The Money Makers (30 page)

‘David? It’s me, George. George Gradley.’

‘George? Well, blow me. You’re talking broad Yorkshire now. You should hear yourself.’

‘Well, I’m born and bred Yorkshire, what d’you expect?’

‘I expected an old Etonian, Giorgio Armani, year­ round suntan, designer ponce, if you must know. But I prefer this one.’

It was a backward sort of compliment, but George didn’t mind.

‘Yeah, well, I wasn’t phoning to get your views on my personal development, thanks all the same. I’ve got something to tell you.’

‘Hang on.’ There was a pause for a moment. George could hear a high-pitched squeal in the background.

‘Sorry about that. Bloody lorry almost hit me on the bend just then. No consideration for other drivers. Lucky I got back on to my side of the road in time. What were you saying?’

‘David. Slow down to subsonic speed and listen. We aren’t able to repay your loan. We’re going under.’

There was a silence on the other end of the phone for a while. George wondered whether the signal had died. It’s amazing how the two percent of the country not covered by the phone company always seems to be where people want to call from.

‘OK.’ It was Ballard, again, but solemnly this time.

‘I’ve stopped the car and every slow-moving vehicle in the county is getting ahead of me again. So this had better not be a joke. What did you say?’

George repeated himself slowly. He explained the problem.

‘I still don’t understand,’ complained Ballard. ‘Take the worst-case scenario. Say you don’t make a penny of profit this year. The company’s beginning to live again. There’s always next year or the year after.’

‘Yes, but I won’t stick around to watch. And if I’m gone, I wouldn’t give all that much for its chances.’

‘So why are you telling me this? D’you want me to call in the loan today? Put you out of your misery early?’

‘Well, there is one thing you could do for me.’

George explained his idea in a few sentences. Ballard listened. A couple of times he asked questions which George responded to briefly and concisely. Eventually Ballard gave his verdict.

‘As it happens, I’m off to see them in a week or so. They’re one of my biggest clients, in fact. But they’re a sharp bunch and I don’t hold out much hope.’

‘But you’ll try,’ said George. He was stating a fact not asking a question. ‘That’s great. And remember something, David. I’ve only got a quid invested in this company. You’ve got half a million.’

5

‘Zack, for Christ’s sake, you haven’t bloody seen her for more than a month. She’s had a complete nervous breakdown and you’re never bloody here.’

‘I’m busy, Josie. I’m literally averaging five hours sleep a night. I just don’t have time.’

‘So what’s more important, then? Dicking around in the City or looking after your mother? Get your priorities straight.’

‘My priorities are straight. I’m just doing the same as Matthew and George. We’re working our butts off to save our inheritance: Once we have it, it’ll all be different. Don’t pretend I’m the guilty party.’

‘Matthew’s in New York. George is in Yorkshire. Matthew phones every weekend and George comes down every second or third weekend. George is as poor as a church mouse, but he still sends money every month, more than he can afford. You live a couple of miles away on some fat banker’s salary and we never see you, let alone get money from you.’

Zack started to protest. He loved his sister and his mother at least as much as he loved anyone else, himself apart. But these three years were critical. Pissing around in Kilburn with a long face and a box of tissues wasn’t going to make anyone happy. Not when thirty or forty million quid of their money went to endow some bloody children’s home.

‘Listen, Josie,’ Zack began, but Josie had slammed the phone down. ‘Yeah, I love you too,’ he added sourly.

For now, Josephine could think whatever she wanted. Zack was busy. For one thing, he saw Sarah as often as he could. It wasn’t all that often, but he hoped it was enough. He’d been down to Ovenden House a couple more times, and last time had actually managed to stay seated as his horse went over one of Sarah’s jumps, albeit on its lowest setting. She’d laughed her clear laugh at him and said he’d never make a horseman, though Lord Hatherleigh said he had ‘the makings of a fine fly fisherman’. He still desired Sarah with gale-force intensity, while she remained apparently immune. Zack was in a frenzy of greed, frustration and desire.

