The Money Makers (53 page)

Next to him, Zack soberly nodded his approval. He didn’t mean it, though. He couldn’t give a damn if clients killed themselves with RosEs. The more they bought, the better his chances of making it to partner. The marketing packs were stuffed full of advice on how best to sell RosEs to clients for whom dodging tax was likely to be a novelty. There were diagrams, charts, graphs, examples. Every pack was covered with photos of the lovely pink rose sprawling over the stone archway and the heads-tails slogan was everywhere too. Everything was in full and beautiful Technicolor, with translations into every language you could think of. It was a monument to the art of the graphic designer and the advertising executive.

But in the whole mountain of marketing stuff, there wasn’t a single word about responsible salesmanship. Not a word.

7

The Aspertons did what they had to do. They popped five thousand magazines into five thousand envelopes. They added a covering letter full of heavy-handed regrets for ‘the damaging practices of some firms within the industry’. They listed the terrible things that Gissings had got up to and included the phone number of their own sales hotline. The super-low prices on the Asperton Brilliants and a couple of other furniture ranges were to be held for a few months longer, as a result of an exceptional response from their client base. The letter and the copy of
Furniture Today
went to every name on the Aspertons’ nationwide database.

The knockout punch was felt by everyone at Gissings. People stopped calling the sales department. Phone calls to clients weren’t answered. Requests to call back were ignored. The shop floor went quiet as machines fell idle and workmen huddled over copied pages of the magazine, spelling out the murderous accusations. This would never have happened in old Tom Gissing’s time.

8

A Weinstein Lukes salesman shifted from foot to foot. He was visiting the group treasurer of a Singaporean multinational, one of his best clients. The treasurer hadn’t yet arrived and the salesman was nervous. He gazed out of the window at the throng of shipping and the stacks of containers waiting to change ships, to move on east or west around the globe. The density of shipping was reminiscent of Hong Kong, but not the port or city around it. Hong Kong is busy, dirty, noisy, tatty; an Asian New York. Singapore is quiet, clean, efficient, authoritarian; an Asian Frankfurt. What the salesman had come to offer his client today was not very Singaporean, and he felt uncomfortable.

The deal he had come to pitch was a new gimmick invented by some tax whizz kid in London and christened RosEs, not a great name for Asian tongues. RosEs looked like an unbeatable way to take money from the government’s pocket, but it was hardly the kind of thing to go down well in Singapore. In Singapore, companies and their government were close. The sort of things you could do in more dissolute countries like England or America would not be acceptable in this island state. Still, the big boys in London were pushing their precious RosEs hard and every salesman in Asia had to pitch it. The salesman hoped the meeting would be short and painless, and enable him to return to normal as soon as possible.

His client walked in. With him were three other gentlemen: the Chief Financial Officer, the Chief Counsel - the company’s top lawyer - and the company President himself. The salesman bowed and nodded effusively. This was a bad sign. They would only have brought this much corporate fire power if they wanted to give him a really major rollocking. He’d blame everything on the London office and try to salvage what he could.

No tea or coffee was offered: another terrible sign. This was Asia, where politeness, even politeness to your enemy, is paramount. The company President took his seat and brusquely gestured everyone else to take theirs. He looked impatient. There were no how-are-yous, none of the normal greetings. This was the last time the salesman was ever going to pitch RosEs to any of his clients. Ever, ever.

The President spoke.

‘So your bank is trying to sell us RosEs?’

The salesman bowed his head, a bow of assent, a bow of submission.

‘We love your RosEs. We want to buy a whole garden full.’

The salesman’s mouth dropped open. The President laughed at his joke and repeated it. ‘We want to grow a garden of RosEs.’

The salesman laughed, a laugh of relief. The President laughed louder. The Chief Financial Officer laughed because the President was laughing, the Chief Counsel laughed because the Chief Financial Officer was laughing, and the Treasurer laughed because everyone else was. The room hooted with laughter.

Autumn 2000

The cultists were wrong. Eight months of the new millennium have come and gone without incident. The world has not expired. The apocalypse has not arrived. Armageddon has stayed at home.

