by Bill Whiting
Impatient, Miller tried to butt in, but Khan continued, “Just bear with me a few moments, please. You may have noticed that I walk with a limp. As a child I couldn’t walk at all; and that was an even more serious handicap than you might think. My family were the wrong religion in the area where we lived in India, and our lives were in danger. We had to escape and walk to Pakistan. It was a long, long walk, in dust and heat, with little food or water.”
“Yes, but what’s that got to do with me?” Miller asked abruptly.
“Mr Miller, please be patient,” Khan said. “I reached safety because my father carried me on his back. He carried me countless miles. And when we reached Pakistan, he worked hard enough to pay for the medical care I needed to walk again. And he worked hard enough to be able to bring me and my mother to England too. He always hated England, but he knew I would be educated here and would have the best chance to prosper.”
Miller interrupted him again. “Look, Mr Khan,” he said in an exasperated tone.
“Mr Miller,” Khan said assertively, “my father is dying. At most he has a year to live. I do not intend that he should die here. He will die with warm air in his lungs and with the smell of the East in his nostrils. He will die in peace, knowing that his remains will be attended to with respect, and in accordance with our traditions.”
Miller now sat silent as Khan continued, “Mr Miller, I will go to Pakistan and I will stay with him until he leaves this world. In the meantime, I need my business to be in good hands – and that’s why I’m talking to you.”
“I see,” Miller said. “Well, Mr Khan, you said you know what it’s like to be hungry. Well, I’m hungry. I’m hungry for success. And I’m hungry enough to work my balls off to get it.”
“Why do you want to make money?” Khan then asked.
“Mr Khan,” Miller answered, “you’ve got money. Money is why your father will not die miserably in England as an old man. Thanks to money, he’ll die with dignity as an elderly gentleman.”
Khan smiled broadly. “Okay,” he said. “I like you. I think you are in rather too much of a hurry – but I like you and I think I can trust you.”
Khan then handed Miller a black ring folder and said, “Here is detailed description of my business… audited accounts; the assets, liabilities, income streams, cash-flow projections… and a description of the business model and a three-year plan. Have a look at it and we can talk again.”
“What kind of money are you looking for?” Miller asked.
“That depends how big a stake you want,” Khan said. “If you want, say thirty per cent, and that’s what I had in mind, then you’ll be looking at around £250,000. But, as I said, I’m more interested in you than your money.”
Miller took a deep breath. A quarter of a million meant he would have to put in all the cash he had. And he’d need to remortgage his apartment too. And thirty per cent didn’t give him any surety, or any real control over the business.
“Okay, I’ll look at it, Mr Khan,” Miller said, and they shook hands and departed.
Miller studied the folder late into the night. The business had been growing its turnover steadily for the past two years, but it was making a small loss. It also had a well-established competitor: a paid-for weekly newspaper. Many newspapers had folded in recent years under new pressure from the internet, and Miller thought the Chronicle could eventually be toppled too.
But he needed an expert financial review and decided to give the document to Charlie Riordon, an accountant whom he’d known and trusted for many years.
Riordon had the papers for two days before Miller went to see him and get his verdict. “Well, what do you make of it, Charlie?” Miller asked in an urgent and eager tone.
“Well, Jamie,” Riordon began, “I’m no newspaper man, as you know. In fact, I know very little about them. All I can tell you is what the numbers say.”
“Fine,” Miller said, “that’s the bit I’m not very good at.”
“Well, it’s not in bad shape,” Riordon continued. “It seems to be growing nicely, but the key thing here is cash. The business is making a small loss, but the projections in the business plan show a decent profit coming through in eighteen months. And even better, the business has got nearly £200,000 cash in the bank. That’s very unusual for a small business. It’s good – very good.
“Also, there are bank facilities agreed and in place for an overdraft of £100,000. Any default on that debt and the bank would claim the business assets; but with a lot of cash to burn through, that would be a long time coming, if ever.”
Miller’s excitement grew as Riordon continued, “Now, if you can get the business to break even within six months, I reckon you’ll have at least a year before the cash dries up. And if you can get profitable – say, a net profit of just one per cent on turnover – it’ll last a lot longer. But if you can get the net profit up to four per cent… well, you’ll have a very nice business there, and a valuable one too, Jamie.”
“That sounds pretty good then,” Miller enthused.
“Well, there’s a lot of ‘ifs’ there, Jamie,” Riordon counselled, “and there’s another problem…”
“What’s that then?” Miller asked.
“A thirty per cent minority stake is no good, Jamie,” Riordon explained. “With thirty per cent, you’ve got zero control. Khan can do what he likes – including screw you. If you can’t get a majority fifty-one per cent then my advice is to forget it.”
Miller digested the words of caution and left Riordon’s office in a deflated mood. He wanted the deal; he wanted to move on. He’d already given a lot of thought to the business, and had ideas for it. But he had to admit that with just thirty per cent his ideas didn’t matter much, only the ideas of the man with seventy per cent did.
Miller rang Khan the next morning. “I’d like the business, Mr Khan,” he said, “but I’m afraid it’s no go as the deal is currently structured.”
“What’s the problem?” Khan asked.
