The Cold Light of Day

By Paul Cranwell

Grace Hamilton, a young woman working for a down at heel investment bank in London, is surprised to receive an approach from a group called the Elishama Corporation based in Gutenburg, North Dakota. The role is far more senior than her current position and the pay is more than twice what she is earning. Unable to resist the allure of Elishama, s

• Language: English
• Publisher: Speart House Publishing
• Release date: Nov 5, 2021
• ISBN: 9781911323143

Paul Cranwell

Paul Cranwell worked for over thirty years in accountancy and banking.

Book preview

1

Lights flashed on the departures board. The flight from Bismarck to Gutenburg was being called. Most of those in the departures lounge rose from their seats. Grace Hamilton placed the book she was reading in her bag. It was a relief to say goodbye to all the wall displays of pre-historic North Dakota. Snow was settling on the buildings and car parks: powder snow like some of the best she’d skied on in Germany.

By the time they reached the boarding desk, snow was hurrying down in clumps. Not so great for skiing after all. Large snowflakes clung to her coat as she climbed the steps into a small Pioneer Airlines aeroplane for the one-hour flight. There were just fifty passenger seats. The flight was full. She buckled herself in. A large, giant of a man somehow folded himself into the chair next to her. He adjusted his belt to the maximum. He wiped his hand on his jacket.

‘Peter Hemstad,’ he said, shaking her hand with enthusiasm.

‘Grace Hamilton,’ she said, somewhat surprised by the introduction.

‘We were lucky the flight was on time.’ Hemstad glanced down at his watch

‘You mean the weather?’

‘Not just in the general sense,’ he said. ‘They close Bismarck airport overnight and then it’s a real scrum for any hotel rooms going.’

He reached up to reposition the air vent in the panel above him.

‘So, you’re heading for Gutenburg?’ he said, unaware of the redundancy of his question.

‘New job.’ She paused to push her bag further beneath her seat. ‘Company called Elishama.’

It was the first time that she’d said it to someone other than family, friends, and ex-colleagues. It felt good.

‘You met the Frozen Chosen before?’

‘I’m sorry?’ Grace narrowed her eyes.

‘The Frozen Chosen. It’s what they call the bible bashers in this part of the world.’

The plane began to taxi away from the terminal. It looked as if an hour to Gutenburg might prove to be a long time. A change of subject might be best.

‘You’re not going to Gutenburg then?’ she asked.

‘Just to the airport. Got a charter flight to take over to Canada.’

He looked at her for a second, as if about to expand further, but then appeared to change his mind. ‘So, what work are you going to do for Elishama?’ he said.

‘I’m going to work in the investment management division.’

‘Investment management? That’s a good word for it,’ he said.

He turned away to ask a question of the air stewardess. The increased noise of the engines made it impossible to hear what he said. The air stewardess looked pale. She glanced at Grace, then back at Hemstad, as if she might say something, but instead she hurried down the aisle to take her seat at the rear of the plane. Hemstad pulled an airline magazine from the pocket in front of him and pointed to a photo of a plane.

‘Good machine the CRJ 200,’ he said.

Grace glanced again at the stewardess, curious to know what the interaction between her and Hemstad had meant.

Hemstad leaned closer. The repositioned air vent blew stale aftershave in her direction. He spoke louder as if Grace hadn’t heard him.

‘I was saying that these are good planes,’ he said, pointing at the picture.

‘That’s good to know,’ Grace said.

‘We got a Learjet we fly on the longer charter flights.’ He tapped the magazine with a thick finger. ‘Made by the same company.’

The engines raced. The plane launched itself forward. Outside, the snow appeared horizontally across the window. The seats creaked against the strain. The plane burst through thick cloud. Moonlight spilled into the cabin. The safety belt release light came on. Grace lifted the catch, leaving the buckle ends close to one another on her lap. Hemstad put his head back against the headrest. The magazine was now back in the seat pocket. His eyes were closed. The stewardess was just down the aisle. A quick look across the few rows of seats revealed that the stewardess was the only other woman on the flight.

Grace reached down and unzipped the side pocket of her bag. Ignoring her passport, she pulled out a bundle of papers. She returned the immigration documents she’d been given at Minneapolis to the bag and placed the letters from Elishama Corporation on her lap. She opened the one with the August postmark; the first she’d received. It was creased where she’d crumpled it up and thrown it in the waste bin. It read like one of those scam letters: a wealthy uncle in China has left you his tea plantation, send a few thousand dollars to release the documents…Standing over the waste bin, it struck her that there was no request for money, no obvious ulterior motive. She re-read the letter.

Ethan Cherrie

Vice President

    Elishama Corporation Inc.

1 Grand Central Avenue

Gutenburg

North Dakota, ND1512

Dear Ms Hamilton,

I should like to introduce myself and Elishama Corporation Inc. to you. Elishama is the fastest growing financial services group in the United States. Amongst other things our activities include: Insurance, Banking, and Investment Management.

My role at Elishama is to ensure that we recruit and develop the finest financial talent from around the world. Through personal recommendation, I am aware of your exceptional Investment Management work at Barnes Musgrave in London and would welcome the chance to discuss the opportunities that exist for you at Elishama. In surveys of staff satisfaction, Elishama ranks amongst the top employers in the world. We offer the most competitive remuneration packages in the sector: typically double that paid by organisations in the UK, and, in addition, operate a highly competitive bonus scheme.

