by Graham Hamer
“I'll tell you how, Mister bloody Tweedle. Your crooked accomplice here removed them from the filing cabinet under the pretext of tidying the drawers and helping Dave. Then, knowing that it would be impossible, you demanded details of the site costings for the last three years.”
“That's preposterous, Ian. Ronald stopped for an hour or so to help Dave do a job for which he isn't qualified. Just because your man is inefficient, you can't go blaming us when things go missing. Now, have you had a good look through the office?”
Ian pointed his finger like a javelin, just inches from Tweedle's nose. “Cut the stupid crap Tweedle. Just get to the bottom line and tell me what you aim to achieve. I take it you'll refuse to pay us if we can't justify our figures.”
Tweedles eyes narrowed and he spoke slowly, blowing a cloud of smoke in Ian's direction. “I think, old chap, you've hit the nail right on the head, as they say.”
“Yeah, that's what I figured,” Ian snarled. “Well, let me tell you what I also figured, Tweedle. I figured that if I sued you for the money, the court would see my point, that's what I figured.”
“You're very welcome to take Bishops Road Developments to court if you wish, Ian old boy. I think, however, you might be well advised to seek some professional advice before doing so. You might like to advise your solicitor - Wormald-Welch isn't it? - that Bishops Road Developments is not refusing payment, it is only demanding that you justify the sum of money owed. In the event that you can provide us with the necessary figures, we should be pleased to settle our account immediately and in full. You may find that your legal representative will take a more considered approach than yourself. If you are unable to justify what you are claiming, then we don't believe that we owe you anything.”
“What the hell do you mean, you don't owe us anything? You owe over seventy five thousand pounds from previous months and there'll be about another forty thousand due in a week's time. That's over a hundred and fifteen thousand bloody pounds Mr Tweedle. Don't you bloody dare sit there and tell me you don't owe us anything.”
Tweedle contemplated his fingernails. “Prove it, old boy. Prove it and we'll be glad to pay.”
Ian stormed from the house, slamming the front door. A panel of stained glass fell, and shattered on the tiled floor of the vestibule behind him.
WEDNESDAY 24 APRIL
It was still early but Claire couldn't go back to sleep. She stretched across the large double bed tensing and relaxing every muscle, her body reminding her of the previous day's exertions. Though the removals men had positioned the large or heavy items, she'd still found it necessary to move and reposition furniture on her own after they'd left. Easing herself from the bed, she glanced at her naked reflection in the full-length wardrobe mirror. Not too bad for an old 'un.
She slid into her slippers and long kaftan robe and wandered to the bathroom to brush her teeth and rinse away the traces of slumber. She returned to the bedroom, opened both halves of the window inwards, and pushed out the tall shutters.
Boulevard Raspail in the sixth arrondissement of Paris was typical of many constructed under the supervision of Baron Georges Haussman during the nineteenth century. The wide, tree-lined avenue ran almost a true north-south, and the apartment she had chosen was situated in a tall, stone-fronted building on the western side of the avenue, catching the full glory of the morning sun. Four floors below, the Wednesday morning traffic snarled and growled as accomplished Parisian drivers intimidated tourists and novices, and fought nerve-shattering duels to see who could be the last to cross the junction after the lights had turned red.
She stretched again and wiggled her toes as she surveyed her new surroundings. Her slender fingers reached towards a cloudless blue sky, sampling the sensation of waking up, free to discover the independence she had never known. With another five days in front of her before she was obliged to report for work as Directeur Médical at her new employer's, there was no immediacy about unpacking the various boxes and cartons that littered the apartment. She picked her way through them to the kitchen in her own special quiet way of moving, the way that nuns move, or efficient waiters, with a minimum of fuss or effort. She set the coffee percolator in motion and rinsed her cup from the previous evening.
On impulse, she reached into the fridge and poured herself a celebratory glass of wine. Though she never ever drank so early in the day, today was different. Today there was nobody to tell her not to.
