Conflict of Interest

‘Yah?’

‘The transaction you made when you sold them some property—’

‘I expect you’ve been reading The Herald?’

North jumped to his feet. ‘The Herald?’

‘British newspaper,’ the Prince told him. ‘I had a young lady reporter the other day taking just the same line.’

North fought to control his voice. ‘I like to find out the answers for myself.’

‘Well, as I told her,’ the Prince seemed irritated having to repeat himself, ‘it was a straightforward agreement. I sold two factories to Starwear. There was no office block involved. She seemed to think a town block worth a considerable amount of money had changed hands. I don’t know where this story is coming from but it really is most distracting.’

North raised a hand to his forehead.

‘I don’t deal in commercial property,’ the Prince lectured North, ‘only industrial. I hope The Herald got it right. What are they saying?’

‘Nothing has been published as yet,’ North replied now, ‘and isn’t ever going to be.’

17

Kuczynski had phoned Chris just after Tuesday lunch-time. The conversation had been short and to the point. He’d finished his report. If Chris was available at four he’d bring it round personally. He suggested they meet at a street corner not far from the Lombard building. Chris had agreed; he wanted this over and done with. And he certainly didn’t want Kuczynski up in his office.

The weather was ominous that late October afternoon, the sky overcast and with a chill wind blowing through the City. Chris slipped into his coat, pulling the collar up and digging his hands into his pockets. He set out at exactly four, and walked over to the corner where they’d agreed to meet. The thought had occurred to him: What if this is some kind of set up? What if they’re luring me away from the protection of the office? He thought of Merlin de Vere and William van Aardt. Then he decided he was being ridiculous. He’d told Charlotte who he was meeting, where and why. If they were going to pull off something like that, they’d hardly do it in broad daylight in the middle of the City – would they?

When the man in the heavy overcoat, Homburg and sunglasses, approached him, Chris could see no sign of the report. After confirming his name, Kuczynski suggested they take a walk along the river.

‘Where’s the report?’

‘In here.’ He touched his coat. ‘But I thought you’d like to know what’s in it, first hand like.’

Chris couldn’t deny he was curious. Exactly what had the incisive Sol discovered in ten days which had eluded him in four weeks of intensive research?

They set off past the soaring concrete-and-glass towers of the City on the north side, and upmarket residential apartments on the south. The wind blew up from the river in cold gusts as the afternoon turned deep grey. They had walked on for some time before Kuczynski glanced over at him with a smug expression. Raising his voice above the wind, he told Chris, ‘1 think you can say we hit the jackpot, old son.’

‘Oh, really?’

Chris felt disadvantaged without sunglasses. Not that dark glasses were exactly necessary, right now. He wondered how Kuczynski could see in front of him.

‘Not so much on the corporate side. More on the personal side.’

‘How do you mean? There is only a corporate side.’

Kuczynski glanced back at him, cocking his head to once side. ‘Elliott told me to look into personal stuff too.’

Chris shrugged. What was the point of arguing with Kuczynski?

‘Expect he forgot to tell you,’ Kuczynski was casual. ‘Any road up, you won’t regret it. I did some sniffing around and I got lucky.’ He gestured as though playing a one-armed-bandit, and grinned broadly. ‘We lined up the Lucky Sevens. We’re talking about some serious dirt.’

Then, reacting to Chris’s expression, ‘Don’t worry, old son,’ he tapped his coat again, ‘got it all written down here. But I thought you’d want me to tell you right away. Elliott’s always impatient.’

Chris tried to keep his voice even. ‘So what did you find?’

‘Take Bob Reid. Wealthy cove. Owns a few homes, you know, London, Gloucester, South of France. He also has in his property portfolio a six-bedroom flat in Belgravia.’ Kuczynski was clearly relishing this. ‘He and Mrs Reid don’t live there, mind. Six young ladies with lots of make-up and black fishnet stockings live there. Or, should I say, entertain there every night.’

Chris’s astonishment was genuine.

‘Full-on knocking shop, old son,’ guffawed Kuczynski, whacking him on the shoulder with glee. There’ve been complaints from the neighbours, but never what you’d call “hard evidence”, if you receive my meaning. All very posh and tasteful with clientele from the Middle and Far East.’