The Money Makers

by Harry Bingham

  Matthew ignored the obnoxious little man.

  ‘I want you to invest everything in Albion Leasing. Bonds not shares.’ Matthew gave a few more precise instructions. It is difficult for individuals to buy bank loans, but easy for them to buy bonds. There are a few exceptions, but generally speaking if bank loans go up in value then so do bonds. Matthew gave Belial detailed instructions. The ugly little man on the other end of the line repeated the instructions back clearly and precisely. Nobody was more disagreeable, but Matthew had to admit that his service was impeccable.

  ‘I must warn you, as always, that the investment you want to make carries an extremely high level of risk -’

  ‘I know. Just do it. I’ll call you back to confirm the trade in a couple of minutes.’

  Matthew cut off Belial’s snickering voice, bought the coffees, phoned back, and got the confirmation he wanted. Switzerland International charged painfully dear commissions, but its traders seemed to be excellent and succeeded in buying whatever they needed to buy at a rate which was always fair and sometimes exceptional. This time, they seemed to have done their usual good job. Matthew barely thanked Belial and walked quickly back to the office.

  ‘How are our mice doing?’ he asked when he arrived.

  ‘No responses yet. They’re probably all out to lunch,’ said Deane.

  ‘You’re telling me.’

  ‘Now then, don’t be nasty.’

  The afternoon drew on. Fiona repeated her calls. Still no answer. That was odd. Mice don’t generally take long lunch breaks, and right now there was an epidemic.

  Eventually, at quarter to five, one of their chief mice called back. Fiona explained that Madison was willing to buy a substantial chunk of Albion debt at thirty-five pence in the pound. The offer, as always, was conditional on Madison having access to all the information that the existing lenders enjoyed.

  From previous experience, Fiona expected to have her hand virtually nibbled off. Instead, she discovered that her mouse had turned into a tiger.

  ‘Thanks for the call. Unfortunately, you’re too late. Once you’ve heard today’s news, you won’t be interested. It turns out that there was a substantial fraud on top of everything else. It’s too soon to say, but the debt’s probably worth ten pence in the pound, if that. We’ve just taken the decision to write the debt off completely. If we recover anything at all, we’ll treat it as a bonus.’

  ‘Fraud, huh?’

  ‘That’s right. On a big scale. It should have been spotted sooner but wasn’t. I sure wish we’d sold out to you guys a couple of days ago.’

  ‘OK. Well, thanks for being straight with us.’

  ‘No problem. You’d have learned about it before closing the deal anyway.’

  That was true. By the time Fiona had come off the phone, Ed Deane and Matthew were clustered round their Reuters terminal. The headline spoke volumes: ‘Bankers announce fraud at Albion Leasing’. Beneath it, the article went on to describe the fraud. The company’s shares were suspended. The bonds were trading at five to ten pence in the pound, but in practice no deals were being done even at that rock-bottom price.

  ‘Damnation,’ said Deane. ‘We’ll have to find some other mice to hunt.’

  ‘It’s good news, really,’ said Fiona. ‘We’d have lost a heap of money if we’d made our offer a day or two sooner.’ Matthew said nothing. He just stared at the screen and punched buttons to get whatever information there was. At this stage, there wasn’t much. There’d be more over the next day or two. But information wouldn’t save him. Matthew had invested two hundred and eighty thousand pounds in bonds which had collapsed in value. He had bought them at around forty pence in the pound. Assuming he was able to sell at all, he’d probably get between five and ten pence for them now. That would give him between thirty-five and seventy thousand pounds before Belial’s fat commissions.

  Just a few hours ago, his father’s millions were getting so close he could wave. Now they had become more distant than the stars. He was back to square one, or worse.

  3

  The editor looked at the mock-up. Beneath the regular Furniture Today masthead stood a red-highlighted headline in 30 point type: ‘RIP-OFF! Our exclusive report reveals the cheats some manufacturers get away with’. Then, in smaller print, ‘Story on page 14’.

