The Money Makers (31 page)

‘So it can be our little secret then, David.’ Eileen

Asperton made it a statement, but all three of them knew it was a question.

‘I’m not going to lie to another banker, Eileen. I can’t do that. We’ve got a decent banking community up here, because we help each other out. If a couple of us have a loan out to a company in trouble, we sit down together and sort out what to do about it. Most often we agree to stand by the company. I couldn’t do that if I was always worried that the other guy was going to cut and run, leaving me head-height in sewage. You understand.’

Are you threatening me?’ boomed Mike Asperton, over his wife’s protests.’ Are you seriously telling me that either I sit tight for six months before you condescend to give me some money or you’ll make sure that nobody in Yorkshire will lend me a penny?’

‘I’m absolutely not threatening you, Mike. If you don’t want to wait, then by all means go elsewhere. I won’t get in your way. But if I get a phone call from a colleague, I’m not going to lie.’

Mike Asperton sat motionless, scrutinising Ballard. He noticed that his cigar had gone out, and in a frenetic burst of energy, he threw it away, pulled out another, lit it and puffed away until half an inch of ash lay beyond the glowing tip. Then he relaxed like a patient on oxygen therapy, while Eileen went back to coughing and beating at the air.

‘Which company’s going under, then?’ she asked, in an apparent change of subject.

Ballard laughed. ‘I can’t really tell you that, now, can I?’

‘It’s Gissings, isn’t it?’

Ballard made as if to deny it, but then shrugged. ‘How did you know?’

‘They’ve been waiting for the roof to fall in for years. There was an article in
Furniture Today
saying they’d been recapitalised, but we knew that was only a smokescreen. Recently they’ve been frantically trying to buy themselves space in our paintshop. We said no, they went bananas, then went out of radio contact. So they’re finished now, are they?’

‘Yeah. It was their paintshop which killed them.

They couldn’t meet their production commitments and - poof.’

Eileen Asperton leaned forward. She scented victory.

‘Have they actually called in the receiver, or are they just about to?’

‘No. Not yet. It was a courtesy call to let me know before the end.’

Mike Asperton had caught up with his wife’s train of thought, and he leaped in enthusiastically.

‘What if we let them into our paintshop? Just long enough to get our loan approved. We get clearance for our loan. Then we pull the crutches away from Gissings. Your credit committee may be upset, but by then it’ll be too late. Eh? And you can tell them that with the revenues from the paintshop we’ll have restored our margins to last year’s levels. What do you say?’ Asperton’s enthusiasm was thicker than his cigar smoke. He was a good businessman but he’d play a lousy game of poker.

Ballard smiled. ‘You’re certainly a tough pair to do business with, you two. But OK. It’s a deal. Just one thing.’

‘Yes?’

‘I know you can’t wait for Gissings to roll over, but I’ve lent them a stack load of money. Give them six months in the paintshop. It won’t save their life, but it will prolong it. And if they pay me a bit more interest before they cop it, I’m not complaining.’

Both Aspertons looked dubious. Eileen Asperton, the more cautious of the two, answered. ‘Who’s to say that six months won’t throw them a lifeline? We’re not in business to support our competitors. After all, they’ve got a new man in there. Bernard Gradley’s son. There are big changes underway, we hear.’

‘Yeah. That’s right. But he’s just a bloke, not the

tooth fairy. He’s cut jobs and wages. The workforce is thrilled because they think that if they endure the pain for a few months then suddenly everything will turn out rosy. But how long will their patience last? And what happens when it runs out?’ The Aspertons were silent, and Ballard could see that his audience wasn’t convinced. He dropped his final card, the ace of trumps.

‘And you want to know a secret? Guess how much they owe me.’

Mike Asperton grinned. ‘How much? Well, now. They’re tiddlers and struggling tiddlers at that. Assuming you lent them the money when they were at their peak, I should think they would have been lucky to get two hundred grand. And if they still owe that much now, they’re dead. Dead as doornails. OK. So that’s my guess. Two hundred grand.’

‘Higher.’

‘Higher? Two fifty? Three hundred? Not three hundred, surely?’

‘Five hundred grand.’

Mike Asperton’s face worked briefly, then exploded.

