'But he hasn't got proof.'
'I don't think he has got all the evidence he needs yet. But I am afraid he might find it,' I said.
'But how could he?' Cathy asked.
'Someone could feed him some more. Or I wouldn't put it past Powell to make it up for himself.'
'So who's his witness?' asked Cash.
'I suspect it's probably Rob,' I said. 'Cathy mentioned he saw me with Debbie that evening. But why he would lie to the police is beyond me.'
'Perhaps he killed her,' said Cash.
'Perhaps he did.' It could have been him. Or it could have been Joe, or Waigel or even Piper. But Rob was in love with Debbie. Joe had denied that he had killed her. Waigel was in New York at the time. And Piper had seemed genuinely unaware of Debbie's death. We just didn't know. It could even be someone totally different, a professional hit-man hired by Waigel, who, once he had dealt with Debbie, had disappeared into the dark and rain.
We discussed all this for an hour without getting anywhere. Finally, we gave up. We drank up and headed upstairs into the dusk of the September evening. Cash bade Cathy and me good night as he got into a cab. His almost lascivious grin suggested that the latest development in our relationship had not escaped him. Cathy and I walked the mile or so to a romantic little Italian restaurant near Covent Garden, and had a very pleasant meal, washed down with a bottle of Chianti. Afterwards, we tossed a coin, I lost, and joined Cathy in a taxi headed for Hampstead.
I got back to my flat at eight the next morning. As soon as I walked in the doorway, I sensed something was wrong.
I shut the door carefully behind me, and stepped into the sitting room. Everything was untouched, just as I had left it the day before. A draft of air blew in from the direction of my open bedroom door. Cautiously, I looked in.
A pane of glass was broken in my bedroom window.
Bloody hell! Another break-in. I had been broken into only two months before. I didn't know why they bothered. There wasn't anything much to steal.
With a rush of panic, I looked back in the sitting room. My medal was still there. So too were the replacement TV and cheap stereo that I had bought after the last time. I opened my small drinks cupboard. Nothing seemed to have been touched there either.
I went back into my bedroom, and took another look at the window. Someone had climbed on to the roof of the shed below, broken the glass, opened the latch and crawled in. I cursed myself for leaving it unlocked, but I usually slept with it open during the summer, and it was too much of a bore to get out the key and lock it every morning.
I spent ten more minutes checking the flat again, but as far as I could make out, I hadn't lost anything. I sat down and thought about it for a moment. I couldn't for the life of me think why anyone would want to break in and not take anything.
Odd.
For a moment, but only for a moment, I considered reporting it to the police. After my recent experiences, that did not seem an appealing prospect. Besides, there was nothing really to investigate.
So, I got down to work.
The TSA was a disappointment. After following through Cathy's logic, I was convinced that they would see that if Cash was cleared of insider trading, then I had to be as well. But Berryman was having none of that. He admitted that there was no conclusive proof implicating me, but said I was still under investigation. I asked him about the deal he had made with Hamilton where the TSA had promised to call off the investigation if I was fired. He refused to comment on this, simply saying that arrangements between De Jong and myself were none of the TSA's business. He then referred darkly to 'parallel investigations'. That must be bloody Powell.
I was angry when I put the phone down. I had counted on total exoneration there and then. More fool me. I was also annoyed, but not entirely surprised, about Berryman not recognising his deal with Hamilton.
Still, it wasn't all bad. Berryman didn't have anything concrete against me, and in time I would be cleared. If Powell didn't get me first.
My brooding was disturbed by the phone. It was Cathy. She had been back through the trading tickets that Joe had written relating to his Gypsum of America position. It had taken her a couple of hours, but by working through them chronologically, she was able to piece together how Joe had built up his position, and what he had done with it. Half of it had been sold to the nominee account of a small Liechtenstein bank. Cathy had never heard of it, but Cash had. It was the bank Piper used occasionally for very sensitive trades. It was not traceable to him; only Cash, Joe, and perhaps two or three other trusted market operators knew about it. It would be difficult to prove absolutely that Piper had bought the Gypsum bonds, but it was clear enough to us that he and Joe had been working together.
I got out a pad of paper, and began scribbling short notes, and crossing them out. I felt I was so close to unravelling the tangle. Tremont, the Tahiti, Gypsum of America, Piper, Joe, Waigel and Cash all seemed to be connected. Yet the more I thought about them the more jumbled the connections became. And then there was Rob. Rob, who had threatened Debbie, had threatened me and who had threatened Cathy. Passionate, unpredictable. But not a killer, surely?
My thoughts were interrupted by the buzzer of my entryphone. I looked out of the window. It was the police again.
I let them in downstairs, and stood at the door of my flat. There were four of them: Powell, Jones and the two uniformed men.
'Can we come in?' asked Powell.
'No. Not without a warrant,' I said.
Powell smiled, and handed me some papers. 'Which I happen to have just here,' he said. He barged past me into the flat. 'Come on, lads.'
The flat looked even smaller with four large policemen and me in it. There was nothing I could do. 'What are you looking for?' I asked.
'Let's start with the records of all your share dealings, shall we?'
Reluctantly, I showed him where my share contract notes, all four of them, were kept. I was not one of the stockmarket's most active traders. Powell pounced on them, and quickly pulled out the Gypsum of America contract.
'We'll keep this, thank you,' he said.
The other three policemen were standing at his shoulder, waiting for instructions.
He turned to them. 'OK boys, take it apart.'
They systematically did as they were told. They searched without much enthusiasm, very aware of Powell watching them. I tried to keep my eyes on everything they touched, especially Powell. I might have been paranoid, but I didn't want Powell 'finding' something that I had never seen before. But I couldn't watch all four at once.
There was a cry from my bedroom. 'Sir! Look at this!'
Powell and I rushed through. One of the policemen was holding an earring. It was cheap, but bright, a long red droplet hanging down from a gold coupling.
'Well done, lad,' said Powell, grabbing the earring from the young policeman. He held it in front of me. 'Do you recognise this?'
I did recognise it. I felt cold. I nodded. 'It's Debbie's,' I said, my voice hoarse.
'It certainly is,' said Powell triumphantly. 'She was wearing one just like it when we found her body. And only one.'
His eyes never left my face, watching for every reaction.
'Where did you find it?' I asked.
The policeman pointed to a half-drawer in the chest by my bed. 'Right in the back of there.' The drawer was pulled fully out, my socks strewn all over the rug by my bed.
'You know exactly where it was,' said Powell grinning.
I felt a rush of anger. I had been right to be suspicious of Powell. 'You planted that,' I muttered.
