The CEO: White Collar Crime Finance Suspense Thriller

by Peter Ralph

  “I-I’d like th-that,” he almost shouted in his excitement, and she burst out laughing. He hung his head, his face bright red, and then, for the second time, felt her hand on his arm.

  “Don’t be embarrassed. You’re kind, spontaneous, honest, caring, and very nice. Don’t be ashamed of those qualities, very few people possess them.”

  As time went by, they spent more and more time together, and by year twelve Kerry was totally besotted with Jasmine, despite her being his main competition for dux of the school honours.

  They joined The Salvation Army, became Rechabites, and their lives revolved around their university studies, the church and helping others. Kerry completed a Commerce Degree and started studying for his CPA qualification, while holding down a position as an assistant accountant with a large retailer, as well as being the church’s treasurer. Jasmine completed an Arts Degree, majoring in philosophy, before obtaining a position with a human resources firm.

  They married just after Kerry’s twentieth birthday, and made love for the first time that night. He was clumsy, inexperienced, and had been too embarrassed to buy any books that might have helped him on his wedding night. Fortunately, Jasmine’s mother

  had given her a thorough education about love-making, and she had read many books on the subject. It had been painful and un-enjoyable, but she loved Kerry so much that she gave no outward sign of discomfort, not that he would have noticed. Two years later their first son, Jack, was born and three years after that Jasmine gave birth to his brother, Sam.

  Kerry was a brilliant accountant, well-schooled in Australian and International Accounting Standards. If he’d been blessed with communication skills, he would have been one of the financial rocket scientists employed by the Macquarie Bank, on a salary of a million dollars a year. As it was, his roles were confined to that of assistant accountant or accountant, reporting to financial controllers and finance directors, who were not nearly as smart as him. Jasmine listened patiently each evening, as he poured out his frustrations about how unfair it was when he was overlooked for promotion. It was not the money but the lack of recognition that irked him so much. They lived comfortably on the salary he brought home, and occasionally had something left over for a little luxury. The night Kerry was offered the position with Mercury they hired a babysitter, and went out to an expensive restaurant, where he’d gushed about his future. Three months later Jasmine was not so sure that he had made the right decision. The boys rarely saw him during the week − he worked most Saturdays − and he’d become tired and withdrawn. Worse, she didn’t like his boss − he was loud, greedy, arrogant, and had openly ogled her in front of Kerry, his own wife and other employees. She had a strange foreboding, and would have been more than happy if Kerry had gone back to one of his old positions. That was not going to happen and, when he talked, it was about buying a holiday house in Mansfield, a new car or some luxury that they didn’t need.

  - 15 -

  THE BOARD OF the National Homeless Foundation comprised two social workers, a local councilor, a trade unionist, a doctor, a psychiatrist, Russell Ridgeway, CEO of the insurance giant, ANQ and Catherine Lensworth. “Welcome, Douglas, it was very kind of you to join us,” she said, wrapping her damp pudgy fingers around his hand. She was short, middle-aged, overweight, and her face was caked with rouge. He guessed the NHF was probably her sole interest in life. “Let me introduce you to the members of our board.”

  He nodded, smiled and shook hands, until he reached the boyish looking, smartly dressed man, who grinned and said, “How’d Catherine rake you into joining us, Douglas?”

  “I thought the NHF was a good cause, Russell, and I guess like you, I think we, who are so well rewarded in business, should give something back to the community.”

  “Is that why you sacked half your workforce?” the trade unionist sneered.

  “Jesus, Clarrie, get off your soapbox.” Russell said. “Douglas is a busy man, and we should be thankful he’s found the time to help us.”

  “Gentlemen,” Catherine said, “can we get to the business of the meeting?”

  There was a murmur of assent and she proceeded to read the minutes of the previous meeting, which were long and boring, before moving onto other items on the agenda. Aspine found it hard to concentrate, and was thinking about Kelly, when he was jolted back to the business of the meeting.

  “Douglas, do you have any ideas about how we might handle this problem?” Catherine asked.

