The Money Makers (74 page)

The phone rang again. Zack stretched out to answer it.

‘Zack Gradley speaking.’

‘Mr Gradley? This is Jason Armitage from your stockbrokers. I’m afraid there’s a problem.’

‘A problem?’ Zack gripped the plastic receiver so hard it creaked.

‘It appears that Hatherleigh Pacific made an announcement early this morning. To do with some financial irregularity. The shares have been suspended. I’m afraid the sale can’t go through.’

‘Suspended?’

Zack dropped the receiver and leaped to the Reuters news terminal which stood in the corner of his room. His experienced fingers tapped in the code for Hatherleigh Pacific. The screens blinked for a minute, then unscrolled their wicked news.

An audit of The South China Trust Bank, now wholly owned by Hatherleigh Pacific, has revealed a huge hole in its accounts. While investigators are still working to get to the bottom of the problem, it appears that in the course of the takeover bid, South China gambled massive amounts of money on the financial markets. In particular, South China put huge quantities of funds into a product called RosEs, heavily marketed by Weinstein Lukes, the investment bank. The gamble went sour. Instead of admitting the error, South China management shuffled the losses into a secret account, and creamed off any profits into the public accounts. During the bitterly fought takeover campaign, they boasted of increased profits, when in fact they had made losses big enough to sink the whole company. It is now unclear whether Hatherleigh Pacific itself will have the resources to survive. Meantime, Hatherleigh Pacific’s shares have been suspended with immediate effect and can be neither bought nor sold.

It was the biggest financial story in the Far East that day, and Reuters devoted a large number of pages to it. Zack didn’t read them all. He staggered away from the screen and fell into his chair. His face was white as a sheet, blank as the empty grave.

The Ending

1

Three years and eight days ago, Bernard Gradley, father and millionaire, ran his car into the stone wall that ended his life. Eight days later, his family heard his final wishes in astounded silence. The fortune they had expected to shower down upon them was, they learned, to hang suspended, in sight but out of reach.

Three years have now passed. The race that Bernard Gradley set running that day is finished, his last joke nearing its punch line. It is midnight in the City of London, Friday night tipping over into Saturday morning. Three bank accounts - in the names of Zachary, Matthew and George Gradley - lie quiet. It is too late now to add more money, cheat new people, earn more cash. The last deposits have been made. The final transfers requested, authorised and executed.

As the bells of London peal midnight to the empty city, a coded impulse leaves those silent accounts. Down the wires it travels to a central computer. A printer chatters briefly and is silent once more. The chit of paper lies unmoving in the dark office. When morning breaks, a clerk will come in, stamp and sign the piece of paper, add a certificate of confirmation, and have them couriered to a solicitor in Leeds.

Everything has been carefully arranged. Josephine’s job in the Transfers and Settlements Department has made her expert in these matters. Much to Augustus Earle’s relief, she has supervised all the arrangements and is sure there will be no slip-up. It is her job to be sure. Alone of Bernard Gradley’s children, Josephine sleeps peacefully in her bed this night.

2

And now, at last, the great day dawns. It is perfect summer, cloudless and hot. Up and down the country, brides-to-be are throwing back the curtains and exclaiming for joy. Children wake early and burst in on their sleeping parents. Pilots and rock-climbers, balloonists and fell-walkers see the sunshine and rush to be outside. Today, from the skies and the cliff-tops, the world will lie unfurled, every last chimney pot distinct as a pinprick in the clear blue heat. This is no day to be in bed.

The sons of Bernard Gradley are also excited. They throw back their curtains and greet the sun, blood thrilling through their veins. Each one knows the riddle of his fortunes, but the others are secretive. Has anyone made his million? Who has made the most? Time will tell. The fortune is falling and someone must catch it.

