by Caro Fraser
‘So you’re saying that the Names are right to blame the underwriting agency for recruiting them when they weren’t suitable? I’m sorry, Anthony, it doesn’t work that way. People have to take responsibility for their individual decisions. No one forced them to join Lloyd’s. It was explained to them that their liability was unlimited. They knew they could lose everything.’
‘What? You think that the members’ agent sat down with Brian Carstairs and said, “Listen, Brian, old man, when you join Lloyd’s, there is a real chance that you will lose everything you have in the world. Within five years your nice country house could be gone, your BMW, all your expensive possessions. Your children will have to be taken out of their exclusive private schools and sent to the local state ones, there may be no money left for them or for your grandchildren, and there is a real possibility that you and your wife will be reduced to penury.” Do you think anyone said that to him? No, someone sat him down at the end of a nice boozy lunch, gave him a glass of brandy, and said, “Brian, this is your chance to make a nice bit of extra income, make your money work twice. Look at all the other lucky chaps who’ve joined Lloyd’s, the money they’ve made over the years! Look at this unbroken seven-year profit record, consider how good it will sound to your friends, being able to say you’re a Name at Lloyd’s! Here, have another cigar, Brian.” And then some pipsqueak solicitor would come in and mumble a few words at Carstairs about unlimited liability, and that would be it!’ Anthony had begun to pace around the room, stirred by what he felt was the injustice which his clients had suffered. He stopped, and saw that Leo was smiling at him.
‘Anthony, you are still as naive and passionate as you were when I first met you. Maybe that’s a good thing.’ He sighed. ‘But you won’t convince me. Capstall’s a scoundrel, and I will do my best to make sure he, and the members’ agents, and the managing agents, and the auditors, and anyone else we can rope in as defendants, are made to account for hazarding our clients’ money in a quite unjustifiable fashion. But I won’t shed a tear if we lose. Maybe Names were suckered into joining Lloyd’s. But they were suckered through snobbery and greed, not because they weren’t told about asbestosis.’
Anthony sat down again. ‘Maybe when you get to know them a bit better – I mean, all right, some of them were a bit stupid, but they didn’t deserve to finish up destitute.’
Leo shrugged. ‘You call that destitute, do you? Where I come from, they’d call it being well off. These people have still got their cars, haven’t they? Their bank accounts? A roof over their heads? I didn’t see any of our committee members looking particularly down at heel. Even poor old Freddie Hendry still manages to pay the rent on his flat in Bloomsbury, and buy his Scotch. Come on, save your energies for some worthy cause. Your job is not to feel for these people, but to work for them. Let’s get on with it.’
Anthony sighed. ‘All right. But I still think it’s better not to feel entirely dispassionate.’
‘Don’t you worry,’ said Leo, and grinned. ‘When the time comes, I will be able to convince everyone that I am utterly, passionately on the side of my clients. Even you. Just you wait till we get to the Court of Appeal on Monday.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Freddie rang Charles Beecham at eight in the morning on the day of the Court of Appeal hearing. Charles had held a drinks party for a few neighbourhood friends the night before, in view of the fact that he had had an offer on his house and might shortly be leaving the village, and the whole thing had become rather riotous and had gone on longer than he had expected. The trilling of the phone next to his bed woke him with a horrible start from a deep, hungover sleep. He picked up the receiver and lay back, unpleasantly aware that his heart had begun to race, his head was aching, and his mouth felt like the inside of a toaster.
‘Hello, Beecham? Hendry here,’ barked Freddie’s voice.
‘God, Freddie, what is it? I was still asleep.’
‘Asleep? You can’t have forgotten we’re in the Court of Appeal today! I’ve been up since five – already sent a fax to Davies just to keep him on his toes. I’m just ringing to check that you’ll be bringing those documents along. The ones Carstairs said he would pass to you, since he’s not coming.’
