Conflict of Interest

‘I had no idea,’ he repeated, lamely.

His only instinct was to get out – but he wasn’t heading for the main staircase, that was for sure. Instead he made off in exactly the opposite direction, away from the departing crowd, back across the Great Room, and down a corridor until he spotted an Emergency Exit sign. He threw all his weight against the door, shoving it open – bursting into the hotel kitchen. A number of staff turned to look in astonishment at their black-tied visitor, before a waiter quickly approached him. ‘Can I help you, sir?’ he asked, giving no hint that the guest’s entrance had been somewhat outré.

‘Just get me out of this fucking place!’ Strauss screamed.

Mike Cullen, meanwhile, had made his way directly towards the television platform with as much smooth aplomb as he could muster. Cameramen were still taking live footage of the many famous faces, producers were on their mobile phones talking excitedly to their stations, and the platform had become a natural centre of gravity for every City Editor and press agency reporter in the room.

‘Gentlemen, I’m Mike Cullen,’ he introduced himself in a loud voice, trying to garner as much attention as possible. ‘My company, Lombard, advises Starwear on public relations issues.’

He was braced for the inevitable jeers and taunts. But at least he had them all paying attention to him now.

‘I want you all to know that I am as devastated by the revelations we’ve just had as you. I realise you will have a lot of questions. So I propose holding a full media conference, right here, in fifteen minutes’ time. I will have a statement for you by then, and I will be glad to answer all the questions you no doubt have.’

Summoning a one-man media conference with such haste was unprecedented, and he’d certainly caught them by surprise. But then this evening had been the business news event of the decade. As he stepped away from the TV platform, Cullen found Ed Snyder looming in front of him, his expression turned in a sardonic smile.

‘You know, Mike,’ he said to him, ‘if it’s all the same to you, I don’t think I will buy those Starwear shares tomorrow.’

Cullen scowled.

‘But I’m sure you won’t have any problem selling them – if the price is right.’

Cullen resisted the temptation to lash out at the smug little prick as he walked away. If the price was right! In the past twenty minutes he’d seen his £120 million shareholding destroyed. Right at this minute, fund managers in America who’d watched the proceedings on Bloombergs or CNN, would be offloading their Starwear stock for whatever they could get. The price would be collapsing by the second. Investors would be bailing out like rats from a sinking ship. It was all over for Starwear. By the time the London market opened tomorrow morning, his Starwear shares would be reduced to less than the level he’d bought them for. Overnight, the ubiquitous Starwear brand, once valued at £1 billion, was dead.

Adrenalin charging through his system, Cullen realised, though, how much he still had to play for. It was Starwear’s reputation, not Lombard’s, that had been destroyed tonight. But guilt through association would quickly follow – he’d seen it a hundred times before. He needed to cover his tracks; he knew exactly what he had to do. In the next fifteen minutes he’d marshal his thoughts, sell his shares, speak to his lawyer. Polish his spin.

25

Making his way swiftly along the fifth-floor corridor of Grosvenor House, Elliott North unlocked the door of his suite. And groaned. Sitting in the lounge, sipping champagne in their gossamer gowns and lace underwear, were the four teenage hookers he’d arranged with the agency: blonde, brunette, redhead and oriental; the way Jacob always liked them. He’d completely forgotten he’d ordered them.

‘Just fuck off, the lot of you,’ he barked, jerking his thumb towards the door.

They glanced at one another, startled, before one got up and sauntered over to him. ‘Sure we’ll go, Mr Bigshot, but you have to pay first.’

North snorted, pulling out his wallet. He was in no position to argue. He needed them out. He counted £800 into her outstretched hand.

‘Two hundred each? Please, you insult us.’

Eyes blazing with anger, he flicked out another £400. ‘That’s it,’ he snapped his wallet shut. ‘You’ve got half the night left to go fuck some asshole.’

The hooker had already stepped away and was slipping into her overcoat. ‘Who’s the asshole?’ she retorted, before jerking her head towards the door. ‘Come on, girls. We’re out of here.’

North walked through to the bedroom, closed the door, and pulled out his mobile phone. It was his first moment to himself since the meltdown; his first chance to think. And he knew he didn’t have long. He also knew Plan A was out of the question. He didn’t have a hope in hell of getting £10 million out of Jay Strauss. Not tonight. Not ever. But he did have a Plan B, just in case something like this ever happened. All the corporate dirt had been dished tonight, but there was still the personal stuff. And he had the evidence safely stashed.

Now he pressed one of the memory buttons on his mobile.

‘Barron,’ came the hurried answer from the News of the World editor.

‘Keith, it’s Elliott North.’

‘Hey! I’ve just been watching it on TV. It’s a fucking madhouse down there!’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘So what can I do for you?’

‘Jacob Strauss,’ he began, ‘I’ve got some stuff on him you’ll be very interested in.’

‘I’ve just seen it all on TV!’