The Benchminder

By Stan Mason

Clement Davies, the trouble-shooter in the Imperial Bank is found dead and John Rigby is appointed in his place. Despite the promotion and extra salary, he doesn’t want the job and makes a deal to do it for only three months. However, on the very first day he has to deal with a number of difficult problems, not least a man with a bomb in a holdall in the Manager’s office of the bank demanding the contents of the safe, a demonstration of hundreds of people outside the front of the bank, a computer fraud, and Sam Elliott, the most scheming executive in the bank who wants the job as the trouble-shooter. Rigby is being stalked by his wife, who refuses to give him a divorce and she wants him back after leaving him, but he has made a new life for himself with a much younger mistress who is bearing his child. Banks don’t need trouble-shooters, you say!

• Language: English
• Publisher: AUK Authors
• Release date: Jan 6, 2014
• ISBN: 9781783335022

Book preview

damages.

Preface

In the Middle Ages, the bankers of Lombardy brought their benches to the market square and set up their business... and so the word ‘banking’ was derived from ‘banca’ which, in Italian means bench. If a banker failed to meet his debts, a man carrying a great axe would be brought to the spot and smash up the bench into pieces. Hence the term bankrupt emerged from the Italian banca (bench) and rotta (to break).

In modern times, the benches have been transformed into bank branches on a global basis and, because they are spread so widely with such diverse activities, a great deal of care needs to be taken of them. Those people employed to do so are called benchminders ... a breed of men and women who strive daily to ensure the smooth running of the world’s greatest financial institutions.

Chapter One

Rigby decided to go to the office early that morning. Consequently he was the first person to discover the body. The oversized cadaver was pitched face downwards across the richly-coloured red and amber Axminster carpet that covered the hallway of the fourth floor of the bank close to the main lift. When he first saw him, Rigby moved forward swiftly in the hope of reviving his colleague but his action proved to be futile. The dead man, who had read his horoscope in the train on his way to work that morning and expected good fortune to favour him, had suffered a sudden massive heart attack to collapse in a heap only two minutes earlier. The important summons he had received from the Chief Executive, which had set his adrenalin running, placing his heart under severe pressure, would not be answered because he would never recover consciousness again.

‘Clement!’ cried Rigby, bending down on one knee to enable him to shift the man in an attempt to bring him round. ‘Come on, let’s get you on your feet!’ But there was no response. He tried once more, with the same inevitable result, and then stared at the immobile body for a few seconds with dismay before spurring himself into action. He burst into the nearest office without warning, to snatch the telephone receiver from the hand of a startled secretary who was using the instrument for an aimless personal call. Cancelling the existing connection by ramming his hand down across the main controls, he swiftly tapped out the emergency number on the keys and called for immediate medical assistance. Sadly, his effort was all in vain... Clement Davies was irrevocably dead! His exit in life had been hastened by excessive emotional stress caused through pressure of work, lack of exercise, an overdoes of junk food, the consumption of fifty cigarettes a day, and a surfeit of gin which he appeared to imbibe at all times. At the age of fifty-three, the combination of these factors was too much for his constitution to bear and he fell victim to a fata heart attack.

The demise of Clement Davies made little difference to the running of the bank. He had not reached a particularly high level, having struggled for some years to get his foot on the executive ladder a short way above middle management rank on the line and staff structure, and he had never been considered for one of the senior managerial appointments which were carefully filled by personnel destined for top-level progression. As a result, his disappearance from the scene at Head Office was likely to present on a temporary replacement difficulty in the short term, and no problem at all thereafter. The appointment he left to posterity was another matter entirely. As the Manager of Functional Control, he was the banks’ trouble-shooter, working entirely on his own initiative to counter the daily emergencies which no one else had time to resolve. The job description was quite explicit. He had to be ready at all times to tackle any problems which might interfere with the smooth running of the organisation. There were three areas of operation which came under his control. These comprised taking care of the inordinately large Head Office encompassing a series of giant office blocks in close proximity to the City of London, three thousand branches spread nationwide, and an international networks of branches located in no less than fifteen countries. As most people were very aware, the telephone could ring at any time, either day or night, to highlight a crisis needing urgent assistance somewhere in the world and Clement Davies was the man who always had to be ready to deal with it. The nature of his work was very varied too. Most calls were very minor, while others required top priority in terms of action, and they were often regarded as highly sensitive with regard to confidentiality. Without doubt, it was hardly a task to be handled by a weak or ineffective person or by someone inexperienced in dealing with delicate matters at all levels.

