDOs, mutual funds, structured investment vehicles, monolines, credit derivatives . . . The market isn’t self-healing. It’s fucking self-harming.”

“Which must be gratifying to you,” Bryony said calmly, as she leaned forward and kissed him on each cheek.

“Hello, Felix,” said Foy, peering round from the side of the chair. “I’ve been saying it for ages. Paying these people too much money made them believe too much in their own mythology. Most of them are mediocre, but giving them these bonuses makes them think they’re fucking gods.”

“Totally agree, Foy,” said Felix. “Why should some fixed income trader get a million-pound bonus while a cancer surgeon on the NHS gets none?”

“Nick called the market last summer,” said Bryony protectively.

“I bet he still took his bonus in January, though,” said Felix.

“Nick has never been completely motivated by money,” said Bryony.

“Come on, Bryony, don’t be naïve. Nick would be the first one to storm into Jeremy Isaacs’s office if he didn’t think his bonus reflected his value to the company. Don’t tell me he approved billions of pounds of bonds backed by subprime out of social duty because he felt sorry for poor people who didn’t own their own house? He did it because he made money from it.”

“Nick never set out to be so rich,” said Bryony. “He’s been lucky to ride a bull market the past few years, and he’s one of the smartest brains in fixed income. He was one of the people who invented credit default swaps. They’ve called him to New York to try and help sort things out,” said Bryony.

“So the mess at Lehman’s is as bad as it looks, then?” asked Felix. Bryony fell silent, aware that she had fallen into a trap. Felix saw her face and relented.

“It’s just that for so long Lehman’s looked as though it was immune to the subprime contagion. And then, suddenly, their figures look way off.”

“Well, you guys printed the story they told you pretty unquestioningly,” said Bryony. She offered him a drink and then called down on the intercom to ask Malea for a vodka and tonic. “So what brings you here?”

Ali and Foy settled back into their game of cards. They were sitting by the window. Outside, Ali could see a taxi with its meter running. It was waiting for Felix. Ali found this disturbing, because it underlined the sense of urgency surrounding this visit. Bryony and Felix now sat facing each other on the sofa. Their knees were almost touching, in a way that suggested previous intimacy rather than renewed attraction. The late-evening sun poured through the window, highlighting their faces in profile.

“There are rumors,” began Felix. His face was curiously malleable and always revealed the emotion of what he was about to say before the words came out of his mouth. Ali wondered whether this was a skill honed during his career as a journalist or whether it was something innate. Ali saw Bryony’s cheek muscles tighten and the familiar twirl of her tongue around the inside of her mouth. She wasn’t reading his signals correctly.

“If this is about my Ukrainian client, I’ve got nothing to say,” said Bryony. “Present us with proof, and then his lawyers will know exactly what it is that you think he has done instead of all this insinuation and gossip. Lots of East Europeans did unsavory business deals when the wall came down. But whatever he’s done, there is no way that he was involved in trafficking women. No way.”

“It’s closer to home, I’m afraid, Bryony,” said Felix. “I’ve had a tip-off about Nick.” His voice grew quieter until Ali couldn’t hear any more.

•   •   •

The next day,
at exactly five-thirty in the morning, there was a persistent ringing on the front doorbell followed by loud banging. No one usually bothered with the chrome door knocker apart from Malea, who loyally polished it once a week, and Izzy, who used it as the mirror of last resort when she was leaving the house. Most people stood patiently by the video intercom system, waiting to be buzzed in.

Although Ali was asleep on the fifth floor, the dull thud was enough to make her stir. She sat up in bed, wondering in sleepy confusion whether it was Bryony’s personal trainer or Nick’s driver, but they usually came in through the entrance in the basement. She looked at her clock, saw the time, and got out of bed as the noise intensified.

She assumed Bryony was now awake, although to judge from the empty bottle of wine left on the kitchen table last night, Bryony’s head must feel as thick as goulash. Perhaps it was even Nick arriving home, having lost his keys. He worked so late at the moment that it wasn’t inconceivable his day was just ending as everyone else’s was beginning. His waking hours were spent trying to encourage the great Lehman sell-off to reduce the bank’s debt.