  Furniture Today was a trade magazine, not a beacon of investigative journalism. Its stories dealt with new techniques for steam-treating pine and the latest design award-winners. The magazine had no budget for law­ suits and no appetite for libel.

  In the end, though, the editor had run out of excuses. The evidence damning Gissings was as robust and complete as could be imagined. The editor had not only seen the evidence himself, he had copies of it in the office safe. He had spent a long time interviewing a disgruntled ex-employee of Gissings and had the whole interview on videotape. He’d had a journalist, undercover, check out the Gissings man’s story, and every word of it could be corroborated. The young man had been close to Gissings’ boss. He had been sacked and humiliated. He had hung around bitter and vengeful, until an idea had struck him. He’d turned up on the Aspertons’ doorstep the very next day.

  But better than any of this, the editor had a letter from Eileen Asperton herself. The letter promised that all the allegations made were true, and indemnified the magazine against any lawsuits. If the magazine was sued for libel, the Aspertons would pick up the tab. The editor sighed. They must really hate Gissings.

  The editor spoke with his owner. The owner spoke with his lawyers. And the lawyers, owner and editor all agreed. They’d go ahead.

  The story ran as follows:

  Exclusive!

  GISSINGS CONS CUSTOMERS WITH EMPTY PROMISES

  Investigation reveals unsafe paints and poor quality materials

  Ever had the experience of buying something that looked great in the showroom only to find that it falls apart within days? Well, you may not just be the victim of your own careless buying. You may be the victim of systematic fraud.

  Furniture Today has conducted a lengthy investigation into one long-established firm, Gissings Furniture Ltd, and is able to reveal some of the tricks in its carefully planned campaign of deception.

  Suspicions were first aroused when Michael and Eileen Asperton, proprietors of the well-known Asperton Holdings Ltd, started to pay close attention to a new segment of the furniture market, dominated by the Gissings ‘Bright and Beautiful’ range. As Mike Asperton says, ‘We were doing our own research into the area, when Gissings produced their range. When we looked at the quality standards which Gissings claimed to meet, we were very sceptical. We couldn’t see how it could be done with the technology we knew they had.’

  The Gissings marketing literature claimed to use ‘top quality paints with excellent durability’. In fact, a joint investigation by Furniture Today and Asperton Holdings indicates that paints have regularly been sourced from an East European supplier, whose products contain dangerous levels of lead and other toxic substances. Brian Conway, Health and Safety Consultant to the British Furniture Council, commented, ‘Use of such lead-based paints is in clear contravention of British and European safety standards, and could result in criminal prosecution.

  What’s worst about this kind of practice is the risk of potentially fatal health consequences, especially in young people.’

  Eileen Asperton comments, ‘We were shocked. We felt it essential to hurry out our own range of furniture to offer customers a real alternative. Meanwhile, we’ve done everything we can to expose this dreadful practice as soon as possible.’

  But Gissings’ efforts to cut costs at customers’ expense haven’t stopped there. The marketing material described the wood used in the product as ‘high quality fully treated Scandinavian pine’. In reality, our investigation shows the wood is reject material from a Scottish sawmill, which in most cases hasn’t even been treated. Mike Graham from the Asperton Holdings technical department comments, ‘They were claiming to use so
me of the best softwood materials on the market. In fact, they were using wood of such poor quality that warping and distortion is almost inevitable. The only wonder is how long they’ve got away with this kind of practice.’

  Other tricks include using high quality fittings such as knobs, handles and hinges on showroom models, and replacing these with the cheapest avail­ able lookalikes on the goods shipped to customers. Nor was it only the customers who paid. Important VAT returns were sent to the revenue authorities deliberately incomplete, in order to delay payment for as long as possible.

  Gissings was recently acquired from the well­ respected Gissings family by George Gradley, son of the self-made Yorkshire millionaire, the late Bernard Gradley. It is thought that - contrary to claims made by its proprietor - Gissings is highly indebted. In Mike Asperton’s words, ‘Perhaps they thought it was OK to cheat customers to stop the firm from going to the wall. But in this business, the only thing that can save you is hard work, and honesty. Unfortunately, under the new management, Gissings seems to lack both.’

