River of Judgement
DAVID SARTOF
‘What a man really
has, is what is in him. What is outside of him should be a matter of no importance.’
Oscar Wilde,
The Soul of Man Under Socialism’
Demeter Publishing
Demeter Publishing
First published in Great Britain in 2009
by Demeter Publishing,
a division of AM (Northern) Ltd.
This electronic edition published in 2009
at Smashwords
by Demeter Publishing
Copyright © David M Atkinson writing as David Sartof 2009
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ISBN 978-0-9564152-1-9
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IN MEMORY
OF
MARGARET AND DAVID
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
ONE
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Canada, Autumn 2006
SCOTT LINDON’S FEELINGS were impervious to all but the late-October cold. He did not like it; he did not like himself for it – this lack of feeling. Oh! There had been times, like this, when he wished his life had not been saved, but, after nearly twenty years, he’d become resigned to it all. He just needed to sort this frigging mess out.
As dawn broke over the small experimental oil extraction project, Scott calmly took in the scene before him. In his thirty-three year career, he’d witnessed many site accidents. Oil could be a dangerous, messy business indeed.
The front nearside wheel of the Ford Ranger pick-up lay half over the motionless, face-down form of Shufang Su. A bright graduate, at thirty-three she’d already made operations director for Tiger Oil plc, a small start-up company, head-quartered in London. Another FRIGGING mess, he thought. This time there would be repercussions – he could see that.
Scott checked the area. He could see no visible sign of anything out of the ordinary; it seemed to have been a tragic accident. He ran through the possible scenario in his mind: Shufang must have left the Ranger parked above the well pad. She’d gone down the slight incline to inspect the solvent injection system at the head of the single, horizontal well-pair. She had most likely failed to engage the hand brake properly and, unbeknown to her, the heavy vehicle had rolled forward. It would have picked up sufficient momentum to take it silently down onto her. With the fur-edged hood of her Parka pulled up over her head against the wind, Shufang would have had no warning.
Scott, a squat, heavy-set man of fifty – all solid muscle – stood, shivering. He knew the local First Nation people, the Woodland Cree, simply marked October as the month of the great migration south. The month of the real freeze came next. He also knew that, despite a December of festivals, there would be a month of exploding trees, with ice tearing into the landscape, before February’s great hope: spring.
Christ! he thought, I’ll be glad to get out of this open-air fridge. For now though, the wind of October’s closing days played around him, a maliciously meandering ice-serpent – a harbinger of the greater cold to come.
The area in which he stood lay some forty kilometres from the still sleeping town of Peace River, in Canada’s North-Eastern Alberta. It formed part of the Boreal forest – a bountiful expanse of aspen-laden parkland, where the Woodland Cree lived out their hunter-gatherer existence, where fur-bearing animals thrived, where great multitudes of wild birds thronged, and where, beneath it all, lay huge deposits of oil. But, relentlessly, the development of the Peace River oil-sands ate away at the Cree’s hunting, trapping and fishing grounds. It harmed the water they drank and the air they breathed. Still, according to a legend of the Beaver, another First Nation people, if you drank the waters of Peace River, you would return. And Shufang had returned to Peace River, for the last time.
Scott began to retrace his steps, up the incline. His car – a rental – stood some way down the roughly-made part-road, part-track access to the site. He glanced up. His gaze swept the horizon, registering the still half-light of the breaking day.
Reaching the top of the incline, Scott crouched down out of the wind – the tall aspen gave little protection in the clearing of the well pad. He pulled his hood further round his ears. This cold early morning would not see full light for an hour or so, and the biting wind made the five-degree-below-zero temperature feel even colder. Again, involuntarily, Scott shivered. He removed a glove and reached inside his jacket for his phone. With a last glance down to where Shufang lay, he flipped open his cell and called the emergency services.
Within minutes, along Highway 986, on the road out from the Peace River Township, blue and red lights flashed through the swaths of aspen parkland. They sped eerily through the belly of the nearby Shell Oil facility, and out in the direction of the Tiger Oil site, eight kilometres from the Woodland Cree Reserve number 226.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
TWO
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
England, August 2007
FRIED GHERKIN. It was a curious, even ironic thought, but, in the muggy summer heat of the overcast Wednesday afternoon, to Finn Jackson, forty-six, Chief Executive of Tiger Oil, it seemed appropriate. He glanced at his watch trying, but failing, to notice the progress of the minute-hand towards its two-thirty destination. Nearly ten minutes to go.
Finn stood by the fourteenth-floor window of the boardroom, the only room used in the small office-suite in London’s Citypoint tower on Ropemaker Street. The designation boardroom gave it an air of executive spaciousness it did not deserve. As he stood, a sublime, fleeting vision of his falling from an opened window flashed before his mind’s eye. An involuntary spasm raked a chill through his spine. He shook his head, trying to clear thoughts of his rapidly descending body, flailing its way to a grizzly impact. He reached his mind out, to think of other, less macabre things. He recalled Ben Bernanke, in the last month’s papers. Focus on someone else’s problems, he told himself. The chairman of the Federal Reserve gave an appalling estimate of the cost of America’s sub-prime lending crisis. It could end up costing the US up to one hundred billion dollars. Yes, someone else’s problems.
The dampening of the credit conditions would certainly take the froth out of the careering excess of the financial markets. Finn could see, on this hot, sticky afternoon, those conditions now made things more difficult for Tiger Oil – difficult, but not impossible. Certainly no reason to consider jumping from a fourteenth floor window. The small door at his feet, the one that opened onto the enchanted garden of his childhood, stood now, in his maturity, transformed. The door to a city of riches. It was there, ajar. It tempted him. If he could just squeeze through it.
