Martin Dash

by Andy Bailey

  Jimmy Sachs was considered an interesting case by most astute political observers. His father was Walter Sachs – Harold Wilson’s Industry Minister in the 60s – and, whilst there was always something of the champagne socialist throughout the line, there was also a palpable sense of conscious public obligation that Jimmy had inherited and it was a source of considerable interest to many commentators to see how the myriad triangulations and dysfunctions of Tony Blair’s government would impact upon Jimmy’s shape-shifting character.

  Those who knew him or could read such things knew he had the serious impulses – to do the right thing, to make a positive difference – but that he also had the fatal craving for action, to be at the centre of things, to accumulate money; in other words, he had an ego. That had to be fed. And the battle between these two shouldered angels was something that fascinated many who could discern such things.

  It also periodically manifested itself in capricious behaviour that provided considerable entertainment for many more who could appreciate the spectacle without necessarily divining what was the underlying motor that drove it. He’d appeared on Newsnight one evening, red-faced and obviously ‘tired’, and got into an horrendous slanging match with Jeremy Paxman – live on air – over Kosovo, which culminated in him appearing to start to get out of his seat to advance on the pompous presenter only for a hasty cut to another piece just in time to deny the nation the undoubted pleasure of hearing Paxman described – at full decibel – as a "spineless cunt." Rumours of this denunciation got about and it was recorded on tape but, somehow, it hadn’t (yet) appeared on YouTube. That sort of thing generally swung in his favour (much as John Prescott's impromptu right hook on a member of the public had done for him).

  The sort of thing that swung against him – and meant him losing his cabinet seat for a time and having to sit out a two year purdah – was the less savoury revelation of his obviously venal forays into dodgy property investments (cue Barry and Joan Rogers), the most disastrous of which (at least politically – all involved, including Jimmy, actually made a tidy killing on it) was the now infamous Sunny Glades complex at Newbury, a chalet development copying the Center Parcs model that had all but destroyed an ancient woodland for the sake of pseudo-bucolic getaways for the stressed middle classes in the face of furious opposition from the environmental and heritage lobby.

  Yes, it was true – she’d seen all the ugly innards of high stakes political machinations (and had hardened in the process) but she’d not come across anything like Martin Dash.

  That made no sense.

  7.

  Martin Dash is sitting at a large table in one of Stone Rose’s meeting rooms to the left of Gerry Bild who, in turn, has Barry Rogers diagonally to his right. They are all poring over a large plan of the Crack Harbour complex.

  Barry is mid-50s, lean, with a slightly crinkly face, lightly tanned, thinning tawny hair that is now whitening, well-dressed in expensive-casual; trendy spectacles; Rolex watch (natch). All round, the very picture of your successful middle-aged property developer, which is what he is. The contours of his face are such that he appears to wear a perpetual smile but this can be misleading – sometimes he is smiling but other times he isn’t and, if people mistakenly think that he is and that his ‘smile’ bespeaks a genial benevolence, they can get a nasty shock when he suddenly turns on them, snarling and spitting. And this happens fairly frequently because Barry is no-one’s fool. And he knows that to survive – and prosper – in the world he inhabits, you’ve got to snarl. And bite. Because, if you don’t get them, they’ll get you. If you appear weak, they’ll take the piss. So you get your retaliation in first. Despite his apparently genial visage, Barry is, in fact, a deeply unpleasant individual.

  The meeting rooms, site huts and Council chambers of solicitors' offices, building sites and planning authorities all around the country sullenly attest the imprints of split heads, bruised egos and warped sanities inflicted by the marauding shitheap of self-interest and vileness that is Barry Rogers.

  But today he is in one of his good moods (when he lightens up a bit and his acolytes do their best to keep him in that happy place) and this is due to a number of things. Firstly, he’s at Stone's to finalise the plans for the latest stage of the Crack Harbour development – his company has now delivered its residential phase (high-end apartments that are already sold to foreign investors, City titans, and heavyweight celebrities) and is accordingly due a cool £20m from the investors; £20m to share among the Grudge shareholders – basically himself and Joan plus a select few, hand-picked when the project needed start-up funds, including Jimmy Sachs MP (or, at least, his Swiss-fronted trust company).

