Bank-cor-Rupt: Adventure, Mystery, Romance, #7

By Michael Hillier

"Andrew Denbury, I will give you until ten o'clock tomorrow morning to come back to me with a set of proposals which will promptly release the bank from its liability to you. You can telephone the local manager with your proposals early tomorrow morning. Otherwise we shall appoint a receiver."

Smithson looked as though he was about to explode. "I will not have a young whippersnapper like you come into my own house and insult me. Here." He hurled the papers down the table. "You can get out. Let me make it clear to you that I will never do anything more to help you. You´re in the receiver´s hands now."

"Your bank bounced your cheque the day before the receiver was appointed. Your signature was on that cheque, Andrew, so I'm afraid your name stinks with my boss. He doesn't believe you signed the cheque in good faith. In fact he's talking about going to court to establish your personal liability. I'm afraid you wouldn't get a job with us at the moment as an unpaid lavatory cleaner."

"Not only will I make you bankrupt. This is going to cost you a lot more than just the settlement with me. I will fight this right through the courts. I have the funds to do that, so I'm bound to win in the end. Even you don't dispute that you owe me money. However the legal battle will cost you a great deal. For me, the cost doesn't matter."

What will Andrew do to resist the overwhelming forces massed against him? How will he be able to fight back? Will he have any chance of succeeding? Will Samantha be able to help him?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Hillier
• Release date: Feb 20, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393651666

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Michael Hillier

The right of Michael Hillier to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998.

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Copyright © Michael Hillier 2015

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Published by KSF Publishing

All characters in this publication are fictitious and resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any person who does so may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

To my late wife Sue.

Inspiration, researcher, critic, editor and best friend

Author´s Note

Bank-cor-Rupt is entirely a work of fiction and none of the characters or the actual events described in the novel are based on any of those encountered by the author in his experiences which led to the writing of this book. Nevertheless the behaviour of some British banks and receivers is entirely in line with those set down here. Of course I don´t know whether similar behaviour occurs in the banking and accounting industries in other countries. I would be interested to hear readers´ views.

1 - November 1986

Geoffrey Smithson reminded Andrew of an aggressive fox terrier. He was small and slim and his sandy hair was thinning. He had a grey, bristling moustache and he spat his words out with a high-pitched bark.

Well, young Denbury, how long have you been with us now?

How long? Andrew thought a moment. More than seven years now - close to eight.

That’s right. Came straight to us from university, didn’t you? Clever cocker with a first class honours degree. Just the sort of chap Smithson Enterprises needs, to keep us ahead in the industry, and the time you’ve spent with us has been a success, don’t you think?

Well, I hope so, Mr Smithson.

Hope so? Of course it has. Now that old Jacobs has retired, you’ve been made up to Chief Designer, haven’t you?

Yes. Was Smithson expecting his thanks?

Well, I call that success in anybody’s language. You’re head of your own department, and on a decent salary. Have you got a company car?

No, but I don’t really justify one. I don’t travel a lot on business.

Never mind that. I think all our young executives should enjoy the benefits which go with the responsibilities of the job. I’ll see to it that you get an appropriate car allocated to you. Will you be pleased with that?

Well, yes. Thank you very much.

Now then, what are you engaged on at the moment? Isn’t it the upgrading of that steel switchgear, to make sure it complies with the new safety regulations which come in to force next year?

We´ve nearly completed that project.

It´s a very important one. I want you to go over the whole range of switchgear and make sure that we’re well ahead of the game on those products. He tapped the side of his nose. Between you and me, I’ve heard that British Gears are pulling out of steel switchgear. It’s never been a part of their core business, and they don’t think it’s worth making all the additional effort to satisfy the new regulations. I’ve suggested an arrangement with them, which will virtually cut out the competition in the market and will mean we can provide the industry with a secure source of gearing at a very good price. That should keep us going for at least the next ten years. Both companies will do well out of it. So I want steel switchgear to be your number one priority in future. Everything else can be shelved until that’s completely sorted out.

Everything?

That’s right. There’s nothing else that can’t wait a year or two.

