by Graham Hamer
“None that were obvious.”
“Anything in his belongings?”
“No, I went through them while he had his breakfast. There's nothing there that gives us any clues.” Mohammed snorted a laugh. “Although he does wear tiny little French knickers. You know, the little briefs that just about cover your balls.”
Khalid's nebulous expression broke into a bloated grin as he blew his nose into a white handkerchief the size of a small tablecloth. “They're all the same, these foreigners - no shame. Unfortunately that's hardly something we can use to blackmail him. Anyway, you'll be pleased to know, dear brother, that 'Bujassim's information turned out to be one hundred percent accurate.”
“What? This thing about a buyer for Three Leggs?”
“Yeah. I got hold of him late last night. It appears that Scott is only acting for the real buyer, someone called Richard Tweedle, who, it seems, is definitely open to the idea of a bit of cash. According to Scott, this Richard Tweedle and our friend Gidman go back a long way. They were in business together a year or so ago and Gidman ran out on Tweedle, took a load of building materials and things with him. Then he joined up with Sean Legg and built a factory extension for him using Tweedle's materials. Tweedle would welcome any opportunity to get back at both of them.”
“Bloody hell. Talk about a small world. So what do we do now?”
“I've already done it. At Scott's suggestion, I telephoned Tweedle last night and told him that, if he bought Three Leggs, he might like to pay us a visit and benefit from our generosity.”
“What did you have in mind?” Mohammed asked, waving his hand towards a dancing fly that had followed him into the room.
“I suggested that we paid cash for all the existing stock, at a very healthy discount of course, and rewrite our agreement to release the rest of the Gulf to him. I told him I could put him in touch with someone in Saudi who would line his pockets for the agency rights there.”
“And can you?”
“Can I what?”
“Can you put him in touch with someone in Saudi?”
Khalid gave Mohammed a tutting reply. “Of course! I can think of a dozen people who'd pay a lot of money. Tweedle can walk away with a pocket full of cash, both from us and from the Saudis, and we'd get to own the stock at bargain prices.”
“And what did this Tweedle guy think of the idea?” Mohammed asked, taking another swipe at the fly.
“He thought it was his birthday. He said - and I quote - that my call had convinced him to pay that Jew, Legg, the asking price for the shares - unquote.”
“So Tweedle will be the new owner of Three Leggs?”
“It seems that way,” Khalid said. “And it seems that he'll be most accommodating to our needs. I think we can afford to tolerate Mister Gidman's presence for a week or so until the transaction's completed, don't you?”
“Khalid, you're a bloody genius,” Mohammed said. He flicked the hanging sides of his kufiya over the top of his head, trapping the fly in the process. It buzzed unhappily but he ignored it.
“Caution, brother, caution,” Khalid said, waving a pudgy finger in the air like a metronome. “Until this man Tweedle actually owns the shares, nothing is certain. For the time being we've got to carry on exactly as if nothing has changed. That means humouring Gidman and keeping him occupied and out of harm's way long enough to buy ourselves enough time for Tweedle to take over. I've got an idea that Tweedle won't give a damn about true stock values, so long as he walks away with a suitcase full of money.”
Mohammed pushed himself up from the chair. He looked out of the window across the enclosed yard, where a movement had caught his eye. “Looks like our first encounter is approaching.”
The heat and dust was oppressive as Ian and Ibrahim picked their way across a litter of bent and broken aluminium strips that lay in the scorching sand. Ian shook his head in disbelief. He hadn't been certain what to expect, but crossing the storage area was like entering another world - a two acre scrap yard where top quality machinery from his native home fought for survival with rotting wrecks from another era.
In front of him, a mangled tangle of wreckage stretched his imagination as he struggled to guess what sort of car it had once been. Next to it stood an ancient ten-wheel lorry. Though dulled by years in the sun, and covered in a thick film of sand, the hand-painted green and yellow stripes on the orange body were still visible. The vehicle's tyres were airless and had peeled away from the inner rims of the wheels. Against one of the buildings, an overflowing waste skip spilled its oily contents onto the scorched cinder-sand below, whilst a jumble of old box containers stood in one corner, doors wide open, exposing their shambolic contents.