  He had drifted off and had no idea what the problem was, and again Russell came to the rescue. “Catherine, you can’t expect Douglas to fund replacement soup vans every time one drops a gear-box, or blows an engine. He’s here for his expertise, not his cash. Watch her, Douglas, or you’ll never have your hand out of your pocket.”

  “How much are we talking?” Aspine asked.

  “With the trade-in on the old van, only twenty-five thousand dollars,” Catherine responded.

  “What about sponsorship?”

  “Sponsorship?”

  “Yes. I’ll need a reason, if I’m going to get this approved by my board. Would it be possible to sign-write ‘Proudly donated by Mercury Properties’ on the rear doors and side walls of the van?”

  “Oh, yes,” Catherine cooed.

  “That being the case, you can go ahead and buy your van, Catherine.” A little gasp went around the table, and even Russell Ridgeway looked impressed.

  “I thought you said you needed the approval of your board,” Catherine queried.

  “You misheard me.” Aspine grinned. “I said I needed a reason and you’ve given me one. I’ll have a cheque couriered to you this afternoon.”

  After the meeting Aspine walked to the car-park with Russell Ridgeway. “Watch yourself, Douglas. Catherine may appear like the friendly motherly type, but she’s a hard-headed determined executive, who’ll gleefully take your money.”

  “I’m happy to help the homeless,” Aspine responded, eager to ingratiate himself with Russell.

  “Good man. Are you a golfer?”

  “I play a little.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to join me at my club for lunch, and then a round?”

  “I’d like that. Where do you play?”

  “Royal Melbourne.”

  Aspine thought the meeting could not have gone better, and he was looking forward to establishing a solid friendship with Russell.

  “So this is the famous Ferrari. It doesn’t look like a chariot to me. Don’t those cartoonists jack you off, but you know you’ve made it when they start taking the piss out of you.”

  “What do you drive?”

  “A Lamborghini,” Russell said, pointing to a beautiful car parked two rows away.

  They shook hands warmly and promised to stay in touch. Aspine reasoned the twenty-five thousand had been money well spent.

  Aspine was interrupted by a gangly-fresh-faced young man tapping on his office door. Christ, Kelly was meant to screen his visitors. Where the fuck was she? “Yes. What is it?”

  “Can I see you, Mr Aspine? It’s important.”

  “Who are you?”

  “My name’s Rob Sorenson. I’m a sales rep.”

  “Whatever it is, take it up with Brad Hooper. He’s your boss,” Aspine scowled.

  “But it’s about Brad and one of the deals he...”

  Aspine cut him off. “I’m not in the business of listening to complaints about my executives from their subordinates,” he said, glaring at Sorenson who stood shifting his weight nervously from leg to leg.

  “It-it’s not a complaint. It’s...”

  “Jesus, man, sit down and spit out whatever’s on your mind.”

  “We sold an apartment to an old couple, the Cartwrights, who couldn’t really afford it. Anyhow, the old feller’s been worrying himself sick and phoning me every day. He hasn’t been able to sell the family house, and he’s made himself ill.”

  “He should’ve never signed the contract if he couldn’t complete.”


  “He had a stroke last night and he’s in hospital in a coma. His wife phoned me this morning, and said the stress of not being able to settle had pushed him over the edge. He mightn’t come out of the coma.”

  “That’s bullshit. People have strokes and heart attacks every day that have nothing to do with us. It sounds like his wife’s using her husband’s misfortune as a convenient excuse to get out of the contract. Anyhow, what do you expect me to do?”

  “I think we should let them out of the contract. It’d be a huge relief for them, and it’s not like we can’t sell the apartment again.”

  “What’d Brad say?”

  Sorenson looked down at his feet but when he looked up, his face was determined and his jaw set. “He said the guarantee they signed was joint and several and, that if the old bastard died, his wife would still have to settle.”

