The Money Makers (61 page)

6

Val wasn’t keen to make a fuss, but George insisted. ‘It’ll be fun,’ he said.

His first move wasn’t all that smart, recruiting Darren and Dave to help with the preparations. He told them to close the museum-turned-showroom and clear it of furniture, except for a few tables and chairs at one end. He also gave them five hundred pounds for ‘refreshments and stuff’, which in Darren’s hands bought a surprisingly large amount of alcohol, no food at all, and the hire of a sound system which would have caused hearing loss on the far side of Leeds.

George persuaded a deeply sceptical Darren that the showroom’s own music system would be adequate and coaxed Val into spending another £200 on nibbles at the nearest Waitrose. By this time, all effort at secrecy had vanished and it was a matter of open speculation what the fuss was about. By five o’clock, the shop floor was pretty much empty, despite Gissings’ groaning order book, and knots of workers milled around outside the showroom waiting for George to tell them what was happening.

‘You’d better go and tell them,’ said Val, peering out of an upstairs window.

‘You’d better come with me.’

‘I’m not coming out there. I’ll die of embarrassment. I’ll come down after you’ve told them.’

George took his fiancée’s hands. They had chosen her an engagement ring, but it had to be sent away for fitting and her hands were bare.

‘There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Unless you mean me, of course.’

‘Do I look alright?’

George looked at her, up and down. ‘You look absolutely beautiful.’ He meant it.

‘Idiot.’

‘Well, why ask?’

Still nervous, Val walked downstairs after George. Before they went out into the yard, George tried to take her hand, but she shook free. George walked in front of her over to the showroom.

‘Come on in, then, you lot,’ he said, and everybody flooded into the familiar room.

At the far end, there was a platform where the Gissings Select products usually sat, and George climbed up. Val stood close to him, but down a step, with everybody else. The crowd fell completely silent, waiting.

‘Thanks for coming. I’ve got a bit of an announcement,’ he said, suddenly embarrassed himself. He glanced down. Val was half smiling to support him, half longing to be somewhere else. ‘I’ve got some good news,’ he said. ‘I’m - er - well, Val and I are engaged, engaged to be married, that is. And-’

Anything else he was going to add was drowned out in a din of cheering and stamping, started by Darren and Dave, but immediately filling the whole room. Before either Val or George could react, Val was being bundled up on to the platform and Darren had started yelling a chant of ‘Kiss, kiss, kiss.’

George turned to face his now truly blushing fiancée. He brushed a strand of hair away from her face and drew her close. ‘I love you,’ he said, and kissed her. The cheering and clapping and stamping continued. George, too, was as red as a beetroot, and over the swelling chorus of ‘For they are jolly good fellows’ he yelled, ‘Now sod off and get something to drink.’

As Darren’s investment in alcohol began to bear fruit, George and Val were repeatedly touched by the number of people who came up earnestly offering them their delighted congratulations. In a rare quiet moment, Val turned to George.

‘I’ve never been so embarrassed in my whole life, but I’m pleased you made me do it. It’s been amazing.’

He was about to reply, when Jeff Wilmot, drunk already on two glasses of white wine, came to add his goodwill to the mounting heap. George listened patiently to Jeff, while Val was ambushed by some girls from marketing who wanted to hear all about the proposal, the ring and the wedding plans. David Ballard came along too, having been invited by George to drop in if he could.

‘I can’t stay long. I’ve got a dinner to go to in Leeds. But I wanted to give you both my very best. Val’s a smashing girl, you couldn’t have done better.’

‘Thanks, David. Is that a personal opinion, or a professional one?’

‘Both actually, but I meant it personally. Here, come outside a moment, I’ve something to give you.’

George walked out into the dirty yard. The Gissings Transit van he’d once lived in was there, now restored to its proper use. Three other vans stood alongside it, all of them busy now, six days a week. George felt a glow of pride, at his factory, his success, and, inside the crowded showroom, at his soon-to-be wife. Ballard’s BMW flashed and clicked at their approach.

