The Alpha Portfolio

By Neil Turner

This is a story about a daughter’s search for the truth and her struggle against the silent misogyny within her family.

In the months leading up to the Global Financial Crisis, Lottie Sacramento is about to marry her fiancé Dan. She would consider herself one of life’s lucky ones. Working for her uncle’s business in the gilded world of European property fund management, Celestial has an investment track record to die for. Unfortunately, her fiancé does just that – in mysterious circumstances on a business trip to Frankfurt – and her world is thrown into turmoil.

As the financial crisis unfolds and Lottie searches for the truth about Dan and Celestial, she begins to unravel a series of dark family secrets.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Jul 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9781398491502

Neil Turner

Neil started his investment career in the City in the mid-1990s and has worked at various fund management houses in London and Frankfurt. He is a Chartered Surveyor and Chartered Financial Analyst. Following his retirement in 2016, he has spent his time writing fiction. The Alpha Portfolio is the second in a series of financial thrillers that Neil has been working on. Pass the Parcel, published in 2021, was his first. He lives in Woodbridge, Suffolk, with his wife, Michelle. He has two grown up children at university.

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About the Author

Neil started his investment career in the City in the mid-1990s and has worked at various fund management houses in London and Frankfurt. He is a Chartered Surveyor and Chartered Financial Analyst.

Following his retirement in 2016, he has spent his time writing fiction. The Alpha Portfolio is the second in a series of financial thrillers that Neil has been working on. Pass the Parcel, published in 2021, was his first.

He lives in Woodbridge, Suffolk, with his wife, Michelle. He has two grown up children at university.

Dedication

To Michelle, Tom and Charlie.

Copyright Information ©

Neil Turner 2023

The right of Neil Turner to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398491496 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398491502 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

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Prologue

Lottie

Richmond, Surrey, Autumn 2009

Like some wild animal foraging, I am on all fours. My nails scrape away at the brass handle, trying to dig it out of its groove but my fingertips tingle with anticipation or fear; I’m not sure which. The blood doesn’t help. It’s still warm and wet from the gunshot wound and I can’t obtain the purchase that’s required. I kneel – to wipe my hands on my trousers and a pain shoots through my knees. A reminder of the cuts inflicted during the fight that nearly cost me my life.

Finally the hatch-door begins to move, to breach the surface – like a sea-monster emerging from the deep, revealing its form for the first time. It wasn’t just concealed by the rug, you see. It had been fitted with great care. I can see that now. It sat, perfectly flush against the surrounding floor and its joints matched those of the floorboards. It’s heavy and about the size and shape of a family suitcase but it opens easily, without a sound, like the hinges have been oiled and it’s in constant use.

I peer down into the cavernous void below the floor, and catch my breath. Do I really want this? I dare myself to glance behind and take one more look at the wreckage of my life: the carnage of the lives that have been twisted out of shape by lies and greed. The blood around her chest is no longer the clear bright red of a few moments ago, but a congealing dark hue. I touch the gun; the guilty weapon that is stuffed into my trouser suit and swallow the bile forming at the back of my throat. On the other side of the room, he lays; prostrate. Bound, gagged and whimpering. It’s probably the first time in his life that he’s not in control. He is powerless. It must be killing him.

I, on the other hand, feel alive. I am now ready to face the truth.

Chapter One

Kensington, London, October 2007

The sharp clinking sound of cutlery against crystal glass brought the room to order. Philip was preparing himself for one of his speeches and the immaculate herringbone parquet flooring drew her attention to him. Its zigzagging pattern – radiant in the intruding sunlight – pulled her eyes in his direction. In one-way, it was tranquil – perfectly smooth and flat, precision engineered no doubt. Yet in another way the twists and turns, the ups-and-downs smacked of some inner turmoil that caused the oak to constantly change direction. Not unlike life’s battles thought Lottie – hurdles to be jumped, barriers to be broken and obstacles to be overcome. But, today was living proof that given time happy endings were possible. They were there somewhere woven into the rich fabric of life. You just needed to tease out the threads and follow your instinct. If you did that, happiness lay on the other side – where she was right now.