Each must shower, shave, dress as though this were a normal day. But it is no normal day. Sarah laughs as Zack catches himself with a razor. ‘Good luck, you clot,’ she says, handing him some cotton wool. She’s having a bunch of college friends round to drinks that evening and will travel on down to Ovenden House late that night, where Zack plans to join her. They are cordial with each other, but strained and careful. They still need to talk about the calamity which threatens Hatherleigh Pacific and with it the entire Hatherleigh fortune. They still need to tackle head-on Zack’s role in the whole disastrous mess. Lord Hatherleigh will be there too, fresh from crisis meetings in Hong Kong. No doubt he will have some views of his own. But now is not the time for such thoughts. Zack is anxious to be off. Sarah teases him for his impatience. At the door, she kisses him on the cheek. For the last three nights they haven’t made love, which, for them, is a record.

Matthew should be calmer. Are his nerves not steeled on the trading floor? Is he not used to gambling millions on the turn of the wheel, winning or losing with equal composure? Is this the same Matthew Gradley? It is one and the same, but Matthew’s nerves are shot to shreds. Fiona sees his anxiety, but he brushes it off. She doesn’t mind. He is welcome to be nervous if he wishes. He is welcome to have mysterious appointments in the north of England. She, Fiona, is happy. She has a wonderful job, plenty of money, and a partner who has all but soothed away her fears of intimacy. Matthew had been a bit funny about paying for his share in Fortress Fiona, but he’d done it and they were as happy together as they’d ever been. Fiona watches her partner leave, then climbs back into bed for a lazy morning with
Cosmo
magazine. The glossy pages fall open at a feature on wedding dresses. Instead of turning hurriedly away, Fiona lingers. They are nice, some of them. She leafs through the pictures, feels the fear, but knows she can handle it.

George and Val eat their usual breakfast without hurrying. Leeds is only a few miles away. They can take their time. Val will come to the solicitor’s with George. No reason why not. Val washes the dishes, George dries. They are still both living in Val’s tiny house. Will they move? They have talked about it and would like somewhere larger, especially as they both want kids and dogs, and Val has her heart set on a larger garden. George breaks one plate, then another in his anxiety. Val takes the drying-up cloth from his hand and makes him sit down. She’ll get him there on time, she says, but she’d sooner he didn’t break any more of her crockery.

And Josephine. Josephine attends to herself first, then wakes her mother and gets her ready for the day. Helen Gradley won’t accompany her daughter to Leeds. She copes badly with travel and she’d only get stressed. At eight thirty, a care assistant arrives, a nice Kiwi girl with whom Helen gets on well. Josephine gives her her instructions, and steps out into the hall. She picks up a plain manila envelope from the foot of the stairs and walks outside to a car she has hired for the day. She gets into the car and sets off. In the back of the car are two large suitcases. Anyone would think she was off on holiday, but she points the car north and gets on to the M1, headed for Leeds. She too will be there on time.

3

Augustus Earle paces about his office, remembering the scene three years before. He is nervous, and nervousness makes him fussy. He shakes curtains into shape, shifts chairs, flicks dust from his polished desk. It is ten to twelve. Gradley’s children should be here in ten minutes.

Suddenly, something catches his attention. Or rather, it is nothing which catches his attention. His grandfather clock has fallen silent and its heavy ticking no longer sounds out across the thick carpet. The spring has wound down; he must have forgotten to wind it. Earle puts a hand to the glass front to open the door, to wind the spring, but he is too late. Gravel crunching outside and a crashing at the door drag his attention back to the matter in hand. The clock must wait for now in silence.

Earle answers the door himself. It is a Saturday and he is the only person present in his office. There on the doorstep stand not one but all of the Gradley children. They must have gathered in town and come on together.

‘Come in,’ he says, ‘come in.’ His voice is fluty and tremulous with excitement.

