From Hannelore, who liaised with the Frankfurt traders and had made a push for him at the summer party: ‘Were you mugged?’
And Magda, who did pretty much the same as himself and had twice invited him to run with her in the Tiergarten: ‘Did it happen on the S-bahn?’
And Renate, who was the fixer, kept the section’s moving parts oiled, and whose rare mistake had sent him to the client to make a fulsome apology: ‘Have those injuries been looked at?’
And Wilhelmina, the FrauBoss, who regarded him with suspicion and had done so from his first day: ‘Where, when, why?’
Nothing from Friedrich, their analyst, who squinted at him, seeming to say silently that his appearance in that state was inappropriate.
He went to the FrauBoss. She pushed her papers aside, and the plastic tray on which she’d had her sandwich. He leaned against her desk. He said he had seen a young woman attacked near the client’s address, that he had attempted to help her and . . .
Jago Browne was a success story, against the odds, from Canning Town in east London. He knew about street fights. All around the cul-de-sacs and alleyways near to the Beckton Arms there were teenage fights, thefts, knives shown and boots used. He would not have come through it without his mother’s spirit. He reckoned she had fought for him more than for either of his siblings: Billy, whose father was a Polish roofer, and Georgina, who had come after the ‘lodger’, a Nigerian student, had moved on. Carmel Browne had nagged him, driven him, cracked a whip over him at junior school, had stood in his corner at the Royal Docks Community School, and had found the best teacher, the old-school Miss Robinson, to take him on as a ‘work in progress’. And his mother – at Miss Robinson’s demand – had taken him to an interview for St Bonaventure Catholic Comprehensive, the top-performing local school. He had been taken into Heath House, named after the Blessed Henry Heath, a martyr, held at Tyburn, 1643, then taken out for hanging, drawing and quartering. They had drilled into the pupils at the school that it was important to stick to ‘principles’. Arthur Bell and John Forest were martyrs of the same period, also put to death hideously, also remembered by the school.
Jago had known his place in life because overlooking Canning Town, and the low-quality housing erected after the Blitz bombing had flattened the old terraces, was the triumphant glory of Canary Wharf; a world apart and a mile away. Canning Town only came to Canary Wharf to clean the soaring building and deliver their necessities. There was always an exception, though. A hero of capitalism trawled local schools for talent. A name had come up; the boy had interviewed well; his future was mapped out.
‘And all of this happened before you saw the client?’
‘Yes. It was why I was slightly late. I apologised.’
‘When I telephoned, no mention was made of this.’
‘The meeting was satisfactory, Wilhelmina. There seemed no need.’
‘Or was she merely gracious?’
‘I don’t understand.’
The Bible they worked from, at Broadgate in the City, at Canary Wharf and at any bank in Berlin or Frankfurt that looked to attract corporate and personal business, was KYC. Know Your Client. The requirement for trust was stamped into their thinking, too. Risk was acceptable for the traders who made the big bucks and lived with the threat of burn-out and stress, not for the foot-soldiers in the sales teams, who were up close and personal with clients.
‘Jago, was she merely being polite?’
‘I don’t think I upset her.’
‘And afterwards you went to the police on Bismarckstrasse, and told an officer of this incident.’
‘I told an investigator from KrimPol what had happened to me and the young woman.
‘You made a statement? You listed your place of employment as this bank, named it and its address?’
‘No.’
‘No statement? How is that possible?’
He had confused her. Did she doubt his word? The frown had set on her forehead and her lips had narrowed. Her make-up had been generously applied even though her husband was abroad, and her eyes had the glint that seemed to identify a lie.
‘Actually, Wilhelmina, I would have made a statement but the investigator refused to take one. His advice was that I “get a life. Forget it, because no one will thank you if you do otherwise.” That’s what I was told.’
Her features lightened and the her eyes softened. ‘Very sensible. May I explain, Jago, because you are young and enthusiastic and honourable? If the good name of the bank was in the media – papers, radio, internet – in connection with street crime, no one here would welcome it. Although you acted from instinct, and therefore cannot be blamed, it would be negative for the bank’s name to be dragged into the courts.’
‘I understand, Wilhelmina.’