PROLOGUE
Singapore
1979
The huge lizard writhed against the twine, its forked tongue still tasting the air even though swallowing was no longer possible. The noose around its neck was tightening as its tail was raised from the ground by a line that arched over the low bough of a tempinis tree.
The boy grinned as he pulled at the apex of the elaborate ropework. He was pleased with his hanging rig. He’d tried it on small lizards before, but nothing this big. This reptile was as long as his arm and weighed much more than his wheelbarrow, even when it was full of sand. He had executed his plan well, using the netting that was kept at the back of the greenhouse and the jute twine the gardeners used for planting their neat rows.
He had captured the lizard at the bottom of the long garden, near the lake that stretched westwards for at least half a mile, almost into Fort Canning Park. He’d scoured the area patiently, working his way methodically through the vegetation surrounding the big lawn, pushing aside the giant agave leaves and the fronds of banana plants. His sandals protected his feet from the sharp twigs and spiked fruits that had fallen to the ground but only a pair of brown shorts and a checked short-sleeved shirt protected his body. His bare arms and legs were heavily scratched.
Round and round the garden . . .
He had recited the nursery rhyme to himself as he’d searched.
Like a teddy bear . . .
He squirmed inside with pleasure as he imagined his mother’s finger tracing a circle on his bare tummy.
One step . . .
Her cool finger touched his chest as her hand started to walk up his body.
Two step . . .
Her second finger purposefully stepped higher up his chest.
And a . . .
That delicious moment when he knew what was going to happen.
Tick-a-lee under there!
He yelped with delight and his shoulders shuddered as her fingers touched the sensitive skin under his chin. And then, as he grasped for her hands, she quickly changed direction and reached into his armpits for a vigorous tickle, mother and son shrieking and laughing as he pretended to escape and she leant forward to hold him closer.
His body was still tingling with the memory of her touch when he spotted the water monitor slowly walking down the slope towards a pool of shade near the bamboo archway.
One step . . .
He gathered the netting up in both hands as he hurried towards the unsuspecting reptile.
Two step . . .
He slowly positioned himself closer, ready to cast.
And a . . .
He released the net in one smooth action. It arced into the shade and dropped softly over the lizard’s hard back.
Tick-a-lee under there!
The lizard immediately thrashed and twisted in the netting, entangling itself still further.
The boy waited for the lizard to tire. He pulled a grubby handkerchief from a pocket in his shorts and dabbed at a cut on his shin. The dank smell of the dense tropical plants filled his nostrils.
Eventually, the lizard was still. The boy drew the sides of the net together and started to haul the bundle across the rough grass towards the top of the garden. The lizard inflated itself inside the net and renewed its writhing. Its tongue flicked through a square in the mesh that had closed around its mouth.
The boy pulled the net up to the tempinis and positioned the creature over two large loops of twine that he’d set out on the ground earlier. He pushed one loop over the lizard’s head and brought the other loop over the tail and hind legs. As the lizard thrashed, both loops drew tightly against its dry skin, cutting into its neck and thorax.
He tugged the net away, stepped back, and pulled hard on the doubled-up line. One end extended from the rear end of the lizard over the branch and back to the pulling point at the apex. The other end ran from the noose around the neck down to the ground and then through the croquet hoop that he’d driven into the ground earlier that morning. The line angled back to the boy’s two-handed grip.
When he had pulled as hard as he could, he tied the twine around a nail he’d hammered into the tree’s hard bark and stood back to admire his handiwork.
The giant lizard hung helplessly a few inches from the ground, its tongue hanging from its mouth. The boy jumped into the air and slapped his bare knees. He let out a whoop of joy as he landed.
‘Where’s my little man?’ a woman’s voice called from the house. ‘Darling, where are you? We’re coming to find you!’
