'I'm sorry, but I don't think there is anything we can do,' said Addler. 'With the state of your portfolio, there's just no chance of giving you any more credit.'
Tatton & Friedland was a private bank set up only seven years previously, but its St James's Place offices had been decorated to make it look far older. There was wood panelling on the walls, which were adorned with stuffed fish in cases and a collection of oil paintings of dogs and huntsmen. Matt had felt instinctively uncomfortable the first time he had set foot in the place. He should have trusted his instincts.
'If I could get some collateral, I was thinking maybe I could trade my way out of trouble.'
Harry Stroller had introduced Matt to Addler, back when he was still working for him full-time. At first Matt had dabbled in just a few shares, dealing through his usual bank account. As Stroller's tips had made him wealthier, he'd suggested Matt get himself a proper banker. Tatton & Friedland dealt with a small group of rich clients, mostly technology entrepreneurs or City bankers. You needed a quarter of a million to invest to get through the door. Matt had only just qualified.
'In these markets, Mr Browning, I can't help feeling you'd just be trading yourself into more trouble.' Matt could hear the pained tone in Addler's voice: polite still, but on the brink of rudeness.
'I made money before, I can make it again,' said Matt.
'From these records, I see you made a lot of money trading while you were working for Mr Stroller,' said Addler, looking at the computer screen on his desk. 'Spotting which internet and technology shares were moving up. Maybe Mr Stroller was discussing his own thoughts with you — I can't judge. Since you stopped working for him, you have made a series of investments on your own. You had a half-million in your portfolio, now you are down half a million.' He paused, looking directly at Matt for the first time. 'Let me give you some advice. You're a soldier by training. You're good at it, I'm sure. Trading shares is different. Even the best City operators are losing money this year. Do yourself a favour. Stay out of the game.'
Matt swallowed hard. 'I'm in a jam,' he said. 'I need to make that money back, and I need to make it quickly.'
Addler's eyes moved back to his computer screen. His expression closed. 'I'm sorry,' he said coldly. 'We're a bank. We can't help you. We'd like to help you — we'd like to help lots of people — but we can't. That's business.'
The offices were almost empty compared to the last time he had been there. Ark Technology Systems occupied a refurbished warehouse in Clerkenwell, its insides gutted and rebuilt with stainless steel floors, frosted glass partitions and plasma screens covering every wall. Each desk had once been home to at least two computers, and there'd been so many girls running around in short black skirts and tight T-shirts that Matt had found it impossible to concentrate on the work. Not that there had been much to do. As Harry Stroller had admitted after a few beers one night, bodyguards were mostly there for show, part of convincing the investors they had a big business worth protecting. Bill Gates had a bodyguard, so Ark had one too. Like the plasma screens, and the immaculately groomed receptionists, Matt was there mainly for decoration.
The decorations were all gone now. It was like walking through a house that had been left empty for a few years. A chilled emptiness had descended on the building, and dust was gathering in the corners. There was still a receptionist, and maybe two dozen people occupying a few of the hundred or more desks. But Ark was a pale, waning shadow of what it once had been.
Stroller shook Matt warmly by the hand. A broad grin was playing on his face. He was a short man, just over five foot five, with broad shoulders and black hair that was thinning on top, but sporting a thick, neatly trimmed goatee beard. 'I don't need a bodyguard, Matt,' he said. 'The only people likely to kill me are my shareholders.'
'That bad?'
Stroller turned on his heels and walked back towards his own desk in the centre of the main floor. He'd always refused to have his own office — very 'old economy', he used to point out — even though Matt had argued that it was impossible to protect anyone adequately who worked in an open-place space. Now it didn't matter any more. There were so few people around, the third floor was a private office.
'Look at this place,' said Harry. 'Hardly recognise it, do you? The good times have gone. The orders have dried up, and the venture capitalists aren't taking my calls any more. Heck, I can't even get a date.' Stroller leant back in his chair and swung his right foot on to the desk. 'Internet billionaire had a kind of ring to it. Chicks went for that. Close-to-bankrupt computer nerd doesn't work the same kind of magic.' He paused. 'But, hey, when's the wedding?'
'There isn't going to be a wedding,' said Matt. 'I can't afford to look after myself, never mind Gill.'
'You're in a mess?'
'The worst mess I've ever been in,' Matt confessed.
'I lost all the money I made when I was working for you, and I lost a whole lot more as well. The people I owe it to want it back.'
'And you were wondering if any of my friends might need a guard,' said Stroller. 'Somebody who might share a few stock tips with you?'
Matt paused. Once you got used to the taste, he reasoned, swallowing your pride wasn't so hard. 'If there was anyone on the circuit who needed a reliable man, I could use a break.'
'I like you, Matt — but let me tell you something,' said Stroller, standing up from his desk, his expression suggesting he was fast losing interest in the conversation. 'You know what I've learned about life over the last few months. When you're down, you're down, and nobody wants to help you. I can't even help myself.'
The words were still echoing through Matt's mind as he stepped back on to the street. A year before, he had bought himself a one-bedroom flat close to Holborn. The plan had been to use it on his trips to London — back when he thought he was still a big shot who had to fly home to see his banker. It might have been a good investment, but the place now was mortgaged to the hilt, and the bank was already threatening to repossess it. Four months had passed since Matt last made a mortgage payment, and right now there was no chance of making one.
The walk took about twenty minutes. Matt could have hopped on a bus or taken a cab, but he reckoned he needed the time to clear his mind. When he'd flown to London he hadn't been sure what he was looking for. A way out. Another loan, or a new job. .
Harry's right, Matt thought. Nobody is going to help me. Why should they? I'm a thirty-five-year-old guy. I know how to fight — but out here in the real world, away from the Regiment, who cares about that? I don't have anything to offer.
There was something about making all that money, so quickly and so easily — it does something to your head. It stops you from thinking straight. And when that happens, you're as good as finished.
A tramp was sitting in the doorway of the office building next to his flat. A man of maybe forty-five or fifty, his skin was pitted with spots and a black beard was starting to crawl down his chin. His hair was matted with sweat and grease. A can of beer was held in one hand, a piece of brown cardboard in the other: 'EX-FORCES. SERVED IN THE FALKLANDS. PLEASE GIVE GENEROUSLY.'
Matt fished around in his pocket and took out the fiver he would have spent on a taxi. He knelt down, handing the money across. 'How does this happen?' he asked.
The man looked at him suspiciously, taking the money and folding it into his fist. 'I'll thank you for the money,' he said in a Birmingham accent slurred by alcohol, 'but my story is my story, and it's about the only thing I still own. So I'll not be sharing it with you.'