  And, secondly, he’s got someone new to show off to. For some reason – and this has Gerry absolutely beaming whilst also wondering, slightly concernedly, exactly what is at the bottom of it – Barry appears to have taken a shine to young Martin. Gerry has introduced Martin to Barry as the one to get his contract structure in order ready for the big pay-out in a month’s time. The paperwork wasn’t in a mess as such but Stone's business was booming, clients were riding the crest of the wave, and Gerry was finding it hard to keep all the plates spinning. This was exactly the sort of job Martin had been brought in to deal with – a mountain of contracts, bonds, options and due diligence that needed a proper slogger to shift it but a slogger with a safe pair of hands and a cool head that wouldn’t get bogged down with the inevitable difficulties that would arise to, potentially, jeopardise the whole project.

  Gerry knew that Martin had successfully completed this sort of stuff numerous times for Chard Bone and was convinced that he was the right man to work with Barry on this one. It needed someone with a fairly robust outlook to be able to cope with Barry (and Joan . . .) and Gerry felt that Martin’s unique brand of composure would be the perfect salve to apply to Barry’s festering ego.

  In fact, Gerry has apprised Barry of Martin’s affliction which was, perhaps, risky as Barry might easily have taken against the idea of someone with a mental illness being entrusted with his assets. But, ultimately, he hadn’t (Gerry had anticipated correctly there) and, in fact, Barry had appeared quite intrigued by the idea of having a lawyer who literally had no feelings. In fact, he’d been more than intrigued – he appeared quite delighted by the idea. And if you understood Barry’s character you’d grasp why.

  The concept of bloodless, unfeeling lawyers was hardly new, of course, and, for many people (people like Barry, in fact), the cachet of your very own lawyer being infinitely more vicious and venal than the rest was considerable and here, landed in Barry’s lap, was an experienced streetwise young lawyer . . . who was actually certified remorseless by doctors ! Excellent ! This Barry found truly piquant and the fact that the boy was also the possessor of killer looks – who could ensnare men and women alike, simply as a prelude to rebuffing their attentions with an absolute indifference – was merely the icing on the cake.

  Martin’s condition was not, however, talked about between the three of them, at least on this occasion. Gerry had previously told Barry about it; Barry had assimilated the information; and decided that it probably wasn’t right to bring it up as a matter for conversation in a meeting like this. At least, it probably wouldn’t serve his interests to do so. Barry only ever calculated decisions on that basis and that basis alone. Barry fully intended to quiz Martin in due course – the whole thing fascinated him – but he would wait for the right time and circumstances and environment or, rather, engineer the right time and circumstances and environment.

  No, they were discussing the intricacies of the Crack Harbour development at this point in time and Barry was perfectly happy to do so. This one he had been planning and building for years and it was now coming together. His boat was most definitely coming in.

  It was a huge development sprawling across an irregular area that sat between the river on its south side and the High Street on the north, comprising a compact marina overlooked by three high-rise apartme
nt blocks which in turn backed onto a 200 bed hotel on top of 20 shops and restaurants all catering for the City’s hoi polloi of Russian oligarchs, Arab sheiks and British aristocracy. The idea was an oasis of wealth and opulence where those of sufficient means could reside in their convenient Chelsea pieds-à-terre overlooking the sparkling ripples of the Thames; cruise up and down that historic channel on their boats moored in the marina; shop in the new Prada, Burberry and Kenzo; and eat in the finest restaurants of the new breed of celebrity chefs.