He glanced in the direction of his mother’s voice before slowly turning his attention back towards his prey. There was nothing to worry about—after all, she hadn’t stopped him before, even when he’d cut the wings from a sunbird to see how far it would be able to run before toppling over. Mama would be proud of him, he was sure. She always was. And he had trapped the monitor for her. It had no right to be in their garden. It should have stayed in Fort Canning Park, where it belonged. It was getting what it deserved.
Earlier, he’d carefully whittled the end of a stick to a sharp point with the penknife his father had given him for his sixth birthday, and he picked the stick up now from where he’d placed it in the shade of the tree. The penknife, with its mother of pearl handle and two folding blades, was his favourite possession.
‘I know where you are,’ the voice sang, ‘and I’m going to squeeze you so hard when I find you.’ She was getting close now. ‘So hard you’ll beg me for mercy.’
She was laughing as she spoke and he could imagine her pretending to scan the horizon as she made exaggerated, plodding steps down the garden from the big double doors at the back of the house.
He had watched her do this many times before. Usually, he’d be hiding in the thick foliage lining the expanse of lawn and she would pretend not to know where he was for several minutes before suddenly homing in on him. She’d scoop him up in her arms and carry him back to the house for lunch as he kicked the air, his play screams muffled first by her chest and then her abdomen as she twisted him upside down and ran. That was the best he would feel all day and although he had not yet reached the magic age of seven that his father kept telling him about, he knew what made him feel good.
‘We’re getting closer, darling. Kim Ying has her broom and she will beat you with it!’ Her voice was closer now, behind the thick screen of Lillypilly.
He threw the stick under the tree. If Kim Ying was part of the game, then he would have to be more careful. Even though he knew she loved him as much as Mama, she could get angry very quickly. Just a couple of days ago, she had given his outstretched palms three sharp strokes with her black rattan cane and that was only for taking a jackfruit muffin from the kitchen larder without permission.He glanced at the lizard, to check that it had not worked itself free, then stood tall next to it, hands clasped behind his back. He faced the gap in the Lillypilly where the crazy-paved path came through from the lawn. He was proud of his catch and he knew that they would be too.
His mother burst through the gap in a cloud of sweet vanilla perfume and freshly laundered cotton. Her cheeks were flushed and her mouth wide in a victorious smile; her teeth were sparkling white and her dark eyes flashed. He felt that familiar electric jolt shoot through him that only she could produce, a rush of reassurance that rooted him to the spot.
‘There you are, mischief. I told you we’d find you!’ She knelt down and wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close and resting her chin on his shoulder. She was facing the hanging lizard, but her eyes were closed, the moment of bliss as she hugged her son all-consuming.
‘Let’s have some lunch, darling. I think Papa might be able to join us today.’
The rush of reassurance drained away as quickly as it had come. Any talk of his father filled him with an unpleasant shaky feeling. He did not want to hear that loud voice today. Especially if it made Mama quiet and scared-looking. Nor did he want to hear about the age of reason again. Or the big grey school in England that he would be sent to soon. That made him feel heavy and cold.
‘That will be nice won’t it, darling? He’s going to take some time off from helping the Army this afternoon. The Tanglin’s closed for repairs so he said he would be home for lunch with us.’ Her eyes were still closed. ‘Let’s just hope he isn’t still angry about those silly Israelis doing his job for him,’ she whispered, as if he wouldn’t understand but she was telling him anyway. ‘I just don’t think I can cope with it anymore.’
Kim Ying followed her mistress through the gap and he tensed. She would see the lizard right away, he was sure. Amah never missed anything.
He was right. She saw the lizard immediately and stopped short, her mouth dropping momentarily before she regained her poise and stepped dutifully beside her mistress, smiling beatifically down at her charge. He looked up at her and smiled back. She always smiled at him when Mama was around and he liked that. Her round, smiling face made him feel strong. Or it had. Until the day he had seen her face squashed up against his father’s. It had not been smiling then. Father was squeezing her against the kitchen wall and making her cry. Just like he did with Mama. That made him feel like catching a big spider and pulling off its legs. One by one.
