by Janet Neel
They had their sweet nerve, the policy-makers, Henry thought, and enquired with interest of Rajiv what he thought Francesca would do. Rajiv pondered the question carefully, and gave it as his view that the most likely outcome was that she would read Bill Westland, her godfather and a man thirty years her senior, a lecture on ethics, and refuse absolutely to co-operate.
‘Her mother is a Scot,’ he pointed out, ‘and she comes by all this naturally. Ah, Bill, good evening.’ He started to his feet, a little disconcerted, as Bill Westland swept in, looking furious.
‘Have you got Francesca?’
‘We thought you had, Bill.’
‘Oh I had, blast the girl!’ He glared at them both and sat down heavily. ‘It’s not altogether unreasonable of the FCO to hope that Fran would pass on a few tactful messages, particularly about New Jersey Steel. I mean she does work for HMG, we are all on the same side. Damned girl read me a lecture on ethics.’ Rajiv’s mouth quirked uncontrollably, and Henry hastily blew his nose. ‘Told me to give the FCO the two-finger response, and then offered to do it herself if I found it too difficult from where I sat.’ Rajiv and Henry made hasty, incoherent noises of sympathy. ‘Trouble is, she can’t do that. I’ll have to invent some more flexible response for the FCO’s benefit.’
‘Why can’t she?’ Henry enquired, with interest. ‘I thought no one could fire a civil servant.’
‘No, that’s right, she can’t be fired. But it’s a long life, we all know each other, we are all stuck with each other, rather like being in a religious order. If she offends the FCO at this stage, she’ll somehow find herself blocked at some critical career point. She’ll never know it happened, but she just won’t get where she should. It doesn’t take much, in a service where there is no shortage of excellent candidates for every good job. Protecting Francesca is, I must say, a difficult and thankless task but I had better try it. Send her to me when she surfaces, will you?’
He heaved himself out of the chair and went back down the corridor, leaving Rajiv and Henry trying not to meet each other’s eyes.
Five minutes later Henry’s door crashed open, and Francesca appeared, looking like a thundercloud. Rajiv rose smoothly, observing that he thought that was all that needed to be settled tonight Henry, and departed at speed. Henry wondered what he had done to be left to deal with Francesca in this mood, but was not intimidated.
‘As the Minister said yesterday, Francesca, every time I see your smiling face come round my door I know there is trouble.’
‘It’s not you I’m cross with.’
‘It’s my wastepaper basket you’re kicking, lass. What’s the matter? Have a drink and tell me. Or don’t, but stop circling about, I’m getting dizzy.’
She hesitated, then accepted a hefty double whisky and sat down. He went on working, a drink at his elbow, waiting for her to settle. ‘I’ve heard a bit about all this from Rajiv,’ he volunteered into the silence, not looking at her as he worked.
‘You’ve probably heard it all, knowing Rajiv.’ She took a huge swallow of her drink and sighed. ‘I think it is unreasonable of the Foreign Office to try and have it both ways, but I mind about steel as well, so I’ll do what the bastards want and have a word with Michael.’ She brooded, gazing out of the window. ‘Don’t ask how, is all I have to say.’
‘What would your dad have told you to do?’
‘I guess to do what they ask with good grace, or refuse utterly. Or that’s what people tell me he was like. He died when I was twelve, you see and was ill a lot before that, so I don’t really know. I have to work it out for myself.’
‘Or take it from me as a chap nearly old enough to be your dad.’ Henry spoke through a stab of appalling pity. ‘You’ve a cool head, when you let yourself think. If you think you have to do it, then stop being angry and do it well.’
He thought for a moment he had been too blunt, but she smiled at him, sadly. ‘They do miss the point, don’t they? It’s going to be quite difficult enough seeing Michael again without having to pass messages about steel financing.’
‘A classic problem,’ Henry observed, seeing her near tears. ‘When do you start this conversation?’
‘After the soup, surely?’
‘And before the coffee.’
