For The Love Of Money, Brian Doswell [books for students to read .txt] 📗

covered in post-it notes. Everything was in order for the following two weeks. Providing no one went sick on him, every contract would happen according to plan. What was there to panic about?
His solicitor had also come up with a suggestion that took his fancy. There had been a veritable snow storm of correspondence from WFH requesting a delay to the completion date. The solicitors correctly assumed that the only reason for such a request would be that Sir William was temporarily short of cash. Their suggestion was to hang on to the five million deposit already paid over and offer to extend the completion date month by month with a forfeit of an additional half million pounds per month on the completion price. Given that the property was considerably undervalued, Sir William would probably pay a good bit extra to hang on to it.
At close of play on Friday evening, an email from WFH implied that Sir William was prepared to consider the proposed revised contract terms subject to a limit of six months or three million.
Harry returned to his paper. The Business to Business column included his advertisement for the sale of his removal business. He hadn’t thought about a price for it yet. The five vans should be worth a bit and the storage contracts were an on-going earner. He’d see that Sandra was alright.
On the opposite page was a small ad for a long winter let on an annex to a cottage in the Loire Valley. With something up to thirteen million in the bank it would be a good place to hide while he decided what to do with it all. He read the description again. He liked the idea of two bedrooms; perhaps he’d invite that young girl from the bank to be his personal financial advisor. He was more than willing to be kissed a few more times for money.
‘That sounds like it would suit me. Funny how things have a way of turning out’, he thought.


GEORGE PADWORTH

The letter on his desk was brief, only a few lines.

‘Further to our last letter, dated December 12th, it is our understanding that Wilkinson’s are in breach of the general regulations concerning insider trading. We have considered your explanations regarding the circumstances surrounding the BASF share transfer and the Xavier Hedge Funds. Neither of these explanations appears to be satisfactory.
It has also come to our attention that the unsuccessful merger between Roche and Medicato, generally understood to be the result of the disclosure of confidential information, may be a direct result of trades executed by your firm on 28th and 29th of November.
The Board request that you attend a preliminary hearing to further determine the details of these and other associated transactions.’

George walked out of his office at ten to three, without speaking to a soul. Marjorie looked up from her keyboard in time to see the back of his neatly tailored, Saville Row suit as he strode towards the elaborately panelled mahogany doors that concealed the elevator.
“Mr. Padworth.” Her voice trailed away as she realised that he had no intention of responding. Only twice in seven years as George Padworth’s PA had she known him leave the office without telling her where he was going. She returned to the letter on her screen and then, without really knowing why, she called reception.
“Susie, its Marjorie, George has just gone down in the lift. Let me know if you see him, I need to remind him about his six o’clock meeting.”
A few minutes later the phone on Marjorie’s desk rang. “Marjorie, its Susie, George just went out of the building without stopping. I’m sorry but I missed him. Do you want me to try his mobile?”
“No, that’s fine I’ll get him later.” Marjorie sat back in her chair, puzzled by George’s sudden departure. It was not like him at all. George never left the building without first asking her to call the garage to have his car sent round to the door.
In the street, George walked briskly along the pavement. The air smelt heavily of diesel fumes as a string of taxies, cars and buses rolled by. Anonymous among the crowd, he looked up and down the street as he approached the traffic lights on the corner. A small group of people stood, shoulder to shoulder, waiting to cross when the lights changed. George looked up at the light pole. The green light turned to amber and the traffic slowed to a halt. Eager pedestrians pushed forward in anticipation and, as the green man lit up, they began their surge across the road. George stood back and watched them move like a flock of birds turning over a country garden. Crossing traffic revved impatient accelerators as the opposing light flipped to green. A red, slab-fronted London bus hissed as the driver released the brakes and joined the flow, crossing the junction parallel with the stream of pedestrians. George heard the engine note dip as the automatic gearbox changed up a gear. The bus driver had no chance to stop as George threw himself into its path.

§§§§§

“Marjorie, this is Susie.”
“Yes.”
“Marjorie, there’s a police constable here asking to speak to Mr Padworth’s boss. He won’t say what it’s about; I think you should come down.”