‘Five hundred! Half a million quid! Jesus Christ!’ He was panting with laughter. His wife smiled, then chuckled. Both of them shook up and down and were turning red. Mike Asperton was beside himself. ‘You lent them that much? You’d do better selling life assurance to dinosaurs. Ha, ha, ha. Jesus, David, I’m not surprised your committee is pissed off. God! I used to think you were good at your job. Ha, ha! Half a million quid! Just wait till I tell the board. Ha, ha, ha.’

‘I gave you that information in confidence, Mike. Keep it under your hat.’

‘Yes, yes. Of course. Don’t worry.’

Mike Asperton was still doubled up laughing while his wife vibrated periodically as waves of laughter shook her. Mike’s assurances to Ballard would be completely forgotten by the next board meeting, and David could picture the whole Asperton clan, sitting around collapsed with laughter as they thought of the doom waiting for old Tom Gissing’s shop.

‘Yes. Ha, ha. Of course they can have their six months in the paintshop. They can have twelve for all I care. But - ha, ha - but we’ll take payment in advance.’ Asperton doubled up again at his own crack.

After his laughter had subsided, his overstretched lungs exploded in a fit of coughing. Recovering quickly, he lit up another cigar, while his wife composed herself enough to start coughing and flapping. Mike Asperton waved his cigar at Ballard. ‘Medicine, you know. Dreadful cough. Pardon me. Only thing which settles my chest.’

The remaining business was rapidly concluded. Mike Asperton would phone Gissings with an offer of the paintshop for twelve months, payment to be monthly in advance. David would wait for confirmation from both the Aspertons and Gissings, then recommend Asperton’s loan to his regional credit committee in a fortnight’s time. If everything was approved as expected, Asperton would get his money within three weeks.

On the road home, Ballard’s car phone interrupted him in the midst of another hair-raising manoeuvre at speed on narrow roads. It was George.

‘I don’t know how you did it, David, but you’ve worked a miracle. Thanks. Now put both hands on the wheel and both eyes on the road. If you get here in one piece, I’ll buy you a drink.’

8

At twelve o’clock promptly the phone rang. It was Fiona Shepperton.

‘Hi. I’ve made all the arrangements. I’ll come by your place and pick you up. I’ll be with you in ten minutes.’

Matthew was taken aback. He had assumed they were going out in the evening. Never mind. If he drank enough now, maybe an evening of frozen lasagne and old movies and trying not to think about Sophie wouldn’t seem so bad. He ran a comb through his hair, thought about aftershave, then laughed at himself for the thought. This was the ball-crusher for heaven’s sake, not a date. Ten minutes later the intercom buzzed and Matthew rode the elevator down to the street.

Fiona was waiting in a taxi. She was beautifully dressed in a short pastel summer dress and linen jacket. Her long hair flowed down in the glossy curls which were kept firmly tied back at the office. She looked unexpectedly feminine, and Matthew, who hadn’t expected to find the ball-crusher physically attractive, found himself admiring her. He got into the cab. Like most New York cabs, it looked and smelled like something from the Third World, but there was a waft of perfume too, something clean and citrus smelling. Shepperton didn’t strike Matthew as the perfume­ wearing type, but he liked it. The driver moved out into the traffic, with the mandatory squeal of tyres and exchange of insults.

‘Got your passport?’ asked Shepperton.

‘Sure. Can’t get a drink in this town without one,’ said Matthew tapping his pocket. With his fluffy blond hair and wide eight-year-old eyes, he looked young for his age and was well used to the sceptical enquiries of New York barmen. ‘Where are we off to?’

‘Place called Paradise Island. You’ll like it. It’s kind of old Colonial meets Caribbean.’

‘You’re dressed for the part.’ She was too: light and informal. Matthew was dressed for the baking New York weather, but he had opted for a more formal look: jacket, smart trousers, black shoes, starched cotton shirt. He even had a tie in his pocket in case.

