by Graham Hamer
Scott nodded, but said nothing.
“What we need,” Richard said, “is something worthwhile. I feel I should be in a better syndicate now. I should be involved in something that will give me a certain social standing, don't you think? Got any thoughts?” He was sure that Ron did.
“What are you thinking of? Something on the island or something a bit more international?”
“Well, I'm not against moving off the island if that's what you mean, old boy. But if there's something over here worth looking at, let's do it. The problem is that we're now big fish in a small pond. I'm not sure that the pond's big enough.”
“That's where you're wrong. There's plenty of good pickings over here. The whole offshore finance sector is just waiting for us like a ripe fruit.”
Richard kept his cigarette hand across his face. “I don't know, old chap. I must admit to being a bit out of my depth when it comes to stocks and bonds and letters of credit and things. I understand things that are solid, like buildings and land, but I'm a bit lost when it becomes Mickey Mouse money that you can't even see.” He didn't like to admit that he didn't even know what a letter of credit was. “Don't you have any ideas that are a bit more down to earth?”
“Well, as it happens, Richard, there is something that might tickle your fancy. How do you feel about owning the largest industrial undertaking on this island?”
“What, Three Leggs?”
“What else. It's cash rich, asset rich and there's a big extra bonus.”
“Elaborate, old boy.”
“Well, there's a sizeable pension fund. The owner of the business, plus one other trustee, has sole discretion over the fund. We can milk it and the business dry and do a runner.”
“I'm not sure about that doing a runner had figured in my future plans, Ronald. Everything we've done before has been reasonably legal. A little less than ethical perhaps, but legal nonetheless, and certainly nothing that would link us to any misdeeds. Tell me what you have in mind when you say that we can milk it dry.”
Scott spoke like a soapbox orator - making his points one after another in case the police arrived at any moment to move him along. “First of all,” he said, “we just take the pension fund, lock, stock and barrel. Drain the kitty dry and dump the money overseas. That's the simple bit, but also the most profitable. Next, there's a large piece of ground behind the factory - over eight acres. Its book value is negligible. Sean Legg bought it years ago for a pittance and it's never been re-valued. It borders the industrial estate behind, and its potential value is enormous. If we slip a good bung to our friend in the planning department, we can get outline consent within weeks. It's an investment that any of the fund managers over here would jump at. That one item alone would go a long way towards recouping whatever it cost to buy the company.”
“And why hasn't Legg already got planning?”
“Because he uses it as an employees' car park and for storing machinery before it gets transported to wherever it's going. We won't have to worry about where the workers park their bloody cars, we'll be long gone.”
“And how do you know all this?”
“I have good inside information, Richard.”
“Okay, go on.”
“Right, third, the buildings are owned, not leased, and are completely free of any financial encumbrance, no bank loans or mortgages secured on them. That would leave us free to borrow a very considerable amount from the bank. We can tell them it's for capitalizing our European expansion plans or something like that. Again, dump the money overseas and dump the company with a hefty loan.”
Richard felt the corners of his mouth beginning to turn up. The scheme was pouring out of Scott like a lavatory flush, and was sounding better and better as the bowl filled. He took a fresh cigarette from his packet. “Go on, Ronald, old chap. I'm beginning to like this idea.”
“Okay, finally there's a considerable amount of finished stock. Some is over here, some in England, some in Europe and some in the Middle East. If we can get rid of it fast, at rock bottom prices, we can shuffle away quite a tidy sum before the shit hits the fan.”
“And what does happen when the er — shit hits the fan?”
“Well, on an island like this, that's quite a large piece of shit hitting quite a small fan, so the fall-out would be considerable. There's no way either of us could stay here, we'd have to be well gone before anybody got wind of what we were doing, if you'll pardon the pun.”
Richard stubbed his cigarette out without lighting it. “Won't they track us down, Ronald?”
“It's unlikely. Look at those Americans who started the casino over here years ago. They milked it dry and skipped back to The States. Nobody did anything about it in case it tarnished the reputation of the finance sector. They preferred to bury the truth and start again.”
It was true, Richard thought, the island had never been too keen on bad publicity. The idea of the money was nice but — “I'm still not too sure, old boy. I don't much fancy being a fugitive.”
“Hardly a fugitive, Richard. A permanent tax-exile maybe, but not a fugitive.”
Tax exile sounded good.
“Anyway there are the four other bonuses that we've not discussed,” Scott added.
“And what might they be?”
“First, you get to sack Gidman Senior, who buggered up your car. Second, you get to sack Gidman Junior, who poisoned Denise's mind against you. Third, you get to sack Dave Kelly, who dumped an ashtray full of hot ash over you, and finally you get your revenge on Sean Legg, who blackmailed you and took all your building stock. It's got rather an agreeable ring to it hasn't it?”
Richard laughed, a rasping, coughing laugh that made his eyes water. “You're bloody right, Ronald,” he said between rattling breaths. “I do believe you're bloody right. I hadn't thought about those bastards.”