Home wasn’t a happy place – he had grown detached. Aisling turned to her horses and to their daughters. He turned to the business. He’d forgotten who started to turn first. It no longer seemed to matter. But he did miss the closeness of their early relationship. He did love them all. No! He shook his head. It did matter, just not at this moment.
What did seem to matter, now? Raising money! That’s what mattered. But people were more risk averse than they’d been before the summer – even Aaron. Aaron, yes! The call troubled him, and he couldn’t work it out.
Earlier, as he’d climbed out of Moorgate underground station – the oppressive subterranean atmosphere bringing his perspiration levels to dripping point – he’d taken the call from his friend, Aaron Philips.
‘Sorry, Finn,’ Aaron had said, ‘we’ll have to cancel lunch at the tapas bar.’
Aaron, fifty-one, was Finn’s business partner and the company’s finance director.
‘The Oxford train’s running late,’ Aaron continued, his voice agitated, with only the merest hint of apology. ‘Apparently there’s some signalling fault.’
‘No problem,’ he’d replied, ‘…another time, if you like.’
‘No. You don’t understand, Finn. I really needed to talk to you before the meeting…’
The signal faded.
‘…Grayson’s… path…’
‘Aaron, I missed that. The signal’s crap. Can you repeat?’
Static.
The connection died. His stomach froze. But, shaking off the premonition before it materialised, he tried to re-connect to Aaron. He reached Aaron’s answering service – it unnerved him.
So, tapas cancelled, he’d hurriedly dropped into a sandwich bar, to collect a working lunch. His briefcase and laptop were a dead-weight in his hand. He couldn’t stop thinking about what Aaron might have been trying to say. He was trying to warn him about something, wasn’t he? That was the agitation in his voice.
From the sandwich bar, he’d made his way to the office. At least here he’d gained sufficient respite to adjust his body and temperature to a more comfortable and dry state before the meeting. But he was on edge now. The call. Of course he’d tried Aaron’s phone again, since – no luck.
The cooler, drier Finn glanced at his watch again. Where could the others be? He let his gaze drift out over the city, as he went about reviewing the main points of the forthcoming meeting in his head. What had Aaron been trying to say?
True, almost ten months on since Shufang’s tragic death, the slow progress of the pilot operation in Peace River wasn’t helping meet their objectives. Despite his positive recommendations of a number of potential candidates, the board still needed to agree on the appointment of a new operations director. The whole operation worked with a budget that represented a holed Dutch dyke – they always needed to move bits of cash around, to plug leaks, to get by. They were managing, weren’t they? But with all the delays, low cash-flow remained an uncomfortable reality. They now met only essential operational costs. But the ever-hungry lawyers and corporate finance advisors still demanded their feed, as Tiger Oil prepared for its flotation on AIM, the London Stock Exchange’s junior market.
Could Aaron’s finance report be a problem? He’d been expecting the papers before the meeting, but Aaron, excuses at the ready, promised a full update when they met for lunch. But they hadn’t met, had they…
Tiger Oil was looking to raise ten million pounds in the AIM float, to take the project forward from its fledgling pilot stage. It aimed to reach full production capability in the first of its small cache of four oil-field leases. But Tiger Oil merely intended to develop its technology sufficiently to attract a buyer, possibly Shell – a buyer who would have the clout and the funds to take the whole thing forward in large-scale. Ten million pounds did not make much of an impact in the oil business.
Agitated, Finn checked his watch again. Five minutes to go. His gaze set on the gothic-arch-like upper profile of the Norman Foster designed Swiss-Re building at St Mary Axe. He generally thought gothic, but, in the heat of the August afternoon, with growing financial turbulence being, in-part, acted out within the great glass and steel structure, fried gherkin gave a more accurate description.
Despite all the delays, he was proud of how far he’d come. He’d been born with rather limited prospects, in the small Yorkshire fishing town of Whitby. His long-suffering mother raised him as an only child, a product of her union with the type of man to whom charm appeared a gift and responsibility an anathema. His father was long gone, both physically and in memory. From there, from the two-roomed flat his mother had brought him up in, the only way out had been to go to sea – either that or the Army. Despite a mediocre education, the opportunity to learn a trade had not seemed worth the requirement to wear a green uniform. Now the company… his company, would soon place its first public offering of shares. That door to the garden was opening to him, beckoning.
A grin broke on his face, reflecting into the room, as he considered how much his shares would be worth when they listed. Although they had reined-in their valuation, they still looked to raise ten million for a forty-five percent share of the company. His shares would still be worth at least a cool three million. That, he told himself, will be a result. It’ll be worth all the effort and problems of the last years… a just reward. It stood on today’s agenda. This afternoon the board is going to finalise the float timetable, he thought. Perhaps there would soon be time for a long overdue holiday. His mind wandered – images of an October sunset across the Cote d’Azur appeared as fleeting, shimmering ochre mirages dancing beyond the glass of his cocoon-like office. Enchantment. He remembered the stories his mother used to read aloud to him.
He grinned at his reflection again. He loved the buzz of the city. It had all been new to him – a trying, learning experience. His naivety of city-ways proved a draw-back at times, but he learnt quickly. He could conquer this place – reap the fruits in the garden before him, beyond that small door, where only the few ever really passed. Besides, he mused, it’s much more fun than messing around at sea or in hot, dirty oil fields.
The outer door opened onto the unoccupied reception area. Finn turned to see the tall frame of Grayson Barclay enter. Grayson, sixty-one and non-executive Chairman, quickly moved to hang up his superfine Monte Cristi trilby – a recent acquisition from Locke and Company on St James’s Street. That bloody hat! They’d ALL heard about the purchase, the last time they’d met.
Grayson walked up and took Finn’s offered hand. Their eyes locked.
‘Good afternoon, Finn.’
‘Afternoon. . . how’s the journey down?’
‘No complaints… Look, Finn, I won’t beat around the bush with you. I have cancelled the meeting.’