They chatted about other things as the cab made its way out of town, heading for Long Island. Fiona Shepperton had no wedding ring, gave no signals of being taken and looked easily nice enough to meet Matthew’s demanding requirements, but Matthew was disconcerted rather than intrigued. For one thing, he still missed Sophie and felt terrible about her. For another, Shepperton, despite her relative youth, was high up in the Madison hierarchy. And for yet another, Matthew still crossed his legs at the memory of their first meeting. Making a pass didn’t seem like a smart career move.

The cab was following signs to Kennedy Airport. Matthew noticed the route, but assumed they were headed for Long Beach or somewhere on beyond the airport. But when the cab pulled off towards the terminal buildings themselves, Matthew intervened.

‘Fiona, I think this guy’s on autopilot. You want to set him straight?’

She shook her head.

‘He’s doing fine.’ She leaned forward and spoke through the filthy glass to the driver, ‘It’s the American Airlines terminal, please.’ Turning back to Matthew, she added, ‘Paradise Island’s just outside Kingston. It does wonderful cocktails and has a great sea view. I know you’ll like it.’

‘Kingston, Jamaica, right?’ asked Matthew, but he already knew the answer.

Inside the terminal building, Shepperton mentioned that the plane tickets were reserved but not paid for and she politely stepped aside as Matthew paid. They were travelling business class, a nice touch. Matthew winced when he saw the price, but he signed without a murmur. This treat was on him, after all. His fault for offering to buy. He might have won the first round, but she had comprehensively outclassed him on the second. The best he could do was pretend he didn’t mind.

‘Sure you want to come back this evening?’ he asked.

‘Seems a shame to go all that way just for a drink. Let me get you dinner as well.’

She gave him a huge smile, as though the idea had never occurred to her.

‘What a lovely idea. But of course we’d have to stay over . . .’ She trailed off delicately.

‘Of course we would. I’ll book a couple of rooms somewhere. I bet you know some place comfortable.’

Her smile returned. It turned out she knew somewhere just beautiful and had taken the precaution of making temporary reservations on a couple of their best suites. The reservations would naturally need to be confirmed and paid for. The prices were eye-popping but there was no going back now.

‘You’re sure these suites are nice?’ said Matthew stoically. ‘These prices seem very reasonable. And do you have any ideas for dinner?’

One phone call later, Matthew had kissed goodbye to another fair-sized pile of hard-earned dollars. Even on his fat salary, he was going to be paying for this for months.

‘What a great idea/ he said. ‘I had a terrible feeling that you were going to take me to some drab little hole in Manhattan. It’s so important to get out.’

They flew down to Jamaica, and stepped out into glorious Caribbean weather. Matthew’s stiff city clothes felt instantly unsuitable in Kingston’s more relaxed climate, and he dived into an airport boutique to buy some looser cotton clothes. The choice was poor and Matthew came away with a short-sleeved Hawaiian shirt some bright and baggy shorts and a pair of flip-flops, which he hated. Fiona, who bought a wide-brimmed straw hat at the same store, was a picture of cool elegance by contrast. They looked at themselves in a grimy mirror and laughed.

‘I doubt if they’ll let you into Paradise Island looking like that,’ said Fiona. ‘But I’ll wave at you from the terrace.’

‘No way. If your bar doesn’t serve me, then the trip’s on you.’ He rumpled his hair, undid a few buttons on his shirt and leered at her. He looked like a tourist who’d been enjoying too much of the local weed.

Fiona laughed. ‘We’ll make it double or quits if you like.’

‘Uh-uh. My wallet’s in intensive care as it is.’

They bantered more on the ride to the bar. The road and the taxi were much the same as they had been in New York. The driver’s English was better.

Beneath the sinking sun, the sea glinted pink and gold. The warm Caribbean breeze blowing in through the taxi windows reminded them how sweaty and grimy a New York summer could be. Fiona visibly relaxed and Matthew began to enjoy himself. Since learning of his father’s will a little over a year ago, Matthew had buried himself in work. At least this crazy, expensive trip was a break.

Paradise Island lived up to its name. The wooden building was painted the very palest of pinks, with a wooden fretwork veranda wrapping right round the exterior, a fairy-tale cottage on golden sands. Inside, a courteous grey-haired waiter escorted Matthew and Fiona to a pair of deep wicker chairs by an open window. Beyond the terrace was the beach, beyond that only the glittering sea.