by Tom Barry
“There really was no need for you to come across,” said Peter as he watched her pluck a blueberry from the muffin.
“I wanted to see you,” she said with a warm smile, adding, “I’m missing you,” but not quite believing she was. He touched her hand but did not respond in kind, so she continued. “I would like you to stay tonight, if you can.”
“I need to get back, but I thought when we’re finished with Skinner, we could pop into Florence. It beats kicking around the airport for five hours.”
Isobel’s jaw dropped open. Kicking around airports was what Peter did; preparing for calls, making calls, checking mails, working on presentations. It was the first time she could remember him not relishing the prospect.
“So things are quiet?” she asked, recovering her composure.
“No, surprisingly, they’re not. Aside from this circus with these clowns in Tuscany, I seem to be in more demand than ever.” He sat back in satisfaction and took a sip of tea. “Head-hunters every day, a couple of old clients have been on the phone wanting me to help out, and the Telecommunications crowd have a position for me. Not something I’d be interested in, but nice to be asked.”
“Word’s out then,” said Isobel with a nervous smile, not wanting to elicit too much business conversation.
“Yep, seems so, and without me making a single call. Other than fixing our man Brooke, I was planning to take it easy, maybe pop down to the boat for a few days. But looks like that might be difficult.”
Isobel nodded as she rustled through the carrier bag she had relieved him of, pulling forth an inconspicuous airport paperback.
“Why thank you, darling, that’s very thoughtful of you.” She had already turned to the back cover. “A crime thriller?”
Peter leant across and took the book. “Sorry, it’s actually for me.” He winced apologetically, tucking it into his case.
“You are reading a book? Not emails, not airport billboards?”
“I’ve just finished one, as it happens, one of yours that was knocking about, but I thought the crime thriller might be more in keeping with the job at hand, you know with Skinner and Brooke.” He laughed as he spoke, pronouncing their names like some low-budget TV thriller.
She laughed in return, bemused by her own pleasure. “So you want to go into Florence? You weren’t that enraptured last time as I recall. You have a restaurant in mind?”
“I thought we might do a gallery, the Uffizi maybe.”
Isobel almost fell off her chair. “Nice idea, but no chance,” she said ruefully, “the queue will be half way to Pisa this time of year. Remember, we had to skip it last time.”
“I’ve got VIP passes,” he said with a grin.
Isobel was almost speechless. “You mean you’ve actually arranged something. I thought that was my job, or, or Rachel’s.” The laughter died from her eyes as she said the name.
“Well, right now I don’t have an assistant, so I called the concierge service you use, and they sorted it all out.”
Isobel choked on the last blueberry in reply, but before she could ask how Peter even knew she used a concierge service, Andy arrived. He rushed up, spluttering an apology about his driver, red faced and flustered.
“No worries, no worries,” said Peter, with a warmth and friendliness that Isobel wasn’t expecting. “Ok if we talk here?”
Andy nodded and Peter signalled for a coffee as the other man rummaged frantically through his things, his breathing jagged and fast.
“Take a breath for a minute or two, Andy, there’s no rush,” said Peter benevolently. “Ok if Isobel sits in?”
As Andy nodded and sought to compose himself, Peter calmly and neatly laid out two files, a notebook, and a pen — he did not arrive at business meetings half prepared.
“Ok if we get straight down to it?” asked Peter, with no sign of waiting for, or needing, an answer.
“Sure,” said Andy, still catching his breath and fumbling in his briefcase.
“Firstly, Andy, I must congratulate you on the quality of the prospectus, and for all the supporting information; it’s great when things are done so professionally.”
Andy had his doubts about that; quick and dirty was Jay’s style, but he withheld any assumption and latched his eyes onto Peter, buoyed by the eagerness in his eyes.