‘Freddie,’ sighed Charles, ‘I’m sure that Mr Davies and Mr Cross have got everything they need. They don’t want extra bumf from me.’ He held the phone away and let Freddie’s staccato protestations die on the air. Then he put the receiver back against his ear and said, ‘All right, anything you say. But I won’t be there till after lunch. I’ve got a meeting with my agent this morning. Yes, Freddie … No, I don’t think Capstall’s brother is writing articles against the Names to sell to the Sunday papers. Yes, I know he’s a journalist, but I still don’t … Very well, you do that. Yes. Bye.’
Charles clicked off the phone and closed his eyes, pulling the covers up to his chin, but knowing that sleep would not return to him now.
Freddie put the phone down and went over to the speckled oval mirror on his dressing table. He straightened his tie and flicked at the lapels of his blazer. They were a bit threadbare and shiny, he noticed, but still not too bad. When they’d won this case, he’d go and see his old tailor, get some new things made up. The reflection of his grizzled face gazed back at him, his thinning hair brushed back from his freckled forehead, his moustache grey now, the pouched skin of his cheeks lined with tiny veins. Shouldn’t drink so much Scotch, he knew, but still … Today was the day. He drew himself upright and gave his reflection a raffish smile, the kind he used to give the girls when he was young and the best-looking chap in the regiment. Then he put on his overcoat, collected his bits and pieces together, his keys, change for the Tube, newspaper, pen and A4 pad for taking notes at the hearing, and, locking the door of his flat behind him, set off for the City. The sun was burning away the early morning frost and he could see a blue sky behind the chilly fog. A good omen, he thought, enjoying the dry crunch of the dead leaves beneath his polished brogues as he marched with a firm tread towards Russell Square station.
It was nine by the time he reached the Law Courts, and he knew the case would not come on until ten-thirty, so he dawdled around the central hall, examining the lists of the day’s cases, gazing up at the paintings of stern-faced judges and long-dead chancellors, scrutinising the people as they passed to and fro, frowning at a passing group of loud-mouthed young men in leather jackets and trainers, who talked and joked without any reverence for their dignified surroundings, their voices echoing from the high walls. For Freddie, the Law Courts were hallowed, steeped in mystery, splendid in their majesty, and it seemed to him that a respectful hush, as if in a cathedral, should be observed by visitors. He paced the chequered flagstones patiently, until, at ten past ten, he saw Basher Snodgrass come through the entrance doors, and then Murray Campbell and Fred Fenton. He joined them, and they all made their way to Court Number 71, where the hearing was to be held.
Freddie squeezed into the wooden bench next to Snodgrass, his newspaper folded on his lap, and leant forward, gazing around the court with a faint thrill of excitement. Leo and Anthony were already seated at the front of the court, Murray and Fred behind them with a couple of assistants, and further along sat the other side’s counsel, about five of them, so far as he could see, with a bevy of besuited young male and female solicitors behind them. There was much muttering and passing of paper, but this gradually died away as the usher stood up, glanced round and then, with lugubrious self-importance, intoned, ‘Court rise.’
Everybody duly rose, and through the little door at the back of the court issued forth three of Her Majesty’s Lords of Appeal, looking suitably stern and dignified in their full-bottomed wigs and robes, although they had been laughing and enjoying a particularly juicy piece of gossip involving a Chancery Court judge and a masseuse only minutes before. Everyone resumed their seats amid a spate of coughing, and then Leo rose, adjusting his wig and glancing down at the papers in front of him. There was a hushed pause
before he spoke.
‘My Lords, I appear for the appellants in this case, and my learned friends Mr Glynn and Mrs Abbott appear for the respondents. This appeal is brought against an order of Mr Justice Fry which declared that certain claims in tort by my clients, arising out of their losses as Lloyd’s Names and members of syndicate 1766, were statute-barred. The respondents contend that my clients could reasonably have been expected to acquire the knowledge required for bringing an action for damages more than three years before the issue of the first writ, and rely principally upon the annual syndicate reports and accounts for 1981 to 1988 and a letter from the managing agents to all Names dated May 11th, 1984 …’
Anthony put his chin on his hand and glanced up at Leo, conscious of a deep thankfulness that he was not conducting this appeal. He was fully acquainted with the arguments, had helped to polish and adjust the very one upon which Leo was now embarking, but he would not have relished the prospect of standing up in front of the Master of the Rolls and Lord Justices Manfred and Howell and expounding them himself. He had plenty of faith in his own skills as an advocate, but he recognised that there were certain levels in a case where maturity and authority went a long way. Leo had both those qualities. Anthony reflected, smiling to himself as he picked up his pen to jot down a note, that Leo’s prematurely silver hair must have been of considerable help to him in his career. People took you more seriously the older you got, or looked.
