The Teacher

By Tom Smart

A witty, poignant and somewhat uncompromising story in which aspects touching on the proscribed may well resonate with some readers – in fact just like the old lager commercial of the period, it could well reach the parts that others do not!

Set in England during the hyper-inflated property boom of the late eighties, a period which witnessed the onset of the computer revolution that was to change the face of business. Despite technological progress there were still many who viewed face to face negotiation along with a little straight talking and a handshake as still the way to do business.

The story revolves around a ruthless, if successful contractor who inevitably becomes the subject of policies calculated to reduce the bank’s exposure in the declining market. Under increasing pressure from the bank, which is far more interested in lessening it’s own risk than looking after it’s customers, he resolves to deal with the situation in his own inimitable way. Already feeling the strain, his problems rapidly escalate when confronted with stark reminders of a childhood that he would rather forget. Haunted by the past, he sees there would undoubtedly be a heavy moral price to pay for absolution since that would also entail coming to terms with a secret suppressed for far too long. Drastic action to eliminate the source would be the obvious and expedient solution, but could there be there another way?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tom Smart
• Release date: Jun 12, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463009642

Tom Smart

Tom Smart, Elizabeth Smart's uncle, is a veteran photojournalist for the Deseret Morning News in Salt Lake City, as well as an award-winning features writer.

Book preview

The Teacher

by Tom Smart

Copyright Tom Smart 2018

A disclaimer applies in that this is a work of fiction and no similarities are intended to any event or persons dead or alive.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. Should you wish 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 purchase your own copy from your ebook retailer. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Contents

Chapter 1 Avarice

Chapter 2 Playing the game

Chapter 3 Rejection

Chapter 4 Business is business

Chapter 5 Reality

Chapter 6 Another try

Chapter 7 Baiting the trap

Chapter 8 Taking the bait

Chapter 9 All in the mind

Chapter 10 Striking a bargain

Chapter 11 Revelations

Chapter 12 Meltdown

Chapter 13 Volte-face

Chapter 14 Horse trading

Chapter 15 Epiphany

Chapter 16 Donkeys

Chapter 17 Towards fruition

Chapter 18 Family matters

Chapter 19 Plan B

Chapter 20 Full steam ahead

Chapter 21 A legal conundrum

Chapter 22 Rock on

Chapter 23 Pride comes before a fall

Chapter 24 Goodbye Terry

Chapter 25 Up in smoke

Chapter 26 End game

A dark tale where lax morality furthers devious gains and questions whether the end does on occasion justify the means.

TS

Chapter 1

Avarice

Bristol. A hundred or so miles to the east the loyal ministers of the Thatcher government were engaged in political fratricide, the more ambitious vying to succeed the visibly creaking Iron Lady as Prime Minister.

Undoubtedly the country had rallied round from the manufacturing recession of 1981, the economy having improved to the point where there now promised rapid economic expansion. Fuelled by a heady combination of tax cuts, council house sales, affordable interest rates, rising property values, north sea oil and gas revenues underscored by high confidence it all pointed to increases in disposable income.

The ensuing property boom was driven by greed. For a large part, greed on the part of the banks who were only too willing to lend to the countless amateur speculators all out to make a quick profit on seeing that property prices were literally going up overnight. Indeed, for the luckier ones owning a property was as good as a licence to print money, for in some areas property values had risen by almost a third in a year.

It was as though the banks, so keen to lend in order to claim the inevitable charges and interest had been blinded by the reality that such a situation could not be sustained. With their customers securely tied to the financial rollercoaster and continuing to blithely borrow, the gratification of plying the shareholders with profit appeared to take precedence over more responsible lending. Whatever happened, considering themselves virtually autonomous and able to treat their customers as they wished, it would never be the banks that lost out in the long run.

As history was to later graphically illustrate, the lacklustre Major government was about to inherit the poisoned chalice and discover the economic miracle had run it’s course and a financial Armageddon was fast approaching. Driven by a burgeoning property market that could not possibly be sustained, coupled with the fixation to shadow the ERM the net result was nothing other than crippling interest rates. Thus aided by the uncaring banking community thousands of sound business’s both large and small were rapidly pushed into receivership. To sum up, whilst things were on the face of it still booming, the unthinkable bust was yet to come, even if still unthinkable.

