The Money Makers

by Harry Bingham

  But to work. With the help of a patient research assistant, Matthew dug out research reports on Western Instruments, press cuttings, stockholder reports, share price graphs, profit estimates, and anything else he could think of. He also built an impressive collection of cuttings on Nick Cornish and his exploits. In the course of his career, he’d been nicknamed Black Nick, Nick the Knife, Vampire Nick and simply The Ogre. Matthew printed or copied everything he could, and, bundling his information together, set off home.

  Once there, he opened the presentation again, and checked everything he could. Everything seemed to hold up. The presentation proved conclusively, as far as Matthew was concerned, that Cornish stood to make a killing. And if Cornish did decide to launch a raid, the bonds of Western Instruments would jump from being worth eighty-two cents to one dollar exactly, a rise of more than twenty percent. Those kind of returns sim­ply weren’t available on the bonds Matthew normally traded. But if he wanted to be king of the trading floor, make his million from bonuses, then those were the returns he needed.

  By four in the morning, Matthew had made up his mind.

  After two hours’ sleep, he rose, showered, dressed, drank some coffee, and headed off for Wall Street. He attended the Monday morning meeting, greeted Alan and Rick, listened to Saul Rosenthal moaning about his weekend, drank more coffee, and went to work. As soon as the market opened, he began to buy Western Instruments bonds. He bought four million dollars’ worth that day. Over the next week, he bought another sixteen million dollars’ worth. The week after he added another five million. Twenty-five million all told, the maximum holding he was allowed under the bank’s rules. Buying that much that fast was difficult, especially with a bond that was hardly traded. Matthew paid over the odds for the privilege, but, for once in his short trading life, he didn’t especially care. The thing was to get the bonds before Cornish attacked.

  Nevertheless, Matthew wasn’t exactly forgetful of the prices he’d paid. At the end of each day, every trader is forced to ‘mark their portfolio to market’. That means looking at what you hold and comparing the prices you paid to the current market price. Matthew had paid an average of eighty-three cents on the dollar for his bonds, against a today’s closing price of eighty-two. Building up his twenty-five million dollar portfolio had cost him two hundred and fifty thousand bucks, a loss that cancelled about half his trading profits in his brief career.

  Matthew checked his monitors one last time that day for news. Nothing. There wouldn’t be. Nobody launches a bid in the evening, something to do with the Protestant work ethic probably. He’d have to wait until the markets opened again on Monday. But as he reached to switch off the monitors, he noticed his hand shaking. His lips parted, in an almost silent whisper.

  ‘Come on, big guy. Come on.’

  11

  ‘What’s that, Josie? Looking for a job?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Josie, embarrassed. ‘Just reading, that’s all.’

  She folded the bank’s newsletter and thrust it away from her. It had been open on a page advertising internal vacancies. Apart from that, there had been nothing else to read.

  ‘We wouldn’t survive without you, you know.’ Her boss smiled at her, meaning what he said. He was a nice man, not bureaucratic like some of them, and he added,

  ‘I shouldn’t really tell you this, but I’ve put you up for promotion. I know you’re young, but the department depends on you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Josie. ‘Thank you, really.’

  ‘So you’re not going to leave us?’

  ‘No, honestly, I was just reading.’

  Her boss turned to leave. He’d only been passing by. Josephine had turned red; red from her collarbones to her hairline; red as a beetroot with sunburn. She hadn’t blushed like this, not even when he’d teased her about Miklos Kodaly, her tame computer nerd. And Josie hadn’t just been reading. She’d had a pen in her hand and thought in the creases of her forehead.

  12

  On the far horizon, in the low-lying country around Leeds, the helicopter rose and flew a little further on, nearer to them this time. It descended once again, out of sight. George, Val, Darren and Jeff Wilmot, the accountant, noticed it, then ignored it. There was work to be done.

  ‘Let’s face it,’ said Darren, ‘the marketing boys keep getting decent crosses into the box, but we don’t have a bleeding striker to convert the chances.’ He stopped, thinking he had made himself perfectly clear, but George nodded at him to continue. ‘What I mean is, we need a bigger production area and some proper kit. There’s no point handing out brochures full of brilliant furniture at brilliant prices, then telling our customers to sod off because we can’t meet their orders.’