  “And he’s right. That’s what you have joint and several guarantees for. I’m sorry for the Cartwrights, but a contract’s a contract,” Aspine said, displaying no compassion. He agreed with Brad, but was wary as this was just the type of story that the media would be all over. The type of story that that shrew, Fiona Jeczik, covered, and just the thought of her smartarse questions and sneering face made him cautious and uneasy. “I’ll talk to Brad and if there’s anything we can do to help, he’ll let you know.” He almost slipped and said ‘if you’re still here’. Rob Sorenson didn’t know it, but his future at Mercury was going to be very short-term.

  -16 -

  ASPINE COERCED AND cajoled the board into providing him with the authority to issue three million options to acquire shares in Mercury to executives, at his discretion. He promptly issued three hundred thousand to Brad Hooper and Jack Gillard, and two hundred thousand to Kurt Metzger and Brian Eppel, that gave them the right to acquire shares in Mercury at an exercise price of $2.60, anytime over the next three years. Harry Denton vigorously opposed the granting of options but, with Sir Edwin’s help, Aspine convinced the board that it was in the company’s best interests.

  Profits were up thirty-seven per cent for the first half, but Aspine had anticipated a far greater increase and was worried about how the market would react. Apartment selling prices were too low, the construction of buildings was too slow, and the purchase prices of materials were too high.

  The new sales team had cleared the backlog of apartments, and hundreds more had been sold off-the-plan. Mercury had an embarrassment of cash that it was not using and Aspine knew that he had to put it to work, or be faced with earning a lousy five per cent bank interest. He also wanted to increase apartment prices, but knew that he couldn’t unless the company’s competitors also increased theirs.

  Dissatisfied by the amount of time it was taking to erect high-rise buildings, Aspine dispatched Jack Gillard to Las Vegas for two weeks, so he could study the methods of builders in that city. He knew it was common in Vegas to add a floor level per week, despite the enormous size of the buildings.

  Aspine’s main concern was the cost of materials and consumables, and he was convinced that he had made a mistake in not sacking Anthony Keen, who he now saw as a weak and ineffectual supply manager. The thought that suppliers were stitching him up, stuck in his craw and he summoned Keen to his office. Even as Keen was sitting down, he barked, “Anthony! What’s happening? Our suppliers are screwing us blind and you’re letting them get away with it.”

  “That’s not right. We get three quotes on all major items. Are you having a bad day, Douglas?”

  Aspine was momentarily taken aback by Keen’s insolence. “No I’m not, but if you keep that up you soon will be,” he growled. “What you do after you get the quotes?”

  “We take the lowest of course!”

  “You don’t phone the supplier with the second best quote and provide a figure they have to beat? Surely you contact the supplier with the best quote, and get them to sharpen their pencil. Christ, there’s a million ways you can bullshit suppliers to drive down prices.”

  “That’s not the way we do business. We work in partnership with our suppliers. They hold stocks for us, deliver promptly and we pay them within their trading terms. That’s the way Harry set things up, and it’s worked very successfully,” Keen said, running his fingers through his silver hair.

  “Successfully! Jesus, no wonder we’re getting screwed. Anthony, do you have to work, or is it just a hobby?”

  Keen flushed with anger. “What do you mean?”

  “People, who negotiate like you, don’t usually have to work. They’re not hungry, and the thought of screwing someone is abhorrent to them. That’s your problem. Now answer my question.”

  “I don’t need to work, but I enjoy it, have a lot of good years left, and have no intention of resigning. If you try to get rid of me like you did with Neil Widge and Tim Farmer, I’ll drag you through the courts and the media,” Keen said, a vein in his forehead throbbing furiously. “I knew what you were up to when I didn’t get any options.”

  “I won’t get rid of you, but your days as supply manager are numbered. You can stay on as a purchasing officer if you like, reporting to the new supply manager. In a year’s time we’ll compare the prices we’re paying then, with what we’re paying now. If I’m right, and they’ve been slashed, I’ll sack you for gross incompetence, and you can do what you like in court.”

  “I won’t accept a demotion and...”