Davies had been the key man in Functional Control for almost thirteen years and he knew that the only way to master the job was to dedicate his life to the task. There was no other means by which to control the operation which demanded his full attention for three hundred-and-sixty-five days a year. It had ruined his marriage, destroyed his home life, reduced practically all of his personal interests to a ridiculous mundane level, and, ultimately, had driven him to an early grave. Yet, surprisingly, there was always of queue of other executives waiting in the wings, willing to give their right arms to be offered the opportunity to step into his shoes. Now that he was gone, speculation on his replacement would start to flow through the grapevine and many self-styled suitors would get their chance to throw their hats into the ring as contenders in the hope of becoming his successor., The mere idea of such folly was a recipe for corporate madness because Davies had been a giant when dealing with difficult banking affairs and high-grade personnel matters. No one else would last a fraction of his term of office unless they could match his wits, his wisdom, his incisive judgement, and maintain good health.

The shock of the death of his colleague stunned Rigby even thought the two men had never been close friends. Far from it, their areas of operation did not coincide and they rarely saw each other or even discussed their work. Occasionally, they passed the time of day in the corridor to talk about the weather, or when attending meetings and their paths crossed briefly. On two isolated days, they actually ate lunch at the same table in the Head Office dining room, but that was all. It was a casual friendship which never flourished, existing only through brief contact of a very fleeting nature. Nonetheless they respected each other from a distance without knowing, caring, or enquiring, about the details or pressures of the other manager’s role. However, with the knowledge of their distant relationship in mind, Rigby felt a deep sense of grievance at the demise of the other man. He admitted to himself that he was unable to understand why he should experience such profound sadness and he was surprised that the loss of a man whom he hardly knew should strike so hard at his emotions. Equally, if was of no consolation to realise that death might have moved promotion nearer to himself or to observe that the weakness of human frailty which could end ones career at a stroke. One thing was certain, he had become far more sober in a very short period of time.

***

After the company doctor had examined the body carefully and pronounced the man officially dead, the mortal remains were taken to Davies’s office, laid gently on the floor, and covered with some old curtains resting at the bottom of a cloak cupboard. Rigby stared at the contours of the corpse after everyone had gone as if to offer a silent prayer. He could not recall how long he stood there in meditation but, eventually, the telephone jangled harshly to bring him back to reality.

‘Yes!’ he snapped sharply into the receiver. The fierceness of his response was so acute that it cause the caller to hesitate at the other end of the line.

‘Boy... you’re in a bad mood today, Clement! What’s the matter? If I had a cushy job like yours... dreaming all day about retirement... I’d be over the moon. Look we’ve got trouble brewing here. There’s a rumour that some of the branch staff are thinking of going on strike because the bank won’t increase its pay offer. They’re aiming to paralyse operations by hitting the computer sections first.’ There was a pause at the end of the line. ‘Hey, Clement! Are you still there?’

‘Clement’s dead,’ conveyed Rigby grimly. ‘And you can tell the staff to go to Hell!’ He slammed the receiver down into its cradle and closed his eyes before drawing in a deep breath. When a man died, it was like the waves of the sea closing in on top of him, burying him in the depths of the ocean, leaving the world above to continue its daily routine capably without his assistance. No one was indispensable but that concept was far too simplistic. Although Davies had gone, the problems of the bank were still there and someone had to be appointed to resolve them. In the meantime, those people whom he had served so well for such a long period of time were expected to show respect at his passing. Rigby knew, however, that after a short while all his good deeds would be forgotten in the helter-skelter of the day’s business. When things went wrong, all that people wanted was a name, a telephone number, and someone to get them out of the jam!

Rigby left the office, carefully locking the door behind him, and he returned to his own room to sit numbly in the big comfortable executive chair behind his desk. He had forgotten the reason for his original journey along the corridor and dwelt solely on some of the memorable past deeds of the dead man. In retrospect, Davies had been a corporate giant in his own right, tackling every problem regardless of its complexity without ever complaining about the pressure of work or the folly of others. It was a sad thought of human nature that the wealth of corporate valour was never recognised until a person passed on... but that was the way of the world. Now there would be a rapid search by Personnel Division to find a suitable successor. The job description, which was far too complicated to be set down on paper and had never actually been written, was a legacy for an executive of remarkable ability. Rigby shook his head at the thought that some poor fool would be lumbered with Functional Control to suffer the same fate as his predecessor. At that moment, the door opened and Sam Elliott entered the room with a file in his hand.

‘I’m returning the Internet Advancement file to you,’ Elliott told him bluntly. ‘All the arrangements have been made with respect to equipment and staffing to turn it into profits in six months’ time.’

‘Just leave it on the desk,’ muttered Rigby glumly.