But what about my designs for the Gyroflow valve? Mr Jacobs said he thought the concept was brilliant. I’ve given you a detailed report showing what a world-beater it will be. I´m hoping to get your permission to build a prototype.

The old man shook his head. I’m afraid I’m not convinced. It will cost quite a bit to build the prototype. Then we´re not sure it will work. And if we go ahead, the machining costs will be astronomical. I can’t countenance that sort of expenditure at present.

But I’ve personally spent a lot of the last three years on the Gyroflow valve. I´m convinced the design’s a winner. There’s been no real advance in valve technology since the late fifties, when motorised valves came in. The potential is huge. I went to that international conference last year and picked up a lot of valuable information. It’s obvious that everybody is thinking about developing a similar range, but we’re at least two years ahead of the rest of the world.

What’s the point? We’ve got no competition worth talking about in that field anyway. Why should we spend millions giving the pipeline industry new valves, when they’re perfectly happy with the old ones?

Because the Americans and the Germans are well on the way with their own developments. The industry is much more international nowadays. Soon, the big foreign companies will be selling the new valves in Britain and we won’t be able to compete. Where will we be then?

Where will we be? Smithson bristled. Where will we be? We’ll be talking to those big boys you mention and asking about taking up UK licences on their products, like we always have.

But we’re part of Europe now, Mr Smithson. If it’s the Americans or Japanese who come into the market with the new valves, they’re likely to go to someone big in Europe, like Realizzazione Idraulico in Milan, who’ve already got a Europe-wide marketing set-up.

Then we’ll talk to Real whatever you call them and get the licences from them. They won’t want to fight us on our home patch.

And we’ll just be selling a few hundred of somebody else’s valves on a commission basis instead of being one of the big players.

Suddenly Andrew stopped, aware that he’d said too much. Smithson had gone red in the face. The man was visibly shaking as he came out with his next threat. Now look here, laddie, you know nothing about marketing and economics. You’re just the man who does the detailed design work. You and your assistants are junior servants of the company and not the directors of its policy. I suggest you don’t try and get above yourself, or you’ll suddenly find your bright future has dimmed more than a little. Do I make myself clear?

So much for the bright young executive, thought Andrew, but he said, I’m sorry, Mr Smithson. I hope you’ll understand that I was disappointed to hear that my special baby, which I´ve worked on for the last three years, is going to be shelved.

"Well, that’s something you’ll have to face up to from time-to-time. Life doesn’t always go the way you want it to. What you’ve got to understand is, that it´s me who makes the decisions about the direction for the company to follow. When I do that, I take account of all the possible ramifications of each decision. I’m not saying that your range of valves is dead - only that it’s not a priority. It must be put to one side at the moment. You can try me again in a couple of years, and I may be willing to sanction some further expenditure on it."

Andrew took a deep breath. OK, Mr Smithson. I understand what you’re saying.

That’s better. Now, as I was saying, I think of you as one of the brightest young chaps we’ve got. As long as you keep your nose clean and remember the company comes first, you should go a long way with Smithson Enterprises. Remember - I want action on the steel switchgear and forget those valves (whatever they’re called) until I decide otherwise. All right?

Andrew nodded and stood up. He realised that he now had a big decision to make about what he was going to do with his future. He didn´t want to waste the next few years doing minor improvements to old-fashioned designs. He passionately wanted to prove that the Gyroflow valve was what the world needed.

Oh, said Smithson, call in to see Alex McCaig on your way out, and tell him I’ve authorised a car for you. That’s all for now.

Thank you, said Andrew, without really hearing the comment. In his mind, he was already working on the wording of his resignation letter.

2 - January 1987

The hunt met at the Rose and Crown on Wednesday. It was a bright, fresh winter’s day with a biting wind which sent the clouds scudding across the sky. Everyone was in the best of spirits, except Geoffrey Smithson.

"What is the matter with you, daddy, asked Angela. You’re like a bear with a sore head."

I’m still furious about that young Denbury fellow giving me notice like that. He even had the impertinence to tell me he couldn’t agree with the direction I’m taking the company in. I ask you, my own damn company, and some little university upstart thinks he can tell me how to run it. That sort of thing never happened in the old days. His annoyance seemed to transmit itself to his mount which pranced sideways, eyes rolling. He had to sit deeper in the saddle and grip tightly with his knees to keep his seat.