Zack, Matthew, George, Val and Josephine walk down the thickly carpeted hall into Earle’s own immaculate room. It hasn’t changed from three years before: broad windows which let the universal sunlight come streaming in; Earle’s grand walnut desk, with a smaller table, leather-covered, beside it; shelves solid with law books; on a side table, a sherry decanter and glasses. The five young people take their seats without needing to be invited. The room is filled with tension. People smile and are polite, but the anxiety is thicker than syrup.

‘Is it a little bright for you, sitting in the sunlight, there?’ Earle asked Josephine gallantly. She had been most helpful in sorting out the many annoyances to do with the banks and, as promised, he had received the account details and confirmation certificate in plenty of time that morning. Earle had examined the documents, but only to check their authenticity. Everything was in order, as it should be, as he knew it would be. But he hadn’t looked at the account balances themselves. Even he was nervous.

Earle drew the heavy red curtains across the window, reducing but not cutting out the sunshine that poured into the room. Josephine’s head now swam in darkness, her feet on a sea of gold. ‘Is that better?’ he asked.

‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Thanks.’

‘Sherry, or shall we get started right away?’ Earle remembered the children’s capacity for rudeness, Zack’s especially, and he wanted to avoid unpleasantness.

Matthew, a handsome young man, though with something childish in him too, answered for them all. ‘Let’s cut to the chase, please, Augustus.’

Earle winced. Nobody used his Christian name like that, not even his wife, who always called him darling. But Matthew wasn’t being rude, just American. Earle did as he was told and cut to the chase.

‘Right. You all know the rules. Bernard Gradley’s estate has been placed in trust over the past three years. As you know, the estate mostly comprises Gradley Plant Hire, which has had an excellent three years. Profits for the year just ended are almost seven million pounds before tax, and the acting general manager tells me that a reasonable stockmarket valuation of the business would be in excess of fifty million pounds. In other words, the value of the legacy has increased substantially since your father’s death. The acting general manager also tells me that in his view prospects are as strong as they’ve ever been.

All of this, of course, belongs to whichever of you had the most money in their bank account at midnight last night, as long as that person has a minimum balance of one million pounds sterling. I don’t need to stress, of course, that the money must be yours and only yours. It can’t be borrowed or anything like that. Is that completely understood and agreed?’

The three brothers nodded, throats too dry to speak.

Even Val and Josephine were drawn into the swelling tension and they too nodded silently.

‘I have here,’ continued the solicitor, ‘confirmation from the bank, received this
morning, of your account balances at midnight last night. I have also received the certificate guaranteeing the authenticity of this confirmation.’

He passed the stamped and signed certificate around the room. The paper was headed with the crest of one of Britain’s biggest banks and the signature and stamp were clear and untampered with.

‘Very well,’ said Earle. ‘I shall now reveal your account balances as they stood at midnight last night.’

Earle drew the second piece of paper from the envelope, the one he hadn’t yet read. Even now, he forced his eye not to jump down the page, to leap ahead to the end of the story. He would reveal everything in due order.

‘First,’ he said, ‘Mr George Gradley. Account number 7089030. George, can you confirm that your account details are correct?’

‘Yes,’ rasped George. ‘That’s correct.’ God knew why he was so nervous. He knew the answer.

‘The balance in your account last night was - was -’ Earle gripped the paper more tightly as the unexpected number jumped out at him from the page ‘- the balance in your account was exactly nothing. No pounds and no pence. Do you dispute that?’

‘No, that’s quite correct.’

George’s face was white. Beside him, Val squeezed his hand. Zack and Matthew’s hearts leaped up. Both of them had secretly been worried that perhaps, after all, George could have pulled off a miracle at Gissings. But it seemed, he had failed. George didn’t have his million and there was no point putting less than that into the competition. Nine hundred and ninety nine thousand pounds was failure just as surely as nothing at all. Zack and Matthew breathed out through their mouths, looked sideways at each other and shifted in their seats. The competition amongst the three of them had narrowed to a competition between the two of them.

But this was and always had been the real contest. The movement in the room subsided and Earle continued.