City Dealer

Neil Rowland

Description

An exciting, unpredictable story of financial intrigue, intensely atmospheric and absorbing, with humour and romance. Clive Pitt is the talented banker cherry-picked for a career in the City of London. While handling a merger, started by a significant hedge fund, he notices massive fraud is involved. Despite holding a trusted, lucrative position in the firm, Clive decides to turn whistleblower and risk everything. Soon Pitt understands that powerful figures have conspired to disgrace and ruin him, in both his professional and his personal life.Finding himself a pariah, with his memory wiped, family and friendships destroyed, Clive has to piece together the events that lead to this terrible downfall. Only one colleague is prepared to help him, a clever, courageous female trader, with whom he originally conspired to expose the deal. His conflict against brutal wealth and power becomes a matter of survival for both sides. He has to save his reputation, fill in the lost events of a 'missing' year; even while ruthless vested interests seek to conclude their deal and to destroy him.

Sujets

• Thriller

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 20 mai 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781782348283
• Langue: English

Extrait

Title Page
THE CITY DEALER
Neil Rowland



Publisher Information
Published in 2013 by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
Copyright © Neil Rowland 2013
The right of Neil Rowland to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights 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 without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any person who does so may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.



Praise for Neil Rowland’s writing
A substantial, profound and funny novelist - James Wood
(Literary critic for The Guardian , then The New Yorker and New Republic )
Fresh and cliché free - Jill Dawson
(acclaimed novelist and a tutor at UEA Writing Course)
A very accomplished writer - Karolina Sutton
(Curtis Brown)
A confident and original writer - Jo Unwin
(Conville & Walsh)
This was a real page turner - riveting - Paul Harrison
University of Bedfordshire
...the plot was original, very interesting and not like much else I have ever read. I didn’t know what was going to happen or how it would end - Michael ki-Fun
(writer)
The concept and story is a fascinating one - Donald Winchester



Dedication
To friends and family



Acknowledgements
Thanks to Paul Harrison for being a first reader, offering encouraging criticism and advice. Also to Michael Ki-Fun for reading the script in a constructive way. Abdul Ahad and others for nagging me to keep writing. Richard Taylor for his literary passion over the years.
James Wood, Jill Dawson, Louis de Bernieres and all those people who have encouraged or supported my writing, in smooth times or rough.
Thanks to Paul Andrews for getting the monkey off my shoulder.
Special thanks to Will Hilton for photographic images
www.willhilton.com