I enclose a brochure outlining the services we provide. I hope very much that we shall have the opportunity of working with you.

Yours sincerely,

E. Cherrie

Vice President

The plane shuddered as they hit some turbulence. The bumping lasted only a few seconds but seemed longer. Peter Hemstad didn’t stir. Grace folded the letter and put it carefully back in its envelope. Until now it had always been such a struggle: a lower second in her degree, a referral in her accountancy exams instead of a first-time pass, a job with Barnes Musgrave instead of one of the major merchant banks. Headhunted had a good ring to it.

She took out the brochure and turned the pages. Elishama had started as an insurance business providing specialised cover for churches and other religious buildings. Broader financial interests came later: a venture capital business, a range of its own investment and savings products, and what the brochure described as a community-based banking network. It was odd that she’d never encountered the Elishama funds before, especially as the performance of the Elishama American Growth Fund was exceptional. However, as the brochure said, opening the fund to investors was a new venture for the group. The fund was already being taken up by some of the major US investment managers for their fund of funds products. It was an opportunity to join the group early in this exciting phase of its development.

Thick clouds rolled beneath the aircraft’s wings. Another half an hour and she would be there. She reached into her bag for her passport. She flicked through the almost new pages, pausing at the photo taken just six months ago that made her steel grey eyes look tired and her dark brown hair unwashed. The brief details of her existence were printed alongside the image: Hamilton, Grace Karlina, British Citizen, 10 May 83, Bath. Perhaps she should have opted for dual nationality like her sister, Liese. There was something a little mysterious, even glamorous about having two passports, two driver’s licenses: like having a separate identity. On the other hand, it felt somehow indecisive, neither British nor German; something in between. She tucked it in the side pocket of her bag and opened the second letter.

Dear Ms Hamilton,

I am pleased to confirm that you have satisfactorily passed all the background checks we require in connection with your recruitment and am delighted to offer you the position of Senior Investment Manager at Elishama Corporation Inc. Your starting salary will be $250,000 per annum. Your start date will be Friday 5th November 2010. I look forward to meeting you at our offices at 9.00a.m.

Yours sincerely,

E. Cherrie

Vice President

The signature was large, spiky, confident. It was signed Ethan without any surname. It was, as he’d indicated in the first letter, double her salary.

It was unusual to begin work on a Friday, although it would give her the first weekend to get settled in. Odd too, to start on Bonfire night. As she arrived at Elishama’s offices, people at home would be finishing work and thinking about firework displays. November 5th probably didn’t mean much in America.

Gutenburg airport was not much more than a large shed. Breath from the passengers billowed even inside the building. The metal railing in the baggage claim area was too cold to touch. The luggage was brought in on two trollies. Grace shivered outside as she unpacked a coat. Instead of a familiar rank of yellow cabs, there was just one square shaped black and white car that resembled a people carrier. Grace eyed the tinted windows and glanced around to see if there was any alternative. There was none. The taxi driver got out. Everything about him looked dark: thick navy coloured fleece jacket with a hood drawn up over a woollen hat, heavy duty trousers and snow boots.

‘Grace Hamilton?’ he asked.

At the unexpected use of her name, Grace relaxed. She nodded, handed the driver her bags, then hurried into the relative warmth of the cab.

‘Erikson hotel please,’ she said, unsure whether the familiarity with her name implied a knowledge of her destination.

The man nodded but said nothing.

On the ride into Gutenburg there were few lights visible either from the streets or the buildings they passed. It looked as though the city had suffered a power cut.

Grace leaned forwards to speak through the smeary grille that separated her from the driver.

‘Excuse me. Why is the City so dark? Don’t they have street lighting?’

Unsmiling eyes glanced in the rear-view mirror.

‘For sure.’

The driver turned back to the road.

‘Why aren’t they on?’

The man glanced at Grace once more. There was a slight narrowing of the eyelids as if the question was a stupid one.

‘It’s after midnight.’

Grace began to laugh. ‘Like witching hour. Poof, and all the lights go off?’

There was silence. The laugh died in her throat. She stared at the rear-view mirror. The eyes stared back.

‘God fearing folks is all in bed,’ the driver said.

So, does that mean that you and I aren’t God fearing? she wanted to ask, but thought better of it. She sat back in the seat. If this didn’t work out, she could always catch a plane home and get back to civilisation; maybe even go back via New York and do some serious shopping; check out the Emporio Armani store on Fifth Avenue and book a hair appointment at Bergdorf Goodman. She checked the time; just after midnight local time, seven o’clock in London.

The taxi swung onto the forecourt of a four-storey building. Soft shaded lighting made it stand out in the darkness. Sober signage identified it as The Erikson Hotel. It was a relief to be in the right place. The office had promised that it was the best in Gutenburg. She got out of the taxi. Even with her coat wrapped around her, it was cold enough to take her breath away. Without speaking a word, the driver took her bags into the reception area.

‘How much do I owe you?’ Grace asked.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘It don’t work that way. Elishama’ll have it on account.’

As he left, a cold blast of air came through the two sets of swing doors. The rear lights of the taxi faded as it headed back in the direction of the airport. Elishama clearly had it all sewn up. Anyway, no receipt to claim for, which was always a bonus.

