by Graham Hamer
CHASING PAPER
GRAHAM HAMER
TABLE OF CONTENTS
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MANX CONNECTION SERIES
THURSDAY 11 DECEMBER
FRIDAY 21 DECEMBER
THURSDAY 3 JANUARY
FRIDAY 4 JANUARY
MONDAY 1 APRIL
FRIDAY 5 APRIL
FRIDAY 12 APRIL
MONDAY 15 APRIL
SATURDAY 20 APRIL
TUESDAY 23 APRIL
WEDNESDAY 24 APRIL
MONDAY 29 APRIL
PART TWO
WEDNESDAY 11 DECEMBER
PART THREE
SATURDAY 24 MAY
SUNDAY 25 MAY
SATURDAY 14 JUNE
MONDAY 16 JUNE
TUESDAY 1 JULY
WEDNESDAY 2 JULY
THURSDAY 3 JULY
SATURDAY 12 JULY
WEDNESDAY 16 JULY
THURSDAY 17 JULY
SATURDAY 2 AUGUST
WEDNESDAY 1 OCTOBER
SATURDAY 11 OCTOBER
SUNDAY 12 OCTOBER
WEDNESDAY 3 DECEMBER
THURSDAY 4 DECEMBER
WEDNESDAY 10 DECEMBER
THURSDAY 11 DECEMBER
FRIDAY 12 DECEMBER
EPILOGUE
DEDICATION
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT GRAHAM HAMER
COPYRIGHT
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THURSDAY 11 DECEMBER
Ian sauntered into his secretary's office space, rolling up his shirtsleeves as he went. “Blokes had breakfast yet, Irene?”
She raised her eyes and peered over her glasses at him. “About ten minutes ago. They've all found work inside today.” She glanced through the rain-streaked window of the old grey Portacabin, across the building site where a stretch of muddy chewed-up ground separated them from the partly-built houses nearest the sea. “Hope it doesn't snow,” she added.
Ian grunted. “How's baby?”
She patted her distended abdomen. “Active.”
But he'd already turned to leave the room.
Ian leaned on his drawing board and scanned the construction plans. Then he cast a calculating eye at the sky that was pregnant with overweight snow clouds hanging low on the hills. On a clear day, the western coastline of England could be seen, thirty miles away on the other side of the Irish Sea. But today a sky the colour of old pewter obscured the horizon. Snow and a grumpy bank manager was about as bad as it got. As if he didn't have enough problems without the weather turning against him. Today he felt a lot older than thirty-nine.
A strong squall rocked the cabin and he looked across the site, which the estate agents had christened Headland View. Dodging a large, ragged square of blue polythene that danced across the dirt, a stocky, low-set figure with tight, curly hair stumbled around the corner of the nearest brick stack. Wearing a short, cement-stained anorak, Dave Kelly, his foreman, best bricklayer and, despite being ten years his junior, best friend, trudged towards the office, disrespectful of the tempest.
As Dave passed from view, Ian braced for the inevitable entry. Smash — crump, crump, crump — Whack — “Stupid friggin' door” —. crump, crump, crump, crump — “Hello darling” — crump, crump. “Mornin' boss. Any tea?”
“Make your own,” Ian said. “What brings you to Bomber Command?”
The foreman rubbed his hands together, cupped them to his mouth and blew. “Internal blocks. Shortage of.”
Ian shuddered. “I need to go and see Tweedle - you know the score.”
“Yeah, I know, boss. Can't I get some in town to keep us going?”
“Better not. I don't want him getting out of his pram.”
“It's cheaper when you buy direct, old boy” they chimed in unison.
“I'll get it sorted,” Ian said. “Go make yourself a cuppa. Do you fancy going out for a pint tonight?”
“He can't,” Irene said from the adjacent office. “He's got a Gun Club meeting tonight.”
Dave smiled. “Wife and social diary all in one. Maybe tomorrow.”