‘Pardon…’ Finn wasn’t quite sure he’d even said the word pardon, let alone made sure his inflection turned the word to a question. It sounded more an involuntary statement. His expression became one of puzzled incomprehension.
‘I called David and Jonathon over the weekend,’ Grayson continued. ‘We spoke with Aaron in a conference call yesterday. We all agreed…’
‘You agreed what?’ interrupted Finn. A chilling realisation dawned on him – they’d left him out of the loop on whatever they’d agreed. Whatever it was, it did not bode well for him. Finn’s expression washed over with disbelief.
‘I’m sorry it’s come to this, Finn, but we’ve all reached an agreement… you should go. We want you off the board. I chose to come here today to tell you personally, rather than just call you. It is the least I could do.’
‘The least you could do? What do you mean, the least you could do? This must be some kind of…’ But Finn didn’t finish. His mouth shut, slowly.
Grayson kept speaking, but Finn did not hear, he simply kept looking at Grayson. Finn raised his hands, finger tips spread across his forehead, and his eyes shut tight. He turned round, away from Grayson, to face the window again – as if a small boy, by closing his eyes and looking away, he would be safe from the trouble confronting him. Grayson talked on.
Finn regained his composure. ‘What are you saying?’ His eyes opened, but he continued to face the window. His mind raced. He needed to focus. Fried fucking gherkins. ‘You’re sacking me?’ he said. The words ricocheted off the glass.
‘No. You know we can’t do that.’
‘So what exactly are you fucking saying?’
‘I understand you must be upset and disappointed, Finn, but we want you to resign as chief executive and director. I know it’s been a difficult year and, with the death of Shufang…well, it can’t have been easy for you. But this is a business, Finn. I did not put up half a million pounds to see us still waiting today to get our listing on AIM. You are the Chief Exec and the only measure of a good CEO is one who gets things done. You know my stance on responsibility, Finn. It goes to the top – it goes to you.’ Grayson’s voice held a cold edge. ‘And we are still waiting, Finn… I am still waiting.’
‘SO!’ snapped Finn, sarcastically, ‘…you’re not taking any responsibility yourself? What about all your objections to getting a new ops man in place? You telling me I should’ve been on-site, supervising? And here, working the city at the same time? Come on, Grayson. You might be past an executive role yourself, but…’
‘No need to be so personal, Finn…’
‘Oh shut up, Grayson. You know what’s involved in all this. We want public company status, to get access to institutional investment. You know there’s a huge cost in all of this stuff we’re doing.’ Adrenaline pushed Finn’s response with a passion. ‘It ALL costs time and money. You… sorry, the frigging Board… well, you can go stuff yourselves if you want me out. I founded this company with Shufang and Aaron, and I still own twenty-five percent. You can’t fire me. You’d better put what you want in writing. …Goes for the board as well. Now get the hell out of here.’
‘Finn, we all know you own a major stake in the company. We want your shares as well.’ The tone of Grayson’s voice held no promise of friendly quarter.
‘YOU WANT WHAT?’ shouted Finn, spitting the words out.
The shout surprised Grayson, momentarily. ‘Errr… We just feel because you’ve not delivered us to AIM yet, then when we do get there it won’t have been through your efforts. We don’t want you to profit from our success.’
‘Your success?’ said Finn, laughing in shocked disbelief, ‘your success? …Now I really know you’re joking. . .’ His voiced trailed off… and then recovered. ‘Just get out,’ he shouted. His hands shook with rage.
Grayson hadn’t moved since earlier taking Finn’s hand. He turned and walked to pick up his hat. He walked forward and opened the door to leave, but, pausing by the open door, he turned to face Finn again. ‘I am taking control of the company finances. I have instructed Aaron not to advance you any more on your loan account without my authority. Talk to him if you like, Finn. Perhaps he will get you to see the way it should be.’
Having delivered his final blow, Grayson turned, exited the door, then closed it solidly behind him. Finn stared at the closed door. Astonishment numbed his senses; he could feel nothing. Then, from deep within, a wave of nausea-tinged sadness crashed against his beached soul. He saw, with an immediate clarity, there could be no arguing against the dogmatic Grayson. Grayson had just destroyed all sense of trust. What could he fight for? There’s no point in a fight, he thought. He sat down hard on one of the chairs. With his head hanging over the table, he closed his eyes again. Anger had carried him through the confrontation with Grayson. Now he could only sit there in shock. Over three million pounds worth of shock.
NO! No, he couldn’t just give up – not on everything he’d worked for! For Christ’s sake! I can’t not fight! He had to wrestle the shock first – he needed to get to Aaron. Aaron knew – didn’t he? Of course he bloody did. That’s what he’d been trying to warn him about, wasn’t it? He eyes closed, he could just make out, at his feet, an almost imperceptible chink of light shining through the key hole of that small door.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
THREE
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
FINN NEEDED AIR. The hour had just turned three o’clock. He left the office where he’d sat in stunned silence for some time, and walked out, trance-like, turning down Moorgate in the direction of Bank tube station. He couldn’t think straight. He fought the shock that pervaded his senses. What the hell just happened? The question circled his mind – it tore at his consciousness, a relentless pain.
He felt rather than heard his phone. Instinctively, his right hand lifted it from the breast pocket of his jacket. He slid the cover open.
‘Finn Jackson.’
‘Finn, it’s Aaron…’
‘Christ, Aaron… What’s going on?’ Bewilderment leadened his voice. It lay like a thick veneer of panic across each word he spoke. But he was on auto-speak. He was listening to himself – in his state of shock, he sounded weak and pathetic. His naivety shone, stripped bare to all who cared to notice. This wasn’t him. He had to snap out of it.
‘Look… Where are you? Let’s meet up… Where are you?’
