Plantation A Legal Thriller

by J M S Macfarlane

Chapter 12

  Grenville and Black were pleased that their ruse was working a second time. The other directors (who knew nothing of the conspiracy) hid their opposition. How could someone with minimal experience have an executive position in the company, they thought.

  Grenville smiled while Black sat motionless with his head bowed, listening to what everyone had to say.

  The same allegations of mismanagement and neglect levelled at Jim Ashby, could eventually be made against his son. If the company was ready to disintegrate, Rob Ashby’s involvement would make no difference. It might hasten the collapse – and if there was a buyer for the remaining assets, all the better.

  A motion was put and seconded and was then carried unanimously : Ashby became an executive director, on the spot. Grenville invited him to use Jim Ashby’s old office and his father’s secretary, Tara would get him what he needed.

  “I’d like to speak to everyone in the claims section and to the lawyers and everyone else involved in each of the claims,” said Ashby.

  “I’ll pass that on and I’ll make sure everyone knows that you’re continuing your father’s work. But we don’t have much time.”

  The meeting then adjourned for fifteen minutes while everyone took a break. The general subject of muffled conversation was of disbelief. “A new captain for the Titanic,” suggested a wag.

  In the meantime, arrangements were being made so that the lawyers and claims managers could go through each of the claims.

  While this was being organised, Grenville walked with Ashby down to his father’s office.

  “Bit of a shock, eh ? One minute you’re in Houston and now you’re here.”

  “Yes, I have to admit, I hadn’t the faintest idea, even a few days ago that I’d be doing this today.”

  “You know, just in the past few weeks, your father was working extremely hard and under an enormous amount of pressure. We thought he was fighting a losing battle but he refused to listen to us.”

  “What happened ?”

  “Oh, well, the doctors said it was a heart attack, right here in this room, in the very chair you’re sitting in, at this desk, the day before yesterday, at about eight forty five in the evening. We found him the next morning. You needn’t be concerned – he wouldn’t have suffered – it would have been quick. We’ve left everything exactly as it was. We thought that you would like to go through everything yourself.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate that. I’ll come back later and have a look through his desk and papers. Time flies, doesn’t it ?” said Ashby as he looked at a photograph on his father’s desk. It showed his parents and him when he was around five years old.

  “It does. Well, shall we stroll back ? They should be ready for us now.” And they made their way through the open plan office.

  When they got back to the boardroom, a lectern, overhead projector and roll-down white screen had been set up at the far end of the room with the seating re-arranged conference-style. There were three or four new faces, one or two looking nervous – no doubt the claims managers – and others laughing and chatting with the directors – obviously, the lawyers. All of them were to explain the latest events affecting the company.

  The door was closed and Roger Grenville called the meeting to order. The first speaker was introduced : Steve Whittingham was the company’s head of claims. He was a Northerner and his paunch betrayed the time he spent in the pub. Around Lime Street, the pubs from eleven o’clock onwards were always full.

  “Thank you, Mr Chairman. Well, six large losses were reported to us in the past two years. While we’re still investigating the circumstances of each claim, we do know that each of them, on their own, is large enough to wipe out all of the reserves the company has in place. Although we’ve been formally notified of these claims, not one of them has yet been accepted by us as a valid claim. We are disputing the lot – at least, that was the decision taken by Mr James Ashby.”

  Whittingham laid a transparent, plastic sheet on top of the projector and a diagram appeared on the white screen.

  “The six main losses are firstly, the sinking of a cargo ship, the Captain Stratos, off the coast of Portugal, in heavy seas with loss of crew and cargo almost three years ago. Secondly, a non-marine loss – a political risk contract – for non-payment of precision steelwork supplied by a British company for the South African government. Thirdly, the explosion of the Victor 7 oil rig in the South China Sea just over three years ago which disrupted the oil supply to Singapore and South-East Asia for several weeks. Fourthly, the reinsurance of a Soviet insurer for loss of goods in transit. Fifthly, coverage of losses for a Colombian insurer from Hurricane Maisy which devastated Central America four months ago. And lastly, the theft in West Berlin the year before last of a Caravaggio on loan from the British Gallery to an international exhibition at the West Berliner Art Akademie.”

  Ashby was astounded. “Did you say Plantation was insuring communist governments ?”

  “Let me be more precise : the company Plantation merged with – Stirling Limited – insured them. After the merger, Plantation inherited all of the contracts signed by Stirling and that included with communist regimes. These were very profitable because no-one else in the London market would touch them.”

  Rob made no further comment. He recalled reading somewhere in a newspaper or trade daily that someone had begun taking on these types of risks. At the time, he wondered who would be mad enough to do it. Now he knew.