The New Collected Short Stories

by Jeffrey Archer

  Liam closed his first million-pound deal in 1997, and his success might have continued unabated, if only he’d recalled his father’s sound advice. While a wise man can spend all day making a few bob, a foolish one can lose them in a few minutes.

  On the evening of 31 December 1999, Liam and Pepe held a party for their friends and clients at the Palace Hotel in Palma to celebrate their good fortune. As they were now both millionaires, they had every reason to look forward to the new millennium with confidence, especially as Pepe announced, just before the sun rose on 1 January 2000, that he had come across the deal of a lifetime. Liam had to wait two more days before Pepe had recovered sufficiently to tell him the details.

  A Majorcan from one of the oldest families on the island had recently died intestate. After some considerable legal wrangling, the court had decided that his wife was entitled to inherit his entire estate – an area of land in Valldemossa that stretched for several kilometres, from the slopes of the Sierra de Tramuntana all the way down to the coast.

  Liam spent a week in Dublin trying to convince the Allied Irish that it should put up the largest property loan in its history. Once the bank had agreed terms, which included personal guarantees from both Liam and Pepe, something Liam’s tinker father would never have advised, he returned to Majorca and began to conduct negotiations with the widow. She finally agreed to sell her two-thousand-hectare site for twenty-three million euros.

  Within days, Liam had hired a leading architect from Barcelona, a highly respected surveyor from Madrid and a well-connected lawyer in Palma, and began to prepare the necessary documents to ensure that outline planning permission would be granted by the local council. They divided the land into 360 individual plots that included roads with broad pavements, street lighting, electricity, drainage and sewerage, an eighteen-hole golf course, a shopping centre, a cinema, eleven restaurants and a sports complex. Every home would have its own swimming pool, while some of the larger plots would even have their own tennis courts. But the feature that made the development unique was that whichever house a customer purchased, from the top of the mountain all the way down to the coast, they were guaranteed an uninterrupted view of the ocean.

  Liam and Pepe both accepted that because of the huge amount of work involved with the project, it would be years before they could consider taking on any other commitments.

  Liam had a large-scale model of the site built, and commissioned a documentary film maker to produce a twenty-minute promotional video entitled Valldemossa Vision. The Allied Irish Bank clearly bought into this vision, and released an initial two point three million euros to Liam as a deposit on the land.

  It was another year before Liam was ready to present his outline planning application to the Consell Insular de Mallorca. When Liam rose to make his speech to the Valldemossa council, every elected member was seated in his place. He took them slowly through his master plan, and when his presentation came to an end, he called for questions.

  If only to persuade people they haven’t fallen asleep, politicians always have well-prepared questions to hand. However, Liam’s experts had spent hours anticipating each and every question they were asked, and others that hadn’t even been thought of. When Liam finally sat down, he was greeted by warm applause from both main political parties.

  The governor of the Balearics rose to congratulate Liam and his team on a splendid and imaginative scheme, while the Mayor of Valldemossa enthusiastically assured his colleagues that the project would undoubtedly attract wealthy residents, ensuring increased revenue for the council’s coffers for many years to come.

  No one was surprised when, six weeks later, the Consell Insular de Mallorca granted outline planning permission to Casey, Miro & Co. for its Valldemossa project, which the mayor described to the press as bold, imaginative and of civic importance. But Pepe had already warned Liam there was one more hurdle that had to be negotiated before they could return to the bank and ask for the remaining twenty point seven million euros of their advance. It was still necessary for the Supreme Court in Madrid to rubber-stamp the whole project before the first bulldozer would be allowed on the site, and the court was well known for rejecting projects at the last moment.

  Three different sets of lawyers worked night and day in Madrid, Barcelona and Palma, and nine months later to everyone’s relief the Supreme Court gave its imprimatur.

  The following day Liam flew to Dublin, where even more lawyers were working on the documentation that would allow him to be able to draw on a rolling fifty-million-euro loan. Building costs only ever go in one direction.

