The Hamilton Conspiracy: Extortion, kidnap & murder in the world of finance

One

Hamilton: Bermuda

November 10th Tuesday. Previous year

Adazzling yellow sun nosed its way over the horizon casting shimmering silver on the navy blue surface of the sea. Dancing and looping over the water, a yellow-breasted kiskadee screamed its name over and over again.

Dotting the promenade, a handful of early morning joggers breathed the clean fresh air of a new day while a few floors above them, cocooned in five star luxury, one professional gentleman thrashed about in a restless half-slumber.

In his hotel room Jack Gregory rubbed the sleep from his eyes, dragged the silky sheets from his body and stumbled towards the marble tiled bathroom where he subjected himself to a barrage of lancing icicles under the shower. They stabbed at his chest and back hammering him into a shivering and reluctant wakefulness. Roll on lunchtime, he thought.

With a series of small splashes the two men slipped into the water and swam for the shore leaving barely a ripple behind them. Ammonium Nitrate Fuel Oil, AMFO, to demolition experts, had been planted strategically. The bang, when it happened, would be a big one.

Jack Gregory had arrived at the conference centre, nervous and uncertain. A tall man, he was vastly overweight, and despite an immense natural physical strength, he was panting and perspiring by the time he entered the building.

The modern concrete block was as forbidding as a prison, the sun reflecting off the pairs of windows in the glass frontage like sets of laughing eyes. If he'd hoped that few people would show up this morning, Jack was disappointed; when he entered the starkly modern foyer with its dull grey, square-backed easy chairs, square coffee tables and square, hanging light fittings, he found the place a seething mass of grey and navy suits.

An announcement was soon made over the speakers, and like a moving tide the throng ebbed and flowed towards the double doors leading into the conference chamber. People found their places in seats that had been arranged theatre style, facing a top table upon which had been laid out tumblers, jugs of water and a stack of copies of the statement of the company's affairs and report that would be issued to them all shortly.

Now, as the hum of conversation receded like water slipping from a bath Jack knew that the time had come. He scratched the back of his bull neck and sighing apprehensively, indicated to his colleague with a slight hand movement that he was ready. The other man scraped back his chair and rose to his feet. The day was only starting, and with it the fight of Jack's life, a fight worth $40 million to the winners.

Let battle commence, thought Jack. There was an instant of complete silence in the room broken by the confident tones of the chairman's voice.

Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, this is a formal meeting of the creditors of Central Reinsurance Ltd. convened under Section 216 of the Companies Act 1981 for the purposes of appointing a Liquidator and a Committee of Inspection. The distinguished Mr. Anthony Trent, chartered accountant and licensed insolvency practitioner smiled expansively at those facing him, his distinctive aftershave a halo of expensive fragrance. The man's confidence was a public signature of one who had trodden this path many times before.

Seated next to him at the top table, and facing a gathering of some eighty or more angry looking business and professional people was Jack Gregory, principal director of the company, and like Trent, a licensed insolvency practitioner. With eyebrows meshing into a black frown, Jack felt anything but distinguished this morning. Vermin, he reflected savagely. Out for the kill. He hunched his broad shoulders forward, his anxiety giving way to belligerence. If it were a fight they wanted, they'd get one. No way Jack Gregory was going to simply hand over a decade of his labour like a charity donating alms to the poor.

As Anthony Trent continued his satin smooth preamble, Jack sat clenching and unclenching his fists as he contemplated in a trembling rage the unfolding of the series of events he could not have anticipated in his worst nightmare. Not two months ago, comfortable and self-assured with his lot, he'd enjoyed the status of self-made multi-millionaire. Life was good, very good.

Now, today, facing his creditors, Jack made sporadic attempts to ignore the fact that his world might shortly crumble into ruins. That he was facing the plunder of his empire by ruthless corporate bandits, so called `respectable' directors of an American based international group of insurance companies bent on nothing less than Jack's total financial destruction.

Occasionally the noises of the harbour permeated the claustrophobic atmosphere of the conference room sounding like murmured promises of freedom to Jack and, unconsciously, he sighed at the prospect.

