Turn a Blind Eye

24

They both arrived at the bank a few minutes before their appointment with the area manager. The young woman behind the reception desk checked their names on her clipboard and ticked them off.

‘If you take the lift to the fifth floor,’ she said, ‘Miss Davis, Mr Simpson’s PA, will meet you and accompany you to the manager’s office.’

The two men carried out her instructions, and didn’t speak in the crowded lift until the doors opened on the fifth floor where they were greeted by a young woman.

‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘I’m Mr Simpson’s PA. He’s looking forward to meeting you.’

She led them down a long corridor to a door that announced in gilded letters, R.C. Simpson, Area Manager. She knocked once, and didn’t wait for a reply before opening the door and standing to one side.

‘How nice to meet you,’ said Simpson, rising from behind his desk to shake hands with his potential new customers.

‘You too,’ said Booth Watson politely. Faulkner didn’t offer an opinion.

‘Please take a seat,’ the manager said. Miss Davis sat behind him, notebook open, pen poised.

‘Although all your papers were in order,’ said Simpson once his guests had settled, ‘I took the precaution of calling Mrs Rashidi in Lyons to check that the bank had her authority to fully cooperate with you.’

‘I would have expected no less,’ said Booth Watson, offering his most benign smile.

‘Mrs Rashidi confirmed not only that you had full power of attorney, but I was to answer any questions you might have concerning her late son’s estate. I am at your service, gentlemen.’

‘Thank you,’ said Booth Watson. ‘Perhaps I could start by seeing the details of any private accounts held in Mr Rashidi’s name, and the latest annual report from Marcel and Neffe.’

Mr Simpson handed over two thick files, having clearly anticipated both requests.

Faulkner turned to the back page and started with the bottom line, while Booth Watson continued with his list of prepared questions.

‘Are there any other assets lodged with the bank for safekeeping that are not shown on Mrs Rashidi’s current account?’

‘Her fifty-one per cent holding in Marcel and Neffe. I can tell you in the strictest confidence that the other four shareholders would be willing to dispose of their stake in the company if they were to receive a realistic offer.’

‘As the share price has collapsed,’ said Faulkner, speaking for the first time, but not looking up, ‘I’m bound to ask what they would consider realistic.’

‘I think they would be willing to let their forty-nine per cent go for two million pounds.’

‘Offer them one million, and make it clear it’s a final offer, and there’s no room for negotiation.’

‘But the company made a profit of three hundred thousand last year.’

‘That was last year. Frankly, I’d be surprised if they broke even this year. So I repeat, it’s a final offer.’

‘I’ll pass on your message,’ said Simpson, not sounding hopeful.

‘Are there any other assets we should be aware of?’ enquired Booth Watson, continuing to play the good cop.

‘There most certainly are,’ replied Simpson. ‘Mr Rashidi rented seven safety deposit boxes which are kept in our vaults, but of course I have no idea of their contents. You may check them whenever it’s convenient.’

‘It’s convenient right now,’ said Faulkner, standing up and placing the files back on the manager’s desk.

Simpson was taken by surprise, but quickly recovered. ‘That won’t be possible, I’m afraid, unless of course you’re in possession of Mrs Rashidi’s key.’

Booth Watson produced the key from an inside pocket.

‘Miss Davis,’ said Simpson, ‘please accompany Mr Booth Watson and his colleague to the basement. I’ll phone the head of security to warn him that they’re on their way.’

Miss Davis closed her notebook, rose from her place and said, ‘Follow me, gentlemen.’

Booth Watson shook hands with Simpson once again, before following Faulkner and Miss Davis out of the room and back to the lift.

‘Nice weather we’re having for this time of year,’ Miss Davis ventured as the lift made its way slowly down to the basement.

‘Yes, indeed,’ said Booth Watson, who made no further observation on the weather or any other subject before the lift doors opened once again.

This time they were greeted by a tall, smartly dressed man, holding a large bunch of keys.

‘Good morning, gentlemen. Please follow me,’ he said before leading them down a dimly lit corridor, until they reached a vast steel door. It took three of his keys and a six-digit code entered on a keypad on the wall before he was able to pull the heavy door open, revealing a room lined from floor to ceiling with hundreds of safety deposit boxes. The security man checked several numbers in a small notebook before pulling out seven boxes and placing them on the table in the centre of the room.

‘We’ll leave you now, gentlemen,’ said Miss Davis. ‘When you’ve completed your business, please press the green button on the wall. The door will open automatically, and I’ll accompany you back to the manager’s office.’

‘Thank you,’ said Booth Watson. Miss Davis and the head of security made a discreet exit, closing the door behind them.

