The Money Makers (64 page)

‘For reasons which I hope we needn’t go into, I’d like to have a set of statements from Switzerland International which show me holding a conventional investment port­ folio. I’d like to be able to show that I invested my bonus last year in well-known UK stocks and shares. Maybe some British government bonds. That sort of thing. Obviously, the portfolio won’t show much of a profit. Nothing compared with what I’ve actually made. But that’s fine. I just want to be able to show somebody - er - a more conventional-looking portfolio.’

Matthew paused. It was hard to go on without so much as a glance from the other man. Belial heard Matthew out. The injured player was running back on to the pitch, to a scattering of applause. A Leeds player positioned the ball ready to restart. Belial watched, then turned to Matthew with a smile.

‘Of course we can do that. No problem at all. You invested sixty thousand with us in January. You bought stocks and shares in good solid companies. Your portfolio is now worth, say, seventy thousand. You’d like a set of statements putting all of that in writing. No problem at all. It’s a service we’re quite used to providing, to be quite honest.’

Matthew was shocked and relieved. He knew Belial was happy to associate with clients of questionable ethics, to say the least, but he hadn’t guessed how matter-of-fact Belial would be about such blatant deception. Matthew’s relief was enormous. It washed through him like a huge cleansing flood. He felt lighter than he had done at any time since he and Fiona had bumped into Belial at Gianfranco’s. This was it. He’d be in the clear. He’d have a clean set of accounts for Madison. Brian McAllister would tell the Stock Exchange that Matthew was clean as a whistle. He’d walk away scot­free - and what’s more, he could finish off the job in hand, which was to make his million. Matthew’s delight knew no bounds.

He began to thank Belial, but the game had restarted and Belial was intent once more. Matthew watched the rest of the first half without taking anything in. The freezing fog closed in and lay clamped down over the ground. The Leeds midfield successfully squeezed all life from the game and both sides resorted, gratefully it seemed, to a more physical style of play. A penalty appeal was turned down for the home team and a goal disallowed for offside. Four players were booked for fouls, all of them purposeless tackles in the centre of the park.

The first half finished goalless and the shaven-headed Arsenal fan sitting to Matthew’s left predicted the game would end that way. It didn’t seem to bother him that he was paying good money to freeze outside for a couple of hours, while twenty-two millionaire athletes chose to kick each other rather than the ball. Belial wasn’t bothered either. In fact, he grinned with pleasure and his eyes shone.

‘What an excellent match,’ he said. ‘The English game has so much to offer.’

Matthew began to disagree, but Belial ignored him. Instead, he unbuttoned his overcoat and withdrew a manila envelope. He handed the envelope to Matthew.

‘When you asked for this meeting so urgently, I guessed what you might have in mind. I prepared these for you in Geneva this morning.’

Matthew tore open the envelope. Inside was a dream come true. There were about two dozen documents all told. He had a letter acknowledging his account had been opened and was in credit to the tune of sixty thousand pounds. He had contract notes, indicating the timing and amounts of his fictitious purchases. According to the statements he had bought shares in British Airways, Marks and Spencer’s, Unilever, Glaxo Wellcome, Lloyds TSB and a handful of other impeccable British companies. He had quarterly statements showing the progress of his portfolio. He even had a couple of phoney letters about a mislaid share certificate. Everything was dated, signed, and printed on Switzerland International’s stationery. It was perfect.

‘I can’t thank you enough,’ said Matthew. ‘This is absolutely perfect. I can’t believe it.’

‘It’s our pleasure,’ said Belial flatly. ‘I should warn you, however, that we do charge a fee for this service.’

‘Of course, I quite understand. That’s fine.’

‘Perhaps you misunderstand me. The fee is quite substantial.’

‘I’m sure it’s fine. How much is it?’

‘Half a million pounds sterling.’

Matthew was blown away. He asked Belial to repeat the figure, but he had heard perfectly. Belial’s words were unmistakable. He wanted to believe Belial was joking, but he knew he wasn’t.