A few minutes walk from the Clifton Suspension Bridge, down the wide pavements of the affluent streets lined with Georgian houses would find The Mall, the busy central thoroughfare of Clifton. Where, to the right of a typically impressive Georgian portico, the polished brass nameplate read in copperplate script Westland (Southern) Ltd. The image of establishment belied the truth, for despite the implication of a large organisation there was nothing to warrant the Southern aspect at all. In fact the company had been in occupation of the impressive offices for less than two years, prior to which a collection of tired portacabins to the rear of an large, if untidy contractors yard in one of the less salubrious districts of the city had sufficed for many years.

Almost as bright than the sunlight outside, the glare from the ornate chandelier lighting the large first floor office could be seen through the large windows by the occasional passer-by on the street below. It undoubtedly helped enhance the image of prosperity for in the office itself, beneath the crystal pendants was a large black-oak and chrome desk. Sitting in the obligatory matching executive, high-backed leather chair was Nicholas West furiously scribbling figures in an untidy hand onto sheets of paper which invariably appeared to end screwed up in the waste bin. He only paused to light yet another cigarette or to stab violently at the calculator, then to mutter expletives back at the small green figures that flashed before him.

A financial setback had presented itself, the timing of which couldn’t have been worse as the quarterly meeting with the bank manager had been arranged for later that week. Yet as much as he loved a challenge, even West was hard pushed to find a solution to this particular problem in the time available, let alone conjure up the requisite couple of hundred thousand pounds. The only viable option appeared to be a subtle massage of the figures he was due to present to the bank to bolster the current borrowing facility.

Having started out in business with almost nothing there was no doubting his drive and ambition. Leaving school at sixteen and taking an apprenticeship as a carpenter he proved his worth and once out of article’s was determined not to work for others, but instead to build his own business. With such aspirations it wasn’t long before he left a secure job to start out on his own and soon learnt, albeit the hard way just what the building trade was all about. Now, years later he commanded his own empire, a well respected medium sized contracting business built up by hard business practice and if necessary the occasional tramping on others to achieve his goal. Despite his success the one thing that money could not really compensate for was the social acceptance which he had hoped the business would bring, although characteristically he had found another medium to grant him access to some of those previously closed doors.

However, whilst a financial meltdown was not yet entirely visible on the horizon, for the financially astute Nicholas West there was a growing, nagging doubt that the good times could not possibly continue as they had. The upward movement of inflation and interest rates had convinced him it would be prudent to lower the outstanding overdraft level before anything untoward happened to the economy and the banks started to call in loans. Some form of safety net was required and preferably in the form of some desirable bricks and mortar that were in no way connected with the current business and could be cashed in unencumbered at a later date if needed.

Having decided that there was little more he could do on the subterfuge cashflow for the bank he got up from the desk and walked around the office, his attention now focused on formulating a contingency plan should the financial bubble burst. Pausing by the window he looked down into the street below to watch the various passers-by, suddenly he stepped back looking very pale.

Jesus! No, no… no, he’s dead!

A second later he moved cautiously back to the window hoping he couldn’t be seen from below and again peered down into the street. By now all he could see was the back of the man who was disappearing in the distance, it was impossible to say who it was which begged the question or had he been mistaken in the first place? Visibly shocked he walked back round to the chair and sat heavily down, scrabbling to find the packet of cigarettes under the untidy mass of papers. Wreathed in smoke he sat there with his eye’s closed not moving until the cigarette was finished, stubbing it out in the brass ashtray he slowly got up and returned to the window to look out once more and convince himself he had made a mistake.

The telephone rang four times before he moved to answer it, snatching at it he found it was his long suffering secretary Jane, by now well accustomed to his curt telephone manner.

What, who? Who? Alan Gravney, oh, well go on put him through then.

Nick old chap, how are you doing?

The public school voice was attached to a rather rotund body, brought about by an excess of networking lunches and too many cigarettes. Already balding, Gravney looked somewhat older than his mid forties, whereas West who though of a similar age had retained his looks, hair and trim figure ensuring he looked much younger. Gravney was known locally to developers and estate agents as Mr Fixit and made a fairly comfortable living by locating and touting parcels of land or leads to developers who were always on the lookout for suitable building land.

