Death of a Financier

by John Francis Kinsella

  Almost immediately he realised he had made a potentially costly mistake and had sought a way out, it was not easy, any drastic move on his part would have had the whistle blowers running and he needed time to manoeuvre. However, things changed quicker than he planned and the sudden fall in Irish property left him with little choice but to implement his emergency plan.

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  Chapter 20

  After a good night's sleep Nicole was up early and set out to explore the hotel. She approved of it; the travel agent had done a good job. Once her tour of inspection was complete she set out for the Ayurvedic centre where on arrival the receptionist introduced her to a consultant, an Ayurvedic doctor.

  The centre was luxuriously appointed, fully in keeping with the standing of the hotel, the doctor professional and attentive to her expectations. He described the different kinds of treatment offered for a period of twelve days with the aid of well designed glossy brochures, in which prices were clearly indicated so that there was no possibility of misunderstanding.

  After listening carefully and with growing enthusiasm, Nicole announced she would like the rejuvenation and weight loss programme.

  The doctor filled in a form, noting her personal details, at the same time explaining the proposed programme, like every other programme it was unique, made to measure on the basis of a three step medical diagnostic. He then proceeded with an examination of her skin, eyes, teeth and tongue, then her pulse was taken and her blood pressure measured. Finally there was a long questionnaire about her physical and mental condition.

  The doctor then wrote out his prescription, which consisted of a special dietary menu, massages and other treatment to complete her twelve day rejuvenation and weight loss programme. Nicole then reported to the secretariat where she added daily steam baths and face packs, the bill was presented and a time schedule for her appointments prepared.

  She paid with her platinum card, barely glancing at the total of almost one thousand pounds sterling, though a little concerned by what Ryan might say. She firmly decided it was not his business, mostly out of fear of his derision, she was proud of her son, but did not like him ordering her about, and in any case what she did with her body was her business

  Her day started with a glass of warm water to which was added a dash of lemon and honey, followed by a series of easy yoga exercises. Then a morning massage session, after which herbal oils were applied to her ears and nose, followed by a drink of medicated ghee - a kind of clarified butter. Over the following days additional treatment was scheduled, which consisted of exotic oils and milk being poured onto her forehead and herbal oils rubbed into her body. Herbal purges were also to be taken to purify her liver, spleen and pancreas.

  The diet did not last two days. Nicole could not resist the splendid buffet and besides that she was starving. Neither did she respect the recommendation to avoid sunbathing, having the firm intention of spending a good part of her time on a sunbed by the pool; it would be ridiculous to return home without a tan she thought as she hurried to join Sarah.

  *

  'Ryan, do you know that the UK spends three times more on cosmetic surgery than Italy, the second biggest spender in Europe?' asked Sarah

  'Perhaps the Brits are the ugliest!' he said shouting with laughter.

  'I don't know about that, but some definitely need a belly tuck,' Sarah said nodding in the direction of two large girthed women talking loudly with Home County's accents.

  'That's about half of what Americans spend and four times more than Swedes.'

  'Well the Swedes are better looking.'

  'Especially the girls!'

  'Anyway, apart from your little jokes, there's nothing wrong in wanting to improve personal your appearance.'

  'Mine's okay.'

  'You're just too vain, always looking in the mirror.'

  'The Daily Mirror?'

  'Probably, the girly page.'

  'Come off it Sarah, I've got better taste than that.'

  'Sex doesn't have a taste.'

  'You wanna bet!'

  'You're incorrigible.'

  'Go back to your Botox story.'

  'I can't see anything wrong in trying to look young, and whilst we're on it, you shouldn't discourage mum, just because you can only see her as your mum Ryan.'

  'Look if she wants a face lift let her do it, but don't even let her think about doing anything here!'

  'She'd never do anything here.'

  'Good.'

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  Chapter 21

  Parkly was awake early, he was feeling a little uncomfortable, perhaps he shouldn't have eaten fish the previous evening, those beach front restaurants had appeared a bit suspect to him, but he had forced himself to please Emma, who seemed to like that kind of place.

  He quietly slipped into the sitting room leaving Emma to sleep. Outside the dawn was breaking and from a couch he watched the light slowly seep into room. He mind wandered and he asked himself what he was doing in this strange far away place, it was not really his idea of a holiday, of course Emma was enjoying herself, there were her Indian friends, the beach and visits.

  Parkly was comforted by the idea that in just a few days and they would be on their way home. Then he could give some attention to the other things that were weighing on his mind. The coming weeks would be difficult and there were problems at West Mercian that would require all his experience.

  The one thing good thing was the time he had had to look at things more objectively, from a distance he thought dryly. There was little doubt that West Mercian had gotten itself in too deep, its investment funds had become exposed to the growing subprime crisis.

  West Mercian along with other investment firms had been drawn into the vortex of collateralized debt obligations, an expression that he now hated. The CDOs held by the firm now appeared to consist of low rated and possibly frighteningly worthless subprime loans, that had been packaged, tranched and offloaded as prime paper to their investment funds, by what were in effect irresponsible Wall Street dealers, whose sole role now seemed to have been passing on the tainted product for a commission.

