The Best of British Crime omnibus

by Andrew Garve

  ‘But if you could convince them?’

  ‘We could almost certainly get them to rescind tomorrow’s forced sales. As soon as Dermot’s released.’

  ‘To cancel the sales? So that everything goes back to square one?’

  ‘Yes. But if we don’t admit the kidnap, people will just believe we’ve lost faith in the company ourselves. And the products. That we took the capital gains on our shares while the going was good. Even the puny gains on offer by mid-morning tomorrow.’ He hit the steering wheel twice with a clenched fist. ‘And dammit, they’ve only been able to pick on us because we’re small.’ He hit the wheel again. ‘Our management group’s still far too small. We’re vulnerable, you see? There’s no flexibility. There can’t be. Not yet. Especially not in a crisis.’

  It seemed to his wife that he was now more concerned in remonstrating with himself than in explaining anything to her. ‘Is Closter really so much smaller than all the other drug companies?’ she asked.

  ‘Much smaller than any with a real breakthrough product on the stocks. Anything negative that happens to us now can shatter our credibility. At the most critical time.’

  ‘The credibility of Seromig?’

  ‘Absolutely. So it’ll take us that much longer to convince the Department of Health that the drug is ready. Safe. It’ll be the same with the Food and Drugs Administration in the States. It’ll become a matter of … of atmospherics not facts. D’you understand? And it could set us back years. Make Seromig totally unprofitable.’

  Jane’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re not suggesting the SAE is in league with a competitor? Someone who wants to hold back the launch of Seromig?’

  He thought for a moment. ‘No. Not any of the ones working on a migraine cure. Not any of the ones we know about at least. It’d be too obvious. In any case, why should an animal protection group be teamed up with a drug manufacturer? Any drug manufacturer. The whole industry uses animals in development work.’ He paused again. ‘Unless the animal protection bit really is a front. A front for a drug company that wants to knock down our value before buying us out.’

  ‘To get control of Seromig?’

  ‘And our other development products.’ His forehead stayed creased. ‘It would need to be a company big enough to get Seromig approved afterwards, despite any setback. To make up for any time we could lose on the programme now. But that would make it an even less likely ally for a piddling outfit like the SAE.’

  ‘You mean the drug company would need to be big? And with a sound reputation of its own?’

  ‘And one that indulges in kidnapping to gain its ends.’ He shook his head. ‘Doesn’t fit, does it?’

  ‘Nor do the firms that wanted to buy Closter while you were still a private company.’

  ‘Right. For one of them to be involved would be even more incredible. But we could still be talking about a takeover.’

  ‘That’s a bizarre idea, surely?’

  Larden took a deep breath through his nose. ‘Possibly. But I’ve been having a lot of those all day.’ He shifted in the driving seat as he turned right off Fulham Palace Road. ‘It’s still tempting to say to hell with them, whoever they are. Better still, to convince ourselves we’re being harassed by a bunch of cranks with no backing and no connections. That way we don’t need to accept they’ve an intelligence system following our every move. Nor a bunch of hit men ready to abduct wives and children. If I believed all that, I’d be free to do as I like. To tell the SAE to drop dead.’

  ‘But you have to sell your shares tomorrow. You said everyone would.’

  ‘Not if I tell them not to. If I say we call the bluff of those bastards.’ He drew the car up outside the three-storey house where they lived. It was in the centre of a terrace built at the turn of the century. The street had been gentrified recently.

  Jane made no move to get out. ‘Look, Bob, you can do what you like once we get Dermot back. I mean tell the police, the Stock Exchange, everyone. I’ll take my chances about being abducted. I don’t know about the other wives. Their children too.’ She brought her hands together under her chin. Her gaze was straight ahead. ‘But the police would have to give us protection. And with Dermot to help, they’d possibly find the kidnappers anyway.’

  ‘That’s a brave— ’

  ‘Let me finish,’ she interrupted, turning to him suddenly. ‘All that’s after we’ve got Dermot back. As things stand, you have to do as they say.’

