Alternative outcome

by Peter Rowlands

  “I bet it’s full of procedural mistakes. Writers never know anything about the police unless they’re on the force themselves. Do you even know anything about ranks?”

  I reeled them off. “DC, DS, DI, detective chief inspector, detective superintendent.” I hesitated. “Detective chief superintendent.”

  “You got all that from the internet.”

  “Why shouldn’t I?”

  He chuckled.

  I said, “I don’t know why I brought this up with you.”

  “Yes, why did you?”

  I laughed. “Actually, I wondered if you’d mind reading it. You can get it online.” I hesitated. “I’ll pay you back.”

  “Blimey, mate, you must be desperate if you’re having to ring round and beg people to read it – and you’re paying them to do it.”

  “Yeah yeah.” I paused. “I could just send you the file if you prefer.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m sure I can afford it. The question is, why do I think you’re after more than just one more reluctant fan?”

  “Well, I could explain it to you, but quite honestly it would be easier if you just read the book first. Then you’ll know what I’m talking about, and you can draw your own conclusions.”

  “OK, you’ve got me intrigued. But don’t blame me if I bring you a list of mistakes at the end.”

  “Fine, gratefully received.” I paused a moment. “You do read novels, do you? Mysteries and thrillers, I mean. That kind of thing?”

  “I’ve been known to.”

  “Well then, just give it a go.” I paused. “And if you could manage to do it pretty soon, that would be really helpful.”

  “You don’t ask much, do you?”

  Chapter 33

  The following day my office phone rang and a woman’s voice said, “Mr Stanhope? I have a call for you. Please hold.”

  Such a formal opening usually heralded a call from someone eminent, or at least someone with pretensions to eminence. I picked up a pen and waited, intrigued.

  “Michael Stanhope?” An over-loud, confident voice.

  “Speaking.”

  “Mr Stanhope, this is Janni Noble. I have something I wanted to tell you.”

  I felt my eyes widen. This was a surprise.

  I waited, but he seemed to hesitate. Finally he said, “Mr Stanhope, since our recent meeting I have a sense that …” He broke off. “I feel that I have misjudged you somewhat. You could say I am in your debt, in a manner of speaking.”

  “I hardly think so,” I said.

  “I do not thank you for the article you wrote, but – well, I can see that it was your job, and the truth is that it made no difference to us.”

  I said nothing, and he cleared his throat. “So. A matter has arisen that is causing me some annoyance, and I felt it incumbent upon me to report it to someone.” He paused again. “I was not sure to whom I might pass this information, but it seemed to me that you might be an appropriate person.”

  “I’m pleased that you have changed your opinion of me.”

  He said nothing to that, so I added, “Just to be clear though, I can’t make a commitment to using your information in any particular way, or in fact at all. This can’t be a trade.”

  “This is understood. Of course.”

  “OK, fine. Well what is it?”

  I could almost hear his thoughts whirring as he marshalled them into order. “You are familiar with the Vantage Express Group, I believe, and acquainted with its managing director, Mr Richard Ashton?”

  “Yes, I was with him when I met you in London earlier this year.”

  “So. Mr Ashton’s company has rented a significant number of vehicles from us. Around eighty-five, I believe.” He seemed to be checking something, perhaps on his computer monitor. “Many of these are on long-term hire, some are on spot hire.”

  “I see.” This was entirely unsurprising. Organisations in the logistics world regularly hired parts of their vehicle fleets, especially when they worked in a seasonal business like parcel deliveries, where the vehicle requirement fluctuated widely over the year.

  “Eight months ago Mr Ashton approached me to ask for a deferral of payment for this business. I agreed, of course.”

  “Right.”

  “This was conditional upon full payment within a given time span. It is normal.”

  “OK.” I wondered where this was going.

  “When the payment date came, Mr Ashton asked me for a further deferral, on the promise of full repayment at the end of that time, plus immediate payment of all fees accrued in the meantime.”

  “OK.”

  “That time came, and now he is telling me he still cannot pay. He wants me to reduce my charge to a much lower figure, and he tells me I will have to wait another three or four months for the money.” His voice was rising as he said this, and I could feel the anger behind it.

  “So where does this leave you?”

  “This is not how we do business here. This is not honest trading. Mr Ashton thinks his business is so important that I will be grateful to have it. Frankly he is expecting me to help him keep his own company afloat – and he thinks I should be thanking him for it.”

  I listened to this with fascination. I had a sense that moral indignation was a bigger factor in Janni’s mind than the actual debt. I said, “So if you end up getting nothing from Vantage, will this seriously compromise your company?”

  “It will not.” He sounded nettled. “We are a substantial company, and we have many customers. No, it is a matter of principle.”

  “But there is a lot of money at stake here.”

  “Indeed there is! Mr Ashton owes us more than a quarter of a million pounds.”

  “Why don’t you just withdraw your equipment?”

  He clicked his tongue impatiently. “Ah, when to take this action? That is the sixty-four thousand dollar question, is it not? We do not wish to forfeit this money. I do not wish to give Mr Ashton grounds to sue us when he is the one who is in breach of terms.”