Careful, daddy. You’re not as used to riding as you were. Angela reached forward to catch the bridle of the frightened mare.

I don’t get time to hunt as often as I’d like. Smithson settled himself more comfortably. It’s not going to help any to have to find a new Chief Designer. I’ve persuaded old Jacobs to come back to hold the fort for a few weeks, but he can’t cope with the work-load like young Denbury did.

Can’t you persuade Denbury to come back - pay him some extra or something?  She giggled. I remember him at the Christmas dinner. He took me for two dances. I think he is quite dishy.

"It’s got nothing to do with money. What he wants, is to persuade me to go ahead and put the money into developing this new range of valves he’s designed."

Are these new valves a good design?

I don’t know. I haven’t looked at them.

Why don’t you look at them, and either tell him why they’re no good, or else decide to go ahead with them?

He shook his head decisively. Can’t do that. I’m not happy about taking the company into a big new development like this on its own. It may cost a lot of money. Besides, there’s no way I’m going to take orders from a young whipper-snapper like that. No. I’m afraid Denbury and I won’t ever be on the same side again. Oh, thank you, my dear. He accepted a steaming glass of mulled wine from one of the pub staff.

Angela kept quiet as she sipped her drink. She recognised the stubborn look on his face. It seemed that poor Mr Denbury had certainly burnt his boats as far as Smithsons was concerned.

Hello, there. Peter Cruikshank edged his big horse up to the other side of her. Lovely day for it. Let’s hope we get some good sport this morning.

They both agreed with him. Everyone agreed with Peter Cruikshank, whatever he said. He must be one of the richest people in the area now, and it was all based on property. Angela knew the story as well as anybody. Cruikshank had inherited his father’s farm about ten years ago. By good luck about fifty acres of his land had been included in the new development area. Instead of just selling out he’d developed the land himself. Roughly two thirds had been developed as housing which he’d sold on ninety-nine year leases with a ground rent of fifty pounds a plot. That alone brought him in an annual income of nearly ten thousand pounds. The remainder had been developed as an industrial estate and business park - nearly sixty sites letting at over four pounds a square foot - a total annual rental income of well over half a million a year. But he hadn’t stopped there.

With that under his belt he’d moved into other developments. By clever buying of land he was able to sell his houses at a competitive price. He was now turning over nearly a hundred houses a year. In addition he had four other industrial estates under development. He was already reckoned to be worth over ten million. Furthermore, he was still only in his late thirties and was considered the most eligible bachelor in the county.

Angela became aware that Peter Cruikshank and her father were talking business across her horse’s neck. Smithson was again complaining about Andrew Denbury’s departure.

What’s he going to do now he’s left you? asked Cruikshank.

God knows - try and flog his range of valves to some other company, I suppose. But he won’t have any luck there. We’re the biggest in this country in that field, and nobody else would have the cash to invest in that sort of thing. It would probably cost a quarter of a million to get them into production. The only real prospect he might have had, would have been to team up with British Gears if they decided to go into this field, but I’ve been able to queer his pitch with them.

He can’t find that sort of money himself?

Only by borrowing it and putting himself in hock to some bank.

Ah – I’ve just seen Caroline, said Angela. I want to talk to her. Excuse me Daddy - Peter.

She smiled sweetly at them as she backed from between them. Peter smiled back and inclined his head as he touched the peak of his hat. See you later, maybe.

She thought to herself as she made her way to her friend’s side, I do believe he rather fancies me, but she wasn’t yet ready to consider someone as old and staid as Peter.

Lovely daughter you have, Geoffrey, said Cruikshank as she passed out of earshot. How old is she now?

Twenty-one, just before Christmas.

Smithson’s eyes followed her. She was indeed a lovely girl - lithe and slim, with her long blonde hair tucked up under her riding-hat. Heads were turning to look at her as she passed. Several friendly smiles were directed at her.

You must be very proud of her.

The older man nodded. He was inordinately proud of her.

"She’s a credit to you. As to this Denbury chap, I shouldn’t worry about him. Just keep an eye on him, and your opportunity to get back in there will occur."