  Within minutes of the ink drying on the paper, four of the leading construction companies in Europe were driving their vehicles on to the site, followed by over a thousand workers who were looking forward to being employed for the next ten years.

  Liam had never taken a great deal of interest in Majorcan politics, and he made a point of not supporting either main party when it came to the local elections. He made it a policy to donate exactly the same amount to the campaign funds of both the major parties so he could continue to deal with whichever one was in power.

  Over the years, it had always been a close-run thing between the Partido Socialista Obrero Español and the Partido Popular, with power changing hands every few years. But to everyone’s surprise, when the election result was announced from the town hall steps later that year, the Green Party had captured three seats and, more important, held the balance of power, as the other two parties were evenly split with twenty-one seats each. Liam didn’t give the result a great deal of thought, even when the Mallorca Daily Bulletin informed its readers that the Greens would join a coalition with whichever party was willing to support their ideological aims. The most important of which, as had been stated in their manifesto, was not to grant any future planning permission in Valldemossa.

  This suited Liam as it would cut out any further rivals, making his the last project to be approved by the Supreme Court in Madrid. But once the resolution had been passed in council, with the backing of both main parties, the Greens, encouraged by their success, immediately announced that any projects currently underway should have their planning permission rescinded. This time Liam was concerned, because his lawyers warned him that even if the Supreme Court eventually overruled the council’s decision, his project could be held up for years.

  ‘Every day we’re not working will cost us money,’ Liam warned Pepe. He realized that if the Greens were able to get either of the two main parties to support their proposal, he and Pepe would be bankrupt within weeks.

  When the council met to take a vote on the Greens’ resolution, Liam and his team sat nervously in the public gallery waiting to learn their fate. Passionate speeches were made from all sides of the chamber, and even after the last councillor had offered his opinion, no one could be sure how the numbers would fall.

  The chief clerk called for the vote, and for the first time that evening the chamber fell silent. A few minutes later the Mayor solemnly announced that the Greens’ proposal to rescind all current planning permissions had been carried by twenty-three votes to twenty-two.

  Liam had lost all his few bobs in a few minutes.

  Every one of his workers immediately deserted the site. Unfinished houses were left without doors or windows, cranes stood unmanned and expensive equipment and materials were left to rust. By the time Liam recalled his late father’s wise advice, it was too late to turn the clock back.

  The company’s lawyers recommended an appeal. Liam reluctantly agreed, although, as they had pointed out to him, even if they were eventually able to overturn the council’s decision, by then years would have passed and any possible profit would have been swallowed up by interest payments alone, not to mention lawyers’ fees.

  The Allied Irish Bank quickly responded to the news from Valldemossa by placing an immediate stop order on all Liam’s accounts. They also issued a directive instructing Casey, Miro & Co, and any of its associates, to repay the
outstanding thirty-seven-million-euro loan at the first possible opportunity, although it must have known that neither Liam nor Pepe could any longer afford the airfare to Dublin.

  Liam informed the bank that he intended to appeal against the council’s decision, but he knew, and so did they, that even if he won, they still would have lost everything by the time the Supreme Court reached its verdict.

  An appeal date was set for the Supreme Court of Madrid to sit in judgement on the Valldemossa project, but before then Liam and Pepe had been forced to sell their homes, as well as what was left of the company’s assets, to pay lawyers’ bills on both sides of the Irish Sea.

  Liam returned to the Flanagan Arms for the first time in twenty-three years.

  When Liam and Pepe appeared before the Supreme Court two years later, the senior panel judge expressed considerable sympathy for Mr Casey and Mr Miro, as they had invested ten years of hard work, as well as their personal fortunes, in a project that both the Valldemossa council and the Supreme Court had considered to be bold, imaginative and of civic importance. However, the court did not have the authority to overturn the decision of an elected council, even when it was retrospective. Liam bowed his head.