Finn looked up. He’d stopped walking to talk and now he sought his bearings. ‘Just into Cornhill…’
‘Go into the Counting House. I’ll be there in ten. You sound like you could do with a drink.’ Aaron ended the call.
It took Finn more than a few seconds to close his phone and return it to his pocket. Having put everything into Tiger Oil, he’d entered a dire strait. All his assets supported the business – his house, his savings policies. They all secured borrowings, most of which he’d sunk into developing the firm. He existed on credit. Christ! Three platinum credit cards out to their max. Grayson’s move pushed him through the strait and he could only see sharp rocks ahead. There was no retreat, no possibility of turning. How the hell could he make payments this month, if he couldn’t draw funds on his director’s account?
Finn reached the Counting House and entered the cavernous, soaring city basilica, in its former days a NatWest bank. Any other day and Finn would have drunk-in the atmosphere – it was his sort of place. Aaron knew that. He slunk forward, as if captive in a dream, toward the immense island bar under the huge glass-domed roof… Wood, brass and marble lay everywhere; Finn loved the simple beauty of wood.
‘Christ, Finn, I’m really sorry about all of this…’ Aaron’s voice punctuated the vacant space in his mind. ‘Taxi got me here quicker than I reckoned. Look, go grab a table on the mezzanine. I’ll go get us a bottle of something and a couple of glasses… White all right?’
‘Yeah. Thanks,’ he said, without thinking.
Finn went for the steps. He knew he should be livid with Aaron too, but he could see that Aaron wouldn’t have had any choice in the matter and he needed a friend right now. A large light suddenly shone, in his mind, unseen by anyone else. No! That wasn’t it at all. He didn’t need Aaron’s friendship – he just needed to know why. Aaron knew. He’d tried to warn him. Finn needed to know.
He climbed to the gallery and went to sit at one of the many small tables dotted along it. This Wednesday afternoon it wasn’t busy. But, then again, the pub could soak-up an entire Friday-lunch crowd of suits without Finn feeling crushed. It provided the sort of experience where lunch would frequently turn into dinner.
Normally, Finn would people-watch from the gallery but, today, his mind drifted elsewhere and nowhere – a confusion of emotion spiked by fear and dread. Why hadn’t he seen this coming? Why? His mind raced. The light? Anger wouldn’t do – it wouldn’t get to the truth – he needed to keep calm. Naivety he thought. He would play on it. He would court Aaron’s sympathy and see where it got him.
Aaron approached with a bottle and cooler in one hand, two glasses in the other; a lap-top case hung from a strap over the shoulder of his city-stripe suit. ‘Here you are.’ Aaron placed the cooler and glasses down, removed the case from his shoulder and took the seat opposite. Mechanically, Finn poured two glasses.
‘When did you find out what Grayson wanted to do?’ asked Finn.
‘Friday night. I’m sorry – I was hoping we’d get lunch. I wanted to warn you. Damn phone battery.’
‘Friday? Jesus, Aaron!’ he said. Deep furrows appeared on his brow. His eyes rolled. He wanted to scream you bastard… but he curled his toes viciously, letting the pain dissipate his anger. He wanted to reach out and grab Aaron by the throat. ‘Surely you could have warned me earlier – the weekend?’ he continued, anger seeping into his voice. ‘I could have at least got an argument ready. Now…’ he paused to draw on the cool Sancerre. ‘Now I have no option. You know that. . . Why?’
‘Simple, Finn,’ said Aaron, matter-of-factly. ‘It’s his money we’ve been spending – he’s impatient for a return.’
‘That’s crap, Aaron, you know it,’ he said, swallowing bile, ‘…what the hell does he expect?’
‘When he called me Friday evening, he’d been livid. He ranted on about misrepresentation – he wanted to sue us over lies in our business plan.’
‘But…’
‘No buts, Finn, both you and I know there are no lies. But that wouldn’t stop a man like Grayson. He has deeper pockets than you or me, and we simply can’t afford to take him on in a fight – it would lose us everything. He is pissed about all the delays. I’ve spent the weekend trying to talk him out of this. I thought I could.’
‘He’s pissed? Christ!’ he said, then downed his drink – as if the cool wine would douse his anger. He stared at the empty glass. ‘This isn’t doing a thing. You should’ve got some large whiskies. …Anyway, what does he fucking expect, this is an experimental development. He certainly hasn’t helped in getting someone else out there to pick up from Shufang.’
‘I know. But getting at Grayson won’t help. I don’t think there is anything you can do. He wants your blood… Look, you know how short of cash we are. Perhaps if I can get him to front up enough to get you thirty grand, would that help you out?’
‘I need more than your sympathy, Aaron. He wants my shares too – he wants my bloody shares.’
‘I know, Finn, but he can’t just take them off you. Let me talk with him. He’s done his deed, perhaps I can reason with him now.’ Aaron reached for the bottle and poured another two glasses. ‘You now what Machiavelli said, don’t you?’
‘No. Go on.’
‘When he wrote his CV for Lorenzo de’ Medici, he’d written something like The innovator makes enemies of those who prospered under the old order. He can expect only lukewarm support from those who would prosper under the new. Grayson is old-school, Finn. He’s been swayed by the promise of great profit. But I think the delays have given him time to see how new all this stuff you’re doing is – how risky it really is. He can’t handle it.’
‘No buts, Aaron. If we get this right, we’ll revolutionise the whole process. Everyone will want our business. We’ll be worth a fortune and we’re nearly there. I can feel it, Aaron.’
‘I just think he wants to back-pedal on it all. He’s probably thinking to resell the well and the other three leases to Shell.’ Aaron took a long drink from his glass. ‘Given the price of oil at the moment, it would be economical for Shell to work them now, even if they cost more to buy back from us than they sold for.’
