The Hopeless Life of Charlie Summers Page 9

  ‘I don’t really follow tennis,’ I said. Bilbo knew I was winding him up, but although he looked nettled for a moment, he kept his temper.

  ‘Mountwilliam Partners is still very much an also-ran operation. You are right: we are doing well. But our performance isn’t outstanding. We lack scale to make the really big bets. And the bigger you are, usually, the better the chance that others will put their money down where you put it down, and move the market in the direction you want it to go.’

  ‘I don’t see how I can help—’ I began, but Bilbo cut me off.

  ‘If you will keep quiet for a moment longer, I will explain it to you. What we need is fresh capital.’

  He picked up the decanter and poured himself more sherry, saying

  ‘I won’t offer you another glass - you’re taking someone out to dinner.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘There’s a man - a former Middle Eastern contact of mine - who represents various family interests in the Gulf. He’s not a conventional banker, and his clients aren’t conventional investors. They are able to take a very long-term view. Think of him as a kind of sovereign wealth fund manager.’

  I pondered this.

  ‘If you already know him, why aren’t you taking him out to dinner?’

  ‘Because I want you to take him to dinner. I recruited you because you and I come from similar backgrounds. Sometimes it’s important to have someone you can trust, someone who will keep their mouth shut when necessary. I feel sure I can trust you, Eck. Can’t I?’

  I nodded.

  ‘By the way, this man’s a strict Muslim. He doesn’t drink alcohol. Bear that in mind. The other reason I’m not available tonight is that my daughters are coming up to town from school. They are singing in the school choir and I have to attend. It is more than my life is worth not to. The concert is in that nice church in Smith Square. I do adore music in churches.’

  ‘How nice for you, Bilbo,’ I said.

  Bilbo ignored me and went on, ‘His name is Aseeb. He’s originally from Afghanistan, but I understand he now spends most of his time in Dubai.’

  ‘What are we supposed to talk about?’

  ‘I hope that he will want to invest money in Mountwilliam Partners as an equity partner, not as a punter. We need money. We need to increase our capital base. The scale of our industry is increasing. Ten years ago the hedge fund industry had about forty billion dollars under management, now it’s a trillion. We have to compete and we need to be able to do bigger deals. Aseeb might help us to achieve that. He’ll have some questions, no doubt. Answer them to the best of your limited ability . . . he’s not expecting you to know all the answers. He only wants to know if he can trust us. Give him a good dinner. Oh, and give him this.’

  Bilbo handed me a small silver memory stick.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Some information about our firm: it’s encrypted, and he has the pass-code. But it’s nothing too sensitive.’

  ‘That’s it? Take a man out to dinner and give him some files? That’s the reason I’ve raced up to London? Couldn’t someone else have done this?’

  Bilbo smiled at me fondly.

  ‘I told you, I needed someone I could trust.’

  Did Bilbo trust none of his other employees, some of whom, like Doug and Alan, had been with him since he started the business?

  ‘Anyway,’ he added, ‘he’s from Afghanistan. You can chat about old times.’

  Sometimes I resented the demands Bilbo made on my life, and this was one of those occasions: I had broken off my lunch with Harriet, someone I very much wanted to spend time with, just because Bilbo had a school concert to attend. He stood up, patted me on the shoulder and said, ‘He’s staying at the Berkeley in Wilton Place.’

  ‘Under that name? They don’t use surnames, do they? Shall I just ask for Aseeb?’

  ‘Show some initiative,’ said Bilbo cheerfully, ‘ask for whoever you like. Just make sure you meet him. He’s in Room Twenty-nine. He’s expecting you at eight o’clock. Take him somewhere decent. He doesn’t touch alcohol, as I said, so at least the drinks bill should be cheap. Listen to his questions. Do your best. In the morning you can tell me all about it.’ The phone buzzed. Bilbo picked it up and listened to it for a moment, then said: ‘I’ve a taxi outside. Can I drop you anywhere?’

  ‘No thanks,’ I said.

  ‘They’re singing Panis Angelicus tonight. Do you remember it from school?’

