The Whistleblower Affair

By Jonathan Veale

Seduced by corporate greed, and overseeing misconduct on a prodigious scale, the directors of one of the world’s largest banks, based in London, England, continue to plunder their clients’ accounts and award themselves ever higher salaries and bonuses as they strive to climb further up the corporate ladder. It's a dog eat dog world and the most ambitious have no scruples about stamping on anyone that gets in the way.

It takes a whistleblower to alert the authorities to a particular director’s unethical behaviour, a corporate crime. At first, nobody believes him, but as the director makes frantic attempts to silence the whistleblower he inadvertently brings the world’s press into play. They pursue the truth in Hong Kong, Spain and London, trying to find the whistleblower so they can get an exclusive on his story.

A fast-moving and informative novel exploring the apparent indifference of our top bankers to the chaos their policies have brought about for millions. And it takes not one woman, but four to direct their men along a path of conduct they can really be proud of.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jonathan Veale
• Release date: Jul 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9791090730489

Jonathan Veale

Jonathan's books are dedicated to the brewers of South Wales, restaurateurs of Catalunya, racehorses of Tipperary (the fast ones) and the red, white and sparkling wines of the Languedoc Roussillon. Jonathan Veale knows too much about the above, to his delight and cost. In an earlier life he spent years in marketing, specialising in advertising and management communication.(where great literature seldom flourishes) With a second home in a medieval village near Castelnaudary, between Toulouse and Carcassonne, and a website, www.WriteAway.co.uk where he helps aspiring writers chase their dreams of infamy and wealth, his take on life nowadays is reflected in numerous blogs and articles about writing and publishing.

Book preview

The Whistleblower

Affair

A Banking Director’s Skulduggery Exposed

Jonathan Veale

Digital rights

Moulin Publications

© Jonathan Veale 2014

(ISBN: 979-10-90730-48-9)

Published by Moulin Publications at Smashwords

~ ~ ~

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Acknowledgements

I would particularly like to thank Joanna Hulme for her valuable editing input. Some editors have a lot to put up with! Thanks, too, to Brian Stephens for his continued support in formatting and marketing my ebooks. His ebook website http://ebookissues.com/ is always a pleasure to visit. And for my readers, . . . thanks for the interest you’ve shown in my books, past and present. By all means get in touch with me personally with ideas and brickbats. My website: http://www.writeaway.co.uk/

Jonathan Veale - July 2014

Chapter 1

Beyond belief! Millions wondered what was going on inside the heads of the favoured few who ran their banks in the City of London. As scandal piled upon scandal, politicians appeared incapable of either curbing banking misconduct or dealing with the rampant criminality the judicial system opted to overlook. Then someone decided enough was enough. A whistleblower was born.

**~**

Until the accident, Stephen Mallaby rarely questioned his role within his bank, Marlings, one of the world’s best-known financial institutions, or gave much thought to the behaviour of his fellow directors who set the tone for what drove their 15.000 employees from one day to the next.

He was acquiescent, accommodating, and unfailingly courteous – indeed a pleasure to have around. His colleagues believed they were fortunate to have his talents at their disposal. His forensic excellence as a barrister specialising in corporate malpractice had been spotted by an eagle-eyed director of their Singapore subsidiary who, after a word or two in the right ears, bagged the young man for a meteoric rise to board level. They appeared to be made for each other. That is, until last week when the accident occurred.

The weather in London was atrocious that November morning: cold, wet, and penetratingly windy; the wind scythed and bludgeoned its way between the ever higher-rise edifices which have sprung up in the Square Mile in recent decades, and it contributed to the cyclist’s fall. Buttoned up against the elements, her visibility impaired, she had been forced to swerve sharply to avoid a man who stepped onto the pedestrian crossing without looking. But in so doing she caused a following motor cyclist to brake violently. His resultant skid knocked her bike sideways, somersaulting her over the handlebars. She landed in a heap against the granite kerbstone of the gutter. Her motionless body told its own story: She was most certainly unconscious, if not dead.

Stephen Mallaby had stepped back onto the pavement, but the chaos was already in train. He now knelt beside the young woman realising this day was going to be like no other; in an instant his priorities were realigned: the immediate needs of his bank could wait. He had to do something for this person – she appeared to be no older than his sixth-former daughter, Claire.