Whatever happened, Jack still had a slim hold on the principal source of his wealth, his company, Central Reinsurance. His colleague, Anthony Trent, would shortly be voted, by the majority of the creditors present, into the post of liquidator of Central, and matters would be brought under their joint control once more. The sharks cruising around waiting for tasty morsels of Jack's company to tear at could go to hell.

A school of half a dozen of them in dark, designer suits was ranged at the front of the conference room taking copious notes and conversing in conspicuous undertones. Jack saw the flash of gold pens, and the flicking and turning of the pages of the financial statements issued to the meeting. Occasionally, one of them would cast a glance in Jack's direction. They looked irritated, and amused; mixed signals which might have been difficult for the casual observer to interpret but to the seasoned professional, there would be only one conclusion -- that the group were here for someone's head: Jack Gregory's, on a plate.

Jack was certain of one thing -- this was the US contingent. Milling about in the anteroom prior to the start, Jack had overheard a muttered but clear Southern States American drawl: Gregory's a fool. Should’a sold out when he had the chance. Sure has left a lotta cash lyin' around for us to take over and invest for him. Someone sniggered, and at that moment Jack had felt the first tremor of uncertainty. Had Tony and he thought of everything in preparing for this morning? Did these people know something they did not?

The sun poured through the plate glass windows like molten lava so that despite the humming air conditioning the overcrowded room was oppressively hot and Jack constantly pulled at the front of his shirt collar to prevent it from sticking to his neck. In the background, Tony's ongoing soft delivery went some way towards soothing Jack's ragged nerves and he breathed deeply to further subdue his heaving chest. As long as Tony could persuade this gathering of creditors to vote him in to the post of liquidator everything would be alright. That was the key. The alternative, which hardly bore contemplation, was the complete loss of Jack's and Tony's control over Central Reinsurance's millions.

Now ashore, the two men nodded briefly at one another before making for their parked car, their wet footprints quickly evaporating in the mid morning heat. Safe within its hiding place the consignment of AMFO moved about uneasily with the swell.

Jack thought briefly of his wife, Phyllida. She would be in their Paris flat right now, mid-afternoon in France. He pictured her flawless alabaster skin, the thick auburn hair, always immaculately groomed, her slightly breathless way of speaking that he found so devastatingly attractive. He had insisted she wait for him there. Everything will be fine, he had promised her. The creditors can blow hot and cold if they want. I'll tell them we're just looking at a temporary hitch before they get their money back.

A temporary hitch?

Maybe. But then.... who could tell? There was no way this morning’s events could be predicted with any degree of certainty.

Jack's mood shifted erratically. He'd been up till nearly four a.m. in his hotel room drinking whisky and coffee in alternate sessions and his eyeballs felt as though they were plastered to the insides of their sockets. He finally fell into a troubled sleep and then woken, briefly, in a cold sweat an hour later having dreamt he was trying to hitch a lift on some lonely US highway, his wife having left him taking the baby with her. What if the vote went against Tony? Jack pondered. With a fortune up for grabs? Jack ground his teeth and ran his hands over his receding black hair. Anything was possible.

Jack's company, Central Reinsurance had assets amounting to a colossal $40 million, most of it in recently liquidated cash reserves nestling snugly on interest bearing accounts in a cluster of US banks. The company's debts were barely half that sum. The business was totally solvent, able to pay all its debts in full, this morning's confrontation was a farce that should never have happened.

It had been a two or three year build up of events that had culminated in Jack finally deciding to quit the reinsurance game nine months earlier. It was clear that his foray into the fabulous money making whirl of Bermuda based US insurance companies, was coming to an end. Now that the international giants had entered the game, he was faced with a simple choice. Amalgamate, or withdraw. For Jack, ever the maverick, there could only be one choice - as he put it to Phyllida - and that was to take his accumulated millions and retire gracefully.

At forty-four years of age, to cut back on eighteen-hour days and endless jetting around the world. Time to settle permanently in the UK, and spend his evenings in front of the television, or playing with Harriette, their eighteen month old daughter he hardly knew.

