A Fateful Farewell

by James Kilcullen

  A

  Fateful Farewell

  by

  James Kilcullen

  © 2013 james kilcullen

  The right of James Kilcullen to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, audio, visual or otherwise without prior permission of the copyright owner. Nor can it be circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar conditions including this condition being imposed on the subsequent author.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  ISBNS

  Parent: 978-0-9575237-6-0

  Epub: 978-0-9575237-3-9

  Mobi: 978-0-9575237-4-6

  PDF: 978-0-9575237-2-2

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  - an Original Writing Group company

  Printed by Clondalkin Group, Glasnevin, Dublin 11

  The lone figure, dressed in a long black coat and shabby hat, stood on top of the cliff and watched the sun rise above the clouds in the eastern sky. He looked down at the deep waters of the bay far below. It was time to end it all: he stepped forward.

  ***

  David Levin’s Gulfstream jet touched down at London City airport after an overnight flight from Hong Kong. For him it had been a sleepless night; he spent the time working at figures. When the plane came to a stop he grabbed his briefcase and laptop, left the aircraft and walked quickly into Arrivals.

  He was met by two men in dark suits; the older one thrust an official looking document into his hands

  ‘Mr Levin, we are taking possession of your executive jet and helicopter on foot of this warrant issued by the court.’

  He took the document and walked on.

  He didn’t bother to buy a morning paper; the collapse of his business would be front page news. He still couldn’t believe it; six months ago his international property empire was valued at 50 Billion Sterling. Now, if the reports were true, his assets were worth 10 Billion; with borrowings of 25 Billion.

  ***

  As his Rolls Royce wasn’t in its usual place he took a taxi to his palatial home and office adjoining Park Lane. He was in a state of shock; this couldn’t be happening. He knew those figures were rubbish; even with the collapse in property values his assets were near enough matched by his borrowings. He was being hung out to dry.

  42 tall and lean with rugged features and steel blue eyes, he was used to being surrounded by people anxious to do his bidding; dressed casually in a dark blazer, tan shirt and grey slacks he was one of that elite band of international business men who spent their time criss crossing the world.

  He was regularly entertained by country leaders; three months earlier by the British PM who suggested that he was likely to be offered a CBE by her Majesty. Money wasn’t mentioned but two days later he received a phone call from one of his party colleagues; a contribution to party funds would be welcome. He wrote the cheque.

  As the cab weaved its way through the morning traffic he rang his office; the phone was answered by Mildred the cook. His secretary Jennifer Marchant wasn’t in. He rang her mobile – no reply. In this world gone mad Jennifer was the only one he could rely on; she would stand by him. If his wife wasn’t such a grasping bitch they would be married by now.

  When the cab drove down by the park he noticed two media people and a camera man standing outside his front door. Drive round the block, he instructed his cabbie. Entering by the back door he took the lift to his office on the third floor. Mildred his mature cook was waiting for him; she seemed upset.

  ‘Can I get you some breakfast sir?’

  ‘Just a coffee.’

  ***

  The ZRC Bank in New York where Ziegler H. Felde 111 was CEO was his lead bank although many transactions were handled by its subsidiary the XNL Bank here in London where Matt Ryland was CEO.

  He phoned Matt, an old friend and confidant; they played golf together most Sunday morning’s at the Belfry and lunched there afterwards. His bank had made Billions out of his transactions. Matt didn’t sound very happy to hear from him.

  ‘I’m sorry David I can’t do anything for you.’

  ‘Those figures are rubbish; you know that.’

  ‘All I know is that the boss has pulled the plug. Maybe you should talk to him.’ He paused. ‘He’ll be in his office in Manhattan in three hours time.’

  ‘You know I’ll go to the court?’

  His voice hardened.

  ‘I’ve been instructed to appoint a Receiver who will take possession of all your companies including your home; he will call on you officially in the morning.’

  He put down the phone.

  ***

  It rang immediately. It was his wife Cynthia ringing from his apartment in Marbella. Daughter of a Peer of the Realm, he fell in love with the beautiful Cynthia when they were in Oxford; she had no time for him then; he didn’t even get to introduce himself; he wasn’t of the upper class.

  Years later they ran into one another at a celebrity ball. Things changed when she discovered he was a Billionaire. It was a whirlwind romance; a celebrity wedding was followed by an exciting honeymoon in Sicily.

  When they returned to London she told him she wanted a hundred million a year, a luxury apartment in Marbella – where her high class friends spent most of their time – and she would not have children. He gave her three million a year. They rarely met after that and he ignored the stories of her affairs – with upper class studs, of course.

  Two years ago, after Jennifer became his secretary, he asked her for a divorce. She agreed immediately provided he paid her half his estate. Was she here now to bury the dead?

  ‘Yes Cynthia, what can I do for you?’

  ‘You can give me a divorce. I’ll settle now for fifty million.’

  It was obvious she’d been drinking.