The hotel was one of those lodge types, all cedar timber, subdued lighting and open roof trusses, no sign of a stuffed grizzly bear though. At the desk she pressed the reception bell. The sound echoed as if the hotel was empty. There was no one else in the lobby. A smartly dressed night porter appeared through a door to the rear of the desk.

‘Ah, Miss Hamilton,’ he said, smiling. An old-fashioned hotel register was lying on the desk. He turned it towards him and flicked the pages open. ‘Welcome to The Erikson Hotel. We’ve been expecting you. We have you in the Princess Suite.’

Fifteen hours of travelling on commercial flights would hardly have been the choice of visiting royalty.

‘That sounds wonderful,’ she said.

‘There’s a taxi booked for you in the morning and,’ he paused, handing her a pen, ‘I just need you to sign here.’ He pointed to a space in the register. ‘And of course we’ll need to hold onto your passport.’

‘Really?’ Grace looked up from signing the register.

‘State requirement ma’am.’ The porter held Grace’s gaze. ‘It’ll be real secure. We keep them in the hotel safe.’ He gestured to a large old-fashioned strongbox standing on the floor behind him.

Grace hesitated. She’d handed over her passport many times before and rarely thought about it. Even in Russia it had felt safe to do so. Of course, there had been several of her Barnes Musgrave colleagues there as well. Parting with it over here felt less safe. Perhaps it was the absence of any other people. Perhaps just the tedious journey. The porter’s gaze was unwavering. She unzipped the side pocket of her travel bag and gave him the rather creased red passport. This was the United States for heaven’s sake, not Nigeria. The porter placed it to one side of the register while he turned to open the safe. He put the passport inside, closed the door and spun the lock.

‘Is anyone else from Elishama staying here?’ Grace asked.

The porter looked at her, as if appraising her.

‘We have guests from Elishama all the time.’

He took a set of keys from a cabinet to the side of the main desk, lifted up a hatch and stepped into the foyer.

‘I’ll take you to your room,’ he said. He reached down to pick up Grace’s bags, pausing as he did. ‘I’d be happy to arrange for more suitable footwear ma’am,’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’

Grace glanced down at the low-heeled black suede Dolce & Gabbana ankle boots bought in the autumn sale.

‘Might need something a bit easier in the snow.’ He gestured to the pitch-black window.

‘I’ll be fine, thank you. I’m not intending to go hiking.’

What was it with these people?

The porter nodded and strode off towards a large set of stairs. He appeared unaware of the bags he was carrying. After he’d shown Grace to her room, she reached in her purse to give him a tip. He held up his hands and took a half step back.

‘Oh no ma’am, that won’t be necessary. Elishama have taken care of everything.’

He turned rapidly and closed the door behind him.

It was a relief to sink onto the bed. At least the mattress was comfortable if nothing else was in this God forsaken…no, she corrected herself, God fearing…city. She turned on her mobile phone. No familiar ping of incoming e-mails. The signal indicator didn’t even flicker. No damn signal. By the window and holding the phone up as high as possible, there was the faintest hint of a connection. She keyed in her mother’s number and leant against the window to get the phone as close as possible to any signal. There was an answer. The phone crackled as someone spoke.

‘I can’t hear you Mum. I’ve arrived. I’m in Gutenburg.’ There was more crackling, like patterned bursts of static. ‘Mum, if you can hear me, I love you. Give my love to Liese.’

The pattern of crackles didn’t change. She gently pressed the off key, staring at the mobile. There was bound to be a signal in the morning. If necessary, she could call from the Elishama offices.

Sleep was impossible. This was a bizarre place to set up an insurance business. Perhaps it was the religious connection. How many churches were there in Gutenburg? Or North Dakota for that matter. She ought to search on the internet. She reached for the mobile, but then remembered the lack of signal. She snatched her hand back under the relative warmth of the duvet. Even if this was the back of beyond, the letters from Elishama had been a real ego boost. There was no question that they wanted her. So different to Barnes Musgrave where they had seemed oblivious to her skills. There were days when it would have made no difference if she’d turned up or not. Moving to Elishama was definitely the right decision. She curled up, reluctant to stretch out into the colder parts of the bed. She remembered the man on the plane: The Frozen Chosen. It was an apt description if anyone could be called chosen in a place like this. She looked at the clock, 1.30 a.m. She readjusted her pillow and waited for sleep.

2

John Kratsky came out of the solicitors’ offices. No first-rate firm of lawyers would have an address in Fieldgate Mews, Whitechapel. But then Vale & Craven couldn’t be considered first-rate. However cheap their fees, they weren’t worth it. This was supposed to be over and done with. Donna had filed for divorce in 1998, nearly thirteen years ago. It was ridiculous. A fishing expedition the solicitor had called it, and now Donna had her hooks into those fees from his work in the summer. What was he supposed to do for money with his bank accounts frozen?

Donna always had a nose for other people’s money. All that crap five years ago, long after the divorce, demanding more alimony because she was too old to retrain and find work. She was only forty, for God’s sake, you’d have thought she was seventy the way she put it in the court papers. It was Donna who’d ended it and remarried. Donna now Donna Dancek, should be the other guy’s problem.

