Blood And Water (14 page)

As the eldest child, Seb’s relationship with his father was tense. Very much in the public eye as the longest-standing government minister, one of the few to keep his seat since he first earned it, William Bertram demanded a lot of his children. It was only as Seb matured and experienced the compassion demonstrated by other parents that he considered perhaps William was never cut out to be a father. Certainly he was wise and engaging with his voters, his smile appearing to be all-encompassing – definitely a commanding leader who was often described as charismatic by his peers. But to his family, whom he wheeled in and out of his public life as was needed, he was always dispassionate and disturbingly aloof. He didn’t seem to care or connect unless there was something in it for him. His family didn’t appear to be of any use to him and, William himself admitted, if it were up to him they wouldn’t meet as a group. “A frivolous exercise” was how he was overheard describing their regular family gatherings. It was Ciara’s irritating but secretly admired influence on the group that kept them bound together. He didn’t know where she got it from as none of the others, including himself, seemed to care. He was his father’s hereditary hope: William believed that, in the same way as he was a clone of
his
father, Seb should be just like him. A mini-me. A replica. A strong-willed, bloody-minded, commanding leader. From an early age he was taught to shake his father’s hand rather than share an intimate hug. He was advised to call him
sir
rather than
Daddy.
He was trained to listen and observe all around him.

“Fear is merely an expression of respect. If they do not fear you, they do not respect you,” his father preached and Seb prided himself on being somewhat distant, almost superior to those around him. But he, much to his father’s disappointment, not having inherited the political bug, was destined never to covet his father’s ministerial seat of power or show even the slightest interest in joining the firm of solicitors set up by his grandfather many, many years before. Seb was his own strong-willed, bloody-minded and commanding leader with his own unique dreams, and his own seat of power that he was now primed to defend and protect.

“And Mum?” Seb asked Gladys, moving across the hall towards the closed study door.

“She’s upstairs, sir, in her room,” Gladys replied, lowering her eyes, hoping he wouldn’t ask her if she was either awake or sober.

“Thank you, Gladys,” he replied, ignoring her persistence with ‘
sir’
. Striding towards the door he pulled back his shoulders and tensed his core, banged three confident knocks on the door and entered without waiting for his father to respond.

If his father was taken aback by his son’s impertinent entrance he didn’t show it. He stood with his back to the door behind the vast antique and claw-footed desk with its red china desk lamp and leather blotting pad.

Heavy brocade curtains draped low to almost cover the windows without actually being closed. Side-tables and standard lamps littered a room already cluttered by stacks, piles and shelves of papers and books accompanied by an array of vintage ornaments and furniture gathered over the years. The warm lamplight struggled to fully light up the room, barely reaching the heights of the high ceiling while only the crackling of the fire and the tick of the clock on its mantel disturbed the heavy hush.

“Father,” Seb announced, taking four long steps into the room, clutching the file firmly in his hand.

“Sebastian,” his father returned without lifting his head from what he was reading, as if expecting him to have been there sooner. “Sit,” he ordered with a careless wave of his hand, as if commanding a dog.

Ignoring the instruction Seb remained standing and patiently watched as his father continued to read. This was the game. A familiar, age-old tactic and one he himself played well having learnt from the master: make them wait and sweat. Recognising it for what it was, he smiled inwardly and played to his father’s opening gambit. The silence stretched out but, refusing to rise to it, he continued to let the time pass, watching his father’s back gently inflate and deflate as he breathed. Once again Seb wondered what had possessed him to do business with him in the first place. He must have been mad. Even Dermot had been reluctant. With the benefit of hindsight he knew he should have listened to his instinct, which he trusted in every other aspect of his business. But never could he have imagined an outcome such as this.