For a moment she allowed herself to hope it might be Jake, coming home unannounced after a late-night party in London to celebrate the end of his first-year exams at university, except they had finished a month ago. Then, just as quickly, she banished the thought.

Leicester barked and growled. He was on full intruder alert, hurling himself at the letterbox, waiting for someone to put his hand through, knowing this was the only circumstance where he could legitimately sink his teeth into human flesh.

Ali would later discover that the Financial Services Authority had spent almost six months planning its dawn raid on 97 Holland Park Crescent. Thanks to the architects that had overseen renovations, each member of the eight-person team had an up-to-date floor plan of the interior. They also had a blown-up image of the outside of the house taken from Google Earth.

They knew how many mobile phones needed to be collected and how many iPod Touches needed to be checked; they had a rough idea of where computers might be located and Nick’s briefcase might be found. They knew that the driver, Mr. Artouche, would be arriving in half an hour with Nick’s car, and that this should be searched as quickly as possible and the SIM card removed from the car phone. You could tell a lot about a man’s life from what you found in his glove compartment, Ali heard the man running the team tell a junior police officer.

The only detail they had overlooked was the presence of Nick’s father-in-law, Mr. Foy Chesterton. No one involved in intelligence gathering had noticed that the most critical room for the purposes of their investigation had been turned from an office into a bedroom over the past week. All the computer equipment had been removed and the filing cabinet relocated upstairs in Bryony’s office.

Ali pulled on her dressing gown and went out onto the landing to look out the window at the front of the house. There was a large white van outside with its back doors wide open. There were people wearing plastic overshoes, carrying large transparent polyethylene bags toward the front door. No one was wearing a uniform, but most were dressed in cheap-looking suits in drab colors. In the house on the other side of the street, Ali could see the neighbors observing the same scene from behind the curtains of the first-floor window.

The Darkes were standing in dressing gowns by the van, asking the driver exactly what was going on. The twins came out of the bedroom next door and came over to Ali, sleepily rubbing their eyes. They jostled for space at the window.

“Has Grandpa died?” asked Hector as he observed the scene. Foy was such a large figure in their life that she could understand the logic that his death would result in such fanfare.

“No,” Ali said, and smiled. “Can’t you hear him shouting downstairs?” They listened for a moment.

“Will someone tell me what the bloody hell is going on?” Foy’s voice snaked upstairs. It quivered with the effort of maintaining enough breath to say everything in one sentence.

“Open the door, please, Mr. Skinner,” cried a voice from the other side of the front door. “We have a search warrant from Westminster Magistrates’ Court.”

“It’s Mr. Chesterton,” Foy shouted back at them.

There was the sound of voices discussing this unexpected development.

“Can you please find Mr. Skinner and ask him to open the door, Mr. Chesterton?”

“Who is it?” said Foy, trying to summon strength he no longer possessed.

“It’s the police,” the same voice shouted back though the letterbox. “If you don’t open, we’ll have to make a forced entry.”

“Has this got something to do with selling fake organic salmon?” Foy shouted back as best he could. “Because I’ve got nothing to do with Freithshire Fisheries anymore.”

It was typical of Foy that he assumed whatever was happening was related to him and not to anyone else in the house. Then Ali felt guilty because of course he was still confused following his stroke. The recent scandal at his old company had dented both his confidence and his bank balance. The knocking on the door started up again.

Ali heard the door of Bryony and Nick’s bedroom open and slam shut. Nick ran downstairs, two steps at a time, so fast that his paisley dressing gown floated behind him in the slipstream. Bryony followed, already dressed in her gym kit. The twins and Ali tiptoed down to the landing on the first floor, where they could observe what was happening in the hall without being seen. Nick opened the door, and a detective from the City of London Police handed over an envelope containing the search warrant.

“Is it something to do with the bank?” Bryony asked as Nick skimmed the letter. “I said you shouldn’t rock the boat.”

“We have permission to search the premises, Mr. Skinner,” the policeman said.