  Kelly’s shrill voice echoed through the intercom. “Douglas, there’s been a terrible accident at the Rowville quarry. One of our employee’s, Bert Stuart, has been run over by a tipper. He-he’s dead.”

  Aspine’s first thought was about self-preservation. “Kurt, I need to see Kurt urgently.”

  “He’s not here; he’s already on his way to Rowville.”

  “Get him on his mobile, then get me Max Vogel and, after I’ve finished with him, Wes Bracken.”

  “Aren’t you going to contact his family first?” Kelly gasped.

  “Just do what I tell you.”

  Anthony Keen’s face was filled with contempt. “I’ll get back to you,” Aspine said, dismissing him.

  Kurt sounded like he’d been crying. “A tipper reversed over him.”

  “How can that be? Weren’t the warning beepers on the tipper working? Is it one of ours or a sub-contactor’s?”

  “The beepers were working fine. Bert was deaf, and sometimes when it was really noisy he’d take his hearing-aid out. This was one of those times. He didn’t see or hear the tipper,” Kurt sniffled. “The driver was a subby. He’s in shock and too distraught to talk. He’s not to blame.”

  “How old was he?”

  “Fifty-nine.”

  Aspine restrained himself. He knew who was to blame. Fucking Kurt! Why had the dopey German prick allowed someone that old and deaf to remain in the employ of the company? He also knew that it wasn’t the time to take him to task. “You’d better stay put. The WorkSafe investigators and coroner will be there soon. Now I know you’re upset − we all are − but it’s important that you admit nothing. Do you understand?”

  “You-you’re wor-worried about that,” Kurt choked.

  Aspine fought back the overwhelming desire to say, you fucking stupid Kraut bastard, this is your fault!

  Max Vogel’s advice was brief and to the point. “Douglas, you could go to jail for this. Admit nothing. Say as little as possible. Refer all queries to me, and lie low.”

  “Christ, Max, I can’t do that. The union’s going be all over it, and they’ll claim that the retrenchments reduced safety. Then the media will jump on the bandwagon.”

  “Did they?”

  “No. We’ve got the same number of safety representatives at the quarry as we had before. But the truth’s never stopped the unions from spinning their anti-business bullshit, when they’ve had the opportunity.”

  “So you’re saying you provided a safe working environment?”

  “Yes, of course. The driver’s a sub-contractor. Surely you can get to him.”


  “I thought you said he wasn’t to blame.”

  “That was before I knew I might go to jail. I don’t care who you hang out to dry, if it helps keep me out of the clink.”

  “I’ll have a copy of his statement tomorrow, and we’ll run a check on his driving record. Before the week is out, we’ll know everything about this guy that there is to know − his secrets, his girlfriends, his affairs and his drinking habits.

  “I’ve got a call into Wes Bracken. Depending on what he says, I’m going to see Bert Stuart’s family this afternoon.”

  “Douglas, if you’re going to disregard my advice, please be careful.”

  Wes suggested that his firm prepare a media statement, expressing the company’s condolences, and separate death notices that he’d submit to the Herald-Sun on behalf of Aspine and the company. “Do you think I should visit the family this afternoon?”

  “You have to. Anything less will appear callous and uncaring. Don’t drive the Ferrari though, and take someone with you. You don’t want any misinterpretations about what’s said.”

  “I’ll take Kurt. He’s been at the quarry all day and he’ll know more about what happened than anyone else.”

  “Bad move. The family will want to know the specifics and, the less you know, the better. Why don’t you take your PA – females are more sensitive than males. Express sympathy and concern and offer to meet any short-term expenses.”

  “Fiona Jeczik’s been holding for ten minutes. She said it’d be in your interest to talk to her. Will I put her through?” Kelly asked.

  “Get rid of her, then come and see me.”

  “You’re not in her good books,” Kelly said, as she entered his office. “She said to tell you that she wanted to give you the opportunity to tell your side of the story.”

  “Forget about her,” he said, wishing he could take his own advice. “Find out where Bert Stuart lived. We’re going to visit his family, and we’re taking your car.”