‘Half a million quid? For producing a few bits of paper? You’re joking. I could get a whole set of accounts made up at a printer’s for a few hundred.’

Belial’s eyes were on the far end of the stadium, where there was some stirring amongst the travelling Leeds fans. Black-coated policemen were moving to the scene.

‘You could go to a printer’s. The forgery will probably be obvious immediately, but it will certainly be obvious if your boss bothers to check with us. Your boss, or the Stock Exchange, or your partner, or the Fraud Squad. Or whoever you are seeking to hide the truth from. If you do not accept the fee, then we shall tell the truth to whoever makes an enquiry of us. If you accept the fee, then the full resources of Switzerland International will be deployed to corroborate your story. The choice is yours. Personally, I’m quite indifferent.’

The melee at the other end had abated, but the police presence had noticeably thickened, like the fog.

Matthew felt violently sick. The freezing air felt oppressive and there was a rushing sound in his head. Half a million pounds. That would leave him with about seventy thousand, round about one quarter of his last legitimately earned bonus. Matthew felt faint and put his head between his knees. He thought he would vomit.

He sat out the ten minutes of half time racked by waves of nausea, but not indecision. Belial’s trap was perfect. He could send Matthew to jail with the tiniest effort. He could also save him with an equally small effort and with complete certainty. If half a million was the price, then Matthew would simply need to pay up.

The players came out on to the pitch again, and took up their formation. Before the whistle blew, Matthew tucked the envelope into his pocket. He was chilled to the bone and damp with it.

‘It’s a deal.’

‘Yes. You may rely on our complete support. We will deduct the funds from your account at the commencement of business tomorrow.’

Matthew nodded. His father’s millions had evaporated beyond reach. The whole effort, the lying, the fear, the whole desperate battle had been worthless. He stared blankly ahead into the fog.

The second half of the match made the first look scintillating. Tackle after tackle thudded heavily into flesh while the ball scampered away ownerless. Seven more yellow cards were given, and two players, one from each side, were sent off for second offences. A fist fight broke out among four of the players, but was unseen by the referee who was chasing an infraction at the other end of the pitch. For some unknown reason, the Leeds manager took off the only player in his side who had come close to scoring and brought on instead another defender with a reputation for toughness. More scuffles broke out amongst the fans and the police surged in once again.

Belial was thrilled with the way the match was going.

Every clattering tackle, every yellow card, every sign of aggression delighted him. He leaned forward, his face contorted with pleasure. The Arsenal fans lining the North Bank had long given up hope of a goal and contented themselves with yelling insults at the referee and everyone with anything to do with Leeds. One player was struck on the head by a missile thrown from the stands and came off the pitch to get medical treatment. Matthew had had enough of Belial’s entertainment.

‘Thank you for the documents,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I’m going to make my way home now.’ Belial turned in surprise.

‘Leaving already? Just as the game’s warming up? Oh - of course - pardon me. You’re feeling upset about our little fee. Perhaps I should have waited till the end of the match before mentioning it.’

Matthew had started to leave, when Belial plucked at his arm.

‘If you’re really upset about that fee, I know an excel­ lent way for you to recoup the money. It’s remarkably swift and easy.’

Matthew sat back down. little as he liked or trusted Belial, he had to hear this. Belial’s attention drifted back to the game. Another player knocked to the ground by a late tackle, another caution, another wave of booing from the crowd. Another free kick, incompetently taken. Belial’s lips were parted in pleasure and flecks of spittle hung in the comers of his mouth. The game resumed and he turned back to Matthew.

