“Subject to the valuer’s condition survey confirming the initial valuation, the cash can be paid to you on Tuesday next week. Until then you are mine, buddy boy. I own you.” Toby smiled, and the others in the room joined him as the mood lightened. “With my two hundred grand partner’s loan account money and your fifty grand advance against bonus and benefits, you will have the necessary quarter of a million quid in your account later today. Just be sure to leave your passport on the way out.” Dee looked surprised, but he grinned.
“Just kidding! Now, how do we deal with Bob, whoever he is?” Toby looked around the room for ideas. Dee had already explained that the Police offered little hope of finding Bob, even after the money had been paid. When the room remained silent, Toby continued.
“OK. I guess it’s down to me. I’ve had a few thoughts. Let me brainstorm them for a few minutes.” Toby stood up and walked to a large flip chart on an easel. He picked up a blue marker pen and began to write. I have watched this brilliant man develop new strategies on the hoof with just a pen, a whiteboard and his agile mind hundreds of times. I hoped that Toby’s ingenuity would help us find the elusive solution to my problem.
Toby wrote at the top of the first sheet; BOB KNOWS YOUR FINANCIAL POSITION. He then drew angled lines lower down the page. At the end of the first line he wrote; HOW? He looked at the rest of us in the room expectantly. Roddy started the brainstorming session by suggesting “The Bank”. Toby wrote it down and numbered it. Dee called out with “Friends and neighbours”. Toby duly wrote that down and added one of his own, which he numbered three. He wrote “Employers”. The exercise went on until the list comprised eight possible ways that Bob could have found out about my financial position.
“OK.” Toby said, as he picked up a red marker pen. “Let’s see if we can eliminate some of these possibilities.” I stood and walked to the board, looking at each line intently before commenting on each in turn.
“Number one; ‘The Bank’. I think we can scrub that one, as I use an internet based account and so they have no idea that I own my flat. Also a large part of my earnings are paid into investment funds and pension funds, and so no-one at the bank could have any real idea of my monthly income, let alone my net worth.” Toby drew a line through ‘The Bank’.
“Next, I think we can rule out friends. They have no idea what I earn. To be honest, most of my friends probably imagine I earn around a third of my actual income. Only a few close friends have been to my flat, and I think they just assumed it was rented. I never felt it necessary to disabuse them of that view.” Toby crossed the second line out, too.
“Three and four can stay for the moment.” Toby’s pen hovered over item five, ‘Inland Revenue’. “I think we can rule them out, too,” I said, “as they know about my income but they have no idea that I own other assets like the flat. They only know what’s on my tax return, and that information is unremarkable.” Line five was scrawled out.
“Line six; ‘Relatives’.” I thought hard before dismissing this one. “Only my parents and my brother have any clue as to my financial position, but even they probably underestimate my income. Dad is forever offering to lend me a couple of grand if I ever get into trouble living in London. Pete, he’s more switched on. He probably realises that I earn over a hundred thousand a year, but he probably thinks I have a huge mortgage, just like he has. No. I think we have to eliminate family.” Another crossing out in red marker followed that conclusion.
“Ex - girlfriends.” I smiled wanly before dismissing line seven. “I’m afraid none of my girlfriends stuck around long enough to understand my financial position, so that’s a non-starter.” It was eliminated in red.
“Last one.” I considered ‘Lenders and credit agencies’.
“Well, I don’t have any loans, and my credit rating is good but, again, there is no way they could know I own a flat worth over three hundred grand. That line has to go as well.”
The people in the room perused the list which now consisted of ‘3) Employer’ and, ‘4) Accountant’. Before I made my opinion known, the other three had alighted on their own preference, which in all cases was the accountant.
“Toby,” I said, “the only person at Dyson Brecht who knows about my finances is you, and I trust you with my life. I guess we need to look more closely at Atkins, Garretson, and Palmer, better known in the City as AGP.” I paused. “More specifically, I need to speak to Andrew Cuthbertson, who does my accounts.” Toby crossed out number three, ‘Employer’, and flipped the page before writing at the top ‘WHY JOSH?’
***
Sandwiches, juice and fruit having been consumed, the four of us assembled in the conference room and set our minds to answering the question “Why pick on Josh?”
Using the same flip chart as before, we listed and discarded all but one reason. Out went Envy, Hatred, Prejudice, Revenge and Ideology. It looked like a list of most of the seven deadly sins, but none of them seemed likely as a motive.
Toby summarised the discussion, which had taken almost an hour and which had been very deep at times.
“Dee, gentlemen, we are left with one category standing; Greed. I have to say that, before we began this exercise, that was my view anyway. Josh, the fact is, the texts and emails you have received have been dispassionate, even jokey. There has been no attempt to make you suffer, no rambling theses about the evils of capitalism or suggestion that you need to repent of your evil ways. No. I think that you were chosen simply because you were available and you had the funds.” The others nodded in agreement.
“I have to agree,” Roddy said. “You should see the anonymous hate mail we receive in the post. It’s as disgusting as it is inaccurate. We are accused of stealing taxpayers’ money to pay huge bonuses, but we have never been given a penny of government money and our CEO is paid a fixed salary, with no bonus at all. All of our bonuses go to the staff who run the society, and they earn modest salaries. Our profits are fed back into the mutual for the benefit of our customers. If Bob was on a mission to destroy you, or if his intentions were anything other than simple extortion, you would know about it by now.”
Toby spoke as he tore off the used flip chart pages and folded them. “Josh, Dee, the money is ready and there are still twenty two hours to go. I suggest that you speak to Andrew Cuthbertson as soon as possible and see if he can shed any light on how Bob managed to obtain your financial records.”
The meeting adjourned and, after a good deal of handshaking and best wishes, Dee and I were left alone in the room with a tray of curling sandwiches and ripening fruit. I spoke quietly.
“OK, let’s grab a cab and go see AGP.”
“Will they see us at such short notice?”
“Dee, I potentially have less than twenty four hours to live. They’ll see us.”
Chapter 9
Atkins Garretson Palmer, College Hill, London: Thursday, 3pm.
Meeting with Andrew Cuthbertson was not as simple as I had hoped it would be. Despite my explaining the death threat and the deadly timetable to the receptionist, Andrew’s PA and Andrew himself, AGP were having difficulty excusing the accountant from an allegedly important meeting. It took a call from Toby to ensure that Andrew met us at all, and when he did he did not look at all happy.
We were sitting in another anonymous conference room almost identical to the one we had just left. Even the view across London was similar. Andrew strode into the room and threw his pad down onto the desk before sitting opposite Dee and myself. He wore an expensive suit and a cream linen shirt, finished off with a red silk tie. His cufflinks matched his tiepin. His brown hair was immaculately styled, as if he’d just auditioned for a shampoo commercial. He was good looking in a rugged sort of way, and usually his brown eyes twinkled with friendliness, but not today. The accountant did not exchange any pleasantries, nor did he ask who Dee was or what she was doing there. Instead, he glared at me and spoke harshly.