Between the collection of old vehicles, rubbish, pallets and containers, machinery made by Three Leggs Manufacturing endured its plight as well as could be expected under the circumstances. Though unused, a late model hoist looked in dire need of a complete overhaul and service. A forklift truck had been haphazardly parked and left with the forks on full reach - straining the hydraulics and shortening their life expectancy. Three generators stood in line, still on their delivery pallets, their engines and radiator grilles filled with sand and blown litter. It was enough to make an engineer weep, and more than enough to make Ian start adding the cost.
Ian strode into the office, followed by Ibrahim, who seemed to want to apologise to everyone for being there. “What on earth is that junk out there?” Ian said. “This is supposed to be a display and storage area exclusively for Three Leggs machinery and equipment. I've never seen anything like it.”
Mohammed stared at him - his brother sitting straight-faced behind the desk, pushing a paper clip around. “I don't know what you mean, Ian. What's troubling you?”
Ian pointed out of the window towards the compound. “That's what's troubling me, that mess out there. Our agreement states that you'll provide premises that are exclusively for the use of Three Leggs Manufacturing. It seems to me that our machinery is being displayed along with heaps of rubbish, neither is it being properly stored or maintained.”
“You seem to misunderstand,” Khalid said. “The exclusive display of Three Legg's machinery applies only to the showroom in this building, where you'll find that everything is in good functioning order and well maintained.”
“But you can't store equipment in those conditions outside.”
“Ian, listen to me,” Khalid said, beckoning for him to sit down. “We have a problem selling old stock, our clients want only the latest models. If we can talk about a better discount structure, we'd be prepared to pay for all that machinery in advance and dispose of it ourselves.”
Ian remained standing. “And how would you do that if your clients only want the latest models? Some if that equipment is four or five years old.”
“We'd ship it abroad, India, Pakistan, Bangladesh, somewhere like that. They're less discerning there.”
“I don't know. I'll have to talk to Sean to see what he makes of all this. There'll have to be some changes. We can't have hundreds of thousands of pounds worth of equipment rotting in the sun like that. Have you got a stock list I can go through?”
Khalid flicked the paper clip across his desk onto the floor. “Not right at the moment. Abu Jassim, our accountant, had a detailed list on the computer, but there was some problem with the hard disk and the records were lost.”
“So you don't even know what's out there?”
“No, but Mohammed and I have just been discussing how to resolve the problem.”
“And?”
“And we're going to allocate a couple of men from the repair shop to spend the next week or so with you, out in the yard. They can clear all the rubbish down to one end, ready for disposal, and bring all the good equipment behind the offices here. That way, the yard gets tidied up, you can set out the Three Leggs machinery just as you want to see it, and you'll be able to compile an up-to-date list of assets.”
Ian paused. He hadn't planned wasting time
just taking an inventory. But what were the options? He couldn't proceed very far without one and it was true that it would also resolve the problem of the equipment rotting amongst the rubbish. “Okay,” he said reluctantly. “I guess it'll at least give us a basis to work from. When can we start?”
“Why not this afternoon?” Khalid said. “We're slack in the service workshop at the moment, so I can get a couple of men on it right after lunch. I don't suppose you speak Arabic do you?”
“I'm afraid not.”
“Then just point, they'll soon get the hang of it. Have you got a hat? You'll need one in this sun.”
“No.”
“Well listen, why don't you take an early lunch break? There are plenty of Western-style eating places like MacDonalds and Pizza Hut in the city centre. You can take your time, have a little walk round, change some money, buy a hat, get your bearings and so on. When you get back, we'll introduce you to the staff and show you where your office is.”
“Well er — I've hardly done anything yet. It seems a bit early to be going to lunch.”