  *

  Aseeb was a tall, dark-skinned man, wearing a beautiful suit made of shiny deep grey cloth. His white shirt was buttoned all the way to the collar, but he wore no tie. It was hard to guess his age: he may have been in his forties, but then again he may have had a hard paper round in Kabul when he was a child. His eyes were close set, dark and hooded, his nose aquiline, and his black hair was brushed straight back from his forehead. His chin was covered in a neatly clipped beard. He was quiet and unsmiling, giving me the briefest of handshakes when we met. He was one of those people - and I have met one or two - who, perhaps without any intent on their part, make you wary of them. There was a stillness about Mr Aseeb I did not quite like. He did not look in the least like any fund manager I had ever met.

  He said nothing during the taxi ride to the restaurant I had chosen in Kensington. As soon as we had sat down at our table, he took out a cigar case, removed a large cigar, trimmed it and lit it. I had no time to stop him.

  ‘Mr Aseeb, I’m afraid they won’t allow smoking in this restaurant.’

  He did not seem to understand me, or else chose not to.

  ‘You would like a cigar yourself, Mr Eck? Please take one.’ He held out the case.

  Before I could say any more, the head waiter rushed over. I would not have been surprised if he’d produced a fire extinguisher. There was some discussion between the waiter and my guest and finally Aseeb said, ‘What a pity. But if you insist.’

  Looking around and seeing no ashtray, he extinguished the cigar in a pat of butter. After a moment, the butter dish was removed and a new one brought, together with two glasses of Diet Coke. Aseeb raised his glass in a toast and then began to question me.

  His English was good and his knowledge of the world of finance much greater than my own. I don’t know whether he expected to learn much from me. If so, he must have been disappointed. After only a couple of years in the hedge fund business I was far from being an expert. My job didn’t need expertise, just good table manners. All the same, I had met a lot of people in the financial community in the course of my work. As I sat opposite Aseeb and we talked I kept thinking: ‘You’re no banker.’

  When he decided there was no more he could learn from me about hedge funds and debt markets, Aseeb took me by surprise by asking: ‘You were a soldier before this job, I think, Mr Eck?’

  ‘Yes, for ten years.’

  ‘That is good. You come from a family of soldiers?’

  I had the odd impression that Aseeb was not so much asking questions, as checking off points against a file he had read.

  ‘Yes,’ I said again, then tried a question of my own: ‘What part of Afghanistan do you come from, Mr Aseeb?’

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘You know that I am an Afghan?’

  ‘I was told you were.’

  ‘My family is from Kabul, but I am a citizen of the world. I have houses in Dubai, Beirut and Palermo. Do you know Afghanistan?’

  ‘I have been there.’

  Aseeb gave me a speculative glance. His gaze was very direct.

  ‘And you have happy memories of my country?’

  ‘If you want the truth, no, I don’t, Mr Aseeb. With respect, I’d rather not talk about it.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said, meditatively. Then he changed the subject abruptly and began to quiz me about Mountwilliam Partners: how it was run, what sorts of clients we had, our reputation. I felt as if I were being put through a rather testing examination, and not doing very well. At the end of the interrogation he pushed away his plate with the half-e
aten remains of some lamb and said, ‘You will forgive me. I do not enjoy European food. Please tell them to bring me some whisky to take away the taste.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘I did not think you would want to drink alcohol.’

  ‘Not often, but tonight I will do so.’

  The whisky was brought, and I ordered a glass to keep him company.

  ‘Now,’ said Aseeb. ‘Do you have something for me?’

  Without a word I reached into my pocket and extracted the USB stick. Aseeb took it, nodded and put it in his pocket. Then he said, ‘We will meet again, Mr Eck. But now, please take me back to my hotel.’

  *

  In the morning I reported back to Bilbo.

  ‘It was like having dinner with the Godfather,’ I said. ‘Are you sure he’s a fund manager?’

  ‘We’re not all from the same mould,’ said Bilbo crossly.

  He looked in poor form, without his usual ebullience. Perhaps he had a hangover. He must have gone on somewhere after the school concert.

  ‘Who exactly does Aseeb represent?’ I asked. ‘Is it the Qataris? Or someone in Sharjah? Or Abu Dhabi?’