How am I doing? I’m not too sure, I’ve just mistakenly seen somebody I thought was dead! replied West with a nervous laugh. And, that bloody superstore project is turning into a right mess, d’you know I wouldn’t be surprised if the developers put it on hold as it is, they’re getting worried about interest rates. It's cost a fortune to put in the services and it’s going to be a battle to get paid for the work to date. I’m sure the money will come, but I just don’t need the hassle of chasing it.

Oh, bloody hell. Well I’m glad I only fix the deals not build them! So, who was that you thought was back from dead to haunt you? Some bloody bank manager I expect?

If only he had been, I’ve got to see that bugger later this week anyway! But, enough of all that stuff, what can I do for you? Come on ceer me up.

I’m sure a clever chap like you can sort the bank out, I suppose it’s the old quarterly cashflow interrogation time again? continued Gravney. Have to say when I tried my hand at developing I found that side of it an demeaning grovelling act, always made to feel indebted to the bank.

Certainly is and sometimes I really don’t know why I bother. Anyway, that’s not why you rang so what have you got, something tasty?

Telepathy! Yes, in a word as I seem to recall not too long ago, there was a little gem in the country that you really fancied. Well, it could be back on and as much as I’m very tempted myself, I just can't afford to get involved right at the moment, but for a small fee I might just put you in touch.

A fee? Cheeky sod! Well go on then remind me, I can’t think of anything in the country offhand. said West sitting up in the hope this could be his contingency plan. Cash is tight, but well you never know. So what is it?

I’ll bet you can’t resist as this one.. Gravney paused.

Well get on with it you bugger, West laughed, and stop the bloody theatricals!

Do you remember that crumbling Manor House with about fifty-odd acres in darkest Somerset?

Oh shit! So it’s that again! Yes, yes I do, the place owned by that bloody cantankerous old Major? interrupted West excitedly. Yes, I do remember, couple of years back, didn’t they take it back off the market having only just put it on? Certainly ripe for splitting up wasn't it, eh? Why, is it back on again then?

Thought you’d remember it.

Well get on with it, so what's the crack? West reached for his cigarettes, his other problems forgotten. What’s happened or has the poor old bugger finally popped his clogs? Now.. but, wasn’t there something about road improvements and a long overdue bypass?

You’ve got a bloody good memory and yes, road improvements. I got all this information from a senior planner who I bumped into while I was down there the other day on another matter. said Gravney enthusiastically. Colonel Blimp is still with us, but he’s really hacked off because the council have told him they want to carry out all their road improvements and will if necessary serve a compulsory purchase notice for some of his land. Anyway it seems he’s going to really put up a fight.

And? West inhaled deeply, smoking was apparently bad for the health, but in times of an impending business deal, a cigarette could have a calming effect on the nerves.

And, apparently the other side of the coin adding to the Major’s troubles is that he can’t afford to keep the place standing much longer. In fact, he'd probably be the first one to sign up for that smart country retirement home that was talked about when we thought about doing a deal last time, so he wouldn’t even have to move out!

Oh yes that’s right, I’d almost forgotten. I was going to flog the house to that very good friend of mine, the over friendly Doctor Asian Whatshisname and he was going to convert it into one of his swish granny homes. Yes, yes, that was the original plan wasn’t it, we’d then be left with all the lovely building land. West sounding more than interested. And?

And, well d’you think that Doctor Whatshisname with his multiple luxury granny home empire would still be interested in buying it? Knowing you, you'd be able to talk him into paying enough to prop up half the site costs anyway!

Oh, yes he’s still about, no problem, in fact I heard he’d bought another big one a few months back. This is sounding very good. West replied thoughtfully. "Well don’t stop now, tell me what d’you think could be got out of it? I assume there's no money in letting the Council have their poxy bit of land for the bypass or whatever it is?

Not that I can see immediately, just let ’em have it to keep them happy, but not until after you’ve used it as a bargaining chip to get some planning consents or something.

