by Rosie Howard
‘I knew you were seeing him. I didn’t realise you were quite so stuck for conversation. I thought it was a bender?’
‘He doesn’t drink, actually. I was just winding you up. Anyway, he was telling me there’s legislation forbidding the mandatory inclusion of beer ties in leases offered to publicans by the pub companies.’
‘Okay,’ said Maddy. ‘Never mind how you know, how does he know?’
‘He is sort of in the business …’ said Ben.
Then, the penny dropped. ‘Your mate Jonno is that Jonno McGrath bloke from Sails nightclub?’
‘One and the same. Don’t you remember him from your student days?’
‘He arrived after I left,’ explained Maddy. ‘Like you did. Oh dear,’ she went on, ‘don’t tell Patrick you’ve been talking to Jonno McGrath about our troubles.’
‘Not a fan?’
‘Not really,’ Maddy went on. ‘It’s fair enough. Jonno represents the enemy. Patrick’s been known to describe him as “that jumped-up Irish boozer”, which is a tad unfair if – as you say – he doesn’t drink. Isn’t that a bit unusual for a publican, by the way?’
‘You remember I said Jonno was one of my ex-army mates?’ explained Ben. ‘What I didn’t say was that, as far as work goes he’s also one of my moderate successes.’
‘PTSD?’
‘With knobs on. He’s very open about it, otherwise I wouldn’t say. Basically, although he’s better than he was, his anger issues don’t mix with alcohol but do seem to improve with physical exercise, so he’s the cleanest living, hardest-running bloke you’ll ever meet. As for the insomnia, it’s a plus given the hours he keeps with the nightclub, which is partly why he took it on. Nowadays he only feels safe to sleep in the daytime so that’s when he does it.’
‘So, thanks to your help he’s now a cross between the Terminator and a vampire. Good job! Can’t wait for you to fix me.’
‘I can only help if you’ll let me.’
‘Anyway,’ she said, breaking his gaze, ‘I’m not sure your Jonno is exactly the ally we’re looking for, although the beer tie info’s helpful.’
‘He’s a good bloke,’ insisted Ben. ‘You need to learn to trust people.’
‘It’s interesting to know, though,’ said Maddy. ‘The loathsome Dennis has sent Patrick a draft lease for approval definitely including the beer tie, so we should chuck that aspect back at him for a start.’
‘Okay,’ said Ben, ‘so Patrick needs to calculate whether it works out cheaper to buy all his beer from Top Taverns in return for a lower rent or whether he’d be better off paying more rent and being allowed to sell what he wants.’
‘Can’t imagine a beer tie pays,’ mused Maddy. ‘That Golden Brite stuff’s terrible. I’m amazed anyone drinks it …’
‘And yet they do,’ said Ben. ‘Listen, tell Patrick what Jonno said but maybe don’t tell him Jonno said it. It’s up to Top Taverns to propose a “rent only” alternative but he had better ask quick because his lease expires just after Christmas and we need to know where we stand.’
‘We may as well face facts,’ said Patrick, when Maddy relayed the news. ‘Whether Top Taverns are allowed to enforce the beer tie or not, the main issue is they want more money out of the Havenbury Arms than the turnover can generate, and if I can’t afford to give them their pound of flesh then they’ll either offer the lease to another publican or just sell the whole place from under me.’
‘I think Maddy’s right,’ said Helen. ‘You should at least ask Top Taverns to propose a lease without it. Then we can look at your sales and work out which deal is better for you.’
‘Fine,’ said Patrick gloomily. ‘Maddy, will you ask for me? I don’t think I can face a conversation with that little turd just at the moment. And that reminds me of another pressing issue … The sales info we need will come out of the annual stocktake and it won’t be long before my bookkeeper lady comes knocking on the door for it so she can do the year-end stuff. Surrounded by bossy women, me …’ he added.
‘So, what do we have to do?’ said Maddy, rubbing her hands.
‘To help with the stocktake?’ said Patrick. ‘That’s the last thing you’d want to do, I should have thought. Dead boring. Plus, there’s the leg thing,’ he said, gesturing at Maddy’s plaster.
‘I’ll do it,’ said Helen firmly. ‘Maddy can take notes and you can give instructions.’
