Unsafe Deposit

by J. E. Kellenberger

  Taking charge of the situation, Daniel pronounced that whatever the board did it must do it fast and that no action was a complete no-goer as the share price would be hit by the news that the company, apart from the swift rebuttal, had failed to act to allay its shareholders’ fears. Why it had happened and who was behind it was another matter but, for the moment, while they were determining an appropriate course of action they must present a united front as activists could use any sign of conflict to their own advantage. Marian’s breakdown of the public shareholding showed a new investor had been very active in the market and was already holding equity of nine percent. The equity had been bought through a broker and was held in a nominee account thereby keeping the name of the purchaser secret. The four agreed that good relations with their institutional investors were paramount and to this end they should send them a detailed report of the company’s performance over the last six months as well as a letter through the post to each individual shareholder urging them to weigh up carefully the long-term growth prospects of their shares against any short-term gain.

  ***

  Afternoon tea at The Ritz hotel in the heart of Belgravia and just across the way from Green Park, one of London’s open spaces, was, even at a price to make a normal person wince, a “must-do” and “must-see” item on rich tourists’ tick list. It had always been a perfect venue for the regular get-togethers of the two closet cockneys, Sir Brian and Arthur. Served in the Palm Court it reflected the elegant nature of the hotel’s architecture and had a dress code to match, no jeans and no trainers but a “must” jacket for all gentlemen. With a faultless service from the front-of-house staff the loose leaf teas, from countries all over the world, were served with freshly cut finger sandwiches, warm baked raisin and apple scones with strawberry preserve and clotted cream and a selection of cakes and pastries all presented on a fine bone china tiered cake stand. Always brimming full, the tables were spaced at generous intervals so that there was no sense of being crowded or hemmed in and conversations could be held without the fear of eavesdropping to a background of classic and contemporary tunes played by the resident pianist or a string quartet. Brian always made the reservation, his title acting as a passport to obtaining one of the best tables where conversation and musical diversion blended seamlessly and where they could dawdle over their fare while discussing business. It had become their habit to greet one another in rhyming cockney slang, a sort of reminder to them both of how hard it had been to rise from humble beginnings and a warning for the future of how easy it might be to slip down the greasy pole to a world they no longer knew. With sly grins one asked the other if he was still making lots of bread and honey, money, and the other retorted that a tea leaf, thief, always had to set his sausage roll, goal, high otherwise he might just as well be brown bread, dead.

  ‘Before we get down to business,’ said Brian, ‘tell me about your domestic rearrangement, I’m intrigued.’

  ‘You mean Sandra accompanying me to the Livery luncheon, I suppose.’

  ‘I was surprised to say the least to see you there with Sandra when you have always been so careful to hide your affair with her.’

  ‘Jane’s gone off with another man. She left me a note a full six lines long!’ said Arthur in a mocking tone. ‘We’d been married for almost thirty years. That’s about two words for every year. Not much of a thank you for the lifestyle I paid big money for her to enjoy.’

  ‘Something tells me you’re not feeling too hurt,’ said Brian. ‘Correct?’

  ‘Yes, as usual, correct,’ replied Arthur. ‘I never truly loved her. I just knew I had to have a wife and a presentable one at that. It’s my daughter Angela who I love and I must guard her from tittle-tattle as I don’t want to destroy her belief in me. That would really hurt if she took against me.’

  ‘Are you going to apply for a divorce?’ enquired Brian.

  ‘Underway,’ replied Arthur, ‘got a solicitor working on it already. It should be quick as it will be uncontested and I have proposed that I make a once-only payment to Jane of the house in Winchester. I don’t have to do that as technically she’s left me but I want Angela to know that I have provided well for her mother despite her walking out on me. The house is worth more than a bob or two and if Jane accepts those terms the divorce could go through within four to five months.’

  ‘The end of an era,’ stated Brian reflectively.

  ‘Yes, but also the start of another,’ came back Arthur. ‘Sandra and I have been a clandestine item for the best part of twenty years and I shall marry her just as soon as I am free to do so. I’ve been paying her mortgage ever since she was widowed and we took up with one another. I moved in with her a few days ago and we are very happy despite the cramped accommodation. She’s a North Londoner by birth but her parents were from the East End. It’s funny how things always seem to revert to one’s roots. Family history, you can’t shake it off, it seems ingrained in our genes and frankly I feel a lot more relaxed with her being able to be my real self.’

  ‘I know what you mean but the people I come into contact with are mostly nouveau riche like me and their backgrounds are probably just as dodgy as mine. How do you get from poor boy to rich boy in one move? It’s usually not just hard work or good fortune, it’s planning and scheming and risk-taking and, of course, drugs,’ replied Brian unrepentantly.

  It was true what Brian said but Arthur’s world away from work was populated by old money and people with ultra-conservative views who probably secretively envied the nouveau riche but who indubitably looked down their noses at them. Superiority was alive and well in the shires and in the world of fine arts that so fascinated Arthur.

  ‘Changing the subject,’ said Brian, ‘what do you want to do when the lease on the premises in Ludgate Hill runs out?’