“I need at least fifty-one per cent,” Miller replied. “I’m too exposed otherwise.”
“Mmm, I see,” Khan responded thoughtfully. “I don’t think that would be possible at all. But let me think about it. I’ll sleep on it and I could meet you again at the hotel… say, two o’ clock tomorrow?”
“Fine,” Miller answered, “I’ll be there.”
When the meeting time arrived, Miller was calm, but not optimistic. In his mind he had virtually written off the deal. But Khan surprised him.
“Mr Miller,” he said, “I’ve been thinking about this and there might be a way forward. You want fifty-one per cent. Now, even if I accepted that, you’d have to come up with a lot more money. And, even if you could do that, it would leave me with the same problem you have now: no control. So what about a fifty-fifty deal? That would give us an equal incentive to co-operate and make things work.”
“No, sorry,” Miller answered. “It’s fifty-one per cent or nothing. So how much?”
“Okay, Mr Miller,” Khan said, “look, you’ve impressed me. I like what you say and how you think – and I like you. I think you can make the business work. But, more important, I believe I can trust you. You have honest eyes.”
Khan then paused for a few seconds, before continuing, “Okay,” he said, “I’ll make you an offer, but I’ll make it this once only. You will have two days to think about it, but I won’t negotiate any further. You must take it or leave it, and you must do so quickly. I intend to leave with my father very soon.
“You can have fifty-one per cent for an additional £100,000. That’s below the true value. But in return, I will receive from you a full progress report and a detailed copy of the business accounts every month. Also, I will have the right to remove you as Chief Executive of the company at any time I wish, but our contract will stipulate that your successor must be mutually agreed between us both.
I have to protect my interests you see. And you must decide quickly. I must get to Pakistan.”
Miller was excited as he left the meeting. Somehow, he could raise the extra money, but it would mean selling his apartment. He sweated on the issue over the next day, sleeping only fitfully. But he was eager to get started and to move on. Charlie Riordon had told him he should have everything legally and financially checked before he went ahead; but there wasn’t time, and he was in a hurry.
And a week later, with documents signed, he walked proudly into the Chronicle office in Costhorpe, as the new Chief Executive and the new majority owner. He tugged the arm of a shirt-sleeved guy who was walking across the office floor, and said, “Good morning, I’m Jamie Miller.”
“Hi,” the man said, “can I help you?”
“Well, I’m the new Chief Executive,” Miller answered, “and I start here today, so I certainly hope you can help me.”
“I don’t think so,” came the sharp reply. “I’m the new Chief Executive and I started last night.”
“Listen,” Miller said aggressively, “I’ve just bought fifty-one per cent of this business, and I get to say who the Chief Executive is. What’s your name and what do you do round here?”
The man looked shocked and stood in silence before speaking. “My name is Bill King,” he said. “I’ve just bought fifty-one per cent of this business too.”
SEVEN
Things did not look at all good to Jamie Miller and Bill King. And they got a whole lot worse.
They had struck almost identical fifty-one per cent equity deals with Khan, and between them had handed over a small fortune. They discovered that, not only had the company’s substantial cash deposit been suddenly withdrawn, but £100,000 of the company’s credit facility had also been drawn down and removed. The company was in serious debt and all the cash had vanished. And so had Khan.
“So that’s it,” Miller said to King, across the office desk. “It looks like we own 102% of fuck all.”
“Not quite,” King responded. “It looks like we own 102% of a £100,000 bank debt. I’d probably laugh if I hadn’t shit myself.”
At that moment the phone rang. King pushed the button to put the call on speaker, and said, “Yes, King here.”
“Good morning,” a female voice said, “is that the Chronicle?”
“It is,” King replied.
“My name is Linda Haines and I’m the personal assistant to Sir Basil Hathaway at the Weekly Post. Sir Basil would like a word with the new owner of the Chronicle if that’s possible.”
“That’s me,” King replied. “Er… well, that’s us,” he replied, looking thoughtfully in Miller’s direction. “Me and Mr Miller. Both here.”
“I’ll put Sir Basil through then,” she said.
A deep and cultured voice then came on the line. “Hello, that’s King, is it?”
“Mr King here, yes.”
“Jolly good,” Hathaway continued. “Basil Hathaway here. Sir Basil. I understand you’ve just bought the Chronicle.”
“That’s right,” King responded. “That’s me and my partner, Jamie Miller. He’s here with me now.”
Hathaway sounded surprised. “Two of you,” he said. “Well, I thought Khan might find one mug, but two! I may have underestimated him.”
“So what can we do for you, Basil, or whatever your name is?” King answered gruffly.
“Well, you can sell me your business for £100,000,” Hathaway answered. “It’s not really worth that, as you well know, but it’s a bit of a nuisance having a competitor on my patch, so I’m prepared to be generous.”
King looked at Miller, who raised his eyebrows high. It occurred to both of them that £100,000 was a lot better than nothing. Then King spoke: “Is this some kind of joke?”
“It’s no joke,” Hathaway replied. “I never joke during the working week. Perhaps you think it’s funny that I should offer you so much for so little. You’re not really proper businessmen, are you?”