  It was no consolation to know that West Mercian was not the only sucker; already several major international banks had been affected, not forgetting those countries whose banks were overflowing with surplus dollars such as China and the Gulf States, and who knows how many others and for how much Parkly thought grimly.

  Parkly recalled the first sign of trouble had occurred in March or April when the Shanghai Stock Exchange's A-share index fell 8.8% in a single trading session, followed by Wall Street, with the Dow losing 416 points, the biggest drop since the attack on the World Trade Centre.

  Momentarily things seemed to right themselves, Parkly like many other relieved investors had seen it as nothing but a passing panic in the greatly overheated Chinese stock market. However, real problems started to appear in July when two subprime based hedge funds in the US collapsed.

  The contagion was quietly, slowly, boring its way into the body of the world finance system. The first sign of fever came with the astonishing run on the Northern Rock, then little by little, week by week, month by month, signs of the disease became distinctly visible and life threatening, with fearful investors finally crying out to the US government and the Fed for help.

  It was like an epidemic, the more the numbers of banks and institutions were infected, the more the contagion spread, which by the New Year was gaining fearsome momentum as the US government and its financial authorities frantically thrashed around in search of a cure - a quick cure.

  As with all disease, contagion had reached a crisis point. Banks and investment funds were forced into asset fire sales to cover shortfalls in reserves and meet margin calls, but the massive arrival of assets on the market only contributed to further depressing their value, starting an infernal cycle of downward pressure on values.

  Once the market had started to suspect the quality of the CDOs they held, they started to dis
cretely offload them onto unsuspecting fund managers, who were now being forced to admit to holding them and write them down.

  As to Parkly he had quietly ordered an internal audit to determine the quality of West Mercian's investment holdings and to his dismay had discovered a bag of worms, not only were there many suspect CDOs on their books, but the value of their property funds also looked potentially fragile.

  Before he had left he had issued instruction to his fund manager that these be quietly unloaded over the holiday period whilst the markets were quiet, but unfortunately he had not counted on the sudden fall on Wall Street and the run of bad news from the banks.

  Already potential buyers had sensed the danger and become wary of the sudden flood of suspect paper that was inundating the market from all sides, leaving West Mercian with the choice of accepting serious losses or ending up with worthless paper.

  There had already been signs of febrility in the market as gold rose to record levels, oil prices zigzagged up and down, the dollar plunged, stock indexes nervously jerked from one extreme to the other. It was evident there would be a rush into liquidity - and what was he doing? Sitting in the sun as the City burnt, to please his young wife in a small obscure Indian seaside town tucked away on the extreme southern point of the vast sub-continent without any real form of effective communication.

  A pain shot through his stomach, he was not sure whether it was due to the depressing idea of what was waiting for him back in London or whether it was the fish diner, in any case he quickly made for the bathroom.

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  Chapter 22

  Nicole Kavanagh had always wanted to go to India, as a child her grandfather, who had been a tea plantation manager until independence in Thekkady - a hill station in the Western Ghats, had often told her stories of tiger hunts on elephants, showing his then already ancient albums filled with fading photos of that now almost mythical world. It was one of the reasons her finger had stopped on Kerala when the travel agent had spread out a world atlas.

  Nicole was a good looking woman, though like most people she had her faults, they included a firm if not dominating character, which she was not aware of, and a tendency to eat between meals the principal cause of her weight problem, something she was however keenly aware of, constantly seeking new diets or any other means of trying to keep her weight down.

  The travel agent, who had visited Kerala, spoke enthusiastically of Kovalam and the Backwaters, and when she pointed to the page in the brochure that described Ayurvedic massages and diets she had all of Nicole's attention. As the agent checked the availability of flights and hotels Nicole attentively read the descriptive: massages, face packs, yoga exercises and meditation, though the latter was not exactly her thing.

  'There are three places on a flight the 23 December.'

  'I'll take them?and a good hotel, five stars.'

  The agent knew her well, she had sold Nicole cruises and plane tickets for her regular trips to Spain. Nicole Kavanagh wanted only the best.

  Nicole was a widow. Her husband had died at Christmas time, when the children were young and for her it was not a season of joy but one of painful memories. For years they had celebrated the end of the year festivities far from their Surrey home, in the Caribbean or Florida, then venturing further afield to South Africa, Kenya and Thailand.

  She now felt drawn by a family link, however tenuous, to India, and the Christmas holidays suited her plans. She had always wanted the children to know more of her family and its history, and more specifically of her grandparents, but India had always seemed so far away. Not only that but she suspected little remained of their home in Thekkady. Now when her travel agent spoke of southern India as a tourist destination it seemed like the moment had come to make her long postponed pilgrimage to Kerala.

  An airconditioned Ambassador had been booked for the four day trip from Kovalam to what had once been a hill station for the British in India. She had chosen the Ambassador herself remembering her grandfather had owned one of the first in that country, exported from England. It was comfortable, sedate, with good all round vision from its easy but rather old fashion upright seats.

