by Mike Ripley
‘He’ll get up for me,’ I said, moving towards the stairs.
‘Don’t you go disturbing him. He’s had ...’
‘Salome recovered consciousness this morning.’
Lisabeth squealed and advanced on me, beaming.
I backed rapidly up the stairs, holding the bouquet between us like Peter Cushing used to hold a crucifix up to Dracula.
Frank sat in the back of Armstrong, occasionally kneeling up on the rumble seat so he could yell in my ear, but all the time talking. Before we reached the BUPA hospital in Paddington, I felt I knew every temperature change Salome had gone through in the past five days, what her grandmother – phoning twice daily from Jamaica – thought about life, the universe and young people driving around in fast cars, and how difficult Frank had found going to the launderette.
The one thing he didn’t ask, for which I was grateful, was what Salome had been doing with Alec Reynolds at midnight on a Saturday down in darkest Kent. Then again, he’d no reason to think I knew.
A nurse in a pale blue designer trouser suit (how unlike the dear old National Health!) gave Frank a dirty look, as he had rushed out in T-shirt, jeans and trainers. I still had the suit on – and Fly’s glasses if I needed any props – so I got a ‘That’ll do nicely’ sort of smile and the up-from-under look that tells you that there are advantages to private medicine. I made a mental note to ask for an application form on the way out.
She asked us to wait and indicated a nest of Bauhaus leather armchairs. I’d hardly got comfortable when another lady – older, but still born after the Beatles had their first Number One – wearing a pink trouser suit with waistcoat, announced herself as the hospital administrator and told us to follow her.
Frank saw me watching the sway of her buttocks as we trooped down a corridor.
‘That reminds me,’ I said out of the corner of my mouth, ‘I must get my watch fixed.’
It was an old one – one of Groucho’s actually – but he smiled and relaxed a bit, so it did the job.
The administrator took us one floor up in a lift big enough to ferry a helicopter to the roof. Maybe some of their patients arrived that way.
‘Mrs Asmoyah is in Primrose,’ she said to Frank. I thought she was being sarky about my bouquet, but then I realised all the rooms were named after flowers. Primrose was second on the left after Violet if you hung a right after Tulip. I wondered if they had one called Hemlock for the really ill.
‘We moved her there just before lunch when she came to.’
‘Has a doctor seen her?’ asked Frank anxiously.
‘Of course,’ said the Obergruppenfuhrer administrator in her ‘What-do-you-think-we-are?’ voice. ‘Two in fact; the duty doctor and a consultant – a very distinguished one, I might add.’
‘You see, Frank,’ I said, slapping him on the back. ‘Nothing’s too good for our Salome. I told them to spare no expense.’
The administrator smiled. I’d said the right thing, and she’d buttoned me as the one who signed the cheques. I was in there.
We discussed the administration of the hospital, especially the shift times of the nurses, to allow Frank a few minutes alone with Salome. I tell you, I’m always thinking of others. Then I asked the administrator, who was called Lucy (I was right about the Beatles), what the real form was on Sal’s case.
‘Nothing unusual really, although of course it’s not usual to get yourself smashed up in a car accident in the first place. But for people who do suffer head injuries like Mrs Asmoyah, it’s not uncommon for them to suddenly come round a week or even ten days later and be perfectly okay. There may be problems: damage to the eyesight, loss of sense of smell, perhaps amnesia. That’s why we’ll keep her in for a week or so, for tests, but our consultant is very pleased with her – and very optimistic. She’s very lucky, having a caring employer like you.’
I had to agree. I was the soul of philanthropy as I entered the Primrose room. Strike that. Make it Primrose Suite.
There was a flat-screen TV and video recorder on a two-tier trolley, both remote controlled, headphones for a radio and tape system, remote-controlled blinds and curtains and a small fridge with the words ‘Personal Bar’ printed on the door. So this was how the other half got sick. I could handle it.