Kim Ying was always dressed the same. Black trousers and white shirt, shiny black hair in the same knotted pattern down her back, the pattern he had copied with the rope that pulled up the hammock strung between the trees at the bottom of the garden. He thought again about his lizard and that made him feel better. They would both be proud of him.
‘C’mon little big man. Let’s have some lunch.’ Mama pulled herself straight and lifted him up to her chest, turning towards the house.
Kim Ying followed hesitantly and then looked back at the lizard.
‘Ma’am,’ she said quietly. ‘I think little man want to show you something.’
He smiled to himself as he detected the amah’s discomfort.
‘Show me what, Kim Ying?’
‘Big gecko. On rope.’
‘Gecko? Where?’
She turned and froze as she saw the hanging lizard. She let the boy slip slowly down to his feet. He looked up at her chin. She would smile again soon, he knew. She would give him one of her big smiles that showed how much she loved him and how clever he was. Her chin was moving now, up and down very quickly, like when she was cold.
He looked across to Kim Ying. She was staring at the ground. He moved away from his mother and went closer to the lizard, which had stopped scything to and fro. He prodded its stomach with his finger. It was soft, like his bed pillow. He prodded it again and this time it moved. He smiled. He could make the lizard wriggle again just by touching its belly. He prodded it a few more times but the wriggles started to slow down.
He looked back at Mama and Kim Ying. They were now sitting on the bench next to the big hedge. They were pleased with him, he could tell. They hadn’t told him off and they were watching him play. Mama looked white now, rather than flushed, and Kim Ying kept looking at the ground, but they were enjoying watching him play. Mama was staring at the lizard. She must want him to play with it.
He glanced at the sharpened stick he’d thrown to the ground, then back at the two women. They were still silent. Time to play. He picked up the stick and pushed the pointed end against the lizard’s scaly back. The creature revolved slowly and he stopped it when the yellow-brown skin of its underside faced him. He traced a circle around its stomach with the point of the stick. All thoughts of being sent to England melted away.
Round and round the garden . . .
He traced another circle.
Like a teddy bear . . .
He looked up at his mother to see if she was joining in. She was smiling at him now and he knew he could carry on. Kim Jing was smiling as well. He knew they wanted to be part of his game.
The point of the stick jumped a couple of inches down the lizard’s belly towards its head.
One step . . .
Another jump of the stick. He pressed on the stick, which stretched the pale skin. There was no movement from the lizard.
Two step . . .
He mouthed the words of the rhyme for Mama’s benefit. Her smile was bigger now and he could see her sparkling teeth again. He could feel her warmth crossing the grass to him and her fragrance filled this special corner of the garden. It was their part of the garden. Just theirs.
The point of the stick was pressing into the area between the lizard’s neck and the bottom of its lower jaw. He pressed harder and the skin stretched into a deep indent. He gurgled in pleasure and took another look at his mother.
She was still smiling, an elbow on her knee and her chin cupped in her hand. She was looking straight at him with an intensity that he liked. He knew he was at the centre of her world. She was not thinking about anything else, not about the house or the servants or father or anything. She was staring straight at him and she was so proud of him. But he knew how to make her even prouder.
And a . . .
Her eyes were flashing brighter now, which told him that she loved him more and more and that they would protect each other forever. With their eyes locked, he thrust his makeshift spear hard into the lizard’s soft flesh. The skin made a popping sound as it punctured and he turned to see how he had done. Blood gushed down towards the bone-hard tip of the monitor’s jaw. He watched it flow, spellbound. The red drops fell to the grass.
He pulled the stick from the wound and ran the point gently through the blood.
Tick-a-lee under there!
1
London
June 2012
As Mike Brennan took his seat at the meeting room table he also took the temperature of the room. The streets outside were shimmering in the mid-summer sunshine but a frost had permeated this small corner of Covent Garden.