She smiled at him, blinking back tears. ‘I can’t believe you’ve only been here three days.’
‘No more can I.’
‘I expect life in the textile industry was much better regulated.’
‘That’s right girl. I thought I was going to be bored rigid in the Civil Service. I reckoned without you.’ They looked at each other for a long moment, and Henry reminded himself that he was of an age with her dead father.
‘Thanks, Henry. I’ll go and make peace with Bill.’
He waved her out of the office, and decided he had better take himself out to dinner, smartly.
8
It was a frankly miserable group that assembled next day at Britex’s offices in Paddington. Henry had slept badly, Martin had been to the Annual Dinner of the London Chartered Accountants, and Francesca had been to a college reunion and made do with five hours’ sleep, since she had got up at 6 a.m. to reread the Britex papers. Sartorially they were a pretty mixed bag, too. It was a cold, raw day and, huddled into a sheepskin coat, Henry felt like a bookie. Martin was wearing a suit with a heavy anorak over it, while Francesca had come as a Sloane Ranger in an expensive camel-hair coat which robbed her skin of all colour, long boots and a Gucci headscarf which did nothing for her classic long face.
Matters hardly improved as they arrived at the Managing Director’s office to be met by an apologetic secretary who explained that Mr Hampton was down at Edgware Road police station signing a statement about poor Mr Fireman and would be delayed for at least an hour. She offered them an office, some coffee, and the Chief Accountant, then, flustered, had to withdraw item three when it transpired that Mr Hampton had left instructions that no one, but no one, was to talk to the visitors unless he was present. Henry, who perfectly understood the reasoning, accepted the office and the coffee, and decided to take the risk of being overheard and to use the time to educate his troops. He got Martin to outline the company’s financial problems, then raised an eyebrow at Francesca, curious to see how much she had understood.
‘They can’t pay their interest, they are under pressure from creditors, but if they can sell the household-textile business, which is a real bummer, then they can pay off a few bills, lighten the load at the bank, and we can give them some money to reorganize the thermalundie side.’
‘Good as far as it goes,’ Henry observed cautiously.
‘As I understand it, we do have to decide whether the thermalunderwear side is viable, whether it can generate enough profit and enough cash to keep itself going. In my view it can’t.’ Martin Bailey spoke bluntly. ‘No point at all in assisting a business if you have to do it every six months.’
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Francesca said promptly. ‘But it is profitable, isn’t it? Or did I read the papers upside-down?’
Both men shook their heads. ‘Look Fran,’ Martin said earnestly. ‘Turnover of £20m in that business, and they made £250,000 trading profit, which is just over 1 per cent. For a start they probably didn’t make that — it all depends on how good they are at valuing their stock, and I don’t think either Henry or I would be amazed to find something very wrong with that. We’ll find out when we visit the factory in Yorkshire.’ He glanced apologetically at Henry, suddenly shy. Henry nodded, reflecting that the young man had the makings of a really good accountant, and pointed out that even if the stock were properly valued and they were making that profit, the business was fragile. It was a tiny profit given the turnover, and Britex just was not making enough gross margin, probably because the margin was not there to be made, textiles being severely depressed and under threat from imports. And of course it could not fund interest off that slender profit.
‘Surely this a function of volume? It is a h
igh-fixed-cost business, is it not, and a small increase in volume increases profit very sharply.’ Francesca was sitting huddled in her chair, hands wrapped round her coffee cup.
‘That is undoubtedly what will be argued,’ Henry agreed. ‘We have to decide how many more thermal vests the market can absorb, and whether they are going to buy them from Britex or from someone else. In this industry — which, as you will remember Francesca, is where I come from — there are certain hard facts. There is substantial overcapacity, which means you have to keep your prices down and work bloody hard to sell. I’ve had a look at their prices against their competitors. They are selling at about 10 per cent below the Marks and Spencer suppliers, and they’ll have to go on doing that to be in with a chance.’
He fell silent, reckoning that Francesca had enough to digest. She was concentrating so hard that the coffee, the room, himself and Martin might as well not have existed.
