"According to Lloyd's data core, Weslin is owned by MDL Maritime," Julia said. "MDL Maritime is another Zurich-registered company. Credit Corato handles its account."
"Bingo," Morgan Walshaw said quietly.
Philip's eyes found the camera, looking down at Greg. Confusion distorted his enervated features. "Why?" he asked. "Kendric di Girolamo has a large legitimate financial interest in Event Horizon through his family finance house. He was hurting himself with the spoiler."
"The spoiler made him forty-eight million Eurofrancs; and as to Event Horizon's suffering, he wouldn't lose a thing, not in the long run," Greg said. "You see, he wasn't looking to make a killing from the crystals directly, they were a means. With Event Horizon's declining profits on top of your health situation he would have gained enough leverage with the other members of the backing consortium to have himself appointed to the board of trustees you've arranged to run Event Horizon until Julia comes of age."
"It's a reasonable enough request," Julia put in reluctantly. "The consortium are entitled to a representative. I doubt we could keep their nominee off. Not legally."
Philip nodded slowly. "The consortium has mentioned it… Someone… to oversee their interests." His voice sounded terribly weak. Julia was looking at him, almost in pain with what she saw. His head turned from the camera again. Greg thought he was looking out of the study window. "Then what?" he whispered.
"This is just theory, you understand, based on what you told me about Kendric trying to muscle in on the management side of Event Horizon. But after Kendric landed his boardroom seat I'd say that he simply planned to close down the spoiler, bringing Event Horizon's accounts back to their usual profit level. He'd disguise the link of course, make it an issue; shuffle personnel, target resources at the furnace maintenance division, but that kind of high-profile result would guarantee him the chairmanship. Now, because Event Horizon is a family company, he can never own it. But as chairman he could oversee a massive asset-stripping raid, presumably by his own front companies. That sort of money he is most definitely interested in. Julia and the consortium would be left with nothing."
Julia had listened raptly the night before, after she'd pulled the information about Siebruk Orbital for him. "So simple," she'd said, when he'd finished explaining. "I had all the pieces before you and I didn't put them together. If you hadn't had your suspicions that the memox crystals were being brought down, we would never have uncovered Kendric's involvement."
It was his intuition, of course. A foresight equal to everyone else's hindsight. He hadn't told her that. Let her go on thinking he was a magician. Event Horizon might have a few more jobs coming up, and they paid bloody well.
"I see," said Philip. "Either way, Kendric wins. How typical."
"What are we going to do about di Girolamo?" Victor asked.
"The options are regrettably limited," said Walshaw. "Our respective Scottish operations are almost fully integrated. We can hardly untangle them now, certainly not with the Scottish PSP so close to falling. A replacement for Kendric would be hard to find."
Julia cleared her throat. "The ship in the Atlantic."
"Yes," Walshaw said. "I can arrange a hardliner assault. We might even retrieve some more of our memox crystals."
"See to it," said Philip. "You've done some good work for me here, Greg, I won't forget. You too, boy."
Victor ducked his head.
Julia took her grandfather's hand, steadying the shaking fingers. "That's enough, Grandee."
"I'll get back to you later," Walshaw said.
Julia gave him a vaguely remorseful nod before the image blanked out.
Greg spent another ten minutes filling in details for Walshaw before saying goodbye. He'd been away from Eleanor for too long.
"There's a permanent job for you at Event Horizon if you want it," the Security Chief said as Greg reached the door.
"Thanks, but no thanks," Greg said. He didn't even have to think about it. Office hours, suit, tie, the same people day after day. He had wanted something regular, but not regimented. "I'm not ready for that yet."
The nineteen-fifties Rolls-Royce was waiting for him on Stanstead's buckling grey concrete as he came out of the administration block, chauffeur already opening the door.
Philip Evans died two days later. His funeral was the biggest civic event to be held in Peterborough for two generations. The Prime Minister and two senior royals were in respectful attendance.
His will named Julia Hazel Snowflower Evans as his sole beneficiary.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Julia watched the crackling life of the night-time city through the Rolls-Royce's tinted windows, impatient for the ride to be over, the drama she'd conceived to unfold. She could almost believe they were driving through some German metropolis. Peterborough's New Eastfield district possessed the same frantic pace and power, the strut that came from being number one.
Its buildings were post-Warming, laid out in a precise geometrical array, like Manhattan before the Anarchy March. They were foreign-funded, a thorn in the side of the PSP, physical evidence the Party couldn't fulfil its promises. All of them followed the same palaeo-Spanish theme, six-storey, marble or cut stone, with long balconies that sported a profusion of greenery and flowers. Smart-uniformed doormen stood outside the gingery smoked-glass lobbies.
Wealth was everywhere, in clothes, jewellery, salon beauty; in the absence of bicycles and graffiti.
The road was clogged with traffic: gas-electric hybrid BMWs and Mercs cruised up and down, their headlights and tail-lights two contrasting severed ribbons of light. The folksy tables of pavement cafés were spread out under brightly striped awnings, alternating with arched entrances into small arcades of exclusive shops. Brightly lit windows full of designer-label clothes and esoteric gear silhouetted the fast-moving pedestrians, painting their faces in cool neon tones. Soft warm rain had fallen earlier in the evening, its residual sheen reflecting gaudy biolum ads in long wavering flames from walls and paving slabs.
But the prosperity was only a few blocks across. A ghetto of the rich. She remembered Grandpa saying that New Eastfield was a seed, that in a proper economy this kind of lifestyle would spread out like a microbe culture, consuming and changing its surrounding neighbourhoods, right out to the city boundaries. He'd wanted the New Conservatives to build cores like it in every English city, showcases for a top-led society, the acceptable face of capitalism.
Good old Grandpa. An eternal optimist. But there were a lot of people enjoying the balmy evening street life.
"Are you sure Bil will be there?" Katerina asked.
Julia turned away from the window, back to the subdued oyster shade inside the car. Her friend was wearing a skintight black tube dress; a slash down the front was loosely laced up, showing the deep cleft between her breasts. Brazen, but Julia was forced to admit she looked wonderful. Her hair was a fluffy gold cloud.