‘So he makes a small profit. Bully for him. Doesn’t he know what we will all make out of selling the company later, once we’ve cracked it? Jesus, Aaron, the stock broker is putting a market value of over twenty two mill’ on us when we float.’
‘Grayson’s not thinking long term, Finn.’
‘What’s to stop me just leaving and setting up again?’
‘Come on, Finn, you can answer that yourself. Can’t you?’ The wine wasn’t staying in the glass long and Aaron reached the bottom of his second. He reached over and topped Finn’s glass up, and gave himself another small amount. ‘It all comes down to money. If we had it… if you had it, we could all keep going.’
‘Yeah. I know.’
‘Look, Finn, I think…’ Aaron paused. ‘Look… before you do anything you should get legal advice. I know a small firm here in the city. I went to school with the senior partner. There’re only two of them, but they have a good reputation. They do mainly commercial stuff. Why don’t I give them a ring and set up a meet.’
‘Thanks,’ said Finn, biting on his anger. He swallowed more bile. The desire to throttle the life out of his friend heightened as he heard the acquiescence drip through his own voice. He continued to wrestle with his state of shock and his naïve responses covered his feelings well.
‘No problem, anything I can do to help, just call me, OK?’ One side of Aaron’s mouth curled upwards as he gave Finn a half-smile. ‘Sorry, Finn, I have to get to another meeting. Why don’t you just sit here and gather your thoughts? Finish the wine. I’ll get Hillary Keaton at Keaton-Jones to call you. They’ve an office over by Holborn. He will talk it all through with you.’
Aaron rose from his chair. Standing, he finished his wine, then gathered his case from under the table. ‘You know, Finn…’ he paused; ‘it will all get sorted. Let’s get you some money flowing. I’ll call tomorrow.’ He turned and left for the stairs.
All get sorted, he’d said. Money flowing, he’d said. But Finn knew, until he reached an agreement over leaving, Grayson would make sure he didn’t receive a thing from the company. He’d been well and truly stuffed. Aaron may have sounded sympathetic, but he wasn’t promising to be helpful. Machiavelli? Old order? What the hell’s that about?
He was livid. Could Grayson’s agenda really be to close the business, and resell the leases to Shell? But Grayson had still mentioned the AIM float, hadn’t he? Could selling to Shell, now, just be a ploy to get his shares away from him? Until they floated, as a private company with no revenue – never mind no profit – the shares weren’t worth a great deal. Floated, they stood to rise significantly, particularly on the back of the rising oil sector. He needed to hang onto his shares if he could.
Finn downed the last of the wine. Anger welled deep within him; he needed to get even, but how?
Where the hell did Aaron figure in all this? …On the fence? Right now, Aaron incensed him. He tried to consider the reverse. If it had been Aaron axed by Grayson, what would he have done? Would he have fallen on his own sword for Aaron? Would he have risked it? They’d needed Grayson’s finance; they still did. If Grayson decided anything, then he’d probably have had to go along with it too. But it didn’t feel right. Mentally, he started to kick himself. Not much of a frigging strategy that… Play dumb? Who was he kidding? He’d wasted an opportunity.
He needed help. He wasn’t going to be able to count on Aaron for much. He sensed that, but he did still need Aaron in his camp. He needed to keep Grayson in focus also. He wanted to kick out, hard. His eyes narrowed at the thought.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
FOUR
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
FINN HAD NEVER experienced a week like it. He’d returned straight home after his meeting with Aaron, catching the five o’clock GNER train to York. Any normal week, and he would have spent around three days in the city before returning, but he needed to get back and take some steps. Now, with no possibility of money going into his bank account, he needed to prevent the inevitable haemorrhaging of cash that would occur later in the month.
Of course, he had rights. The law required the company to pay him. But he knew the accounts. He knew how little cash remained. If he took it to court, a successful action would destroy the company. There would be insufficient cash to pay out any tangible level of compensation. It would leave him with nothing. No one, least of all himself, wanted to destroy what they’d all spent the last years working on. Grayson frigging Barclay knew that, and he was playing on it. No, he thought, he would need to box clever. Grayson had tied strings to him and now dangled him, marionette-like, over a gaping abyss.
On the Thursday, Finn went on-line and cancelled all his direct debits and standing orders. At least he could control the rate at which money would leave his account. He would respond only to those creditors shouting at him the loudest.
He went to his bank and explained the situation, but they’d been completely unhelpful. He’d wasted precious time there…
‘…your overdraft has already reached its maximum, Mr Jackson,’ said his so-called personal banker. ‘I can only suggest that you make a formal application for a larger limit – it will take a week or two to process,’ she invited.
‘I don’t have a week or two,’ he’d replied in frustration.
He’d called the credit card companies, loan holders and the mortgage company. He explained the situation with increasingly forced patience. He grew ever more irate, passing through the security checks and speaking off-shore to people reading limited response scripts in thick, over-clipped accents that made understanding difficult, if not impossible. They’d passed him from pillar to post until he’d ended up with various collection departments. Still, when it came to it, despite all his debt, he hadn’t yet got into arrears, and…
‘…sorry sir, I see your account is up to date. You’re not in arrears and therefore you don’t have a problem we can help you with,’ said the arrears consultant.
Perverse! ‘You mean to say I have to get into trouble before I get out of it?’ said Finn.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Listen to me. I am in trouble. I can tell you that by the end of the month I will owe you. Can you please make a note of this call, so I’m on record as being a responsible client and, being a responsible client, I’ve informed you of the circumstances of my default?’
‘Sorry, sir, but the system is not aware of your default, so I cannot make any arrangements on your behalf. Please call again later,’ said the arrears consultant.
‘But you are going to charge me for non-payment by the end of the month,’ said Finn.
‘Yes, sir. I am sorry, sir, but I cannot do anything for you until you appear on my system.’
