by JG Alva
He waited. She continued to avoid his eye. She also started to blush.
Inwardly, Sutton sighed. This one was more complicated than he was used to. It wasn’t that he couldn’t unlock her…it was that she didn’t know herself well enough to know that she needed unlocking. Like a puzzle that did not know its own answer.
The kind that intrigued Sutton the most.
*
An hour passed, in which they hardly spoke.
Angela had to excuse herself to use a restroom. Somewhere.
“It was that coffee.”
“Hm.”
He passed her his sunglasses.
“Don’t let him see you,” he warned, wagging the sunglasses in her face. “If he’s walking towards you, turn into someone’s house. Go up to the front door. Pretend to knock. Don’t turn around until you’re sure he’s gone.”
She nodded, taking the sunglasses from him.
Fifteen minutes later, she returned.
“He’s coming,” she informed him. She sounded slightly out of breath.
“You saw him?”
“He was right behind me,” she said, and indicated the pavement in front of the car with a nod of her head.
Sutton looked.
Daniel was walking back up the road toward them.
“Did he see you?” He asked.
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
Daniel didn’t seem to be very happy. His walk was slow and idle, and he stared at the pavement morosely. Bad news. He didn’t look up. He simply strode to his car, unlocked it, got in, and drove away. In a moment he was gone.
“Aren’t you going to follow him?” Angela asked, surprised when Sutton made no move to do so.
“Nope,” he said, smiling. He got out of the car. “I need to find out why he was there. Stay here.” He paused, and then added, “please.”
She hesitated, and then nodded, and he shut the door on her.
*
CHAPTER 11
When Sutton returned to the bank, the advisor that Daniel had been talking to was nowhere to be seen. The glass office was empty, and he was not in any others, or at any of the tables.
Sutton went looking for him.
The main floor of the bank was L-shaped, and a line of cashiers behind bullet proof glass took up most of one wall toward the back. There was a security door, marked STAFF ONLY. Sutton waited behind a line of three people, in front of a rope-and-post barrier. When he was finally able to speak to someone in their glass case, he was told that Mr Davies was not available. He had to stress several times that Mr Davies would see him, if somebody would only pass on his name. When the woman behind the glass finally realised that he wasn’t going to go away unless she did, then she finally relented (with the appropriate put-upon sigh).
She walked away, to some secret inner sanctum of the bank, and then returned a minute later, a mildly shocked look on her face.
“He wants to talk to you,” she said, as if the words didn’t make sense.
She indicated the STAFF ONLY door, and at that moment it opened.
“Sutton?” Martin said, as surprised – in his own way – as the woman behind the glass. “Is that you?”
“None other, skipper.” Sutton shook the offered hand. “How are you doing?”
“Fine. My wife’s got hold of one nut and the bank’s got hold of the other. Other than that, everything’s tickedy-boo.”
“Listen,” Sutton said. “Have you got a free five minutes? I need to talk to you.”
“Are you buying? I think it’s your turn.”
“My pleasure, Martin. As always. Where do you want to go?”
Martin rubbed at his chin.
“There’s a café around the corner. They do some wonderful caramel slices.”
*
He still only came up to Sutton’s breastbone. He was the same old Martin: five years younger than him, short, quick, his face a collection of small youthful features behind his glasses. And chubby. And maybe getting chubbier, as the years got long.
They selected a couple of seats in the window, Sutton with a large saucer of tea, Martin with a coffee and a caramel slice.
“Jesus, Sutton,” he said, with wonder. “How are you?”
“No better than when you last saw me. But no worse either.”
He laughed.
“That’s one way to put it. You got big. I mean, you were always big, but…Jesus. You look like a tank. Whereas I got fat.”
Martin Davies sighed, loosened his tie, and sat back in his chair.
“God, you couldn’t have come at a better time,” he said.
“Why? Busy?”
“Just a bit.”
“You still on loans?”
He smiled.
“Moved up now. Portfolio Manager.”
“What’s a Portfolio Manager? I’ve always wondered.”
He brought the cup to his lips but hesitated.
“Someone who works less, but worries more.” He took a sip of coffee, then grimaced. Must be strong. “Portfolio managers look at projects; ultimately whether the bank should invest in them or not. I’ve got a team of guys working for me, analysts and researchers and such; they’re the brains really. We sit around and discuss the pros and cons and then inform the client of our decision.” He took another sip of coffee. “But what are you up to? Still investing with that shark McDowell?”
“He’s good.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” Martin said. “But just be glad you don’t have to go to parties with him. He’s an insufferable turd.” He took another sip. He looked thoughtful. “You should let me handle your stock.”
“I thought about it, Martin,” he admitted, “but you’re too much of a friend. With McDowell, if anything happens I don’t mind falling out with him. But if it were you...”
“If you’re so much of a friend,” Martin said slowly, “then how come you don’t come round and see Rachel and me anymore?”
