‘What I am saying is that we were always on a slippery slope, always destined to become more and more a law unto ourselves. But that process accelerated dramatically about six years ago. I believe we were infiltrated by a genuine criminal, a man named Harry Sweetwater.’ Martin comes fully alert; Sweetwater—Mandy has mentioned him. The judge appears to notice his reaction. ‘You’ve heard of him?’
‘Yes, I have,’ says Martin.
‘Well, you’re one of the few who has. Have you tried to find out who he is? What he does? What his past is?’
‘I know he heads up security at an investment bank, Mollisons, but I don’t know anything more than that.’
‘I bet you don’t.’ The judge closes his eyes for a moment, appears to wince. Martin wonders if there is pain. The eyes open and he continues, the facade of bonhomie gone. ‘I haven’t been able to find out myself. Anyway, this Harry Sweetwater becomes a member about six years ago. And he’s different. Most members, perhaps all members, sign up to the Mess hoping it will advance their careers and perhaps their wealth. Lawyers wanting to become senior counsels, politicians hoping to become ministers, businessmen aspiring to become moguls. Sweetwater is a banker. He’s senior management but not on the company board, so he must have had good support to gain membership. First year or so he seemed pretty quiet, learning the ropes. Then, for the next few years, he was everybody’s best friend, presenting himself as a Mr Fix-it, no problem too big or too small. He dispensed favours like a fairy godmother, and if people didn’t have any problems, he would offer them favours regardless. He was very good, very affable. I was foolish; I took him up on it.’ And now there is regret in the judge’s eyes.
‘What happened?’
‘Nothing outrageous, nothing illegal. He organised a job for my niece. Bright girl but wild, in danger of going off the rails. Out all night, asleep all day, experimenting with drugs. Had a rough childhood, parents went through a shitty divorce, fell in with a very ordinary crew of ne’er-do-wells. She was facing some minor charges; a respectable job would help her to stay out of prison, avoid a record, perhaps straighten her out. He learnt of it somehow, offered to help; I accepted and he came through. He got her a good position at his bank, Mollisons, working for him. And a well-paid and respectable job it was at that.’
‘What’s her name, your niece?’
‘Her name was Clarity Sparkes. My sister’s kid.’ The judge looks down, as if observing a moment’s silence. ‘She died about a year later—accidental drug overdose.’
Martin remembers now; Mandy had told him of the death of the security officer. He can see the pain in the dying man’s eyes. Not just grief, but anguish. ‘You don’t believe it was an accident, do you?’
‘No. I don’t.’
‘Why? What happened?’
‘Ah. Now we get to it. She came to see me here, a week before she died.’ The judge pauses to make the calculation. ‘It was close to five years ago. My wife was still alive then; we had lunch here, out on the back patio. Then afterwards, Clarity and I spoke. She was worried, I could see that. She’d fiddled all through lunch, had hardly eaten a thing. She told me that she was disturbed by goings-on at Mollisons.’ O’Toole gathers his thoughts before continuing. ‘This came as a surprise to me. She’d been there for a year, loved the work, had made something of herself. They’d given her a grand title: head of physical security. It seemed pretty menial to me, but she loved it. The sense of responsibility, of being trusted. Of being part of a team. I’d been congratulating myself on getting her in the door, but suddenly she was really upset.’ The judge looks around furtively, then leans over, fishes under his cushions and withdraws a hip flask. ‘Just a dram,’ he says, unscrewing the cap, taking a quick swig. ‘Can’t hurt me now.’ He replaces the cap, stows the flask. ‘Right. Where was I? Oh yes. This young lawyer had been discovered plotting to embezzle money from the bank, and she’d been tasked with sorting him out. She thought this was very strange, couldn’t work out at first why they didn’t simply call the police. Anyway, her boss, Harry Sweetwater, said they couldn’t have the police anywhere near the place because the bank had an obligation to protect the privacy of its clients. Some twaddle like that. Anyway, she believes him, organises for this bloke she knew, a low-life who’d taken a shine to her, to beat up this lawyer and warn him off. Which happens and she thinks it’s all sorted. She’s disturbed, but she’s also happy because Sweetwater is delighted and is heaping praise on her, telling her that she’s one of them now.
‘Then the next thing she knows, the lawyer has disappeared and so has ten million dollars. Sweetwater is livid, threatening to sack her, wondering how she could possibly have allowed the lawyer to get away with the loot. She’s in danger of losing her job, so she starts investigating, interviewing staff members at the bank. After a
