‘What changes is you people’s willingness to take risk,’ Benton said. ‘One default and you run scared. Junk-bond issuers go belly up all the time, that’s why they pay such a high coupon. There are times when Bloomfield Weiss has just got to stand up and be counted, and this is one of those times.’
‘Benton, you know that that’s not something for you or me to decide, it’s for the Underwriting Committee.’
Benton didn’t reply but stared out of the window at the Canary Wharf tower, growing ever taller as they approached Docklands.
This was a problem. Approval from the Underwriting Committee was required before Bloomfield Weiss could write Zyl News another letter committing to a larger bridge loan. The committee included managing directors from sales and trading, as well as some of the firm’s most senior executives. They wouldn’t approve a bridge loan unless they were confident that the loan would be repaid from the successful launch of a junk-bond issue some time in the next few months. The committee was often willing to take big risks, but if the junk market was looking wobbly perhaps they wouldn’t this time.
If Cornelius didn’t raise his offer, they would lose the deal, it was as simple as that. Benton couldn’t afford that. For several years now as head of the London office he had been away from the sharp end of investment banking, away from the big deals and the big bonuses. He was paid a substantial salary, but the lifestyle he and his family had built up in expatriate London required big bonuses to fuel it. During the last few barren years he had borrowed to pay the bills, but that couldn’t go on for ever. He needed a big bonus, and a high-profile deal like The Times could get him one.
In the past he had succeeded through subtlety and contacts, but as the corporate world became ever more aggressive this had not been enough. The sad truth was that a successful investment banker was one who persuaded his client to pay the highest price. Those were the guys who earned the big fees and the big bonuses. Benton was determined to be one of them. Dower could go screw himself.
The taxi pulled up outside the all-glass building which housed the Herald’s offices and the investment bankers were whisked up to the executive floor. In a moment they were in the chairman’s office, with its expensive modern American artwork and its views of the Thames, the Millennium Dome and the gleaming architectural melange of the new Docklands.
A harried-looking Edwin was sitting in front of a laptop, surrounded by a mess of papers on the long conference table. Cornelius was pacing.
‘Sit down, gentlemen,’ he said. But as Benton and his colleagues took their places, he stayed on his feet. ‘We have to decide whether to come up with a higher offer. Any sign of the other potential bidders?’
‘Nothing,’ Dower said. ‘We know the Telegraph people have been talking to Laxton, but their offer would be certain to be referred to the Competition Commission, and Laxton don’t have time to wait for that. The price has become too high for the Germans and the Irish. So it’s just us and Gill.’
‘I’m not going to lose to that bastard,’ Cornelius said.
‘I assume there is no way you can get your hands on some more cash?’ Dower asked.
Cornelius shook his head. ‘No. Nothing significant, at any rate.’ He scowled. ‘I’m not like some other newspaper proprietors I could name. Everything I’ve got is already in this bid. There are no secret stashes in Switzerland or the Caribbean.’
‘I was not suggesting there were,’ Dower stuttered.
‘If you weren’t, you should have been, right, Benton? I know Edwin thinks the family should have a nest egg ready for a rainy day, don’t you, Edwin?’ Edwin ignored his father. ‘But no, if we pay more, we’ll have to borrow the money.’
Benton was just about to speak but Dower got in ahead of him. ‘There might be a problem –’
‘That’s what we thought –’ said Benton talking over him.
Cornelius raised his hand to silence them both. ‘A problem?’ He stared at Dower.
Dower swallowed. ‘The junk market is not recovering as strongly as we had hoped. There was a big default last week and investors’ confidence has been dented.’
‘Wait a minute.’ Cornelius bent over the table, leaning his large frame on his hands as he stared at the banker, his jaw thrust forward. ‘You gave me your assurance that we would have no trouble raising three hundred million pounds only the other day.’
‘I said it would be tight.’
‘But you gave me a letter.’
‘I know we did,’ said Dower. Beads of sweat had suddenly bubbled up on his brow, and around his fleshy neck. He was glistening. ‘We committed to fund the offer at eight hundred and fifty million. But we can’t commit to higher.’
