Death of a Financier

by John Francis Kinsella

  'Sir, we should not stay here,' said the driver leaning backwards his hand over his mouth. They did not wait for him to repeat his warning.

  'Where are they taking her?'

  He pointed towards a tall brightly painted church tower perched on a nearby hill, the tower had a strange geometrical form, tiered like a wedding cake and without a spire.

  They made their way up hill through a series of narrow streets and larger houses, which if they had been in a better state of repair and maintenance it would have been picturesque with the large tropical trees shading the yards and gardens.

  Reaching the top of the hill they arrived in a broad square. To one side was a school, to the other the gaily coloured Madre De Deus church, a tall Christmas tree still stood in its forecourt decorated with tinsel and large plastic stars. Facing the church was the village meeting hall where a medical centre had been set up. The school had been transformed into a makeshift hospital lined with narrow camp beds on which the sick lay connected to intravenous drips for rehydration.

  The problem in Vizhinjam was very different from that of Kovalam where hospitalization, not considered vital for the local population by the authorities, was necessary for its tourists with the authorities forced to provide a significantly higher degree of medical care and attention.

  Normally in India strict isolation was unnecessary in hospitals where providing standard precautionary procedures were respected there was little risk to medical personnel and other staff.

  The reporters were met by a scene of lethargic, fatalistic, despair. Nursing sisters from a Christian religious order, bearing looks of pious sufferance, slowly moved among the sick as a parish priest went through the ritual of dispensing blessings. They were only disturbed by the movement of the wretched stretcher bearers.

  In the municipal hall young Indian doctors examined their patients, many of whom were the very poor. It was manifest that the medical staff desperately lacked means. Here there were no police or officials, apart from the medical officers. Enteric epidemics were not an unusual occurrence in Indian villages, though this one seemed to be particularly virulent.

  Davies pointed his cameraman to a long line of patient villagers being vaccinated by a young doctor assisted by a nurse, who from her clothes appeared to be a nun. It was the kind of a shot that always drew the sympathy and brought the reality of disease and poverty home to viewers.

  The doctor was surprised to see the agitated Europeans pointing their camera at him.

  'Do you speak English,' asked Davies.

  'Yes Sir.'

  'Why are you vaccinating these people?'

  'There is a risk of typhoid, so we have been instructed by the Chief Medical Officer's bureau to carry out a vaccination campaign whilst we are here.'

  'Why don't you jet-guns, they're more hygienic, you could vaccinate a couple of hundred people in no time.'

  'Jet-guns Sir! That sounds marvellous, unfortunately I've never actually seen one,' the doctor replied. 'We have very little money.'

  They pressed on and a few moment later at the back of the hall they made a morbid discovery, a line of cheap plywood coffins lay waiting for the next victims. In and around the village many people had died and more were to die before the disease was brought under control.

  The newsmen headed back to their hotel where they first showered, thoroughly scrubbing and rinsing themselves, again and again, before changing into fresh clothing. Williams then started work, viewing and editing the tapes, splicing those filmed in Kovalam with shots of the grim scenes taken in Vizhinjam. The cobbled together images were then uploaded via satellite and transmitted to London where they made the early evening news causing panic amongst tourists' relatives. The same images were then retransmitted to European national television networks in time for the main evening news - setting phone lines buzzing all over the continent and prompting a rush of ministerial crisis meetings.

  The next morning the reporters were back in Kovalam. Davies hit gold in a report that was to make his reputation, their driver had been informed by his friends of the presence of a certain Dr Ryan Kavanagh, the British doctor who was reported to have alerted the authorities. It did not take Davies long to locate Ryan who went on tape describing the events that had led up to the death of the well known British financier Stephen Parkly, CEO of the troubled West Mercian financial group, and the outbreak of the disease in Kovalam.

  It made sensational news in the UK, transforming the good looking young doctor into an instant hero, with images in which he could have been compared to a modern day Albert Schweitzer, or the counterpart of a Mother Teresa or Florence Nightingale, caring for the sick in a distant plague ridden land. The disaster became even more sensational as the public learnt of the death in Kovalam of the now almost infamous financier, his photo flashing across television screens in millions of British homes with that of his attractive young wife, now a widow trapped in the tragic events taking place in what - with the images of Vizhinjam spliced in - looked like a hell hole, thousands of miles from home in the cholera stricken town of Kovalam, making the average viewer wonder what on earth tourists were doing in such a desolate underdeveloped tropical slum.

  The hunt was now on, news agencies clamoured for interviews or photographs of the bereaved former model, Emma Parkly, and every news team and photographer present in Kovalam worth their reputations knew that there was a major scoop to be made if they could find her.

  It was not long before international reporters who had been following the Bhutto assassination in nearby Pakistan dropped what they were doing and flocked to Kerala. Not since the tsunami had there been an equivalent influx of international press reporters to a tourist resort. The difference however was they were prevented from accessing the zone by the Indian authorities and this together with the lack of telephone communications made it almost impossible to get first hand reports out of the crisis area, raising speculation that it was more serious than the Indians were prepared to admit.