At the back of the court Freddie unconsciously bared his teeth in a momentary spasm of concentration and leant forward to listen to Leo. It was blasted hard to follow the arguments, the way these legal chappies dressed things up. Davies was saying something about requiring knowledge of whether potential liabilities were capable of reasonable quantification. Well, that was one way of talking about whether any of them should have known things would go seriously wrong. But the Lloyd’s agents were always sending reports, great bundles of information. You couldn’t be expected to read it all and understand it. Before all this blasted business began, he hadn’t had the first idea what a run-off policy was. Barely understood the three-year accounting system. You put your affairs in the hands of your agents and you trusted them to get on with it. Back in the old days, chaps at Lloyd’s had been gentlemen – MCC ties, pinstripe suits. That had all changed. No gentlemen now. Just rogues and shysters. The idea of Lloyd’s being self-regulating these days was laughable. Laughable. Freddie began to mutter to himself as he lost the thread of what Leo was saying, and let his thoughts wander down their usual erratic avenues. Basher Snodgrass glanced at him and sighed.
Leo was well into his stride now. He glanced at each one of the three faces on the Bench before him as he spoke, noting the faint nod from the Master of the Rolls as he scribbled something down, the approving little lift of Lord Justice Howell’s head as he sat back in his seat, and the encouraging angle at which Lord Justice Manfred’s bushy eyebrows were set while he listened, resting his head on one hand. They had, of course, read a potted version of the arguments well before the hearing, and had already formed something of a view. Leo had a feeling that they were in sympathy with the Names. It would hardly be surprising, since every member of the judiciary probably had a close friend or relative who’d been knocked sideways by the Lloyd’s catastrophe.
‘My Lords,’ he said smoothly, glancing round at no one in particular with his serene blue gaze, ‘what are the acts which constitute the negligence of which my clients complain? It would, in my respectful submission, be incomplete to say that these consisted of the writing of the run-off reinsurance policies, or the reinsurances to close, or the certification of the syndicate accounts. These do not in themselves amount to acts of which the Names would be prima facie entitled to complain …’
At the back of the courtroom Freddie Hendry ceased to mutter, but fell into a slight doze as the proceedings in Court Number 71 drifted past him.
Charles was sitting in the Regent Street offices of his film and television agent with a broad smile on his face.
‘The United States? And Canada?’ he asked.
His agent, a brisk young man in his late twenties, nodded. The autumn sun which streamed through the large window reflected from his glasses, giving him a blank, sightless look. ‘Australia, too. We’ve sold the rights to the first and second series and I’m presently negotiating in respect of your current one on the Crusades. It’s an excellent package, Charles. I’m bound to say I’m very pleased.’
Charles crossed his legs, shook his head and smiled again. ‘So – how much are we talking about? I mean, with this Lloyd’s thing, you know, money’s, well …’
‘Too tight to mention? Well, I won’t go so far as to say your worries are over, but for the outright sale of the first and second series, we’re talking in excess of five hundred thousand. And then, of course, there’s the present series, and possibly subsequent ones.’
‘I see.’ Charles nodded, trying to look as though he were giving this some serious thought, but in fact trying to contain his utter, pure and delirious joy.
‘I thought,’ said his agent, ‘that we might go over the details of the contract over an early lunch – if you’re free, that is.’
Charles nodded. ‘Fine. I have to be at the Law Courts this afternoon, but I hadn’t anything planned before then … Look, do you mind if I use your phone?’
