The Money Makers

by Harry Bingham

  Cunningham had been in the press quite a lot that year. He had represented a pop star, an oil magnate and a TV actress. He had won all three cases and won very substantial awards. He was expensive and worth it.

  ‘Now, let’s tum to business, shall we?’ said Cunningham. He and George were sitting in the Asperton company boardroom across the table from Mike and Eileen Asperton and their lawyer, Dick Steele. Business etiquette would normally dictate that one or other of the Aspertons chaired the meeting, but Cunningham wasn’t one for etiquette. First, he asked Eileen Asperton to pour him some coffee. Next, he asked Mike Asperton to put his cigar out or smoke outside. Then, ignoring Mike Asperton’s spluttering protests and his wife’s silent fury, he continued.

  ‘Now, as you know, we’ve come about an article which appeared in a journal called Furniture Today.’ Cunningham took out some wire-rimmed glasses and perched them precariously on his massive face. He took George’s copy of the magazine and studied it as though for the first time. “‘Rip-Off .” Hmm. That’s on the cover, I see. Story on page fourteen.’ He leafed through the pages. ‘Page fourteen. Here we are. “Gissings cons customers ... Systematic fraud . .. campaign of deception ...” Strong stuff, eh? The magazine tells us you’ve endorsed this story. You must be very sure of your ground.’

  ‘We are sure of ourselves, thank you,’ said Mike Asperton, thumping a file in front of him. ‘We’ve got letters. We’ve got contracts. We’ve got invoices. We’ve got sworn evidence. You name it, we’ve got it. The story’s true and I’m proud that we’ve revealed it.’

  Dick Steele and Eileen Asperton glared at her husband. The first rule of dealing with lawyers is to say nothing, except via your own lawyer. It’s an expensive form of communication. You can talk to your friends in Australia for less. If you had friends on Mars, you could talk to them more cheaply. But you do tend to stay out of trouble.

  ‘Good,’ said Cunningham. ‘Excellent. That’s what I like to hear. Ha! If I’m on the defendant’s side, I mean. Ha, ha! Good written evidence. Just the stuff. Now, for instance, I expect you’ll have evidence linking Gissings with this supplier of lead-based paints. Eh? That would be a fine start in your defence.’

  Before Dick Steele could intervene, a yellow invoice slip floated across the table to Cunningham. Mike Asperton, who had dug it out of his file and thrown it across, looked triumphant. Cunningham took it, and inspected it carefully.

  ‘Tremendous. Thank you.’ He beamed at Mike Asperton, who beamed back ‘Here we have it. An invoice for so many litres of paint, in such-and-such colours. Specification attached. That’ll be all the poisons they have to add, I suppose. Ha, ha! Lead paints never did me any harm. Can’t be as bad as they say, what? Ha, ha, ha! Amount owing. Payment details. Blah, blah.’ His index finger traced across the sheet as he spoke, then came to rest in the bottom left-hand comer. He tapped it twice.

  ‘And here we are. A phone number for the good old Czech manufacturer, Praha Fabriky Zdenikova. That’s quite a mouthful. The name, I mean, not the paint. Let’s try it, shall we?’

  He reached across to the phone which stood on the desk It had a speaker attachment, allowing everybody in the room to hear the call. Cunningham dialled the number. The phone rang a few times, then a woman’s voice answered in Czech.

  ‘Good morning,’ boomed Cunningham. ‘My name’s Harry Cunningham and I’d like to buy some paint, please.’ Then in a quieter voice he added for the benefit of the listeners in the room only, ‘Lots of lead in it please. Eh? Ha, ha!’

  The woman on the other end said something in Czech, then tried again. Then she gave up, and said in German, ‘Warten, bitte.’

  Cunningham wiggled his eyebrows at the room and waited as he had been asked. Presently, a young man’s voice answered the phone again, speaking reasonable English.

  ‘Good morning. May I help you, please?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. My name’s Harry Cunningham of the well-known English furniture company, Cunningham Furniture.’ He winked at his listeners. ‘I’d like to buy some paint, please.’

  ‘Yes, unfortunately we do not have an export business with England. Only with Germany and Austria at the moment. Maybe next year.’ The voice at the other end was firm.

