The Money Makers (37 page)

‘We believe you need to think big. The smaller companies in Hong Kong are highly competitive. It’s easy enough to buy them, but tough to improve on what they’re already doing. But there are some bigger companies with plenty of fat. Companies like Hatherleigh Pacific was, eighteen years ago. Great assets, lousy managers. We think you have the chance to repeat your magic, but on a larger canvas. We’ve come to talk about those opportunities.’

Hatherleigh was absorbed. He crouched low over the table, studying the dossier intently, flipping forwards through the pages while Zack was still on the introduction. It was a good sign and Zack relaxed a little.

The first part of the dossier assessed the company’s cash flows in detail. In a year or two at most, the company would hit a plateau. Hatherleigh Pacific would never be a bad company, but it might stop being an exciting one.

Hatherleigh scrutinised the figures. He became quickly frustrated with the charts summarising the analysis and asked for more detail. Zack hauled two heavy appendices from his case. Hatherleigh began to explore the vast and detailed spreadsheets, then paused to ask his secretary to cancel his next meeting. The viscount was intent. To a layman, there’s nothing duller than huge volumes of financial analysis. But nobody in the room was looking at the numbers. What they saw was a company stripped naked and thrust beneath the lights. They weren’t looking at spreadsheets. They were examining the company’s soul.

Hatherleigh quizzed Zack on details. Once or twice, maybe, he wanted to know the answer. But Zack also guessed he was being tested. Did this young man really know his stuff? Or was the weight of numbers just for show? Zack’s memory was flawless, his research immaculate. Without pausing for thought he recalled the tiniest detail. Why had they shown container flows at the Yang Sin terminal tailing off in 2001, Hatherleigh asked. Zack’s response was instant. Some articles in the
South China Morning Post
and the
Hong Kong Coastal Shipping Bulletin
had mentioned a major redevelopment of the port scheduled for that year. Ships of more than a certain draught would not be able to obtain entry. Examination of the port’s traffic statistics indicated that a thirty percent fall in container loads was likely. Hatherleigh was impressed. The conversation ran on.

Gillingham rubbed his ravaged face, and rested his eyes. He was feeling rough, had done ever since this project started. But he could handle it. He had stayed dry for six years, and, though it never got easier, he had got more practised at getting through the bad times. He’d been through worse than this. Gillingham took his hands away from his face and focused back in on the discussion.

Zack and the viscount finished with the spreadsheets and moved on to the guts of the presentation. What should Hatherleigh Pacific do? What should it buy?

Zack had a shortlist of six names. The first five were all medium-sized Hong Kong companies. All solid. All long-established. All sensible targets. The viscount continued to listen, but he flipped forward through the presentation a little too quickly. He was getting bored. Phyllis Wang and Hal Gillingham saw the symptoms. They’d pitched to enough senior executives to read the signs. Zack was losing this one.

Zack saw the signs too and was pleased. He wanted the right build-up to the final name. Not too slow, not too fast. He played with his audience, he spun things out, built up to a climax.

Finally, he judged that the moment was right. He’d proved his knowledge. He’d proved his understanding. He’d talked about the other five names for long enough. Finally, Zack got to the last name.

The South China Trust Bank. The name Zack had seen emerging from Bonnie’s teeth. The name which had been twice underlined next to a few words scribbled in the margin. Words which Zack had just about managed to decipher from a blurry mental image partly hidden by the drooping lips of a boisterous puppy. In his own handwriting, Lord Hatherleigh had written,
‘We must have this company - but how?’

Zack began the most important part of the most important presentation of his brief career.

4

‘Come on you reds,’ chanted Darren. He was lugging a pair of brilliant red chairs across the loading bay towards the exhibition hall itself. This was the Northern Furniture Industries Annual Show, the biggest trade fair for the industry aside from the British Showcase event in London. Months ago, George had booked a decent-sized stand and this time made sure they were well located.

Dave glanced across at Darren. Dave was bundling a bright blue shelf unit out of the van.

