Free Due Diligence by Grant Sutherland

divorced several years now. ‘What about Annie?’
    ‘Better. She seems okay.’
    Vance’s grey eyes are sympathetic. He isn’t one to bare his soul or to pry into another man's personal affairs. Now he looks at me and waits.
    'They think she’s over the worst. We get some more results back in the next few days.’
    ‘How’s Theresa holding up?’
    ‘Not bad.’
    ‘You?’
    ‘Honestly?’
    He nods.
    ‘I feel,’ I say, ‘like the mine caved in, and I’m the only survivor.’
    He drops his head to one side. ‘You shouldn’t be here. Annie’s still getting over those tests. Now Daniel . . . Maybe you should have a break for a week. Take Theresa and Annie away somewhere.’
    If only, I think. If only my life were that simple again.
    ‘They’re down in Hampshire already. Seeing Theresa’s parents.’
    ‘Well, go and join them.’
    ‘Did I ever introduce you to my mother-in-law?’ At this, Vance smiles. ‘I’d just be on the phone to you here all day,’ I tell him. ‘I’d rather stay.’
    He offers to have Jennifer call Theresa, but I politely decline. He looks pensive.
    'Do you see her much?’ I ask. ‘Jennifer?’
    ‘Not much.’
    He rocks in his chair and stares out across the river. We seem to have drifted near to a subject I’ve never broached with him before, his divorce. And I feel that I could ask him now, that he’s even expecting it: What went wrong? How did the boys take it? Did he gain a new freedom, or only loneliness? Was it, in the end, a huge mistake? But I hesitate, and the moment passes. He turns back to his desk.
    ‘Daniel’s death wasn’t your fault, Raef.’
    I draw back. ‘My fault?’
    ‘Sir John thinks you’re blaming yourself. I’m not sure that I don’t agree.’
    ‘Me?’
    ‘For organizing the Treasury party. Choosing the boat.’ He raises his eyes. ‘It just happened, Raef. You’re not to blame.’
    Me. I am not to blame. Face burning, I reach across his desk for the printout from Parnells’ registrar: the latest list of shareholders.
    ‘You’re not going to take a break, are you.’
    ‘No.’ I scan the list: the usual pension funds and investment houses, and below these a cluster of nominee accounts. ‘But you can tell Sir John you tried.’
    Vance laughs. I hand him the printout. ‘Can’t see any of these causing trouble, can you?’
    Back to business. Now Vance gives me more details of this morning’s meeting. Diplomatic and businesslike, this is more likeg the Vance I know. After quoting some remark of David Meyer’s, he says, ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if the was the brains.’
    ‘I thought that was Reuben.’
    ‘So does everyone.’
    ‘Don’t get psychological on me Stephen, let’s keep them both happy.’ I turn his glass paperweight over in my hands. ‘You’re confident we're going to win this?’
    ‘Now they’ve raised the bid. Sure.’
    ‘No cock-ups?’
    ‘Raef,’ he says firmly. ‘There won’t be a problem.’
    A phone rings somewhere down the corridor. Vance points to his console. ‘Your line.’
    I pick up the receiver. Roger Penfield. He has something to discuss with me, he says, but not on the phone. He would like to see me now, in his office. ‘Twenty minutes?’ He says that he will be waiting.
    When I hang up, Vance looks at me askance. ‘Roger Penfield?’
    Pulling a face, I pick up my coat as I head for the door.
    ‘I’ll save you a seat for breakfast,’ Vance calls.
    Standing at the lifts, I hear a quick tapping at the keyboard start up behind me. The life of a man parted from his family. Sunday evening, and Stephen Vance, the corporate banker’s banker, is settling down to work.
     
     
    4
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    N ationalised in 1946, the Bank of England has been a pillar of the City for centuries. Apart from its responsibility for the currency, it has a duty to maintain stability in the banking system, an obligation overseen by Roger Penfield. A security guard accompanies me up to the office. The vast spaces of the