  It was a project riding on the wave of the longest-running boom in history that seemed as though it would never end. The country was indulging in an orgy of borrowing and spending that defied all logic and spawned ‘entrepreneurs’ like Barry and Joan . . . Their company, Grudge Developments, was the chosen partner for the investors, Atlas Court, to deliver the project and Barry had worked tirelessly for five years to get to where they were now – the marina and residential just completed and the retail and leisure on the High Street at the back well on their way. The agreement with Atlas meant phased payments for Grudge at fixed stages and this very stage meant a tidy sum of £20m for Barry and Joan.

  Nice.

  The project had not been without its difficulties and controversies but nothing out of the ordinary so far as Barry was concerned – the usual snide allegations of planning committee palms being greased, funny money being washed clean, etc, etc. Each obstacle was met with a belligerent ram that ploughed on, remorselessly, come what may. This was money, this was serious, and now came the payoff.

  Gerry Bild had nursed the legals along for Barry from the start back in 2001 when the first options on the site – at that point, an ageing government complex – were secured for Grudge. He’d put a large part of his working time into this job, with his team behind him, but he had many calls on his time and it was now time to hand over the steer to another – Martin.

  The really hard work was behind them – identifying the right location; massaging the planners into line; winkling the options out of curmudgeonly land owners; juggling the funding and the costs – so that it ought now to be a question of simply docking the ship in a safe harbour. But it still needed a safe pair of hands to do that and it would be perfectly possible for an inexperienced hand to crash it into the quay. So when Gerry had initially proposed to Barry the idea of handing over the reins to a new guy – albeit with Gerry still keeping an eye on things from the back seat – Barry was, at first, distinctly unimpressed but Gerry persevered and had arranged this meeting with the three of them. And to Gerry’s surprise (and relief) it had gone so much better than he could have hoped for. It was when Gerry had briefed Barry on Martin’s story that Gerry could see Barry’s interest was hooked and Barry’s first encounter with Martin at this meeting simply sealed the deal. Barry was flattering Martin, joking around as Gerry had never before seen him, and generally behaving with such a totally un-Barry-like gaiety that Gerry actually started to find it rather unsettling.

  He did wonder if it were possible that there was anything more than professional admiration on the part of the middle-aged businessman for the handsome young lawyer; after all, there had been persistent rumours for many years regarding Barry Rogers’ personal peccadillos (and – worse – the true nature of his relationship with his sister). But, quite frankly, such were really of no interest to Gerry – Barry paid his bills (mostly . . . ) and kept bringing the work in; Gerry would only become concerned if personal entanglements – and the wreckage of same – threatened that cherished income stream.

  Martin, for his part, was doing what Gerry had noticed him doing during his first few weeks at the firm – with clients, with the staff, with his peers: playing the part. Note perfect. He oozed charm. Flattered Barry back. Dropped in astute suggestions at apposite points. Demonstrated that he’d briefed himself thoroughly on the complex labyrinth of the Crack legal and financial structure. Laughed at Barry’s jokes. It was real textbook stuff on how to conduct such a meeting. Gerry was delighted. Barry left the meeting convinced afresh what a wonderful chap he was (Barry, not Martin. Although Martin came a close second).

  They had finished off with the details needed for money transfers and the like – £20m to come to Stone Rose’s client account on the issue of the latest phase completion certificates. “And that will come from Atlas Court's lawyers?” asked Gerry of Barry.

  “No, it’ll be coming from an associated company – Ad Jalal.”

  “OK,” said Gerry.

  “OK,” said Martin.

  8.

  Late afternoon – in the summer – on Mayfair’s gilded streets. The capital had been enjoying a prolonged spell of warm – no, hot – weather which, as ever, buoyed the populace into thinking they led happy lives. Accordingly, early tipplers were spilling out of the wine bars and cafés onto the pavement forming lapping puddles of multi-coloured (but mostly black and white) chatting, laughing, slurping office workers high on (a) the working week being done with (b) living in one of the world’s (still) great cities (c) being amongst the best paid and best fed in that city and (d) being young (mostly).

  The light still fell on them and warmed them where the street aligned with the sun’s descent into its evening bough and it was possible to think that history’s course had attained a new plateau at this time and this place and bestowed on its denizens a joyful and carefree mien borne of nothing more than pure, simple entitlement.