‘Aren’t you keen to get home?’ said Patrick hopefully.
‘With you and Maddy in this state?’ said Helen. ‘Not remotely. And if I don’t do it myself I’m pretty sure it’ll end up being some silly sod not a million miles from here humping boxes around and generally doing things he shouldn’t.’
‘Many of our tenants are hugely appreciative of our beer tie deals,’ insisted Dennis. ‘They constitute a very attractive business proposition, especially for our newer publicans looking for lower fixed costs while they build their business.’
‘Yes, well Patrick is hardly wet behind the ears, is he?’ said Maddy. ‘He’s been filling Top Taverns’ pockets for nearly ten years and he just wants a chance to look at all the options.’
God, even talking to the oily little man made her want to hold the phone away from her ear and give it a good wipe. ‘Anyway, the point is, you’re supposed to be giving publicans the choice, beer tie or full market rent.’
‘Alright, alright … fine. I’ll email an alternative version of the lease without the beer tie.’
‘Good.’
‘It’s all very well quoting your rights, but I very much doubt Patrick will like the new version when he sees it, either.’
‘That’s as may be,’ replied Maddy with dignity, ‘but we would like to see it, nonetheless. We will speak again when we’ve considered all the options.’
‘And while you’re considering “all the options”,’ said Dennis, ‘I should have thought Patrick would do well to add “graceful retirement” to his list.’
Maddy had begun to enjoy her new life. The work was hard – especially with plaster on her leg – but there was a routine to the days. She adored having her mother and Patrick there, for all their bickering and Patrick’s complaining. He was infuriated by his weakened state and desperate to take the strain away from Maddy but she took pride in getting the pub running right, with food the customers appreciated. If she was too highly tuned to visits from Ben, who tended to pop in at least a couple of times a week, then she hoped she didn’t show it and if fear for the pub’s future had not quite abated, the little team were learning – after Patrick’s near-death experience – to live in the moment and be satisfied with that.
Despite having dreaded it for days, the stocktake was simple enough. They needed a record of every bottle, cask and packet of crisps in the storeroom so their book-lady Libby could work out how much of Patrick’s money was tied up in stock at the year end. Helen made Maddy sit down and handwrite the figures she was shouting out as she worked through the shelves and cupboards.
‘Libby’ll be in soon,’ said Patrick, looking at his watch. ‘She usually drops the pay packets in around now.’
‘She won’t be thrilled with this scrappy old list,’ said Maddy, holding up the paper she had been jotting on. ‘I’ll have to drop it all into an Excel file and email it to her, won’t I?’
‘I never have,’ said Patrick. ‘She’s had a handwritten stocklist from me for years.’
‘She’s too kind to insist you join the twenty-first century.’
‘You know what they say about old dogs and new tricks,’ he retorted. ‘Ah, speak of the devil, there you are, Libby. Tell this cheeky young woman a handwritten stocktake is fine.’
‘A handwritten stocktake is fine,’ parroted Libby, a slim, blonde woman in her late twenties. ‘Is it done?’ she said, holding out her hand for the list and shooting Maddy an understanding grin. ‘I’ll just drop the pay packets into the safe and I can pop back home to bung them into the stock sheet. Jack’s at nursery until midday today, thankfully
.’
‘Not sure you should be spending a rare free morning crunching figures,’ protested Maddy.
‘It’s fine,’ said Libby. ‘Mostly I do it at night once the children are in bed. I’ll be able to sit up and watch telly tonight instead.’
‘Let me make you a coffee and you can do it here,’ said Maddy. ‘Would it speed things up if I read stuff out to you?’
‘Yes, actually,’ said Libby gratefully. ‘I’ve got what I need,’ she added, fumbling in her bag in a welter of spare nappies, baby wipes, bottles of water and packs of mini rice cakes before finally bringing out a slim, battered laptop.
‘Young mums are famous for carrying everything but the kitchen sink,’ said Helen. ‘I always did.’
‘What makes you think I forgot the kitchen sink?’ joked Libby, plonking a sheaf of papers, a calculator and a couple of biros on the table next to the computer.
‘There we go,’ she said, just minutes later. ‘A complete record of stock bought and sold over the last twelve months.’ She took a swig of her latte and pressed save with a little flourish. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got the time sheets, have you?’
