The Money Makers (2 page)

All that remained now was to divide up his fortune.

Leeds, Yorkshire, 1998

1

The sweep of tyres, the jerk of a handbrake, a clatter of car doors, then a knock at the door. The family arrived, swept into his room and now waited, silently, eager for money.

‘Welcome,’ said Earle. ‘Welcome to you all.’

It was a poor welcome he had to give. There were five of them, of whom Earle recognised only the mother, Helen Gradley, a nervous, pale woman, mid-fifties but a decade older in appearance. As Bernard’s divorce solicitor, Earle had threatened her with every trick in the book to win a favourable settlement. In theory, Helen had been the party at fault. She’d had an affair and admitted as much. Hers wasn’t such a great crime, not when her husband’s relationship with his business was more passionate, more permanent and more exclusive than anything she had done. But Bernard hadn’t seen it like that, of course. He’d wanted to give her ‘what she deserves - nothing’. He threatened a custody battle, on grounds that Earle was obliged to fabricate, and the friendless woman gave way. She got the kids, he kept the money. She settled for a small London house and an allowance which would terminate once the youngest child, Josephine, reached eighteen.

In the years after the divorce, Gradley had thrown money at his kids, hoping to win them from their mother. They were to be indulged, she to be kept poor. The strategy had worked up to a point. The kids, especially the three sons, George, Zachary and Matthew, had taken the money and been spoiled by it. They had grown used to their life of fast cars, jet travel, nice flats in the right parts of London. Their mother’s house in Kilburn struck them as grotty, too embarrassing to show their friends. But if Gradley had wanted to win their love, he’d failed entirely. His sons loved the cheques, but despised the chequebook. They knew the gifts were motivated more by bitterness than by love, and Gradley himself couldn’t help but resent his own generosity. He reminded his kids of how useless they were, how indolent. He told them repeatedly how he had made his fortune, conjuring an empire from the desert sand.

And now the emperor was dead, what was left but to divide the empire? The five inheritors - the tense mother, the stony-faced sons, the grave and serious daughter - waited in silence.

‘Welcome,’ said Earle again, ‘though I can only regret the sad occasion which has brought us together.’ He felt the tension again, more strongly this time. Why? He alone knew what the will contained. He alone was unaffected. His voice rose a little as he continued. ‘You know, of course, why we’re here. The deceased, Bernard Gradley, told me that none of you had any knowledge of his will. Perhaps I should begin by confirming that this is indeed the case.’

He looked around, but he already knew the answer. The hungry faces of the three sons and their mother’s agitation told him. They knew nothing and wanted everything.

‘While it would be wrong of me to speak ill of the dead, especially when the deceased has been such an important client of this firm’s ...’ Earle paused. His words sounded crass and for a moment he was stuck. He had a weak voice which became high, almost falsetto, when he was nervous. He fought to regain his control to drop back an octave. ‘While, er, it would be wrong to do so, this will, I’m afraid, is not a document which, er, was a pleasant one to draft. And, er -’ He tailed off, his voice trailing into a squeak.

‘D’you want me to read it?’ drawled one of the sons, dark and lean, frightening somehow.

‘That won’t be necessary,’ said Earle sharply, and - thank goodness - deeply. The challenge got him restarted. ‘You may read the will yourself in due course and you may well wish to show it to your own legal advisers. In summary, however, the desires of the deceased are as follows. His mother, Mrs Victoria Gradley, will receive a sum of three hundred thousand pounds to be held in trust on her behalf by certain trustees. His brothers and sisters will each receive, on top of certain small personal bequests, the sum of one hundred thousand pounds.’

Earle’s listeners registered these facts tersely, hungering for what was to come. In their minds, their father’s company was already sold, the money counted and divided. A few hundred thousand quid to their granny, aunts and uncles wasn’t much to give up. They shifted forward. The punch line was drawing near.

‘The residual estate is hard to value,’ Earle continued.