  He was right. Sales were strong and rising. The Bright and Beautiful range was their bestseller, but all their products were doing well. George had started to insist that Gissings turn away new customers, in order not to disappoint existing ones.

  ‘I understand your concern,’ said Wilmot, ‘but unfortunately these things need to be paid for. I’m afraid we don’t have the cash to go and get the Alan Shearer of furniture factories.’

  He looked around, wanting applause for his little joke. Everyone ignored him. Even accountants found him dull. Outside, the helicopter bobbed up again and drifted closer. It wasn’t military and wasn’t police.

  ‘Remind us of the numbers, Jeff,’ said George.

  ‘Well, it’s simple enough. We’re making a decent profit now, but we still owe over four hundred and sixty thousand pounds. The bank will never let us borrow more, and if we spend all our profits on new equipment, then the debt will be hanging round our necks for ever. We just need to sit tight, pay off our debts, and then start thinking about investment.’

  ‘How long will that take, Jeff?’ muttered George. He was looking at the helicopter, which had apparently landed again. It wasn’t more than two or three miles away now.

  ‘If we keep on doing as well as we are now, then we’ll be free of debt in less than four years. To be on the safe side, I’d say four to five years.’

  George shook his head. In four to five years, he could pay off the debt. In another ten years, he might have collected his million pounds. By that time, Matthew or Zack would have been enjoying their father’s money for the last twelve or thirteen years. They could sell off Bernard Gradley’s beloved company and use the proceeds to buy themselves an island in the sun. They could have servants, yachts and cars. With thirty or forty million quid, they could buy a stackload of shares, pay as much tax as their lawyer thought prudent, and still have an income of a million pounds a year, every year. The helicopter had risen again and was zigzagging across the sky like a drunk. It shot up into the air, hung for a moment, then dived down again. It had landed about half a dozen times since George had started watching, but never stayed put for more than a minute or two. George gazed at it gloomily.

  ‘Jeff, we need to expand production. I don’t give a monkey’s about the debt. The only questions are, how much is it going to cost and where can we find the dosh. Do you have the latest cash flow forecast, please?’

  The way he saw it, he hadn’t a hope of making a million quid out of Gissings. All the same, he might as well try to build up the business, so he didn’t have to feel ashamed when Matthew and Zack competed with each other to plonk the biggest pile of money on the table at the end of the three years. One of them would get their million, he was sure of that.

  Wilmot and Darren started to argue again while Wilmot searched his fake leather briefcase for the cash flows. Darren wanted the biggest, shiniest factory they could afford. Wilmot wanted the smallest, oldest one they could get away with.

  George liked Darren. You couldn’t imagine Val or Wilmot having a good time with thirty million quid. Val would still be Val. She’d probably work at Gissings, the same as usual. Wilmot would take off to the Costa del Sol, but he’d still dress in cheesy little suits and still turn pink at the first hint of sun. Darren, on the other hand, wo
uld take his thirty million, spend it in a couple of years, then be back where he’d started, a scruffy young man with a big mouth and not a moment’s regret for what he’d enjoyed and lost.

  Darren and Wilmot squabbled, subject only to Val’s quiet interventions. In blacker moods, George was amazed to find himself still shacked up with her, but she was of more value to Gissings than anyone else, bar none. Wilmot couldn’t find the cash flows and went off to look for them.

  The helicopter was right over Gissings now. It swooped down low and circled the factory. Glass rattled in the windows and the noise drowned out every other sound. It was just about possible to make out the faces of the pilot and passengers inside. George stared and stared again. His mouth moved but the din brushed his words away. And, as the helicopter prepared to land in the field adjoining the factory, George rushed from the room.

  He burst out into the timber yard and ran across to the shed which used to be the factory sawmill. Red in the face, he clambered over the wire fence to reach the helicopter and its gradually slowing blades. From its side, a door swung open. A foot appeared; then a swirl of aquamarine silk; then, at last, whole and smiling, fragile and beautiful, Kiki emerged, blinking and clutching at her hat.