Lottie loved him to bits, but his standing there in the middle of the room, reminded her that Angela had received the looks of the family. Her uncle’s eyes were dark and humourless and he possessed a large, low-rooted nose. He was also balding, but the receding of his hair had occurred in a distinct pattern. His crown had no hair at all, but a tuft grew around the edges. The effect wasn’t unlike a Monk’s tonsure and Lottie smiled inwardly. The CEO of Celestial Asset Management was a man of many talents; but prayer, poverty and contemplation were not amongst them.

Ladies and gentlemen, I wanted to say a few words about my niece and this very lucky man that has succeeded in winning her hand. Philip didn’t look at Dan. Instead he gestured towards him, limply, with his free hand. Dan, Lottie noticed, cleared his throat as polite laughter rippled around the room.

I don’t say this often enough, so if you will allow an old fellow like me a few moments of indulgence, I’d be very grateful. He shifted his view from his audience to Lottie and felt for his tie, just below the knot, and pressed it into his shirt. Lottie found herself staring at his hands. She’d never noticed how small they were – and crafty somehow, as they manipulated the silk.

Lottie, this is no doubt a happy day for you, and I hope you thoroughly enjoy the weeks, months and years ahead. Alex and I have watched you grow from a shy, young girl into a confident woman with a fantastic future ahead of you. Your grandfather would have been very proud of the contribution you are making to his family.

Lottie nodded in acknowledgement, but her attention was elsewhere. Her grandmother was now stood, awkwardly, on the periphery of the room: about as far away as the occasion’s protocol would permit. Lottie could sense her gaze flitting between her and Philip, as she constantly transferred her weight from one foot to the other.

Philip coughed and then turned to her fiancé and Lottie wasn’t sure if his eyes narrowed, or whether she’d imagined it.

Dan, it’s been five years since you joined the firm and your contribution has been hugely impressive. Philip proffered a smile, but it was one of those that didn’t reach his eyes.

"As our Chief Financial Officer, Celestial Asset Management’s accounts are in very safe hands. I know you will continue to make the right decisions. Thank you." The right had an emphasis all of its own and was accompanied by the arching of an eyebrow and she wondered if anyone else had noticed it.

Lottie could feel the muscles in Dan’s arm tense as he acknowledged Philip’s words. There was another round of applause from the room and Philip nonchalantly raised his glass to Dan, an unenthusiastic grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as he did so.

Polite applause faded away towards awkward silence, and Lottie dragged Dan with her towards the centre of the room. There they stood, Dan’s arms around his fiancée’s waist as Lottie looked out at the expectant faces staring back at them. She took a few calming breaths.

As a small girl, then as a teenager and now as a woman, I have often thought about… about this day. How I would feel and how I would cope without being able to share my dreams, my hopes and my fears with my own mother.

She looked down at the floor and many of the guests did the same. There was another pause, before she slowly lifted her chin and met her grandmother’s eyes from the other side of the room. Alex stared back through her circular, black-framed glasses. The hostess was dressed in an ankle-length kaftan. It was made of silk and the colour of oxidised copper. As was Alex’s wont, there was something Bohemian about it all; from the way the folds of silk gathered around the long, flowing sleeves to the heavily embroidered hems and finally, the exposed, brightly painted toenails secured neatly into a pair of open-toe sandals. Lottie wriggled her hips so that Dan knew to release his grip and she crossed the room in a fast-paced strut.

Lottie took Alex’s hands and rotated one of the large, plastic rings that adorned her fingers as she spoke.

But you know what? I didn’t need to worry. Grandma Alex has been such a source of strength and support. I simply cannot imagine any woman being in a more fortunate position than me.

The two women embraced and Lottie could feel the rustling of the silk as they did so. The room broke out into spontaneous applause; several of the guests blinked heavily as they clapped. Alex may not be her mum, but she owed this woman an awful lot.

Finally, Lottie was able to compose herself. She reluctantly released Alex and raised a hand to let people know that she hadn’t finished. As the room returned to silence, she turned to her uncle.

Philip was stood a few feet away holding his champagne flute in one hand with the other slotted stiffly into the pocket of his double-breasted suit – his thumb protruding over the top of the flap.

Uncle Philip… I want you to know that as much as Grandma is the mother I never had, you have been like a father to me. Thank you so much.

Oddly for Philip, this triggered a reaction, although Lottie was at a loss as to its meaning, if, in fact, there was any. He didn’t move, except that his smile slipped and became an uncomfortable grimace as his gaze fell to the floor in front of him.