  ‘Cynthia, my dear, you can go to hell.’

  ‘You can’t do this to me.’

  He put down the phone.

  ***

  It rang immediately; it was Jon Ridley, his senior pilot.

  ‘I guess we’re out of a job Boss.’

  ‘Is Rascid with you?’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘Be in the office in one hour.’

  He rang Sidney Eivers, senior partner in one of London’s leading firms of solicitors. They met at Oxford. From similar backgrounds, they had much in common. Sidney worked his way up to become one of the most successful lawyers in the city, his career considerably helped by the work he carried out for him. After a ten minute delay Sidney came on the line.

  ‘This is a bad business David.’

  ‘I’m being screwed Sidney; I want you to fight it for me.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘I wouldn’t advise that. They have the contractual rights and we’d have to go all the way to the Supreme Court.’

  ‘Do it.’

  There was another pause.

  ‘David I would need a substantial advance upfront.’

  ‘You never asked for one before.’

  ‘Things were different then.’

  ‘I see; how much are we talking about?’

  ‘We would need at least twenty million.’

  ‘You know I haven’t got that kind of money right now?’

  ‘Sorry David, I can’t act without it.’

  He put down the phone.

  ***

  It was nearly noon
; Jennifer still hadn’t appeared. He tried her mobile again; still no reply. As well as being a beauty and highly intelligent she was a strong woman; he could depend on her; she was probably just avoiding the press.

  Ziegler Felde would be at his desk in another hour. An old friend, he was the one encouraged him to embark on property trading and his bank provided some of the capital. He was a larger than life character, a big man in every respect who inherited a fortune from his father. Whenever he was in New York – about ten times a year, Ziegler took him to the night clubs and occasionally invited him to stay at his palatial home near Hartford. There he met his two teenage daughters and his third wife Sara.

  ***

  Jon Ridley and Rascid arrived and were shown in by Mildred.

  ‘What would you like for lunch sir?’ she asked as his visitors sat down.

  ‘Just coffee and a beagle.’

  Jon came directly to the point.

  ‘Sorry to see your business go down the tubes boss. Can you give us a reference; jobs are hard to find these days.’

  He handed them two sheets of headed paper.

  ‘Write your own references and I’ll sign them.’

  He left them and went to Jennifer’s office. He liked those two and appreciated the fact they hadn’t asked for money. He always kept a hundred thousand petty cash on hand; he twirled the knob and opened the safe. It was empty. Before he closed it he noticed a small envelope with Jennifer’s neat writing on it; it was addressed to him.

  He put it in his pocket and headed to his bedroom safe. He put ten thousand in two envelopes and headed back to the office. Presented with the two references, he signed them and handed each of them an envelope.

  ‘I’m sorry to have to let you go. Don’t tell the taxman about these.’

  Jon offered his hand.

  ‘I hope you get through this boss.’

  ‘Thanks, good luck to both of you.’

  ***

  After they departed he took the envelope from his pocket and opened it. It contained a short note from his beloved Jennifer.

  “David, I don’t plan to live on welfare. I’ve taken my redundancy from the safe. Don’t try to contact me again.”

  This was the worst blow of all; he was still sitting there in a stupor when Mildred brought his lunch. He roused himself and took an envelope from his inside pocket.

  ‘I’m sorry I have to let you go, Mildred.’ He handed her the envelope. ‘This is a small present; don’t tell anyone about it.’

  She took it with tears in her eyes; she would learn later it contained ten thousand.

  ‘I’m so sorry sir.’ She paused. ‘Will you be all right?’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ***

  He looked at his watch; Ziegler should be in by now; he rang his private line.

  ‘David, it’s good to hear from you. We’re taking over all your properties; we already hold the deeds.’

  ‘Why are you doing this Ziegler? My accountants reckon my borrowings are more or less covered by the reduced asset values.’

  ‘That’s bollocks; I hold the whip hand here. You still owe me five Billion plus interest and I’ll sue you for it if I have to.’

  ‘Doesn’t our friendship and long association mean anything?’

  ‘There’s no friendship in business, my friend, you should know that.’

  He felt himself getting angry.

  ‘Dammit man, you wouldn’t have made CEO without my support; your bank has made Billions out of me.’

  He replied calmly. ‘That was then; this is now; I’ll see you in court.’

  The line went dead.

  ***

  He sat there for a long time. Anger passed quickly through self-pity to anger again, but now the anger was directed at himself; what a fucking idiot I’ve been. I had a good life; I didn’t need to go into property; how could I have been so stupid, so greedy? As for my “friends.” And Jennifer? My loving partner!

  He wasn’t religious but he thanked God that his dear mother wasn’t around to witness his humiliation; she died three years earlier. As silence continued around him, he drew further into himself; it was over; he was too proud to stick around to be dragged through the courts. He would leave quietly, privately in a manner of his own choosing.