  ‘Nevertheless,’ the judge continued, ‘this court does have the authority to award compensation in full to the appellants, who carried out their business in good faith, and fulfilled every obligation required of them by the Valldemossa council. With that in mind, this court will appoint an independent arbitrator to assess the costs Mr Casey and Mr Miro have incurred, which will include any projected losses.’

  As Spaniards were involved, it was another year before the arbitrator presented his findings to the Supreme Court, which necessitated a further six months of making some minor adjustments to the costs so that no one would be in any doubt about how seriously the court had taken their responsibilities.

  The day after the senior judge announced the court’s findings, El Pais suggested in its leader that the size of the award was a warning to all politicians not to consider making retrospective legislation in the future.

  The Valldemossa Council was ordered to pay 121 million euros in compensation to Mr Liam Casey, Mr Pepe Miro and their associates.

  At the local council election held six months later, the Green Party lost all three of its seats by overwhelming majorities.

  Pepe took over the business in Majorca, while Liam retired to Cork, where he purchased a castle with a hundred acres of land. He tells me he has no intention of seeking planning permission, even for an outhouse.

  POSTSCRIPT

  Observant readers who have followed the timescale during which this story took place might feel that even if the Green Party had failed to overturn Liam and Pepe’s planning permission, they would have gone bankrupt anyway following the sudden downturn in the world’s economy, and without being paid any compensation. But, as I said at the outset, no one would believe this tale unless they were told that an Irishman was involved.

  POLITICALLY CORRECT

  12

  ‘NEVER JUDGE A BOOK by its cover,’ Arnold’s mother always used to tell him.

  Despite this piece of sage advice, Arnold took against the man the moment he set eyes on him. The bank had taught him to be cautious when it came to dealing with potential customers. You can have nine successes out of ten and then one failure can ruin your balance sheet, as Arnold had found to his cost soon after he had joined the bank; he was still convinced that was why his promotion had been held up for so long.

  Arnold Pennyworthy – he was fed up with being told by all and sundry, That’s an appropriate name for a banker – had been deputy manager of the Vauxhall branch of the bank for the past ten years, but had recently been offered the chance to move to Bury St Edmunds as branch manager. Bury St Edmunds might have been one of the bank’s smaller branches, but Arnold felt that if he could make a fist of it, he still had one more promotion left in him. In any case, he couldn’t wait to get out of London, which seemed to him to have been over-run by foreigners who had changed the whole character of the city.

  When Arnold’s wife had left him without giving a reason – at least, that’s what he told his mother – he had moved into Arcadia Mansions, a large block of flats which he liked to refer to as apartments. The rent was extortionate, but at least there was a hall porter. ‘It gives the right impression whenever anyone visits me,’ Arnold told his mother. Not that he had many visitors since his wife had walked out on him. Arcadia Mansions also had the advantage of being within walking distance of the bank, so the extra money he paid out on rent he clawed back on bus and train fares. The only real disadvantage was that the Victoria line ran directly below the building, so the only time you could be guaranteed any peace was between twelve-thirty and five-thirty in the morning.

  The first time Arnold caught sight of his new neighbour was when they found themselves sharing a lift down to the ground floor. Arnold waited for him to speak, but he didn’t even say good morning. Arnold wondered if the man even spoke English. He stood back to take a closer look at the most recent arrival. The man was a little shorter than Arnold, around five feet seven inches, solidly built but not overweight, with a square jaw and what Arnold later described to his mother as soulless eyes. His skin was dark, but not black, so Arnold couldn’t be sure where he was from. The unkempt beard reminded him of another of his mother’s homilies: ‘Never trust a man with a beard. He’s probably hiding something.’

  Arnold decided to have a word with the porter. Dennis was the fount of all knowledge when it came to what took place in Arcadia Mansions and was certain to know all about the man. When the lift doors opened, Arnold stood back to allow the new resident to get out first. He waited until the man had left the building before strolling across to join Dennis at the reception desk.