The presentation had finished just before he had entered. An impromptu lunch with Sarah had delayed him but that hadn’t concerned him too much. After all, he was just going to be sitting in. It wasn’t his meeting.
Sarah had brought Cara into the office and after all the usual oohing and aahing from his two assistants, he had taken his wife and their three-year-old for lunch at Joe Allen’s. It wasn’t often that Sarah could get away from the domestic routine, but Brennan appreciated it when she could. They were his world. Just them. And the agency, of course.
From the look of the faces around the table, he could see that the presentation had generated zero excitement. The three-strong creative team of Brennan Matterling sat opposite Craig MacQuarrie, founder and CEO of Kinross Air and his Commercial Director, Helen Withers. At the head of the table was Brennan’s business partner, Doug Matterling.
Both sides were looking at each other blankly. Brennan had opted for the empty seat next to Withers to even things up and make it seem like they were all on the same side. He pushed business cards along the table to the two directors as he settled in. The print on the cards was a simple grey copperplate:
Michael J Brennan. Creative Director. Brennan Matterling plc
He had not met these clients before and he quickly assessed them. MacQuarrie was a large man in his late fifties, with sandy hair in a military-style crew cut. Probably lived and breathed his business. Withers was small and thin, large black-framed glasses padding out her face, black hair scraped back hard against her scalp. Her no-nonsense tough look, he supposed.
MacQuarrie’s face was reddening by the second as he stared up at the closing slide still being projected onto the white wall. It showed the proposed new company logo—a purple flying thistle set against a stylised skyline of three mountain peaks. Underneath, in lurid orange, were the words, ‘Freedom Redefined. Flying for All.’
Brennan’s heart sank. What was this shit? Charlie wouldn’t have let this get airborne, surely.
He looked at the team responsible. In the centre was Alan Boman, the new account manager who’d only started at the beginning of the week and would have had only minimal input into this offering. It was Boman who’d suggested Brennan attend this meeting. He had taken over this campaign from Charlie Walsh, who’d left the company for reasons that Brennan was still trying to understand. Charlie wouldn’t have involved Brennan at this stage, but Boman obviously had concerns about what he was taking over.
The meeting was what Charlie would have called a tissue meeting—back in the day, New York agencies sketched out their rough ideas on tracing paper so clients could see that nothing was set in stone yet. It was a way of gauging a client’s reaction to an embryonic campaign. Brennan discouraged them because he felt they blocked true creativity and led ultimately to the client being sold short, but some clients insisted on being involved at such an early stage. Someone here must have succumbed.
The other two creatives were young, both with floppy dark hair and both dressed in tight dark suits. They were known as Gilbert and George around the agency and Brennan had forgotten their real names. But they came as a pair and were usually pretty reliable. Except for this time. And Doug Matterling was overseeing proceedings.
Brennan looked at his business partner. He was met with an icy stare. A warning to keep out of it.
MacQuarrie looked fit to burst. Brennan needed to bide his time.
When MacQuarrie did speak his voice was steady, controlled. A soft Scottish burr.
‘That’s a lot of information, Alan,’ he said. ‘A lot about the fleet, about legroom, about smiling flight attendants and strong-looking coffee. Even guff about managing to land on tarmac.’ He paused. ‘But nothing that relates to the brief that was discussed at the outset.’ His tone was hardening and he nodded towards the head of the table. ‘Nothing about family. That is what we wanted to get across. We’re a family-run company with family values. Whether they are off on holiday, or whether Dad—’ he glanced at Withers, ‘or Mum—are travelling for business. It’s all about family.’
He scanned the faces opposite him and looked up again at the message emblazoned across the wall. ‘And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?’ He stared at its creators with a mixture of wonder and pity. ‘“Freedom Redefined”? My team back in Aberdeen will think I’ve gone off my nut if I let that kind of crap be associated with our company.’
Family values? Brennan thought. MacQuarrie didn’t seem to fit that particular mould. He certainly didn’t use family language.