‘The cash flow is very tight at eight fifty,’ Edwin said, looking up from his papers. ‘Much higher and the whole thing falls apart.’
Cornelius glared at Edwin. Although Edwin and Dower avoided each other’s eyes the bond between them was almost palpable. The numbers didn’t stack up.
There was silence around the table. Cornelius frowned. He looked at Benton. ‘What do you think?’
Benton paused. He had to get this just right. He was glad now he hadn’t said anything. It meant he had retained some authority, whereas Dower had blown his. He looked Cornelius straight in the eye. ‘At nine hundred million can you make the deal work?’
‘There just isn’t enough cash flow to service that amount of debt,’ Edwin said.
Benton raised his eyebrows at Cornelius.
Cornelius sat down. He perched his half-moon spectacles on his nose, picked up one of Edwin’s spreadsheets and studied it. Then he tossed it back on to the table. ‘I know you’ve worked hard at the numbers, Edwin, and I know what they say. Normally I hate to overpay. But sometimes … sometimes you have to take a leap of faith. The Times is a unique property. With us in charge it will be a great one. It’s going to be worth more than a billion in a few years, much more. We took a leap before, with the Herald, remember? That worked. I have a feeling,’ he glanced at his son, ‘no, more than a feeling, a conviction that this is another one of those times. So, yes, Benton, I can make the deal work.’
‘In that case, so can we.’
‘Hold on, Benton,’ Dower interrupted. ‘We need to chat to some people back at the office about this.’
Benton ignored him and returned Cornelius’s stare. ‘You have my word.’
Edwin stalked back to his own office and slammed the pile of papers down on his desk. His father was overreaching himself. Sure, he could get his MBA grunts to alter the assumptions about circulation, advertising rates, cost cutting: 1 per cent here, 2 per cent there, the numbers could be made to add up on paper, but not in real life. In real life the deal wouldn’t work unless Cornelius performed some kind of miracle once he took over the paper. This was possible, Edwin admitted to himself. But it was probable that they just wouldn’t generate enough cash from the business to service their interest payments, and that would bring down not just The Times, but the whole of Zyl News.
If his sister-in-law and Alex bloody Calder didn’t tear the whole thing down anyway.
Edwin didn’t want that. He believed that in the last few years he had made himself indispensable to the company. Cornelius couldn’t carry on much longer; although he still seemed to have limitless energy, he was seventy-two. Todd had practically taken himself out of the picture when he decided to become a teacher, he was certainly out of it now. Zyl News would be Edwin’s in a very few years’ time.
Unless Cornelius bankrupted it through one last misjudged leap.
The phone rang. It was Jeff Hull, his pet journalist.
‘How was our superintendent friend yesterday?’ Hull asked.
‘Very polite, very respectful,’ Edwin said. ‘You could tell his sidekick was itching to ask difficult questions, but he wouldn’t let her.’
‘What did I tell you? There’s nothing that scares a policeman more than a whiff of a paedophile scandal.’
Edwin smiled.
‘You were right. I’ll get your bonus paid into your account tomorrow.’
‘You might want to increase the figure.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve got something else for you, Edwin.’ Hull sounded excited. ‘I’ve been doing a little extra snooping up here in Norfolk and I’ve discovered your brother has a little secret.’
‘Go on.’
‘Did you know he had a squeeze on the side?’
‘No. Talk to me.’
‘Apparently a young, very attractive American woman named Donna was hanging around the hospital for a few days. She would creep in to see Todd when his wife wasn’t there. She said she was a colleague from work, but the nurses had their doubts that that was all she was, especially when his wife discovered her and went ballistic. They didn’t see her around after that.
‘I checked with Todd’s school in New Hampshire. A Miss Donna Snyder is a member of the faculty there. Teaches art, apparently.’
‘Now that’s very interesting.’
‘I thought you’d like it. I don’t know how you want to use that information, but I’m sure you can figure out a way. In the meantime, you can rely on my discretion.’