  ‘But if we’re half certain they’re bluffing?’

  ‘Only half though. They could murder him. You can’t risk that.’

  ‘But you’ve just said you’d take your chances— ’

  ‘After Dermot’s free. That’s different,’ she broke in again. ‘We’d know then what we’d be in for. In advance. Dermot’s their prisoner now. He had no option. No chance to protect himself. You’ve got to get him back.’

  ‘In every case of kidnap I’ve heard of the police have been told,’ he hedged. ‘The police or a security agent.’

  ‘Not in every case. There’ve been some where the victim’s family has paid up without telling anyone till after. And in any case, that’s it normally. A cash payment’s made. So a pick-up has to be arranged, meaning there’s a chance the kidnappers can be caught. In Dermot’s case the swine are running no risk of any kind.’

  He nodded, partially agreeing. ‘At first, I couldn’t believe that was it.’

  ‘But you do now? That they’re safe so it’s even more vital you do as they say.’

  ‘By selling our shares? Losing half their value? Perhaps more?’

  ‘Yes, and making the other directors do the same.’

  ‘I can’t make them.’

  ‘You said just now you could stop them.’

  He was examining the car key in his hand, avoiding her gaze. ‘I still believe we should call their bluff. Dermot would support me, I’m sure.’

  ‘That’s nonsense, and you know it. If it were the other way round, if you were the prisoner, Dermot would be moving heaven and earth to get you free.’

  ‘Perhaps because he’d have nothing to lose if the shares were sold. He hasn’t any. Not to speak of.’ He still hadn’t appreciated his wife’s determination.

  ‘That’s a bloody callous thing to say.’

  ‘I just don’t believe— ’

  ‘Look at me, Bob.’ Her tone was icy. ‘I’m deadly serious. Please do exactly as the kidnappers say tomorrow. If you don’t, I’ll leave you. For ever. I’m sorry, but I mean it.’

  Chapter Ten

  ‘But Mr Larden, if every director’s unloading shares, there has to be a reason.’ The man on the other end of the telephone was called Poundown. It was a singularly appropriate name for the Financial Editor of the Daily Gazette.

  ‘And I’ve told you, the reason is personal.’

  ‘And I’m sorry, but our readers will want a better one than that. D’you know it’s less than a week since this paper was recommending the shares? At the flotation price? With no reservations? We were the only paper to do that.’

  ‘I know that very well. It’s why I agreed to talk to you, Mr Poundown,’ Larden responded, wishing now he hadn’t felt obliged to do any such thing. He wiped his brow with his handkerchief, then his neck, under his already loosened collar. ‘The advice you gave last week was perfectly sound.’

  ‘How can you say that, Mr Larden?’ The speaker sounded genuinely shocked – unusually so for a journalist. The Gazette readership was a shade below middling – rated by numbers, class, income and brow. Its City news staff was, in turn, a shade below middle-weight, and being constantly depleted. The paper was usually cautious about the financial advice given to readers, more often than not taking its lead from the early editions of better informed journals. Recently it had been aiming to sound more independent and strident, with apparently bolder market tips – but still only affecting if not total certainties, then at least investments that were proof against abject failure. Except Closter Drug wasn’t provi
ng to be anything of the kind.

  ‘You gave sound advice because the price of our shares yesterday was more than justified. Measured against current trading and future prospects,’ said Larden, aware his words were hollow as well as pompous.

  ‘That was yesterday. What about the price at midday today?’ It was now twelve thirty. The price of the shares had been in free fall for nearly two hours.

  ‘It’s showing a temporary drop for technical reasons. I’m confident the price will recover.’

  ‘That’s what your PR outfit says. It’s hard to credit, Mr Larden. Why should the price recover if the directors are selling out? You have sixteen per cent of the company shares between you. The word is you’re offloading the lot. Is that true?’