Ian shrugged. Nobody, it seemed, had remembered his birthday. He picked up the menu for the firm's Christmas dinner, which Irene had typed ready for his approval, but his eyes strayed to the red folder on the corner of his desk; the one that he'd spent the last ten minutes trying to ignore. There was no need to look through the bank statements inside; he could quote the final balance from memory, including the 'DR' afterwards. DR meaning 'Dear customer, your finances are a mess and you're overdrawn, now what the hell do you plan to do about it?'
Ian fumed in silence. What he planned to do about it was to ring the bank and find out whether the Tweedle brothers had transferred any money into the account since yesterday, so he could pay his suppliers and get some bloody materials, that's what he planned to do about it.
He lifted the telephone receiver and held it in the air, not sure what he should do with it. What would Old Nick Garfield, the manager, say today? 'Ah Mister Gidman. No money eh? Well don't come crying on my shoulder. You should have kept your job at Three Leggs, not gone grabbing at rainbows with Richard Tweedle Esquire.' Ian dropped the receiver back in its cradle and gazed out of the window.
To the west, braced against the winter wind, the summit of Snaefell stood brooding and angry. It seemed to be in imminent danger of earning its Norse identity - Snow Mountain. When Ian had named the construction company after it, Snaefell Homes had seemed appropriate and ingenious. Now, the financial structure that had launched the company was tightening round his neck like a noose.
He gave himself a mental prod. It served no purpose getting broody about the past. The situation was what it was. He had to deal with the present. He had to deal with an overdraft of £188,546.97 against a limit of £175,000. He had to deal with Old Mr Garfield at Island Bank Ltd.
Ian collected his scuffed leather bomber jacket from the floor in the corner of the office, shrugged his shoulders into its familiar interior, and pulled the zip to the top. As he passed Irene's office, he poked his head around the part open door. “Irene, give Tweedle a call will you, and tell him I'm on the way over. Better tell him to get Scott there too.”
Ian took his time driving the four miles to his partner's house. Tweedle's payments were due at the end of each month, and it was now the eleventh of December. He could think of better ways to spend his birthday than chasing his own partner for money. The company structure had seemed logical when it had been set up. Richard Tweedle and his brother Frank were to be shareholders and co-Directors of Bishops Road Developments - the legal owners and developers of the land – and Ian and Richard were to be shareholders and co-Directors of Snaefell Homes, which was contracted by Bishops Road to construct the properties.
For two years the arrangement had worked well enough but, in recent months, Bishops Road - alias Richard and Frank Tweedle - had become later and later settling their monthly account with Snaefell Homes - alias himself and Richard Tweedle. Now Ian was in the invidious position of having to chastise his own partner for late payment. It was a position that was becoming more uncomfortable as the outstanding amount grew.
He gathered his thoughts and flicked the stem of the wiper switch to remove the sea spray from his windscreen. At the end of the promenade, he eased the black Audi around a series of sharp bends, drove past the marina then, two minutes later, slowed to turn into the gateway of the Tweedle residence.
The Victorian edifice had once been a fine residence but the spending of
money on maintenance had never been one of Richard's strong points and the once proud home of a reclusive gentleman had deteriorated into five sad and dilapidated apartments, the dingy duplex at the front being the abode of Richard Tweedle and his daughter, Denise.
At the front of the building, parked at an angle in the mud, was Richard's ancient red Nissan. Of vintage stock, the unkempt bodywork had faded to a dull blood-orange hue, severely tested any claims to being a rustproof motor. Beyond the Nissan stood an even older, hand-painted, black van; brother Frank's chosen mode of transport. The front wings carried more than one battle scar; the results of minor skirmishes that seemed to plague Frank's driving. Had be bothered to wear his glasses, most of them could have been avoided.
Ian walked towards the house, dragging his feet, and tugged the ancient bell pull.
Richard's twenty-year-old daughter responded.
“Hi Ian. Coffee?”
He shook his head. “Thanks all the same, Denise. Is the old man about?”