The two glasses of brandy had remained untouched as Scott had offloaded his scheme. Richard took one and offered it to his accountant, giving himself a moment to weigh up the proposition. “What makes you think Legg will sell?” he asked, as he rinsed his gums with his own drink and lit another cigarette.
Scott settled back in the chair and hung his beak-shaped nose over the glass, like a chicken pecking corn. “Because, as well as inside information on the finances, a certain friend of mine is er — very friendly with Sean Legg. She tells me that Legg is getting more and more involved in his scuba diving nowadays and can't wait to find some way of getting away from the business. There's even been talk of a management buy-out, but I don't think they could raise enough money.
But you've got to keep in mind that Legg is far too attached to the company to sell all his shares. What we've got to do, Richard, is convince him that the company will be well run in his absence, and that he can keep a large proportion of his shares. All we need, as both of us well know, is a controlling interest. While he's out of the way, we can do what we want. I'm informed that, if he can find the right investor, he would be likely to take a six-month sabbatical somewhere in the sun before poking his nose back into the day-to-day running of the company. That gives us plenty of time to do what needs to be done and bugger off with the proceeds.”
“And do you think he'd sell a controlling interest to me?”
“You've got to be joking. After the Snaefell Homes episode, your involvement in his affairs would be about as welcome as a eunuch at a gang-bang. Also he's big on loyalty. He would soon realize that the Gidmans and Kelly would fall foul of any regime run by you. What we've got to do is to acquire an established company to front the deal; one that can approach him without your name being involved. I can head it up because Legg has never met me so doesn't know our connections.”
Richard looked at him through half-closed eyes. “And since you're regular at thinking these things out, Ronald, I presume you already have such a company in mind?”
“I know a small struggling investment company that set up about five years ago. It's perfect for our purposes. The present owne
r's fed up trying to turn a profit and would be glad just to get out without losing face. We can buy the investment company and then buy the Three Legg's shares in the company's name, which means that, since you'll own the investment company, you'll also own Three Legg's Manufacturing. Once you hold the controlling interest and Legg's out of the way, you can do whatever you want.”
“But all this would take months wouldn't it? There's all the legal stuff to sort out.”
“Not at all. It could be done in minutes because all we are doing is buying Three Leggs Manufacturing shares from Sean Legg. You know yourself that share transfers are immediate.”
Richard nodded. “Well talking of shares, what would your share of the action be, Ronald?”
“We've always worked rather well together, and you've always been fair. I thought that my usual ten percent of the net gain would be a fair price.”
“And what do you think the total net gain might add up to?”
Scott's expression betrayed nothing as he plunged his nose into his brandy, sluiced his throat and licked his lips. “Over ten million quid,” he said with a broad smile.
Richard launched his cigarette towards the ashtray. “Holy shit!”
* * *
“Way to go.” Ian said, dumping his used napkin next to his empty plate. “Now I know why French cooking is so highly rated.”
Claire blushed a little. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”
He touched her hand as it rested on the table. “Thanks, Claire. Thanks for everything.”
“For what?”
“For everything. For being at Philippe's last night when I arrived, for showing me the Grandes Eaux and driving me around today, for feeding me, for making me feel comfortable, for being my friend. Shall I go on?”
“No, you'd better not. I'm embarrassed enough already.”
He looked at her reddening face and laughed. “It seems like the boot's on the other foot. If I recall, the first time we met it was you who embarrassed me.”
“That was different. I was being a bit naughty and flirting with you, knowing that you were a married man.”
“Well, I'm not married anymore, so you can flirt away. Nothing you can say or do can embarrass me now.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
Without a word she took his hand, pulled him to his feet and led him into the warm bedroom. As they reached the bed, she turned to face him, her steel-blue eyes gripping his. He held her gaze and smiled.
“So,” she said, “nothing I say or do will embarrass you?”
“Nothing,” he replied, looking into her eyes and reading her every thought.
One by one she undid the buttons of her white blouse, starting at the top and stopping only when she reached the waistband of her skirt. Her movements were fluid and sensual, her eyes never leaving his. Their smiles and their thoughts were already in a deep embrace, taking pleasure from temporary physical restraint.
“Nothing?” she asked again.
“Nothing,” he replied, holding her gaze.
Reaching behind her, she unzipped her short black skirt and allowed it to fall to her ankles. She brought her hands back to the final two buttons of her blouse, her intentions still dancing in his head, and finally allowed the garment to hang free, exposing her perfectly shaped breasts, which were clad only in a tissue-thin white bra. Her matching panties were made from the briefest fragment of cloth, covering only what needed to be covered.
“Nothing?”
“Nothing,” he said, allowing, for the first time, his eyes to detach from her gaze. He stepped back, just enough to study the full length of her silken body - her radiant skin the colour of burnished maple. The sheer bra, covering her delicate breasts, left little to the imagination, but added to the allure of the firm, brown nipples that peeped earnestly from their concealment. The flesh across her stomach was taut, inviting his gaze to wander lower, to the flimsy white cloth that did little to protect her modesty. Her naked, rounded thighs and her slender, stockingless legs were sculpted to perfect proportions - compact, svelte and healthy.
“Well?” she asked.
“Perfect.”