  ‘You don’t need to know just at the moment. He has asked me to keep such matters confidential until he makes up his mind about us. Just take it as read that he represents a group of people with an enormous cash flow: cash that needs recycling in Western financial markets. We’re in the frame. Thank you for taking him out, Eck. I don’t suppose you can have done too much harm. If he’s interested, he’ll be in touch.’

  Six

  Charlie told me later, when we spent some time together, that after the first few weeks of his dog food business, the orders had started to dry up. This was not unexpected. There is only so much dog food dogs can eat, assuming a finite number of dogs within a. given territory. So Charlie decided to prospect a little farther afield, venturing into Warwickshire and Oxfordshire. He would pile a few bags into the back of his pick-up, together with a handful of ‘Yoruza’ leaflets, and drive down the back lanes looking for signs that denoted a potential Yoruza customer. Children’s toys in the garden often meant there might be a dog in the household. A kennel was another good sign. Two cars in the driveway was always promising. He avoided the few houses that looked as if they might still be occupied by people engaged in some agricultural calling; dwellings not yet swept up by the modernising tide and converted into second homes for bankers or advertising agents. Farmers and such like were grasping with their money and not inclined to indulge their dogs, which were often expected to work for a living. People like that bought their dog food at the cash-and-carry and might ask awkward questions about the formulation of Yoruza. When Charlie had completed his cold calls, he would round off a long morning’s work with a pint of bitter and a pickled egg in some country public house. Then he would drive back to Stanton St Mary for an afternoon nap at Piggery Farmhouse and an evening in front of the television, or else another pint or two at the Stanton Arms. This routine, enervating as it was, nevertheless produced a few orders and, as Charlie said to me the next time we met, ‘Every order ought to become a repeat order in a few weeks’ time.’ Charlie had, however, begun to see the possible limitations of his new career, viewed as a way of life. The Yoruza business had not taken off quite as fast as he had once hoped.

  On one of his excursions Charlie drove into Warwickshire, and found a well-cared-for cottage at the end of a long, single-track road. The properties that were looked after always represented his best prospects. Run-down farmhouses with plastic fertiliser bags blowing everywhere, and savagelooking collies tethered to a barn door with baler twine, rarely yielded potential customers. This particular dwelling was approached down a narrow road surrounded by fields of winter barley, the young plants just poking their heads above ground. As he drew up, Charlie could see no sign of a car and concluded that whoever lived there was out. But he thought he might as well have a look around, just in case, and perhaps leave a card. There was, as he had expected, no reply when he knocked on the door, but a small, angry-looking dog was racing around the garden, which was secured at all points by rabbit netting and entered via a stout wooden gate. When Charlie opened the gate, the small dog tried to bite his ankles, but luckily for him could not reach over the tops of his boots. It had another go at him as he walked down the path. Charlie was about to draw back his foot to give it a good kick, when a thought struck him.

  He wasn’t quite sure what make of dog this one was. He wondered whether it might be a chihuahua, but he wasn’t sure. The important thing was this: here was a small dog, just the sort of animal that Mrs Bently might like. He picked it up gingerly; once he had done so, the animal gave up trying to bite him and instead started to emit a series of high-pitched yelps. Charlie carried it back to the truck and chucked it on the back seat; then he filled a dog bowl that he kept in the vehicle with a handful of Yoruza from the open sack he used for free samples. He chose not to leave his business card behind him this time.

  The chihuahua, if that is what it was, sniffed at the bowl hesitantly, but then decided to eat the contents anyway. Charlie watched it eat and told it: ‘There’s no such thing as a free lunch, mate.’ Then he drove them both back to Stanton St Mary. After eating the dog food, the little animal came and sat on the passenger seat next to Charlie, and by the time they arrived at the village, Charlie was beginning to feel quite fond of the mite: that is before it was sick over the car seat.

  Back at his house he cleaned up the car and the dog as best he could. Then he rang Mrs Bently on his mobile, and asked whether he might drop in and see her that afternoon. She sounded surprised, but agreed to the proposal anyway.

  When he arrived at Stanton House, Mrs Bently was waiting for him at her front door.