Just then the master mounted, the hounds were released, and soon afterwards they that moved off.

3 - April 1987

It was a few days after Easter and beginning to get dark. Andrew had left it a bit late to take the dog for her evening walk. There had been a lot of rain and even up here on Black Down the ground was slippery under-foot. He whistled and Jesse came loping past, her nose skimming the ground and picking up droplets of dew from the grass. She suddenly jinked to the left as she picked up a new scent and disappeared down a track through the bracken. Andrew continued walking, expecting her to catch up with him after a few minutes.

Fifty yards further on, he stopped and looked back. There was no sign of the dog. He whistled and began to retrace his steps. When he reached the track she had taken, he whistled again and called her name. It was most unlike her not to respond promptly to his call.

He called again and this time there was an excited bark.

Oh, come on, Jesse. He began to force his way along the overgrown track. I suppose you’ve got some poor creature cornered.

There was a whine in response. It sounded quite close. Suddenly, he came into an area where the bracken had been flattened. Jesse was standing over the body of a girl. She was lying half on her back and her long, blonde hair was draped across her face. The dog leaned forward and licked at her forehead and Andrew could see a dark brown patch was sticking the hair to her face. Was it blood?

Andrew pushed forward and shooed the puzzled dog away. As he knelt beside the girl, he noticed her white shirt and fawn riding breeches were wet with dew. How long she’d lain there he didn’t know, but it must have been for some hours. He bent over to inspect her forehead, and it was then that he knew who she was. He recognised it was Angela, Smithson’s daughter.

Andrew had always thought the girl was a bit snooty. Now her face was disfigured by a swelling bruise. As far as he could tell, the blood came only from a surface cut. He reached for her wrist to check her pulse. To his horror, he couldn’t find a pulse. In a panic, he buried his ear in her soft cleavage and was startled and relieved to hear something between a gasp and a groan come from her. At least she was alive.

He leapt to his feet and dragged off his sweater. He tucked it closely around her upper body. She would be badly chilled and shocked when she regained consciousness. But what should he do next? It was at least half a mile to the car park at the end of Black Down. It would take him a long time to carry her that far. It might also be the wrong thing to do, if she had concussion or any broken bones. However, there was no choice but to leave her while he went to phone for an ambulance. He looked at Jesse. Would she stay with Angela Smithson if he told her to?

Come here, he ordered. Lie down.

To his astonishment the dog lay just where he indicated, close beside Angela’s body. There she might give the girl some additional warmth.

Now - stay, he instructed, wagging his finger at her.

Jesse remained there obediently, her tongue hanging out. She appeared to smile at him. He backed away from her, still telling her to stay. Then he turned and went back down the rough track to the main path. Once there he broke into a run. Every moment he expected Jesse to appear beside him, but to his surprise she stayed with the girl. He was back at the car in just a couple of minutes. Unfortunately, the car park was empty at this late time of day, so there was no-one who could help him. He jumped in, started the car and took the road towards home. He was looking for a house where there would probably be a phone. Half a mile down the road he found the place he wanted. He could see the telephone wires going to a bracket on the corner of the building and there was a light in the window. He pulled in to the short driveway and pounded on the front door.

I’m sorry to trouble you, he gasped out to the astonished old man who opened the door. I’ve found a girl on Black Down who’s been thrown from her horse. She´s unconscious. Can you ring for an ambulance?

The man responded magnificently. Within five minutes the ambulance was on its way and he was in his car, following Andrew back to the car park. Then he waited to direct the ambulance while Andrew rushed back with his car-rug to see whether Jesse was still guarding the girl. To his relief she was. Andrew tucked the rug around the body and waited. Twenty minutes later the ambulance men arrived with a stretcher. They quickly checked the girl for broken bones and found they had a problem.

She’s got a fractured collar-bone. Did you move her?

No, said Andrew defensively.

That’s all right then - as long as you didn’t. Here hold this ready to slide under her. Can you take the other side, Charlie?

Within a few minutes they had got a support under her back and strapped her up. Then she was carefully lifted onto the stretcher. Finally, she was given a giant injection.