  ‘Georges, sweetheart, we have had such a horrid time trying to find you. You are such a beast for hiding away.’

  ‘Kiki, wonderful to see you,’ panted George. He kissed her on the cheek and gave her a big bear hug.

  ‘Georges, sois sage,’ she chided. ‘You are squashing my new dress and you are squashing me. You have got so big.’

  ‘Kiki, why didn’t you tell me you were coming? I’d have got things ready.’ George gestured grandly around the timber yard.

  ‘Stupide! I didn’t know I was coming. But then I was going to this wedding in Scotland and I thought Yorkshire is on the way to Scotland, so I thought I would stop off and see you, because I miss you, but I didn’t know that Yorkshire was so big and nobody seems to have heard of your factory and it was ages before I could find your address in my book and we had to stop and ask our way ever so many times and - enfin! - we have found you, but, Georges, I think you are ill, no?’

  George was red in the face and almost trembling with excitement.

  ‘No, Kiki, no. I’m fine. Just pleased to see you. Come on in. Or let me show you around?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘Oui. If you want. This is what you spent your money on, no? It is not very beautiful, I think, but I suppose factories are not so beautiful. I don’t think I have ever seen a factory, unless you count the place where Papa puts his precious cognac into bottles. I went there once but it made me very ill with the migraine.’

  She chattered on, as George barged through the heavy polythene doors that led on to the factory floor proper. You were meant to wear a hard hat, but George never bothered and somehow he felt that Kiki would be unlikely to let an orange plastic monstrosity anywhere near her carefully styled hair. So he let her keep her precarious blue-green hat, nodding with feathers and silk and strips of lace, and they moved out on to the factory floor.

  George ushered Kiki along the yellow lines marking the routes where pedestrians were safe from hoists, forklifts, and the flying debris of the big cutting machines. He held a burly arm around her as she picked her way across the scurf and oil marks which covered the floor.

  Usually, when George was showing clients or suppliers around the floor, he kept up a busy chatter, telling his companion about the plans for improvement, numerous little tricks of production, laughing at the antiquated equipment. This time, George was silent. For the first time since he’d come to Gissings, he became aware of the noise. Lathes, saws, drills, hoists, trucks, turning equipment, plane tables, electric sanders and god knows what else banged, whined and howled away. Workmen yelled, laughed, and pointed. On the breeze-block walls, the dirty calendars seemed as big as tarpaulins.

  There was more to see, of course, but for Kiki a little went a long way.

  ‘Let’s go and get something to drink,’ said George. The lifts had been knackered for years, so they trudged up the two flights of stairs to George’s office.

  ‘It is always so noisy?’ Kiki asked. ‘I think perhaps I am not so industrielle.’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose. You get used to it,’ puffed George. He used not to be this unfit, but the daily fried breakfasts had gone straight to his middle. He looked more like Val every day. He should really join a gym or something and get in shape. The meeting was still going on when he got back.

  ‘Would you lot mind clearing out, please. I’ve got a visitor.’

  ‘There’s something important you should know,’ said Val, not moving.

  ‘Yeah, well, it’ll wait till later. Meanwhile, would you mind getting us some drinks? What do you want, Kiki?’

  Kiki blinked like a bird.

  ‘Some Badoit mineral water would be very nice, if you have it. Otherwise some Perrier would be fine. I like it with a slice of lemon, but no ice, please.’

  Kiki smiled at Val. She was trying to be easy.

  ‘It’s tap water, tea or coffee,’ said Val.

  ‘Oh, I see, you are out of Perrier. I know. It’s the same with me all the time, but luckily there is a dear little man who brings it to me when I run out. Some coffee would be very nice, instead. Espresso, please. I prefer cappuccino but it makes me giggle and I try so hard to be serious.’

  The only coffee they had was instant, of course, and George intervened with a request for two teas. ‘Not too strong,’ he said, but he might as well have wished for world peace.

  Val came back with two cups of tea, darker than a peatbog.