‘Well done, Jeff.’
‘No problem. But put a little extra on that bonus, won’t you?’
‘I will,’ said Edwin. ‘Good work.’
As he put down the phone, he went through the angles. This kind of knowledge provided leverage. It was a question of where exactly to apply the lever. Edwin knew. He summoned a couple of his strategy grunts into his office to get them to rework the forecasts, and then left the building to grab a taxi across town.
He found Kim where he expected, at Todd’s bedside. In the gleaming private hospital to which he had been transferred, Todd had his own room with television, armchairs, flowers and nice curtains, although the bits and pieces plugged into him looked similar to the equipment in the Norfolk hospital. He was asleep. Kim was sitting in a chair next to him, staring into space through reddened eyes.
She looked up as he came in and gave him the barest trace of a polite smile.
‘How is he?’ Edwin asked.
‘Better,’ Kim said in little more than a mumble. ‘A lot more lucid. But he sleeps a lot.’
‘Good. Can we have a word?’
Kim indicated another armchair.
‘No, not here.’
‘He’s asleep,’ Kim said.
‘I think it would be better to talk somewhere else.’
Kim shrugged and followed him out of the room. They found an unoccupied waiting area down the corridor.
‘I know about Donna Snyder,’ Edwin said.
Kim shook her head, more resigned than angry. ‘Why am I not surprised?’
‘I understand that Alex Calder is in South Africa rooting around into Martha’s death.’
‘So?’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
‘Why not?’
‘Zyl News is in a delicate position at the moment. Calder might make the position even more delicate. It wouldn’t take much to tip everything over.’
Anger flickered in Kim’s eyes. ‘What are you afraid he might find?’
‘I have nothing to hide,’ said Edwin. ‘But the timing is not good. I think you should ask him to return to England.’
‘I will do no such thing. Someone nearly killed Todd, someone nearly killed Alex’s sister. The answer as to who it is lies in South Africa.’
‘Do the police know about Donna Snyder?’
‘I don’t think so. Why would they be interested?’
‘Oh, I think they’d be very interested. You see they asked my father and me all kinds of questions about you and how much you stood to inherit if Todd died.’
‘They asked me those questions too,’ Kim said. ‘But it was just routine. I don’t think they seriously suspected me.’
‘Not then,’ said Edwin. ‘Because then they didn’t know that your husband was cheating on you.’
‘That wouldn’t make any difference,’ said Kim with contempt.
‘Oh, I think it might,’ said Edwin. Then he had a brainwave. ‘And what about you and Alex Calder?’
‘What about us?’ Kim said, but her face flushed bright red.
Edwin smiled. ‘Tut-tut. While your husband was in hospital, too.’
‘There is nothing going on between me and Alex Calder,’ Kim said, the anger rising in her voice.
Edwin raised his hands. ‘All I’m suggesting is that you get hold of Calder and tell him to come home.’
‘Piss off,’ Kim said.
‘It’s the easy answer,’ Edwin said. ‘It will avoid all kinds of unpleasantness.’
‘I said, piss off!’ Kim was nearly shouting now. ‘Get out of here. I’m going back to Todd.’
She turned on her heel and began walking down the long corridor away from her brother-in-law. ‘I’ll give you a day to think about it!’ Edwin called after her. ‘One day!’
Kim entered Todd’s room and slammed the door behind her.
22
Calder decided to walk from his hotel near the Victoria and Alfred Waterfront to the cigar bar on Long Street where he was due to meet George Field. It was early evening, and getting dark. Away from the Waterfront the city itself was a mixture of totally different architectural styles: towering modern office blocks, elegant British colonial, concrete government brutalist, pristine white Cape Dutch, colourful African and shabby urban dilapidated. The people too were of many different shapes and colours, whites now a definite minority. And above it all was the mountain, always in sight, its summit currently covered by a thin cloth of cloud.