‘Doug,’ MacQuarrie said. ‘I think we’re owed some kind of explanation here. Not just for the complete disconnect, but also for the time we’ve wasted because of your company’s arrogance in refusing to pitch to us like the others did. I never did understand that. Are we supposed to sit back in awe and wait for you guys to don your black cloaks and pull a rabbit out of a hat? If we’d known at the start the angle your young geniuses were going to come up with, we could have saved ourselves a lot of time. And money.’
Everyone followed MacQuarrie’s gaze towards Doug Matterling. He leaned back and returned their gazes steadily. Brennan studied him hard. They were of a similar age but Matterling was usually taken for the older of the two. His hollow cheeks, thin lips and light hair contrasted with Brennan’s rounder face and what his mother used to fondly call his ‘black Irish looks’.
Matterling was slighter than Brennan and he wore a slim-fitting charcoal suit, white shirt and navy-blue tie. No wacky ad agency frippery for him. Just a straight-down-the-middle, meat-and-potatoes kind of exec, dedicated to his clients’ success. That was the look, at least. But evidence to the contrary was starting to build in Brennan’s mind.
They’d founded the agency together eight years ago. After working together for just a year at one of the big internationals. It had been an astonishing eight years of meteoric growth that had taken Mike Brennan from humble copywriter to doyen of the London advertising scene. He had even been asked to write a book about it and The Art of Persuasion had just been published to widespread acclaim.
It had been eight years of a seemingly solid partnership. Until now.
Brennan wanted to intervene, to take the heat out of the situation and shift the focus. But Matterling was looking straight at him. Still telling him to keep out of it. Still warning him. Brennan could tell something was coming but he had to let it happen. No point in trying to get his retaliation in first. He had to let Matterling talk.
‘I understand your concerns,’ Matterling said, ‘and it’s a policy that I profoundly disagree with.’ He stared calmly at Brennan. ‘I feel that clients should see from the outset whether an agency is going to be the right choice for them.’
Brennan stared back. Not only was Matterling implying that this trainwreck was somehow the client’s fault, he was also blaming company policy for letting the train leave the station. And not just company policy—Brennan’s policy. It had been his conviction that the agency should not give creative pitches to potential clients. Their showreel stood on its own merits and the client either trusted them to come up with the goods or they didn’t. Brennan certainly wasn’t going to spend time and effort giving away ideas for free. That was for less experienced agencies, not for Brennan Matterling, the award-winning tinder box of fizzing creativity.
‘That’s not what the policy is about,’ Brennan cut in. He could see where this was leading. ‘And you know it.’
Matterling ignored him. ‘The no-pitch policy was certainly an attention grabber when Mike was learning his trade under the tutelage of the greats. But the world has moved on since then and clients now place great value on, on . . .’ He paused and looked around the table, biting gently on his lower lip.
Brennan could tell that he was playacting, pretending to search for the right word—the word that would simultaneously flatter his client and shift the blame for this fiasco.
‘On perspicacity.’ He pronounced the word slowly, savouring its effect. ‘Modern clients value perspicacity over illusion.’ He smiled at MacQuarrie knowingly and fluttered his fingers in the air as if touching the forcefield around a suspended crystal ball. He raised his eyebrows and turned back to Brennan.
So, this was it. Not only was Matterling accusing him of deliberate obfuscation, he was also crudely implying that he was out of date and probably a bit touched. Time to jump in.
'The policy has nothing to do with lack of perspicacity,’ Brennan said to the Kinross directors. ‘It has everything to do with originality. That is what we strive to provide.’ He stopped there but the unspoken sequitur hung over them. Just not in this case.
MacQuarrie and Withers stared back at the closing slide as if to verify what they had just seen.
Brennan had to give them a moment. They were not finished yet. And what exactly was Matterling doing at this client meeting anyway? His role was rainmaker, a business introducer rather than a creative provider. That was the yin and yang of their partnership. Since when did Matterling get involved with the early stages of campaign planning? He looked after the business side of things; Brennan was the creative maestro. That was how they had set up the agency at the outset and that was what had worked so far. Matterling was head of schmoozing and Brennan was head of magic.