“Why should I… I mean, why should we… sell the Chronicle to you?” King said. “We’ve only just bought it.”
“No, King, let me explain,” Hathaway answered. “I own and run one of the finest provincial newspapers in Britain. It’s an integral part of the community round here. It’s loved and respected – and it’s very profitable. As businesses go, it’s a thoroughbred. The Chronicle is a loser. You’ve bought a three-legged asthmatic carthorse.”
King flushed and Miller stared angrily out of the window as Hathaway continued: “Now over the past ten years, I’ve seen off three different attempts to set up a free rag on my patch – and ruined them all. But you can save me the trouble of ruining a fourth. You can clear your debts with £100,000, or you can run away later with a lot less than nothing.”
King looked at Miller and silently mouthed the words, ‘Shall we take it?’.
Miller looked angry, shook his head and then spoke towards the speaker. “This is Jamie Miller here. Look, we intend to take the shirt off your back and stick your big head right up your arse. By the time we’ve finished with your newspaper, it won’t be fit to wrap up wet fish. So why don’t you just fuck off, you big, thick, posh sod.”
The phone clicked as Hathaway hung up.
King looked wide-eyed at Miller and said, “That was a bit final, wasn’t it? Bearing in mind you only speak for half of 102%.”
“Yeah, sorry about that,” Miller said, “I’m not having a good day and that bastard was winding me up.”
“Me too,” King replied. “Apart from shitting myself, I can feel a bad migraine and a heavy menstrual period coming on.”
Miller laughed. “Yup, fine pair of whiz-kids, us two,” he bellowed. “Entrepreneurs extraordinaire! Still, zero self-esteem, and fifty-one per cent of this bag of shit is all I’ve got. I think I might just have to take that bastard Hathaway on.”
“And say goodbye to that hundred grand to pay the debt?” King queried. “As an old Chinese friend of mine used to say, ‘When you aim at the rat, beware of the vase’.”
“Mmm…” Miller pondered, “maybe, but I’m not giving up. If I fail now I reckon I’m done for life; this is my last chance. Come on, are you in or out?”
“Alright,” King said, wearily, “you can count my fifty-one per cent in as well. My old Chinese mate also used to say, ‘Failure is the mother of success’.”
Feeling depressed, but not yet defeated, King and Miller spent the rest of the day and half the night taking stock of their new empire.
The next edition of the Chronicle, which was published and distributed every Thursday, was already with the printing contractor. It consisted of just twelve pages. About a third of the space was occupied by small classified advertisements, offering everything from old cars to budgerigars for sale. Another third contained house sale advertisements. The remaining third contained tedious editorial matter, constructed largely from company press releases, plus contributions from the unpaid secretaries of a variety of organisations, from the Women’s Institute to the Costhorpe Hospice Appeal Committee.
Looking through the back numbers, King and Miller noticed there was an occasional Readers’ Letters column, but clearly a letter was not received every week. The largest batch of letters was in response to a story about a local man who had shot troublesome grey squirrels in his garden using an air rifle. The squirrels had been eating peanuts he’d put out for the benefit of birds. One of several follow-up letters from readers contained the suggestion that he fitted a hammered conical biscuit tin to the bird table pole and put Vaseline on the pole below that.
Another stream of correspondence had been provoked by a long-retired army colonel who had written that he was vehemently opposed to the recruitment of female soldiers into front line regiments in the British armed forces. “It may be politically incorrect,” he wrote, “but I doubt good order would have been mai
ntained on the beaches of Dunkirk with an ‘after you’ and ‘ladies first’ approach.”
The Chronicle’s design layout, printing and distribution were all contracted out to local companies and, apart from King and Miller, the company had two direct employees. Rachel was an attractive and feisty twenty-four-year-old girl who, in addition to many other things, ran the office reception, dealt with the mail, typed up classified advertisements and looked after miscellaneous items of administration. She also wrote the paper’s Horoscope Column. And she was, as King and Miller quickly realised, a gem.
Rachel was bright. She should have had a university education after leaving school but, unfortunately, met the wrong boy at the wrong time, and wasted five years, including three years sliding gradually into the local drug scene. However, what seemed at the time to be the worst day of her life, proved to be one of the best in the longer run. Her boyfriend was killed by a bus, as he fled from a store where he had been caught shoplifting. After that, Rachel got her life back together and began to use her excellent brain productively, though the lost years, and a criminal record for drug possession, cast a dark cloud over her prospects.
Frank, the other Chronicle employee, was a seventy-something alcoholic, who worked part-time, around twenty hours a week. He claimed to have been a journalist in the past and Rachel said he could certainly write well when he was sober. Frank also doubled as the paper’s photographer and Rachel said he was proficient, though in addition to the drink problem, he had the further handicap of suffering intermittent shaking feverish attacks as a result of a long-past malaria contraction.
“Sometimes he’s pissed and feverish at the same time,” Rachel said. “Then when he’s shaking and trying to take photographs of people, he keeps asking them to stand still.”
Frank would have to go, but King and Miller needed Rachel. However, they could not afford to pay her. Then Miller came up with the idea of offering her ten per cent of the company equity, if she agreed to work for twelve months on half pay.