  The first tourists to get a hint of what was happening were those due to leave for home that weekend as departing groups were informed of unexplained problems relating to their flight arrangements, being told they would have to remain put until more information was available.

  To the others it looked like another day. It was some time before news and rumours spread and people started talking to each other as medical teams commenced their rounds. Their first reaction was of amusement and disbelief, then anger, before panic set in and they headed towards the town's Internet caf?s to inform the families at home of their predicament, only to discover they had been shut without explanation.

  The immediate reaction to the headlines in London, Stockholm, Paris, Moscow, Tokyo and many other capitals was the wholesale cancellation of travel to 'incredible' India, followed by an onslaught of calls by anxious relatives to their foreign affairs departments and consulates. Crowds formed outside of Indian embassies across Europe. The usual long lines of patient visa applicants were replaced by unruly mobs shouting for news of their loved ones.

  Television viewers, watching medical specialists invited to news programmes for their analysis of the cholera epidemic, were horrified to discover that hundreds of thousands of Indians died each year from enteric diseases. Indian and Pakistani restaurants across the world were forsaken for Chinese and other eateries. Flights to India emptied and travel agencies registered an unprecedented number of cancellations to the sub-continent and neighbouring countries.

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  Chapter 78

  SkyNews ordered Davies to find Emma quick, but she was nowhere to be found. The driver had learnt she and her husband had checked out of their hotel some days before for the clinic where Parkly had died. The first job of the day for Davies was to visit the clinic and interview the staff.

  They were out of luck; they shot some footage of the clinic and spoke with the receptionist who called a senior director who refused all commentary.

  Davies then realis
ed that the sure way to find her was through Kavanagh who he knew was staying at the Rainbow in Kovalam, just a few metres from the spot Williams had judiciously selected as the backdrop for the previous day's interview, a rubbish tip at the bottom of the hill leading into Kovalam Beach nearby the Hindu Temple, the tip was incongruously decorated with a bright banderol advertising the Lonely Planet vegetarian restaurant.

  They hung around and sure enough Kavanagh appeared at the gate of the Rainbow. Davies made him a casual wave.

  'Hi there, what's new?'

  'Nothing much.'

  'The interview was shown yesterday evening on the news.'

  'Oh, good,' said Ryan not particular impressed or concerned.

  'Tell me, you were with the Parkly's,' Davies said as nonchalantly as possible. 'What happened to Mrs Parkly?'

  'As far as I know she's in Trivandrum,' replied Ryan sensing Davies' intentions. He had seen the press in action in London, whenever people in the news had been hospitalised at St Georges, and knew of the kind of ruses they got up to for a picture.

  'Hmm, pity it would have been nice to speak to her,' said Davies.

  Ryan shrugged and said goodbye turning left and making his way to Francis' place on the other side of the town.

  After a couple of moments Davies nodded to the driver to follow Ryan on foot then turned his attention to the desultory movements of the police and officials standing around on the corner.

  Things unexpectedly started to move when a series of buses slowly rolled down the steep road into the town and were directed to the car park opposite the Sea Rock Hotel. The evacuation had started.

  Lists of tourists and their return destinations had been drawn up by the authorities with the help of the hotels. Each family group had been issued with a number according to their return destination and was invited to assemble in the car park with their baggage, at a precisely given time, from where buses would take them to Trivandrum airport. There charter flights organised by the governments of the tourists' respective countries were waiting to carry them home.

  The SkyNews team after bribing the desk manager at the Sea Rock, had a grandstand view from the hotel's roof, filming what seemed like an orderly procedure, but soon their patience was rewarded and things started to go awry.

  As the first buses filled with passengers they started to leave the car park, only to find themselves face to face, at the bottom of the steep and narrow road leading out of the town, with a line of buses arriving for the second group of departures. It was impossible for the buses to pass each other, the road was barely wide enough for one bus, and any idea of backing the heavy incoming buses up the steep hill was out of the question. As the police responsible for the organisation desperately waved their arms and shouted contradictory instructions, the departing buses waited their motors running, then one stalled, its motor overheated, and slowly but surely the well calculated departure plan collapsed into disorder.

  The traffic was in gridlock and the car park slowly continued to fill as new groups arrived at their scheduled departure time. The temperature climbed as the sun reached its high point in the tropical sky. Clouds of dust mixed with diesel fumes rose as drivers manoeuvred to make way for the buses trying to back into the car park. Bags were mislaid, children cried and tempers frayed as drivers shouted incomprehensible instructions to each other, whilst the overtaxed police desperately tried to bring some order into the situation.

  Davies revelled in the chaos, shooting close-ups of children's tears and hysterical mothers. It looked like a repeat of the 1940 wartime evacuation of London, more colourful, more chaotic, with to add to the strangeness of the scene a background of coconut palms, their fronds waving lazily above the dust, fumes and cries in the car park.