  “So what are you expecting me to do?”

  “I do not wish to see others in this position. Mr Ashton’s company should not be allowed to trade if it is insolvent.”

  “You don’t know that, though. You’re just speculating.”

  “You are the journalist, Mr Stanhope. You find out.”

  * * *

  I tossed my pen down on the desk. What was I to make of this? Suddenly Janni Noble was my friend, and was feeding me a news lead. What a strange turnabout. Should I be grateful? I couldn’t decide.

  On the positive side, I was beginning to change my opinion of him. I could accept that he was an honest businessman, at least within his own moral framework, and in a way his good faith was flattering. But I liked Rick Ashton, and had no wish to do his company harm. I could never understand the relish with which some journalists would automatically go in for the kill. Where was the glory in kicking a man when he was down?

  I could of course ignore what Janni had told me. Rumours of late payments were already circulating, feeding the speculation that Vantage needed new funding, so this was nothing new. But this was more than a rumour – it was apparently a fact. I had to pursue it, even if just to find out if it was true. When I knew that, I could decide what to do with the information.

  I rang Rick Ashton’s office, but he was unavailable. It would have been a miracle to get hold of him at the first attempt. So what next? I could approach him through his public relations firm, but that convoluted process could take days to run its course. I decided to stick to the direct method, and dialled his office again.

  This time I was passed down a different route from the switchboard, and ended up speaking directly to Ashton’s personal assistant, a woman I knew slightly.

  “Rick’s out at a lunch with customers,” she told me. “He’s back later, but he’s got a load of appointments stacked up.”

  “Can you tell him this is pretty urgent? Tell him I have some uncorroborated information about
Vantage, and I need to run it past him.”

  She gave a laugh. “Very cloak and dagger. OK, I’ll see what he says.”

  * * *

  It worked. An hour later my phone rang and a confident Australian voice announced, “Michael, Rick Ashton here. What can I do for you, mate?”

  “Rick, thank you for calling me back.”

  “So, shoot.”

  “I was talking to one of your suppliers.”

  “Oh, yes?” Immediately a slightly dubious tone. “And who might that be?”

  “Can we just say this is a significant supplier?”

  “OK, OK. And your point is …?”

  “This supplier says Vantage is over eight months behind with a major payment. Well over. He thinks he’s being given the run-around, and he’s not happy.”

  Ashton said nothing at all for a long moment. Finally he said, “Nobody pays on time these days. I don’t quite get the problem here. What’s the big deal?”

  “I get the impression that this supplier might be on the point of taking action to recover the debt. But he thinks this will trigger a cash flow crisis at Vantage, and you might not be able to survive it.”

  “And you actually expect me to comment on that? Come on, Michael.”

  I pondered this for a moment. “I hear what you’re saying. I can’t force you to comment, obviously. I’m just thinking what a conscientious journalist would do.”

  “Go on – enlighten me.”

  “Well, a conscientious journalist would probably find out the names of some of Vantage’s other major suppliers, and try to discover whether they were experiencing late payments too. A picture might build up. The conclusion might end up looking inescapable. And that journalist might feel compelled to write a story about it.”

  He seemed to reflect on this for a moment. “So you’re telling me that you’re not that conscientious journalist, right?”

  “I could be. It would stand me in good stead to turn in a story like this. I need the kudos, to be frank.”

  “Bully for you mate.” But he was obviously considering this. “But it sounds as if you think there’s an alternative scenario? What might that be?”

  “I presume you’re still negotiating new funding, are you? Maybe you’re nearly there with it? It would be nice to have an inside track on that.” I paused, then added, “But if you end up having to blow the full-time whistle instead, it would be nice to have an early tip on that.”

  “So win or lose, you want to be the fly on the wall, is that what you’re saying?”

  “Kind of, I suppose.”

  Another silence, then, “Blackmail doesn’t sit well with you, Michael. I thought you were better than that.”

  I sat back. I wasn’t used to having this kind of exchange, especially with someone as powerful as Rick Ashton. I didn’t know the rules. I said, “I think that’s unfair. I didn’t need to be telling you all this. I could just have asked for a comment and left it at that. I don’t want to cause you a headache.”

  He actually had the grace to chuckle ironically. “Well you are doing, mate.” He sighed. “Leave this with me for a bit, will you? I promise I’ll play it down the line with you if you play fair with me.”

  2011

  The hotel in Polperro had gone upmarket. That much had been clear from its web site. Everything was now pitched at foreign tourists, business conferences, conventions. A single night’s stay cost three times what Sasha had expected, and ate into her limited travel budget. Never mind, it still existed; that was what mattered. And now she was actually here in person.

  She wandered round the public areas and up the staircases, savouring snatches of memory from all those years ago. The aura was quite different now, but the general layout had stayed the same.

  Most remarkable was the glazed extension, obliterating the outside entrance to the cellar – and presumably also the cellar itself. When had this been built? Before or after her father’s friend had tried to recover the stuff he’d hidden? If it was before, she had done him a favour. Left where he’d put them, those bags would have been buried beyond reach, or else dug up. Either way, there would have been nothing here to retrieve.