* * *
William had arrived at the house at eight-thirty and had joined his clients for coffee in the breakfast room. Their tired, strained faces told their own story, and it was not difficult to imagine the anguish and torment of the past twenty-four hours. He had been unable to do anything other than confirm what they already knew; that if Tweedle didn't pay what he owed, Snaefell Homes was insolvent.
The hardest moment was when, for Nancy's comprehension, William had been obliged to summarize the debts. One hundred and eighty five thousand owing to the bank, thirty thousand owing to various suppliers, ten thousand owed in wages. Then Nancy had asked about the value of the equipment and the materials on site. He'd had no choice but to point out that, allowing for repayment of Hire Purchase loans, their true residual worth in a forced sale situation would not be realised and that their real value could almost be ignored.
When Nancy had asked how much they themselves were liable for, William had verified that, since they had guaranteed the bank overdraft, the one hundred and eighty-five thousand pounds bank borrowing was their own liability and that any other creditors were the liability of the Company, which would be unable to make any payment. Nancy's bottom lip had trembled at the realization that the workmen wouldn't get paid and that their own house would have to be sold.
Then Old Mr Garfield had rung. Tweedle had already telephoned him to tell him that Snaefell Homes had ceased trading. All that had been left was to try some bluff —
When he arrived at the office, Ian was not surprised to see Tweedle's car parked outside; he had, after all, demanded his presence when he had telephoned him half an hour earlier. It was also no surprise to him, when he entered his office, to find Tweedle's chinless accomplice was with him.
He was, however, less happy about the fact that the smoke was already thick enough to rest your elbows on, and that Tweedle was sitting in his chair behind his desk, with Ron Scott standing beside him, flicking through the contents of one of his files.
“Put those bloody papers down, Scott. You've stolen enough already.”
“I'm just—”
Ian snatched the file from Scott's hand and threw it across the room. The documents scattered over the floor, like leaves in an autumn gale. “You're just bloody nothing,” he shouted. “Get out of here. This is a shareholders' meeting and you don't qualify, now piss off.”
“Listen Ian, old boy, I think— “
“I don't give a damn what you think, Tweedle, and you can cut the 'old boy' crap. Scott has no right to be here so he can get lost.”
Tweedle's eyes narrowed. “Alright, Mr Gidman, you listen to me. I would suggest to you in the strongest possible terms that the three of us have a little chat before you decide to call your dumb shareholders' meeting. There are a few things I have to say that may effect the outcome.”
“You can say whatever you want to say when your thieving friend has left. What do you need him for anyway?”
“I need Ronald as a witness to what I am about to say.”
“Well Mr Tweedle, if you need a witness, I do too.”
“Quite alright Mr Gidman. Why don't you call Dave through?”
Ian strode to the door and called Dave, who responded immediately, entering the room stooped and limping. Dave sat down with care, holding the small of his back and glowering at Ron Scott.
“Right,” Tweedle said, addressing Dave. “I assume you know the current situation?”
Ian replied for him, following the procedure that William had outlined. “We both know what thieving bastards you
two are, so now you can listen to what I've got to say. As at this moment, Bishops Road owes Snaefell Homes somewhere in the region of a hundred and seventeen thousand pounds. I'm prepared to substantiate the figure by means of a professional valuation of the work done. In the meanwhile I expect you to pay fifty percent immediately pending proof of debt, failing which, I shall have no choice but to withdraw all the men and equipment from this site and serve you with an injunction, freezing your assets until the matter is resolved.”
Tweedle placed his cigarette in the ashtray and clapped his hands slowly three times. “Bravo, Mister Gidman. Good try, but it won't work.”
William had warned Ian not to expect a quick submission, but Tweedle's reaction was still not what he had expected. The man's ego was throbbing across the space between them like a sore tooth. “If you think I'm bluffing, you're making a big mistake,” was all Ian could think of to say.