Peter’s intonation was enthusiastic as he continued. “The reality is that I was sceptical about this opportunity when Jay asked me to look at it. So initially I thought of it as a desk exercise, a favour to Jay mainly, perhaps something I might be able to recommend to one or two of my contacts that are active property investors. Which I am not, by the way, I hardly know a brick from a budgerigar, let alone the business you guys are in.”
Andy nodded; he found Peter’s manner perplexing and took his self-effacement at face value, sounding almost patronising in his reply.
“I’m happy to explain anything that wasn’t clear in the prospectus.”
Peter did not even glance at him and continued as if he had not spoken.
“Anyway I’m now thinking that this is something that I might want to invest in myself, subject to what I hear back from my advisors, but everything they’ve told me so far is most encouraging.” He turned to Isobel and put his arm round her shoulder. “And Isobel just loves the place. And she’s the foremost expert in spending my money,” he said with a smile.
Andy nodded understanding. “Yep, I’ve got a wife like that too,” he replied. Both men laughed, and some of the tension was released. Andy gave her a furtive look as Peter rifled through his papers; she looked too classy for the rumours to be true, but if they were he certainly approved of Jay’s taste.
“The advice I have,” continued Peter, “is that any decision will hinge on what the property is worth now, as future income is uncertain.”
Andy frowned and shook his head a little. “Unfortunately, Peter, I don’t think I could countenance a transaction based on simple property values.”
“Of course, of course, I understand that. But supposing we were looking at just the underlying property values, what figure would you have in mind?”
Andy hesitated.
“Just a ball park,” said Peter with an encouraging smile.
“I would need an updated valuation, of course. But, just as an initial number, around thirty million. Pounds, that is,” added Andy, suppressing a lump in his throat at the gravity of the figure. But Peter, who was used to advising on investments of hundreds of millions for clients, did not blink.
“Well, that’s something we can work around then.”
Andy rushed headlong for the light at the end of the torture, seeing his salvation miraculously materialise before him.
“When would you be able to get back to me? It’s just that I have a couple of other investors looking at this too.”
“That really depends on you. The bank wants to have a look around — due diligence and all that malarkey — just routine I expect.”
“I’d need time to arrange it, set it all up,” said Andy, his eyebrows narrowing. “And I have to think about the staff, this could all be very unsettling to them.”
“No need for that,” said Peter, brisk and authoritative. “I expect these guys do it all the time. Just tell whomever you need to that the taxman is auditing you, and you need to review the accounts. Shall we say tomorrow? Just tell your guys in Capadelli to expect some whippersnappers in suits to poke around for a day or two.”
“A day or two?” said Andy in alarm.
“Beats me too.” Peter gave him a comradely smile. “But I guess they have to spin it out to justify those mind-boggling fees.”
“Which you’re picking up?” said Andy.
“But of course.” Peter turned to Isobel. “If you’ve got nothing else on, darling, maybe you could pop into Capadelli this week, say hello to the team on my behalf. That would be all right, wouldn’t it, Andy?”
He nodded as Peter swivelled one of the files around to face Andy, and offered hi
m a pen. “Now all I need is your signature on a few authorisations; the accountants won’t lift a pebble without permission.” Peter stood up, looking down on him like an examiner.
Andy studied the documents for a long time, but finally signed as Peter silently hovered.
“So tomorrow then,” said Peter cheerfully, “and I will have a definite answer for you in five days. How does that sound?”
Isobel almost ran to keep pace with Peter as they left the airport, desperate to convey her admiration at how well he handled Andy, how he’d reduced a wily businessman to rubble before him.
“It was all so fast, Peter,” she said, full of excitement as they pulled out of the car park. “I don’t think Andy even knew what hit him.”
“Preparation, speed, and surprise. It’s the only way to do it,” said Peter, his professional manner betrayed by the spark of triumph in his eyes.
“Yes, but I mean, you hardly gave him time to think, and he didn’t even realise he was being railroaded into letting the accountants in tomorrow.”
“Oh, I think he did. But as soon as he pushed me on timescales, I knew I had him.”