  ‘The directors of Closter Drug have been through a lean time for five years. Between us we probably had too many shares. It can happen after a management buy-out. So we’re taking the chance to go liquid. We know the company’s strong enough to stand it.’ He had both elbows on the desk, one hand supporting his drooping head, the other holding the telephone. His posture was as collapsed as the logic he had just propounded.

  At an early morning meeting the Closter directors had all agreed, as a final resort, to do as the kidnappers demanded.

  At nine o’clock, the Irish spokesman had telephoned for their decision. Larden had fought hard for a delay. The Irishman had dismissed his plea, angrily this time, and put Hackle on the line to beg for his life, and to repeat that his captors would show no mercy. Bodlin had gone a deathly white at this. Mary Ricini had been close to tears.

  So Larden had agreed the kidnappers’ terms.

  The call had been taped, like the one the day before, except for the opening moments. Only a year earlier the company had installed sophisticated tape machines in the offices and homes of all directors. These were to record not only messages but also, when required, ordinary calls as well. It had all been to do with security in the broad sense. The machines were intended to provide records of conversations involving technical or contractual data. After the first call from the kidnappers, it was Mary Ricini who had suggested that all machines should be set to tape everything, in case the SAE chose to phone a director other than Larden. The others had agreed, though some would forget to do anything about it.

  Hackle’s captors had accepted one concession in response to Larden’s reasoned argument. Mark Treasure was to be told about the kidnapping – but not until he returned from the USA later in the day. Significantly, the kidnappers had known which flight he was taking. Despite the concession, Treasure had to be made to pledge that he would tell no one except his wife about the kidnap. If he reneged on this, the Irishman had said, it would very soon go hard for some director’s wife or child.

  Later, Larden himself warned Penny Cordwright at the PR company that there might be enquiries from the media during the day about the sale of shares, and that such calls would be routed to her. He told her broadly how she should respond, but he implied the matter didn’t have much importance. This had been bad judgement on his part, sparked by wishful thinking.

  The instructions had mildly surprised Miss Cordwright, but she hadn’t believed she would have to act on them. She had assumed the sale of directors’ shares Larden mentioned would be a minor affair, involving a relatively small number of shares, and unlikely to cause much, if any, media comment. She hadn’t even questioned the wisdom of the action. There was presumably justification for the directors taking a profit on part of their holdings now if they chose. She was quite unprepared for what came next.

  At eleven thirty, when the ‘minor affair’ had already acquired the makings of a major financial news event, Miss Cordwright had got back to the Managing Director for fresh instructions. She had been told her response shouldn’t alter. With a second call though, she had succeeded in getting Larden to talk to the Daily Gazette, because it had been the only paper unreservedly to commend the flotation in the previous week. It seemed a Judas act not to give it special treatment now. Larden had also calculated it would be the paper most likely to find some kind of justification for what was occurring, if only to support its own previous judgement on Closter Drug.

  ‘And you are one of the directors selling out, Mr Larden?’ Poundown persisted.

  ‘I’m a seller, yes. For pressing personal reasons. Like the others, I’ve been overstretched financially for some time. There’s a chance to relieve the pressure now, and I’m taking it. Naturally I expect to be a buyer of the shares again before long.’

  ‘How long, Mr Larden?’

  His gaze lifted to the photograph of his wife on his desk. ‘That’s difficult to say.’

  ‘Is all this the result of a bad report on Seromig? A setback there?’

  ‘No it isn’t. Quite the opposite. Seromig is likely to be a major advance in the treatment of migraine.’

  ‘So isn’t this a crazy time to stop being a major shareholder in the company?’

  ‘Not if you have an overdraft the size of mine, Mr Poundown.’ He did his best to sound light-hearted. ‘I’m sorry, you’ll have to excuse me now. I’m late for a meeting.’ This was half true: Closter-Bennet had just come through the door. ‘Look, why don’t we talk again soon? Early next week, perhaps? Things will be in better perspective then.’

  ‘One last question, Mr Larden. Are you and the other directors selling all your shares in Closter Drug?’

