The Deal (3 page)

Charlie was street-wise, charming and ambitious. He was also intellectually limited. While at a university in the north, a classmate had once famously said to him, in front of thirty others, “Charlie, if you had a second brain, it would be rather lonely.”

Thus Charlie was slower than many to realise that, by May, David Cameron had already decided that Andrew Lansley was the fall guy when, as was expected, Lib-Dem pressure meant the proposed NHS reforms were to be drastically revised.

Once he finally grasped the drift, there was a marked change in his letter writing.

“Dear Mr Hickman. I am so sorry that you are facing a two month wait to see a consultant about your hip. We in the coalition government are finding it difficult to repair the damage caused to this country by Gordon Brown. I am sending your letter to the authorities with a request that they expedite your case.”

“Charlie,” interrupted Sara. “I thought we were telling your constituents that the NHS reforms are going to...”

“Oh, shut your mouth, Sara. I dictate, you type, got it?”

“Charlie, all I said was that I thought you were excited by the health reforms. You said you chose me because, to use your word, I was ‘interested’.”

“Sara. You have two functions in life: to serve me because of the life I can offer you here, including a bloody good wage…”

“And?”

“To screw around all you want. From what I hear that’s not going too badly. Now, you are never again to utter Andrew Lansley’s name in this office. Right?”

Sara smiled innocently. “Did you enjoy your drink with the Prime Minister last night, Charlie?”

On leaving, she decided to walk past several tube stations before catching her ride to Aldgate and the ten minute walk to her flat from which she could see the Tower of London. She mulled over recent events and decided it was time she grow up a bit. She was twenty-four years old. She decided to respond to Alex’s text suggestion and meet in their favourite wine bar. She needed to talk about her decision.

“Lisbeth Salander was twenty-four,” said Alex.

“Why do you say that?” asked Sara, as she sipped her glass of Chardonnay.

“Come on, Sara. You can’t fool me. All this drama about walking out on an MP. You’re trying to be the English version of
The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo
aren’t you?”

“Piss off, Alex. Never entered my head.” She laughed. “Anyway I haven’t got any tattoos.”

“So how many did Lisbeth have?” laughed her companion.

“Three... er... four... er… well the dragon was on her left shoulder blade.”

“That’s one – what were the others?”

“There was a WASP tattoo on her neck.”

“Two. Go on.”

“Give up. Who cares?”

“You do, Miss Wannabe Salander. Four. She had loops around the bicep of her left arm and her left ankle.”

“Oh, whatever!” Sara laughed. “I’m a redhead anyway. Nothing like her.”

“Wrong again. Lisbeth was a redhead but she dyed her hair raven black.”

“What’s all this about, Alex? It’s you who’s obsessed with this sodding woman.”

“Ever since you read the book you’ve imagined you were her.” A hand rested on her knee. “When you read that she had imagination...”

“No. That was Dragan Armansky, her boss at Milton Security. He thought that she had...”

“Got it, Sara? You know that book word for...”

“Piss off, Alex. She was anorexic.”

“No she wasn’t. She was just thin.”

“And flat chested.”

Alex laughed. “Thank God there’s one difference between you.” A hand disappeared inside Sara’s shirt, and she groaned softly in anticipation of the pleasures which would come later.

The next morning, when Charlie Stanford arrived for work at Portcullis House, he found a brief letter from Sara on his desk.

Oliver had parked his car in the basement and switched off his radio after listening to Jane Jones on Classic FM presenting uninterrupted classical performances. He nodded to the caretaker as he caught the lift to the fourth floor of his Clerkenwell flat. He was tired after his evening workout in the gym. He threw his jacket onto the table, poured himself a drink and put on the CD he had bought earlier in the day at the HMV shop in Moorgate. He was determined to track down the piece of music he had heard on his car radio four weeks ago and then again in The Westbury the previous evening. He was able to repeat the theme and decided his best option was to try to identify the composer. He’d telephoned his brother-in-law, who was in his chambers at Gray’s Inn in Holborn.

“Edward,” he asked. “Who’s the most famous Russian composer of piano music?”