  We invited Gissings to comment on our investigation, but all we received was a terse ‘No comment’. The documents collected by the joint Furniture Today and Asperton Holdings investigation have been passed to the police. Meanwhile, Asperton Holdings has set up a Freefone helpline for customers fearing that they may have bought sub-standard products.

  The magazine usually had a print run of eight thousand copies. This time, the print run was to be thirteen thou­ sand copies, as the Aspertons had ordered five thousand additional copies for ‘promotional purposes’. Apparently, they had prepared a customer mailing list of five thousand names, each of whom would be sent a copy of the magazine with a covering letter from Mike Asperton. The aim was to make sure that nobody in the country ever bought a piece of Gissings furniture again.

  Gissings, of course, subscribed to the magazine. Everybody in the industry did. And when, on Friday morning, Val opened the mail, the red headline on the front cover caught her eye. She turned straight to the article and read it in a state of mounting shock. She didn’t know what to make of it. She assumed it was rubbish, of course, but it looked like lethal rubbish. And there was one thing that bothered her. She remembered George once insisting on sending in incomplete VAT returns during one of Gissings’ perennial cash crises. What else had he been doing that she didn’t know about? These days, it seemed, there was nothing he wouldn’t be willing to do.

  She dropped the magazine on George’s desk before walking out wordlessly. George read the article once, then reread it, slowly and carefully. He wondered what the Aspertons would do to take advantage of it - but it hardly mattered. The article alone was designed to kill Gissings. He ran his fingers through his short ginger hair and breathed out heavily.

  ‘Game, set and match,’ he murmured.

  4

  What better time to be married than this first high summer of the third millennium? And what better place than the magnificent grounds of Ovenden House? And what finer couple in England today than the young, brilliant, acerbic Zack and his rich, lovely, undeceiving bride? There may be marriages where the motives are a little purer, on the side of the husband at least, but what you don’t know can’t hurt you, and under the brilliant sunshine, in her billows of lace and ivory silk, trotting away from the village church in a carriage drawn by four white horses, next to the only man she has ever truly loved, Sarah lives in bliss and ignorance.

  The wedding service had been perfect. Five hundred people crammed into the village church and the windows rattled with their singing. Sarah wore a traditional full-skirted dress of ivory silk satin trimmed with old lace, that everyone said looked lovely and meant it too. Lord Hatherleigh gave her away with dignity, a happy man. Unlike most fathers of the bride, he felt he was gaining a son, not losing a daughter.

  Lady Hatherleigh was kind enough to sit next to Helen Gradley, who was quite well by her standards. She was attentive and alert, though she needed reminding that it was Zack who was getting married to Sarah, not, as she kept thinking, George to Val.

  Bride and groom spoke the vows loudly and clearly, looking into each other’s eyes. Zack had remembered to comb his hair and managed to avoid rumpling it a few moments later. He looked darkly handsome, even dashing: a wonderful match for a wonderful bride. The couple spoke their vows as if they meant them, sang the hymns as if they liked them, and kneeled in prayer as though they did it all the time.

  Ceremony over, the congregation poured out into the village churchyard to watch the happy couple step into their waiting carriage.

  The horses had been woken early to have their coats groomed, their tails plaited, their manes ribboned, and their hooves oiled, and they had waited a lot longer than they wanted outside in the bright sun. So, when Zack and Sarah climbed aboard and the coachman shook the reins, they trotted off brightly, looking forward to an afternoon of snoozing, nosebags and sweet summer grass. So sweetly did they canter, that Sarah, on a high of happiness, but never happier than when her pleasures involved horses, insisted on looping the long way round by the lake and taking the reins herself for the long gallop through the woods. Zack, too, was as happy as he’d ever known. Prenuptial agreement or no, this was a huge step in the right direction for him, and he genuinely did like his wife a very great deal - just a little bit less than she might have imagined. When, finally, she reluctantly let go the reins and dropped back into the carriage, filled like cherry blossom with her skirts, she and Zack began a kiss which didn’t end until the sweating horses, doubly impatient now, drew up to cheers and confetti on the gravel drive.