Maddy fetched them and watched in awe as Libby inputted them, her right hand tapping in the figures without looking whilst she used her left-hand index finger to guide her eyes down the handwritten columns of the time sheets.
When she finished and was sitting drinking her coffee, Maddy had a thought: ‘You know that stock sheet?’
Libby nodded.
‘Do you have them for previous years too?’
‘Absolutely. I’ve definitely got them for the last couple of years, anyhow. When I took over the job I set up my own spreadsheets from scratch, really: stock, takings, time sheets, the whole thing …’
‘I don’t suppose you can, sort of, compare them, can you? I mean to previous years, but also – to each other?’
‘Sure,’ said Libby, draining her coffee and returning to the keyboard. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘Not sure,’ admitted Maddy. ‘I suppose I want to see anything that’s surprising. Is there any change in the last year that there isn’t an obvious explanation for, especially in the last few months or so? Since Patrick’s been less involved in the day-to-day running of the pub …’
Libby nodded twice sharply, and then sat with her hands poised over the keyboard.
‘Okay,’ she said, ‘for a start let’s compare the stock turnover year on year.’ She clattered at the keyboard for a bit, toggling between two files and rapidly tapping in formulas. ‘Let’s see it as a bar chart,’ she muttered to herself, tapping a few more keys.
‘There. Pretty,’ she said, swivelling the laptop to show Maddy the screen. It was a mass of vertical red and blue stripes.
‘So, what am I looking at?’ said Maddy, perplexed.
Libby leant around and pointed. ‘Look, so here’s this year’s stock in blue, divided category by category – snacks, casks, spirits, mixers and so forth – and last year’s equivalent stock categories in red. See?’
Maddy did see.
‘Funny, though …’ added Libby, frowning.
‘What?’
‘Hmm,’ she said. ‘We know turnover has dropped – I show you that in a minute – so obviously that will be visible in the amount of stock we’ve got through, right across all the categories, right?’ She looked at Maddy to check she was following.
Maddy nodded.
‘First, it’s generally not, which is surprising in itself but on the other hand … look at the spirits category, here,’ she pointed again. Maddy peered at the screen.
‘It’s much lower,’ she exclaimed.
‘Exactly.’
‘So, we know turnover has fallen because the takings at the end of the nights that I have seen have definitely been a bit lower than expected, but from here it just looks like people have dramatically cut their consumption of gin, whisky, vodka … but not, say, snacks.’
‘Exactly,’ said Libby again.
‘It’s not like they’re suddenly drinking more beer instead,’ mused Maddy, looking more closely at the bars in the chart. ‘In fact, they’re drinking a little bit less, if anything.’
‘Hardly surprising,’ commented Libby. ‘I don’t know a single devotee of Golden Shite – sorry – Golden Brite lager. Plus it’s about a quid per pint more than at Sails down the road.’
‘Jonno doesn’t sell Golden Shite – Brite – at Sails, does he?’
‘No fear,’ said Libby. ‘He’s mostly got the ales from Blackdown Brewery up the road. Their lager’s brilliant. Plus it’s cheaper. It doesn’t bother me because I drink wine mostly, but a lot of my friends say they wish Patrick would stock some decent beers on tap.’
‘Mmm. Funny you should say. That’s quite the topic du jour at the moment … Okay, what would be the reason for us suddenly selling fewer spirits?’ Maddy asked. ‘The markup on them is pretty good so it’s a big hole in the profits if it’s true. Also,’ she went on, ‘if we were selling fewer spirits you’d expect us to be selling fewer mixers – you know, tonic, orange juice, ginger ale – but those sales are almost identical to last year.’
‘So … what does it mean?’
‘I don’t know yet. Okay, tell me this: is it possible to see what we sell in relation to who’s been working for each shift over the whole of the previous year? Temporary staff too?’
Libby shook her head. ‘The data isn’t there for that, but I could give you the turnover per shift against the staff on the rota – would that be any good?’
‘Yes, it might be,’ said Maddy. ‘And I’d really like to know the shift-by-shift turnover year on year too.’