The emergency services were in attendance within minutes, and he could only admire their professionalism as the young woman was attended to. The ambulance crew directed him to the nearby hospital of St Bartholomew’s hospital (Barts), and the moment it left, with the woman stretchered and attended to by paramedics within it, he hailed a taxi and followed. Two hours later he was reunited with the injured party. She would live, he had been assured.

He heard her before he saw her, railing at the world, the staff, and the effing moron who had caused her to knock herself out. Sensing sport, the ward sister had taken up watch behind a nearby curtained-off bed to observe the meeting of patient and visitor: soap operas were anaemic compared with the real life dramas she witnessed at work. And she wasn’t disappointed as Stephen approached the bed.

‘And who the hell are you?’ the injured woman cried out. Stephen was gathering his wits to come up with a reply . . . but he needn’t have bothered. Her attention span was proving to be limited for she was now talking earnestly to the anorak-wearing, curly-haired man sitting at her bedside.

‘Put the cat out before you come upstairs, Jordan, darling. You know what Reg is like otherwise.’ This last instruction must have exhausted her for she appeared to have nodded off. Her breathing was regular, but noisy, while her head lay at an awkward angle across the steeped pillows.

Jordan leant across and adjusted them as a nurse also attended, ensuring the drips were functioning. Jordan then turned to Stephen. ‘Well, you took your time. I’ve been here an hour already and you’re the first doctor who’s deigned to look in.’

Stephen motioned to the man to follow him outside. He had some explaining to do and the bedside was not the place for it.

The misunderstanding sorted out, the two men exchanged cards with neither giving them more than a cursory glance. The lack of a doctor was tackled next. The ward sister who had overseen and overheard Stephen’s arrival explained a doctor had already examined Miss Harper and was confident severe concussion was their sole concern. All being well the patient would be discharged the following day with little more than the cuts and bruises the accident had showered upon her. But, the ward sister stressed, concussion was not to be treated lightly; her nurses would ensure her progress was monitored overnight.

‘I’ll leave you, if you don’t mind,’ said Stephen. ‘But ring me if you feel there’s anything I can do. I would like to be reassured Miss Harper is OK. She fell with such a wallop.’

The two men shook hands, and as Stephen took the stairs down to the reception area, Jordan looked more closely at the card he had been given. The embossed name, and the address, revealed all. This gentleman worked for Marlings. He knew it immediately even though the bank’s name was nowhere in evidence. It didn’t need to be; for a man in Jordan’s profession, the address and the lack of a title told its own story.

Stephen Mallaby was a banker – a big banker – almost certainly a director. Only those at the top dispensed with job titles. What a coincidence! This man helped run Marlings, one of the three banks Jordan planned to expose as being at the heart of City misconduct. He smiled to himself. Wait until Molly heard about this. He could imagine her reaction. Almost worth falling off a bike for, he thought to himself.

Chapter 2

Stephen Mallaby worked from the 16th floor of Midas House, a soulless construction close to the eastern boundary of the City of London. . . . affords splendid views of the river Thames and south London, the property agents had assured the Marlings board when they had persuaded them to abandon their perfectly adequate and well appointed Edwardian parlours in Lombard Street. And for what? For the delights of 21st century living on the edge of Docklands, a concrete-ridden and stagnant water acreage that no longer supported any other form of life than strident capitalism. What the agents didn’t point out, and the incompetent architects neglected to cater for, was the sun which, when it put in an appearance, boiled and dazzled occupants in both summer and winter, and even when it failed to show placed such strains on the air-conditioning plant that it repeatedly sulked and neither cooled or heated as it was supposed to do. Stephen’s solution was to instal blinds, keep them closed, and work from a corner of his suite of offices where neither windows nor doors could disturb his deliberations. And these started at 7.30 each morning. Stephen was an early bird, as were most of his fellow directors.

But banking matters could wait that morning. Stephen found the phone number for Barts and rang the hospital himself. He channelled business calls through his long-time secretary, Lucy, but did not want to saddle her with this personal matter; it always struck him that employing others to act as your intermediary in non-business activity was both impertinent and unwise. Business and private life needed their own space.