AFTERWARDS

Jane had spent the day in Tours buying brushes, paint and a selection of watercolour tablets in various sizes. She was tired and her feet hurt from walking around the back streets of the city in search of art shops but she felt totally at ease with herself as she flung her shopping onto the passenger seat of her silver Citroen Picasso and slid into the driver’s seat. The engine purred into life and a waft of cool air emerged from the air-conditioning system. Jane sat for moment in the car park enjoying the refreshing breeze on her face before sliding the automatic gear lever into drive and turning out into the afternoon traffic. She awarded herself a merit star for coping with the French style of driving and headed north over the bridge, D37, before turning left onto the D592 towards Luynes. She mused that it must be her years as an estate agent that enabled her to remember road names and numbers; D592 to Luynes and then right onto the D49 to Beauvois. Heading west, she flicked the visor down to mask the sun-light and began to hum to herself as she drove along the empty road. The roads were never empty in England, especially Station Road Harrow.
Barely a year had passed since she signed the Act de Vente and accepted the keys to the cottage. The move had been an adventure but, with hindsight, she knew she had made the right choice. Once the business was sold and the money was in the bank, the thought of staying in Harrow had become progressively difficult. Two and a half million pounds was a lot of money, too much to stay alongside her old neighbours, some of whom fawned on her and others turned away as if the money was in some way tainted. She could have moved to a more expensive neighbourhood but then she would not have known anyone there and mother would not have enjoyed it. The move to the delights of the Loire Valley had been an excellent compromise.
The French language had proved difficult at first but when she realised that she could get by with a credit card, a pin number and the minimum of conversation, she relaxed, and the relaxing seemed to make it all so much easier.
Her mother’s hips were no better but then what else should she expect at her age? Mother had not liked the annex and preferred living in the main building, which Jane did not mind as the place was much larger than her old house in Harrow and she liked the company. They shared the kitchen but both had their own living space to retire to as and when they felt the need. Strangely neither felt the need that often.

§§§§§

Harry Joyce had all but forgotten his enquiry about the cottage in the Loire when an envelope with a French stamp turned up on his door mat.


Dear Mr. Joyce,
Thank you for your enquiry about a long term rental of the annex to my cottage. The property is available at the moment and I suggest that you come to Beauvois for a weekend, as my guest, while you determine if the location is suitable for your requirements.
Yours sincerely,
Jane Ellis

Harry read the letter twice and tugged at his chin. He had spoken with his solicitor about the sale to Sir William and the news was good. Sir William had done a deal of sorts with an Irish bank, for the full sale price and the grand signing was to be on Thursday morning at his solicitor’s office in Slough. In a way he had begun to hope that the completion date would stretch out a few months longer, the extra cash would have been fun to have but, in truth, Harry could not imagine how he would ever spend ten million pounds anyway. In a fit of generosity, Harry had sold the removals and storage business to Sandra for ten pounds. Sandra would know how to run it while none of the drivers or humpers would ever have understood Harry’s wall of post-it notes.
He had sent a message to the Asian girl at the bank, inviting her out for dinner, but she had not replied. “Gone to find another frog,” thought Harry.

§§§§§

The flight into Tours was bumpy and Harry struggled to hang on to his breakfast as the plane lurched left and right at the mercy of the turbulent air. Furthermore, the pilot seemed to have trouble landing at Tours airport and the jolt as the tyres hit the concrete all but finished Harry’s ideas of spending time here at all. Oddly enough Harry had only flown twice before, once to Spain and once to Edinburgh. By comparison Tours airport was more like the golf club and the warm air that wrapped around him as he walked across the tarmac to the arrivals door cleared his mind. Maybe it was the contrast with the sterile air inside the plane but to Harry, France actually smelt good.
Jane Ellis was waiting for him, holding a card with his name on but she need not have bothered, she was the only person waiting by the door where the customs officer idly checked the incoming passports.
The pair shook hands in a very English style and Jane escorted Harry to her car.
“I see you brought golf clubs.” Jane and Harry had exchanged lengthy phone calls about the location of Beauvois in the Loire Valley, the proximity of golf courses and the availability of fishing permits for the river Loire. Jane had enjoyed finding answers for Harry from the shop keepers in the village and from her newly installed internet connection.
“I hope you don’t mind. I thought maybe – if there was a chance. I always play on a Sunday morning at home.”
Jane smiled inwardly. Harry Joyce reminded her of Bill Acherson. It was exactly the sort of thing that Bill would have done, had he played golf. Harry was a similar height and build to Bill although Bill had more hair. She hoped Harry would like the annex; she could do with some company.
They chatted in the car, exploring the coincidences of their recent past good fortune and sharing their concerns about their respective futures. From being ordinary working people, suddenly they had both become wealthy middle-aged retirees. Now, by total chance, they had found each other