Meantime, he was busy. He was working on three separate energy deals for Amy-Lou Mazowiecki. If each of them completed successfully, he’d have earned five and a half million dollars for the bank. He only had to find another half million dollars from somewhere and he’d have met his annual target for a first-year vice president. Mazowiecki was pleased with him and kept shoving good deals his way. He’d make the six million easily.

But Zack wasn’t interested in making six million.

He wanted to make partner, and for that he needed to make a splash. Mazowiecki had told him that the normal hurdle rate was thirty-five million, but that was for people the bank already knew well. If Zack wanted to make it to partner in the next twenty-three months, he’d have to blow their socks off. He wasn’t aiming to make thirty-five million, but seventy. They couldn’t refuse him if he made seventy.

This train of thought led him where it always did: to two names pinned to the noticeboard above his desk. He forgot about Josie and settled down to work.

6

Matthew filled out the last of his trading tickets. He made sure they were easily legible, as every screw-up in settling a trade could cost the bank five grand. What a day! What a week! The market had tossed around for five days and ended back where it started. Despite thin markets, Matthew had done more trades that week than in any other so far, but he was still down $20,800. Typical August trading, Rosenthal said.

He tidied his desk, grabbed his jacket and headed out.

On the way, he passed by Alan and Rick’s alcove.

‘Coming for a beer, guys? I’m buying.’

Al and Rick were busy with some computer print­ outs. Alan perspired as he always did, his dustbin over­ flowing with junk food wrappers. His bin was usually full, but not overflowing. He’d had a bad week too. Rick wiped his head with his sleeve. Maybe he thought he was pushing a hair back into place, but he had no hair. Maybe he was polishing.

‘Buying a drink, huh, big shot? Don’t tell me you’ve had a good week, ’cause I’ve seen your trading tickets. Sorry, pal. I’ve another hour’s work here. So’s Rick.’

Rick nodded. He didn’t get chattier with longer acquaintance. Matthew was disappointed. On the training programme, he’d spent every spare minute either working or with Sophie. He had no friends in New York of his own, and he was finding it tough to make friends on the trading floor. He still missed Sophie too much to make a serious effort with other women, and that ruled out the sort of social interaction he knew best.

Scott Petersen left the room amidst a large and noisy group, mostly female. He’d recovered, then.

‘Y’all have a good one,’ he called.

Matthew and Alan called something back. Rick nodded and polished. The trading floor began to grow quiet, but it was Matthew’s best friend in New York. He felt lonely.

A movement behind Alan and Rick alerted Matthew to somebody else’s presence. It was Fiona Shepperton, who had been sitting down at a window, reading some documents. She stood up and handed something back to Rick when she noticed Matthew.

‘Did I hear you offering to buy me a drink?’ she said.

‘Sure, if you like.’

‘I’m tied up tonight, but I’m free tomorrow.’

‘Certainly,’ said Matthew, whose evenings were all too free these days. ‘Where would you like to go? You name the spot.’ An evening with the ball-crusher wasn’t Matthew’s idea of fun, but it beat microwaving a frozen lasagne for one.

‘I’ll have a think and give you a call lunchtime tomorrow.’

Matthew confirmed the arrangement and left the bank, feeling low.

7

David Ballard studied the figures in front of him. He had to admit they were impressive. He had to admit it to himself, that is. What he said was rather different.

‘Your profit margins are coming under a bit of pressure, I see. And how do you explain the slowdown in domestic furnishings?’

Mike and Eileen Asperton looked at him startled.

They were chief executive and chairwoman respectively of Asperton Holdings. Married for twenty-five years, they were alike as two peas, just as round and almost as small. Mike Asperton was never without a cigar, his wife never without a hanky to flap at the smoke. Their double act was famous throughout Lancashire, and a highly successful act it was too. Through two and a half eventful decades, the company had prospered. Ballard had long been an admirer of the company and had consistently supported its growth with loans and advice. His signs of doubt now were hard to interpret.