‘Blue is the colour. Gissings is the name,’ roared Dave. What he lacked in tunefulness, he more than made up in volume.

Val sat on an empty crate watching the unloading proceed. It was six in the morning and the air was chilly. She drank some tea from a Thermos. Things were running smoothly and she hadn’t much to do.

Darren returned for a table with a sliding ledge for a computer keyboard. The table was yellow, with vivid markings of blue and red. Darren’s flow of football chants was temporarily halted. Then, with a burst of inspiration, he hollered, ‘We all live in the yellow submarine, the yellow submarine, the yellow submarine.’ Dave’s next load was a low wooden cupboard, painted blue with huge white and yellow daisies. Dave didn’t know any football teams with daisies on their strip. He was stumped. As he hoisted the unit on to his shoulder and began to trudge past Val in puzzled silence, she murmured, ‘Daisy, Daisy.’

‘Yeah. Good one,’ said Dave. At the top of his unmelodious voice, he yelled, ‘Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do.’ He knew some obscene lyrics to go with it and the whole loading bay got to hear them.

Val began to unwrap a couple of bacon sandwiches.

She’d wrapped them in kitchen paper and foil before leaving home, and they were still warm. Perfect. George would have enjoyed them.

In the bay next to the Gissings’ lorry, a larger truck drew up emblazoned with the Asperton logo. It reminded Val of the paintshop fiasco and her absent boss, and she sighed.

Darren and Dave collected in front of her. Could they have a bit of her bacon sandwich? It smelled so good and they’d forgotten to get anything for breakfast. Children, honestly, they were children. She gave them one of her two sandwiches to divide between them. They weren’t having any of her tea, though. They stood munching, then, all of a sudden Darren leaped up.

‘Bloody thieves!’

He jabbed his sandwich at the Asperton lorry.

Val and Dave turned to look. Two men, in Asperton company overalls, were unloading furniture painted in brilliant primary colours, styled and finished almost identically to the Gissings Bright and Beautiful. The display screens advertising the range were visible too.

‘Welcome to the Asperton Brilliants!’ they boasted.

‘Functional and dazzling - and at prices you won’t believe.’

Darren and Dave started to sing a football chant usually reserved for referees awarding the other team a controversial penalty in the ninetieth minute.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Val. ‘We always expected this to happen.’

It was true. There is no copyright in design and somebody was bound to copy the Gissings Bright and Beautiful range before long. It was only a pity that it should be the Aspertons who’d done it. They wouldn’t just copy Gissings, they’d do it well.

The real shock was to come. When the show opened, Val sauntered over to the Asperton stand. She wanted a price list. Michael Asperton was on the stand, round and twinkly, with the inevitable cigar between his lips. He saw Val coming.

‘Valerie Bartlett, isn’t it? I remember you from the times I used to meet up with old Tom Gissing. Terrible shame about the old man, wasn’t it? We sent a big bouquet to his funeral, you know.’

Tom Gissing had never liked or trusted the Aspertons, but he’d never been able to say no. Val didn’t like them either.

‘What can I do for you, my dear? Do you like our Asperton Brilliants? We’re very pleased with them.’

He was chuckling and puffing and bouncing with delight.

‘So I see. I was looking for a price list.’

‘Prices, my dear? How very commercial! Old Tom Gissing would never have asked for prices before he’d looked at the product. Always liked to inspect the dove­ tails first. Still, you want a price list. Let me see if I remembered to bring any. Ha, ha. Yes, here we go. These are list prices only, of course. We’re always happy to talk about volume discounts. Let me know if you’re interested.’

Val took the list and walked off without a thank you or goodbye. The man was insufferable. Walking back to the Gissings stand, she opened the price list. If she hadn’t felt sure that Michael Asperton’s eyes were on her, she’d have stopped dead in her tracks. The prices weren’t just cheap. They were giveaway.