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  Chapter 79

  Money had not been Barton's motivation, what he liked about his business was it enabled him to lead an easy going life. He did not like the pressure cooker atmosphere of finance houses and trading rooms, he did not like high powered managers out to make a kill - if not kill each other - he did not like working long hours late into the night and he had not wanted to be washed out and dumped on the scrap heap at forty.

  When he watched stressed fund managers, traders, back office supervisors, risk analysts, controllers, quants and all the other financial market specialists, he did not envy them.

  Barton could have accepted one of the many high flying positions that had been offered to him over the past ten glorious years the finance sector had enjoyed, or perhaps sold his small brokerage business for a handsome sum to a larger firm wanting a foot in the market, but he turned down every offer preferring his own easy going pace. His business seemed to function by itself, receiving more demands than he cared to handle. He deliberately avoided any notion of expanding, preferring to refer excess demand to his more ambitious friends.

  For the same reason he had unconsciously avoided marriage, he had had many girl friends, but always, at some indefinable point, those close relationships faded to mere friendships.

  He had often wondered whether he had created a selfish existence, avoiding responsibility, but then reasoned a responsibility to whom? If his responsibility was to himself then he was responsible, in the meantime he had no other personal obligations, he had been an only child and had always made an effort to please his parents, though moderately so. Apart from that he helped his clients transform their dreams into reality or at times helped them out of a passing difficulty by cashing in the capital locked into their property and was in return paid for his professional advice, he never judged the motivations of those to whom he rendered his services, after all they held the responsibility for their decisions, including reading the small print.

  Taking on a mortgage was often one of the most important financial decisions his clients made in their whole lives and Barton's firm offered them the services of a qualified mortgage broker, who had access to a wide range of mortgage products with tailored made solutions for individuals and small businesses.

  Over the years he had become a fine observer of human behaviour, tuned into the ambitions of a population conditioned by the idea that success was the overriding goal of their lives, and the notion that their homes were symbols of that success. His typical client was a low to medium range manager working in the City for whom he had established the reputation of offering an efficient service with competitive mortgages, which was principally due to the fact his customers were good risks. There were also the owners of a small to medium sized businesses, which included anything from restaurants, shops, small building firms and garages with occasionally manufacturing companies, these clients came in a different category and produced good commissions since the risks were always higher and consequently so were the costs of their mortgages.

  Everyday he observed his fellow commuters on the train into town, he could identify them by salary, profession and debt, he recognised the plodders, the high flyers, confident managers, those in trouble - threatened by divorce or debt, and the dead enders, in their respective uniforms, high flyers in bespoke suits wearing City fashionable ties and stylish shoes, the plodders wearing off the peg suits and faded ties; then there were the power girls, the secretaries and weary mothers. He could see their lives traced out before them, at the end of the road, weary, worn-out, bent, grey haired men and women, walking frames and poor health, arm in arm in their dreary everyday routine of suburban Romford, Hornchurch or Upminster, a vision that as time passed he unconsciously thrust aside, dismayed at what the future could hold.

  When he caught the ramshackle morning commuter train, it was always just after peak hour, the only advantage was it was fast, even if not always on time. His secretary and small staff were early risers and handled the first callers, during which time, Tom Barton, after a short walk up Fenchurch Street, stopped for a latte in the coffee shop situated in the office building arcade, arriving in his office just before ten.

  Over the years he had allowed his small staff t
o become junior partners in his brokerage business, taking care to keep all his forays into property separate and in his personal name, free of any liens to the firm. In the case of a sudden down turn in the property market the brokerage firm could continue as an entirely separate entity, in the form of a limited company, even if one day he was forced to dispose of his own share.

  Many other such businesses were run through the structure of a limited company, but he never gave a director's guarantee or took on debts in the firm's name, it was a principal he had established from the very start, to provide a form of job protection for those who placed their confidence in him.

  From the beginning of the previous year he had seen signs that the bubble had reached bursting point, what was surprising was that it had not happened earlier, in any case it would not greatly affect his business, euphoria had reached its peak, the pundits forecast a never ending though less steep house price growth curve, others predicted a soft landing, but the bulls dominated market thought and contrarians were seen as doom watchers predicting an unlikely Malthusian collapse.

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  Chapter 80

  The news from London was not good, in a bid to stop panic selling another major life and pension firm announced it was halting redemptions from its property funds for up to six months It was one more on a growing list of firms taking action to prevent a Northern Rock style run.

  Years of high returns had ended in a sudden slowdown in the market as a result of the credit squeeze and the fall of commercial property values with demand almost disappearing.

  Fund managers had been forced to introduce restrictions to avoid panic selling in the forlorn hope that prices would rise again, which had the opposite effect, as investors no longer believed in the optimism of the desperate fund managers, if past crashes were anything to go by the bottom of the downward spiral was a long way off.