Stephen groaned. ‘My God, you make it all sound so appallingly simple, Inspector. The geologist’s report was a fake, then?’
‘Not exactly, sir. Very impressively worded and well presented, but with plenty of ifs and buts; and one thing is for certain; the D.P.P.’s office is hardly likely to spend millions finding out if there is any oil in that part of the North Sea.’
Stephen buried his head in his hands and mentally cursed the day he met David Kesler.
‘Tell me, Inspector, who put Kesler up to this? Who was the real brains behind it all?’
The Inspector realized only too well the terrible agony Stephen was going through. During his career he had faced many men in the same position, and he was grateful for Stephen’s cooperation.
‘I’ll answer any questions I feel cannot harm my own inquiry,’ said the Inspector. ‘But it’s no secret that the man we’d like to nail is Harvey Metcalfe.’
‘Who’s Harvey Metcalfe, for God’s sake?’
‘He’s a first generation American who’s had his fingers in more dubious deals in Boston than you’ve had hot dinners. Made himself a multi-millionaire and a lot of other people bankrupt on the way. His style is so professional and predictable now we can smell the man a mile off. It will not amuse you to learn that he is a great benefactor of Harvard — does it to ease his conscience, no doubt. We’ve never been able to pin anything on him in the past, and I doubt if we’ll be able to this time either. He was never a director of Prospecta Oil, and he only bought and sold shares on the open market. He never, as far as we know, even met David Kesler. He hired Silverman, Cooper and Elliott to do the dirty work, and they found a bright enthusiastic young man all freshly washed behind the ears to sell their story for them. I’m afraid it was a bit unlucky for you, sir, that the young man in question was your friend, David Kesler.’
‘Never mind him, poor sod,’ said Stephen. ‘What about Harvey Metcalfe? Is he going to get away with it again?’
‘I fear so,’ said the Inspector. ‘We have warrants out for the arrest of Silverman, Elliott and Cooper. They all beat it off to South America. After the Ronald Biggs fiasco I doubt if we’ll ever get an extradition order to bring them back, even though the American and Canadian police also have warrants out for them. They were fairly cunning too. They closed the London office of Prospecta Oil, surrendered the lease and returned it to Conrad Ritblat, the estate agents, and gave notice to both secretaries with one month’s pay in advance. They cleared the bill on the oil rig with Reading & Bates. They paid off their hired hand, Mark Stewart in Aberdeen, and took the Sunday morning flight to Rio de Janeiro, where there was $1 million in a private account waiting for them. Another two or three years, after they’ve spent all the money, and they’ll undoubtedly turn up again with different names and a different company. Harvey Metcalfe rewarded them well and left David Kesler holding the baby.’
‘Clever boys,’ said Stephen.
‘Oh, yes,’ said the Inspector, ‘it was a neat little operation. Worthy of the talents of Harvey Metcalfe.’
‘Are you trying to arrest David Kesler?’
‘No, but as I said we would like to question him. He bought and sold 500 shares, but we think that was only because he believed in the oil strike story himself. In fact, if he was wise, he would return to England and help the police with their inquiries, but I fear the poor man has panicked under pressure and made a bolt for it. The American police are keeping an eye out for him.’
‘One last question,’ said Stephen. ‘Are there any other people who made such fools of themselves as I did?’
The Inspector gave this question long consideration. He had not had as much success with the other big investors as he had had with Stephen. They had all been evasive about their involvement with Kesler and Prospecta Oil. Perhaps if he released their names it might bring them out in some way.
‘Yes, sir, but... you must understand that you never heard about them from me.’
Stephen nodded.
‘For your own interest you could find out what you need to know by making some discreet inquiries through the Stock Exchange. There were four main punters, of whom you were one. Between the four of you you lost approximately $1 million. The others were a Harley Street doctor, Robin Oakley, a London art dealer called Jean-Pierre Lamanns, and a farmer, the unluckiest of all, really. As far as I can gather, he mortgaged his farm to put up the money. Titled young gentleman: Viscount Brigsley. Metcalfe’s snatched the silver spoon out of his mouth, all right.’
‘No other big investors?’
‘Two or three banks burned their fingers badly, but there were no other private investors above £10,000. What you, the banks and the other big investors did was to keep the market buoyant long enough for Metcalfe to off-load his entire holding.’
‘I know, and worse, I foolishly advised some of my friends to invest in the company as well.’
‘Er... there are two or three small investors from Oxford, yes sir,’ said the Inspector, looking down at the sheet of paper in front of him, ‘but don’t worry — we won’t be approaching them. Well, that seems to be all. It only leaves me to thank you for your cooperation and say we may be in touch again some time in the future. In any case, we’ll keep you informed of developments, and I hope you’ll do the same for us.’
‘Of course, Inspector. I do hope you have a safe journey back to town.’ The two policemen downed their drinks and left.
Stephen could never recall if it was while sitting in his armchair looking out at the Cloisters, or later in bed that night, that he decided to employ his academic mind to carry out a little research on Harvey Metcalfe and his fellow dupers. His grandfather’s advice to him, when as a small child he failed to win their nightly game of chess, floated across his mind: Stevie, don’t get cross, get even. He was pleased he had given his final lecture and finished work for the term, and as he fell asleep at 3 am only one name was on his lips: Harvey Metcalfe.
5
Stephen awoke at about 5.30 am. He seemed to have been heavily, dreamlessly asleep, but as soon as he came to, the nightmare started again. He forced himself to use his mind constructively, to put the past firmly behind him and see what could be done about the future. He washed, shaved, dressed and missed college breakfast, occasionally murmuring to himself ‘Harvey Metcalfe.’ He then pedaled to Oxford station on an ancient bicycle, his preferred mode of transport in a city blocked solid with juggernaut lorries and full of unintelligible one-way systems. He left Ethelred the Unsteady padlocked to the station railings. There were as many bicycles standing in the ranks as there are cars in other railway stations.
He caught the 8.17 train so favored by those who commute from Oxford to London every day. All the people at breakfast seemed to know each other and Stephen felt like an uninvited guest at someone else’s party. The ticket collector bustled through the buffet car and clipped Stephen’s first-class ticket. The man opposite Stephen produced a second-class ticket from behind his copy of the Financial Times. The collector clipped it grudgingly.
‘You’ll have to return to a second-class compartment when you’ve finished your breakfast, sir. The restaurant car is first class, you know.’
Stephen considered the implication of these remarks as he watched the flat Berkshire countryside jolt past, and his coffee cup lurched unsampled in its saucer before he turned his mind to the morning papers. The Times carried no news of Prospecta Oil that morning. It was, he supposed, an insignificant story, even a dull one. Not kidnap, not arson, not even rape; just another shady business enterprise collapsing — nothing there to hold the attention of the front page for more than one day. Not a story he would have given a second thought to himself but for his own involvement, which gave it all the makings of a personal tragedy.