  ‘What do we know about him?’ asked Arnold, nodding at the man as he disappeared into a black cab.

  ‘Not a lot,’ admitted Dennis. ‘He’s taken a short-term lease and says he won’t be with us for long. But he did warn me that he’d be having visitors from time to time.’

  ‘I don’t like the sound of that,’ said Arnold. ‘Any idea where he comes from, or what he does for a living?’

  ‘Not a clue,’ said Dennis. ‘But he certainly didn’t get that tan holidaying in the South of France.’

  ‘That’s for sure,’ said Arnold, laughing. ‘Don’t misunderstand me, Dennis, I’m not prejudiced. I’ve always liked Mr Zebari from the other end of my corridor. Keeps himself to himself, always respectful.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Dennis. ‘But then you must remember that Mr Zebari is a radiologist.’ Not that he was altogether sure what a radiologist was.

  ‘Well, I must get a move on,’ said Arnold. ‘Can’t afford to be late for work. Now that I’m going to be manager, I have to set an example to the junior staff. Keep your ear to the ground, Dennis,’ he added, touching the side of his nose with a forefinger. ‘Although our masters have decided it’s not politically correct, I have to tell you I don’t like the look of him.’

  The porter gave a slight nod as Arnold pushed through the swing doors and headed off in the direction of the bank.

  The next time Arnold came across the new resident was a few days later; he was returning from work when he saw him chatting to a young man dressed from head to toe in leather and sitting astride a motorbike. The moment the two of them spotted Arnold, the young man pulled down his visor, revved up and shot away. Arnold hurried into the building, relieved to find Dennis sitting behind the reception desk.

  ‘Those two look a bit dodgy to me,’ said Arnold.

  ‘Not half as dodgy as some of the other young men who’ve been visiting him at all hours of the night and day. There are times when I can’t be sure if this is Albert Embankment or the Khyber Pass.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ said Arnold as the lift door opened and Mr Zebari stepped out.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Zebari,’ said Dennis with a smile. ‘On nigh
t duty again?’

  ‘Afraid so, Dennis. No rest for the wicked when you work for the NHS,’ he added as he left the building.

  ‘A real gentleman, that Mr Zebari,’ said Dennis. ‘Sent my wife a bunch of flowers on her birthday.’

  It was a couple of weeks later, after arriving home late from work, that Arnold spotted the motorbike again. It was parked up against the railing but there was no sign of its owner. Arnold walked into the building, to find a couple of young men chatting loudly in a tongue he didn’t recognize. They headed towards the lift, so he held back, as he had no desire to join them.

  Dennis waited until the lift door had closed before saying, ‘No prizes for guessing who they’re visiting. God knows what they get up to behind closed doors.’

  ‘I have my suspicions,’ said Arnold, ‘but I’m not going to say anything until I’ve got proof.’

  When he got out of the lift at the fourth floor, Arnold could hear raised voices coming from the apartment opposite his. Noticing that the door was slightly ajar, he slowed down and casually glanced inside.

  A man was lying flat on his back on the floor, his arms and legs pinned down by the two men he’d seen getting into the lift, while the youth he’d spotted on the motorbike was holding a kitchen knife above the man’s head. All around the room were large blown-up photographs of the devastation caused by the 7/7 bus and tube bombings that had recently appeared on the front pages of every national newspaper. The moment the youth spotted Arnold staring at him, he walked quickly across the room and closed the door.

  For a moment, Arnold just stood there shaking, unsure what to do next. Should he run downstairs and tell Dennis what he’d witnessed, or make a dash for the relative safety of his apartment and call the police?

  Hearing what sounded like a roar of laughter coming from inside the apartment, Arnold ran across to his front door, fumbled for his keys and attempted to push his office Yale into the lock, while continually looking over his shoulder. When he eventually found the right key, he was so nervous he tried to force it in upside down and ended up dropping it on the floor. He picked it up and managed to open the door with his third attempt.