His agent picked up the phone and passed it to Charles. ‘I’ll just go and ask Sarah to book us a table at the Groucho,’ he said, and left the room. Charles took out his address book and flipped through it, tapped in some numbers on the phone and waited.
‘Hello, Mr Bryant? Charles Beecham here. About the house. I’m sorry to disappoint the Fullers, but I’m taking it off the market. I’ve decided not to sell.’
As he put the phone down, smiling to himself, Charles reflected that he would probably have to throw another drinks party, to celebrate the fact that he would not be leaving the neighbourhood after all.
It was a curious feeling, returning to work after an absence of seven months. Rachel pushed open the heavy glass doors of Nichols & Co, and saw the familiar figure of Nora, the receptionist, murmuring into her headset and flicking buttons with her long crimson nails. It was as if she had only been away for a few days. Nora smiled and gave her a little fluttering wave, and Rachel took the lift to the fourth floor. She walked along the carpeted corridors, past the glass-walled offices, seeing familiar figures bent over desks, talking into telephones, pulling open filing-cabinet drawers, all busy with their work. She reached her own room, half-expecting to find some stranger occupying it, but there it was, empty and neat as she had left it when she went on maternity leave. The shelves where her files had lain were largely empty, but that would change in a week or two. She hung up her coat, slung her bag down beside her desk and sat down in her chair, swivelling in it and looking round. She was rather at a loss, she realised. It wasn’t like starting a new job, where there was someone to greet you, give you things to do. No, it was up to her to fit back in, to reassert herself. She thought back to the time when she had first joined Nichols & Co, only two years ago, with all her earnest ambitions. Then she had married Leo, and had thought that that would become the most important thing in the world. It was, in a way. Only not in the way she had imagined. She was discovering pain where she had expected contentment. She was not to be to Leo everything she had thought she might be. But at least by coming back to work she might find something of her old self, and in the process restore her badly damaged self-esteem. Or so she hoped.
Time to have a coffee, thought Rachel, and to try and dig up some work. She went to the percolator and poured herself a cup, then wandered along the corridor to Murray Campbell’s room. He was always up to his eyeballs – he was bound to have something for her. But his room was empty. Then Rachel remembered that he would be in court – Leo had mentioned that morning that the Names were in the Court of Appeal that day. She sighed. That meant Fred Fenton would be out, too. She could have done w
ith Fred’s banter and jokes to cheer her up. There was something dispiriting about coming back, having nothing to do while everyone else got on with their busy day.
Turning away from Murray’s room, she bumped into Roger Williams. Roger, a suave, portly individual who fancied himself as a bit of a ladies’ man, was one of the more senior of the partners, and a typical City chauvinist. He had made a couple of passes at Rachel in her early days in the office, and they were not the best of friends, but now she felt almost pleased to see him.
‘Good God!’ he said, smiling. ‘Nobody told me you were coming back! Well, well … Come into my room and catch up on the gossip.’ He laid a hand lightly on her shoulder, and they walked together to Roger’s office, Rachel listening as he chatted. Conscious of Roger’s hand resting on her shoulder, she remembered a time when she could not bear to let any man – especially Roger’s type – touch her. Now she did not mind. Leo had cured her – or maybe he had simply made her indifferent. She did not know.
Rachel sat in the chair opposite his desk and stirred her coffee with a little plastic spoon. ‘I thought Mr Rothwell might at least have told you I was coming back,’ she remarked, feeling a little hurt that the senior partner had not thought the information worth passing on.
‘Darling, I’ve been in Calcutta for the past three weeks.’ Roger folded his hands behind his head and yawned. ‘Only got back yesterday.’ There was a pause as Rachel stared down at her coffee cup. ‘So, how’s the baby? And hubby?’
‘Oh, fine. It feels a bit strange, being without Oliver, but I imagine I’ll get used to it.’ Rachel realised she didn’t want to think too much about Oliver – the pang of separation was quite acute – and she changed the subject quickly. ‘So, anything you can’t handle at the moment? I need some work to get myself back into gear.’