“Finishing breakfast with Uncle Frank. Go on through.”
He stepped into the gloomy hallway. The place was as tidy as it ever got - which wasn't much. Despite the fact that a cleaning lady spent one day a week hoovering, polishing and dusting his not-quite-junk-not-quite-antiques for him, Richard Tweedle seemed to have the ability to create disorder without any effort. If it had taken an effort, he wouldn't have done it.
There was a suspicion of fried breakfast hanging in the air, doing battle with the smell of stale tobacco, and fighting a rearguard movement against mothballs, woodworm and musty wallpaper. As Ian trod the well-worn carpet past the foot of the ancient staircase, the smell of stale smoke was replaced with the smell of fresh tobacco.
“Good morning, old chap,” Richard called, mopping up the remains of his breakfast. “Take a pew. We'll join you in a minute.”
Ian chose the unoccupied battered chair, the other being occupied by the diminutive H. Ronald Scott, Richard's self-styled accountant and right hand man. Scott was a nondescript creature who had the mind and the manners of a muleskinner and only Richard Tweedle seemed to have the ability to find any redeeming characteristics.
“Morning Ron.”
“Morning Ian.”
As they waited in silence for the Tweedles to finish their breakfast, Ian stared around the room through the fug of cigarette smoke. Dust lay thick on almost every surface. Maybe the old cleaning lady would get round to it some day. Maybe not.
The Tweedles stood to join them. Frank was badly put together, his twenty-eight stones of fat wedged into a pullover that looked as though it had been knitted by a hammock-maker. As he lumbered across the room, the corners of his eyes creamed benignly at the visitors. It made Richard, who was a lot more compact, appear younger than his fifty-six years. Richard could strut sitting down.
Frank's face had the white, whippy look of a marshmallow; Richard's was pure tomato soup, and lean and scornful. Though they both sported the same receding hairlines and similar bulbous noses, one would not naturally have thought of them as brothers.
Richard grunted and wedged himself onto the settee in the insufficient space left by his brother. He lit his first after-breakfast cigarette as he did so. He galloped through a procession of opening phrases like the cavalry in full charge. “So, what's the agenda today? You gents had coffee? How's the site coming along? Making progress are we? Weather's not very good is it?”
“We're making progress today,” Ian replied, choosing his own topic, “but we'll have to stop tomorrow.”
“Stop? Why? What's up?”
“Money's what's up, Richard. We're up to our neck in bills and the bank's way past our overdraft limit.”
“Ah yes, money dear boy, money. How much do you need?”
“Last month's work came to forty eight thousand three hundred and there's still six thousand due from the month before. So the total owing is over fifty four thousand.”
“Ah yes, that's quite a lot isn't it. How are we at the bank at the moment?”
“We're one hundred and eighty eight thousand five hundred over - against a limit of one hundred and seventy five.”
“Damn! Ronald, dear boy, do you think we could persuade Garfield to extend us a few more quid?”
“About as much chance as getting the pox off a lavatory seat,” he said, adjusting his royal blue bow tie.
“Well, Ian, bit of a quandary old chap. Frank and I can rustle some up between us but we can't make the er — how much did you say it was?”
“Fifty four thousand.”
“No, certainly can't do all that. What's the least you can get by on for a few weeks?”
Ian screwed up his face. It was the same trick that Tweedle had used the month before. “We could probably scrape by on forty five, but it'll be tight.”
Richard flicked his cigarette absent-mindedly in the general direction of an overflowing ashtray. As usual, the ash missed its target. “Listen Ian, old chap, I asked Ronald to be here this morning because he knows our financial state better than I do. I'd better let him explain the current predicament. Ronald?”
“I don't think I need Ron to tell me what I already know. I've heard the speech before. Remember?”
Ron Scott glared at Ian and readjusted his bow tie, which hovered under the space where his chin would have been if he'd had one.