“What’s going on, Nick?” Bryony asked sharply.

“I’ve got no idea.”

“Has it got something to do with Lehman’s?” Bryony persisted.

“Bryony, the only person I want to speak to right now is a lawyer,” Nick said calmly as he glanced over the warrant and put it neatly back in the envelope. “Could you call Hannah and ask her to come over right away? Otherwise, please don’t say anything.”

“Why do we need a lawyer?” Bryony asked in confusion.

Malea had come up from the basement. When she saw the group of people standing in the hall, she turned tail.

“Malea Cojuangco?” the policeman asked, referring to the notes in his hand. “Please come into the drawing room.”

Malea froze by the staircase.

“Malea Cojuangco?” the policeman repeated. Malea nodded to confirm her name.

“Leave her alone,” barked Foy. “She’s completely legal.”

“You want me to get my papers?” Malea asked nervously.

“We’re not interested in you or your papers,” the policeman abruptly replied. He turned to Nick again and calmly informed him that they were arresting him on charges of insider trading. Malea disappeared back downstairs.

“What the hell are you talking about?” asked Nick. Bryony was pulling at his sleeve, hysterically asking what was happening over and over again until Nick lost patience and shook her off.

Ali listened from the landing. She couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing or hearing. She had no idea what insider trading was, but she understood that Nick was in trouble. Izzy had come out of her bedroom and was standing beside her. Her Goth attire didn’t stretch to nightwear, and she was dressed in a curious ensemble of men’s pajama bottoms and a pale pink sleeveless T-shirt that made her look more childlike and vulnerable than usual. Her face was pale, but this time it wasn’t due to layers of foundation.

“I feel as though I’ve got a walk-on part in
The Wire
.” Izzy laughed nervously, hoping that someone would suddenly tell them this was all an elaborate practical joke dreamed up by her father to wind up Foy. She clung on to Ali’s arm. Hearing the voices from the landing, a policewoman craned her neck upstairs and suggested that they all come down into the drawing room.

“Look here,” said Nick, “it’s for me to tell my family what to do. You’ve got this completely wrong. Let me make a couple of calls and you’ll understand you’ve made a big mistake. Heads will roll.”

“If you don’t let us start this search, then you will be obstructing the rule of law,” the policeman said calmly.

“Do you know who I am?” Nick asked.

“Yes,” said the policeman.

He explained that a similar “discreet” search was taking place at the same time in his office at Lehman’s. A couple of women came through the door, and the policeman said that they were from the digital forensics team and would be responsible for examining computer equipment to decide what exactly should be confiscated.

“They can download a lot of information from your hard drive onto memory sticks, so the children don’t lose their computers. It’s less traumatic that way.

“Do you mind if we get started?” said the policeman. “We’ll be here for the best part of a day. If we kick off now, we’ll have taken most of the evidence to the van before your neighbors get up and start asking awkward questions.”

It was a line that might have held meaning if it wasn’t for the fact that most neighbors had already left their houses to come and see what was going on.

“Burglary,” Nick shouted across to the Darkes, who relayed the message to other people farther down the street. “None of us woke up. Definitely premeditated.”

“Let us know if there’s anything we can do,” said Desmond Darke earnestly. “Glad to see the police are taking it seriously. When we had a break-in last year it took them two days to come and take fingerprints.”

“I’ll let you know the upshot,” said Nick, in a tone that suggested he could be counted on to represent their interests in matters relating to neighborhood security but would appreciate it if they left him to deal with the problem right now.

“Of course. Thanks, Nick. I’m sure you’ll get through to them.” Then he reluctantly returned home. Nick’s tactic worked, and other onlookers dribbled back inside their houses, muttering about how much money they paid to the private security agency to patrol the street, precisely to avoid this kind of unfortunate event.

“Hand over your telephone right away, please, Mr. Skinner,” said the policeman, “then we’ll give you ten minutes to get everyone in the drawing room. It can be unsettling for your wife and children to see their belongings searched by strangers. We’ll locate the exhibit officer discreetly in the dining room opposite.”