  ‘Well, perhaps we could work out a special arrangement. I have a very specific requirement for some lead­ based paints. I’d like to place quite a substantial order and I’d pay a bit extra for delivery.’

  The voice at the other end became very precise and emphatic.

  ‘You must be aware, I think, that the use of lead in paints is prohibited by European regulations. In the Czech Republic now, we are meeting the Euro standards for many years already. It is not possible for us to supply any other type of paint. If you have a requirement for our other range of paints, we might be able to quote if your order was substantial.’

  ‘No. I definitely want a lead-based paint,’ pursued Cunningham. ‘I know you produce it, because one of my friends here placed a large order with you. Gissings Furniture. I have an invoice from you dated November 1999.’

  ‘That is not possible,’ said the voice. ‘We do not have an export business with England. We have not heard of any Gissing company. We do not produce or supply lead-based paints.’

  ‘And who am I speaking to, please?’

  ‘My name is engineer Jaroslav Svejk. I am export director.’

  Cunningham thanked him and hung up. He looked at Mike Asperton in astonishment.

  ‘Eh? That’s a bit of a blow, isn’t it? Perhaps you checked with somebody else? Did you speak to the managing director? These Eastern bloc firms, you never know quite what’s going on.’

  Mike Asperton was ashen-faced and took another cigar from his pocket. Cunningham raised his shaggy eyebrows and glowered at the company director. Mike Asperton put his cigar away. Even the more controlled Eileen Asperton was visibly upset. Dick Steele watched his case sliding away from him. Damage limitation would be the order of the day.

  Cunningham read the faces over the table.

  ‘What? You didn’t speak with anyone else there? But how could poor old George here’ - he thumped George sympathetically - ‘have covered his furniture in these terrible paints, if the dear old Czechs won’t sell them to him. Eh? You can’t go round saying these things if they’re not true.’

  ‘We’ve conducted a thorough chemical analysis of his furniture. It does have lead on it.’ Mike Asperton was sulky.

  ‘Ah! Now that’s better. Good old chemistry, eh? Never did get far with my chemistry set as a nipper. When I ran out of smells and bangs, that was that, eh? Ha, ha! Where did this deadly table come from then? You can prove it came from Gissings, can’t you?’

  Nobody answered. Darren had produced a suite of furniture which was certainly identical with the Gissings range. The analysis of the paint had been definitive, but where he had got it from nobody exactly knew. But that wasn’t the worst of it.

  The worst of it was that Darren had disappeared that morning. He hadn’t come in to work as usual. He had gone from his bedsit in town. He had left no contact address, no message, nothing. The mainstay of the Asperton case had vanished as miraculously as it had appeared.

  Cunningham looked at the faces ranged opposite him. He didn’t need to labour this point any further.

  ‘Let’s leave the paints. Let’s have a think about this timber, instead.’ Cunningham twisted his wire spectacles back on to his face and peered again at the article.

  ‘“In reality, the wood is reject material from a Scottish sawmill”,’ he quoted. ‘“Warping and distortion is almost inevitable”. Eh, George? What d’you have to say to that? Had many complaints?’

  ‘No,’ said George, speaking for almost the first time since entering the room. ‘We’ve never had a single complaint.’

  ‘Do you know of any complaints?’ Cunningham asked the Aspertons.

  Their blank faces told him the answer. Dick Steele opened his mouth to speak, but Cunningham interrupted him with his boomi
ng laugh.

  ‘Ha, ha! I can see what you’re about to tell me. No complaints proves nothing. Maybe they’re all about to pour in. Maybe people don’t bother to mention it when their furniture falls apart. Quite right. Quite right. Keeping me on my toes, eh? Alright, maybe we should have a look at your documentary evidence. I see you have a great stack of it there.’

  Cunningham nodded at Mike Asperton’s thick folder, but this time Steele managed to restrain his client.

  ‘I think we should reserve our evidence at this point,’ he said.