“Rachmaninov,” he’d replied.

He now had a choice of four piano concertos. For no particular reason, he selected No.3 in D minor, op.30. Sergei Rachmaninov had written this masterpiece during a stay at Ivanovka, his family’s estate near Moscow, in October 1909. He then crossed the Atlantic and premiered the concerto on 28 November at the New Theatre, New York. Initially its great length, over forty-five minutes’ playing time, caused some critical reservations, but eventually the brilliant first movement (‘allegro ma non tanto’), with its colour and emotion and its climax in the cadenza, paved the way for its eventual acclaim.

Oliver closed his eyes as the pianist began to play. It wasn’t the style of music for which he was searching, but slowly he became immersed in its lyrical and flowing melodies. He raised his feet and laid them on the arm of his sofa.

Vladimir Ashkenazy and the London Symphony Orchestra, conducted by André Previn, led Oliver into the second movement (‘intermezzo adagio’) and finally to the ‘Finale (alla breve)’. However, by this time, Oliver’s mind was wandering to a different place.

He was recalling her physical shape. He hadn’t seen the flesh of her thighs but his imagination was vivid. He retraced her calf muscles and the tanned skin of her lower body… the silky smooth legs. He was becoming aroused.

Amanda was sipping wine in her flat on Elm Tree Road on the north side, overlooking Lord’s cricket ground. She was twenty-eight years old and reflecting on her decision to reject the chance of a longer term relationship with Zach. During her time at Oxford she’d had a few relatively serious boyfriends as a result of her production work for a theatre group. However, Zach was the closest she’d come to a life partner. She was reading a letter he’d sent her – it was composed with Zach’s typical tact and sensitivity.

He analysed her decision with some empathy and discussed why she’d questioned their relationship. He suggested that life wasn’t always perfect and all choices had some form of defect ingrained in them. He wrote that there was no ideal relationship but he felt they were capable of building a good one.

She knew he was right. But she concentrated on what he had not written about. There was no comment on his marriage and, unbelievably, no reference to his two sons.

She chose not to reply. She’d made up her mind.

On Thursday morning, at the offices of Agnew Capital, situated in Queen Street, south of Mansion House tube station, Oliver met with Andrew Agnew and his other colleagues.

Andrew had founded his business in the early 1990s. Agnew Capital specialised in raising finance for entrepreneurial businesses. He’d been joined by Jody Boyle in 2002 and she was both finance director and responsible for regulatory matters. Oliver had known Andrew for a number of years before joining the firm in 2004. There were now eleven staff overall.

“As you know from my briefing paper,” said Oliver, “City Fiction has been introduced to us by Nick Billings, their solicitor.”

Oliver then described the formation of the company by Alistair Wavering and how he was joined by his sister Amanda two years later. Alistair had begun his career in regional newspapers and came to London when Tony Blair became Prime Minister. He’d worked for several specialist financial publications until he spotted a gap in the market: he’d realised that there were a number of people in the City who wanted to tell their stories. Some were coming to the end of their careers and were keen to write their autobiographies, others thought they could explain aspects of City finance, and a surprising number thought they had a novel in them.

Alistair had realised that he must be based in the City and so he’d rented offices in the Royal Exchange. He housed his key staff here but also ran a production and sales team from cheaper premises in Camden Town.

He was lucky to the extent that he’d begun trading in the boom years of the Blair/Brown era. Even though the recession was beginning to show, he’d had no difficulty in finding titles and people willing to pay for their publication. He’d quickly extended into fiction publishing and begun to build his reputation as an innovative operator. He’d made one acquisition which added twenty-seven titles to his list and brought in three talented young people. They were ahead in their understanding of the power of eBooks and the impact of the Kindle.

“The company,” continued Oliver, “needs an injection of new capital to finance its growth. Jody has their financial projections. My advice is that they raise perhaps two million pounds now and then, in a year or two, join one of the smaller stock markets to develop their appeal to shareholders.”

“Thanks, Oliver,” interrupted Andrew. “This is a good report. Jody, your thoughts please.”