“Do you think he really believed that you were as keen as you said?”
“That’s what he wants to believe, that I’m his golden goose,” said Peter, with a derisory, almost pitying, laugh.
Isobel raised the corners of her mouth but her stomach started to churn when the implications of his victory became clear. She was now expected to be in the lion’s den the very next day. There could be no hiding away now.
“So the show’s on the road,” said Peter. “Sorry to spring tomorrow on you, but you are ok with going to Capadelli, aren’t you?”
“Of course, why wouldn’t I be?” said Isobel quickly, worry rapidly rising up inside her. Peter glanced at her and ignored the question.
“It’s a great opportunity for you to be nosing around.”
Isobel half-nodded before pausing and turning it into a shake, belatedly realising she had no idea what was going on.
“What are the accountants actually going to be doing?”
“It’s going to be a drains up review. The whole lot, so we see what’s in the sewer.”
“But I thought you’d already got most of what you needed?” she asked tentatively, worried she was being sent back for Peter to feed his ego, or perhaps even for his revenge.
“A lot of it, yes, but there will be gaps, intentional gaps. We need access to their computers.”
“But will…will Brooke agree?” She cringed at the loudness of her voice in the confines of the car, too afraid of it being quiet.
“Brooke doesn’t have a say, Skinner is in charge now,” said Peter confidently.
Isobel wasn’t so sure. “I don’t know, he’s still the boss around Capadelli,” she said, turning her face to look at the passing countryside, wanting to avoid his gaze.
“Not for long, if I have my way. And get this; I’m using the outfit Brooke used to work for, BB&T — that will be poetic justice. They are the best in the business, so we get the true financial position. And I’ve also got their legal people involved. Scams are one thing, but if there has been any criminality in the way things have been done, we need to know about it before Brooke has disappeared into his bolt hole.”
“Do you really think it’s that serious, that Brooke is a crook?” Isobel didn’t want to believe it, but Peter’s authority was almost omnipotent.
“I think it’s a possibility, but that would be for others to decide. But it’s a fine line between a scam and a crime, and Brooke will know where that line is, and think he is just the right side of it. Well, maybe he is and maybe he isn’t.”
“But Brooke will want to know what’s going on, if you are bringing people in, he’s going to want to obstruct things, isn’t he?” She didn’t want to press Peter further but fear gripped her judgement in a vice.
“We need to ensure the accountants get to the documents before Brooke gets to the shredder. So that’s why you need to be with the accountants as early as you can.”
“But won’t Jay be there?” she insisted, flinching at her stupidity.
“How the hell would I know?” snapped Peter, as if the name touched a nerve. “But maybe you can think of something to make sure he’s not.”
Isobel tried to keep a poker face. She had no difficulty thinking of something to keep Jay away, but she was determined to avoid it at all costs.
As she stared at Peter, his eyes on the road, it occurred to her that they had been together for over an hour and she hadn’t seen the infernal phone to his ear.
“You haven’t forgotten your mobile, have you, darling?”
Peter reached into his pocket with one hand as he held the wheel with the other.
“It’s been switched off.”
Peter and Isobel had not even reached the car park before Andy called Jay, all but jumping up and down in the lounge to contain his ecstasy.
“I’ve got some good news at last,” he said with delight, not even waiting for Jay to speak.
“The cancer is in remission?” asked Jay.
“If my only problem was cancer, I’d be smiling. You sitting down?”
“I am now,” said Jay, as he hit the golf ball down the 18th fairway at Castelafi Golf course. “What’s the scoop?”
“Peter Roberts has bought your proposal.” He announced the news syllable-by-syllable, eking out his pleasure piece by piece.
“Now you are joking?” Jay’s voice resonated from the earpiece, its shock hanging almost visibly in the air.
“I kid you not. I just came out of meeting with him, he’s eager as a virgin in an Amsterdam whorehouse.” Andy was only driven to crudity when his emotions reached points of extremity. Jay felt almost fond of him as he replied.