‘Angel!’ croaked Salome from the bed, which seemed to have Frank draped across it like a spare duvet.
There was a lot of hand-clasping, cuddling and a few tears, some of them from Salome. Then she asked what had happened to Alec, because nobody had told her, and I just looked at a spot about a foot above her head and let Frank do the dirty work.
When Sal stopped sobbing, I asked her how much she remembered about the accident. It wasn’t much.
‘We’d done the Exhilarator course in the evening, but we hadn’t found anything – except that Cawthorne doesn’t like women much, and blacks not at all.’
Frank tensed, but I lifted a finger slightly to shut him up.
‘We were staying in a hotel in Maidstone and we went back for a meal, then later, about tennish, we sneaked back to see if there was anything going down. Cawthorne seemed to be having a private party. There were a lot of cars at the farm but nobody around. They were all off in the woods somewhere.
‘We got as close as we dared, and we could see torches and they were using ... Alec called them thunderflashes ...’ I nodded to show I understood. ‘And then we heard guns. Real guns. Alec said we’d better get out of there, so we did. I’m sure we weren’t seen, but I was pretty scared.’ Her brow creased in puzzlement. ‘I remember getting in the car and driving through the village back to the main road ... but ... nothing else.’
She reached for Frank’s arm and grabbed it with both her hands.
‘Frank! I just can’t remember anything else! I just don’t recall the accident.’
‘Good,’ I said, patting her arm. ‘Let’s keep it that way.’
Chapter Thirteen
McInnes’s office was a suite on the second floor of a four-storey block sandwiched between other late-’60s developments, all now owned by Japanese or Canadian banks for some reason. Most of them had bistros or wine bars on the ground floor or in the basement, but they came and went. Above them, business went on.
A big, black security guard practised his mean look on me through a plate glass door, but eventually released the electronic lock after I’d asked for McInnes through a squawk box. He pointed to a door at the end of a short corridor. I smiled at him, but he didn’t look a better person for it.
There were three or four offices, all with doors open but lights off. I got the impression that McInnes had let the staff go early. His door simply had ‘Chairman’ embossed on it. I knocked and there was another electric buzz before the door clicked open. Another careful man.
His jacket hung on an old oak hat-stand, probably the only thing in the room not electronic or plastic, apart from the chunky gold cufflinks on his blue-striped shirt and a digital watch that looked as if it not only gave you the exchange rate for yen but ran the traffic lights in Tokyo as well. His desk was modern pine and no bigger than a baseball diamond. Most of it was occupied by a word processor and printer, leaving just enough room for two small televisions and a multi-purpose phone console. There were no personal knick-knacks or executive toys, but with that little lot, he didn’t need them.
‘Angel! Hello. Good man.’ He wasn’t looking at me, but at the VDU screen on the WP. ‘Come and look at this.’
I sauntered round the desk to get a view of the screen. The only chair in the room was his swivel one, though there were two sofas near the window. Good psychology. Your visitors were either friends you could relax with or minions you made stand. I stood, but put my hands in my bomber jacket pockets just to show I was chill.
The screen showed a balance sheet for a company headed LTN, but it might as well have been in Chinese for the sense it ma
de to me.
‘Linton’s,’ said McInnes. ‘You must have heard of them. Surely?’
I looked as if I was thinking. He wasn’t fooled.
‘Holiday camps, man. Linton’s-by-the-Sea. Oh I Do Like to Linton by the Seaside ...’
‘Does that thing play the organ as well?’
‘Oh, come on ...’
‘Yes, okay. Linton’s holiday camps. I’ve heard of them.’ Then I added quickly: ‘But I’ve never been to one.’
‘Och, I have,’ he said, laying on the Highland Mist accent. ‘When I was a wee boy.’
‘I know, you could have a week’s holiday, ice-cream and fish ‘n’ chips every day and still have change from 25 pence.’
‘It was called five shillings in those days, but I don’t suppose you remember the old money.’