From the corner of her eye, Lottie could see that the green kaftan was on manoeuvres again, wafting towards the back of the room where it hovered, silently. Its occupant stood trancelike, almost in a state of meditation, looking on. She could feel her grandmother scrutinising them.

The audience applauded for the final time, Dan beamed at his future wife. Lottie beamed back at Dan: hurdles to be jumped, barriers to be broken and obstacles to be overcome, but, in the end, happy endings were possible. With Dan’s love, Lottie knew this was all now going to be possible.

After they had kissed, and the applause fell away, Lottie scanned the room. She strained her neck and stood on tiptoe searching for her, but her instinct was right: the door at the back was ajar and her grandmother had gone. As her heels came to rest wearily on the floor, her eyes strayed to the portrait on the wall. It was her first obstacle, probably the largest and certainly the most difficult to understand. It was the one that this family had never truly overcome. Her mother, Angela Sacramento – Philip’s sister and Alex’s only daughter – was staring at her forensically from above the mantelpiece.

She felt the hair lifting on the nape of her neck as she permitted that treacherous thought to enter her head again: that she might be to blame for her mother’s death? And if she felt like that, did her surrogate parents, at least in part, also hold her accountable? She squeezed Dan’s hand as the details of the room grew fuzzy and the image of her mother began to blur.

Chapter Two

Dan rushed through the large, glass doors of the hotel and yanked-up the collar of his overcoat. An involuntary cough escaped before he had the chance to cover his mouth as the freezing cold air stabbed at his lungs. The thirty-degree temperature difference between the rooms he had been in and the pavement on Kaiserplatz was as much of a shock as the meeting.

He grudgingly acknowledged the liveried hotel porter who had opened the door for him and turned left towards Frankfurt’s main train station. Head down, hands thrust into his pockets he stomped forwards not really knowing where he was heading.

The man watching on the other side of the street was leaning against a building. He spoke into his mouthpiece, He’s heading towards the train station. What’s the score?

There was a pause on the end of the phone, as if the person he was talking to was considering his options. Finally, the reply came, Remove him: and the usual MO.

Understood.

The man disconnected the call with a nonchalant tap of a button – like he’d just finished ordering a pizza – and felt for the weapon on the inside of his overcoat. He matched Dan’s pace from the opposite side of the street.

Dan walked through Gallusanlage; a typical city-centre park: by daylight reasonably attractive where Frankfurt’s office workers would escape their hermetically sealed skyscrapers for much needed fresh air. Trees, open spaces and cycle paths nestled between the buildings with the bronze statue of Goethe surveying all before him. At eleven o’clock on a winter’s evening however, it was deserted save for the sporadic nocturnal drug users. He walked past a bench where two teenagers were sprawled out along its entire length facing the star-lit sky – they had no idea that Dan walked right past them, crunching gravel underfoot as he did so.

He turned north and walked against the little traffic that was filtering its way down Taunusanlage. There was a taxi waiting at a set of lights; the ubiquitous cream-coloured Mercedes E-class, its three-litre engine idling lazily – just like its cargo on the backseat. The man’s sullen expression stared at Dan as he sat slumped against the window. Looks like somebody else has had a shitty day he thought.

Turning left, he found himself in the city’s red light district. Like Gallusanlage, walking through this area during the day and night were two completely different experiences. He looked back to remind himself just how close the twin towers of Deutsche Bank and the other skyscrapers were. Strange bedfellows or smutty symbiosis he wondered: some of the highest paid bankers in Europe practically co-locating with legalised brothels.

He looked west towards the train station and noted that the street was lined on either side with six to seven-storey-high buildings almost all of which had red neon lights pulsating from their windows on every level. He could see the silhouettes of girls walking past windows or looking down on their pool of potential patronage on the freezing pavements below. He pressed on; in Frankfurt it seemed that banking wasn’t the only profession carried out in high-rise buildings. The man continued to follow but maintained a safe distance – close enough to monitor and decide when to make his move, but not too close so as to be noticed.

Dan didn’t feel unsafe; there were far too many people around for that. But there was something unsettling about the street scene unfurling before him. A frail, old man, laden with a rolled up sleeping bag across his shoulders and a vast rucksack stooped and shuffled his way aimlessly along the street. Dressed in so many layers, his body silhouette bulged against the bright lights of the Pizza shop behind him.