Elliott dropped the file on the corner of the desk as he stared at the face of the other man. ‘What’s the matter with you?’

‘Clement Davies died of a heart attack in the corridor less than an hour ago.’

‘You’re kidding!’ Elliott managed to say, trying to keep the excitement in his voice at a low level.

‘I’ve just locked his body in his office. The company doctor’s arranged for him to be taken to the morgue. He was always in a hurry to resolve problem. Now the need for speed’s irrelevant.’

Elliott sat down in a chair to face his colleague, his mind filled with thought. ‘They’re going to have to fill that post pretty damned quick. Functional Control’s the hottest phone line in the bank. Have you heard anything yet on the grapevine?’

‘Come on, Sam!’ chided Rigby angrily. ‘The man’s not even cold yet! Have some respect, for God’s sake!’

‘Respect? What for? He split with his wife ten years ago and there were no children. He chose this kind of life for himself. It’s a case of the King is dead... long live the King!’ He paused for a response but none came. ‘Well how about it, Rigby! What do you think?’

Rigby removed a gold cigarette case from his pocket, removed a cigarette, and lit it from a lighter on his desk. After puffing some smoke towards the ceiling, he stared at Elliott sternly. ‘I suppose there’s Dalgety, Forman and Gardiner. They could handle it. There’ even a possibility they might consider you.’

Elliott shifted awkwardly in his seat as he became deeply disturbed. His attitude suddenly became sharp and incisive. ‘Might consider me!’ he echoed loudly, clearly wounded by the other man’s comment. ‘That job is mind! It’s mine, I tell you!’

Rigby looked away as his mind reached back into the past. He was less than interested in the passion sparked off by the ambition of his colleague. ‘Yes, he did have a wife. She was quite attractive if I remember rightly. He brought her to one of the executive Christmas parties many years ago.’ He paused to bring himself back to the present time. ‘You know what they’ll do now. They’ll put all his personal belongings into a carton and put someone else in his office. All that will be left of Clement Davies is a memory and an epitaph on his headstone which reads? Here lies a man no one really knew... no one cared about... and no one wanted... RIP’

‘Doesn’t that happen to all of us in the end? Give or take a few minor details. He loved his work. What more could he want? He was one of the lucky ones with job satisfaction, no financial worries, and no unsatisfied ambition. A lot of people would have liked to change places with him.’

‘Not any more they wouldn’t! I suppose I’d better let the Old Man know or complaints will start to flood through on his line and, as the Assistant Chief Executive of this great monolith, he wouldn’t find it amusing.’ He reached for the telephone but as he lifted the receiver Elliott’s arm moved across the desk to grip his wrist firmly.

‘Before you tell him the sad news, may we discuss this matters briefly? I think it’s imperative that we do,’

The stared at each other for a moment eye to eye and then Rigby replaced the receiver into its cradle. ‘What do you want to discuss?’ he asked quietly.

‘Functional Control is due to fall to me,’ declared Elliott aggressively. ‘It was promised to me when they decided to transfer Davies a couple of years ago but the revision of the Corporate Plan cancelled out the transfer. I want that job! I want it badly! When you speak to MacDonald, I want you to put in a good word for me.’ There was a long pause before he pressed home his point. ‘Please, John! Do this one thing for me and you won’t lose out. I promise!’

Rigby stared at him coldly. ‘A man has died, Sam. He died only a short while ago. What you demand was his lifetime’s work at a time when you should be showing respect. It goes against the grain to squabble over a dead man’s shoes!’ He picked up the receiver again, this time with determination, and dialled a single-digit number.

‘What about respect for the living!’ demanded Elliott angrily. ‘They promised me Functional Control two years ago! You could be dead on the promotion line in this organisation and they wouldn’t even notice!’

‘If they promised it to you, you’ll probably get it... so stop griping... ah, Miss Williamson!’ Rigby focussed his mind ignoring the chagrin of his colleague. ‘It’s John Rigby. Would you put me through to Mr. MacDonald please? It’s a matter of utmost priority.’ He paused while the call was put through. ‘Morning, Mr. MacDonald. It’s John Rigby. Bad news I’m afraid. Clement Davies dies of a heart attack this morning.’ He halted to listen to the response and then finalised the conversation. ‘Yes, sir, I’ll come along right away.’ He replaced the receiver and stared at the instrument for a few moments without speaking.

‘’Just do this favour for me, John!’ pleaded Elliott intruding into his thoughts. ‘Put in a good word for me... that’s all I ask.’