His mobile buzzed, an unknown caller. He didn’t answer. Thoughts of the fees brought back those last hectic days in Tortola, trying to resolve things. The fees had been hard-earned. It was as if money ran in the opposite direction when it saw him coming. A solitary snowflake landed on his sleeve. He brushed it away. There was no point dwelling on things, the money was out of reach. The only option according to Vale & Craven was a stay of execution. He felt the ominous sheaf of forms in his inside pocket. More paperwork to add to the Donna file.

He’d been living on thin air for years. There were two ten-pound notes in his wallet and an oyster card. There was of course a couple of thousand in the pirate fund; a necessary source of cash for hard to get information, but that wasn’t going to keep the show on the road for long. The US government pension just about paid the rent, but little more. The old saying in the intelligence services, "it isn’t the years you put in, but what you put into the years that matters" might be true about the value of your service to your country, but it counted as diddly-squat when it came to pensions. Time serving paper pushers would get many times what he did. The petty cash tin at the office might have a few coppers in it, although he seemed to recall that they’d been used to buy milk.

Despite the slush on the pavements, Kratsky decided to walk along the Whitechapel Road from Vale & Craven’s offices. The mobile phone pinged. Another missed call from the same number. He sheltered in the door of a betting shop. The odds on a white Christmas had narrowed to evens. The caller had left a voicemail.

‘Mr. Kratsky, my name’s Christopher Hamilton. I’m a colleague of Alex Shepherd at Scottish Imperial Bank. He recommended you to me, and I should be most grateful if you’d give me a call.’

Kratsky pressed the call return button.

‘Mr. Hamilton?’ Kratsky said. ‘It’s John Kratsky.’

‘Oh, Mr. Kratsky, thank you for getting back to me. I was given your name by Alex Shepherd.’

‘What can I do for you Mr. Hamilton?’

‘A situation has arisen regarding my niece.’ There was a pause. ‘Unfortunately, I’m just going into a meeting. Is there any chance we could meet at lunchtime? Do you know Caspars in Covent Garden?’

The concern was apparent in the voice, but Kratsky felt a sinking feeling. No doubt the niece had gone missing, run off with some waste of space guy, or got herself involved in some other domestic drama. It was hardly his line of work. But Scottish Imperial Bank was an important client. Alex might feel grateful enough to throw something his way on the back of this. What was there to lose? A couple of hours, but a decent lunch as compensation.

‘Sure,’ Kratsky said.

‘Perfect.’ There was a sound of relief in the man’s voice. ‘Shall we say 12.30?’

Kratsky ended the call and carried on walking along Aldgate High Street, pausing in front of St Botolph’s. He gazed up at the grey and white steeple. The church looked out of place amongst all the glass and concrete buildings. The snow emphasised the whiteness of its small cupolas and made the grey brick appear more solid, as if the church was daring the weather to do its worst. The clock showed eleven thirty. It was too early to head over to the restaurant, and there was no point going back to the office. There was a café on the other side of the street, but the idea of wasting money on coffee was annoying. On the other hand, his blanket coat was getting damp in the snow and it wasn’t getting any warmer. He looked at St Botolph’s. Religion wasn’t his thing. He pulled out his wallet, reconsidering the coffee option. There were just the two ten-pound notes in it. He pushed open the large door of the church.

The inside of St. Botolph’s was galleried with ornate white walls and moulded ceilings. Kratsky made his way to one of the pews and sat down. Did he have to cross himself? It was such a long time since he’d been to church. An elderly lady, a few yards in front of him, did so. To be on the safe side he followed suit, surprised to feel self-conscious. He gazed at the altar. There had been low points before. The trouble was that there hadn’t been many high points. He glanced up at the stained-glass window. If God had a purpose for him, if there was a God, then it certainly wasn’t an obvious one. All that his children, Josh and Megan, knew of him were cheap supermarket birthday and Christmas cards. What kind of a father did that make him? Scratching out a living as a financial investigator was precarious at best. The Scottish Imperial Bank work earlier in the year had been a life saver. He should have taken the chance to catch up with all the bills, put a bit of money aside, pay off the last of Josh and Megan’s college fees, get that air-conditioning and heating system for the office. None of that was now possible. He leant forward, resting his arms on his knees. Had he been that bad a husband to deserve this never-ending harassment? Donna remarried years’ ago. She should be Dancek’s problem now, poor dumb bastard. Perhaps the harassment was a sign that things weren’t going as well as they might be; that Donna was still getting through money as quick as a Democrat. Perhaps she’d got through Dancek’s money too? The thought cheered him up. Nevertheless, Dancek had stuck with her. Perhaps she had something on him, or maybe she’d ground him down until he wasn’t capable of getting out. He leant back in the pew. Donna had stitched him up good and proper this time.

Above the altar were three modern paintings: two angels and a tree, no obvious cross. An angel would come in handy right now. Two would be better still. It was hard to see how he was going to get out of this on his own. There weren’t exactly that many options. He could call his contact at the US Embassy, Darryl Stringer. See if he could beg some work. After all, the intelligence services owed him after the Tortola affair. They would never have him back on the payroll of course, and he wouldn’t want to be, but there might be something for him. On the back of his lunch with this Hamilton guy, he could ask Alex if Scottish Imperial Bank had any work going. Chances were that the bank would still be navel-gazing after the turmoil of the autumn. Funny how he’d begun to think of it as autumn instead of the fall. In banks there were always frauds going on either inside the organisation or amongst its customers: corporate carousel and contra-trading operations, complex Ponzi schemes, or simply bank executives breaking the terms of their gardening leave. The list was endless. Alex Shepherd might now be too senior to be a good source of bread and butter business. Still, "nothing ventured nothing gained as his father used to say, not that he could recall his father gaining anything much; beggars can’t be choosers" would have been more appropriate for the old man. The clock started to strike twelve. It was time to go. A decent lunch at Caspars couldn’t make things worse.