With gentle hands, he turned her to face away from him and slid the blouse from her shoulders. Unclipping her bra, he slid his hands around her body to cup her breasts and leaned his head forward, kissing her neck and savouring her scent.
“Perfect,” he whispered again.
* * *
Ron Scott watched Richard's face. He had proposed the deal and he knew it was time to shut up. Tweedle seemed anxious and agitated; his decision far from made. After two inches of tobacco, he sat up, stared at his cigarette, opened his mouth as if to say something, then decided otherwise and lit a second cigarette from the first. Though Tweedle had fallen in love with the sound of his own voice the first time he'd heard it, and had remained faithful to the passion ever since, the love affair seemed to have ended as he rolled his cigarette between his lips.
After a long pause, he cleared his throat. “Correct me if I'm wrong, Ronald, old chap, but this little idea of yours runs as follows —” he ticked the points off on his fingers. “One - we buy a small established company, which you front, to approach Legg for a majority shareholding of his company. Two - once we have control, and Legg's out of the way, we borrow the pension fund. Three - we get outline planning for industrial units on the land behind the factory, sell the land and pocket the proceeds. Four - we sell as much finished stock as possible for knockdown prices. Five - we mortgage all the factory buildings and drain the bank account.”
“Correct.”
“So now tell me the risks. Don't gloss over them, Ronald, I want to know exactly what the dangers are.”
“Risk number one is if we don't succeed in getting the shares. In that case, all you'll have lost is a few thousand for buying the investment company. It wouldn't really be a loss because we can put it to another use for some other scheme at a future date. The second risk is that Legg doesn't bugger off for a few months. In that event, we disclose who our anonymous corporate buyer is, and he'll be delighted to buy the shares back at a premium, just to rescue his beloved company from your clutches. Finally, we've got to act with some speed and we've got to be ready to clear out if Legg comes back earlier than expected. That means selling everything you own over here; your houses, land, everything. We've got to be in a position to duck out if we get tumbled. My guess, based on what our lady on the inside is telling us, is that Legg would come back to spend Christmas on the island, so I suggest we set ourselves a deadline sometime in early December.”
“And what about the appeal against my father's will? If it doesn't get settled before we leave, it'll never get settled.”
Ron smiled. He'd talked it through with Sandy and they'd decided to give it him straight. “You're right. But if we're honest you've got about as much chance of winning the appeal as you have of getting a blowjob off the Queen. Your solicitors seem to think so anyway.”
Tweedle grunted.
“Anyway,” Ron added, “this is your chance to outdo your father.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that he spent his whole life amassing eighteen million quid. With what Frank has just left you, you've already got twelve and can about double that in the next few months. By Christmas you can have more money than your old man ever had.”
“That's a very fair point. It would be nice to prove the double-crossing old bugger wrong. But —”
“But what? What's holding you back, Richard?”
“Alright, Ronald, let's ignore all the usual bullshit, and get right down to the bones of it. I like the fact that the risks are minimal until we actually start moving money. So we need to stockpile it all in the company's name over here until we're about ready to move, then shovel it overseas more or less at the last moment. That way, even if we're caught before we're finished, we can claim that we were liquidating, to c
apitalise some expansion project or other. I'm sure your devious mind can conjure up some sensible excuse.”
Ron nodded.
“The only thing that worries me, Ronald, is that you'll have to undertake everything yourself. I don't mind showing my face from time to time at Three Leggs once Legg himself is out of the way but, if the depth of my involvement becomes too conspicuous, the warning bells could ring and somebody might start waving a red flag.”
Ron nodded again.
“Which brings me to the crux of the problem, old chap,” Tweedle said, watching Scott’s every facial expression “Tell me, do you have a niece?”
Ron’s stomach squirmed, but he was well practised and hoped that his body language wouldn't betray him. “Not that I'm aware of,” he answered. “What prompted that question?”
“Just something my father said the last time I saw him.”
“Why? What did he say?”
“It's a question of just how much I can trust you, old boy.”
“But Richard, we've worked well tog —”
“I know we have, but we're talking mega-bucks here and you may be tempted to get a little — er — over-enthusiastic shall we say. Now don't go getting moody on me, you and I know each other well enough to be able to talk straight with each other. If I agree to this scheme, I'll be watching your every move like a bloody hawk, is that understood?”
“Perfectly,” Scott said, displaying a large sulk and hiding a large smile. “I can tell you now, though, that there'll be no need. A million quid will see me very nicely thank you, so I shan't be looking to rob you. In fact I was rather hoping that, once the heat's died down a little, we might be able to look at a few more projects together.”
Tweedle knocked back his brandy in one. “Alright, Ronald, it's a go-er. Let's do it!”
* * *
Ian's gaze followed her as she came back into the room. She carried two crystal champagne flutes and wore nothing but a wide smile and a pair of dimples. Placing the glasses on the carved, mahogany bedside cabinet, she leaned to place a kiss on the end of his nose, then retraced her steps towards the kitchen. A moment later she returned - this time holding a chilled bottle of champagne, which she threatened to place on his exposed private parts. He sat up and held himself protectively.