‘I wouldn’t own up to it if I did.’
He smiled.
‘Sir Frederick Linton started his holiday camps just after the war ...’
‘Well, there were plenty of guards looking for work.’
‘There isn’t one we haven’t heard, Angel.’
‘Sorry.’
‘He was never as big as Butlin or Pontin, with far fewer sites, but they generated a good cashflow and he was able to move upmarket. Farmhouse holidays in Dorset, salmon fishing in Scotland, even grouse-shooting.’
‘But?’
He looked at me.
‘There has to be a but ...’ I said.
‘You’re right. The problem was Sir Frederick himself. He got his knighthood for services to the Countryside Commission, not for being a good businessman. He disliked credit, so any expansion was paid for by generated cash and consequently he got left behind the operators who didn’t mind borrowing. Sir Frederick also has a profound distrust of marketing and advertising, so – surprise, surprise – very few people ever heard of his expansion into holidays abroad.’
‘He doesn’t sound to be the Club 18-30 type.’
‘He isn’t. He still thinks there is a sedate lower middle class out there wanting communal family holidays. Over the past six years, he’s bought eight derelict farmhouses in northern France and attempted to turn them into blocks of self-catering flats with pretty basic amenities. He’s been taken for a ride by every French builder south of Dieppe. The units are not up to standard, late, and in the wrong place. Britanny Ferries showed what you could do if you marketed them right. Sir Frederick just bumbled along.’
‘And now he’s in trouble?’
‘Going downhill, shall we say. Profits have been lousy for the last couple of years and he can no longer generate cash to reinvest in his property.’
‘Can’t he borrow?’
‘He could, but he doesn’t want to. He’s 68 now and looking to retire. The French venture was meant to add value to the company so he could sell up and settle the proceeds on his three daughters.’
‘What about the Linton holiday camps in this country? Surely they’re worth a bomb nowadays?’
McInnes pushed his chair back from the screen. ‘You’d think so, but Freddy’s a funny old cove. I told you about the Countryside Commission. Virtually every site, every piece of land he owns, is tied up to the National Trust or is in a green belt or nature conservancy area. His major asset – his only asset – was his land, and he virtually gave it away. I wouldn’t mind having a piece of it myself, but there’s nothing you could do with it. There’s no way it could be developed.’
‘But that doesn’t apply to the property in France, does it?’
He winked at me. ‘You’re catching on.’
McInnes gave me a quick lecture in company share structure, followed by a seminar on desk-top publishing. The last bit I found interesting; the bit about the company went in one ear and almost straight out of the other without a pit stop.
Roughly, though, it went something like this.
Linton Plc – the LTN abbreviation on his screen – had a thin spread of shares, about 42%, publicly owned, Sir Frederick and his family owning the rest. McInnes had identified five dealers who were market-makers in LTN and three major institutionals with an interest who were also clients of Prior, Keen, Baldwin.
‘If we use PKB to leak the suggestion that I am considering going into a partnership with Sir Frederick to develop the French end of things – I’m known to have interests in France as it is – then an unscrupulous person would have a good go at buying up any stock on the market, maybe even approaching the family for some of their allocation.’
‘And before the news got out, so the price wouldn’t rise.’
‘Naturally, and by taking out the market-makers all at once, you could guarantee that.’
‘How much would the price rise – normally?’
McInnes swivelled to the WP keyboard and tapped away.
‘Shares today closed at 113p each, but there hasn’t been any trading for weeks. I’d guess that if a merger was announced they could go to 350p. If the land didn’t have so many restrictions, a lot more than that.’
‘But you’d double your money?’ I said, wishing I had a cigarette.
‘Yes, you’d expect to.’
‘And you think because of the French connection, Cawthorne won’t be able to resist it? Given his speculations over there near the Tunnel, could this be another branch of the same thing? What do you call it?’
‘A fit. Yes, it could seem as if Linton’s French properties would fit with Cawthorne’s Yuppie commuter homes.’
