Chapter 3
It was the end of the week before John McBride got home. He pulled his painting gear out of his car, and dumped it in his studio, went back for his suitcase.
The next thing he did was make himself a cup of tea. He was taking this weekend off. Painting was actually hard work. So that he wouldn’t be pestered by his agent, McBride got in a pre-emptive strike, and phoned him.
The phone was picked up straight away, unusual for Ian Smith. Must be at his desk, counting his vast wealth.
“Ian, it’s John McBride. I’ve finished the paintings of Chester and the Dee, including the commission you slipped in. I could let you have them on Monday, or I could fed-ex them, whichever.”
“Bring them over on Monday, and I’ll treat you out for dinner. You can stay at my house overnight. I’m certainly interested in hearing about your brush with the police. You attract trouble, I often think.”
“You’re wrong. I attract excitement, because that’s what I miss from my service days. If I hadn’t met you, I would still be in the army. Probably a full Colonel at least, by now.”
“And considerably poorer. You might have been laid off. I hear the army’s a lot smaller these days.”
McBride sighed. “True,” he said. “I’ll be with you about lunchtime. Then you can buy me lunch as well.”
Smith’s mean streak came to the fore. “No, you buy lunch, I buy dinner.”
McBride washed, changed and shaved, and went off down the road to his local gastro pub. However busy it was, Gerry the landlord always found him a table, spent a few minutes with him over a drink, and a gossip. In pride of place on the end wall of the room was an original watercolour by McBride that he had given to the landlord, a striking painting of the pub itself.
McBride’s meal appeared on the table, and Gerry stood up to move around the room continuing his job of host. As McBride ate, people entering and leaving stopped to greet him, lots of locals that acknowledged the area’s best artist.
As soon as he got back to his house, McBride sat down at his desk with his laptop, and set out to learn more about Robert Matthew Markham, Financial Consultant, and Ponzi Man. As McBride googled the name, a page full of references came up. All but one of them was about the same man. Aged forty-eight, with a trail of dissolved and struck off companies, and blogs about Ponzi schemes.
As far as McBride could find, Markham lived in a Jo’burg district, Standton. It was a white locality, mainly gated communities employing private police forces. McBride knew that since the cessation of apartheid the white population had shrunk by over half a million due to migration. The rise in crime had been the cause of migration. McBride made notes. There were private blogs, naming Markham as a crook. Oddly, Markham had responded to these accusations, in turn pointing out that the writer of the blog was the crook, not him. These responses had been carried out in a friendly fashion, with no spite returned. McBride had to admire the man’s laid back demeanour.
McBride attention was drawn to an item: Land Investors of South Africa. Itwas a news item from TheDaily Telegraph, dated three days before.
Harry Johnson of Financial Consultants Cheshire Investments Limited announced that they had agreed with the FCA to transfer Land Investors Of South Africa to the trusteeship of Smitt and Company, Johannesburg. This has been brought about by Cheshire Investments no longer meeting capital requirements.
McBride couldn’t believe it. The FCA had just allowed the fund to be moved out of its jurisdiction. There could be no legal way of getting any cash back for investors.
He noted the solicitor’s name, and then traced them on Google. The name was familiar. Where had he seen it? He went back to the Markham pages. Yes, there it was. Smitt solicitors happened to be Markham’s own solicitors. Worse and worse. Markham was running rings round the British government. He deserved everything that McBride and Miller could do to him.
McBride looked through his scribbled notes, crossed some bits out, added other phrases. Then he sent an urgent email to Dusty Miller.
Dusty Miller read the email as it came in. He was just leaving his flat above the Mess adjacent to the Royal Palace. He had a dinner appointment with the king. Dusty was in his dress uniform, a bit more flamboyant than a British Army dress uniform, but to be expected in a king’s private army in Africa.
The two sentries outside the palace jumped to attention, and Dusty smiled and returned their salute while waiting for them to open the gates. There must have been some communication between gates and palace, for as Dusty marched forward to the palace doors, they opened and a captain stood to one side, saluting. Dusty strode through the doors and into a huge entrance hall. The king himself was walking up to him, hand held out.
“Dusty! I hope you had a pleasant leave. How are things in England? I envy you your stay there.”
King Maswati the Fourth was a tall Zulu, not as tall as Dusty who was six foot four, but certainly over six feet. The Zulus comprised most of the Government positions, but the Bantus, the other populous race, controlled the civil service, and the races both felt equal. Commerce was mainly in the hands of Indians, who had been drifting southwards through the continent as they met expulsion from Uganda in the seventies. They now comprised about seven percent of Maswatiland’s population.
The king led the way into a small room off the hall. There was a large table set with only two places. On a side table there were bottles of wine and aperitifs. A uniformed servant stood by the table, smiling respectfully.
“What will you have to drink, eh, Dusty? A glass of Gordon’s Gin and Schweppes’s Tonic, that’s our tipple, eh?” Before Dusty had time to concur, the servant placed two slim jim glasses on the side table, scooped ice cubes until they were both full, sloshed gin into them from a large bottle of Export Gordon’s, and stood two bottles of tonic water beside them. The king picked up one of the glasses.
“Here’s mud in you eye,” he said and took a huge draft. Dusty picked up the other glass, and took a huge drink. “And to you,” he said.
The king moved to the dining table, gestured Dusty to the chair on his right, and sat down. He rang a small bell on the table. Immediately a door at the other side of the room opened, and an elderly man wheeled a serving trolley to the table. He served portions of ripe melon.
“Next course is roast beef and Yorkshire pudding,” said the king. “The best meal in the world.” Dusty thought the king had a limited experience of the Western world. Or indeed anywhere else on the planet. The main course, when it came, astonished Dusty. The beef was magnificent, cooked rare, pink in the centre of each slice, roast potatoes cooked in goose fat. Sprouts and cabbage, and large portions of Yorkshire pudding, crisp and properly risen.
“My word,” said Dusty, “you are right. Your chefs have indeed excelled themselves.”
“So,” said the king, “what did you do in England?” Miller had a sudden vision of Johnson’s face in the sights of his rifle, but decided that was not for telling. “Well, I stayed with my sister and her husband. In Cheshire, just outside Manchester. And I saw my old friend John McBride. You haven’t met him, have you?”
“If you’re talking about John McBride the artist, then no, unfortunately. But I admire his work.”
“I was thinking of inviting him to Africa,” said Miller. “He expressed an interest. Mentioned safari parks, and wild animal paintings.”
“Gosh, that would be interesting. Ask him to come at my expense. Anything that gives the safari parks a boost is added income to the country.”
Miller rotated his glass, watching the red wine revolve up the sides. Should he, or shouldn’t he?
“There was another reason for wanting to come here.”
“Yes? Are you going to tell me?”
“I don’t think it would interest you, Majesty.”
“Don’t be silly. Try telling me.”
Miller took a large breath. “There’s con man living in South Africa who’s stolen both our savings. Not just our savings,
dozens of peoples. Total of thirty million pounds sterling. Got the investment fund re-registered in South Africa. Even duped the British government.”
The king had a quick brain. “And you’re hoping to dupe him back, retrieve some of the money.”
Miller said; “That was the idea, but we haven’t worked it out yet. Just as I was setting out from my flat to meet you, I got an email from McBride. He pulled out a paper from his inside tunic pocket. “You may care to read it.”
The king pulled on a pair of reading glasses, was quiet while he read through it. He laid the paper on the table. “Dusty, let me help you both. This would be spiffing fun. We could take him for everything, a greedy man like that.”
The Ponzi Men Page 3