She emerged from her trance to observe, ‘So it has to be a twopronged rescue plan. No, don’t look like that, Henry, let me witter on. For me — that is to say, for the Minister — there are 1,400 jobs at risk in a black spot and Ministers are not going to see them go without testing all the theories to destruction.’ She hunched forward, eyes slightly crossed. ‘So Britex needs to get costs down and the sales up — why are you both laughing like that?’
‘No, no, Fran, that’s absolutely right, it’s just that you sound like the Secretary of State.’
‘There is no need to be rude. So it hasn’t done these two simple things — bear with me, Martin — either because they ain’t so simple, or because they are simple but you need cash and they don’t got none.’
‘Or both,’ Henry agreed, amicably. ‘When you see a well-managed business, you see a virtuous circle; sales go up, generating cash, some of which you can apply to devices for keeping costs down, some of which you apply to methods of generating more sales, like hiring extra salesmen, or opening shops, or whatever. This business here is in a vicious circle. I do not need to talk to the MD to know that about three months ago they cut the sales force, and that they buy materials in an expensive way because they do not have the cash to place their orders well ahead.’
‘You’ve been reading the management accounts,’ Martin said reproachfully. ‘The sales force was reduced by 27 per cent four months ago, and gross margins are down to 18 per cent. And their material costs are 2 or 3 per cent higher than Allied’s, for example.’
‘Are they now? That’s a little more than I would have expected.’ Henry sounded thoughtful, but discussion was cut off by the entrance of the Managing Director, Peter Hampton, full of apologies, but a good deal less stressed and more cheerful than when they had seen him at the Department two days before. On his own ground, of course, Henry thought, but was relieved to find him in a more receptive mood. Hampton brightened visibly when he saw Francesca, and held her hand longer than necessary as he greeted her.
‘Was the chap who was murdered a friend?’ Francesca with her customary directness had cut through the apologies, and Peter Hampton looked momentarily disconcerted.
‘Well, not really. But he had been forty years with the company and was very important to the purchasing function. As I told the police.’
‘What do they think happened?’ Henry enquired courteously.
‘They tell me it’s most likely to have been a drug addict prepared to take anything he could get.’ Peter Hampton sounded unconcerned and Francesca looked disapproving. He caught her eye. ‘I don’t mean to sound callous, I’m sorry, but the truth is that my first thought was, how were we going to manage the purchasing function? I have to go up tonight and see his family, and it will hit me then.’ He looked steadily at Francesca who was openly thinking about him. ‘That’s stress for you, I suppose; all humanity lost.’
‘What police did you see? It’s my local nick, I live round the corner.’
‘Very competent chap called McLeish.’ Francesca, slightly pink, explained that she had met him with her pop-star brother who had contributed to the load on an overworked police force in the area. Henry called the meeting to order and worked carefully through his list of questions and documents needed, the two juniors both taking notes. He looked up at the clock, and was surprised to find that it was 12.30. Hampton followed his glance, and promptly offered lunch.
‘Breakfast was a long time ago,’ he observed.
‘And you’ve been answering questions ever since,’ Francesca said, grinning.
‘Yes. And the police were much easier than you lot.’ Hampton laughed back at her, plainly charmed, and Henry noticed again that this was an attractive man and that Francesca liked the look of him.
‘I’d love some lunch,’ she said, hopefully. ‘I’m starving.’
‘Well, in that case we have to eat, I see that.’ Peter Hampton smiled at her. ‘There’s a good pub round the corner if that’s all right?’
It was indeed a good pub and all four of them felt much better for a square meal. ‘Extraordinary, isn’t it?’ Francesca observed, cleaning her plate with a piece of bread. ‘Look at us. Life and energy has returned with a meal.’
‘Or two meals,’ Henry agreed, watching fascinated as Francesca ate the rest of Martin’s chips and eyed Peter Hampton’s plate hopefully.
‘Do you want another dinner, then, Francesca?’ Hampton had caught the look.