“An apt metaphor perhaps.”
“Anyway,” continued Andy, “guess who we have to thank?”
“Err, give me a second to think, the man that wrote the prospectus maybe?”
“Invented it more like,” shot back Andy cheerfully. “No, seems like the lovely Isobel is driving it. She’s fallen in love with the place, you could almost say she, how shall I put this, she can’t get enough of it…” He left the innuendo hanging there, but Jay seemed oblivious to it.
“So you’ve agreed money?”
“We’ve talked money, and he didn’t even flinch when I told him how much the site alone was worth. So, seeing as I’d give the place away if I could, I reckon a deal can be struck.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Andy; deals like this aren’t done in a heartbeat.”
“Which is the other thing I need to tell you about. His bankers are involved. They want to kick over the stones around Capadelli, and they want to start tomorrow. So I need some adult supervision on site, other than the ridiculous Irishman. You need to be there, that ok?” The only emotion in Andy’s voice was derision for Eamon; he could see no reason why Jay wouldn’t drop everything and save them both.
Jay envisaged his plans for tomorrow, they primarily involved Isobel and a blindfold, and he had no plans to change them and babysit accountants.
“I’ll make sure it’s covered off.”
“I don’t have anything to worry about on this, do I, Jay?”
“The books are cleaner than a dentist’s teeth. At least the books they’ll see.”
“Good. I don’t need to tell you how much we need this.”
“Sure, Andy, I get it,” said Jay, hitting the off button as he rooted around for his lost ball in the rough.Forty-four
Peter’s footsteps echoed with a sort of hallowed menace as he paced the marble foyer of BB&T, the company he had enlisted to find out exactly what was happening at Castello di Capadelli. He was due to meet with Toby Brougham, a senior partner, and the rest of his team in mere moments — only a forbidding oak door stood between him and the truth. As his name was called and the door swung open his heart lifted with the prospect of retribution and, as he walked in to
see a formidable semi-circle of experts, waiting to deliver their verdicts on the ill-fated venture, he felt all-powerful again.
At the centre sat Toby, crisp and polished in his black suit. He had the appearance of wisdom; he was silver haired, and every feature on his face was outlined by a series of faint wrinkles, extending outwards like ripples on water. A thick-rimmed pair of spectacles rested majestically on his nose and when he looked down to read his notes — intertwining his long fingers in meditative thought — they slid down to the end, giving every impression of condescending severity. A lesser man would have been cowed in his presence but Peter was clad in the iron armour of his business persona and had been in the game long enough to recognise Toby as a softly spoken philosopher beneath a granite shell.
Toby gave Peter a curt nod before he began, his voice ringing out emotionless and authoritative.
“We have completed our initial review of the company, though we must stress that we do not yet know everything, and that further work is needed.”
“Of course,” said Peter; the necessity of further investigation was a phrase he had used with clients a thousand times.
“The financial situation, Mr. Roberts, is critical.” Toby looked down gravely to the figures at his fingertips, his glasses sliding ominously downwards. “The company is, we believe, insolvent. I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news.” He paused to let the message sink in, his studied countenance inviting some form of reaction from Peter, whose face was serious but otherwise blank, a studied mask to hide his satisfaction from the room.
“So, there’s no possibility of them turning the situation around?”
“No possibility at all as we see it,” said Toby, his mouth a straight, thin, and unchangeable line. “They owe twenty million Euros to creditors alone.”
“So they’re in a bit of a fix then?” asked Peter, controlling a twitch of laughter with iron will. Toby narrowed his eyes and looked hard at Peter, focusing his gaze through the lenses like beams of light.
“I’m afraid so, Mr. Roberts. I’m sorry we can’t be more encouraging with this opportunity.”
Peter nodded, his face set in disappointment. “You say that millions are owed to creditors, is there any possibility this is a case of fraud?”