Cometh the Hour (The Clifton Chronicles 6)

“Several called to express their concern about the charges you’re facing and to point out that their companies can’t afford to be associated with a drug dealer.”

“And what did you tell them?” asked Arnold, before Hakim could jump in.

“I told them,” continued Ross, “that Mr. Bishara doesn’t smoke, doesn’t drink and who do they imagine he could possibly be selling drugs to?”

“What about our smaller customers?” said Hakim. “Are they voting with their feet?”

“A handful have already moved their accounts,” said Seb. “But ironically I’ve been trying to get rid of one or two of them for years, and no doubt they’ll all come crawling back once you’ve proved your innocence.”

“And they’ll find the door slammed in their faces,” said Hakim, banging the table with a clenched fist. “What about your private detective?” he asked Arnold. “Have you managed to track him down?”

“I have, chairman. I found him playing snooker in Romford. He’d read about the case in the News of the World and said the word on the street was that it was a stitch-up, but no one seems to know who’s got the needle and thread, which convinces him it can’t be any of the usual suspects.”

“When is he coming to see me?”

“Six o’clock this evening. Be warned, Barry Hammond isn’t the easiest of men. But if he does decide to take on the assignment, I wouldn’t want to be the person who set you up.”

“What do you mean, ‘if’? Who the hell does he think he is?”

“He despises drug dealers, Hakim,” said Arnold calmly. “Thinks they should all be strung up in Trafalgar Square.”

“If he were even to suggest that I—”

Sebastian placed a hand on Hakim’s arm. “We all understand what you’re going through, chairman, but you have to remain calm, and let Ross, Arnold and me handle the pressure.”

“I’m sorry. Of course you’re right, Seb. Don’t think I’m not grateful to all of you. I look forward to meeting Mr. Hammond.”

“He’s bound to ask you some fairly direct questions,” said Arnold. “Just promise me you won’t lose your temper.”

“I’ll be sweetness and light.”

“How are you passing your time?” asked Ross, trying to lighten the mood. “It can’t be a pleasant experience, being in here.”

“I spent an hour in the gym this morning, which reminded me just how unfit I am. Then I read the FT from cover to cover. I had an hour’s walk around the yard yesterday afternoon, in the company of two other bankers who are in for manipulating share prices, and in the evening I played a few games of backgammon.”

“For money?” asked Seb.

“A pound a game. There’s a guy in for armed robbery who took a couple of quid off me, but I plan to get it back this evening.”

The three visitors burst out laughing.

* * *

“I’ve picked up another two percent of Farthings stock,” said Sloane, “so you’re now entitled to a place on the board.”

“Those additional shares turned out to be more expensive than you predicted,” said Mellor.

“That’s true, but my broker tells me there’s a big player out there picking up stock whenever it comes on the market.”

“Any idea who it might be?” asked Knowles.

“Not a clue, but it explains why the shares haven’t fallen as much as I’d anticipated. If you let me represent you on the board, Desmond, I’ll find out exactly what’s going on, and then I’ll be able to feed the press with regular unhelpful titbits. In the end, it will be the drip, drip, drip effect that finally scuppers them, believe me.”

“Are you still confident that nothing can be traced back to anyone around this table?”

“I’m positive. We’re the only three people who know what’s going on, and I’m the one person who knows where the bodies are buried.”

* * *