Maybe even find the time to reintroduce himself to Phyllida, his beautiful and ever patient wife of just three years. Ever patient? Jack smiled grimly to himself. Would she want to stay with him if this all went wrong? Phyllida had lost her father when he was still a comparatively young man. Then, not long after, her first husband had been killed shortly after they'd married. Even now, Jack wasn't sure that she’d ever really got over the shock.

And there was something else in Phyllida's past. Jack was sure of it. But whatever it was she kept it to herself, unwilling to be drawn out, or to confide in him. She would go into periods of silence where she'd gaze vacantly into space. She worried about everything. Despite Jack's wealth, the sight of an unpaid household bill could send her into a panic.

Just as well Phyllida wasn't here to watch this ritualised torture. Jack was sure he made her happy though, brought her some measure of tranquility. He closed his eyes and sensed the perfume of her body, the delicious scent of her when she was aroused. Her eyes fluttering with desire and that come-on look she gave him when they both knew there was no turning back. God, I should be concentrating, he thought. His financial life was hanging in the balance, but his head was still leaden from last night and he found it hard to focus. He looked up. The company’s history was being detailed by his friend, Anthony Trent's concerned gaze caught his eye, You okay, Jack? Fine, fine." Jack nodded back at him reassuringly. How many times, he wondered, had he been in Trent's position addressing the creditors of a failed company before tying up the appointment as its liquidator, gaining full control of its assets.

Insolvency was Jack's life. He'd built his practice nursing it lovingly through bends and straights like a Formula 1 driver. It was the one profession that could give reign to his combined genius with both figures and legal matters, together with his instinct for making fast commercial decisions and getting them right first time. And of course, it had earned him big bucks.

Jack gulped some iced water from the glass in front of him. It tasted crisp and cooled him, briefly. Trent's voice murmured on but Jack was still miles away. Again, Trent caught Jack's eye. He looked increasingly worried, Jack? he muttered under his breath. But Jack merely inclined his head encouragingly as before. On the human relations front, Jack would have been the first to admit he was no angel. Bigger and heavier than most of his peers at school, he'd established a reputation for being an arrogant bastard by the time he was fourteen years old and a lot of the other boys longed to see him cut down to size. He never gave them that satisfaction.

In business Jack was used to employing the same tactics, shouldering his way in to a situation and then barging aside those who stood in his way. If he wanted something he got it and the attitude coloured everything about his life. Obsessive about physical strength and what it represented to him in terms of his own driving ambition, he'd pursued a regime of weight training in his teens that would have done credit to an Olympic athlete.

Later, when work commitments made it impossible to find the time to exercise he'd found himself abating some of his relentless energy in food. Eating when entertaining clients or when on the hoof. Eating when he was hungry, and when he was not. There were never any half measures. Jack also drank too much, usually a cocktail of whisky chased with Drambuie, a 'rusty nail', by the double and in quantities not for the faint hearted. Over the years the physical strength had remained but the physique was now hugely overloaded. Jack looked like a clipper in full sail, a tethered hot air balloon, a waddling Humpty Dumpty of a man.

It was morbidly fascinating for one as overbearing as Jack to find himself on the receiving end of events. There'd be no bully-boy tactics from Jack Gregory today. More like Horatio holding the bridge. Two of the American crowd were looking in Jack's direction and openly grinning.

Jack's stomach felt as though a worm was slithering around its walls. Could he count on Phyllida keeping her nerve if he faced defeat today? And if not? He acknowledged the dreaded prospect, what would his life be without her, and Harriette?

The telephone rang on Karl Mallett's desk and he grabbed it eagerly from its cradle, his long bony fingers squeezing it as though it might at any moment escape his grasp.

Karl Mallett, his voice was hoarse, impatient.

The meeting started on time, Mr. Mallett. Everything is under way. Everything is under control. The speaker had a gentle Chinese accent whose polite, almost whispered, tones bore no more than the hint of jeopardy.

Luke get in okay?

Of course. I made sure Mr. Hepton's proxy was in order. There was no reason for him to be excluded.

Good. AUIG's people with him?

Yes, Mr. Mallett, representatives from American Union Insurance Group are with him. They are well equipped with details of their claim against Central, in case they're needed. And Mr. Hepton is carrying copies of English insolvency legislation with him.