  ‘There. Just the way you like it. I didn’t know if you wanted sugar,’ she added, for Kiki’s benefit, ‘so I put one in, just in case.’

  Kiki stirred her tea politely until Val had left, then she pushed the mug away. George started to apologise, but she interrupted.

  ‘Don’t worry, Georges. I am not so thirsty and luckily there is a little bar on the helicopter if I get dry.’

  She paused and George paused. Kiki perched on the edge of her chair. She had spread a handkerchief on the seat to protect her dress and was carefully keeping her arms away from the sides. She thought about taking her hat off, but looked at the table and thought better of it. Things were a little grimy, perhaps, George thought, greasy with long use. Val cleaned the place every now and then, but mostly just to keep the dust off things. No one would ever enter Gissings for a Factory Beautiful competition.

  Kiki consulted her little jewelled watch.

  ‘Oh, Georges, it took us so long to find you, now I don’t have any time. But I see you are well. You are happy, I hope?’

  George spread his hands. He had no idea.

  ‘God, Kiki, this place is a different world. It’s all changed so much since Dad died. Christ, I’ve changed. Sometimes, it’s OK, but other times ... other times, I miss it all . .. I miss ...’ He tailed off. He missed her, but couldn’t say so. He longed to kiss her, but might as well have been a thousand miles distant.

  He asked her about a few mutual friends, but the answers she gave were meaningless. He had lost touch with the friends they’d shared and, short of a miracle, he’d never mix with them socially again. What did he care if Xavier and Julia were engaged? Why should he mind how the von Hattenburgs disgraced themselves at Monaco?

  She tried asking him about his life, but that was worse than useless. George’s life was completely taken up by things of whose existence Kiki was completely ignorant. If he tried to explain, she would find it all tres desagreable and sympathise with George for having to put up with such terrible things.

  After twenty minutes of mutual discomfort, Kiki looked at her watch again. It was time to go. George escorted her back across the timber yard, offering her his arm and sympathising with her about the plight of her shoes. Her hat nearly blew off into a puddle of waste water and oil, but he caught it in time.

  The helicopter took off. Kiki waved f
rom the window until she was no more than a speck in the distance. George waved back, a heavy-built man in a dirty yard. He stomped back upstairs. Val, Darren and Wilmot had regrouped, wearing long faces. Jeff Wilmot began to speak.

  ‘Er ... it has come to my attention ... that is, I was looking ... the cash flows appear to have been mislaid. Unfortunately, it seems that they were left ... that is, I left them ... inadvertently, er, in a non-secure location. It seems there is a risk ... maybe a serious risk ... that confidential data may have become available to - er - commercially hostile sources.’

  What the hell was he talking about? There is nothing on earth more pompous than a guilty accountant. Val interjected.

  ‘Wilmot went to visit an old friend of his in the Aspertons’ finance department. He left a briefcase there with our cash flows inside. The Aspertons deny having found the case, but it seems virtually certain that they’ve found it and examined the cash flows under a microscope.’

  There was a punch line coming, but George was slow to see it. Val helped him again.

  ‘If they see how well we’re doing, they’ll stop us using their paintshop. If we have to rig up a paintshop of our own, we’ll use up all the money you wanted to spend on expanding production.’

  For a moment, George looked at the scene through Kiki’s eyes. A grimy little room, sitting in a worn­out building above a tired and ugly old factory in a rainswept comer of England. Three people besides himself: an overweight woman without make-up, a scruffy youth dressed in whatever he found on his bedroom floor that morning, and a nondescript man dressed in nondescript grey, hiding a nondescript soul. And the fuss? The fuss was all about whether they could find a way to paint some furniture to sell to customers to make some money to give the bank. Make a million? He’d fly to the moon first.

  ‘OK OK. Please all get out of here. I need some time alone.’

  Only Val hesitated before leaving. She wasn’t just his secretary. She was his lover too. She didn’t like the way the rest of the world became unimportant the moment a pretty little rich girl fell out of the sky in her helicopter. She’d talk to him about it later, but right now she’d let him be.