  He hesitated for a moment before he said: ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Larden.’

  It had been the question he had most wanted to avoid answering, but to have lied would have given the SAE grounds for maiming Dermot Hackle. He couldn’t risk Dermot being hurt, not after what Jane had said last night.

  He put the phone down and fell back in his chair, mopping his brow, his eyes still fixed on the picture of his wife.

  ‘The share price is down to seventy-two pence, and it’s still dropping,’ said Closter-Bennet after firmly closing the door behind him. ‘People in my department have found out it’s the directors who are selling. A lot of them have shares themselves you know?’

  Larden shrugged. ‘So do people in every other department. So what d’ you suggest we do, Giles?’ he questioned acidly.

  The Finance Director looked more discomforted than before. He wasn’t given to making snap executive decisions. His agreement to sell his shares had been made at his wife’s instigation, and not merely because they had been paid for with her money in the first place.

  Barbara Closter-Bennet’s normal sangfroid had evaporated in the face of the kidnappers’ threat about directors’ wives.

  ‘It’s just worse than I expected,’ her husband continued now. ‘My broker keeps calling, advising me to stop selling. He’d sold half my holding by noon, as instructed. He doesn’t understand, and I can’t explain. It’ll be much worse this afternoon when he unloads the second half.’ Closter-Bennet spoke as though his problem was unique. He dropped into a chair, and began literally to wring his hands.

  The directors had agreed about the shares being sold in timed stages, the last at three o’ clock. They hoped that this would reduce the impact on the market as much as possible and spread the losses fairly between the reluctant sellers.

  ‘If I call a meeting of employee shareholders now, there’s nothing I can say that’ll mean anything. Not till the rot stops this afternoon when trading closes,’ said Larden, quietly but firmly. It was an astonishing admission by someone who normally lectured others on the importance of prompt staff communications. ‘Today I can only repeat what we’re saying to the newspapers, and nobody’s believing that,’ he went on. ‘We just have to sit it out. We’ll make a staff announcement tomorrow.’

  ‘To encourage people to hold on to their shares?’

  ‘Those that still have any. More to emphasise Seromig hasn’t turned into a failure.’

  ‘And it hasn’t. And the shares are a perfectly sound investment,’ Closter-Bennet protested limply. ‘Perfectly sound,�
�� he repeated, with even less conviction than before. ‘They are, aren’t they, Bob? God, the bastards have got me believing we’re washed up now. When does Mark Treasure get in?’

  ‘On the Concorde. At six. I’m meeting him. Bringing him straight here.’

  But it was after ten that evening when Larden had eventually ushered Treasure into his office. The flight had been delayed before leaving New York.

  The other directors had been waiting for them, all except Mary Ricini who was at home with Rosemary Hackle.

  ‘The price dropped to thirty-nine pence at the end of the day,’ McFee was saying, some minutes after Treasure arrived.

  The Scotsman and Closter-Bennet were seated on one side of the table, with Larden and Bodlin opposite: There were glasses and coffee cups strewn about the surface.

  ‘There was real panic-selling after three o’ clock,’ McFee went on. ‘My broker rang later, just before the market closed. He said it was as well I got out when I did. Though he wasn’t exactly offering congratulations. He was sore that I’d fobbed him off with a spurious reason for selling in the first place.’ He shook his head. ‘He’s convinced the company’s in deep trouble.’

  ‘I imagine the whole Stock Exchange thinks the same,’ said Treasure. He was seated at the top of the table, his usual place at their board meetings. There was a glass of Perrier water and a portable tape recorder in front of him. They had earlier played over the two recordings of the calls from the kidnappers. ‘When did anyone last talk to Grenwood, Phipps?’

  ‘Laurence Stricton rang me several times. The last time around six.’ This was Closter-Bennet.

  Stricton was the executive in the bank’s Corporate Finance Department who had been in charge of the Closter Drug flotation. He was young and very bright. Treasure wondered what he had made of the situation since he evidently hadn’t been given the true reason for what had happened.