  ‘Call it a day,’ he replied without hesitation. ‘Close down Meares Import Export. Tell my employees that I am retiring and that they are henceforth redundant. Would this fit in with you?’

  ‘There is no real alternative,’ said Brian, moving a single, wispy, long white hair from his jacket cuff. ‘Everything that comes into the hedge fund comes in clean, laundered to exhaustion, without a traceable past. That’s what you’ve been so good at Arthur. I congratulate you! You are irreplaceable, my friend and mate, and we trust each other implicitly. It’s time too for me to bow out.’

  ‘You think so!’

  ‘I know so,’ replied Brian. ‘Our former gravy train in Brazil may soon hit the bumpers as the previously intelligent and savvy people who used to run it are being pushed out by thugs with bird brains. They won’t take long to ruin a system that worked well for so many years and which has kept the two of us in clover. Yes, it’s time for both of us to go, my friend.’

  ‘I can see your point.’

  ‘We have a few ends to tie up neatly,’ declared Brian, ‘so that neither of us has to worry about the Fraud Squad or HMRC knocking on our door and so that you can enjoy your new life with Sandra.’

  ‘I assume WareWork is one of them and being nominated for Lord Mayor of London is the other!’ anticipated Arthur.

  ‘Dead right,’ pronounced Brian and continued jubilantly, ‘and we can kill the two birds with one stone.’

  ‘Tell me how?’

  ‘Our plan was never to take over WareWork. According to my fund managers it’s got a good management team in place and although they’ve been through a rough patch they are slowly but surely pulling out of it. No, the plan was to destabilise the firm just long enough to be able to buy sufficient shares at a reasonable cost either from current shareholders selling directly to us or by buying on the open market so that we had a holding large enough to have the right to put a non-executive director of our own choice on the board.’

  ‘And we have sufficient now.’

  ‘We do and the man I have in mind for the job is old money fallen on hard times,
a guy who could do with a boost to his status and some pocket money from such a job. He knows all the right people and in return I shall make it clear to him the need to pull sufficient strings to get me elected as Lord Mayor.’

  ‘You can count on my vote too.’

  ‘Richard Whittington, first Lord Mayor of London, poor boy made good,’ said Brian. ‘Bernie Evans, the six-hundred-and-eighty-fourth Lord Mayor of London, criminal boy made even better!’

  They both chuckled.

  They parted with a warm handshake and an agreement to meet again. Arthur still had some loose ends to which to attend, the gems and Croesus. Further crime was now off the agenda and a continued search for the stones no longer necessary. The money lost hurt his ego but was more than made up for by the large holding Brian had set up in Arthur’s name in one of his managed funds. It would see him out in comfort for the rest of his life with Sandra. But Croesus was something different. He was not involved in any crime in its regard and the idea of finding such an antiquity appealed greatly to his cultural senses. He would revisit the conundrum without telling Ron and Lizzie. When he chose to tell them about the lease running out he would hint that they were free to pursue the gems and keep any profit they made entirely for themselves but his body language would make it crystal clear that Croesus was no longer their concern. However, his first and most urgent task was to write to Angela.

  Chapter Eight

  Revelations

  2011

  It was quiet in the antiques shop in Winchester that Monday afternoon. At her makeshift desk of two matching wooden turn-of-the-twentieth-century bedside cabinets, upon which rested an off cut of plywood, Angela gazed vacantly into space, unable to stir herself into action. The postman had delivered the letter that morning before she left home. It had a London postmark and a first-class stamp. She had put it in her handbag and slit open the envelope after she had opened up the emporium. It had taken her aback. She had had to read it a second time to comprehend the situation. It was then that she had cried. The warm, sticky tears had run down her cheeks uncontrollably, wetting her blouse in two large patches. She had remained seated, rooted to the spot, with thoughts whirling in her mind. Her whole world seemed to have collapsed. Time passed although she was unaware of its passage. She presumed she must have done something but was unaware of what. It was now early afternoon and the letter had found its way into her handbag. She took it out. She would have to re-read it.

  My dearest Angela,

  The events of the past few days and weeks have rocked the very foundations of our family life. We thought these foundations were strong and lasting but it seems that they were built on sand. As you know your mother and I have parted company. She has gone to live in London with a man she met for the first time some months ago. She tells me she loves him. Apparently she never loved me. You mustn’t think badly of your mother for this as one cannot help in life who one loves and who one doesn’t. Love is capricious. It doesn’t recognise rules or regulations or boundaries. It just happens, a phenomenon which I believe you realise yourself and now I must explain that it has also happened to me. Some years ago I met another woman. It doesn’t matter who or where or how, that’s irrelevant. It just matters that I tell you that the marriage with your mother was not one of love, it was one of convenience. We both needed a partner and it suited us at the time. It would have petered out long ago if you had not come along. You held us together with a bond of love. We both loved you and because of you our marriage not only survived but was mostly happy and worthwhile. Your mother was respectful and mindful of her marital obligations until very recently but that was long after I had let her down as my affair with Sandra has been going on, quietly and discreetly, for many years. I never wished to hurt your mother but I needed the love of a woman, to receive it and to give it, and with Sandra it was fulfilled. I’m telling you this because I want you to know the truth. Gossip is usually speculation and spreads more falsehood than truth. But most of all I am writing this letter to tell you how much we both love you and whether we live together or apart nothing will change that. In order to minimise any unpleasantness and to speed up the formalities of our separation I have given the house in Winchester to your mother to do with as she pleases. I believe she plans to sell it as soon as our divorce is finalised which should be within a few months. The house that was once your home and base station will be no more but the love of your parents will continue. After the divorce I plan to marry Sandra and live openly with her. It is my desire and my need and I hope that your mother’s situation will work out just as successfully.