‘So – let me get this straight – we’re leaking to Cawthorne the opportunity to at least double his money, possibly even get control of more land in France?’
‘Mm-mm.’ McInnes smiled and nodded.
I shook my head. ‘Well, he’ll certainly go for that,’ I said.
‘So would I,’ said McInnes, ‘if I could raise nearly five million on a credit line quickly enough.’
‘You probably could.’ He made the modesty gesture, palms up. ‘Can Cawthorne?’
‘I think so, but it’ll stretch him badly. He’ll have to put the Exhilarator and his French land up to do it.’
‘But he could walk away with ten million.’
‘If he’s willing to take the risk.’
‘Just how much of a risk is it?’
McInnes looked at his fingernails.
‘A stupid one. If you know that the French government is about to announce plans for a nuclear reactor near the prime Linton site in east Normandy and you know that Sir Frederick Linton is going to declare himself bankrupt next week.’
If I’d had a hat on, I would have taken it off.
‘You devious bastard,’ I said.
‘Why, thank you, Roy.’
McInnes drafted himself a letter. Well, not actually a letter, more a press release. He headed it for his attention only, marked it ‘Draft Announcement: For Approval’ and dated it for the next day. The text outlined a merger between Linton Plc and Glen and Island Securities, which I presumed was one of McInnes’s companies, to take effect within a week. The date of the announcement was for Monday at 11.00 am, and there was also a lot of stuff about share options and cash alternatives.
He put all this up on the WP himself and then took a wedge of PKB circular paper out of a drawer and fed it into the printer. He tried one out, adjusted the margins and pressed a few buttons until a perfect copy came out. He put it in an A4 envelope without folding it and stuck a pre-printed address label on it.
‘Get PKB to send this to me by messenger first thing tomorrow, and I’ll guarantee Cawthorne will be buying Linton stock before the pubs open.’ As he spoke, he ripped up the first version he’d printed off and dropped it in a waste bin. Then he fiddled with the WP keyboard again.
‘Wiping clean?’ I asked, tucking the envelope inside my jacket.
‘Yes. I told you, I’m staying squeaky
clean on this one. When that comes tomorrow, I’ll burn it. PKB won’t have any knowledge of it and Cawthorne could never admit where he got his copy from. I don’t have any shares in Linton. No comebacks.’
I remembered what he’d said at Sorrel’s place.
‘Didn’t you say it might cost you?’
‘It has. A day of my time – how do you cost that? Plus it will cost me for the information on Linton and for keeping that info out of the City until Monday at least.’
‘I won’t ask how you got it.’
He levelled a finger at me, like a gun. ‘Good.’
‘But I’d like to know why.’
He sat down in the swivel chair again and did a couple of complete turns.
‘Cawthorne had a thing going with Sorrel once – a few years back when he was starting out in the City. They met on some skiing trip and went at it like knives for about six months, then he dumped her for some Sloane Ranger with a quarter claim on some title nobody’s ever heard of.’
There was bitterness there.
‘And Sorrel got hurt,’ I said knowingly.
‘Oh no.’ He shook his head. ‘Sorrel couldn’t give a monkey’s. She shacked up with a heavy metal bass player two days later and forgot all about him.’
I bet she forgot where she lived, her name and other stuff too.
‘So ...?’
‘So nobody – but nobody – treats my daughter as second class.’
‘I see,’ I said truthfully. I could relate. ‘But I thought all decisions in the City were taken on a cold, rational, logical, profit-motivation basis.’
‘They are,’ said McInnes. ‘Until you’re rich enough to indulge yourself a bit.’
McInnes wouldn’t join me for a pint in the Clanger, even though you could see it from his office. I went anyway, partly because it really does serve a decent pint of draught Bass and partly because it has a relatively private pay-phone. I got a pound’s worth of change from the barman and tried Lloyd Allen’s number in Brixton. Amazingly, he was in.