“Honestly?” He said. “It’s envy. Pure and simple. You’ve got the sort of home life a man could become quite jealous of. How are Sally and Sam, by the way?”
“Sam’s as good as gold, as ever,” he said, “but Sally’s at a difficult stage. Actually, it’s probably best if you don’t come round right now. Knowing my luck, Sally’d probably fall in love with you. And you’re not much of a role model for young Sam.”
“Thanks,” he said sardonically.
“We’d be glad to have you round any time,” Martin said earnestly. “You know that.”
Martin was an old old friend, back from the days when it seemed that those friends were not the only friends that one might acquire. But new friends got harder and harder to come by. Sutton wondered why that was. He assumed it was something to do with the brain. When you were young, the brain is a lot less rigid; you can make allowances for people. Now, he didn’t have much time for people and their foolishness…and even less for new people and their foolishness.
“So how’s your home life?” Martin asked. “Have you settled down yet? Do I hear the sound of wedding bells? Or the patter of tiny feet?”
“No. Not yet.”
“You’re the eternal playboy,” he said. “You’re never going to settle down, are you. You’re always going to be living life the way you want to live. You’re never going to give in to somebody else’s demands on your lifestyle and independence.”
“Maybe one day I’ll be wise enough to,” Sutton said.
“Sutton,” Martin said, holding a hand up, “don’t. You’re my hero, and the envy of every married corporate thirty something I know. You have the life we all dream of. You’re a bird, floating on your own currents, free from the shackles of mortgages and credit cards and time clocks. Please don’t change.”
“You can honestly tell me that your dream doesn’t include Rachel and Sally and Sam? I don’t believe it.”
Martin
looked thoughtful for a moment.
“No,” he said, “you’re right. But I’m the exception that proves the rule. I actually know how lucky I am. My contemporaries don’t.”
“The grass is always greener,” Sutton said, sipping his own drink.
“Man’s eternal folly, to want what he doesn’t have.” Martin smiled. “That’s why the loan division of my bank does so well, you know. Most of our business is created from the pathos of man. It’s bought me a bloody big house.”
“Speaking of which…”
“Ah.”
Martin had been expecting some sort of favour. He was too smart by half.
Sutton was careful when he said, “I popped into the bank earlier. I saw you were busy with a client.”
“You know him?”
Sutton nodded, but then said, “we’re not friends.”
“Thank God for that.” Martin looked relieved.
“You don’t like him?”
“Not one bit. And I’m pretty sure no one else does. He’s an insufferable man, the sort I hate: the kind that thinks the world owes him a favour. I can’t stand that sort of…entitlement. And yet I see it more and more, the older I get.”
“What were you two talking about?”
Martin didn’t immediately answer. In fact, he did not move, except to bite his lip and stare at Sutton and measure him. He looked at his plate, but the caramel slice was gone.
At length, he said, “I can’t tell you.”
Sutton nodded.
“I could lose my job,” Martin protested.
Sutton nodded again.
“I’d be betraying a client.”
Sutton said nothing.
Martin was about to speak, but then stopped himself.
Instead, he stared into his coffee cup, thinking.
“Why do you need to know?” He asked eventually, in a quieter voice.
Sutton said, “a favour for a friend.”
Martin looked deeply troubled.
“Are you talking about Green Light?” He asked.
Sutton nodded.
“You know Margaret Douglas?” Martin asked.
“I do indeed.”
“She’s the friend?”
“An old, dear friend.”
Martin sat back in his seat.
“Now, that is a solid business right there. On the edge of becoming something else altogether. If my client has anything to do with it.”
Sutton sat forward, interested.
“What do you mean?”
Martin looked around the café as if they were two spies trading national secrets. Sutton was privately quite amused. There had never been such a banal scene in any spy movie he had ever seen, and the action was completely unnecessary: two middle-aged women with toddlers under five years old sat ten feet from them. Other than the young Polish girl working behind the counter, there was nobody else in the place.
“Imagine Green Light was the only letting agency in central Bristol,” he said, in hushed tones.
“Would that be good?”
Martin huffed.
“It would be profitable. Awesomely so. I happen to know that nineteen thousand students attend the various educational institutions in and around Bristol, and that ninety nine point nine percent of that nineteen thousand come from other parts of the country, or abroad. So that’s nineteen thousand people that need a place to stay in Bristol, preferably near a University. So where do you put these people?”
“And this is what you were talking to Daniel about?”
“Not exactly,” Martin said, pulling a face. He looked around again, as if checking for listeners. “You might have heard about the big development on the waterfront.”
“Is that going ahead?”
Martin nodded, but he looked concerned.
“It’s being set up by a consortium of property owners. Landlords. Being a landlord is a good living, if you were smart enough to buy when the housing market was down, and you held your nerve until it started to come back up again. Now, if this were a city without a university, then you could still earn some good money. But this is a city with a university, with several large colleges, which creates more of a demand – if you get my meaning.”