MacQuarrie looked momentarily bewildered and then leaned towards Matterling. ‘Effective communication is what I value.’ His voice was low, warning Matterling to listen carefully. ‘We only have a limited budget, Doug. I don’t care about all this perspi-crap. All I want is to get the message across, to tell the customer about what a great little airline we are and get him to give us a go. Once he flies with us, we have a customer for life.’ He looked across at the creative threesome then back at Matterling.
‘There was nothing in that . . .’ he pointed helplessly at the last slide, ‘. . . in that steaming brown pile of mediocrity that would excite anyone to fly anywhere. I really feel we’ve been duped here. You used a mutual friend to get to me, a close friend who I trust implicitly but whose judgement I am now calling into question. I feel that you saw us coming. A bunch of bog-trotters from the frozen north who you could palm off with something these bozos probably put together in their coffee break, while they saved their best work for your ‘important’ clients.’ He inscribed the quotes in the air with his fingertips.
He glared across the table. The bozos in question looked suitably downcast although Brennan thought they seemed marginally more hopeful now. After all, wasn’t MacQuarrie acknowledging that they did have talent? He was just bemoaning the fact that none of it had been deployed in his direction.
‘So, I cannot see any reason to stick around.’ MacQuarrie stood and started gathering his papers together. Withers also rose and scooped up some of the visuals that had been handed out during the presentation, key images to build up a table-top mood board. Brennan stared emptily at the glossy ten by eights as she diligently slid them into her leather meeting folder. Too polite to throw them in the bin straight away, he guessed. But that’s where they would end up.
One of the images caught his eye as she was pushing it into the folder. A stock photograph of a boy’s face, a young fresh-faced kid with an open mouth and wide eyes. Eyes that could easily be filled with wonder.
The air was heavy with disappointment and everyone was now making moves to leave. Matterling was staring up at the ceiling, a bored look on his narrow face. Brennan couldn’t believe that he wasn’t even going to stand up to say goodbye to his client, no matter how badly the meeting had gone.
Brennan looked down at the boy’s face in the photograph and thought about what MacQuarrie had said. A switch flicked in his brain. Outside the cone of his focus, time slowed down, giving him an opportunity to process the options. Clearly and steadily, he was homing in on his target.
‘Mr MacQuarrie and Miss Withers,’ he said. ‘Can I just express how sorry I am. I take full responsibility.’ The two directors turned to him then looked down at the business cards in front of them.
‘As creative director of the agency I do feel your disappointment.’ Neither spoke. ‘May I?’ Brennan reached across and picked up the image of the boy’s face. He turned it towards them.
‘Perhaps I could offer another angle that we could develop,’ he said. Another pause. He had their attention. ‘Imagine, for a moment, this boy playing at his grandfather’s knee. Somewhere in the Highlands. Grandad’s sitting on the porch of a small wooden bothy. The sun is shining and the rolling hills in the background are a rich green. God’s own country surrounds them.’
He looked up towards the ceiling. ‘The sky is a translucent Wedgewood blue and as the camera pans across, we see a single puffy cumulus cloud forming above a valley behind them.’ He spoke dreamily, to no one in particular. MacQuarrie and Withers slowly sat back down.
‘Cut to the boy,’ Brennan went on. ‘This boy. He is appealing to his grandfather: Please, Grandad, please, please! Just do that trick you told me about. I can’t wait. Please! Grandad smiles affectionately at his grandson but is reluctant to grant him his wish too easily. Grandad is a gentle soul, bearded with a kindly weather-beaten face. At each cut, we come in closer to the faces of the boy and his grandfather. The boy pleading to see the trick again, the old man playing him along, coaxing the boy’s eagerness.’