The calls, on seven major finance agreements, took their toll on Finn. All ended in frustration, as he put the phone receiver down on his study desk with increasing degrees of force. They can shout for their bloody money, he thought.
At least Aisling kept to herself. But he felt sick. Why the hell has our marriage gone like this? He wanted her affection, her support, now. He’d tried talking in the past – she wasn’t interested. At least the girls gave him hope.
Hillary Keaton called late Thursday afternoon.
‘Hello, Finn. I’ve just spoken with Aaron Philips. I hear you are in a spot of bother.’
‘Yeah. Thanks for calling.’
‘I would be happy to take a look at this for you. Why don’t you jot down some notes? A bit of a time-line if you like, covering what you see as the key points at issue. I will take a look… revert to you with some questions. We can talk more when we meet next week.’ Hillary paused… and when Finn didn’t say anything… ‘How does next Wednesday sound?’
‘Fine,’ said Finn. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to be short with you. It’s a bit of a trying time. . . As you can imagine.’
‘I understand. Aaron has given me some details, but I would like to hear your take first, before I comment. Can you get the info to me by the weekend? Just don’t go and resign.’
‘Yeah, sure. I don’t have much on my plate now. Oh… and don’t worry, I’m refusing to resign.’ Finn sensed the note of defiance rise in his voice. Tell me, Hillary, what is the process from here in? This is a first for me.’
‘Well, it’s all quite straight forward really,’ said Hillary. ‘We need to agree terms for a formal Compromise Agreement. What you need to do is be happy with the basic terms, and we will make sure the agreement is watertight, so they cannot rescind on it…’
Finn didn’t respond.
Hillary continued ‘…Effectively, once you sign a compromise agreement in exchange for some compensation, you have no rights to take any further action against the company. There is a whole raft of legislation that’s covered, but I’ll go through it all with you when we meet.’
Having exchanged a number of e-mails and telephone calls, Finn found himself at the offices of Keaton-Jones LLP. He sat opposite Lyneth Jones, the exceptionally successful litigation partner in the firm. She must be in her mid thirties, he thought – a stunning brunette.
‘You know Grayson is alleging you misrepresented the state of the project development at the time of his investment?’ said Lyneth.
Welsh without a doubt. Her accent, though soft, confirmed the origin of her name. But there was an edge. No shy, retiring type, he mused. ‘Yeah. I know. He’s saying I lied.’
‘We prefer to use the word misrepresented… it’s less dramatic,’ she said, with a wink.
‘But, I copied you in with the consultant’s report,’ said Finn, brushing past the come-on in her eyes.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’ve been through it quickly. Very useful, thanks. The report’s independence squashes Grayson’s threat. Plenty of ifs and buts to keep an army of us lawyers engaged for a long time.’ She smiled; a broad grin broke out. ‘You know what we lawyers are like.’
What a smile. Was she flirting with him?
‘His allegation wouldn’t stand up in court,’ continued Lyneth.
‘So, I have a case?’ he asked. Good God, she’s attractive, he thought.
‘Yes, a good one. Clearly it’s building up to a constructive dismissal. We could take them on…’
‘And win?’
‘Eventually? …Yes, Finn. We would win. I have no doubt. But, from what Hillary has told me, that’s not really an option. Is it?’
‘No. It would topple the beast. I can’t afford that, not while there’s hope.’
‘Then all we can do is get you to the point where you can sign a deal as quickly as possible. Have you any thoughts?’ Again, the smile.
‘Aaron has talked it through with Grayson, and he believes he can get me a thirty grand payout. It’s something to do with the maximum tax free limit. Is that the case?
‘Yes,’ said Lyneth.
‘But they’ll only settle on that if I agree to sell them the lion’s share of my shares at par value.’
Her riposte was emphatic. ‘Bastard!’ she hissed.
The sudden edge in her tone surprised him. He could have sworn her eyes abruptly went from warm to cold steel. Is this the same woman? Every vestige of her smile vanished. Her colours as a legal Rottweiler unfurled before him. She seemed to be spoiling for a fight.
The change in her eyes reversed as quickly as it had occurred.
‘God, I wish I could take him on,’ she said.
‘I wish we could too, but I’m no more than a puppet to Barclay. He could cut the strings and let me fall, and he knows it.’ As he spoke, he saw the smile return. He was glad of having Lyneth on his side. She’d be useful in a fight, he thought.
They continued to discuss the drafting of the compromise agreement for another half hour. ‘How much is all this going to cost me, Lyneth?’ he asked.
‘We’ll work something out. We can’t do it for free, but I’ll talk with Hillary when he returns from court. I am sorry he wasn’t here to meet you today, but this is more my line in any case.’ More smiles. ‘We can probably keep it under a grand. It really is straight forward, and, if you are not going to be able to improve on the terms, we should be able to get the draft out by the end of the week.’
‘Anything you can do to help would be great, Lyneth. Thanks.’
‘We’ll be able to get you all signed up next week and money in your bank.’
‘When we brought Grayson in, he bought-in for twenty percent at half a million pounds. A month later, a bunch of his friends put up another half mill’ for fifteen. My share is now down to twenty-five percent and Grayson wants me to sell all but two and a half.’
‘What will that give you, Finn?’
‘Next to nothing. With the state of the company finance, Grayson is saying the shares have little value. Truth is, he’s right.’ The tone in Finn’s voice lowered. ‘I can’t fight this, can I. . .’ That was a dumb thing to say he thought, as his voice trailed off. But he’d got no nearer to working out any other angle.
His thinking carried him out of the meeting with Lyneth. Even the intellectual property for the oil-extraction process they’d developed held little value until they’d proven it. He’d secured patents for the modification to a hydrocarbon solvent-based extraction process, but he’d done it in the company’s name. How the hell could he regain ownership and take his ideas forward? The question hovered in his mind, relentlessly spurring his anger.