‘No,’ she said, considering the point. ‘But I will eat your chips rather than have them go to waste.’ Peter Hampton, plainly delighted, offered to go halves and they shared the rest.
‘Where did you come from Peter? Before Britex, I mean.’ Francesca finished her drink.
‘I did an MBA at Manchester, then trained as an accountant with Peat’s in Birmingham, worked there for three years, then went to Droitplex as Finance Director. I always wanted to be an MD, so when I was offered Britex three years ago I jumped at it. I didn’t realize quite what a mess the business was in.’
‘Over-extended, I take it?’ Henry asked.
‘Yes, and not much management — the ones we’ve kept are all right, but not that much calibre; the Finance Director was a disaster, and it took me too long to get rid of him.’ He was ostensibly addressing Henry but his attention was focused on Francesca.
‘Not an easy trade, either,’ she said, politely.
‘Bit of a disaster all round,’ he agreed. ‘But maybe we can bring it round with some help?’ Francesca, caught unawares, fumbled for an answer while he watched her.
‘Do you have a family, Peter?’ Henry came swiftly to the rescue, annoyed by this attempt to put pressure on his staff.
‘Two sons, who live with my wife.’
‘How old are they?’ Francesca, poise restored, asked with interest.
‘Nine and seven. I see them once a month. You married, Francesca?’
‘Divorced, but no children.’ They looked at each other steadily, and Henry felt the hairs at the back of his neck prickle.
‘Unless you want anything else to eat, Fran, like a second pudding or cheese, we ought to get back,’ he said briskly, and called for the bill. Peter Hampton fetched Francesca’s coat and helped her on with it, leaving Henry and Martin to extract theirs from an overloaded coat rack.
‘I’d like to invite you out for a drink,’ he said to her, glancing to make sure that Henry and Martin were out of earshot. ‘I expect it is against the rules.’
‘It is, at this stage. But thank you for the thought. Perhaps when all this is over?’ She smiled at him, and Henry, emerging from the Gents, saw the smile and realized, abruptly, that this girl mattered to him, and he a happily married man with teenage children. He returned to collect her, noting with relief that Peter Hampton was openly disappointed with whatever she had said to him. They emerged, all slightly flushed, into the cold November day.
‘We should pray for snow,’ Francesca observed, dancing down the street.
‘Oh yes,’ Peter Hampton agreed fervently. ‘Any amount of it. It would do our sales
more good than a price cut.’
They said good-bye to each other on the pavement, the three civil servants leaning slightly sideways against the weight of their briefcases. ‘I’m not nursing any great hopes, you know,’ Hampton said directly to Francesca. ‘I know the business is in a hell of a mess, and the industry prospects are poor. It’s the work force I mind about.’
‘That’s what Ministers are going to mind about, too,’ Francesca pointed out. ‘Don’t let’s jump to conclusions. My good colleagues here can struggle with the numbers and let’s see where we get to. We’ll be with you in Yorkshire next week.’ She caught Henry’s eye, obviously remembered who was supposed to be in charge of the party, and said hastily that she understood at least that these were the arrangements that had been made. Everybody shook hands, Hampton holding on to Francesca’s while he said his goodbyes, and the civil servants hailed a passing taxi.
‘Martin, we need those numbers crunched, quickly. Will you please work out exactly the percentage difference in material costs between this lot and what Allied is paying. I may be able to help there, but I need to understand what it is and how it comes about. I want you also to think about cash control — I have an impression it is not as good as it ought to be. What are they doing with the seconds? Do they go to market stalls; who looks after the cash there?’
‘Right.’ Martin was writing notes to himself, slowly, in immaculately neat handwriting.
‘I have to report to the Minister in a preliminary note,’ Francesca volunteered helpfully. ‘I will put it through you Henry, so you can comment.’
Henry thanked her gravely, and she fell silent while he went back to brooding about the company. ‘What did you think of Hampton?’ he demanded, generally. ‘I thought him much less resistant and difficult today.’