Richard picked up his cigarette and continued smoking. “If that's your best shot, Mr Gidman, you needn't have wasted your time. There are three ways for you to do things now, young sir - the right way, the wrong way, or Richard Tweedle's way. If you opt for the third choice, you'll save yourself further heartache. Now sit down and listen, and I'll tell you exactly why you won't take any legal action.”
Ian remained standing.
“First of all,” Tweedle said, “as you are aware, you have no evidence that either myself or Ronald purloined your time sheets.”
“Except good circumstantial evidence,” Ian snapped.
“Plus the fact that I'll be happy to stand in any witness box and swear that I saw Scott put time sheets in the dustbin bag,” Dave added.
Tweedle stared hard at him. “Mister Kelly, I don't believe you saw anything of the sort. In any case, threatening to give any sort of evidence against either myself or Ronald would be rather foolish, don't you think?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that if you poke your nose into business that does not concern you, I might well retaliate.”
“Retaliate how?”
“Let me put it this way, what you and the barmaid did together at Christmas is your business and will remain that way so long as you keep out of my affairs. Do I make myself clear, dear boy?”
Dave spluttered. “What the — how the bloody hell did you know about that?”
Ian placed a restraining hand on his arm. “Steady Dave.”
“Yeah but how the hell did he find out about it?”
“I've a good idea. Let's just say that if you see Boy any time, you might like to do some serious arse kicking.”
Dave glowered at Tweedle, drawing from his cigarette, fingers spread across his face. Though he struggled to control it, Dave's voice trembled with anger. “Let me tell you something Tweedle. If my wife ever finds out about that night, I'll know where it came from and this island won't be big enough for you to hide from me. I'll use your face as a bloody suppository.”
The foreman stood up, ignoring the pain in his back. He took two steps to the desk, leaned across and grabbed the wrist of Tweedle's cigarette hand. Despite protests and struggles, he removed the smouldering cigarette from between Tweedle's fingers, examined the burning end for a moment and then roughly stubbed it in the almost full ashtray. As Tweedle froze in horror, Dave emptied the contents over his head and slammed the ashtray back on the desk.
Tweedle shrieked as the red hot ashes burned his scalp. He jumped up, dusting his head with his hands, trying to remove the burning embers. Dave shouted, “Do I make myself clear, old boy?” and stormed out of the door.
Ian called after him, “Good one, Dave,” then sat down and watched as Scott rushed to Tweedle's aid.
It took two full minutes of Ron Scott's greasy smooth-talk to calm Richard, even lighting a fresh cigarette for him after he had finished brushing the ash off his boss's shoulders.
Ian's transitional smile disappeared as he returned to the reality of the situation. “So what's my threat then?” he asked, as Tweedle retook his seat. “I take it I have a similar piece of blackmail somewhere?” His confidence came from the sure knowledge that he had done nothing that could be used against him.
“I don't think there'll be any need for me to resort to threats, Mr Gidman. Why don't we just talk like intelligent people and sort out this mess to your best advantage?”
The bluff had failed so, if Tweedle was of a mind to make some concessions, Ian knew that it was time to dicker.
“Alright, let's talk turkey,” Tweedle said, wiping his head with a handkerchief. “First of all, there's nothing I can do about the bank overdraft - that's your problem. So far as the machinery and equipment is concerned, it was those figures that Ronald and I were examining when you came in. I notice that it has a book value of just over thirty thousand pounds against outstanding loans of a little less than twenty thousand. You're going to have to face the facts of life soon enough, so you might as well start now - the true value of this equipment is not much more than the amount owing. In fact, on a small island like this, you might struggle even to achieve that.”
He was not telling him anything that William Wormald-Welch had not already said, so Ian sat poker-faced, listening but watching the twitch in Ron Scott's eye which, at that moment, seemed to be troubling him.
“Being the honourable man that you are,” Tweedle continued, “you’ll not want your workmen to suffer as a cause of the company's collapse, will you?”
“Not if I can help it.”