  Do you remember when we used to go out on Sundays together? Just the two of us, your mother claiming she was busy with other things although we always giggled that she was just painting her nails! You were about five or six and every Sunday we took the train to either London to go to the zoo or to Hampton Court to go to the maze. You used to hold my hand tightly especially when we were in the reptile house or when we couldn’t find our way out of the maze. I was so proud of holding yours, my daughter who I loved. When you have children of your own you will appreciate how precious they are to you. I hope you will be able to find it in your heart to forgive me for turning your world upside down. For the moment I shall leave you to fend for yourself in the shop but later, when we are all settled into the new order, hopefully we can resume our antiques hunting forays together. You have my mobile number, please ring whenever you wish but, until then, I am, as always, your proud father.

  It had been troubling Andreé for some time. The way in which she had treated Ella Gadd when Ella had telephoned to give her condolences upon news of Rolf’s stroke. Her behaviour had been awful and Andreé knew it. Now stepped back from her former job she could see clearly the error of her ways. She had allowed herself to become all consumed in WareWork, pouring scorn on anyone or anything that interfered or threatened its future. Power had gone to her head and she had lost her normal and sensible sense of proportion. John had pulled her back just in time and how lucky she was to have him she thought. She wanted to make amends in a way that both parties could accept and without too much loss of face for either. Ella had worked as an art teacher. Her watercolours were held in high regard and displayed and sold at craft fairs. This was confirmed by Arthur Meares who had said this to her at the Windsor outing although she had no idea as to how he knew that Ella King, the signature on the paintings, was Mrs Ella Gadd in real life and that she, Andreé, knew her. His daughter had an antiques shop in Winchester and Arthur, who was apparently into all things concerning fine art, had mentioned that on his scouting trips to find objects d’art for his daughter’s shop whenever he came across one of her paintings he always bought it as her landscapes were not only very saleable but also expertly painted. He had picked up several paintings at a modest price on his last trip and they were currently on display in the Winchester shop.

  John liked landscape paintings and had always said that one day he would buy one of Ella’s and Andreé wondered if this might be a way in which she could approach Ella. If she bought one of her paintings for John’s birthday she could write a short note to Ella saying how much he liked it. Maybe this would be the medium via which she could offer up the proverbial olive branch. She could think of no better idea and explained to John what she planned. A bell tinkled when they opened the shop door in Winchester but nobody came out from the back of the shop to greet them. John took a general look around and spotted several pictures hanging on a side wall. With Andreé close by his side he described the various paintings and exclaimed his pleasure on deciphering the signature of Ella on a couple of them. One in particular appealed to John as it was a scene from the village in which he was born. For a more or less unknown artist it had a hefty price tag but Andreé was still set on purchasing it. They had been in the shop for several minutes and were still awaiting assistance by the time Andreé called out loudly asking if there was anyone about to help. Eventually they heard w
ood scraping on wood presumably as a chair was moved out to release it occupier from a desk and a youngish woman with blotchy red cheeks and a wan smile emerged from behind a display cabinet.

  ‘Can I help you,’ she enquired in a trembling voice.

  ‘My husband likes this painting,’ replied Andreé. ‘It’s by Ella King we believe.’

  ‘That’s right,’ replied Angela. ‘She specialises in rural landscapes.’

  ‘Are you, by chance, Angela?’ asked Andreé, floating a punt.

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘You don’t know me but I met your parents recently. In fact I spoke to your father at a luncheon and he told me all about your shop and about how much the two of you enjoy searching for antiques to sell here.’

  Angela did not respond, she remained silent except for a few uncontrolled sobs as a new wave of tears broke over her lower eyelids and streamed down her face. Andreé’s eyesight wasn’t sufficient to let her see the tears but she could hear the sobs and with a prompt from John she moved closer to Angela.

  ‘I’m so sorry if I have said something to upset you,’ said Andreé.

  ‘No, no you haven’t, it’s just…’ and as Angela’s voice trailed off into indistinct mumbles she turned away abruptly and went back behind the display cabinet leaving Andreé and John mystified as to what to do next. They waited patiently for two or three minutes but when Angela failed to re-emerge Andreé went behind the cabinet and found Angela slumped at a makeshift desk, elbows on the working surface cradling her head in her hands. There was a framed photograph on the work surface which she guessed was a family pose.

  ‘Can I help in any way?’ enquired Andreé, placing a hand lightly on Angela’s shoulder.

  ‘I’ll be all right in a moment, promise,’ replied Angela, ‘I’ve just had a family upset, please don’t leave.’