‘The principal asset, of course, is the one hundred percent ownership of Gradley Plant Hire Limited, though there will naturally be a considerable liability in the form of inheritance tax. We have estimated the residual estate to be worth some thirty to thirty-five million pounds after payment of tax. Out of this sum, you, Mrs Gradley,’ and he nodded at Helen, whose nervousness had grown rounder and harder with each passing minute, ‘you will receive a sum of five thousand pounds per annum payable until your death. I am sorry, I am very sorry, that I was not able to prevail on my client to be more generous.’

Helen Gradley was white faced, but otherwise blank. There was shock, certainly, but Earle guessed that none of them had expected Gradley to be generous towards his ex-wife. The real issue was how the money was to be divided amongst the kids. Helen didn’t need the money herself, just so long as the kids were fairly treated. Nobody said anything, all of them willing Earle to continue.

‘And as for you,’ Earle said, looking at the four children, the flinty men and the expressionless girl. ‘As for you, Mr Gradley expressly required me to read the following letter.’

Earle picked up the letter which lay by the will and broke open the seal. Gradley’s writing was clear and heavy. Earle read slowly and distinctly, master of his voice once more:

To my children,

I’m dead now, proud of some things, ashamed of others. I’m proudest of my business, of course. I loved Gradley Plant Hire. I gave it everything and it rewarded me for it. With my business, things worked just as they were meant to. You lot think profit is just another name for money, but you’re wrong. Profit means health. It means rosy cheeks and a happy smile. Gradley Plant Hire was a bouncing baby and its father loved it.

With you lot, things were never so simple. I wanted to teach you about life. I wanted to teach you about work and pride and discipline. I wanted you all to love my business the way I did.

And I failed, didn’t I? God knows what you lot really think, but I swear to you I only ever saw you think about the business when you wanted to cadge money from me. My eldest son George is the crown prince of idleness; Zack’s a bloody philosopher; and Matthew and Josie will probably drop out just as soon as they’ve got anything to drop from. If I tell you that I wanted to be a good dad to you, you probably won’t believe me, but for what it’s worth, I swear to you I did. I still don’t know what went wrong. I don’t know if it was your fault or mine. But don’t accuse me of not wanting things to work out better, because I did, I really did.

Maybe it doesn’t matter now. You’re not here to worry about our family failures, you’re here to see how much I’ve left you. Well, I wouldn’t want to disappoint you, so I’ve come up with a way of giving each of you what you most want.

Josephine first. I had the most trouble with you. You never minded spending my money on clothes and parties, but you never really wanted to be rich, did you? Being nice to people was more your thing. Swotting away at school and do-gooding. I thought of getting you a truckload of designer clothes, but of course they’d all have been the wrong colour or too bloody short or too bloody long. If it came from me there was always a problem, wasn’t there? Then I had a brainwave. You remember how you used to come into my office when you were little? You used to tidy my pens and play at being my secretary. You didn’t grumble about my business then. You didn’t want to try to change me from what I am. You know what I think now? I think that was the last time we were ever happy together, like a dad and his little girl are meant to be.

Very well then. To you, Josephine Gradley, I give an enrolment at a secretarial college of your choice plus five hundred quids’ worth of Marks & Spencer’s vouchers to get yourself properly kitted out. If I’m wrong and you’re more ambitious than I’ve realised, then you’ve got the brains and looks to get yourself whatever it is you want. I don’t need to worry. You’ll be OK.

As for my sons, George, Zack and Matthew, well, you were easier to deal with. You only ever wanted money and your only ambition was to get your hands on mine as soon as you could. Fair enough. But there’s one condition. I worked my balls off to get my money, while you lot haven’t done a day’s work in your lives. Maybe that’s my fault. Maybe I didn’t bring you up right. If so, I’m sorry. I hope there’s time to make amends.