That eagerness was starting to seep into the room. Brennan had everyone’s attention. He glanced at Matterling whose eyes were now black slits. His lips were pursed and his fingers were steepled, the tips of his forefingers tapping against his chin.
‘Then, Grandad smiles an indulgent smile and turns sideways to the boy. He rounds his lips and starts to blow out a long silent breath. The breath is visible against the sky and it merges into the single cloud that hangs over the valley. The boy’s eyes widen in wonderment and when we cut back to the billowing cloud, we see something appearing through the vapour. It is an aeroplane. A Kinross Air jet, which we follow as it swoops through the glens and skims low across the lochs. Stunning scenery is reflected in the deep blue waters of the sea and then again in a cabin window. The boy’s face with its saucer eyes appears in the reflection and we see that he is a passenger in the plane. We see the view through his eyes. We see the spectacular scenery of your destinations.’
Brennan smiled at MacQuarrie and Withers, acknowledging their role in creating such a world. ‘We experience the wonder of flying for the first time. We remember what it was like to be that boy, to have that magical experience.’
He let them savour that experience again for themselves.
‘Big awestruck eyes drawing us in. Crystal-clear photography. Powerful scenery. Reflections and clouds. Smoke and mirrors. Visceral music that grabs our souls and takes us from one world to another. The sheer wonder of childhood. The sheer excitement of flying. The sheer beauty of a world we can reach with your help.’ He looked straight at MacQuarrie, whose jaw was starting to unclench. ‘Kinross Air can transport us. Your company can make it all possible. You make the excitement possible.’
He let the concept sink in. He was introducing crude flattery, but he had to gamble everything in this last-ditch attempt. They had been about to walk out so there was nothing to lose. He looked at his creative team. Boman was scribbling in a pad as though he were still involved in the process. Gilbert and George were downcast, still embarrassed at their own efforts. And not used to a client being so direct about their shortcomings.
Doug Matterling’s expression hadn’t changed. He was staring straight at Brennan. It was a cold, forensic look that made Brennan even more uncomfortable than he’d been when he first came into the meeting. That look told Brennan their professional relationship was nosediving.
They would have it out later. There were other questions Brennan had besides Matterling’s involvement with the Kinross Air account. He wondered how many other client meetings Matterling had gate-crashed. How many other embryonic campaigns were heading for stillbirth? And, client matters aside, there was also the status of their investment in that venture capital outfit in California to explain, as well as the lack of progress with the Hong Kong acquisition. They needed a meeting. Urgently.
But for now, he had to attend to the matter in hand.
‘No statistics,’ he said to MacQuarrie and Withers. ‘No facts and figures. No prices. No offers. Just atmosphere. Just a feeling. A powerful story simply told. No wheels on tarmac runways, but a soft touchdown on the beach airstrip at Barra.’ An appreciative smile flicked across MacQuarrie’s lips at the mention of the Barra airstrip. ‘Any image that will help the strong emotional connection that we will build between your customer and Kinross Air. Shared values. Family values. The bond between the boy and his grandfather. The trust the boy has in the magic that Grandad can perform. And the shared experience of flying over some of the most stunning scenery in the world.’
MacQuarrie looked at Withers and Brennan sensed a tacit agreement pass between them. The tension had gone. The mistrust in the room seemed to be dissipating.
Timing now was essential. Brennan knew he had to strike before anything else was said. ‘It would be a completely different approach,’ he said and nodded briefly at the offending thistle projected onto the wall. ‘We would concentrate on the simple thrill of flying. Nothing would get redefined.’ He smiled at his new clients and kept his eyes firmly on theirs. ‘We would only rediscover.’
Helen Withers turned to Craig MacQuarrie to let him respond. MacQuarrie leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. For the first time since Brennan had met him, he looked interested. Excitement would have to come later.
Brennan felt Matterling’s stony glare boring into him as he waited for MacQuarrie to speak.
‘I think, Mr Brennan,’ MacQuarrie said slowly, ‘that your rabbit may just have started to poke his ears out of that hat.’