A blast of cold air whipped through his coat as he hurried the few yards to Aldgate tube station. November, and it might as well be January or February. Standing on the platform he wrapped his arms around his chest and stamped his feet to drive out the cold. There were delays on the line. Surprised to have a signal for his phone, he put a call into Stringer at the embassy. When his call diverted to voicemail, he left a message. The first westbound train was headed to Kings Cross. It meant a change onto the Piccadilly line for Covent Garden. At least the cat and mouse games of the summer and autumn were over; no more looking over his shoulder for the foreseeable future; not much chance of anyone wanting to keep an eye on him; other than perhaps the bailiffs if Donna had her way.

The snow and slush in Covent Garden meant the piazza was almost empty. A few shoppers were scurrying from store to store to keep out of the cold. There was no sign of the usual stallholders, perhaps too early for Christmas fare and too cold for casual custom. All the outdoor seating for the cafés had been pushed together underneath canopies. Patio heaters were liberally dotted in between them, presumably to keep the furniture warm since it was too miserable for any diners to consider eating outside. Kratsky slithered his way to Caspar’s. A welcome gust of warmth and the scent of food rushed over him as he opened the door. Christopher Hamilton had not yet arrived. A waiter indicated the table that Hamilton had reserved: one close to the window, but more importantly close to a radiator. Kratsky took off his coat and hung it on the stand.

The restaurant was quiet. The tourist season was over. The corporate world preoccupied with getting everything completed before the gorge and tinsel of Christmas parties. Everyone at Scottish Imperial Bank used Caspars. It had to be over a month since he’d last seen Alex Shepherd here and received that wonderful fee.

At just after twelve thirty, Kratsky spotted a man picking his way carefully across the piazza from the direction of the tube station. The man was just above average height, and wrapped in an expensive charcoal winter coat, his head was bowed, and half covered by a tartan scarf looped round his neck. As he entered the restaurant, he asked something of a waiter who pointed in Kratsky’s direction.

‘Mr. Kratsky?’ he said, taking off a leather glove and holding out his hand. ‘Christopher Hamilton.’

Kratsky half stood to shake hands. ‘Pleased to meet you Mr. Hamilton,’ he said.

The handshake was firm and Hamilton’s hand surprisingly warm despite the weather.

‘Christopher, please. It’s very good of you to meet me at such short notice.’

Tucking his gloves in his pockets, he added his coat and scarf to the same stand as Kratsky’s and sat down opposite him.

‘Sorry I’m late. The weather seems to have slowed everything up.’ He reached down to feel the radiator.

Hamilton was perhaps early fifties, greying at the temples, but with dark wavy hair. Weirdly he looked a little like an older but healthier version of himself. Clear grey eyes held his gaze.

‘You work with Alex Shepherd?’ Kratsky said.

A waitress placed two menus and a basket of sliced ciabatta on the table. Hamilton held the breadbasket out to Kratsky.

‘I head up Human Resources at Scottish Imperial Bank. I’ve known Alex since he was principal at the training college.’ He took a piece of bread for himself and placed it absent-mindedly on his plate. ‘I understand you’ve undertaken some investigation work for Alex; for the bank?’

Kratsky nodded. ‘How can I help you?’ he asked.

Hamilton glanced out of the window and then back at Kratsky.

‘Have you ever heard of Elishama Corporation?’ he asked.

Kratsky shook his head. ‘They have something to do with your niece?’

Hamilton tore off a piece of bread but didn’t eat it.

‘Perhaps I should give you some background,’ he said. ‘Grace is my niece. My brother, that is Grace’s father, died earlier this year.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Kratsky said.

‘Well, it was a shock. Totally unexpected. A stroke. Ridiculous really. Brilliant cardiologist. Didn’t always make the right choices for himself though. Terrible waste.’

There was a hint of bitterness in Hamilton’s tone. He straightened before continuing.

‘Grace took it very badly. Not just in the way you might expect. She had some absurd notion that she was to blame; some argument they’d had just before Nicholas died.’

‘And the argument had something to do with Elishama?’

Hamilton looked at him. ‘No, I’m sorry, I’m not explaining this very well.’

He poured himself a glass of water and took a sip.

‘The argument was about some boyfriend. I don’t think it meant much in itself, but it may have coloured her judgement when she had an approach from this outfit, Elishama based in Gutenburg of all places. In the middle of nowhere as far as I can see.’

He hesitated for a second as a loud ring tone broke the near silence of the restaurant. A man dining alone a few tables away from them took a mobile phone from his pocket and answered the call. The conversation was inaudible.

‘Anyway,’ Hamilton continued, ‘I’ve done as much digging as I dare. They’re a financial services group; expanding fast. Scottish Imperial Bank have some minor connections through our New York office, but nothing of any significance.’