What about this guy taking the meeting, Trent? You said he's good, got real balls. We really gonna steal this job from under his nose?

I should think so.

That the best you can do? You should think so? We got a lotta money hanging on this, baby. According to Luke there's forty million in US banks just begging for us to go in and collect.

He's correct. Don't worry, Mr. Mallett.

I don't know. I've had a bad feeling about this one from the start; and Clay's with me on this. Mallett nodded at a pudgy, pale-faced man sitting on the opposite side of his desk who signalled his agreement. I mean what the hell do we know about English insolvency law that says we can take on a seasoned pro like Trent and beat him at his own game? And what about the AUIG claim? It's about as straight as a corkscrew. I know Luke's got big ideas, but, Christ, Hepton Mallett Dixon's supposed to be a respectable law firm.

As you said, Mr. Mallett; forty million dollars. You and Mr. Dixon think about that and trust me. If Mr. Hepton remembers my briefing, you'll see, Mr. Trent will shortly be consigned to oblivion; together with his associate, Mr. Jack Gregory.

There was a long pause. Then, Okay, my friend. We'll wait for Luke's call. It all sounds cool. Let's make sure Trent and his pal don't know what's hit them.

I assure you, Mr. Mallett, we're as good as there already. It really is all too amusing. The sound of a high pitched, long drawn out giggle floated from the telephone receiver, and the line went dead.

The two men shook the water from their clothes before climbing into the silver, 7 series BMW that had been parked a few paces away. The inside of the car was like a kiln, still the air conditioning would soon have them in a delicious cocoon of cool air.

At the meeting, Trent had moved on to the Statement of Affairs, explaining the financial details of the company. Time was passing quickly though Jack continued to be largely oblivious to it.

From the increasing blue-grey fog, a swirl of cigarette smoke wafted around Trent's head, and he waved it away with a casual flap of his hand, continuing his presentation in the calm tones of a professional with twenty years of dealing with hostile creditors on occasions like this. People were showing signs of becoming restive in the stale atmosphere, with a shifting of feet and shuffling of papers.

Trent had been on his feet for fifty minutes and was at last drawing to a close. Jack straightened up and forced himself to think clearly. The back of his neck prickled with anticipation. In a moment he would face a bout of questioning that would require intelligent and specific answers from him. He breathed deeply and pressed his damp hands into his lap. He had no satisfactory answers for them because he was almost as ignorant as they were about the events that had precipitated the gathering.

That completes the company history and Statement of Affairs. With a rustling of papers, Anthony Trent stacked his documents together and cast his eyes about the room. All creditors' claims, he continued, "with the exception of those submitted by American Union Insurance Group are agreed.

Reaching into his inside jacket pocket, Jack extracted a Dunhill panatella and was about to light it when he paused. Best not to look too relaxed, he decided, and put the cigar away.

Let me be absolutely clear, ladies and gentlemen, Trent gazed intently at the bank of staring faces, had it not been for the receipt, two months ago, of the stupendous claim from AUIG, that item detailed on your list in the sum of twenty-two million dollars, a one hundred percent payout to you all would have been a matter of days away.

That fact should put some of them on my side, Jack thought, grimly. Now, Tony just needs to tell everybody; one, that the AUIG claim is pure fiction; two, that he and I are not associated professionally; and, three, allow a few questions from the floor before he wraps up the vote so we can all go home happy. Trent paused for a moment to let the significance of his last comment sink in before continuing, The AUIG claim changes all that, as I have explained. He stared straight at the group of six seated at the front. Sitting inelegantly sprawled back, a tall gangling individual with thin reddish brown hair stuck to his tiny skull, smirked insolently at Trent who pointedly ignored the man's gaze.

The claim is disputed, Trent raised his voice as if to counter the obvious contempt of the tall man. But as it suggests that Central might be unable to pay its debts within the twelve months stipulated in legislation, Mr. Jack Gregory, director and until now liquidator of the company, has convened this meeting for the purposes of confirming a new and independent nominee.

Trent inclined his head courteously and continued, Today's appointee will of course investigate the AUIG claim and report back to creditors in due course. Well; that's item number `one', out of the way, Jack thought. Now let's talk about professional relationships.