*
Lyneth had been true to her word. The taxi pulled up on the corner of Clerkenwell and Hatton Garden, outside the office of Keaton-Jones LLP, at around two o’clock the next Thursday afternoon. Finn paid the driver and entered the building, resigned to signing the compromise agreement. He signed-in at reception and collected a badge.
When he’d first read the draft agreement, it took him aback. Twenty pages of obligations, warranties and legal stuff and most of it directed against him. It seemed more about preventing him from taking any possible action against the company, or its directors, than giving him anything. It gagged him, bound him and, in return, what? Shackles! It required him to sell his shares at par, back to the company. In return, he would get a thirty grand settlement, drip-fed to him in monthly instalments. Big deal. OK, he could pay the mortgage, and he could meet his other payments if he managed cash tightly, but he would need to wait some time to see if the remaining two and a half percent holding came to anything. What the hell was Grayson playing at? Begrudgingly, he supposed he owed Aaron some credit. At least he had the thirty grand coming – Grayson hadn’t been in any mood to give him a bean.
Finn exited the lift at the seventh floor and buzzed the door to Keaton-Jones. The solenoid on the lock clicked, releasing its hold over the door, reminding him of that other door now, seemingly, fast retreating to the distant horizon. He opened the door before him. Lyneth stood there ready to greet him.
‘Lovely to see you again, Finn,’ she beamed. ‘Just sorry it’s the sort of situation it is. Look, why don’t I take you for a bite to eat later? We could meet around five-ish, when I’ve finished here. We could have an early dinner if you like?’
‘Yeah, I’d like that. Thank you,’ he said, half smiling.
‘Grayson and David Kail are already here. They’re in the meeting room. We’ve coffee laid on, but this won’t take long, Finn. Let’s just get it over with and perhaps you can get on with life.’ She smiled again. ‘Come on then,’ she said, as she turned to lead the way.
Again, true to Lyneth’s word, the agreement-signing thing transpired to be a short, almost silent, ice-cool process – almost. Grayson stood throughout. He was edgy – visibly impatient. No surprise there, Finn mused. Grayson spared little time for formality. David was the “almost” surprise.
David Kail, at fifty eight – in many ways looking a younger, shorter version of Grayson; he too with a full head of white and grey hair – sold his services to many companies as a professional non-executive director. He’d over thirty years in the oil and gas industry, most of it in senior management roles in major companies operating in the European, South American and Chinese sectors. Finn always took David to be a consummate professional. But, today, David also seemed to be visibly on edge. He was noticeably nervous. Surely it couldn’t be because… No, there’s something about the whole affair that’s unsettled him, he thought. What was it? Finn pondered the possibilities, but neither Grayson nor David had much to say. He pushed the notion of David’s troubles away for the time being. He had his own to contend with.
A steely-eyed Lyneth busied herself passing the various copies of the agreement between the parties, opened at the appropriate pages for signature. And, as the ink of the last signature dried, David spoke…
‘What are your plans now, Finn?’ he said, directing most of his words down onto the table top. ‘Have you something to go to yet?’
‘No, David. This has all come as a bit of a shock. It’s all happened too fast. I’m going to need time to get my head round it all.’
‘Yes, I suppose…’ A noise interrupted David. Grayson had grunted something – David responded to the unsubtle hint. ‘I suppose we’ll be away now. G’bye, Finn.’
‘Yeah.’ Finn hadn’t wanted to embellish his goodbye.
Grayson collected his precious hat and left without further acknowledgement. David followed. Finn’s feeling of defeat lifted a little as he watched David leave. It had just turned two-thirty. He looked over at Lyneth – her smiled warmed him.
‘You go get a coffee or something,’ she said. ‘I’ll phone ahead and book an early table at Rowley’s. Fancy a good old-fashioned steak and chips?’
‘That sounds like good comfort food to me – thanks,’ he said.
*
‘Do you get many like this?’ he asked. Finn sat opposite Lyneth. Three hours had passed since the signing.
‘Cases you mean?’ Lyneth held her head tilted slightly to her left side, elbows on the table and hands held together under her chin. She looked at him thoughtfully – she didn’t wait for him to affirm. ‘Not so many that are over as quickly. I prefer a good fight.’
‘I can tell.’ Cat and mouse. And no mistaking her role. She didn’t leave any impression of being a small, cowering, timorous creature.
Finn’s gaze took in the surroundings. For the first time since Grayson confronted him, he seemed to be relaxing his mind a little. The vast mirrors and elaborate ceilings of Rowley’s interior showed off the Victorian charm of what had been the original Wall’s butcher shop. It had been a restaurant for going on thirty years and he always enjoyed coming up to the West End for its steaks. It’d been too early for a full dinner, so they’d both settled on a single course of the trademark entrecôte and French fries.
Finn sat pushing the few remaining fries around his plate, soaking up the last of the herb butter. ‘If you weren’t my lawyer, Lyneth…’ Finn checked himself. ‘If you weren’t my lawyer, I would have to say I’d find this all quite romantic. Even at this time of day, it’s a nice place to be. It certainly feels later than it is.’
‘So, what’s it going to be now?’ Her voice held none of the hard edge he knew she could muster in an instant. Quite the reverse, her soft Welsh lilt touched him like the feel of warm satin on the raw wound of his day. The light of tiny oil lamps, scattered around the closely packed small tables, threw flecks of sparkling diamonds skipping into her eyes. …And those eyes shouted to him, a single word – trouble.
‘In truth? I want to get it back, Lyneth. Tiger Oil is all I have known for the last four years. I got the idea for it doing my MBA. I just don’t feel as though I can simply move on – it’s unfinished business. I want to get even. There has to be a way to regain control.’
‘Yes, but that would take money you just don’t have, Finn.’