  ‘Quite right, of course. Best policy. But maybe your evidence includes the following document,’ and Cunningham tossed a piece of paper across the table to Mike Asperton. Asperton looked at the paper. He said nothing, but he didn’t really have to. His face could be read as easily as a pre-schooler’s picture book. His face said: ‘Yes. The piece of paper you have just handed us is one of our key bits of evidence. And something tells me you are about to demolish it.’ Cunningham smiled. He enjoyed this kind of meeting. It was a relaxing change from normal arduous cases and just as well paid. He’d take his time.

  ‘Now what I’ve just given you,’ said Cunningham, ‘is an invoice from the Strathclyde Sawmill Limited. The invoice contains details of a shipment of goods, which is described as untreated timber, with “quality as found”. I understand that means the timber is pretty much rubbish and the sawmill is disclaiming any responsibility for it. Am I right?’

  George nodded. The invoice had come from the Gissings company files. It was legitimate in every way.

  ‘So, George, you plead guilty to buying the lowest grade of timber possible from this sawmill?’

  George nodded again. Cunningham flashed a brilliant smile at the Aspertons, as though to encourage them.

  ‘And, George, can you tell me your reason for buying this timber?’

  ‘Yes,’ said George. ‘When we build prototypes of our new designs we make them out of the very cheapest materials available. This invoice relates to timber for our prototypes.’

  ‘Have you received any other invoices for this kind of timber?’

  ‘No. When we buy in stock, we buy enough to last ourselves two years or so. It’s cheaper to buy it that way. This is the first and only time we’ve used the Strathclyde Sawmill.’

  ‘So any additional evidence that you’ve been buying more low-grade timber from this sawmill would be very bad indeed for your case. Any evidence such as this, for instance.’

  Cunningham tossed another piece of paper across the table. Mike Asperton read it and passed it to his wife. She read it and passed it to Dick Steele. Steele just glanced at it and listened to Cunningham. The piece of paper was a letter written on the Strathclyde Sawmill Limited writing paper. It read as follows:

  Dear Mr Gradley,

  We are delighted that you have agreed to purchase further timber supplies from us. We have never had such a large order for our reject timber and we look forward to doing business with you for many years into the future. We would stress, however, that on no account can we give any guarantees as to quality of material and that additional prices would be charged should you want the timber treated with preservative.

  Yours sincerely,

  Hamish Campbell, Managing Director

  The Aspertons waited, puzzled and nervous. They didn’t actually have a copy of this letter, though they did have something fairly similar in the pile of documents Darren had given them. But somehow, nobody believed that Cunningham was giving away a prime bit of evidence for free. Cunningham smiled.

  ‘I’ve got another letter from the company that you might enjoy.’

  He tossed another letter across the table. This one read as follows:

  Dear Mr and Mrs Asperton,

  As agreed we are sending you a whole lot of appalling rubbish for you to use in ripping off your customers. We guarantee that the timber will buckle and warp within hours.

  Yours sincerely,

  Hamish Campbell, Managing Director

  Cunningham smiled again. The faces on the other side of the table were grey as ash.

  ‘Spot the deliberate mistake. Eh? Eh? Ha, ha, ha! The letter’s nonsense, of course. Wrote it myself. Ha, ha! I just took a letter they sent to George here. Any letter, doesn’t matter which. I cover up the text, so all I have is the letterhead. Then I run it through the photocopier as often as I want. Lo and behold, I have some blank writing paper.

  ‘Next, I write myself a letter. I wrote both of these letters. I could have written anything I wanted. I added a signature just by photocopying the signature and sticking it on. I pass the whole thing through the photocopier again, and bingo. Any letter I want. You can tell hat it’s a copy of course, because you can’t see the pressure of the pen on the signature. But let me guess. I guess you have a copy of the letter in your file, not an original. Am I right? Eh? Ha, ha!’

  Cunningham drenched the room in his laughter once again. It wasn’t just victory he wanted. He wanted unconditional surrender. His brief from George wasn’t just to win the argument. It was to pulverise the opposition. Harry Cunningham was enjoying himself.

  ‘Now let’s turn to the remaining items, shall we? Knobs and handles, eh? Dodgy tax returns, eh? Perhaps we should interview your ex-Gissings employee? But Mr Asperton, you’re looking ill. Do you need some water? Eh? Or a good smoke? Maybe you’d like to step out and get some fresh air?’