It is 4 September, warm and summery in feel. Women still wear cotton dresses and eat ice-cream in the street, but cooler autumn weather will arrive any day now. Matthew is confident. Zack is expectant. George is without hope. There are 312 days to go.

1

The famous libel lawyer took his seat. He tweaked his jacket sleeves to make sure that just the right amount of cuff was exposed: a glimmer of white, a twinkle of silver cuff links but no more. He cleared his throat unnecessarily, but loudly, until everyone else in the room was silent. Harry Cunningham, London’s most famous libel solicitor, was satisfied.

He was a big man. Tall and broad, white-haired already at fifty, he dominated almost anywhere. Right here, right now, he hadn’t much competition. He took the business card given him by the man opposite. Cunningham didn’t offer one of his own. He scowled as he looked at the card.

‘Addison, Steele, de Coverley,’ he read. ‘I don’t recall hearing the name before. Have you been long established?’

‘About thirty-five years,’ said Dick Steele, the like­ able Yorkshire lawyer who had handled the Asperton account for the last fifteen years.

‘Oh, I see,’ said Cunningham. ‘A newish outfit, then. Do you handle a lot of libel business?’

Steele was uncomfortable. Addison, Steele, de Coverley was a decent firm with a good reputation in the county. But the work they did was generally mundane stuff, and the last breath of a libel case they’d had was eight years ago, which had folded long before it came to court.

‘A little bit,’ said Steele. ‘Less than you, of course.’

Cunningham ignored the last part. ‘A little bit?’ he repeated. ‘I’m not sure I remember reading about any of your cases. Curious. I usually have a good head for these things.’

‘None of our cases has got as far as court,’ admitted Steele.

‘Ah!’ said Cunningham. ‘You’ve kept your cases away from the court. Quite right! They say a good libel lawyer is one who avoids the courtroom. You’ve got a good lawyer there, Mr Asperton, Mrs Asperton.’ He winked in tum at the two Aspertons and laughed his famous booming laugh. ‘I’m afraid my own track record isn’t so good. My clients have been in court rather too much recently. Ha, ha! Still, they usually win when they get there. Ha, ha, ha! That’s the important thing, isn’t it?’

Cunningham had been in the press quite a lot that year. He had represented a pop star, an oil magnate and a TV actress. He had won all three cases and won very substantial awards. He was expensive and worth it.

‘Now, let’s tum to business, shall we?’ said Cunningham. He and George were sitting in the Asperton company boardroom across the table from Mike and Eileen Asperton and their lawyer, Dick Steele. Business etiquette would normally dictate that one or other of the Aspertons chaired the meeting, but Cunningham wasn’t one for etiquette. First, he asked Eileen Asperton to pour him some coffee. Next, he asked Mike Asperton to put his cigar out or smoke outside. Then, ignoring Mike Asperton’s spluttering protests and his wife’s silent fury, he continued.

‘Now, as you know, we’ve come about an article which appeared in a journal called
Furniture Today.’
Cunningham took out some wire-rimmed glasses and perched them precariously on his massive face. He took George’s copy of the magazine and studied it as though for the first time. “‘Rip-Off .” Hmm. That’s on the cover, I see. Story on page fourteen.’ He leafed through the pages. ‘Page fourteen. Here we are. “Gissings cons customers ... Systematic fraud . .. campaign of deception ...” Strong stuff, eh? The magazine tells us you’ve endorsed this story. You must be very sure of your ground.’

‘We are sure of ourselves, thank you,’ said Mike Asperton, thumping a file in front of him. ‘We’ve got letters. We’ve got contracts. We’ve got invoices. We’ve got sworn evidence. You name it, we’ve got it. The story’s true and I’m proud that we’ve revealed it.’

Dick Steele and Eileen Asperton glared at her husband. The first rule of dealing with lawyers is to say nothing, except via your own lawyer. It’s an expensive form of communication. You can talk to your friends in Australia for less. If you had friends on Mars, you could talk to them more cheaply. But you do tend to stay out of trouble.