  She sat in the back with Sarah whilst Ryan sat beside the driver, translating his commentaries on the different sights they passed on the road, the driver of course spoke English though at moments his accent was incomprehensible. They soon left the coastal plain and started to climb up towards Periyar, which lay more than one thousand metres above them in Western Ghats, the mountains which formed a natural barrier between the states of Kerala and the Tamil Nadu.

  As Nicole had grown up, India, once the Jewel in the Crown, became unfashionable. For most people it had been quickly dismissed, a forgotten a relic of the past, and when it chose a path of non-alignment, founding the notion of a Third World in Bandung, opinions at first soured then became outright antagonistic when, after the border war with Mao's China, India commenced its long and ruinous flirtation with Soviet Socialism.

  Once an enthusiastic reader of Rudyard Kipling, Nicole discovered V.S.Naipaul, a Trinidadian ethnic Indian, and became a fan of his stories and his search for modern India. In her holiday reading matter were the first two of his travelogues on India: An Area of Darkness, India and A Wounded Civilization, which gave what could have been described as a politically incorrect post-colonial description of the country to Indian eyes, filled with what were many difficult to accept truths for a great number of Indians.

  It was the Hindu pilgrim season and the roads into Kerala were filled with overloaded vehicles of every description arriving from the neighbouring Tamil Nadu. Bajajs, minibuses, trucks, tractors and buses, all filled with joyous pilgrims, shouting and waving palm fronds, accompanied by the sound of Hindu music played over deafening loudspeakers, as their drivers recklessly attacked the dangerous bends, making overtaking a hazardous task on the steep mountain roads, which twisted and turned in an astonishing and ever changing scenery.

  It was six in the afternoon, a thick mist covered the grounds of the hotel as the Ambassador pulled into the Taj Garden after the long tiring journey of almost seven hours needed to cover the two hundred or so kilometres that separated Kovalam from Thekkady, including a short stop for lunch.

  Walking through the mist and fine rain they were shown to their rooms; Bamboo bungalows with thickly thatched roofs of elephant grass - without heating. It seemed cold and disappointing. After cleaning up they ate an enjoyable meal in the hotel restaurant, momentarily restoring Nicole's good humour.

  'Never mind mum,' Ryan said laughing a little spitefully. For once he was not to blame for an exotic excursion. 'Perhaps the weather will be better tomorrow.'

  'Let's see if there is a bar in this place where we can get a drink, it's too bloody cold to go back to the huts!' Nicole replied sharply.

  A surprise awaited them as they made their way around the floodlight swimming pool and across the gardens where the tops of the huge trees were lost in the mist. Before them was a broad flight of steps leading up to a brightly lit bar. It was the original club room that had stood in the tea plantation, now almost a museum filled with souvenirs and relics of plantation owners' life in the thirties and forties.

  It was as though the clock had stopped, the glass eyes of the stuffed game trophies staring out from the teak panelling, amongst photos of pukka sahibs in baggy shorts and long socks, standing proudly alongside dead tigers.

  The walls were covered with a multitude of photographs dating from the first half of the twentieth century. Searching for her grandfather Nicole quickly found him, standing proudly, rifle in hand, before a dead elephant. There were many more photos of him and her grandmother, their happy faces smiling at her from the now forgotten past. Souvenirs of her grandparents flooded back and it took a good gin and tonic to pull her together and overcome her awakened emotions.

  'Can you imagine my grandfather, your great grandfather, probably played billiards in this very same room!'

  It was witho
ut any doubt an Englishman's ideal of a what a club room should be like with a well stocked bar and two full sized billiard tables, where he could drink Gin, mixed with tonic water, said to ward off malaria and sundry tropical diseases, smoke his pipe and discuss the price of tea or the next tiger hunt - very much a man's world.

  Nicole's grandfather, James Hogan, had spent thirty years in India, the last ten as general manager of the estate owned by the venerable Glasgow based house of James Finlay & Company.

  The hotel manager was not particularly overwhelmed to discover the presence of the granddaughter of James Hogan, but he did organise a meeting for her with the present day manager of the nearby tea plantation that Nicole's grandfather had once managed. It was partly owned by Tata Tea, a division of the mighty industrial Tata Group, which now owned Tetley Tea, a British institution that had started out as a family business and whose history went back to 1822, even before tea was introduced into India from China by the East India Company.

  Back in those distant days of Imperial glory, the British had tried to recreate a home from home in the hill stations of India, away from the oppressive heat and humidity of the coast, where they built their places of worship, replicas of those C of E churches found in English villages, with schools and clubs, where they taught the values of the Empire to their children, introduced Christianity and played golf and cricket.

  The visit to the plantations was a let down; it was cold, damp and muddy. Besides that it was just another agricultural business, picturesque and colourful, but nevertheless a business, the mysticism of the British ruling class had gone the same way as had the Empire, and with the continued expansion of the plantations the habitat of the tigers and elephants would suffer the same fate.

  Tea had become just another business, though its traditions and techniques remained basically unchanged, still with its nimble-fingered tea-pluckers and its swarthy coolies, now called porters. It was a vast commercial enterprise and life around it had changed as demand expanded, its profits paid another kind of nawab who flew in company jets, and instead of the profits going back to Good Old Blighty they now filled the pockets of a new and possibly less enlightened Raj.