‘If it goes public I will lose any chance I might have. At least if I can delay or even stop the AIM float, I can buy myself some time. Something might come up.’
‘You’re an optimist then?’ she said, laughing. Her question was rhetorical.
Her remark stung. ‘What can I do to stop them, do you think?’ Another stupid question he thought, but in keeping with a naïve front. Jesus! Whom was he kidding? He was naïve. He hadn’t a clue – but he wasn’t going to give up.
‘I’m the wrong person to ask. I love the law. I don’t see you can do anything, legally. I’m sorry, but even the agreement you signed today restrains you. It’s a double-edged sword.’
‘What if I spread some news around…’ He hesitated over the half-formed question, not wanting to sound too pathetic.
‘What do you mean, Finn?’
‘I’ve made a lot of contacts since setting up Tiger Oil. I could drop a few hints… maybe suggest the patents are weak… That sort of thing…’ He was fishing. ‘Maybe even hint the project results are shaky…’
‘Listen to me, Finn. That’s dangerous. You know what sort of man Grayson is. If he got wind you’d done anything slanderous against the company, he would have the full force of the law behind him. You’ve the moral high-ground for now. Don’t spoil it.’
‘Yeah,’ he said. And high morals don’t pay bills.
‘You are still too angry, Finn. Please, for me if not for you, put some time between you and Tiger. Grayson seems a right bastard. I don’t think you’re thinking clearly yet.’
His gaze locked with hers and they fell silent for a moment.
‘You’re married aren’t you, Finn?’ asked Lyneth, breaking the spell.
‘Yeah.’
‘So there it is – no contest. For the family, too. Just sit tight. I’m sure something will come along soon. If I think of anything in the meantime, we can see what we can do then.’
Finn considered what she’d said for no more than a few seconds. Family? Right! He didn’t hold the thought. ‘And you? Do you have a partner?’ he asked, with no expectation in the question, just idle curiosity, his mind still on the day’s event. He’d lost, hadn’t he? No, not yet – David’s demeanour meant something, surely.
He was aware Lyneth still spoke to him. He sensed rather than heard her words.
‘…I’ve never really found much time for relationships,’ she had said.
Finn filled in the blanks he’d missed. She’s single. But she tried to move the subject on, back to him, and he wasn’t getting it.
Suddenly he tired of this getting to know you line. Alarm bells tinkled in his head, as if the bells lay in the path of a gentle, but increasing wind – a tinkle yes, but still an alarm. Why should this stunning Welsh brunette be interested in him anyway? Any other time he would be flirting with a woman like this.
‘I am sorry, Lyneth, but do you mind…’ He lowered his gaze to his glass. He lifted the glass and drank to the bottom, replacing it on the table with slow deliberation, twisting the stem through his fingers as he did so. ‘Dinner’s been good for morale, your company’s perfect. Another time. . .’ He glanced at his watch. Just gone seven-fifteen. ‘I could do with some thinking time,’ he said – maintaining his lacklustre tone.
‘Yes of course, Finn. You go. I’ll get the bill.’
She watched him as he rose, following his every movement.
‘Thank you, Lyneth,’ he said. He smiled at her and turned, leaving her at the table. As he reached the door to Jermyn Street, he made a mental note not to retain her legal help now that he’d concluded the compromise deal. She’d wanted to flirt – wanted to get him to talk. Why? She wasn’t going to help him with anything if it wasn’t straight down the line legal, was she? And he needed to pay his bills.
*
He’d texted Carole as he left Jermyn Street. Yes, she was free and yes, she wanted to see him. It had been some time.
He took the tube from Piccadilly to Embankment before grabbing a Circle Line train to Tower Hill. As he travelled, an expectation grew deep within the well of his stomach – Carole had called it butterflies, when they first met.
He got back to his room in the Tower Hotel by eight and she arrived within minutes of him. He opened the door to her knock. She stood there a moment – a smile broke, parting her full, glossy, but not overly coloured lips. He let his eyes travel up from her heels. He noticed the short, but not cropped, silk top she wore. It exposed just a slight amount of her deliciously-flat midriff, above a long flowing white skirt.
As his gaze drew up over her curvaceous lines, Finn reached out. His right hand deftly found her exposed midriff. Like a heat-seeking missile, his hand skimmed the surface of her warm skin. His fingers curled round her waist, pulling her into the room. As they tangoed backwards, he closed the door with his free hand, his other now completing its passage round her back. His fingers slid upwards, drawing her, firmly, even closer, forcing the warmth of her breasts through the marriage of silk and the thin cotton of his shirt. He looked down into her dark eyes, wanting to reach inside them. Then, lowering his lips to hers, he kissed her open mouth. She responded in kind. Their kisses became deep, and, in the warmth of the late summer evening, words did not seem necessary. Their passion maintained its steep and rapid ascent.
*
The sex had been good. It had been some time for both of them. They’d kept enjoying each other.
They lay there, still entwined… spent… the drapes open on a dark London sky. The natural light had long since faded on Tower Bridge, replaced seamlessly by the warm yellow glow of floodlights. The sky had morphed before them, from a blue to a black canvas. Neither had spoken much, words had remained unnecessary. They’d just been happy, being close.
By two a.m. Carole lay on her side, fast asleep. Her long, lustrous auburn mane cast adrift, floating away on the pillow. But, despite their earlier exertion, Finn could not find respite in sleep. His mind remained too active.
Despite his own obvious faults, he didn’t believe himself to be a bastard. There was no guilt over Carole. Regret, yes. Regret that his relationship with Aisling had got into such a state. No doubt, he was difficult to live with. No doubt, he’d hardly been there for Aisling and the girls. But, when he was there, she showed no interest in his physical presence. Not for them. For everyone else, yes. For the outward appearance of a marriage, yes. Talking never helped. He’d found Carole… she helped.