Heavens no, not for free! West laughed. So, what d’you think once it's all opened up? A touch of the old executive housing on the best bits and pushed well away in the far corner some social housing to win some brownie points from the labour councillors? Have to keep some land back for luck, then flog the house with a decent bit of garden to the good Doctor Whatshisname and hopefully recoup most of the purchase price. Is that how you see it?

Yep, you've got it in one. And, the best bit is that the council re-elections aren't that far off and they’re really desperate get that particular road scheme through pronto to appease some posh village that’s always choked with traffic. They also need to spend what remains of their budget before it gets nobbled at the next allocation.

Oh, really.

Yes, oh really! Gravney could almost sense the smile at the other end of the line, he searched his pockets for the mandatory packet of cigarettes.

They may even be willing to ease things through quietly, particularly after taking all that flak after their last shambles of an improvement consultation. I have a feeling that’s taught certain council members to be, as we might say, cautious. They want this to happen, so the planning might be allowed to slip quietly through Committee.

Really, d’you think so?

Yes I do, especially with the re-elections looming.

So what d’you want out of it then? asked West. Or have you something to put in?

No, I’m afraid I’ve nothing at the minute. But what about, say, for a little fixing and the considerable oiling some of some wheels at the Council, well, two percent.

Bollocks! What d’you think I am a bloody estate agent! retorted West. One percent of the purchase and another grand for expenses.

You cheapskate! One and a half percent plus expenses and I’ll do my best to sort out the council.

Robbing bastard!

Done, as always! said Gravney. Still that’ll help the school fees!

Bugger your school fees! Now listen, I’m also going to need an intro to meet that old Major so have you got any ideas?

Could be tricky, I’ll need to think about that. Maybe you'll need a middle man to front it as I gather he's an awkward old sod! Let’s both have a think, that first approach you make to him is going to be crucial.

Fine, but Allen I’ve really got to go now or I’ll be late for something. Look, thanks, that’s excellent, I’ll put my mind to it. Now I must get back to these damn figures before I go, we’ll speak soon and thanks again for the nod.

West placed the receiver on the desk to prevent any further interruption and delved into the papers in front of him to find his cigarettes and gold Dunhill lighter. Inhaling he kicked the chair back from the desk and swivelled round to stare out of the window, already deep in thought having seen what amounted to a lucrative safety net should the economy decline. However, all that was pure conjecture as the immediate problem was to stall the bank. Although, as he mused maybe his original plan to reduce the overdraft should in fact now be reversed to keep some funds available for the possible purchase?

After much thought and mental arithmetic he concluded that even during the present economic climate the land must be worth a minimum of two hundred and fifty thousand an acre with planning consent. And, there should be at least three or four acres which would be ideally suited to housing development all of which would be very conveniently apportioned off by the council's new road.

Dr Kalra would be the ideal purchaser for the house itself, in fact it could well be the new flagship to his chain of period retirement Homes and should be worth five hundred thousand minimum for a quick sale. The rest of the land he could hang onto since it must command an agricultural value and some hope-value for future development.

What to offer presented the biggest problem. With that sort of profit potential, the offer should be around the true value to be made attractive enough to entice the Major to sell. Obviously it would look more professional if a surveyor were to produce a valuation, that though would very easy to arrange especially through his business contacts.

West’s brain was in overdrive, he enjoyed the chase and the instant valuation factor to produce the magical ball park figure, the profit margin. After further thought and yet another cigarette he thought to purchase, say forty-five acres of agricultural land at four thousand an acre giving a hundred and eighty thousand and then the house with five acres at an extremely generous six hundred thousand.

Smiling to himself he thought it sounded like a very attractive offer, even if it were subject to the actual condition of the house and works required. It seemed imperative to get down to Taunton and make contact before somebody else snapped it up and should the Major drive a hard bargain, there were probably another few thousand that could be thrown in to secure the deal.

After thirty minutes or so he had totally convinced himself it was really worth pursuing, especially with Gravney’s introduction to the masonic planner at the Council. So surely with their combined experience of dealing in such circles the outcome should be assured? In any event looking on the black side was there really that much to loose, particularly if the construction industry appeared to be heading for a slowdown anyway. Assuming that Dr Kalra would bite, even if the rest of agricultural land did only have a true value of two thousand or so an acre, the overall loss wouldn’t amount to that much. It was worth the gamble of obtain planning of consent and even if he had to sell other assets he would still end up owing the property which could be sold it later when the market eventually picked up.