Anthony Trent slipped a hand casually into the jacket pocket of his lightweight Armani suit and smiled reassuringly at the assembly. Let me at once declare my own position. Jack Gregory is a valued professional colleague of many years standing. However, I must emphasise that I have had no dealings whatsoever with Central or Mr. Gregory acting as its director and feel there would be no conflict of interest in my taking the appointment, should creditors choose to confirm it today.

Jack breathed again. And that's 'number two', taken care of. Jack allowed himself a fleeting thought of his lovely Phyllida and grinned inwardly. All cards were on the table. It would have been unethical, indeed disingenuous for Tony to deny their friendship. Better to be open and spike the opposition's guns at the outset. Despite his trepidation, Jack had to admit to himself, it was looking good. Tony was clearly on top form. Best, of course, not to count your chickens... but still, he smiled to himself, there was definitely room for cautious optimism. Now for the big one, question time, he breathed, followed by item number `three' on the agenda, the vote.

Jack glanced at Tony, waiting for his friend's next announcement, and out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the tall American speaking animatedly to one of his colleagues. He was pointing to something on the statement of affairs. Had Jack and Tony forgotten anything?

Phyllida had paced the flat nervously all afternoon. Now, moving from the elegant rosewood drinks cabinet in the drawing room, she wandered into the kitchen with her glass. Checking and rechecking her watch she took a sip from her sherry. It spread a lovely warm sensation down her throat and into her stomach but didn't take away the feeling that all was not as it should be. Jack should have let her go to Bermuda to be with him. How could she be a loving and supporting wife thousands of miles from her husband. Not that a man like Jack actually needed any support. Without him, she felt isolated in Paris, becalmed and in the dark. She wanted him to call, to have him tell her everything was alright, to hear the reassuring tone of his voice.

She caught sight of her reflection in the glass of the new Neff oven door. Her skin looked blotchy pink and her mane of reddish brown hair stuck out untidily in all directions. She self-consciously dragged her fingers through it, realising guiltily that she would never have neglected her appearance for a whole day if Jack had been with her. She really should get out of her housecoat and into some clothes as well. Tightening her belt into the tiny waist that accentuated her overlarge bosom, she shoved her hands deep into her pockets. Maybe in a minute.

It was now five fifteen p.m., the shadows on the streets below grew longer. Sounds of the evening traffic floated up to the apartment.

The meeting must have been going on for over an hour. Jack insisted the whole thing would be over quickly. Just a formality, he said. But his voice had been a growl when he said it and his forehead was criss-crossed with lines of tension. If only he would talk to her.

They couldn't simply take away ten years of Jack's life. Who were 'they' anyway? These AUIG people with their crazy twenty-two million dollar claim.

Phyllida climbed onto a stool at the breakfast bar in the oak and pine panelled kitchen, a copy of Le Monde in front of her. Draining the last of the sherry, she idly turned some of the magazine's pages, her eyes skating over pictures of French politicians and members of the British Royal family.

Harriette was playing quietly with her toys in the bedroom; occasional sounds of happy gurgling caressing Phyllida's consciousness. Something would have to be done about dinner soon, at least for the babe, though Phyllida wouldn't touch a thing herself until she heard from Jack. Another cup of tea perhaps. No, she'd drunk so much today it was positively oozing from the pores of her skin. One more Harvey's Bristol then. Or perhaps not. A fourth wasn't a good idea. Three was her absolute limit. Any more would go to her head and Jack would be furious if he thought she'd been drinking again.

Dear Jack, she thought. A man who made things happen. Though they were temperamentally opposites, Jack was like Daddy had been. A man only interested in carving his own furrow. Except Daddy was no longer around. Poor Daddy. All those years building up the print business; the battles with the trade unions, boardroom politics and deadlines. Then just as everything was coming together, and a purchaser of the company had been found in a sum that would guarantee his comfortable retirement, wham! A massive heart attack and he was gone within hours. It hadn't seemed possible. She always felt safe with her father, despite the early financial struggles. Maybe it was because of those initial setbacks that she'd become so insecure.