Belial explained his idea clearly and effectively. He sounded as if he were making a business presentation to a trusted client. In fact, he was making a completely illegal and outrageously dangerous suggestion to a man he scarcely knew. The depth of Belial’s willingness to associate himself with crime once again stunned Matthew. There was not a flicker of emotion, not even excitement in his face as he talked through his proposal. Matthew left immediately afterwards, while the game was drawing to its ugly close. As he left the turnstiles at the exit, another wave of booing hinted at another foul. He made his way rapidly to the tube station. While most fans stayed till the bitter end, a few had left early like Matthew. They hung about the empty streets in groups, avoiding the lamplight, dark as clots of blood. At the far end of the road the first fight was breaking out, to a tune of breaking glass. He hurried away.

Belial’s idea was mad, wrong and dangerous, but Matthew couldn’t get it out of his head. Whenever he closed his eyes, he could see Belial’s twisted face grinning at him.

‘Have you heard of vault duty?’ it asked.

Spring 2001

You know the feeling, everyone’s had it. Maybe it was an exam, or a speech, or dinner for your girlfriend, which you left too late. You were busy doing other things, then you looked up to find that time had caught you napping and left you for dead. The months of revision had to be crammed into weeks. Your plans for duck’s breast
a la
tickle-my-fancy flew out the window, and instead you were opening tinned vegetables and swearing at your freezer for the wonderful food it didn’t contain.

Three young men named Gradley have that feeling now. None of them has his million. None of them has anything that vaguely resembles a million, not unless you count it in roubles. Their father’s fortune hangs plump and heavy on the tree, but it won’t hang there for ever. It is 5 March 2001 and there are 130 days until Bernard Gradley’s deadline.

The feeling’s gut-wrenching and it never leaves. You must know it. Everyone’s had it.

1

There are lots of ways to make money in this world.

One old-fashioned technique is to make things. You buy something that folks don’t want, say wood, then you turn it into something that they do, say tables. Then you sell the things you’ve made and use the money to buy more wood. Next time, you try to make your tables a little better and a little cheaper and you aim to sell a few more. You do that each year, until by the time you retire, you are making and selling an awful lot of tables, your profits are fat and you are the toast of your local Rotary Club. The annual challenge cup at the local golf club bears your name and your wife is named president of the village horticultural show.

Recently, other techniques for making money have been invented. Instead of buying wood and selling tables, for instance, you can buy companies, fix them up and sell them. With the profit you’ve made, you can go and buy a bigger company, fix it up and sell that at an even larger profit. You can go on doing that until you’re buying companies worth several billion, and making profits of a billion or more on each sale. There are disadvantages to this way of doing business. People tend to dislike you, for one thing, and nasty things are written about you by an embittered and envious press. On the other hand, you are now happily retired in your twelve-bedroom home on Mustique, your mistress living quietly nearby, or perhaps you have your own island somewhere in the neighbourhood. In those parts, people tend to ignore the spiteful chatter of journalists. And if it really bothers you, you can buy your own newspaper to set things straight. You wouldn’t be the first.

What kind of businessman was George to be? For most of his life he had assumed he would be a third type of individual, namely the type that inherits money from his dad and passes his life finding ways to spend it. Then, since his father’s death, George had begun to think he might be a businessman after all: the first type, who makes things and sells them, makes things and sells them. But now Ballard had put an idea into his head. If he sold Gissings for a couple of million, and claimed his father’s estate, who knows what he could on to achieve? Gradley Plant Hire Limited was still there, in trust, making money but in need of leadership. None of the three brothers had given the company a second thought. They’d assumed that if they collected under Gradley’s will, they’d flog the company and keep the money. But now George had another dream. What if he became his father’s successor? If he’d turned around Gissings, which was extremely unpromising material, what would he be able to do with Gradley Plant Hire? On the other hand, if he sold Gissings to a bunch of hire­and-fire Americans, what on earth would Val think?

George clasped a beer in the seventeenth-century coaching inn and waited for his guests to arrive. Under his chair, behind his legs, a fat briefcase pressed into his calves. It was to see that the contents of that briefcase that David Thurston and Kelly O’Shea had flown in from the Cascade Mountains of distant Oregon. Would he recognise them, he wondered, as he sipped his beer.