The hospital was efficiency personified and within a minute he was speaking to the ward sister he’d met the previous day.

‘Not such good news, I’m afraid,’ she reported. ‘Miss Harper did have a comfortable night, but she is decidedly shaky this morning. I’ll suggest to the consultant we keep her in over the weekend. A couple of extra days should see her back on her feet. Would you like me to put you through to her. It’s no trouble?’

Stephen gave the matter a moment’s thought. ‘I’d rather not disturb her,’ he said, ‘but you might let her know I called, and if there’s anything she needs I’ll do my best to help. My mobile number is on the card I left with you.’

As he put the phone down, Lucy was settling at her adjacent desk – identical in size to his own, but impeccably tidy, unlike his which groaned under a morass of files and books.

‘So how is the patient this morning? Ready to sue you for every penny?’ Lucy asked. She had noticed the previous day that her boss had been more troubled by the accident than he cared to admit. Their banter had developed over the years they’d worked together and acted as a balm whenever troublesome affairs surfaced.

‘Shaken and stirred, but on the mend. They’re keeping her in over the weekend. Probably for the best. Now, where have I put the agenda for this afternoon’s board meeting? I remember Mercedes is bringing up an item in any other business. I do wish she’d table her revelations as central topics rather than spring them on us at the end of a session."

I have the revised agenda,’ Lucy said. ‘The one I showed you yesterday was provisional.’ She passed the definitive one over. ‘The only change concerns item 8. Daniel is going to introduce his new mission statement: A Bracing Culture Going Forward."

‘God help us!’ muttered Stephen, but loudly enough for Lucy’s ears who was well aware of his distaste for their new Chief Executive. ‘Why must he mangle the English language . . . and produce this balderdash? One of these days I’ll forget myself and tell him precisely how a bracing culture would deal with such nonsense. He should get on with cleaning out the stables, as he promised. If he carries on in this vein he’s likely to be eviscerated by the next Commons Select Committee he appears before. Those MPs like nothing better than a waffler to feed on.’

‘Quite so,’ said Lucy, her eyebrows rising at the stridency of the outburst. A change of subject was needed. She found one. ‘Shall I ring Mercedes and see what she intends raising in any other business? Or are you happy to let her surprise everyone again with some new horror she’s trawled up?’

‘Good idea. She’s usually happy to mark my card in advance. Tell her I’ve been knocking people off their bikes in Throgmorton Street. That should be enough to trade.’

‘Will do. But I’ll not disclose who or where. You know what the French are like once they get their teeth into a good story.’

**~**

Mercedes Bergeron always sought a place at the far end of the table for board meetings. That meant, provided she took her seat early enough, the laggards arriving would not trouble her with small talk or, even worse, pecks on the cheek and elaborate handshakes. The British might be renowned as a courteous lot, but they couldn’t hold a candle to the French when it came to the etiquette of personal introductions; her other board position was with their French subsidiary where her fluency in both languages was a great asset.

Daniel Hope was already there writing furiously on a file before him as she entered the boardroom, and although he did manage a small backhand wave he immediately returned to his last minute scribblings. Bracing stuff indeed, Mercedes thought. It was going to be one of those days.

As the digits for two o’clock materialised on the electronic wall clock the remaining twelve board members filed in. She suspected they had been massing in the outer office where their secretaries tended to linger at such times for coffee and comfort. And why not? Whenever the board met there was always someone panicking beforehand as late-arriving figures had to be tidied up, reports printed and facts checked. And, of course, it was the secretaries who took the strain.

Stephen Mallaby was the last to enter the room. At six foot three he towered over most of the others, and he was also the only person there who didn’t sport a mop of silver hair. But when Mercedes smiled as he took his place opposite hers she couldn’t help noticing a sprinkling of silver just visible above the ears. Not bad for a forty-eight-year-old, she thought. Not bad at all.

And then the chairman bustled in, muttering excuses for holding things up as he took his seat at the head of the table. Sir Connor Considine, though the wrong side of seventy, had been bussed in to sort out the crisis that occurred at the time Marlings had to let go five of their senior directors who had proved incapable of piloting the bank through the tumultuous seas that hit the City in 2008.