It’s a good job you didn’t leave it much longer finding her, said Charlie. It’s exposure which is the killer, following on from the shock.

Then Andrew was pressed into service as a relief stretcher-bearer on the long haul back to the car park.

Next morning, he rang the hospital after breakfast to find out how Angela was.

I’m sorry, said the sister after he’d explained who he was. Since you’re not a relative, I can’t release any information to you. The only thing I can say is that Miss Smithson said she’d like to see you, to thank you. So, if you would call round when it’s convenient, she’ll be able to tell you herself how she is feeling.

Can I bring my dog, Jesse? It was Jesse who found her. She might like to thank the dog.

I don’t see why not. Miss Smithson is in a private ward, so that shouldn’t be a problem. Is the dog well-behaved?

Very.

Then we’ll see you both later. Goodbye.

Andrew decided to call in when he’d finished work. He and Jesse were shown into a luxurious private room. He’d had the sense to pick up a bunch of flowers on his way.

Oh, thank you. Angela was looking pale but very much alive. A pretty, frilly night-dress was arranged across her body, disguising an arm which was strapped to her chest.

How are you feeling?

Pretty bloody. I think it’s all the pills and injections they’ve stuffed into me.

How’s the collar-bone?

I can’t feel anything. But they say they’ve reset it all right. She pulled a face. Apparently I’m going to have to wait a month before I can start riding again, which is a bit of a sod. She smiled. Is this the dog who found me?

Yes, this is Jess. She’s got a very discerning nose.

You’ll have to pat her for me, I’m afraid. She’ll need to wait until another day for my personal thanks.

She won’t mind waiting. Andrew fondled Jesse’s ears, as she liked him to do.

They continued to talk for nearly an hour, until the nurse arrived and threw him out.

4 - May 1988

The wedding of Andrew Denbury and Angela Smithson took place the following spring after a whirlwind romance. Half the county seemed to have been invited to see one of their loveliest maidens tie the knot. The reception took place in a huge marquee on the side lawn of the Smithson residence, where the grass had been mown to within half an inch of its life. The weather was beautiful, the ladies dresses magnificent and a smile was plastered across every face but one.

Geoffrey Smithson welcomed the Lord Lieutenant of the county, who had missed the church service. Thank you very much for coming, Sir Percy. It’s kind of you to spare the time.

Not at all. What a beautiful day it is, Geoffrey. The august personage bent his six-foot three frame to shake Smithson’s wife’s hand. And Florence, my dear, how are you?

Well, thank you. She bowed her head in acknowledgement from the wheelchair in which she had been confined for the last two years by the multiple sclerosis, which would kill her within six months. She looked pale and tired.

What a beauty your daughter is. You must both be very proud of her.

Humph. Smithson’s face took on a scowl. I wish she wasn’t throwing herself away on a nobody like Denbury.

Florence reproved him. That is nonsense, Geoffrey. Andrew is a very clever young man. I predict a bright future for him. She added quietly, half to herself. I only hope he can keep his new wife’s spending under control.

I hear he’s invented some brilliant new sort of automatic valve. The Lord Lieutenant sniggered. I must admit I don’t understand the applications for these modern bits of equipment.

Smithson almost exploded. The young whippersnapper designed the bloody things when he was working for me. Then, when I wouldn’t cough up half a million to develop and market the range, he had the effrontery to go off and set up his own business in competition with Smithson Enterprises. There’s gratitude for all the years I paid his salary.

Still –, The Lord Lieutenant patted his shoulder. I’m sure you wish the happy couple a prosperous future.

Not I! It’s Florence here who’s encouraged them to think they can set up on their own without my support. She’s the one who’s helped them with a deposit on the house – a right wreck of a smallholding it is too.

Now, Geoffrey. Be generous and admit he’s made a lovely job of converting the old farmhouse. It has a lot of Georgian features which he’s done his best to preserve, when all Angie wanted was smart modern fittings. And he’s converted the barn into a stable-block for her horses, although he doesn’t ride himself.

Oh, I don’t deny he’ll do anything at present to convince her that he’s the right man for her, and that I’m wrong about him. Smithson jutted his lower jaw. "But nothing can stop me from wishing she’d chosen someone like Peter