‘So, she’s actually gone to work for this Elishama Corporation?’

‘Yes, a couple of weeks ago. Flew to Gutenburg beginning of November.’

‘And you have some concerns about Elishama?’

The story was as clear as mud. Kratsky took another piece of bread and glanced over to the waitress, hoping that she might come and take their order, but she was nowhere to be seen.

Hamilton looked at Kratsky. ‘I couldn’t find out much about Gutenburg. Have you ever heard of it? Know what it’s like?’

‘Only by reputation,’ Kratsky said, picturing the back of beyond like something out of the film Deliverance, only with snow. ‘It is, as you say, a bit remote.’

Hamilton nodded, although he didn’t appear to have heard what Kratsky said.

‘Seems like an odd place to set up a financial services group. Don’t you think? Why not set up in a financial centre: New York, Chicago, Boston or even Minneapolis?’

‘Might not be so mad as it sounds,’ Kratsky said. ‘They found oil a few years back. Up near the Canadian border. Almost as big as Alaska.’

There was still no sign of the waitress. Kratsky glanced at the breadbasket, wondering whether to help himself to a third piece of bread.

‘Perhaps it would help if you told me exactly why you’re worried about your niece and Elishama. Apart from the remoteness, that is,’ he said.

‘Of course.’

Annoyingly the waitress finally turned up. Hamilton paused as the young woman took their orders.

‘Wine sir?’ she asked Hamilton. ‘Would you care to take a look at the wine menu?’ she held it out for him.

Hamilton cast his eye over the list.

‘A bottle of St. Emilion please,’ he said, and the waitress disappeared. ‘Is St. Emilion OK for you?’ he asked.

‘Very nice,’ Kratsky said. ‘You were going to tell me what concerns you have about Elishama.’

‘Ah yes of course. Well, the whole recruitment process is odd.’

‘In what way?’

‘Well, they approached Grace, which is fine. Then, without an interview they offered her double the pay she was on, sorted out a visa, and flew her out to Gutenburg.’

The starters arrived. Hamilton unfurled his napkin, placed it label side down on his lap, and then buttered a small piece of bread which he left untouched on his side plate.

‘They might just be keen to get her,’ Kratsky said. ‘What does she do?’

‘She works in investment management.’

‘Aren’t good investment managers in demand?’

‘That’s the whole point.’ Hamilton leant forward. ‘I don’t want to be disloyal. Grace is a capable girl. Until now I would have said she was solid, sensible, reliable. She had a steady job at Barnes Musgrave, no glittering career, or qualifications to speak of. She’s never been someone likely to set the world alight. So why were Elishama raring to get hold of her? She even sacrificed her notice period to go early.’

‘Did she know anyone at Elishama?’

‘Not that I’m aware of.’

Kratsky put down his knife and fork, disappointed to see that he’d finished the salmon starter without noticing. The waitress cleared away.

‘I’m not sure I’m seeing anything that unusual Mr. Hamilton.’

‘Do call me Christopher,’ Hamilton said. ‘Well, I’ve worked in Human Resources for over twenty years. I’ve headhunted dozens of individuals and teams, but I’ve never taken a complete gamble like Elishama have with Grace. No interview, no obvious research, nothing, and then to pay twice the going rate for the job. It all seems highly irregular and I do have concerns. I wouldn’t like to think that Grace has put herself at risk in any way. And I do feel a certain responsibility. Not only as her uncle, but as her Godfather.’

‘Have you heard from her?’

The reply was delayed by the arrival of the main course.

‘That’s the other thing, apart from a couple of snatched calls to her mother, Johanna, there’s been nothing. Liese, Grace’s sister, hasn’t heard from her either and they’ve always been very close. When I’ve tried to call Grace all I get is number unobtainable.’

‘Does she normally keep in touch?’

Hamilton smiled a faint smile. ‘She’s like my daughter. She’s hardly ever off the mobile.’

‘Is there anyone significant? Does she still have the boyfriend you mentioned? I take it she’s not married?’

‘No, she’s still single. There have been boyfriends. The last one, Ryan was his name I think, featured for over a year. I met him. A waste of space apparently. It was about him that Grace argued with Nicholas; a big row according to Liese around New Year. I don’t think he figures now.’

‘You said the argument was just before your brother died?’

‘Just a few days. It was so untypical. Nicholas never lost his temper, but I guess he was worried about Grace.’

Kratsky chewed the last of his main course and wiped his mouth slowly with his napkin.

‘So, how can I help?’ Kratsky asked.

‘I’d just like to know that this Elishama is legitimate; that Grace hasn’t got herself into something she can’t handle.’

‘Maybe I’m missing something here, but wouldn’t it be a whole lot easier to hop on a plane and go see for yourself?’

Hamilton leant forward as if concerned that he might be overheard.

‘Well that’s the strangest thing about this whole business. I applied for a visa waiver and it got turned down.’

‘What reason did they give?’

‘They say their records show that I overstayed my visa in 2008 when I attended a bank seminar in New York.’

‘And did you?’

Hamilton leant back. ‘No, of course not. I went to the embassy and they tell me that it’s probably a computer error; that my departure date was logged incorrectly.’

‘Could someone else from the family go?’