  The receiving line stretched through the rose garden. Zack and Sarah, Lord and Lady Hatherleigh and Josephine and Helen Gradley offered hands and best wishes to the long procession. Josephine had been very nervous of how Helen would manage, but she sat like royalty in a wicker armchair, shook every hand that was offered and mumbled her pleasure and thanks.

  Everyone was there. Helen Gradley’s parents had come, as had Bernard Gradley’s mother, Peggy, teetotal now after ferocious warnings from her doctor. A few of Zack’s aunts and uncles - a random selection of Bernard Gradley’s numerous siblings - had come, and stood around now, awkward as pigs in a synagogue, but pleased to be there.

  To George’s astonishment, Kiki was there as well, disappearing beneath an enormous scarlet hat.

  ‘But of course I am here,’ she said. ‘My family and Sarah’s family have known each other for generations. I think it was my great-great-grandmother who married the fourteenth viscount, or something. Anyway, Sarah and Kate used to come to my house in France every summer when they were babies.’

  George was thrilled, and he and Kiki spent much of the day together. She asked him where Val was. He shrugged unhappily and told Kiki the story.

  ‘But I think it will turn out right in the end, Georges. I think she must love you and if she is in love then she will not stay angry for ever.’

  George was pleased that she thought so. But then again, Kiki kept nothing in her head for more than a minute or two, and so probably wasn’t the best guide to the course of anger in strong-willed Yorkshirewomen. George loved spending time with Kiki, but his infatuation had gone. She was a good friend, but would have been a horrendous wife. Besides, Kiki had started to date a good-looking Italian, and gave George all the details.

  ‘I tell you as my friend, Georges, if he gets his horrible old palazzo tidied up, I think I will marry him.’ George was genuinely delighted and hugged her as close as she and her hat would permit.

  The wedding reception passed in a happy daze. Champagne was poured in abundance, but the glasses didn’t stay full for long. The great marquee buzzed with laughter, and at the head of it all, Sarah sat, glowing with pleasure and beauty. Only Matthew, Zack’s best man, was glum. Fiona had been invited, of course, but she’d ducked out at the last minute for fear of being introduced as Matthew’s girlfriend to all his family. He missed her and, what was worse, he had his speech to get th
rough.

  Lord Hatherleigh was first to speak, welcoming, genial and witty. He was warmly applauded, an encouraging sign. Zack went next, ticking off a long list of thank-yous and handing out a number of presents. With every present and every thank-you there was a little joke and a ripple of laughter. Matthew got a sterling silver billfold - a coded sneer, meaning ‘I’ve just married fifty million quid. How’s your million coming along?’ Matthew shoved the gift into his pocket. He’d throw it away later. Zack finished the thank-yous and launched into an impromptu description of Sarah taking the reins in the carriage that afternoon, standing up in her wedding dress and geeing up the galloping horses. The audience’s laughter rose into guffaws. Then Zack added a few very warm words about Sarah and her family. More applause. Matthew’s tum.

  He drew out his notes and set doggedly out. Six minutes his speech would last. He had nine principal jokes and a few minor ones. He marched from one to another, halting briefly at each punch line before striding off once more. The audience tittered obediently, but without mirth. He sat down to polite but modest applause.

  Zack leaned across to thank him, but his eyes were cold. Both brothers knew that this wedding was just another gambit in their three-year contest. One year to go and Zack had married money. All he had to do now was get it into his pocket. Zack’s eyes boasted victory, while Matthew’s flashed back his unbroken resolve. Even if Zack won, Matthew wanted to prove that it was he, and he alone, who could make the million the way their father intended, through his own solitary effort. Zack knew what Matthew was thinking and returned his gaze unflinchingly. Millimetres beneath the surface, hostility flickered.