Admittedly there were an awful lot of if’s involved, but to West it was the if’s and associated risk that gave the deal the spice.

Besides, the money owed him on the superstore project was looking to become quite a headache now that several local authority contracts which had been bringing in a steady income were also coming to a close. Some more general contracting work was urgently required to keep matters afloat and to that end he needed to chase up any recently submitted bids. Although as ever the main problem was the cashflow at the bank, before he could continue his strategy there was a timid knock on the door.

Yes! Come in. he barked.

Nigel Jones RICS entered the room. Mid thirties, tall, gangly and for a quantity surveyor unusually indecisive. Thinning brown hair, tinted glasses, ill fitting suit and a profusion of sweat completed the picture.

My god, you look a mess, what’s happened? said West taking a second look. So, what d’you want?

I've just rushed back from Cheltenham for our meeting. Jones hovered nervously by the doorway.

Oh, well come in then. Now what bloody meeting was that then? West spoke in the past tense having no immediate desire for a meeting, better to finish the daydreams and the massaged cashflow.

Well it's the end of the month, stammered the ever subservient Jones, don’t you remember we had agreed to go through the.. the..

The? We had agreed the what? interrupted West, annoyed at the stutter and far more interested in getting back to his grandiose money making scheme. Look, I'm busy, can't you see? So in less than two words what is it?

Jones spluttered. It's about the monthly subcontract payments.. you, you said you wanted to ratify them this month. We had agreed to do it this afternoon, before I go on holiday next week.

That was more than two words, but, West thought for a moment, recalling that once he too had been a sub-contractor desperate for payment, so when are they due?

Now, in time for the end of the month.

So how many and what's the total value? demanded West who to be fair, invariably took a hands on approach to sub-contractors, considering it good practice to monitor both their performance and payments.

Jones fumbled to open the bulging file and succeeded only in inadvertently arraying the contents over the grey Wilton.

Oh God! What on earth are you doing? somehow West managed to keep a straight face, having always found Jones to be something of an entertaining disaster, nevertheless he was a qualified surveyor. He reached for his cigarettes and offered one. Cigarette?

Hhmm… no, no I don’t. uttered the sweating Jones crawling around the floor to retrieve the papers, he eventually handed the file to West.

Maybe you should, it’ll calm your nerves! Right, let's try again. said West with a sigh having now seen the pile of valuations. There’s a lot of ’em. How many, how much?

It's, it's about thirty-two payments ... and worth about ... three hundred and forty thousand. croaked the dishevelled Jones from the floor.

What! How much? West spoke slowly in an effort to restrain himself. How much?

Three hundred and forty thousand. repeated Jones quietly.

Oh I don’t have time to do all these today, declared West suddenly closing the file, they’ll have to wait. Subby’s can always wait, it’s what they do!

But, but, Mr West some of these people are desperate, said Jones, in as forceful a manner as he could manage, some weren't even paid last month and… and I'm off on holiday for two weeks from tomorrow.

Well, cancel your bloody holiday and see me next week then! replied West. There are plenty more subby’s about who’d be glad of the work. Anyway, who's business is more important, theirs or mine?

Obviously, yours. instantly agreed Jones, well aware this was the one that paid his salary.

Good, you’ve got it. So pack all this up, have a lovely time and don't forget to buy me a stick of rock and do send a bloody postcard!

Jones retreated back towards the door feeling lucky to still have his job.

Where you going, somewhere nice? called out West showing his caring pastoral side.

I’m redecorating the kitchen! said Jones unhappily.

Oh Christ! West smiled. Well enjoy it, don’t you dare forget my stick of rock!

After the door closed West’s thoughts immediately reverted to the bank and the fact that he'd rather save the interest on the three hundred-odd thousand pounds owing anyway. After all, subcontractors were dispensable and until the superstore project account was finalised he needed the money more than they did.

He crushed his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray, swung the chair back around and again turned his mind to the vexing problem of how to make money at the Major's expense.