‘I haven’t discussed it with Johanna. It’s been such a rough year for her, the last thing I want is for her to be worried about Grace.’ He thought for a moment. ‘If you wanted to speak with Liese, I’m sure she’d be more than happy to meet up. She probably knows Grace as well as anyone and she’s a sensible young woman.’

‘You want me to go over to Gutenburg to see if your niece is OK?’

‘Well, if necessary, yes.’ Hamilton paused as the waitress cleared the plates away. ‘I would, of course cover your costs… in addition to your fee.’

The word remote might have been invented for Gutenburg. The idea of a wild goose chase in the middle of winter was crazy. Kratsky glanced out of the window. The threatened heavy snow had arrived. The slush of a few minutes ago buried under the fresh fall. It was cold here. It would be freezing in North Dakota. On the other hand, he couldn’t afford to be sniffy, not now that Donna had got her grip on his finances. Dollars were dollars after all.

‘Before I go spending your money it would make sense for me to have a nose around, do a bit of research, see what I can find out.’

Hamilton smiled. ‘I’d be very grateful Mr. Kratsky.’

‘If I do need to get over to the States, would it be possible to set up some funds in Minneapolis for me?’

‘We’ve got a branch there. I’m sure I can arrange an account for you.’

‘And if you can let me have contact details for your niece that’d be helpful.’

‘Anything in particular?’ Hamilton asked taking a pen from his pocket.

‘Everything you have: mobile phone number, email address, postal address in Gutenburg. You can email them to me here.’ Kratsky handed Hamilton one of his few business cards. ‘If there’s anything else I need where can I contact you?’

‘At the office is fine. If I’m in a meeting, just leave a message with my secretary, Karen.’ Hamilton handed him his business card. ‘I really am most grateful for your help. How about your fees?’

‘Let me dig out what I can on Elishama first and then we can agree something.’

‘That’s very good of you. Thank you again.’ Hamilton got up and took his coat and scarf from the stand. ‘I’ll get that information over to you as soon as possible.’

Kratsky watched him head over to the bar and pay the bill. With a last nod in Kratsky’s direction he left the restaurant. Kratsky savoured the last of the wine as he watched Hamilton picking his way through the snow towards the tube station. He wondered just how often the US immigration computer made mistakes.

3

Grace drew back the faded curtains. Snow was falling as heavily as the night before. Parked cars were only recognisable as snow covered mounds. Snow ploughs were out on the main road. At least there was some traffic making its way into the city. She headed for the bathroom and braced herself, determined not to yell out as she stood on the freezing cold floor. She showered, then dressed, pausing briefly as she slipped on the ankle boots. Even if the porter was right about appropriate footwear, she was determined to make a statement when she arrived at Elishama’s offices.

Breakfast was self-service. The croissants were hard. The attempt to keep them warm meant they were dry. The coffee was hot if indeterminate. Grace picked at the pastries, but they were unappealing. She steeled herself and went out into the cold in search of her taxi. The iced air burnt at her lungs and she hurried into the relative warmth of the waiting cab. Snow lined the benches in the town square and clung to the limbs of trees. The few people on the sidewalks were dressed in heavy hooded anoraks, their faces hidden behind scarves and ski masks.

Elishama’s offices were at the end of the main road through the town. Grand Central Avenue was perhaps an overstatement, narrowed as it was, to a single lane in each direction by snowbanks left by the snowploughs. The offices were impressive: a series of buildings linked by enclosed walkways. The taxi stopped by the steps to the main entrance. Again, the driver refused any payment.

The fleeced coat felt as thin as cotton the instant she left the cab. She picked her way through the snow and ice, hoping that the salt and grit on the steps wouldn’t do any lasting damage to her boots. If she saw the hotel porter again, she would take up his offer to sort out some more suitable footwear. The doors opened. A doorman in blue livery held the first of a double set of doors for her.

‘I’m Grace Hamilton. I’m here to see Ethan Cherrie.’

The doorman smiled. ‘Welcome to Elishama Corporation, Miss Hamilton.’

It was a change from Barnes Musgrave where you were lucky if your existence was acknowledged let alone welcomed. The first door closed behind them. The doorman swiped a card through a card reader and a second, electronic, door hissed open, closing again the moment they passed through into the foyer.

‘May I take your coat?’

Her cold fingers fumbled at the buttons, refusing to complete the task quickly. The floor and walls of the large atrium were lined in a polished green marble. On a large electronic board were the striking words Elishama Corporation Inc. Welcomes Miss Grace Hamilton. Warmth wrapped around her from an invisible and noiseless heating system. No expense spared it seemed.

‘If you would just sign in Miss Hamilton.’

The doorman directed her towards the reception desk before hanging up her coat amongst numerous others in a large alcove. He handed her a metal tag with a number on it that corresponded with one on the hanger.

The four receptionists smiled. All were wearing smart navy-blue jackets over crisp white blouses. All had a gold name badge, with black lettering, pinned to their lapels. The second receptionist stood as Grace approached the desk.

‘Good morning Miss Hamilton. I’m Rose, pleased to meet you. How was your journey?’

The young woman held out her hand. A bright copper bracelet encircled a pale wrist, but she wore no other jewellery. Grace’s own discreet silver stud earrings, chain and bangles seemed showy in comparison. Grace shook her hand.

‘Mr. Cherrie’s been informed of your arrival.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You’re most welcome,’ Rose said.