“Okay. Well what I propose is that my new company keeps the equipment and takes over the outstanding Hire Purchase loans. No money need change hands. You also leave all the stock on site that's there now, the bricks and blocks and things. After all, you don't exactly have much use for them, and you'll get next to nothing if you try to sell them. In return, I'll continue to pay the men and re-employ them. So far as unsecured creditors are concerned, Snaefell Homes has gone bust. End of story. I'll soon get accounts opened with the suppliers for the new company “
The men's loss of wages had been troubling Ian and his instinct told him to accept the offer. But there would be no immediate submission. He grunted, waiting to see what more might be offered. Tweedle stared at him and remained mute.
“So that's it then, is it? You take the stock and equipment, continue with the loans and the men get paid as normal.”
“All except Mister bloody Kelly. He's out of a job as from now.”
After Dave's treatment of Tweedle, Ian was hardly surprised. It confirmed the awful essence of the situation. They were talking about the livelihoods of fifteen men. But he still wasn't going to submit – not yet anyway. Tweedle's manner, his arrogant smirk, his shrugs, the way he half closed his eyes, as if using all his vision would be a waste of eyesight, all decided him against agreeing to the inevitable at this stage. And anyway, he didn't plan to surrender his dignity in front of Ron Scott. “I'll think about it,” he said.
“Alright, you think about it, but don't take too long. Tomorrow is Thursday and the wages are due to be paid on Friday.”
Ian studied Tweedle's pan face in distaste. “Supposing I were to telephone you tomorrow and tell you that I don't accept your offer and that I plan to go ahead and have the site valued. What would you threaten to tell my wife?”
“I wouldn't tell your charming wife anything, I'd let you tell her.”
“Tell her what?”
“Tell her to start pulling your house down.”
“What the hell do you mean by that?”
Tweedle blew his nose and cleared his throat. “Ian,” he said, with the air of an adult talking to a child, “you wanted to play the big man and be the boss, but you didn't allow for the fact that people with real power play by different rules, and we don't relinquish our power without a fight. In your case, I told you that I would make sure the bank was satisfied with its security - well it was. I didn't say that I would transfer the land to you though, did I? Just a little subreption, old boy. A little sleight-
of-mouth, you might say.”
Ian felt sick in the pit of his stomach and a cold sweat broke out on his forehead. He was aware of a cloud of cigarette smoke being blown towards him. “What do you mean?” he asked, his voice faltering.
“I mean that the extra land that you thought you had bought from me is still mine, that's what I mean.”
“But how? I asked Garfield, and he said you'd signed all the legal papers.”
“I did,” Tweedle said, smirking at Ron Scott. “But it wasn't a title to the land. I just offered the land as security to the bank, the same way that you offered your house as security. Now as I see it, nobody would want to buy a house that was built on disputed land, so I could pick it up for a real song, or make you pull part of it down.”
“You bastard!”
“You're right there, Mr Gidman. I am indeed a bastard - a real thoroughbred pig's-arsed son of a bitch. On the other hand, I am also part owner of your home and I would advise you not to forget it. Now, can I suggest you go home, have a little talk with your good lady wife, then ring me and tell me what your plans are. As I see it, you can either take the easy route, sell your house, keep a few thousand for a deposit on another home and learn not to mess with Richard Tweedle in future, or you can try being the wise guy again and lose everything. It's your choice, but ring me and tell me which route you've chosen.”
Tweedle stood, indicating that, so far as he was concerned, the conversation was at an end. For a moment, Ian was too stunned to move. Realizing that he was clenching his fists, he opened them out. His fingernails had dug white grooves into his palms. He stood from the chair and moved his gaze from Tweedle to Scott, then back to Tweedle again. They mirrored each other's sardonic grins like bloodthirsty vultures picking over a corpse. “Tell me,” he said, “which one of you creeps planned this little operation?”
Scott crowed. “I have to claim credit there, Ian. Sometimes you've got to break a few eggs to make an omelette.”