Chapter 2

Playing the game

Ah, Mr West, yes we have your table over here.

Right. West dutifully followed the elderly waiter through the maze of tables to a quiet corner of the restaurant.

Thanks, could you get me a large gin and tonic, he said sitting down, and there’s a Mr Jarvis who will be joining me, so if you could you show him over when arrives.

A gin and tonic, of course. replied the waiter making it sound as if he already knew, turning on his heel as he had done a thousand times before he slid off towards the bar.

West lit a cigarette and idly played with the lighter as he glanced at the very ornate and somewhat pretentious leather bound menu, very expensive fine dining it certainly was. Looking around he concluded the rest of the restaurant was equally pretentious, in fact it rather resembled the interior of a thirties bordello he had seen depicted in a film a couple of weeks earlier. It was probably one of the most expensive restaurants in the area and for a socially conscious bank manager to dine there it represented something, although quite what West couldn’t imagine. However, as regards pacifying the bank if dining there appealed to the foppish to Tony Jarvis, then it was exactly what he got.

Mr Jarvis is here, announced the waiter ushering him to the seat opposite West, and your drink.

Tony, a gin and tonic? asked West, he nodded to the waiter to confirm the order.

The two men shook hands across the table as the waiter glided off as if on wheels.

So, how are you? enquired West sounding as sincere as he could manage. Looks as though another quarter has caught up with us again.

Oh yes indeed.

And, West gestured to the glittering silverware on the table, I suppose I’m paying for all this again?

Jarvis smiled obsequiously, West was not even sure if he had thought it was a joke. Oh yes, I'm only your humble high street banker, my expenses won't run to this particular restaurant.

West smiled and laughed. Quite. I’m not sure mine do either really!

Jarvis was the archetypical banker. Grey suit, grey personality and definitely greying hair. He acted as though he were sixty, but in truth only forty-something. Whilst he viewed himself as whiter than white, he was certainly not adverse to claiming any perks his position brought him, in fact he did little to the contrary. Why should he refuse a free gastronomic junket, a day out at the clients expense or whatever else he could wheedle out of the system be it the odd day at the races or a junket at a cricket match.

Like many others in their employ the bank had been indoctrinating Jarvis since he had left university, so naturally whatever the bank decreed was correct and would indeed be correct, regardless. Crucially, since he had never had to carve a living out in the big bad world he was ignorant of the problems of actually running a business and knew nothing of any financial stress involved.

However, now working for the bank as a manager, Jarvis had one huge advantage that separated him from to the mere mortals that were his customers. The old phrase the buck stops here could never apply. It would never be his fault that an account was put under pressure, it would always be on instruction from the Regional Office and if not Region's then obviously that of Head Office. And, woe betide the luckless businessman who tried to follow that tortuous trail of nameless indoctrinates all skilfully trained to pass him from one to the other and safe in the knowledge that the bank would and must always win.

Suffering at the hands of bankers when starting in business West had quickly learnt how to manipulate the system and now had no compunction in playing it ruthlessly to his own advantage. Some two years back, the arrival of Tony Jarvis had been truly manipulative manna from heaven, it was his first branch on promotion to manager and as far as West could ascertain he was a stickler for even counting the paper clips. Undoubtedly West’s business was one of Jarvis’ bigger customers with virtually a seven figure facility, so naturally with an eye to the main chance West had cultivated a quasi-relationship, even if he was bored witless at times. However, one of his objectives had been to introduce Jarvis to the advantages of becoming a member of his lodge, which with West in the higher echelons of the brotherhood and Jarvis starting out it was an ideal situation.

Smiling convincingly over the meal, West felt the time dragging as he dutifully listened to Jarvis droning on about a wonderful golfing holiday, a wonderful wife, the two equally wonderful mandatory children, riveting tales of birdies, bent tees and the even more wonderful Scottish weather. Whilst managing to maintain an attentive image, West entertained himself by trying to dissect Jarvis’ personality and decided there was just something about him which he couldn’t quite put a finger on. Jarvis wasn’t easy to read as a person and that intrigued West, could it be that he might have something to hide?