Rigby glowered at him. ‘I’d better find out what he wants,’ he returned thoughtfully and left the office under a cloud of sadness and grief. What did MacDonald want to see him for? The man was the third highest ranking officer in the bank in terms of authority. Why should he want to see a junior executive? Surely it couldn’t be anything of importance! After all, he was simply passing on a message about the dead man.

He emerged from the life and trod the rich blue carpet that covered the floor of the Boardroom corridor to arrive shortly at the door of the senior officer. On the only other occasion on which he had been invited here before, the muscles of his stomach had turned into a knot as a result of reaction, and he felt like a schoolboy outside the Headmaster‘s office at school. However it was entirely different this morning. Davies‘s death had affected his whole metabolism. He knocked firmly on the door and entered almost before hearing the invitation to enter. . He sat facing the senior officer in a comfortable chair in a room graced with ornate furniture and objects d’art of exquisite taste. MacDonald moved forward resting his arms on the desk. His sharp blue eyes stared at Rigby under enormous bushy eyebrows from a gaunt face.

‘I won’t beat about the bush, Rigby,’ he began in a perfectly rendered tone. ‘Davies was a good man. Damned good! His performance was exemplary but he’s gone and the work of the bank must continue. I don’t need to explain that to you. In normal circumstances, appointments take time to arrange as they go through the selection process. However, Davies was a ‘trouble-shooter’ and his departure leaves a state of emergency. We can’t wait for Personnel Department to find a suitable successor.

‘I realise that,’ spluttered Rigby, wondering why these comments were being made to him. ‘There are many worthy applicants for the appointment... ’he went on eager to be helpful, but he was not allowed to continue.

‘I’m certain there are,’ interrupted MacDonald rudely with some degree of irritation. ‘As a result of the importance of Functional Control, the Board insisted that a successor should always be waiting in the wings. It’s a unique position.’ He began to laugh as though he had made a joke but drew no response from the other man.

‘I’m delighted to hear it,’ commented Rigby heaving a sigh of relief believing it would get Sam Elliott off his shoulders.

MacDonald’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the junior executive like an eagle watching his prey. ‘Why do you say that?’

Rigby shrugged his shoulders. ’It’ll end speculation. Waiting and wondering causes confusion and people can get on with their work.’

‘As I said,’ continued the senior executive firmly, ‘I won’t beat about the bush. The screening process by the Board was very austere. We started off with fifteen candidates, narrowing them down to three people. The Board decided, in its wisdom, to choose you to tackle the job. What do you say to that?’

There was a short period of silence as Rigby digested the news. His mind reeled and went blank before he recovered from the shock. There must be some kind of mistake. I’m only reporting that Clement Davies is dead. I didn’t come here to replace him. I mean why did they select me? I haven’t the qualifications required. Nor have I even shown any aptitude for work of that nature.’

The senior executive smiled at the man. ‘I’ll let you into a little secret,’ he said lowering his voice almost to a whisper. ‘The Executive proposes, the Board disposes. They have faith in your ability. Be happy about it!’

‘But there’s Dalgety, Forman and Gardiner... and Sam Elliott as well. What about him?’

‘All good men, of course... but they must be regarded as also-rans.’

The junior executive shook his head slowly. ‘I’m sorry, Mr. MacDonald. I appreciate the Board’s confidence but I’ve had no experience as a trouble-shooter. It’s out of my league!’

‘Of course you haven’t,’ came the response, ‘but now you’ll have the chance to show off your hidden talents.’

‘I don’t think we’re on the same wavelength, sir,’ countered Rigby, uncomfortable at the way the discussion was being handled. ‘I value my leisure time very highly. Functional Control is too time-consuming. It tends to destroy personal life.’

The Assistant Chief Executive smiled at him easily. ‘I understand your reluctance, Rigby. You’re shocked at the death of your colleague and startled by the revelation that the Board chose you to be his successor. The turn of these events in such close order is stunning. Take a little time to settle them in your mind. Sleep on it and we can talk tomorrow.’

As a subordinate, Rigby realised there would be no mileage gained in pressing home his discontent. He disagreed strongly with the decision made by the Board because it was alien to his wishes and ambition within the bank. He was also angry at no being approached for his consent, blaming MacDonald for not having told him in advance. Now he was faced with a fait accompli. He had become a mere pawn in the game moving by an invisible hand. If he accepted the appointment, life would become impossible as a result of the workload and the urgency of the problems. If he turned it down, the Board would almost certainly relegate him to the bottom of the promotion list, heralding a farewell to all future prospects. He was on a hiding to nothing!

‘I’ll sleep on it,’ he managed to say as the buzzer on the senior executive’s desk commanded an answer.

‘Mr. Brennan has arrived for his appointment,’ ran the sweet voice of