Khalid stood up with difficulty. He was even more obese than his brother and his vast middle hung like a huge pendulum attached to a small clock. “You'll find our way of life a bit less hectic than you've been used to,” he said, wrapping the sentence in a digestive belch. He patted his lips with his fingers as if to excuse himself. “If it makes you feel better, Mohammed and I will get the men organized while you're away. They can start putting some of the unwanted stuff in a heap, and then you'll be able to see what you're doing. Ibrahim take the Cherokee and take Mr Gidman into the city. Show him around and bring him back this afternoon. I'll take Mr Mohammed home for lunch.”
Ibrahim nodded and backed out of the room. Ian took it as his cue to go with him.
The air-conditioning in the car filtered the lavatorial air and Ian breathed deeply as he watched Ibrahim manipulate the large multi-purpose vehicle past a refuse collection lorry, which all but blocked the road leading out of the industrial area. “You drive well,” he said.
“Thank you sir.”
“Let's cut the 'sir' bit while the Al-Sabahs aren't around. I'm Ian to my friends.”
“Very good Mister Ian.”
He smiled. The answer felt appropriate. Holding onto the seat as the Cherokee took a nose-dive onto Canada Dry Street, he asked, “Do you have many friends over here, Ibrahim. Your own countrymen, I mean.”
“No Mister Ian. Servants in Kuwait don't have time to make friend with others. We are not supposed to work Fridays but the Kuwaitis very angry with us if we not always available. Our masters demand a hundred percent of our time and pay very little in return.”
“So why did you come here?”
Ibrahim braked hard as a car swerved in front of them. “Things are worse at home – very worse. At least, here, we get roof over our head and food in our stomach.”
“Do you think you'll ever return to Bangladesh?”
“My uncle have small business in Saidpur and want me to join him. I will leave as soon as I have save five hundred dollar for the air fare and the exit visa.”
“And how long will that take?”
A pause. “Probably forever.”
Ibrahim swept through a wide road junction, treating the red light as an unnecessary recommendation, along with twenty other drivers. The surge of cars thrust forwards at fifty-miles-an hour, wing mirror to wing mirror, daring anybody to lose concentration for a moment.
As his driver steered the vehicle to the right at the third exit, Ian allowed his breath to escape. “Bloody hell,” he said. “I thought Paris could be bad at times, but I've never seen anything like that in my life.”
Ibrahim's face lit up with a broad smile. “Impressed eh?”
“It's not quite the word I would have chosen. Let's just say that I'd appreciate it if we could go back by another route.”
“Okay, I take you down Arabian Gulf Street, past the Sief Palace. The road quieter there and you get to see the dhows in the old fishing harbour. You want to go somewhere where you get yourself something to eat first?”
“That's not a bad idea,” Ian said. “Why don't I buy you lunch?”
“You serious?”
“Of course. Why do you ask?”
The Bangladeshi looked straight ahead. “Well, it's just that nobody have ever offer to buy me lunch before. A meal cost as much as I earn in a week.”
Ian looked surprised. “Well today can be a new experience for you as well as for me.”
“Thank you, Mister Ian,” Ibrahim whispered.
TUESDAY 1 JULY
Dave Kelly eased himself from the cab of the lorry. Once or twice during the previous year he had jumped down and his back had reminded him that it would never be as sturdy as it was before the fall. He checked his watch as he sauntered towards the stores.
Nick Ferris, the sharp-faced bookkeeper, stood in the doorway grinning at him. Though the other men accepted Nick as a likeable rogue with a penchant for bright coloured shirts, Dave and he shared a mutual dislike that was sometimes difficult to hide. When Dave saw the other man's sickly grin his hackles stood up like a mongrel dog with pedigree pee on his lamppost. “What's your problem, Ferris?” he said, as he neared the door.
“No problem, Dave. Not for me anyway.”
“So, come on then, spread the good news - what's my problem?”