A boyfriend and girlfriend (or was it pimp and prostitute) were in dispute in the middle of the road. She was swaying – completely intoxicated with something – and looked like she could topple off her perilously high-heels at any moment. He was wearing flip-flops, a ripped pair of jeans and a grubby white vest with his hands in his pockets – Dan felt freezing cold just looking at him. The argument continued to escalate and Dan looked expectantly at the two police officers stood nearby. Their handguns were clipped into black holsters around their waists. But they both seemed unperturbed, and one of them caught Dan staring at him.

The officer’s black peak cap reflected the neon lights blinking out from above the entrance of a nearby Eros Center. But underneath, his cold eyes were clearly visible, and he returned Dan’s gaze as if it was a threat. Just like the icy stare that the woman at his hotel had manufactured. He squeezed his eyes shut and winced: the lies, the deception. This should never have happened. ‘How could I have been so bloody stupid?’

He walked south towards the river. It was unnervingly quiet for a street so close to the city centre and his footsteps echoed sharply off the stone façades that lined the way. After a few minutes he stopped and retrieved his phone from his pocket. He’d decided. He’d send her an email and come clean that would be best. It was too late to call. So he stopped and sent himself a message on his phone and cc’d Lottie, telling her that he was so sorry but that he’d explain everything tomorrow. As he moved away, he looked up and down the street. Nobody else seemed to be around.

A few moments later he reached Untermainkai – Frankfurt’s equivalent of London’s Embankment – a road that hugs the river as it meanders its way through the southern tip of the banking district. He walked along for a few minutes before descending onto the towpath via a set of ornate Victorian steps.

The frost on the iron balustrade glistened at him under the full moon like tiny diamonds and his mind immediately went to the engagement ring that Lottie had picked out. The guilt squeezed at his brain as he turned left heading east and back to his hotel. At this point the path became darker as the avenue of distinctive poplar trees blocked out the light from all but the tallest office buildings. An eerie blend of moonlight and synthetic city-light melded on the dark water of the Main as it slipped silently past a few feet away. He felt alone now, completely alone.

He thought about the note he would write. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and closed his eyes to compose the first line but nothing came. That was a first, he thought. He’d never had any problem communicating with Lottie before; she was so easy to talk to. But then he’d never had to admit to something like this. What the hell would she think of him once he’d confessed?

As he walked further along the path, he noticed a figure slowly appear from out of the shadows. Somebody – a tall, well-set man – was approaching. Dan continued, head down, as his heavy feet scraped along the gravel. Just as they were about to pass one another, the man spoke quietly – almost in a whisper – and it startled Dan.

Excuse me Sir, I think you dropped something, he said.

Chapter Three

Cambridgeshire, October 1983

Alice is running. Her body trembles with fear and anger as she makes her way down the street away from her house. Fully clothed, she still feels the nakedness of her body after what he’s done. It’s awkward, and it slows her, but she uses an arm to cover her chest: a bra, T-Shirt and the baggy Wham! Sweatshirt seemingly insufficient to cover her body, even now! But she keeps going. All she knows is that she needs to escape: to get away from the man who did this to her.

It started again this morning, as she was getting ready for school. He walked into her bedroom, when she was stood in just bra and knickers, and told her that she wouldn’t be going in today. She was stupid, apparently – just like her mum– and school wasn’t going to change that, so she could bloody well stay at home with him and do some ‘chores’. He’d decided, and that was final.

Still running, she heads for the train station and checks her watch; 09:18 appears in little red digits on the small electronic display. It is no more than a couple of hundred metres away now, and she slows to a brisk walk – she doesn’t want people to notice her. She’ll be conspicuous enough as it is, a fifteen-year-old girl gate-crashing the London commuter train. As she looks around to cross the busy road, she realises that she’s actually doing this: she is running away from home. Suddenly, all the detail of her surroundings becomes acute: the empty bag of Walkers salt and vinegar crisps fluttering in the gutter; the van driver listening to the radio and his heavily tattooed arm gently tapping to the beat on the outside of his door; and the warmth of the sun on her face on this surprisingly balmy autumnal day.