‘Picked up another fine on my way over. These bloody cameras don’t give you a chance.’ Ballard opened the front passenger door and searched around inside the glove compartment. He pulled something out and handed it to George. By the light from the car, George could see what it was: an old-fashioned die-cast model of a forklift truck, mounted on a black plastic pedestal.

‘I’m touched, David, but-’

‘Look underneath.’

George looked underneath, where an engraved brass plate was glued on. The engraving read, ‘To David Ballard. With thanks for your help on the Harrogate deal, Bernard Gradley, October 1976’.

‘Your dad gave it to me after I helped him buy a dying plant-hire company in Harrogate. I think you should have it now. You’re the businessman of the family.’

‘Yeah, well my brothers are probably happy just being the millionaires of the family.’

The older man looked at the younger. George Gradley was the spitting image of his dad, but a much nicer man. Ballard felt paternal towards him. He jerked his thumb in the direction of the noisy showroom. Noise and light was spilling out. The shadows against the windows were moving faster, as Darren did what he could to test the limits of the showroom’s sound system.

‘If either of your brothers went into their place of work and announced their engagement, do you think they’d get that kind of reception?’

‘Probably, if they’d spent as much on booze as I have.’

‘That’s bollocks and you know it, Master Gradley.’ George shrugged. He looked towards the showroom again. Val was in there somewhere, explaining for the hundredth time about the engagement ring and promising to show it off as soon as it came back from the workshop. He longed for her, longed to be alone with her.

‘All the same, David, I’ll take you up on that offer you made. About finding people who might be interested in buying this place. I just want to test the possibility, you know. I’m not committed one way or the other.’

‘Have you talked to Val about this?’

‘Not yet. Been too busy with the engagement and everything.’

Ballard raised his eyebrows, so George added, ‘And anyway, nothing’s definite. Obviously, I won’t do anything without her on board, but before I do that, I’d like to know if it’s even realistic.’

‘OK, George. I promised you help if you wanted it, and I’ll stick to that. I’ll phone you with some names and numbers in a week or two.’ The two men closed up the car and walked back towards the noise and light of the showroom. Just before re-entering, Ballard tapped the toy truck on its black pedestal, which George still carried in his hand.

‘When your dad did that deal, George, I remember him telling me that he couldn’t understand anyone who sold their business, whatever state it was in. He said to me he thought he’d sooner die than sell his.’

George sighed and walked inside.

7

Brian McAllister had a meeting in Frankfurt that afternoon. As usual, he was late to leave. The taxi outside already had twenty pounds on the meter. His secretary had moved from impatience to despair and began to look up the time of the next flight. So far, so normal.

Eventually he was ready. He marched out of his office, briefcase in hand. He grabbed a blue woollen coat from the cupboard by the exit and headed out. He jumped into the waiting taxi and set off. The taxi driver refused to believe McAllister could make it. McAllister refused to believe he couldn’t. So far, so normal.

McAllister looked at a string of e-mails his secretary had printed off, and a couple of research reports predicting meltdown on the Hang Seng. But bankers don’t read in taxis, they talk. Planes are for reading. He reached into the inside coat pocket, pulled out a phone and dialled his secretary. She would act as a switch­ board for the next hour or so, until he was walking down the gangway on to the plane. So far, so normal.

When he got through, his secretary sounded surprised.

‘You’ve left your phone here on the desk. Has the driver lent you his? Anyway, I’ve arranged for you to collect a rental one on arrival in Frankfurt.’

It was McAllister’s turn to be surprised.

‘No. I’m using the phone in my coat pocket.’ McAllister looked at the phone. A printed label told him that it was the property of Matthew Gradley at the London office of Madison.

‘Damn. I’ve pinched young Matthew Gradley’s coat. Can you tell him I’ve got it? Say he can take mine if he needs one this evening.’