‘Pressure? We’ve grown our sales by thirty-five percent,’ said Mike Asperton, ‘and our margins have slipped only one point three percent. Frankly, we’re delighted with that performance. As soon as we slow down a bit, our margins will be back up. And as for the domestic furnishings - well, as you know, we’ve decided to concentrate on the office and light industrial markets, which is where we think our strength lies.’

Ballard looked dubious.

‘Mmm. I agree that if you just look at the bottom line, these results are good, but I am worried about how you got there. Margins slipping with sales racing away - it’s the classic recipe for cash flow crisis.’

Eileen Asperton, who had the sharper tongue of the pair, was annoyed. ‘David, you know we’ve never had a cash flow difficulty in our lives. Our budgeting system is state of the art and we’re in the middle of refining our projections even further.’ Her husband’s cigar prodded the air in emphatic support.

Ballard raised his eyebrows. ‘You mean the projections in here?’ he said, tapping the bundle of documents on his lap. ‘These projections are only provisional?’

‘No. They’re hardly provisional.’ Eileen was polite but only just. ‘We just want to tighten them up further. You know our standards.’

Ballard frowned. The Aspertons wanted a loan of five million pounds to double their production area, a move which Ballard had been urging on them for some time. They would transform themselves into one of the country’s largest manufacturers of furniture, and Ballard was confident they would succeed. Normally, he would have approved the loan without a second thought, but today his agenda was a little more complex.

‘How long before you have final estimates?’

‘These are final, David. It’s just that we go on continuously refining. It’s part of our culture here.’

‘Well, maybe we should wait until you have your half ­ yearly numbers ready in another six months. That way we can see whether you’re right about your margins, or whether I’m right to be cautious. To be honest, I’d be happy to chance it, but I have to get approval from my bosses. Credit committees and all that stuff.’

‘For Christ’s sake, man,’ cried Mike Asperton. ‘We want the cash now. What’s to stop you waiting another six months come January?’ His cigar was disappearing in rapid puffs and his wife’s flapping had speeded up. Ballard studied his quarry carefully and pretended to study the figures again.

‘I notice that your third-party income from the paintshop has fallen away to nothing. What’s going on there?’

‘Oh, we used to let out our facilities to other companies to help pay back our investment. We’ve discontinued that, as it didn’t bring in a lot of money and we’re not keen on helping our competitors.’

‘Uh,’ grunted Ballard. ‘Stuff like that doesn’t help my case. My credit committee always tends to interpret it as over-confidence. To be perfectly frank with you, your timing is a bit awkward. I got a call last week from one of your competitors. They were more or less throwing in the towel and declaring themselves bankrupt. And you know what committees are like. If I tell my credit committee as the first item of business that our loan to one furniture company has gone to hell, then asking them to lend five million to another is likely to get a bit of a belly laugh. That’s why I think it would be better to wait.’

‘Well, we’re not waiting just so your committee can get its crying over and done with,’ said Mike Asperton. ‘You’re not the only bank in town.’ He was neither smoking nor waving his cigar right now. The tip was completely still and all his attention was with Ballard. His wife, too, had folded away her handkerchief and given up her normal background coughing.

Ballard raised his hands in a gesture of resignation.

‘Maybe you’re right. I shouldn’t say that, of course. We want your business, but you’re in a hurry and I’ve got a problem right now. But . . . well, never mind, it’s up to you.’

Eileen Asperton wasn’t one to let a comment like that slip away from her. ‘What d’you mean, but? But what?’

Ballard hesitated.

‘Look, just because there are loads of banks these days doesn’t mean there’s loads of competition. There are only a few banks who’ll do these kind of loans and there are only a few people in those banks who are going to handle them. I know them and they know me. If you go trogging down the road to your friendly neighbourhood bank and ask for a few million quid, it won’t be long before I get a phone call asking me if I’ve already turned you down. If I tell them I have, you’ll get a lot of polite bullshit, but you won’t get a loan.’