“So there’s more money to be made,” Sutton said knowingly.
“Of course. Demand determines price. And the more people there are that require your services, the higher you can afford to charge. That’s why you’ve got football players trading in the millions.”
“So what has this got to do with Daniel?”
“Well.” Martin allowed himself a small smile. “He wants in on it.”
“Is that why he wants Green Light?”
Martin shook his head.
“No.”
Sutton frowned.
“I don’t understand.”
Martin cleared his throat and said, “the consortium wants Green Light.”
Sutton thought about that.
“Why?”
Martin shrugged, but he said, “they want control. I can’t speak to their business plan, but it makes sense. In one way. They can’t own all the properties, but they can at least determine price, by having all the letting agencies in their pockets. They've got quite a few already. But Green Light is bigger than most, and more…strategically placed. Or at least the properties it manages are. It’s a jewel in the crown, so to speak. The new development by the docks is going to be eighty percent living accommodation. For tourists, for travelling businessmen…but also for some of the nascent student population. Green Light can undercut them, if they choose. Devalue the business.”
“Is Green Light really that powerful?”
Martin shook his head, as if dealing with a particularly dull pupil. Who knew, maybe he was.
“It’s not that,” he said. “Or it’s not just that.”
“Then what is it?”
“My guess…a young and ambitious manager is trying to impress his bosses. It’s on his list of objectives for the quarter, or the year, I don’t know. But he’s doing all he can to get the job done. And he’s getting Daniel to help him.”
“But Daniel can’t sell Green Light. He’ll only have a portion of it. At best.”
“But if he sold that portion, they’d have a way in. Then how long would it be before they started to put pressure on the original owner?”
“But that doesn’t seem like smart business. Not on Daniel’s part. Just to sell it to this consortium. Surely it’s more profitable to keep it.”
“Ah. But money is not all that he’ll get for it, if he decides to sell to them.”
“Then what?”
“He’ll have an opportunity. That’s what. Just like this ambitious young manager. He’ll get a chance for the big boys to see what he can offer. I mean, this consortium are no light weights – they run businesses worth hundreds of millions. If he pleases them, then it’s a whole new world for him. A whole new future.” He made a face and then added, “if he can pull it off.”
So. It was a bigger playing field than Sutton had first thought, than Daniel had let on. That’s why he wanted all of Green Light, and not just the properties that Terry had owned.
Where did Maggie factor into these plans?
Probably nowhere. No consideration had been spared beyond his own limited interests.
He was entitled, like Martin had said. Or more accurately, he thought he was.
“Thank you, Martin.”
“Honestly, Sutton, you can’t breathe a word of this-“
He saw Sutton’s face, and then stopped.
“Of course you won’t,” he said, suitably chastised.
“Have I ever?” He challenged him.
“No.”
“Have I ever spoken about what I did for you? The trouble you were in?”
Martin avoided his eyes.
“No. Never. And I appreciate it. You know I do.”
Sutton nodded.<
br />
“From your perspective, do you think Daniel will get all of Green Light?”
Martin shook his head.
“I don’t know. I don’t know the legal side of it. The ins and outs. But he seems pretty confident.”
There was silence between them a moment.
Sutton checked his friend’s face.
“Don’t look so nervous,” he said easily.
“I could lose my job,” he said again.
“You won’t.”
“Still. If anyone knew I was talking to you…”
Sutton had a thought.
“Alright. Here’s a solution: how about if I arranged a meeting between you and Margaret Douglas.”
Martin stared at him.
“To what end?”
“To her selling Green Light to this consortium. And completely cutting Daniel and this other manager out.”
Martin’s eyebrows rose up an inch on his forehead.
“Could you do that?”
“Would you be interested?”
“Definitely. All I’ve been able to give the consortium are Daniel’s promises – it would be nice to go back to them with something more concrete.”
“You don’t have any loyalties to Daniel?”
“Good God, no. The man is odious. I don’t care if I never see him again.”
Sutton nodded.
“Then leave it with me. I’ll see what I can do.”
“When will you know?”
Sutton thought.
“A couple of days. At most.”
Martin licked his lips.
“If you can swing this…”
“What?”
He smiled.
“I might have one less ulcer.”
Sutton raised his cup toward Martin in a salute.
“I’ll drink to that.”
*
CHAPTER 12
Maggie stood in the centre of the office at the back of the Whiteladies branch of Green Light and blinked myopically at Sutton.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
Angela gave out a short frustrated bark.
“Yes, you do,” she said. “This consortium – whoever they are – is what is driving Daniel. It’s not your empire he wants, it’s to please them. He wants to be able to get in on this big build on the docks so he can go on doing what he does best: as little as possible.”