He turned to business and started to dictate replies to his e-mails, until the traffic heading west out of London threatened to end his hopes of making the flight. He ended the call temporarily and dropped the phone back into Matthew’s coat pocket. He gave the cabbie detailed instructions on how to avoid the traffic on the Cromwell Road, then reached back for the phone. He hit the redial button and waited for a connection.

The number rang, then connected. The rings sounded different from the tone at Madison, but McAllister wasn’t really listening. Then a male voice answered.

‘Good morning. This is James Belial at Switzerland International. How may I be of service?’

‘I’m sorry. Who am I speaking to?’

‘James Belial,’ said Belial, speaking clearly. ‘Who’s calling, please?’

‘It’s Brian McAllister, James. But I’m afraid I have a wrong number. Very wrong.’

McAllister hit the off button. He explored Matthew’s coat more thoroughly. Matthew carried two phones, both Nokias, nearly identical models. The phone McAllister had just used had no identification on the back, not even a note of the phone number.

The burly Scotsman drummed on his briefcase, lost in thought. His mouth told nothing, but his blue eyes had turned to ice. Then he took out Matthew’s work phone and hit the redial button again. This time he got through to his secretary.

‘Put me through to Fiona Shepperton, please,’ he asked.

8

Josephine enjoyed the lines of computer code. Its exactitude was pleasing. A well-written computer program could run for thousands of lines and the outcome would be precisely known, plotted to within nanomillimetres by the intricate structure of logical commands. Tonight, she was setting herself the biggest challenge so far; one that Kodaly himself would be impressed by.

It had been a good evening. Her mother was as well as she had been for ages and was now happy to doze a little in front of the telly. Josephine sat beside her mother, giving her a gentle shoulder massage to let her know that she was there. In her half-sleep, Helen Gradley sighed. Foggy though her world had become, with her daughter by her side, it was a safe world, even pleasant.

Josephine began to work. When she needed to pause, she stretched out, found her mother’s hand and began to rub it, eliciting further sighs of contentment. Josephine would never have chosen this way of life, nor would her mother ever have chosen the treacly slowness which had been poured into her mental gearbox. All the same, the pair of them had discovered things they would never otherwise have known. Josephine had learned the pleasure of giving love in a place where words didn’t matter, and Helen had learned, perhaps, that it was possible to trust and feel held, however keen her earlier disappointments.

Josephine went back to her program code. Instructions flitted noiselessly down the modem, exchanging words with other computers somewhere in the London darkness outside. An answer came back and a new screen unfurled, awaiting instructions from its human mistress.

Josephine stared at the screen. It took her a second to realise what she was seeing. Then, ‘Eureka!’ she murmured, as her hands floated back to the keyboard. She remembered the lessons Miklos had taught her. She’d need to go carefully now.

9

Ten days after the party, Ballard phoned back.

‘Still want the names?’

‘Yes,’ said George, pleased that Val was out of the room.

‘OK. I’ve got three possible buyers for you. You won’t like the first one, but they’re by far your best bet.’

‘If it’s the Aspertons, then no,’ said George.

‘They’re the most obvious buyers. They’ve got the cash. They know your business. You’ve chucked them out of a whole slice of the market that they’d love to get back into. They’d be ideal.’

‘Yes. But it’d be like Everton selling out to Liverpool. I can’t do that.’

‘Right, but selling Everton to Man United would be fine, would it? Or Juventus?’

‘Skip the lecture, David. The answer’s no. Just no.’

‘Right you are. The next possibility is a German outfit. Gundrum Mobelsgesellschaft GmbH, Muenchen. Some­ thing like that. I can’t pronounce it. GMG, anyway. I spoke to one of our German corporate staff from head office. He says GMG are dying to get away from German wage costs and want a base in what he called the low-wage periphery. That’s us apparently. Gissings might be perfect.’