The receptionist gestured to a small camera mounted on the reception desk.

‘If we could just take a picture for your entry badge.’

Without waiting for an answer, there was a click from the camera.

‘Thank you,’ Rose said, as a printer etched out the photo.

Long slender fingers tucked the image into a plastic wallet.

‘This is a temporary card. Human Resources will sort you out a permanent one.’ She pointed to a small chip embedded in the plastic wallet. ‘You just swipe it over the sensor pad.’

It was hard to imagine why all the security was necessary. It wasn’t as if this was the middle of New York, or even London for that matter.

Grace smiled. ‘I’m sure I’ll get used to it,’ she said.

Rose walked along the back of the reception desk and into the foyer.

‘Let me show you to a seat while you’re waiting,’ she said.

She pointed past the row of lifts to a carpeted area at the rear of the atrium. Comfortable leather chairs were placed around low glass and metal coffee tables.

‘Coffee, tea? Or a soft drink?’

‘I’m fine thank you.’

‘If you do need anything, please don’t hesitate to ask,’ Rose said. ‘Mr. Cherrie will be with you in just a while.’

This was different. Everyone said that people in America were more service oriented. On business trips to New York and Los Angeles, that had always been the case. Grace ran the edges of the plastic wallet through her fingers. This might work out after all.

There was an expensive sounding swish as the lift doors opened. A smiling man of about thirty, headed towards her.

‘Grace?’ he said.

Grace stood as the man held out his hand.

‘Hi. I’m Ethan Cherrie. I’m real sorry to have kept you waiting. I so wanted to be here to meet you.’

He took her hand and then placed his other hand over the back of hers. Unwavering brown eyes seemed as if they might read her mind if they wished. The smile was constant and warm.

‘Very pleased to meet you,’ Grace said, hoping that she hadn’t held the handshake too long.

‘Come into the inner sanctum.’ Ethan headed towards the lifts. ‘I hope you had a good trip?’

‘It was fine. No hold ups or anything.’

Ethan turned to press the lift button and swiped his card against the sensor pad. A dark navy suit jacket fitted snuggly over broad shoulders and ramrod straight back. His wavy light brown hair was neatly trimmed. They stepped into the lift. He pressed the button for the fourth floor. The scent of his aftershave, young, dark, and smooth, reached her.

‘I hope that the hotel arrangements have worked out too,’ he said. He reached up to run a hand through his hair. ‘We want to make sure that you know how much we appreciate you joining the team here.’

‘Everyone’s been very helpful,’ Grace said.

Ethan’s office was off a short corridor. The windows looked down Grand Central Avenue. A few sporadic buildings were set back from the road, barely visible through the thick snow. Ploughs were still crawling up the single carriageway, but even the asphalt immediately behind them remained white. Grace shivered.

‘Coffee?’ Ethan asked.

‘Thank you. White please.’

Ethan poured two mugs from a filter machine. He gestured for Grace to sit in a comfortable sofa adjacent to the window and a radiator. He sat down in an armchair opposite. A thin folder with her name on it lay on the coffee table between them.

‘I’m so pleased that you agreed to join us Grace. I’ve heard a great deal about your work with Barnes Musgrave and am really impressed.’

Who on Earth would have been impressed enough by her work to tell Ethan? The partners at Barnes Musgrave had never thought so. To be honest, neither had she herself. But it was impossible to believe that Ethan, with his rich, deep voice, was being anything other than sincere.

‘I’m very flattered,’ she said.

He brushed an invisible speck of dust from his lapel. Putting down his mug on the table, he picked up the folder.

‘We’ve put together an orientation programme for you,’ he said.

He pulled out a timetable and leaned forward to show her. A hint of aftershave followed him.

‘There’s a presentation in lecture theatre number two today. We run it for people new to Elishama. That starts in…’ steady manicured fingers pulled back the fabric of his jacket to check his watch. He too wore a copper bracelet ‘…fifteen minutes.’

He handed the programme to Grace.

‘The presentation is a great introduction to what we do. After that I’ve paired you up with Heather Lockhart. She leads our internal audit function. We’ve booked you in for your development training course for the next couple of weeks. After that it makes sense for you to spend some time with Heather’s team; give you an idea of the potential of what we have going here. She’ll meet you after the presentation, give you a tour of the place, get you settled in. Then I’ll see you again at the evening meeting if that’s OK?’

‘Sounds great,’ Grace said.

‘It’s easy to find the theatre. If you take the lift back down to the ground floor, everything is signposted from there.’ Ethan opened the door to his office. ‘Oh, by the way,’ he said, as Grace was leaving. ‘There’s a senior management reception on Wednesday evening. It’s on your programme. A chance to meet everyone.’ He smiled. ‘Catch up with you later.’

There were ten others in the lecture theatre. Grace took a seat on an empty row towards the rear of the auditorium. The screen was a large one, curtained, more like the multiplex at home than a business setting. The last time she’d been to the cinema must have been with Ryan. There was a vague recollection of car crashes and shootouts. It might even have been the last time they’d been out together.

The lights dimmed.

A panoramic view of the Elishama Building appeared on the screen. The camera zoomed in as the main entrance door was opened by an unseen hand.

A deep male American voice filled the auditorium.

‘Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the Elishama Corporation. Elishama is far more than