The rest of my estate - Gradley Plant Hire mostly - will be put into a trust. The trustees will look after things for three years, keep the company ticking over and that sort of thing. Then in three years’ time, three years from today, we’ll see what you’ve achieved. If any of you can produce the sum of one million pounds in a bank account under your name and your exclusive control, then you get the lot. Everything. You’ll have to show, of course, that you haven’t just borrowed the money or anything like that. It needs to be yours and only yours and not owed to a bank or the taxman or the man in the moon. But don’t worry, the lawyers have gone into all that and the rules should be perfectly clear. If more than one of you kids has come up with the million, then the one with the most gets everything. I like winners, not runners-up. You can do what you like then. You can sell the company and spend the rest of your life on a tropical island for all I care. You’ll have earned it.

If, by any chance, you don’t come up with the million, then I’ve obviously misjudged you and you don’t truly want my money. In that case it will all go to charity and you can each make your own way in the world, just like I did. At least you’ll have the knowledge that anything you do get has come your way through your own hard work and honesty.

Good luck. I really mean it. Make me proud of you.

Love from your father,

Bernard.

Helen Gradley was weeping copiously now, cocooned in Josephine’s arms. Her tears were not just tears of grief, they were tears of shock, tears of ultimate defeat. Josephine was crying too, but her grief was different. She was hurt by her father’s viciousness towards her. She was upset at finding what her privileged life was about to turn into. But most of all she was upset that her father’s last act should be one of spite and unkindness. He’d deserved a better memorial.

Earle brought his attention back. He had been staring, and staring at pretty, vulnerable young women is not recommended behaviour for family solicitors. The three young men remained almost expressionless. Only a tightening of their lips and a hardening of their eyes betrayed any emotion. Zachary, the dark one, had his eyes almost completely narrowed, his hand over his lips, concealing his feelings, appraising the situation, planning the next step.

Earle shivered.

‘Gradley Plant Hire and your father’s other assets are now held in trust, and they will be looked after for you by a group of very able trustees. Should any of you meet your father’s conditions, you will find everything in very good order in three years’ time. The will goes into all these matters in greater detail, and you may of course read it at your leisure. You may also wish to consult your own legal advisers, but I regret to say that in my opinion there should be no difficulty in enforcing the terms of the will. I’m really very sorry.’

2

Helen Gradley had lost the key to her own front door. Standing on the step outside, she rummaged uselessly through the rubbish in her handbag and began to cry.

‘Don’t worry, Mum,’ said Josephine. ‘I’ve got it.’

On the long drive home Helen’s shock had dissolved repeatedly into tears, but the hard centre of her pain had, if anything, grown. Since the divorce, she had never quite brought herself to believe in the permanence of her poverty. Though she had been in work, she was a poor housekeeper, prone to surges of extravagance she could ill afford. A few years back, she was diagnosed as suffering from repetitive stress injury caused by poor typing posture, and she had invalided herself from the workforce with a speed and decisiveness none of her kids had been able to overcome. On hearing the news of her ex-husband’s death, she had been openly delighted.

‘At least his money will be of some use now,’ she’d said. The will devastated her. Her worn carpets, her threadbare curtains, her hopeless dreams of a better life were all here to stay. The cavalry wasn’t coming. Rescue was impossible.

Josephine unlocked the door, took her mum upstairs to bed, and left her there with a hot-water bottle and a promise to look in soon. The kids needed to speak openly with each other and weren’t able to do so in their mother’s grief-stricken presence.

By the time Josephine emerged, her three brothers were sitting at the kitchen table round a pot of tea. Zachary, named after his grandfather, but always known simply as Zack, had arrived that morning with a bottle of champagne, expecting to celebrate later, but nobody felt like it now. With their mother quiet, they could turn at last to the thing on all their minds.

‘Poor Mum,’ said Josie. ‘It’s awful for her. She’d so relied on the will to make everything better.’

‘Don’t be silly, Josie. It’s awful for all of us. The old bastard’s probably laughing himself sick,’ said Matthew. He had sympathy for his mother, but his sympathy for himself was very much greater. Matthew’s broad, good­ looking face was puckered up into a boyish scowl. His cupid’s-bow mouth pouted in an eight-year-old’s sulk.