“In that case,” Richard said, “you'll be aware that Frank and I guarantee the bank loans for both Bishops Road and Snaefell Homes. We've given the bank security on everything we have: the houses at Headland View and our own homes. The problem is that the combined loans already exceed the total value of those assets. We've had to twist Garfield's arm to get this far.”
“So what's the bottom line?”
“The bottom line, old chap, is that Bishops Road can only pay thirty thousand pounds.”
“Jesus, Richard, we'll never manage on that. We can't delay the creditors any longer, they're already putting deliveries on hold.”
“Necessity's sharp pinch, old chap. Frank and I have scraped the barrel to get this far. If we can get the roofs on plots eight and nine, we can pull some stage payments off the punters and get you more up-to-date. I know it's difficult - it is for all of us - but it's down to you to kick the blokes and get the job done.” He offered Ian a cigarette, which he ignored. “Listen, old boy, we can get through this little difficult patch if we all pull together. If you rock the boat we'll all be in the shit. Let's just settle on thirty thousand for the moment and see how it goes.”
“What do you mean 'rock the boat'? I just came to collect what's due.”
“Yes but —”
“But nothing, Richard. We just can't get by on thirty thousand.”
Ron Scott leaned forward. “Listen, there is a way of extending the bank borrowing if it’s really necessary.”
“How's that?”
“Well, if we can release Richard and Frank's securities exclusively for Bishops Road's borrowing, we can get the payments up to date.”
“And how would you do that?” Ian asked. He had an inkling that he already knew the answer.
Richard looked towards the ceiling, exhaling a stream of blue-grey smoke. He held his cigarette in an effeminate manner; fingers spread apart and palm wide open as if distancing himself from his habit. “Ian, old boy, you must understand that, financially, Frank and I are totally committed to this thing. Now this is nothing personal, and I wouldn't like you to think it is - it's simply a question of business - but while Frank and I are risking our financial arses to make the businesses a success, you are not. Our possessions and homes are on the line but, financially speaking, you're completely uncommitted. I know this sounds a bit hard, old chap, but if you were to take on similar commitments to Frank and me, we'd be home dry.”
Ian counted the 'committeds' and resented the suggestion that he wasn't. “But you've known from the beginning that I've no money other than a few hundred quid in the bank. How do you expect me to contribute?”
Richard held his hands up, palms out. “You can get the point, old boy, can't you. Frank and I have no more to offer except blood, but you could resolve matters at the stroke of a pen.”
“Well yes, I get the point. The point is that I came here expecting to collect some money that you owe the company and now it seems as though I've got to put my house on the line to get it.”
“It's a feeling I know well, old chap, but Garfield has held a gun against my head for the last two or three years and I've nothing more to contribute. Either we all stand together or we all sink together.” He waited a beat. “So what do you think, old boy?”
“I think I need time to think,” Ian said, rubbing the back of his neck. He eased himself out of the chair, aware that he was the centre of their attention. He'd always been able to think more clearly when he paced about. Answers came more easily when a problem wasn't staring him in the face. He crossed to the tall window near the weary dining table and stared out through mean, icy rain. Richard's lawn saluted him with a sneer.
Why was it that anything associated with the Tweedle name developed into a problem? He rubbed his eyes. His headache was already developing into a full-blown skull-pounder, and his indigestion was burning again.
The idea of contributing to the bank's security wasn't a surprise; it had been mentioned two days earlier when he'd telephoned Richard to ask when the payment was going to be made. But Ian had held back then, as he held back now. Something wasn't right and he couldn't put his finger on it. It was clear that they needed more collateral if they were to increase the bank borrowing and, if Richard and Frank were already committed to their limits, only he could provide that collateral. But something bothered him. Something didn't weigh up. Something just out of reach, like an itch you can't scratch. If only he knew what it was. He turned, and crossed the room back to the other three.
“Good man, Ian, good man. What's the verdict then?”
A pause while Ian examined his feet. “The verdict, Richard, is that I don't seem to have much choice,” he muttered.