With his father’s company established, Bertram and Guilfoyle administered the purchase of the derelict and half-finished office block on Ronson Street. He was actually quite proud of the price he’d negotiated on their behalf. They really were getting a great deal with fantastic potential for growth. With the money in the company bank account from the four directors and the paperwork in place, including the guarantees, they closed the sale and work started on site. Surprisingly, it appeared to be a seamless operation. All that remained was the final approval on the company loan from the bank to come through.

At the time Seb was pleased to help this group of almost celebrity politicians prop up their apparently meagre state salaries. Standing now with the file in his hand, in his father’s lair, with allegations of fraud biting at his heels he told himself once again that he’d been a fool.

“So,” his father finally responded and, turning to look at Seb, he placed the apparently captivating document on his desk, “what’s so important that you have to burst in here like this?”

“I’m here to discuss some issues with Ronson Street.” Seb, still standing and ignoring the intended sting, replied, his voice strong and his diction clear.

“Really? What problems?”

Forewarned by Tim, Seb knew that his father was already aware of the situation. Apparently William had called to see what the delay was with the final loan approval, which was supposed to have been in the bag.

Standing tall, holding his ground Seb continued. “It seems there are some concerns over the signatures in the guarantee documents.”

“What kind of concerns?” William asked innocently, looking calmly at Seb over the rim of his glasses. There was no shock, no faltering speech, no fidgeting, no rising red in his cheeks. His serenity was almost unnerving. Again, a calculated strategic tool: play dumb.

Maintaining an even tone, Seb continued. “The bank has raised a question over the validity of the personal guarantees on the loan application.”

“Have they now?”

“Yes. Yes, they have.” Opening up his file, Seb took from it the printed sheets with the five signatures and their comparisons on it: his own, his father’s and the three partners’. “You remember these, don’t you, Dad?” he asked and paused to see his reaction. “The signatures, it seems, might not be …” again he paused, searching for the appropriate term, “… exact.”

“Really? How extraordinary,” William replied.

“Yes, and funnily enough the only one that seems to be genuine is my own. You remember, Dad – you brought these to my office and created such a fuss when I didn’t want to sign them. Don’t you?”

Seb extended his hand, offering the wad of pages for William to see.

“I don’t exactly recall,” William replied vaguely, ignoring them.

“Well,” Seb continued, “I do. As a lawyer you should know that the bank have procedures. They actually check these things. Here,” he offered again. “See for yourself.” And extending his arm further, pushed the pages at his father.

Taking them this time, William flicked casually through them before handing them back.

“Well, I can’t tell for sure,” he said flippantly as if it meant nothing to him, like he’d nothing to worry about.

“Can’t tell for sure?” Seb mocked. “But you told me yourself that evening. You said you’d actually
seen
your partners sign them, so really you should be sure. You told me to trust you and I did. Can’t tell for sure? Bullshit. You know damn well.”

His father looked him straight in the eye but said nothing.

“You’ve been caught, haven’t you?” Seb dared and when William remained silent he shook his head in disbelief. “What’s interesting here is that you didn’t take the process seriously! You didn’t bet on them verifying the signatures at all, did you? Not yet anyway.”

“I have nothing to worry about,” William finally said.

“Really? Are you serious? Nothing to worry about?” Seb asked incredulously. “But you do and I’ll tell you why.” He took a step closer to his father, close enough to see the defiance in his eyes. “At the very best they’ll want to know why we submitted fake forms and, assuming they’re satisfied with our answer, they’ll make us resubmit them, properly this time. Then you really will have to carry the debt. There’s a chance they might rescind the loan offer completely and in that case you’re screwed too because you’re already on site and spending money faster than you’re bringing it in. But at worst they’ll take this further with the fraud team and probably the police and, with you and your buddies involved, it’s guaranteed to hit the media. That’s when you really need to worry.”

“Me?” William asked with feigned innocence.

“Who else?” Seb challenged.

“Well, you said it yourself. They’re not our signatures and yours is the only one that’s genuine …” He let the sentence hang for Seb to digest.

“Jesus, Dad, we both know it was you who did this, not me.”

“But I’ve done nothing,” William protested.