Now Tony, said West judging a convenient lull in the diatribe, look, I've got a bit of a busy afternoon, so do you think we could get down to business?

Certainly. I've told my assistant manager I have to visit other clients this afternoon, so there's plenty of time, Jarvis replied, I'll get the papers out in a minute, I'm playing golf towards the end of the afternoon.

It’s a hard life isn’t it! West smiled.

But, but it is with one of my customers, he has been asking me. replied Jarvis naively.

The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a much younger waiter to enquire if either the cheese board or another bottle of Chablis were required, the negative reply concluded Jarvis' free executive lunch for that quarter.

No thanks, but we’d like some coffee and couple of brandies please.

Purely by chance West happened to look up and notice that under the fair hair covering the young man’s his right ear a small gold ring was just visible, he looked at it for a couple of seconds and then half-smiled. Whilst West hadn’t intended to imply anything, the waiter had obviously realised and now looked embarrassed as he hovered waiting to clear the table.

Now, so what have we got? said Jarvis suddenly sitting up and appearing to come back to life having watched as the table was cleared, he reached down to produce a large green file. Ah, I know, that last cashflow you gave me doesn’t quite seem to agree with the current balance. Lets start with that.

Would you like a cigar, Tony? interrupted West disarmingly, producing a couple of coronas from his top pocket. Fully aware of the effect the majority of the Premier Cru which had been so eagerly consumed by Jarvis was now having, it was the ideal time to begin running through innumerable permutations offered by the massaged cashflows.

Well, I rarely smoke as you know, but.. oh, it's a Havana isn’t it? I can't quite see properly in this light. Yes, yes I'll have one please, where do you get them over here?

I buy them in a shop, but only for special occasions like this. grinned West. After all, we've got to keep the local economy turning.

The combination of decent wine, brandy and cigar had now perceptibly mellowed the grey man, indeed being unused to such cigars he was turning into the very slightly green man. Managing a weak smile he rested the bulky file on the table and returned to the brandy glass.

Reaching down by his chair, West picked up a thin leather case and opened it to produce several sheets of A3 paper, brushing the crumbs off the table he laid them out. Jarvis could see from the inverted sheets that they were more cashflows.

Excellent, said Jarvis, I knew I could rely on you. Do you know you are one of my few customers to always pre-empt any queries the bank have.

Strange that isn’t it? unable to help smiling West shuffled through the papers. Well I've been dealing with banks a long time now and you get to know exactly what’s required after a while.

Mmmh. Jarvis puffed on the cigar and nodded. He wasn’t really listening, he was actually envisaging being in a top job at Regional Office and royally entertaining incredibly important clients at the very same restaurant.

There was no doubt West had learnt a lot about banks, whereas on the other hand in the world of construction Jarvis’ knowledge was minuscule, in fact it was the same situation with every bank manager West had ever dealt with. Obviously Jarvis could follow a cashflow and see that the maths were correct in that input minus expenditure equalled a hopeful return. But, it was a that crucial point when his bank training left him in a very vulnerable situation and in this particular situation he was left to the mercy of the unscrupulous Nicholas West.

There was no doubt that West was supreme at producing a cashflow for any occasion, the presentation was as important as the content which should be delivered at a constant pace and intended to leave no time for questions. An excellent ploy was to show lots of items for both input and output highlighted in different colours, large contingencies could be built in and the contractual period extended. The numerous sets of figures could easily be massaged to show an inflated return to encourage lending. Such permutations were endless, but they all relied on one very basic premise, that the bank’s representative did not really understand the business to which it was lending money. It was of course the fault of the system, for how could any bank expect a manager to make a serious loan commitment on a business venture he could not fully understand? But, they did!

West had long taken the view that the system was there to be played and beaten. If he could take advantage of a large enough facility to tide his company over he would be happy to do it. After all, were not the banks really only legalised loan-sharks in suits? It was no surprise that he had hardened to that opinion after taking into account the extraneous fees and charges that were always being added notwithstanding the amount of interest he was also expected to pay. He knew that when he presented a cashflow it should be done in such an authoritarian manner that it must be correct and that Jarvis would never dare to question large amounts, typically allowed for foundation work. He would not want to show his total ignorance of a subject of which he professed to be