The bar was dark: dark wood, dark leather and rows of whisky and brandy bottles glimmering behind the green-waistcoated barman. It did indeed smell of cigars, a group of businessmen were puffing away at huge samples near the door, but there was also the sweeter aroma of pipe smoke. This came from a man in his sixties with a shock of wiry iron-grey hair and thick white eyebrows, wearing a corduroy jacket that looked too shabby for the establishment. He was drawing contentedly on a briar, a glass of whisky in front of him. When he saw Calder, he pulled himself to his feet and held out his hand.
‘Alex? George Field. You found the place all right? I rather like it here, especially at this time of the evening. It’s quiet, you know, a good place for a chat. And there are so few places these days where one can actually smoke.’
‘Thanks for seeing me at such short notice,’ Calder said. He had tracked down George Field on the internet before he left England, and when he had telephoned him the former newspaper editor had seemed suspicious.
‘Not at all. I spoke to Todd van Zyl’s wife and to his sister. Both of them urged me to talk to you. I haven’t seen Todd or Caroline since they were kids. I remember Caroline especially. Funny to hear her now, a grown woman with an American accent.’
‘But you didn’t speak to Cornelius?’
‘No,’ George said, knitting those bushy eyebrows together. ‘I haven’t spoken to Cornelius for a long time. Certainly not since he reinvented himself as an American newspaper tycoon. But I liked Martha. I owe it to her children to talk to you.’
‘Thank you,’ Calder said. He interrupted himself to order a whisky from the hovering waiter. No cigar, though. ‘I know you and she were friends. I wonder if you could tell me what happened around the time she died.’
‘We were friends, especially at that time. I was editor of the Cape Daily Mail. That winter Cornelius decided to close us down and sell off his other South African papers. I was furious, as you can imagine, and so was Martha. I know she tried to change Cornelius’s mind, but she failed.’
‘There was a lot of tension between the two of them, wasn’t there?’
‘Yes, at least at that stage. From what I could tell they had had a pretty good marriage until about a year before Martha died. She was ten years younger than him, but she was much more than a blonde trophy wife. In fact, she didn’t rea
lly do the trophy-wife thing very well.’ George chuckled to himself. ‘That’s one of the reasons I liked her. Then it all fell apart. Part of it was the row about the Mail, but there were other reasons.’
‘Such as?’
George sucked at his pipe, his eyes assessing Calder. ‘Such as Cornelius’s mistress.’
‘Mistress?’
‘Mistress, lover, call it what you will. A young woman named Beatrice Pienaar. Stunningly beautiful, and intelligent. She was a journalism graduate and the story was she wanted a few months’ work experience at Zyl News.’
‘The story?’
‘She was a spy. I had a strong suspicion of it at the time, but later, in the late 1990s, her name came out during testimony to the Truth and Reconciliation Commission. Oh, she wasn’t involved in any violence or torture or anything, but she was working for the security police. She even had a rank: lieutenant. The security police recruited a number of spies among students, put them through liberal universities and encouraged them to work for the newspapers or join radical movements. Some of the names have become public: Joy Harnden, Craig Williamson, Beatrice Pienaar; some we will never hear about.’
‘Did Cornelius know?’
‘I told him of my suspicions, but he said I was being ridiculous. I also told Martha.’
‘Did she know about the affair?’
‘She strongly suspected something.’
‘What about Martha’s death? What do you think happened to her? Do you believe she was killed by ANC guerrillas?’
‘No, I’m sure she wasn’t. That was a classic security-police cover story.’
‘Did you try to find out what really happened? You are a journalist, after all.’
‘I never got the chance. The day after Martha was murdered, I was arrested.’
‘What for?’
‘I never found out.’ He smiled wryly. ‘In those days you often didn’t know why you were arrested. The police were allowed to lock you up for ninety days without charging you. While I was in jail the paper was closed down and Cornelius left the country for America. At the time I assumed that I was locked up to prevent me from finding a rescuer for the Mail. But perhaps it had something to do with stopping me asking awkward questions about Martha’s death.’
See No Evil Page 24