Back on the stand, they assessed the damage. The Asperton range included a copy of everything in Gissings’ own range. The prices were between twenty to fifty percent lower. Val also remembered Michael Asperton’s crack about the volume discounts. That was his way of telling Val that if they needed to slash their prices even further to win business, then away they’d slash.

There was a decent press of potential buyers round the Gissings stand. They always had a good reception now. Nobody thought the firm was on the brink and it was developing a reputation for quality, innovation and service. But despite the interest, Val wasn’t deceived. Polite words cost nothing, but orders wouldn’t come until the buyers had checked out everything, and once they got to the Asperton stand, they wouldn’t return to Gissings.

She was right. The morning grew quieter the longer it dragged on. It turned out that the Aspertons had slashed prices on a couple of other furniture ranges, close in style to Gissings’ other ranges. They had held prices steady on their other stuff, aimed at markets Gissings didn’t even compete in.

This was personal. This was war.

Over a dour lunch, Val, Darren and Dave discussed how to react. They were joined by Jeff Wilmot and Andrew Walters, whom Val had summoned from the factory. This was an emergency - or worse. It would have been an emergency if George had been there. As it was, he’d disappeared after Kiki had landed in Gissings’ yard two months ago, and nobody had heard from him since.

‘It’s war, innit?’ said Darren. ‘We need to match their prices and knock another ten percent off if we have to. This is our idea and we can’t just let ’em pinch it.’

Dave, predictably, agreed. Val was silent, but Wilmot and Walters formed a united front against price cuts.

‘We simply aren’t able to support any price reductions at present,’ said Wilmot, speaking for the pair of them. ‘Our costs have increased since - er - the paintshop contract was withdrawn -’

‘It was withdrawn cos you handed them our profit figures,’ said Darren.

‘Well, er, the point is that our costs are higher than they were. Our profit margins are now around six or seven percent. If we take even ten percent off our prices we’re into loss. If we take twenty to fifty percent off, we’ll make a huge loss on every item.’

‘Well, we’re not going to sell anything with the Aspertons pissing on us.’

Darren’s logic was hard to refute, but Wilmot persisted.

‘Look. The point is that the Aspertons can’t be making any money at these prices. They probably just want to ensure a good launch, before normalising their prices.’

‘That’s right,’ said Walters. ‘I’m absolutely certain we can produce more cheaply than they can. We’ve become very lean and mean these days. Any price that gives them a profit will give us a bigger one. I say we sit back and wait for them to come to their senses.’

Val shook her head.

‘You’re wrong. The Aspertons won’t stop until they’ve put us out of business. They’ve looked through the numbers which Jeff kindly left in their office and they’ve worked out that in a couple of years’ time, Gissings might be a real competitor. They’ve also worked out that, although we’ve recovered fast, we’re still close to death’s door. They plan to just nudge us through.

‘They copy our furniture, sell it at insane prices, and wait until we can’t pay the bank. The second we give up and declare bankruptcy, Michael Asperton picks up the phone to David Ballard and offers to buy Gissings. We’ll be bleeding so fast that Ballard will say yes. The price will be miserable, but he’ll have to take it, because the longer he leaves it the bigger his losses. And the moment that Gissings is handed over, the Aspertons put their prices up. Overnight, Gissings becomes profitable again. And what will it have cost the Aspertons? Not much. They just need to put up with selling some unprofitable furniture for a few months. They’ll recoup everything in no time.’

She was right, of course. There was no other explanation. Even Darren was silent. If George had been there, he might or might not have known what to do. But either way he’d have taken action, instead of letting the company drift rudderless towards annihilation. The outlook was bleak.

‘How long have we got?’

Val was speaking to Jeff Wilmot.

‘Until we need to declare insolvency? Er, well, I would need to develop some planning scenarios, and analyse the impact of alternative sales strategies - er, and obviously the important factor will be commercial judgement’ - Wilmot meant that somebody else would need to take the blame if he were wrong- ‘but I’d say we have about three months. Three months at the outside.’