After Daddy there'd been her first husband, Tom, to look out for her, at least until the accident. A drunk driver on New Year's Eve. Tom had been beautiful; taller than Jack, with a physique like a Greek god. Thick dark hair and black flashing eyes which always carried the spark of mischief. Sex with Tom had been a voyage into the unknown. A practical joker in things outside the bedroom, when it came to matters inside the boudoir, he was a visionary who knew how to tease a woman until she was screaming for it and then to liberate her in a drawn out ecstasy of release.

With Jack, sex was a more tentative affair, despite his obvious experience and the considerate way he pleased her. It was as though he were touching a china doll, afraid she might shatter against his enormous bulk. He needn't have worried, but Phyllida didn't know how to put it to him without offending him.

Tom had just been starting out, when they first married. Beginning to build an architectural practice. Her memories of their time together were mainly of laughter. Money had been tight, and Tom would never have been wealthy like Jack. Nor even as well set up as Dad. But she adored him, and they'd have been happy.

She had hoped to pursue a career in music. She had real promise, but with marriage she put everything on hold. As a young widow, she finally realised she was neither trained nor qualified to do anything. Too late to consider taking up music again, and loath to be a burden to her mother, the future looked bleak until she met Jack. Her man of iron. Jack was a risk taker, he told her early on in their relationship. You had to speculate to accumulate, he said. Phyllida found that life with Jack was like the thrill of a helter-skelter. With Jack anything was possible, and most things he set his sights on became probable. It was power -- that absolute assurance in self.

The phone rang out and Phyllida jumped up and snatched the receiver off the wall-mounted cradle. Jack! she exclaimed excitedly.

"Comment?" came the reply.

It was a wrong number and Phyllida sat down again, depressed. Five thirty. She frowned. Meetings could last as long as two hours, Jack had told her. Pointless worrying really, Jack was certain to have everything under control. She calmed herself, sighed and then climbed off the barstool and made her way to the drinks cabinet to replenish her glass. It couldn't hurt. Maybe a tumbler this time, so she wouldn't need to go back for a refill later.

Wandering back to the kitchen, Phyllida took a gulp of her sherry. They had a superb home in Burchetts Park just outside West London, and this luxurious flat here in Paris. As she thought about them, she found herself becoming agitated yet again. Might they have to forfeit either of them? Both of them?

She closed her eyes and considered the lavishness of their lifestyle. She knew she was being selfish and shallow. She was agitating about nothing. There were more important things in the world than stylish homes. She and Jack were both still comparatively young and healthy. Jack had other businesses and many talents. Realising how foolish she was being about everything gave her a new sense of optimism. She took another swallow of her sherry. But then again, she thought, what if things didn't go as expected? What if Jack were wrong after all? Or worse, what if he was just humouring her? She shuddered as an acid wave of nausea welled up inside her like a tide of dirty water. Resting her forehead in her palms she realised she was crying. Five forty-five. How much longer before he called?

Tears ran down her face and she wiped them away with the heel of her hand. The vote would have to go Jack and Tony's way, she rubbed her eyes with bunched fists. It would simply have to. She took a dainty sip of her drink. She must be calm. Breath in slowly. One, two. One, two.

But where was he? Throwing back the last half of the tumbler of sherry in one gulp, she thought, Jack, darling! In God's name, how much longer?

Having discreetly struggled into dry jeans and tee shirts within the confines of the vehicle, one of the two men slipped behind the wheel, gunned the engine of the big BMW into life and then pointed it towards the centre of Hamilton. The roof of the car burned hot in the midday sun and the tires made a sticky hum on the surface of the road.

Are there any questions at this stage? Trent resumed his seat and glanced to left and right. Jack shook his head as if to clear the cobwebs, folded his hands together interlocking the fingers and thought, okay people, if you're going to shoot me down, now's your chance.

For a bare instant nobody spoke. For Jack, it was the time to feel a thrill of anticipation, it was all going to go through on the nod. A formality. Like waking from a bad dream. Brilliant.

Trent looked up from his notes and glanced around the room. The formal business was the next item on the agenda and with it the all-important vote that would determine Jack's future.