  It was true Mike Asperton was looking ill, and his wife wasn’t exactly blooming. Dick Steele called a halt.

  ‘I think perhaps it would be useful if I had some time alone with my clients,’ he said.

  ‘Quite right. No one like a lawyer to help with a giddy spell. Now I notice that there’s a fine church in town. Norman font. Stained glass. Well worth a visit, I’m sure. George here doesn’t get out as much as he should. Too busy working. I’ll take George to have a look at the jolly old font and take a turn about the churchyard. I usually manage to find a gravestone that’s good for a chuckle. Eh? We’ll be back in an hour.’

  So Harry Cunningham and George walked into town and spent an hour wandering around the churchyard. They didn’t spend much time discussing the stained glass. They did spend a bit of time talking about what they hoped to get from the Aspertons, but they had already prepared their list of demands and didn’t have much to add. Cunningham insisted on slashing away with a stick at the long grass around the tombstones, but he didn’t find an inscription to satisfy his sense of humour. After an hour they walked back.

  Mike Asperton was still looking ill, although calmer. Eileen Asperton was sombre. Dick Steele opened the discussion.

  ‘This morning’s review of the evidence has been most helpful,’ he said smoothly. ‘My clients have considered the new facts you’ve brought to light and are prepared to concede that an honest mistake may have been made. We’d like to discuss ways in which we can help resolve any difficulties the article may have caused.’

  Cunningham grew serious. He stood up, and allowed his massive frame to fill the room.

  ‘No. That’s not enough. Your clients, Mr Steele, attempted to destroy my client’s business with malicious falsehoods. I don’t care whether they made them up or whether they just wanted to believe what an ex-employee with a grudge chose to tell them. Either way that’s not an honest mistake. It’s an irresponsible attempt to ruin a decent and properly run company. George Gradley’s property was at stake. The livelihoods of dozens of people were at stake. The law does not permit that kind of behaviour and it is right that it should be punished.’

  Cunningham strode around the room. He was now standing behind the Aspertons, who cowered like naughty schoolchildren.

  ‘The first thing that we require is an outright apology. Now.’

  The Aspertons glanced meekly across at Dick Steele, who nodded them permission. Mike Asperton cleared his throat.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, looking at George. Eileen Asperton’s lips agreed soundlessly.

  ‘A proper apology,’ boo
med Harry Cunningham, towering above them.

  ‘I am - we are - deeply sorry for this article. We made an awful mistake. It’s all the fault of that wicked young man Darren. We apologise,’ said Mike Asperton.

  ‘Whose fault is it?’ thundered Cunningham. ‘Whose fault?’

  ‘Our fault. Sorry. It was our fault. We should never have believed him.’

  Mike Asperton hunkered down like a schoolboy before a spanking. Cunningham caught George’s eye and winked broadly.

  ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘The next thing that we need is immediate damage limitation and some assurances as to future conduct.’

  Cunningham drove on. He and George had rehearsed the list of demands and Cunningham had insisted on George making it as full as possible. Cunningham was determined to secure every item on it. The rest of the conversation lasted five hours. Dick Steele attempted to negotiate each point, but the threat of court action overwhelmed him each time. If this case ever came to court, there’s no telling how a jury would react. But damages could be monumental and the legal costs horrific.

  By the time George and Harry Cunningham left the Aspertons they had everything they wanted. A visit to Furniture Today the following day would secure everything else.

  The Aspertons had agreed to write to every single one of their customers, retracting in full the statements made in the magazine article. They would immediately withdraw their Asperton Brilliants from the market and all other furniture ranges which overlapped with Gissings products. They would hand over all of their existing orders to Gissings. They would undertake not to compete against George in these areas for a ten-year period. They would use their marketing network to sell Gissings products alongside their other products for the next two years. There would be Gissings staff seconded to Asperton Holdings to ensure that the deal was complied with to the letter. They would agree to pay in full any costs or shortfall in sales that Gissings might encounter as a result of the magazine article. There were a few other points of detail that George didn’t care too much about, but Cunningham did.