The Ego's Nest (Dave Hart 5)

by David Charters

  Lord Bigmann was a scrap-metal merchant, which is handy because now he advises the chancellor on how to handle our currency. He’s also rather pleased with himself in an overweight, huffing-and-puffing but still energetic kind of way and, as a gritty northern lad of humble stock, he is obviously delighted to be a member of the best club in London, the House of Lords, with excellent parking facilities and a very convivial bar.

  ‘So, Mr Hart, we’ve all read a lot about you in recent times, and seen you on the telly. Quite a celebrity. What can we do for you?’

  ‘Thank you, my lord. You’re very kind. But I’m hoping I can do something for you. For the country, really. With my new fund.’

  ‘The Salvation Fund? Britain certainly needs salvation. Don’t quote me on that.’

  I glance at my lawyers. ‘Anything said within these four walls today is entirely confidential, my lord. Strictly between ourselves.’

  Yeah, right. Us and our three hundred closest friends and associates.

  ‘My lord, my fund was created to make positive, supportive investments. We provide long-term, patient capital to help build for the future. We call it “investing for good”. And we want to back Britain.’

  He chuckles. ‘Wonderful, Mr Hart, but what does that mean?’

  ‘It means we’re in the market to invest in state entities, to buy assets that don’t need to remain in state hands, and provide the financial commitment for the future which is needed but which the government can’t currently undertake itself because of the austerity measures.’

  ‘Mr Hart, you have form in this area. You once offered to buy the NHS.’

  Bastard.

  But it’s true. It was one of those foolish things that we’re all guilty of at some point in our lives. I was pissed, it was the early hours of the morning, I was leaving a night club and heading back to the apartment for, I think, a threesome, and was confronted by some press people. They wanted a quote about some bullshit or other that I wasn’t ready to talk about, so I said the first thing that came into my head. Well, you do, don’t you? In this case, I said I thought Grossbank should buy the NHS. We’d streamline it, run it properly, empower the front-line medical staff and fire the medicrats, put some commercial discipline into the organisation – and we’d all be winners. Especially Grossbank. It seemed a good idea at the time, the way lots of things do at two in the morning when you’re pissed.

  ‘My lord, we’re in a very different investment climate now. The proposals we’ve brought today are focussed, specific ideas that will help Britain get back on its feet. We’re prepared to stand by them and back them with our own money.’ And it’s not two in the morning and I’m not pissed. Yet.

  ‘Go on.’

  Christ, he sounds like me. Looks like me too, poker-faced, glancing occasionally to either side of me to check what my lawyers are doing. I told them to bring other work along, because there wouldn’t be anything for them to do here other than look good, so they are writing, typing into laptops, taking notes and tapping into their Blackberries. Unfortunately, this has spooked the civil service team, who are furiously writing down everything we say, clearly concerned in case the away team have better records than the minister.

  ‘We have three ideas. Big ideas. I’ll outline them in concept and then, if you’re interested, we would propose to come back and make a formal presentation with the detail of what we have in mind.’

  ‘So you’ve come here to fly some kites? All right. Go on.’

  Fucking scrap-metal merchant.

  ‘My lord, I’ll be brief …’

  ‘Good.’

  Now I’m getting mad. He only came for the coffee.

  ‘First, real estate. The government – the Crown – owns an awful lot of buildings, land, roads –’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know what we own. Go on.’

  ‘We would propose to transfer ownership of all those assets into a holding company – we’ve called it UKRealCo – in which the Salvation Fund and some of our associated investors would make a significant investment – real money, my lord. Tens of billions. We’d use that money to help finance not only ongoing repairs and maintenance but also the development and modernisation of the estate. Then, at an opportune moment when markets have recovered and sentiment is better, we float it on the stockmarket in a mammoth privatisation-type share issue. It would be one of the biggest and most powerful real-estate companies in the world. It would get all the ongoing obligations of the portfolio off the state’s balance sheet and into the private sector. And, of course, we would offer voters – I mean, the public – the chance to buy shares in the company at the flotation price. It would be a major strategic event for UK plc and nothing like it has ever been done before.’