1
Clive couldn’t remember to save his own life.
He knew that he should.
Clive Pitt was a 32 year old merchant banker at the famous British company of Winchurch Brothers, at the heart of the City of London. He’d been head of M & A (mergers & acquisitions); involved with asset purchasing, corporate reorganisation and even defence. His talent had been cherry-picked at an early stage and, following his internship, he made a rapid rise. Clive’s origins were from the north of England, but he’d adapted to his London career with aplomb and found that it offered all that life can afford.
Clive had the sensation of high flying above the square mile. He peered down at the towers below, at the Gherkin on Saint Mary Axe, the Cheesegrater in Leadenhall, The Shard in Southwark, the rising scale of financial organ pipes. Until he hung so far above that dogleg of the Thames, that all the shapes below were hazy through broken cloud. Still the perspective across London was more superb than from the highest niches of any of those constructions. Objects on the ground, including buses and taxis, jetties and bridges, were on a tiny model scale.
It was definitely one of his “my life is flashing before my eyes” moments. There was a feeling of euphoria as if he was just experiencing the common dream of being able to fly. But he was able to feel a noisy rush of air about his face; powerful currents around his limbs. Previously, he had jumped out of an aircraft to raise funds for charity. He had overcome terror to bungee jump on a trip to New Zealand with his family. He had looked out across the Grand Canyon without any thought to abseil. Similarly Clive had stared through the glass curtain of Niagara Falls without any inclination to squeeze into a wooden barrel.
This experience was too real, too superbly scary, suspended in gaping space above the City, as if from the thumb and forefinger of an invisible giant, with only the super jumbos going into Heathrow above his shoulder. These flying machines so close that they exaggerated the void and a terrifying drop underneath.
There was not time to look back along the Thames to fully enjoy the view, even if he was inclined. There wouldn’t be such a soft landing, or a parachute, he considered. What if his wax wings became gluey and sent him hurtling, crashing back down to earth, with a discrete splash?
Except that he didn’t plummet. Instead he felt himself swooping, gliding and swinging downwards, drifting and circling. There was a swooping motion, in the way he had been lifted, but then he began to descend more gently, to drift and to circle like a leaf. Soft and beautiful, as long as he could shut off the noises and smells; the clamour and frenzy of the City. He didn’t sense much speed or weight, until he touched the ground again, as softly as a baby in a crib.
Above their heads pedestrians hadn’t taken much notice of him. Probably they were focused on their typical daily routines. Clive had been indistinguishable; just as you might ignore the swoops of a seagull. There was disbelief when he landed on his toes, as deftly as a trapeze artist or flying ballet dancer. The nearest person to him, when he touched down, seemed totally astounded, as if witness to a miracle. A particular suited business woman, full of awe, asked how he had achieved this remarkable stunt, but Clive himself didn’t fully understand .
For a while he staggered, shadows clawing inside his mind. He felt he was at risk of passing out, right in front of people, and then how could he recover? His insides were churning violently, while he stood in a strange posture, stock-still in an open armed gesture towards the sky. At first passers-by wanted to check his welfare, interrogate him or to simply express wonder, admiration. However, this knot of humanity quickly moved on, back into their busy lives. Soon there was nobody thereabouts who’d witnessed his re-entry to the City.
It took him a long time to orient himself after this bizarre experience. He had an impulse to lie down on the pavement and to go to sleep: but this would be as fatal as a soldier trying to rest in freezing weather. What had he been doing beforehand? After long consideration he realised that he was hungry and must be out on his lunch break. This was the time to reintegrate with his working routine, and to recover his bearings . Clive realised he wasn’t wearing his suit jacket and neither did he possess his work cases. Logically this indicated that he had broken away from his job for a while, and that his possessions must be around his office. Clive puzzled why he shouldn’t be able to remember that precisely, without delay.
The narrow and dusty streets of EC1 were even hotter than he recalled. People had shed layers of clothing to try to cool off. Arms and shoulders were exposed, as ties were loosened and blouses unbuttoned, on what was a sweltering afternoon. Clive had done likewise, and yet his shirt was soaked through. Whatever people were doing in the east of London, they sought temporary respite and refuge from the heat, craving shade or any draught or even a vent of cooler air.
Accordingly Clive turned off Cornhill and pressed into his regular café, feeling perspiration instantly freeze and shrink on the skin of his face within the shop’s shadows . He placed his arms on the counter and allowed himself to re-familiarise. He asked for his typical double espresso and Panini, with a filling of smoked salmon, fresh as if pulled out of the River Ure that day.
Yes it was great to return to his regular office pattern, those familiar haunts and paths of his job, after that amazing scare. He was reassured to be back among fellow City workers, as bodies squeezed into the café for a caffeine fix and calorie count. However, one of the guys working at the place gave him a filthy look. This negative and suspicious glance spoilt Pitt’s feeling of getting back into the old groove. This guy was recognisable to him, and may have been Italian, Greek or even Romanian. In a great city like London you didn’t stress about ethnicity. Clive knew that he often shared some matey banter across the counter with this guy. He could recall a shared joke about the daily grind, the private lives of footballers. But not this time - this time the man was edgy in his behaviour, suspicious, and made Clive feel like a heel scraping. What exactly was his problem? What was going on there exactly?
Whatever the cause, Clive returned outside, into the pattern of side streets. He intended to eat lunch at his favourite square, finding welcome shade under tree canopy there. Why didn’t he check his watch and be sure there was enough time? He was pleased to get out of the crowds and traffic. Afterwards he could join friends for a drink at their favoured bar, The Banker and Flower Girl , clock permitting.
The recent experience of flying and plunging was still affecting him . How would he explain that sensation to others? They would argue he was guilty of over-working, over reaching himself in the bid to excel. While all the guys at Winchurch Brothers were expected to work hard, few were as driven as Clive; as they would tell him. This had led to resentment and criticism among some colleagues, he suspected, as he had been rapidly promoted in the organisation.
Yet even in these criss-crossing old back streets, within the original medieval maze, containing shops, bars, restaurants, storerooms and varied bu