Jody smiled across the table.

“Andrew,” she said. “I think this has potential. But, Oliver, please just summarise for me and for Andrew again, in no more than three minutes, why we should accept it.”

Oliver smiled back at the finance director.

“City Fiction,” said Oliver, “has now published over ninety books. They have two award-winning authors and they’re ahead in their understanding of electronic publishing. They were under-capitalised from the beginning. The initial half million pounds that was raised was insufficient to finance their rapid expansion. They had an eighty thousand pound government guaranteed bank loan which they have nearly repaid. They’ve issued some more shares under the Enterprise Investment Scheme, which raised an additional one hundred thousand pounds, and they have thirty-six shareholders.”

Abbi Highfield, the marketing manager, nodded before speaking.

“It really does help the story when the shares attract EIS relief,” she said. “The twenty percent upfront tax relief and the fact that dividends and gains will be tax free are both attractive.” She paused and then continued. “Andrew, I do like this story. Our investors will be able to relate to the company. They can go online and order the books if they wish.”

Oliver looked gratefully at Abbi. She usually supported his proposals.

“But the balance sheet, Oliver,” she went on, “it shows net assets of only five hundred and fifty thousand pounds. My assessment is that their cash position is tight and they are struggling to pay their bills on time. They’re borrowing from other sources by factoring their debtors. Just explain that for me please.”

Jody clarified that it was possible for companies to use their debtors – customers’ bills which remained unpaid – as security for lenders who might advance as much as eighty percent of the face value, an operation known as factoring.

“City Fiction has repaid its bank loan, Jody,” continued Oliver, “and now the bank is refusing to extend a fresh overdraft facility. That’s why they want us to raise them two million pounds. The larger sum will address the issues you’ve identified, Jody, and allow them to invest in more titles.”

“So, they want to raise two million pounds for thirty percent of the company. I think we can get that from the investment funds and our clients here in London,” Oliver went on, looking at Jody.

“I did like Alistair,” said Abbi. “And was that his sister in the suit?”

“Yes,” said Oliver. “She deals with foreign rights and spends much of her time in Europe. She told me that she’s planning a visit to Hong Kong and the Far East.”

“Jody,” asked Andrew, “have you met with their finance team?”

“Well, Andrew, it’s hardly a team. It’s often the case with these smaller companies. Their financial support lags behind their growth. They have a part-time finance director, David Singleton, whom I liked. He produces management accounts by the tenth of the month. There is a finance manager and she’s really good. So overall, it’s competent. But I must say that a fund-raising process will test them. It’ll put a lot of pressure on the two individuals.”

“This is pre-public markets, Jody,” said Oliver, “for that very reason. My strategy for them is that they’ll be ready for a flotation, hopefully on the London Stock Exchange junior market, in about two years. So we’ll raise the money using an EIS document.”

“Yes,” said Abbi. “Our clients will like the EIS tax benefits.”

“Abbi,” said Andrew, “I understand your enthusiasm for the tax relief for investors that the EIS means, but remember that the investment story must stand up in its own right. Tax relief does not make a bad investment into a good proposition.”

Abbi nodded and smiled at Oliver.

“You know, Andrew,” said Jody, “I do like this deal. But I think the problem is that Oliver hasn’t had the chance to really research the publishing industry. We all know things are changing. On the tube these days more and more people seem to be reading books on their Kindles.”

“Jody is saying what I was thinking,” continued Andrew. “Oliver, I know you’re stretched at the moment but most of the information in your proposal is just what the company has told you. I thought the same about the retail marketing venture we looked at last week. I think we need to recruit a research analyst who can provide reports of greater depth.”

“Good luck with that,” said Oliver, under his breath.

The forty-eight hours which had passed since Charles Harriman had started the process of coming to terms with his alcoholism had catapulted him into the supporting arms of his wife. For two days they had been locked together.

Lucy took her left hand and, using her handkerchief, wiped the perspiration away from her husband’s face. With her other hand she held Charles’s arm and squeezed hard. The children had been taken to school by their neighbour and they were now sitting alone in their kitchen.