  But was there anything now? Initially she was wary; she scouted the gardens without heading straight for the spot. The area next to the hotel was quite different now – a new lawn, a patio, an outside bar. But through the rustic arch, the rose garden looked much as she remembered it.

  She allowed her gaze to float over to the far corner. Yes! The little raised pond was still there, though its fountain was now silent and the stonework of the base looked scruffy and neglected. Behind it, the alcove set into the high stone wall seemed unchanged. She ambled over to it, trying to look inconspicuous. Fortunately it was a dull day and there were no other guests in sight.

  She stooped, pretending to admire some wild flowers, and peered at the stone slab that served as a seat. It seemed much more substantial than she remembered it. How could she ever have shifted it as a twelve-year-old, in darkness? She shuddered at the memory.

  Experimentally she shoved it. Surprisingly, the corner moved several inches back, to the accompaniment of a heavy scraping sound. She glanced around furtively. Still no one in sight. She shoved it again and it moved further, revealing the edge of a hollow area underneath.

  She peered over the edge. Nothing visible. She thrust a hand through the aperture, and immediately encountered folds of stiff fabric: the canvas of one of those bags. They had survived! Now all she needed to do was pick her moment to pull them out, then choose what to keep and what to discard.

  And there was the small matter of smuggling what she kept back to Australia.

  Chapter 34

  Next morning Rick Ashton called me again.

  “Michael, have you got a minute?” His tone was unexpectedly friendly.

  “Of course. Fire away.”

  “I’m not calling about this cash flow business. I’m looking into it, and I’ll get back to you whenever. This is something else.”

  I said cautiously, “OK.”

  “It’s about your book, mate. I presume you don’t have a real-world publisher for it, do you? I mean, it’s just a digital book, right?”

  My mind was already racing. I was following his drift, but I was also looking for the hidden agenda. Chief executives of national parcel companies didn’t phone me at ten in the morning to discuss my literary aspirations.

  “That’s correct.”

  “I thought so. Well, you probably know that Vantage Express is part-owned by Hunt Leinster Holdings, right? And they also own Hunt Topham Media, the book publishers.”

  “OK.”

  “Well I was talking to Annette Braddock there a couple of days ago, and I told her about your book.” He broke off. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  I smiled to myself at this. “Of course not.”

  “Well, the bottom line is, she gave it a once-over, and she says there might be room for it somewhere in their portfolio. What do you think of that?”

  “You mean they would consider publishing it as a real book? In print?”

  “Something like that, mate. Don’t ask me the detail. It wouldn’t be under one of their main imprints, I don’t think, but they have a division that specialises in new talent. Topham Tyro? She thought you might fit in there.”

  I couldn’t stop a smile spreading across my face. New authors simply didn’t get direct approaches from publishers. Getting published was a long hard slog through a seemingly endless obstacle course, and very few made it all the way. I knew this all too well from my own limited experience. If Rick was right, this would be a massive leg-up – something I’d never expected in my wildest dreams.

  Yet the coincidence of this offer was too obvious to ignore. Yesterday I’d told Rick I was on to a story that could do real harm to his business. Today he was offering me what had to be an inducement not to run with it. Moreover, he was making the offer pretty blatantly; there could be no pretence that it had come
out of the blue.

  I said, “I’m thinking there must be a catch here.”

  “No catch, mate, but you’ll need to phone her this morning. She’s off to a conference in New York this afternoon, and won’t be reachable for some time.”

  I got the point. I had to take the bait immediately, or else it would probably be withdrawn. I said, “About the cash flow thing …”

  “What about it, mate?”

  “You’ll still be getting back to me about that, will you?”

  “Of course I will, mate. Of course.”

  * * *

  I sat staring at the phone number I’d written down. It could be my entry ticket to a new phase in my life.

  It could also be a marker of the moment I finally decided to abandon my principles, such as they were.

  I felt uneasy enough already about the information snippet I’d been given by Janni Noble. No sooner had it come to my attention than I’d passed it on to Rick Ashton to fend off. Technically speaking I was merely asking for his comment, but in reality I’d hoped he could tell me something that would make it go away. Now he appeared to be offering me a bribe to ensure that this would indeed happen – and I seemed ready to accept it. What kind of reporter did that make me?

  I pushed my chair back and stared round the room. Was this my life now? Was I destined forever to be a medium-grade jobbing journalist – ducking significant stories in favour of slight ones? And if so, what should I do about it? Knuckle down and play it straight down the line, or swallow my scruples and grab an opportunity – even a faint, insubstantial opportunity – to switch to a parallel track?

  I shook my head. I was probably blowing this up into a much bigger deal than it really was. For a start, there was no guarantee that Rick Ashton was right in what he’d said. He’d presumably put the most positive construction he could on his conversation with this woman. His writ with her might not run nearly as far as he thought.

  For another thing, talking to the woman wouldn’t actually prevent me from pursuing the Vantage story at the same time, though Rick might be less than helpful if I did. It didn’t have to be an either-or situation.