Handy, in a way, to dispense with their services, and that of the ineffectual chairman who had dozed through years of mounting chaos leading up to the financial crash, because the blame for what went wrong could be attributed to the dear departed. Or so the complacent amongst them believed. But this was not a view shared by Mercedes, and certainly not by Sir Connor. Seventy-three he might be, but his mental marbles still lined up. Nobody could pull the wool over his eyes, and if they tried they would get short shrift indeed. Like all Yorkshiremen he was a pain in the butt when riled . . . and immensely proud to show it. Just what the damned bank needed if it was to survive, he believed.

Mercedes concentrated on her doodles as the early items on the agenda were tackled: a litany of reports on the progress or, as she felt, lack of it, as first one debacle then another was discussed, with figures mounting to tens of billions of pounds reportedly being spooned out to keep regulators off their backs, and customers at bay. The extent of the mis-selling of products designed to benefit the bank rather than its customers was there for all to see . . . but the sums involved, amounting to billions of pounds, appeared to have overwhelmed everyone: the media, the regulators, the Bank of England, and their bank’s ever-loyal customer base too. Mercedes wondered what it would take to bring the British public out of their stupor. Now an MP with an eccentric sexual orientation, or an occasional pensioner shoplifting . . . that would be more like it. Bring back hanging!

Mercedes kept up her doodling as the always earnest Mark Middleton-Conway delivered his report on An end in sight to our compensation payments for over-charging charities, one of the few chronic misdeeds that had failed to be seized upon by the press. The sums involved only totalled 150 million pounds!

The routine agenda items having been ticked off, Mercedes deftly turned over her well-doodled agenda list and awaited the next item: Daniel Hope’s A Bracing Culture Going Forward. Mercedes couldn’t help noticing all eyes were on the hapless Chief Executive: some direct, most oblique, but he was being observed by all.

His paper didn’t go down well. The title was dismal enough, but the content was worse, and the delivery drone-like: a mixture of waffle, self-congratulation and aspirations. When Daniel stopped talking – his paper had ended so incoherently few realised the nonsense was over – seconds elapsed before anyone spoke. And such silences toll ominously, even if they persist only a moment or so too long.

Melvin Frodsham was the first to respond – not Daniel’s keenest supporter, to put it mildly. He’d been elbowed aside by the previous chairman despite, only a month earlier, being promised the post that Daniel now held, after a twenty-year apprenticeship, as he saw it. And, Mercedes guessed, the bitterness was eating into his soul. She’d never had much time for Frodsham, but since the bank’s fortunes had nose-dived, whatever grace and charm he’d once sought to display towards her had evaporated. He was always scathing about any negative report she shared with the board first rather than him. Perhaps he had something to hide beyond their collective responsibility for the bank’s woes. Or was he just a spent force?

Frodsham, head down, addressed the file in front of him rather than lock eyes with any of his fellow directors, and the nasal whine that topped a slight Welsh lilt gave his words a sinister tone: ‘I understand the need to present a fresh face to the market, but I’m afraid these points raised by the Chief Executive (Mercedes noted he found it beyond him to mention the man’s name) are little more than platitudes. Wouldn’t it be sensible, prudent, to ensure the embers are completely soaked and incapable of fresh conflagration before we rise Phoenix-like from the ashes?’

Like most others around the table, Mercedes was battling to fathom out what Frodsham was getting at, other than to skewer Daniel with more barbs, when Stephen Mallaby intervened.

‘Perhaps, Daniel, we should postpone consideration of your fine analysis of future conduct until we are confident the major hurdles to progress are dealt with. And I’m afraid, in this regard, I have some more bad new. Our agents in New York are telling me a group of disgruntled customers have got together and at least one class action against the bank is reaching lodgement stage – and that’s going to affect our future profitability.’

By the time Stephen finished it was obvious from the nods and asides that Daniel’s paper had been kicked into the long grass, if not the murky waters of the Thames some hundreds of feet below them. Mercedes was grateful the meeting could move on. She knew the moment was approaching when she could introduce her latest enthusiasm: an idea which, if handled well, should keep them all even busier in the months ahead. Any other business on the agenda was duly reached . . . and Mercedes set to work. And as she did so she was pleased to see the expression on Stephen’s face which said it all: