Blackstone's pursuits

In which we do the business and Berner rings the bell

The air was a lot cooler than it had been in Perrouges, even in the morning. As the business people bustled by us, some of them in fairly heavy clothing, we realised all of a sudden how out of place we looked.

‘Come on,’ I said, picking up the pace until I was almost at a trot. Those last few yards to Berners were the most nervous of my life. Every step I took, I was tensed for a shout, or a heavy hand on my shoulder.

But nothing happened. Unimpeded, we reached the narrow entrance to the bank and almost fell inside. We took off our redundant sunglasses and hats and stuffed them into the duffel bag.

When I think of a bank, I think of a line of tellers behind counters, usually in a high-domed airy hall, where every whisper about the sad state of my account carries to the inquisitive ears of everyone else in the room.

I’d heard the term ‘private bank’ before. I even know of one in Edinburgh. But until I set foot in Berners I had no idea what the term really meant. There was a short hallway off the street, with an unmarked door, closed, to the right and a second door at the end, opening and welcoming. We stepped inside. For a second I had the strangest feeling, that somehow I was back in my Dad’s front room. The furniture was similar, of the same vintage, and arranged in much the same way, around a fireplace, with an embroidered screen in front, not unlike my Mum’s. The only major difference was a big rosewood desk, set before the curtained window.

We stared at each other. The room was empty. We looked around for a bell, something to ring, and call ‘Shop!’

We didn’t see a camera, but it must have been there, because when the door in the far wall opened and the man stepped in, he was smiling a greeting before he’d even seen us. He stretched out a hand and said, ‘Good Day’; or rather, he said, ‘Bonjour’.

‘Oh shit,’ I thought, but Prim shook his hand, returned his smile, and said simply, ‘En Anglais, s’il vous plait.’

‘Of course,’ said the banker. He was a tall thin bloke, grey-haired, with a complexion that was so sallow it was virtually cream-coloured.

‘I am Jean Berner. How can I help you?’ I had the strangest feeling that he knew the answer already.

‘We wish to make a cash withdrawal,’ said Prim, ‘from numbered account AF 426469. I believe that these represent the key.’ She took out her half of the fiver from her purse. I unbuttoned my shirt pocket and produced the other half.

Berner took the two pieces of banknote from her and checked each number. ‘That is correct,’ he said. ‘But you are not the young lady who opened the account.’

‘No,’ said Prim. ‘That was my sister. But the arrangement was that possession of the note gives the bearers authority to operate it.’

He nodded. ‘Of course. How much would you wish to withdraw?’

‘Nine hundred thousand pounds, sterling,’ I said.

Berner stepped over to the desk, produced a key, unlocked a central drawer and took out a sheaf of computer printouts. It looked completely out of place in that room as he leafed through it. ‘But that will leave a balance of only forty-eight thousand,’ he said. ‘Our minimum deposit level is fifty thousand in sterling.’ I looked at him, astonished. Even allowing for interest on the lump sum, Wee Willie must have salted away at least another thirty K that no-one knew about.

‘In that case, close the account, please,’ said Prim. ‘We’ll withdraw it all.’

If I was a banker and someone came in and told me that I’d lost a private account worth nearly a million squigglies, I’d be pissed off up to my neckline. Jean Berner’s smug half-smile never wavered. I found myself wondering whether he regarded sterling as second-class money, and was glad to be shot of it.

‘You will wait here, please.’ He oiled his way back through the door, still carrying the printouts and Prim’s fiver.

As the door closed behind him, Prim gave a wee jump of joy. I thought she was going to shout out loud, and somehow, with a video camera in the room, I didn’t want that to happen. So I caught her in mid-jump and pulled her to me in a hug. She looked at me surprised, and gave me her most delicious grin. ‘We’re …’

I kissed her, to stop her mouth. ‘We’re on Candid Camera in here, so careful what you say and do.’

Still she smiled. ‘Wow,’ she whispered. ‘You really are paranoid. He’s gone to get our money, Oz. Relax.’

‘When we step out of Ray Archer’s office with our ten per cent, partner, then I’ll relax,’ I whispered back. ‘Until then, this is just too easy, and he’s just too pleased with himself.’

We stood there, hugging and kissing, and throwing in the odd bump and grind for the cameras.

Berner returned in a shade under five minutes, carrying a canvas satchel and an A4 form. And the bugger was still smiling. He put the bag on the desk and opened it wide for us to see inside. ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘Nine hundred and forty-eight thousand pounds sterling. Now if you will each sign this withdrawal form…’

‘Count it, please,’ I said, really niggled by that smile. He looked at me, as if he was disappointed in me.

‘But M’sieur, this is a reputable Swiss bank.’

‘Oui, M’sewer,’ I said. ‘And I am a suspicious Scots bastard! Indulge us.’

With the sigh he would give to an awkward child, Berner unpacked all the money from the bag and piled it on the desk. There were nine large bundles and one smaller one. ‘This money is in Bank of England fifty pound notes,’ he said, picking up one of the larger bundles. ‘Each one of these contains one hundred thousand pounds. He riffled through the bundle, holding it up for us to see. I worked out how thick two thousand fifty pound notes should be and nodded. He riffled through each of the others in turn, showing us that there was no newsprint laced in there. Not that I thought for a moment there would be. I just wanted to do something, anything to rile the guy. No chance. He was still smiling when he finished his riffling. He began to pack the satchel once more. Our wee duffel bag looked pretty silly beside it. When he was finished, he clicked its catch shut and snapped a small padlock into place. As we signed the form he produced a key, and held it out to Prim, together with the two halves of her fiver.

‘Thank you very much,’ he said. ‘I hope that one day your organisation will do business with Berners again.’ We looked at him, puzzled. My old friend the hamster started running around in my stomach.

‘Now for your surprise,’ said Berner. ‘You do not have to go to Lausanne to meet your colleague. He is here.’ He reached under the rosewood desk and pressed a button. We heard a bell ring.

‘Come on love,’ I said picking up the heavy bag and taking Prim by the hand. ‘Let’s quit this town,’

Without an ‘au revoir’ to Berner we headed out of the room towards the exit. But the small door off the hall was open, and the hall wasn’t empty any more. It was full: full of Rawdon Brooks.