  He sits back at this point and scratches his chin. ‘So we put everything into this company, all of our property assets, you and your mates buy in at an attractive price, it gets floated on the stockmarket at a higher price and the public, who already owned it in the first place, get the chance to buy it again?’

  I’m going to have to rethink my view of scrap-metal merchants. ‘My lord, it’s a matter of presentation.’

  ‘Most things are, Mr Hart.’ He glances at his watch. ‘What’s your next idea?’

  Some days even my awesomeness has its limitations. I do need a drink, after all.

  ‘Our second idea is the environment.’

  ‘The environment?’

  ‘And natural resources. The two go hand in hand. The careful and sympathetic development of those limited remaining assets that nature has bequeathed to this country.’ Bequeathed? Where did I get that one? ‘We’d like to buy an option to develop any natural resources found in the UK, both onshore and offshore, from a specified list of items – items which are mostly low profile and not politically sensitive. Shale gas, for example, which turns out to be pretty commonly found in a bunch of places, rare earths, which we think might be found in very low concentrations in parts of the UK and which are needed for high-tech industries.’

  ‘So we’d sell you an option on anything valuable you think might be found in the country ever again … in return for what?’

  ‘Money, obviously.’

  ‘Thank God for that.’

  ‘A very substantial sum. Plus royalties on anything that was subsequently discovered and developed. And, at the same time, we would undertake to devote the entirety of the sum paid for the option, on behalf of the government, to protecting and enhancing the environment.’

  ‘Is that right? And just how would that work?’

  ‘We would take over the running of various bodies, such as the Forestry Commission, the National Parks and so on, with no management charge or fee payable by government, and with investment funds available for careful husbanding and selective development of those same assets in the best interests of both the natural environment and future generations.’

  ‘Mr Hart – you seem to be suggesting that we give you a blank cheque on future natural resource development in the UK, in return for a large sum of money which you then spend on our behalf building country estates for your mates. Are you serious? What was your last idea?’

  ‘My last?’ I clear my throat. Even my legal team have stopped work to watch this one. ‘My last … milord, concerns the NHS …’

  I can feel a collective wince go round the table.

  ‘You cunt …’

  His gravelly northern accent cuts across me. What did he just say? Did I hear properly? I glance around the room. Everyone seems stunned. Did the minister really use the C-word? But there’s more. He clears his throat and starts again, wagging his finger at me like a schoolmaster.

  ‘You cunt be serious. This government has made its position completely clear on the NHS. One hundred per cent. So if you come in here asking me if you can approach us with some scheme to do with the NHS, you know my answer, Mr Hart.’ He leans forward and looks me directly in the eye. ‘You cunt.’

  OK, so even I can have an off day. And if you’re
going to have one, go large. Do it properly. And then get arse-holed.

  But on the other hand, that was extreme. And it wasn’t a case of a bad northern accent. The good lord knew what he was saying. And that makes it personal.

  TWO LIVERS isn’t taking my calls. Who can blame her? Am I really such a useless, feckless, unreliable, shallow fool as I appear? Of course. I’m a man. I’m actually worse than I appear. Most of the time I manage to look much better than I am, because people attribute a degree of wisdom and judgment to my seniority and wealth, and so they see what they’ve projected onto me themselves, rather than the reality.

  I leave her the inevitable grovelling messages, which I’m sure is a mistake – she doesn’t do grovelling – and send flowers, the guilty man’s cliché, along with perfume and a case of her favourite Chateau d’Yquem, all of which she returns without comment. I know she can’t be bought, but at least I have to show I care.

  After three days of being ignored, I’m desperate. So I go round to her place early in the morning and hang around on the street corner, feeling like a stalker – which, I suppose, is what I am.