  Eventually he bestirred himself. Taking his note pad, he wrote out his plan. Then he spent some time on the Internet before making a number of calls on his mobile. Afterwards, he took the hold-all he used on short trips abroad; opened the safe and emptied it of cash and documents he might need. Finally he put his David Levin passport and credit cards into the safe and closed it.

  He paused and looked at his laptop; ever since he was ten years old he hadn’t gone anywhere without it. He wouldn’t need it again, but habit overtook him; he put it in the hold-all. He checked his watch; time to go.

  Wearing sunglasses and an old hunting hat he walked down the stairs ignoring his Rembrandts, Picasso’s and Titian’s hanging in the hall and left quietly by the back door. Walking quickly past his parked Rolls he hailed a taxi and asked to be taken to Euston Station. He remained locked within himself in a different – cold and inhospitable – world as the cab weaved its way through the city traffic.

  Euston was busy; a tabloid headline on a newsstand blared out at him “Levin Empire collapses. Hi flyer bites the dust,” accompanied by an old photo. Although advised to court the media, he never did so; now they would have their revenge. He purchased a third class ticket and, clutching his hold-all, took a seat in the quietest carriage he could find. There he sat in a corner and pulled his hat down over his eyes.

  ***

  As the train began its journey to Liverpool he started to look back on a life that was entering its final stages. He was resigned now. Always a man of action, his motto was get on with it. There was one consolation; he wasn’t leaving any dependents behind.

  His mother, Agnes Smith worked as a secretary in a large London accountancy firm. He always felt his arrival into this world was unplanned but he was so lucky; she was such a loving mother although unmarried at that time.

  They lived with his old Irish grandmother, Brigid Smith in a flat in Hackney. Granny was like a second mother but she could be strict. She looked after him while his mother was at work; took him to school and supervised his homework. At night she worked as a check-out lady in a local supermarket where she was very popular with the customers.

  He was a good student but the big moment in his life came when mother brought home a laptop from work to finish a project. It was Eureka; he could do anything with it; it was as though he had discovered a long lost friend. He persuaded her to buy a cheap one for him.

  In the following four years he explored the Internet; it was a treasure trove of information. He studied software design and decided that he could do better himself. He wasn’t into sport and outside school didn’t seek contact with his classmates; his life was computers.

  He got a summer job as a messenger with his mother’s firm. The people there were very kind to him and even let him have access to their computer system. He thought it was crap but didn’t say so. At home he started playing around with what he thought the firm needed. By the time the holidays ended he was well on the way to designing a new system. When he showed it to his mother she was very impressed.

  He became interested in his family’s history; mother and granny talked little about it. Granny was brought up in an orphanage somewhere in southern Ireland; she never knew her people. A bright, attractive, strong minded young woman with a hearty sense of humour that she never lost, she left the home and travelled to London where she got a job as a servant in one of the big houses.

  He was never given the details but it appears her master fell in love with her. When she became pregnant he set her up in this apartment with a small income and visited from time to time after her daughter was born. His granny and mother talked kindly about his grandfather who, by this time had passed on, but never named him.

&
nbsp; Going through his mother’s papers after she passed on he found a letter addressed to her by her father; he was an eminent surgeon. In that letter he acknowledged her as his daughter and told her how much he loved her and her mother. She could have used that letter to extract a large sum from his estate after he passed on: she didn’t.

  After he was born, they were visited regularly by Uncle Matthew; they became great pals. It transpired many years later that Uncle Matthew, who was older than mother, a senior partner in the firm where she worked, was his father. That transformation took a bit of getting used to; they were like brothers. He always called him Matthew.

  When his mother became pregnant his father wanted to divorce his wife and marry her. His wife was in bad health and they had no children. Mother refused to allow him divorce his wife and only agreed to marry him when she died some years later.

  ***

  When he was fourteen he got a summer job as a runner in the London branch of a hardware and builders’ providers’ complex nearby; the company had fifty branches in the UK and another forty overseas, mostly in the Canada, India and Australia. He loved it.

  Naturally he picked up the gossip among the staff: the branch was very profitable but not earning as much as it should. The problem was thought to be in the stock area; a security firm was going through everything but, to the delight of the staff, failed to find anything wrong.

  He began to study the computer system; with fifty stations it was enormous. Interested in how such a massive system operated he began tracing transactions from point of sale and discovered something very unusual. He didn’t know what to do. It was a public company; by that time he knew what a PLC was. The CEO was to him a remote lofty figure; he hadn’t even met him.

  He approached his father for advice. Matthew, who had difficulty taking it all on board, was only convinced when he was shown what was going on. He phoned and got an appointment with the CEO for the following week.

  Edgar Rostock, a youngish no nonsense accountant, was an up and coming executive who suspected he might be sitting on a time bomb. Failure to sort out this problem would seriously affect his future prospects. He had great difficulty being persuaded by a fourteen year old but agreed to a demonstration.