Booth Watson took his time opening each of the seven boxes before they both checked their contents: cash, diamonds, bonds and share certificates filled the first six boxes, but not the seventh. Booth Watson felt that Aladdin’s Cave would have resembled a charity shop compared with the treasures that now surrounded them. It took him over an hour to make a complete inventory of the contents.

‘I estimate,’ he said, ‘that there’s over two million in dollars, and almost another million pounds in sterling. However, although they’re used notes and therefore untraceable, the latest money-laundering laws will make it difficult for you to dispose of them in large amounts.’

‘That shouldn’t prove a problem,’ said Faulkner. ‘There are plenty of members of the aristocracy who are only too happy to part with the odd family heirloom for cash, as long as I can produce a convincing copy to hang in its place, ensuring that there’s no need for them to trouble the taxman. And you can also be assured there’s no shortage of wealthy foreigners who are only too eager to acquire masterpieces in case they become suddenly persona non grata in their own countries and find themselves in need of disposable assets.’

‘That doesn’t solve the problem of how you buy the remaining shares in Marcel and Neffe. Simpson would never accept a cash payment for that amount. Any transaction will have to be transparent and above board.’

‘And so it will be quite,’ said Miles. ‘Rashidi had three legitimate bank accounts, one of which is just over a million pounds in credit. So we can buy the other forty-nine per cent of the company with his own money.’

‘How do you expect me to explain that to Mrs Rashidi? She might not be quite as green as the banknotes.’

‘You can tell her it’s tainted money, acquired by her son from illegal drug deals. Then she won’t want anything to do with it.’

‘But what about her fifty-one per cent holding in Marcel and Neffe?’

‘I’m confident she’ll part with those shares in exchange for Raphael’s Madonna di Cesare.’

‘But that must be worth millions.’

‘It would be, if it was the original.’

‘What if she were to put it up for sale?’

‘Not a chance. That God-fearing woman would rather die than sell the Virgin.’

‘Unless she comes across the original.’

‘That’s highly unlikely, since I own it, and have no intention of putting it on the market.’

‘And how will I benefit from your master plan, bearing in mind that none of this,’ said Booth Watson with a grand sweep of his arm, ‘would have been possible without me?’

‘You will handle the successful takeover of Marcel and Neffe, after which you will become the company’s legal adviser, on a monthly retainer high enough to ensure that you never need to represent another client.’

‘With bonuses,’ suggested Booth Watson, looking at the piles of cash on the table in front of them.

‘Of course,’ said Faulkner, taking several sealed packets of twenty-pound notes from one of the boxes and handing them to Booth Watson. ‘This should take care of life’s little necessities for the time being. And should you run out, there’s plenty more where that came from.’

Booth Watson’s smile remained in place as he dropped several wads of cash into his Gladstone bag, which was joined by the contents of the seventh box. ‘I’ll take all the personal items to Lyons,’ he said, ‘and hand them over to Mrs Rashidi. The photos, letters, and a few family mementos that I know she’ll appreciate.’

‘Along with the copy of the Raphael, which I’m confident she won’t be able to resist,’ said Faulkner.

‘All in all, a good morning’s work,’ declared Booth Watson, as he picked up his heavy bag while Faulkner pressed the green button. The door swung open to reveal Miss Davis and the head of security waiting for them. ‘We’ve finished for now,’ said Booth Watson. ‘But I will be returning from time to time.’

Beth was feeding the twins when she heard the gate click. She looked out of the window to see a young woman pushing an envelope through their letterbox. Probably a parish circular or an invitation to a local Conservative Party drinks evening, she thought, both of which would be disappointed. She looked at the woman more closely as she walked back down the path. There was something familiar about her, but Beth couldn’t place where or when she’d seen her before.

She was carrying the children upstairs when she heard the gate click a second time, and smiled at the thought that William was home early for a change. Once the twins were tucked up in their cots, she returned downstairs to find him reading a one-page note.

‘Did you see who delivered this?’ he asked, not looking up.

‘Yes. And how lovely to see you too.’

‘Sorry,’ he said, taking her in his arms.

‘I only got a brief glimpse of her. She was young, mid-twenties maybe, dark hair. I think she might have been pregnant.’

William nodded and read the note a second time.

Be at the Playboy Club in Park Lane at 7.30 this evening. Ignore the bunnies, keep an eye out for the poachers.

‘I’ve made your favourite dinner, caveman,’ said Beth, ‘so I do hope you’re hungry.’

William handed her the note. After she’d read it, she said, ‘Hmm, that’s somewhere you’ll be able to mix with a lot of other cavemen, but I’d be willing to bet they don’t serve shepherd’s pie at the Playboy Club.’