  I know she starts work early – most days she’s at her desk around seven – and I know she works out, which is how she manages to look young and beautiful on the outside while indulging in so many vices on the inside. She punishes her body in order to remain perfect. Luckily I’m already perfect, so I don’t bother. She might have a treadmill and a gym at home, but in the past she preferred to go out jogging in the mornings. If she does, I’m prepared. I have a brand new pair of Nike trainers, a tracksuit and sweat bands on both wrists. I haven’t run in decades – did I ever run? – but I’m motivated, so if she appears I’ll be on her tail.

  And she does.

  I’ve been hanging around since 5.30, from time to time jogging on the spot just to keep warm, ignoring other early morning runners and the odd delivery van. I’m starting to get seriously bored and thinking what a stupid idea this is, when suddenly everything happens at once.

  Just after six her front door opens and a slim figure in skintight running pants, a sweatshirt, baseball cap and the obligatory earphones darts out and heads up the street, fast. I sprint after her, but she sets a killing pace and she’s leaving me behind, when I benefit from divine intervention in the form of a taxi with its light on. I hail him and tell him, ‘Follow that woman’. I’ve always wanted to do that.

  We cruise down the street after her and, just as I’m thinking what a cool operator I am, she dodges down an alleyway. I pay off the cab and run after her. At the end of the alleyway she stops and lifts one leg on to the back of a bench to stretch her calf muscles.

  ‘Hey – how are you?’ I try to hide the fact that I’m gasping for breath after running barely a hundred yards. She keeps stretching, then swaps legs. ‘I stopped to give you a chance. Didn’t want to kill you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’ve been hanging around since 5.30. I guess you care.’

  ‘You’re damned right I care. I’m so sorry about the other night. It was a stupid fuck-up.’

  ‘It was you, Dave. You fuck up. That’s what you do.’

  I feel as if she’s hit me. ‘So does that mean … ?’

  ‘What? What does that mean?’ She looks angry now. Before she was just tetchy. Now she’s pissed off with me. ‘Dave, you do fuck things up. All the time. But fortunately you also do other stuff as well. Great stuff. Stuff that no one else can do. That’s the guy I admire. The problem is, he comes with the fuck-up as well.’ She’s finished stretching and goes to head off down the street. ‘Don’t try to keep up. I’m doing five miles and it really will kill you.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Try me.’

  I sprint off, but she passes me a few seconds later and disappears down the road and around the corner. I’m gasping already and, as soon as she’s out of sight, I stop.

  Phew. My legs hurt, my chest hurts and I’m sweating. But at least we’re talking again. Fuck-up? Me? Nah – just wait and see. I’m the guy who’s going to get the girl.

  INEFFICIENT MARKETS and bargain-hunting opportunities are natural bedfellows. The Alternative Investment Market, or AIM, is the UK’s junior stockmarket, where early stage, often quite high-risk companies can list their shares in order to raise capital from investors, coincidentally generating proportionally very high fees for the brokers and advisers who work on the listing, as well as providing an opportunity for the founders of the company to raise cash by selling some of their shares. Oh, and did I mention generating very high fees for the brokers and advisers?

  It’s a very inefficient market, because small companies with low volumes of daily shares trading don’t get the kind of investor or research analyst focus they need. After a while, they tend to be neglected to the point that their share prices drift sideways and often south, falling to levels which really don’t reflect the underlying value of the business. Naturally, that doesn’t matter to the advisers and brokers who persuaded them to float on AIM, because they’ve already banked their fees and are on to the next one.

  The result is that for people with deep pockets, like me, AIM is bargain-hunting ground. A gold mine, in fact. Which is why I’ve decided to hoover up a bunch of gold mining stocks.

  The way the mining industry works has some remarkable parallels, but also differences, compared to other industries, such as the pharmaceutical industry. Whereas big pharma depends on a constant supply of new drugs, big mining depends on a constant supply of new discoveries of proven resources – mines, to you and me – being brought into production.