Next to him, Jack heard the slight rustle of Tony's jacket as he straightened one sleeve. The slow casual movement was reassuring. The quiet held. He was there. All that money saved. Company intact. Control maintained.

Then, like a toe in the door, a small but articulate voice close to the front of the conference room cut into the silence.

She was in her late twenties and dressed in a yellow sleeveless blouse and sensible brown skirt. A short boyish haircut gave her an elfin appearance. Her brief-case sat across her lap like a desktop with papers strewn over it. She held a ballpoint pen in one hand and, with one extended forefinger, settled her heavy horn rimmed spectacles on a nose seemingly too small to support them.

Jack recognised the type immediately and groaned inwardly.

She was a professional, `meetings person'. One who worked the circuit on behalf of client creditors, ostensibly for the purpose of reporting the proceedings, but with the real object of diverting the vote from the top table ideally in favour of her own employer.

In short, a harbinger of trouble, in this case big trouble. Her only likely competition would be from others with the same idea in mind.

The gentle rise and fall of Tony's breathing emphasised the man's absolute calm. Jack felt taut, though not yet unduly alarmed. He generally preferred being questioned by the women professionals whom he always found competent and well prepared and, unlike their macho brothers, polite. My name is Jennifer Clark, of accountants Jackson Tullogh in the UK. I represent Mid-West Insurance which is owed just $20,000. We're not the largest creditor here. Settling her spectacles on the bridge of her nose with the point of her forefinger, she sounded almost apologetic.

Get on with it then, Jack thought.

I have just one question. She waved her ballpoint in the air as though she were shaking a thermometer.

Yes, Ms Clark. Trent was smiling, leaning forward on his hands, encouraging, avuncular. Please go ahead.

Ms. Clark then proceeded to engage in a recap of the whole of Tony Trent's company history, hammering him with questions on every detail of its life from inception to date. She took copious notes, and suffered no interruptions. The ballpoint pen was continually waved about in the same innocent and childlike gesture. It was as if that toe in the door was forcing it wider every moment and Jack began having visions of the meeting drifting from the control of himself and Tony.

A couple of hundred yards away, the cache of Ammonium Nitrate Fuel Oil surged slightly as though echoing the unease at the creditors meeting. It wouldn't do if the bang happened too soon.

Trent, who looked perfectly composed, fielded most of the enquiries himself, only occasionally looking to Jack for assistance.

And what about this claim from American Union Insurance Group? Ms. Clark's pushed up her horn-rimmed spectacles. Her voice was curious.

The group of six representing AUIG continued to whisper among themselves, shuffling papers and turning pages of the financial statement, apparently taking little notice of anything going on. A long blast from the hooter of a yacht knifed into the room and Jack thought about his own boat, the Phyllida and wished he was on it, wished he was in Paris with his family, wished he was out of this damn place.

Anthony Trent answered, The claim landed on Mr. Gregory's desk out of the blue a few weeks ago. When he saw it....

Mr. Trent, she interrupted him curtly, I wonder if we could have some replies from Mr. Gregory. You seem to be doing a great deal of talking on his behalf. She had had the floor exclusively for nearly three-quarters of an hour.

The entire room was staring at him and Jack felt a frisson of doubt, a feeling that something unexpected was starting to happen.

In a bar in the centre of Hamilton two sun-tanned young men in jeans and tee shirts sipped ice-cold lagers. Neither man spoke to the other. One of them glanced at his watch from time to time.

Trent was totally unperturbed, Of course, Ms. Clark. He flashed a smile at her. Mr. Gregory, perhaps you'd like to come in here.

Certainly, said Jack. I received the claim from AUIG about two months ago.

Can you be more precise, Mr. Gregory? Ms. Clark's pen was poised expectantly.

Well, no. I don't remember the exact date. Jack had heard this approach from the floor at least a hundred times before. Work some trivial line on the director until you make him a nervous wreck. Then home in for the kill. Nominate your own choice of liquidator and bludgeon the chairman into surrendering his position.

Mr. Gregory, Ms. Clark was smirking. Crossing her legs she resettled the case across her lap and adjusted her horn rimmed spectacles with the point of her forefinger. "Do you expect us to believe that you've forgotten the precise date you received a twenty-two million dollar claim?