Seb shook his head in disdain. “Dad, this is between you and me. You told me, remember, to my face. We both know what’s going on here and you can spin whatever fairy tale you want, but you and I, we’ll know the truth. Don’t forget that.”

William turned his back on his son in what Seb assumed was an attempt to hide his weakness. It was a rare occasion to have the upper hand over his father. Seb could feel his discomfort and watched him squirm. William couldn’t argue, nor could he deny it, but would he admit what he had done?

“Here’s what I think,” Seb offered. “I think you deliberately forged those signatures. I think you did it so that
if
there was a problem you could hold your hands up and say, ‘
Oh no, that wasn’t me, I didn’t sign them!
’The bank then, you assume, wouldn’t be able to hold the guarantee over you and all four of you get to walk away scot-free, while
I
bear the brunt of the blame as the person who prepared and submitted the application. But, and this is where it gets interesting, is it possible that you didn’t bank on the fact that these days they do have processes in place to catch people like you and your band of merry men. They do actually check signatures. And they do catch people out. But you must have known that. Your problem is that they discovered your fake signatures too bloody soon, didn’t they?” Seb paced as he spoke, no longer looking at his father, with the parts of his hypothesis that he didn’t quite get just falling into place. It made sense and in the absence of any defence from his father he knew he was on the right track. “In your plan they would only inspect the guarantee if they needed to use it. I’m right, aren’t I? And I’ll put money on it that you’re all in on it. Not just you but all four of you.” Seb waited for his father's response and when none was forthcoming he let the silence linger before asking, “So I’m supposed to take the blame for this?”

He stopped again and waited for a reply from William who still had his back to him.

“Come on, Dad, at the very least have the balls to admit I’m right.”

Finally William turned. He had a gleam in his eyes and a provocative smirk on his lips.

“Well, if it’s the truth you’re after then yes, that was the plan.” He stood firm, waiting for Seb to react.

And, even though Seb had pieced the scheme together for himself, hearing the admission aloud from his father was a breath-taking blow.

“You really are a bastard, aren’t you?” he said with a deep sigh, his pulse picking up speed.

“You asked for honesty. And really, it’s as much your fault as it is mine – you should really have checked them.”

“You forced my hand.”

“I can’t be held responsible if you haven’t the gumption to say no.”

“I took you at your word. I didn’t think I needed to say no,” Seb replied, feeling the acid taste of panic rise in his throat.

William, apparently guilt free, shrugged.

“Okay,” Seb swallowed, taking a different tactic. “Let’s say, that afternoon you came to my office, if I asked you then whether they were genuine, would you have told me the truth? Would you have let me in on your ruse?”

“Probably not.”

“I never stood a chance with this, did I?”

“Not really, no.”

Seb didn’t know whether to be reassured by his father’s honesty or astonished. It was as if William had disconnected completely from the reality of what he had done, emotionally and professionally.

But Seb recognised the shift in power. Incredibly, William had regained the upper hand.

“So now that you’ve been caught, what’s your plan?” he asked.

“No change,” he replied, sitting into his desk chair. “There’s no need.”

“They’ll probably withdraw the loan offer, you know that, don’t you?”

“Well, we’ll just have to re-apply then, won’t we?” William’s tone was condescending, as if speaking to a child.

“Well, count me out,” Seb scoffed. “And if the bank decide to report this – what then?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” William shrugged, like it was plain that this was the best solution.

“And again,” Seb asked, feeling his anger rise with the nonchalance of the answer, “you expect me to take the blame for you.”

“I do.”

“You are completely nuts, do you know that? Do you think I’ll risk everything I’ve worked so hard to build so you can get away with attempted fraud? And even if I wanted to, do you think Dermot would let me? My reputation is everything.” Seb stopped and dropped his head, suddenly feeling tired.

“You might not have an option,” his father replied, his composure unnerving. What did he have that gave him this much confidence, Seb wondered nervously.