  But whereas big pharma does its own research and development, big mining doesn’t. Instead it relies on the so-called ‘juniors’, small entrepreneurial mining companies that go to difficult parts of the world, exploring for new resources. Financing and refinancing themselves as they go, often on AIM, some of these companies will fail and expire, others will hit the jackpot. If they succeed, the big guys move in and buy them. It means the big guys can be fat and lazy, which they like, and only back winners, so they always look smart. The little guys, who work hard, can get very rich indeed – in their eyes, of course, not by investment banking standards – if they get lucky.

  So everyone wins as long as there’s a sufficient amount of luck to go round. Otherwise, the people who lose are the investors who back the juniors – the AIM investors. There are a few institutions among them, and some deal in size and understand what they’re doing, but mostly we’re talking members of the public who fancied a flutter and believed the bullshit some lazy journalist regurgitated from a press release issued by a financial PR firm about the next hot stock. There are so many of them out there that it really doesn’t matter if a few get burnt – they’re the expendable casualties of someone else’s wealth-creation process.

  I’ve summoned one of the larger AIM brokers round to my offices to listen to their best acquisition ideas in the sector. Icarus Investments not only has a reputation for fast, sharp dealings in a part of the market where you need to be quick on your feet, they also have a legendary mining-research analyst.

  Mike O’Leary can drink not just for Ireland, but for the whole of the Six Nations. He’s been known to go off to international mining conferences as a keynote speaker and be so pissed he couldn’t even stand, let alone talk. He once went off on a three-day bender and no one could reach him when one of their client companies was bid for. He did nothing, said nothing, spoke to no one – he couldn’t, he was too pissed to talk – and while he was ‘away’ the bid went through after being recommended by management, and his investor clients made a fortune. When he said he couldn’t remember a thing about it, they all thought he was having a laugh. By the standards of mining stockbroking, the man’s a star and walks on water. His word alone, slurred as it generally is after lunch, can move markets.

  When he comes to my office, just after 9.30 a.m., he’s unshaven, his hair needs combing, his shirt collar is undone, his tie loosened, and he smells of
alcohol. And he’s the best there is, number-one-rated in his sector. Don’t you just love the mining business?

  His boss comes with him. Paul Summers is one of those tall, elegant, snappily dressed AIM stockbroking chief executives who could convince you that they are serious firms doing serious business. In fact if you gave him thirty seconds to prepare, he could convince anyone of anything. Flexibility is his watchword. He could sell double glazing, second-hand cars, timeshare properties on the Costa Del Sol and, in every case, after he’d closed the deal and lightened his customers’ wallets, they’d be left feeling touched and grateful. He ought to be working for a major investment bank but, in the same way that pirates don’t join the Royal Navy, he’d hate a large organisation.

  They take a seat at the conference table and we make small talk while Maria fusses with the coffee, and they try not to stare too obviously at Happy Mboku struggling with the lunch order.

  O’Leary clearly has a massive hangover, and I sympathise. He’s sweating, his eyes are bloodshot, with dark rings around them, he’s keeping his hands pressed firmly against the armrests of his chair, so they don’t obviously shake, and I’m guessing he’s as close as he wants to be to throwing up. Probably came here directly from whatever private members’ club he was in last night, by the look of it, still in yesterday’s clothes. We’ve all been there.

  It’s equally clear that the talking in this meeting will be done by Summers and me. O’Leary, amazingly, is here to lend credibility to the proceedings, the way top-ranked research analysts do. They’re a bit like precious baubles that are nice to have and you hoard them and boast about them but don’t really know quite what to do with them.

  The office door opens and my legal team arrive. Four of them. These guys are drawn from DLR Strummer’s mining M & A experts. Mike’s probably met them before, but he doesn’t recognise them in their Ray-Bans and, when they first come in, he almost panics and looks as if he might do a runner. What was he up to last night?