“Your problem's waiting in the Managing Director's office,” Nick Ferris replied, smirking. “Your new boss asked me to tell you to go and see him as soon as you got back.”
“What do you mean, my new boss?”
“You'll see when you get there. I wouldn't like to spoil your surprise. Everyone deserves something nice to happen to them, and I guess today's your day.”
Nick Ferris shut the door in Dave's face, leaving him piqued and scratching his head. He turned and walked towards the front entrance, where the offices were located, speculating what the bookkeeper had meant. It was only a matter of minutes before he found out.
“Dave, dear boy, how nice to make your acquaintance again. It's been a while since we last spoke. I do hope your back is improving.”
“Tweedle! What the bloody hell are you doing here?” he said, his jaw dropping as he stepped into Sean Legg's office.
“What a strange question to ask of the man who employs you, old chap.”
“You what?”
“You heard. I'm your new boss. I concluded the deal to buy the company last Friday, but didn't have a chance to give everyone the good news until this morning.”
“Where's Sean?” Dave asked, scanning the office.
“Taking a long sabbatical, old chap. As you might know, he already had a little holiday booked, now he's just extended it by several months. I doubt if you'll see much of him for the rest of this year. In any case, Mr Legg is now just a minority shareholder of this company. I'm your new owner, Chairman, Chief Executive and any other title you care to think of.”
“I don't believe you.”
“Ronald, convince this Doubting Thomas that I am what I say I am, will you?”
“What the hell's he got to do with it?”
“Ronald is the new Managing Director of Three Leggs Manufacturing,” Tweedle said, lighting a new cigarette off the old one. “He'll be running the business on my behalf whilst I attend to important financial matters elsewhere. If you have any further questions about the new corporate structure, I'm sure that Mr Ferris will keep you advised. He's an old friend of Ronald's.”
“Jesus. This is bloody ridiculous. I go home on a Monday with no problems and come back the next day to find you pair of twats running the show. It's like a bad dream.”
“No dream,” Scott said. “The Company's been bought and paid for by Richard.”
Dave thrust his fists deep into his pockets. “But Sean would never sell his company to you two dumbfucks. He's not that bloody desperate to retire.”
“Mr Legg sold the majority of his shares to an investment c
ompany which I just happen to own,” Richard said, pressing a button on the computer keyboard in front of him. “The investment company has appointed me as the new Chairman and Ronald here as the new Managing Director. Do you have any problems with that arrangement? I mean, can we assume that we have your approval to do what we want with our own company?”
“I take it, then, that you plan to give me the sack - along with Ian and Pete Gidman, no doubt.”
“Not at all, old boy. The younger Mister Gidman decided, entirely of his own accord, to quit the company this morning. That is his decision, which was not forced upon him. So far as you're concerned, you are welcome to continue in your job, just so long as you carry out your duties in accordance with your contract.”
“Okay, wise guys, what's the bloody catch? I wasn't born yesterday. What's the real agenda?”
“Oh my, but we are sulky, aren't we,” Scott said. “There is no alternative agenda Dave. As Richard says, so long as you undertake what's required of you under the terms of your Contract of Employment, we shall have no problems.”
“Just one little thing,” Richard said. “Your contract says that you're required to deliver anywhere in the United Kingdom as and when required by the management.”
“Ye —s.”
“Well let me put it like this, old boy. We, the management, require you to be on the eight o' clock boat tomorrow morning for an extended delivery and collection run in England. We estimate that you'll be away for a few weeks, following which you'll receive further instructions as to additional destinations.” He pressed another key and smiled as the computer screen lit up. “It's unlikely that you'll see very much of the island over the next few months while we make a few changes round here. Mr Ferris is your new boss, and he'll give you your further instructions in due course.”
Dave stood up straight and glared at Tweedle. “Be buggered!” he snapped. “You don't seriously expect me to leave my family for months on a fool's errand, and take orders from that thieving little shit, do you?”