  Martin stood amongst the group milling around the pavement tables outside 'The Hop House', a drinking establishment that had stood on the spot since the 17th century and was currently fitted out in such a manner as might allow it to bathe in the reflected glory of all of those years of history and intrigue and passion and drunkenness.

  He had tried to avoid coming with the group from work when Maisie had first broached the subject. Martin had been at the firm over a month now and they hadn’t yet managed to get him out for a drink but Martin’s clear steadfastness on the issue only made her more determined. Maisie was only 19 but might as well have been 30. The basic blond bombshell proposition. Sassy. Mae West. With a carefree, lively persona that was hard to resist. Unless you were Martin. Lusted after by all the men at the firm (especially the older ones). Except Martin.

  She was not far from turning, so far as Martin was concerned. She was becoming inclined to take Martin’s repeated rebuffs to her advances as a personal insult and unpleasant smears and accusations were beginning to seed in the darker recesses of her mind. Only 19 but with years of experience behind her, she had got used to the idea that it was her divine right to pluck any man she wanted, when she wanted and, working at Stone Rose, she had begun to formulate the first inklings of a vague plan to entrap a wealthy client – single or otherwise – so that she would, in due course, get her hands on the wherewithal to match the sense of entitlement. Maisie still lived with her mum and dad and two brothers in the East End and, although she loved them all deeply, didn’t want to stay there indefinitely. She had other ideas.

  Martin didn’t fit the marriageable magnate template (he obviously didn’t have the requisite fortune for a start) but, underneath the scheming and self-serving, Maisie did have feelings – desire – and something about Martin (basically his stunning good looks and studied indifference) stirred her, and his total failure to reciprocate only made her want him more. The situation was beginning to tarnish her standing as the premier man-eater of the firm.

  Obviously, she could not stand for this and could not believe that there was a red-blooded man alive who wouldn’t react if a boy’s wet dream such as herself was served up on a plate to them. Her pneumatic chest (always exposed enough to draw the eye), tight skirts, blond curls and bright red lips sent a simple, and irresistible, message ('This is what you want') that, in her considerable experience, rarely went unheeded.

  Martin wasn’t gay – she knew that, she could tell – but bad thoughts were beginning to gestate in her musings as to why he appeared to have no desire. Yes, she had listened
to Gerry’s discourse on anhedonia but she couldn’t accept or believe that. The thing was, he appeared so normal in every other way – he laughed and joked with people and even charmed them when he needed to and yet he didn’t have any feelings? No, she couldn’t really believe that.

  No, she was having a full go tonight, make no mistake. But this might be his last chance. If he didn’t bend to her will, he was quite likely to feel the darker side of her passion. And the nasty edge of her tongue.

  But he had taken some persuading and, in fact, it was Gerry who had swung it with the advice that one of their most esteemed clients would be at the pub and it would be a good opportunity for him to get acquainted with Martin. At this, Martin acquiesced. He always made himself available for work detail. Social carousing with over-sexed secretaries was one thing, schmoozing valued clients was quite another.

  Gerry had allowed the team out of work early so they’d been at The House before 5:00 – it was now past 6:00 and the first few drinks were doing the same warming job as the late afternoon sun. But Martin wasn’t drinking. And was being lightly teased about this by Maisie.

  “You mean you’ve never had a drink in your life?” she asked, incredulous. She was very close to Martin by this point and was getting closer so that her boobs were nearly touching his shirt. Electricity crackled between them. At least in Maisie’s mind.

  “I had it once when I was younger, but it did nothing for me except make me sick.” Martin tried to smile to make light of the issue but he looked uncomfortable.

  “Well, that’s the same for everyone – you get used to that, Marty !” she laughed, throwing her head back and taking the opportunity to plant her hand on his shoulder. Martin laughed with her and took another sip from his fresh orange juice. Maisie appeared to be the only one who’d adopted his shortened soubriquet but Martin didn’t seem to take umbrage.