‘That last one’s easy,’ said Libby. ‘Hang on a mo.’ In less than a minute she twizzled the laptop to show Maddy again.
‘Blimey,’ said Maddy.
‘Quite,’ agreed Libby. ‘Kind of falls off a cliff, doesn’t it?’
They both looked again.
‘And that’s around the time Patrick started to withdraw,’ said Libby, pointing. ‘He was really ill with some sort of bug around May and, after that, he just really wasn’t around much. No coincidence?’
‘No coincidence,’ agreed Maddy.
‘Okay,’ said Libby slowly. ‘You were wanting a closer look at takings in relation to the staff rota. It’s not obvious, but I think …’
While Libby worked it out, Maddy made them both another coffee. By the time she had got back to the table carrying the two mugs precariously in one hand and limping with her crutch in the other, Libby was looking pleased with herself.
‘Here you go,’ she said. ‘I mashed the staff rota data in with the daily turnover data. Check it out.’
Maddy looked again. ‘Talk me through?’
‘So,’ said Libby, ‘here’s the turnover when Adam was on shift.’
‘Adam?’
‘Sorry, forgot,’ said Libby. ‘Patrick did less and less from May this year and Adam started about the same time. He was lovely,’ she said. ‘Nice arse. Anyhow, he left in September to go travelling. Just a few weeks before Patrick had his heart attack. When he was here, he and Kevin split the shifts fairly evenly between them. So, here, you can see turnover on Kevin’s shifts,’ she pointed, ‘and here are the shifts Adam worked.’ She pointed again.
‘Kevin’s are lower,’ said Maddy.
‘Yup,’ said Libby, ‘by quite a bit.’
‘Doesn’t surprise me,’ said Serena when she and Ben popped in later. Maddy took them upstairs to the flat, even though the crutches made it a faff. She wanted to make sure they weren’t interrupted. ‘Surely just looking at his spotty face would put customers off and make them spend less.’
‘Not nigh on twenty-five per cent less,’ Maddy reasoned.
‘I don’t see why not. I just look at him and I want to poke him in the eye. I’ve always known he was up to something.’
‘That’s not exactly what she said, though,’ interceded Ben. ‘Low turnover in itself isn
’t proof of anything criminal.’
‘It is when consumption has stayed the same. And then there’s the thing about the spirits,’ said Maddy. ‘That’s definitely dodgy. I just can’t quite work out what the scam is … and, of course, I have no proof it’s him that’s done something.’
‘How frustrating,’ said Serena. ‘Shouldn’t we ask Patrick? He must know the common dodges by now. Time was he’d have spotted it a mile off.’
‘Not yet,’ said Maddy. ‘Libby’s promised to take a closer look at everything. Let’s see what she comes back with.’
‘Don’t we need to watch the little weasel, though?’ insisted Serena. ‘Whatever he’s doing, he’s doing it right under our noses.’
‘Hmm, true,’ said Ben. ‘But when I sat and watched him recently I couldn’t see him do anything that meant anything to me,’ he admitted. ‘I told you, Maddy – didn’t I – that he sometimes left the till drawer open in between customers?’
‘You did, but I don’t suppose it’s as simple as someone just leaning over and grabbing a few notes when people’s backs are turned. Maybe he has an accomplice …’
‘I think I’d have noticed that,’ said Ben.
‘And also, the till would have been out,’ said Maddy.
‘Out?’ queried Serena.
‘When you cash up at night,’ Maddy explained, ‘the till roll gives you a total figure for all the transactions you’ve rung in throughout the shift and that figure – whatever it is – should be the same as the amount of money you’ve got in the till. Minus the float, of course.’
‘Does it always add up?’ asked Ben.
‘Usually,’ said Maddy. ‘Occasionally it’ll be a few pence out; that just means you might have given someone slightly the wrong change. Actually, the annoying thing is when it’s exactly a tenner down, and then you know you’ve given someone change for a twenty when they only gave you ten. And of course it can work in your favour too, if you’ve made a mistake the other way – although customers let you know pretty quickly if you do that. Anyway, that’s not the kind of thing we’re talking about here. I’ve been impressed at how precise Kevin’s cashing up is. The amount in the safe is always exactly what the till roll says it should be. He’s uncannily accurate, if anything.’