She walks across the newly painted pedestrian crossing and is struck by the precision of the paintwork: impeccable straight lines of black and white stripes on the uneven tarmac. She reaches the other side of the road and looks back, shaking her head. There were no black and white certainties defining exactly when his abuse had started and when it got out of control. Just a succession of grey areas that merged and coalesced with one another; a slow progression from innocent paternal hug, to… to… well, what had happened this morning…

He’d never shown her any affection before she’d lost her mum, but the moment it was just the two of them – Alice and her stepdad – it changed. The first hug and cuddle was on the day of the funeral: her, sat on the end of her bed crying, and him comforting her. She’d found it strange because it was so out of character – but also comforting because she needed someone. The man, who spent most of the time ignoring her, was actually paying her attention for once: it made her feel special. It didn’t last. A few days later he’d suggested that a fumble and a squeeze would also be required, as ‘they really needed to get through this together.’ If she does this for him, he’ll give her some money to go to the pictures, and so it progressed. It had been going on for months; each time she’d become more scared as he did things that she knew adults were not supposed to do to children; each time he’d given her a little bit more money.

Alice enters the station and buys a one-way ticket to London. She considers buying a return – less noticeable she imagines – but probably more expensive. She doesn’t have a lot of money, and where she’s going, she’ll need every penny. She’d found his wallet earlier, plus another stash of money she knew he kept and what she had in her room, so £552 was the amount stuffed into various pockets of her backpack. Clutching the ticket tightly in her hand, she walks through the barriers and makes her way along the platform, away from the other commuters.

A few minutes pass before a man comes and stands a few feet away. He lights a cigarette and takes a long, deep drag. He has one of those faces, she notices, that marks him out as a smoker; scaly, bark-like skin that hangs off the bottom of his jaw and gathers around his neck. Just like her stepdad. He releases a long, drawn-out exhale and the acrid smoke is in her face before she knows it. The smell is as strong as the memory it summons. That disgusting taste of staleness and tobacco as he forced his slippery tongue into her mouth. She recalls the roughness of it against her own as he twisted and sloshed it around. She spits on the platform at the thought and almost retches in the process, frantically wiping her mouth with the heel of her hand. The man with the cigarette turns on her.

Do you mind? he asks, rolling his shoulders, as if his own clothes are creating discomfort. Bloody disgusting behaviour. Slowly, he returns to his newspaper, shaking it loudly as if to reinforce his displeasure, but his eyes linger on her for a few more seconds.

It’s the same look her stepdad gave her just after he’d finished. She backs away, cowering onto a nearby bench. She lowers herself, tentatively, onto the wooden slats, flinching at the pain ‘down there’ and tears well up again. But it isn’t just the physical pain. Sure, it bloody well hurt; but what he’d taken away this morning was impossible to replace, and that was excruciating.

She sits and holds her head in her hands, as the rest of the ordeal plays out uninvited in her mind. Him not stopping when she told him to: him starting to make angry animal noises and using his bodyweight to wrestle her onto her own bed. Him touching her in places where only he had touched her before and her shouting again for him to stop: him slapping her hard across the face in frustration and telling her to shut up. That’s when she knew that this time it would be different to all of the others.

Then, after he had ‘done it,’ wearing the same expression as the man on the platform, and saying, ‘you’re just like your mother: a cheap little whore.’ She’d tried to cover herself with some clothes and a pillow – anything to hide her nakedness from him. But the worst thing was, she couldn’t deny it: he had given her money; which she had accepted, so that he could do things to her. Wasn’t that what a whore was? Wasn’t he right?

Once Alice is on the train, she finds a seat by the window and stares out of it with a determination of force. If she can’t see anyone, perhaps they won’t notice her. Then the conductor appears and asks to see her ticket. She doesn’t reply, doesn’t even meet his eye; just holds the card out mutely, reluctant to let it go, as he punches his holes. She looks down as the odd-shaped pieces of card (an M or maybe a bat shape) fall into her lap. She ignores them and goes back to her window. The conductor moves off to the next row of seats.

She watches as the roads, buildings and tarmac gobble up the fields and rivers she associates with her childhood. Fewer and fewer green spaces as they career towards the capital. Then onwards and into the big city itself and any notion of open, green spaces is completely swamped by the relentless presence of high-rise buildings, bridges, roads and yet more houses. The innocence of the countryside replaced by the dirtiness of the city. How it all