  ‘So nice of you to look in, Mr Summers-Stanton,’ she said. ‘I hope you have time for a cup of tea? I mustn’t be too long myself, because my daughter is coming to stay, and the house is in such a state I’ve decided I had better give it a spring clean.’

  Then she heard a yap from inside Charlie’s truck and in an instant her expression changed from one of guarded, perhaps minimal, welcome to something more eager.

  ‘Oh my goodness,’ she said. ‘Whatever have you got in there?’

  ‘Oh, just a little something,’ Charlie replied carelessly. ‘Or should I say: just a little someone?’

  He walked back to the truck and opened the rear door of the cab, and the small dog scrambled out, looking around in confusion. It then lifted its leg against the rear wheel of Charlie’s truck.

  ‘Oh my God,’ said Mrs Bently, ‘what a heavenly little dog!’

  ‘He’s yours, if you like him,’ said Charlie. His air of nonchalant generosity deeply impressed Mrs Bently.

  ‘That is so kind,’ she said, clasping her hands together as if in prayer. ‘I just can’t believe how kind. Such a darling: what is his name?’

  This was not something Charlie had thought about, although he had, of course, checked to make sure that there was no name tag or other clue to the dog’s previous ownership. All he could think of in that instant was his father’s name.

  ‘Ned,’ he said. ‘He’s called Ned.’

  ‘What a perfect name,’ exclaimed Mrs Bently. ‘It suits him exactly. Where on earth did you find him?’

  ‘Oh, I have contacts in the dog world,’ said Charlie vaguely. ‘I said I’d keep an eye open for a suitable animal.’

  ‘He must have cost you a lot of money,’ Mrs Bently suggested. ‘A beautiful little person like that: what do I owe you?’

  For a moment Charlie was tempted to name an amount. Cash would have come in handy just then: but he reminded himself that there might be a longer game to play here.

  ‘It’s a present, Mrs Bently,’ he said, ‘please don’t mention it again.’

  *

  The gift of Ned the chihuahua to Mrs Bently marked a change in her relationship with Charlie. He had earned her trust; he hoped he had also earned her generosity. For a few
days she plied him with questions about her new dog, some of them quite challenging; for example: ‘Did they give you his pedigree?’ and ‘Has he had all his injections yet?’ Charlie dealt with these by responding, ‘They said they would put it all in the post.’

  In the end a story emerged: Ned’s previous owners had had to go to Singapore in a hurry, and Charlie had done them a favour by arranging to find their dog a new home. It was perhaps too much to expect that the paperwork would follow quickly; if, indeed, it ever did.

  These minor distractions did not detract from Charlie’s growing sense that he was becoming Mrs Bently’s new friend. He was asked for tea once or twice; then this progressed to ‘looking in for a quick drink before dinner’. A week or two after Ned the chihuahua had become part of the Bently household, Charlie found himself clutching a substantial gin and tonic, sitting on Mrs Bently’s sofa, and listening to her tell him, once again, how much pleasure she had gained from the dog’s arrival.

  ‘I can’t imagine how his previous owners could bear to give him up,’ she said. ‘He’s so sweet, a perfect little darling. Don’t you think I ought to write to let them know how he is?’

  Charlie scratched his chin.

  ‘You know, I wonder if it wouldn’t upset them to have to think about him living in someone else’s house. Perhaps it would be best to leave well alone, just for now.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought about it like that,’ said Mrs Bently. ‘How wise you are, Charlie.’

  It was on a subsequent evening that, as Charlie sipped his gin and tonic, Mrs Bently explained that she needed to go upstairs for a moment. When she came down, after perhaps twenty minutes, she had changed out of her usual costume of slacks and a cardigan into what could only be described as a little black dress. She had a very trim figure for a woman in her fifties, Charlie thought. In fact, he hadn’t quite appreciated before now how good a figure she had. It helped his appreciation of these matters that he had poured himself a second, very stiff, gin and tonic while she was upstairs.

  ‘I thought I’d put a dress on, for a change,’ she explained. ‘One gets so bored of wearing the same clothes all day long. It’s nice to make an effort, don’t you think, Mr Summers-Stanton?’