‘Good,’ said Cunningham. ‘Excellent. That’s what I like to hear. Ha! If I’m on the defendant’s side, I mean. Ha, ha! Good written evidence. Just the stuff. Now, for instance, I expect you’ll have evidence linking Gissings with this supplier of lead-based paints. Eh? That would be a fine start in your defence.’

Before Dick Steele could intervene, a yellow invoice slip floated across the table to Cunningham. Mike Asperton, who had dug it out of his file and thrown it across, looked triumphant. Cunningham took it, and inspected it carefully.

‘Tremendous. Thank you.’ He beamed at Mike Asperton, who beamed back ‘Here we have it. An invoice for so many litres of paint, in such-and-such colours. Specification attached. That’ll be all the poisons they have to add, I suppose. Ha, ha! Lead paints never did me any harm. Can’t be as bad as they say, what? Ha, ha, ha! Amount owing. Payment details. Blah, blah.’ His index finger traced across the sheet as he spoke, then came to rest in the bottom left-hand comer. He tapped it twice.

‘And here we are. A phone number for the good old Czech manufacturer, Praha Fabriky Zdenikova. That’s quite a mouthful. The name, I mean, not the paint. Let’s try it, shall we?’

He reached across to the phone which stood on the desk It had a speaker attachment, allowing everybody in the room to hear the call. Cunningham dialled the number. The phone rang a few times, then a woman’s voice answered in Czech.

‘Good morning,’ boomed Cunningham. ‘My name’s Harry Cunningham and I’d like to buy some paint, please.’ Then in a quieter voice he added for the benefit of the listeners in the room only, ‘Lots of lead in it please. Eh? Ha, ha!’

The woman on the other end said something in Czech, then tried again. Then she gave up, and said in German, ‘
Warten, bitte.’

Cunningham wiggled his eyebrows at the room and waited as he had been asked. Presently, a young man’s voice answered the phone again, speaking reasonable English.

‘Good morning. May I help you, please?’

‘Yes, indeed. My name’s Harry Cunningham of the well-known English furniture company, Cunningham Furniture.’ He winked at his listeners. ‘I’d like to buy some paint, please.’

‘Yes, unfortunately we do not have an export business with England. Only with Germany and Austria at the moment. Maybe next year.’ The voice at the other end was firm.

‘Well, perhaps we could work out a special arrangement. I have a very specific requirement for some lead­ based paints. I’d like to place quite a substantial order and I’d pay a bit extra for delivery.’

The voice at the other end became very precise and emphatic.

‘You must be aware, I think, that the use of lead in paints is prohibited by European regulations. In the Czech Republic now, we are meeting the Euro standards for many years already. It is not possible for us to supply any other type of paint. If you have a requirement for our other range of paints, we might be able to quote if your order was substantial.’

‘No. I definitely want a lead-based paint,’ pursued Cunningham. ‘I know you produce it, because one of my friends here placed a large order with you. Gissings Furniture. I have an invoice from you dated November 1999.’

‘That is not possible,’ said the voice. ‘We do not have an export business with England. We have not heard of any Gissing company. We do not produce or supply lead-based paints.’

‘And who am I speaking to, please?’

‘My name is engineer Jaroslav Svejk. I am export director.’

Cunningham thanked him and hung up. He looked at Mike Asperton in astonishment.

‘Eh? That’s a bit of a blow, isn’t it? Perhaps you checked with somebody else? Did you speak to the managing director? These Eastern bloc firms, you never know quite what’s going on.’

Mike Asperton was ashen-faced and took another cigar from his pocket. Cunningham raised his shaggy eyebrows and glowered at the company director. Mike Asperton put his cigar away. Even the more controlled Eileen Asperton was visibly upset. Dick Steele watched his case sliding away from him. Damage limitation would be the order of the day.

Cunningham read the faces over the table.

‘What? You didn’t speak with anyone else there? But how could poor old George here’ - he thumped George sympathetically - ‘have covered his furniture in these terrible paints, if the dear old Czechs won’t sell them to him. Eh? You can’t go round saying these things if they’re not true.’