2
London
June
Cara’s tiny fingers pushed hesitantly at the keys.
‘C—C, G—G,’ Brennan sang next to her on the piano stool. His right hand covered hers. He moved her right-hand pinkie along one key. ‘A—A.’ Then back one. ‘G.’ Another handful of notes completed the melody.
Her face lit up with pleasure. ‘My turn, my turn!’ She pushed his hand away and this time played the notes without assistance. She sang as she played.
‘Twinkle, twinkle, little star. How I wonder what you are.’ She looked up at him. ‘Next bit, Daddy. Next bit.’
He pressed her fingers onto the notes for the next two bars.
‘Up above the world so high,’ they sang together. ‘Like a diamond in the sky.’
She looked at the sheet music intently and then back at the keys. Brennan lifted his hand away.
‘And now back to the beginning.’ He pointed at the sheet and she played the final four bars herself, Brennan clapping each beat to help her with the rhythm.
‘Twinkle, twinkle, little star. How I wonder what you are.’
At the final beat, his clapping turned into applause.
‘Well done, darling. Bravissima.’ She joined in with the clapping for a few seconds and then hugged him, her arms wrapping tightly around his middle, her blonde curls pressed against his chest.
He bent over and gently kissed her hair.
‘We’ll do the left hand as well tomorrow. You’ll soon be playing the Albert Hall.’ He hugged her close. ‘I think it’s time for bed soon. Mummy’s coming to get you ready.’
He looked up as Sarah came into the room from the kitchen, carrying a set of Garfield pyjamas.
‘Come on, my little genius,’ Sarah said. ‘I heard you play. Now let’s get you changed.’
Cara slipped off the piano stool and ran across the room to her mother. They sat on the sofa and Sarah started to pull off Cara’s clothes. Brennan shifted around on the piano stool to watch them. Sarah was tall, with a flat athletic frame, like a long-jumper. Her blonde-brown hair was tied back today. Narrow face, delicate aquiline nose, bright blue eyes and a wide mouth that turned up at the sides. Definitely the ex-model type. Which she was.
They had met at one of the agency’s shoots, at a studio somewhere near Old Street. Sarah had been sitting patiently in a bath, half-naked, cupping a bar of soap in front of her breasts and waiting for the photographer’s assistant to adjust the lighting. That bar of soap had to look just right. Brennan had playfully offered to boil a kettle to keep her water warm. She said that she would prefer a coffee. They’d hit it off straight away.
Sarah scooped Cara into her arms in one easy movement.
‘Now, kiss Daddy goodnight and we’ll twinkle our way to bed.’
She tipped Cara over so that Brennan could kiss her and as she did so he reached for the top of the piano and pulled a small black jewellery box from behind the music stand. ‘This was my mother’s. She would have loved to see you play.’
He opened up the box and took out a gold chain bracelet with a single charm attached to it—a golden grand piano. He looped it carefully around Cara’s left wrist and she beamed with pleasure. She touched the miniature piano with her free hand and then slipped the chain off her wrist and held the whole bracelet in her palm.
Brennan folded his hand over hers and looked into her bright eyes. ‘Keep it safe, darling. It will keep you safe, too. It’s your No Harm Charm.’
Cara turned her head into her mother’s neck and wrapped her arms around her, still clutching her new bracelet.
‘That’s a surprise,’ Sarah said. ‘Where did that come from?’
‘I’ve had it forever.’ He smiled. ‘Never suited me, of course.’
After the final goodnight kisses, Brennan watched them climb the stairs. As they turned onto the landing the familiar questions clawed at him again. How could he be the best father to her that he could be? How could he make sure that she had the best life possible?
He swivelled slowly back to the piano, shook his arms, adjusted his seat and put his hands on the keys. His right hand dawdled over a slow introduction, building the tension within a dominant seventh chord while he let his hands decide which way to go. He cocked his head, listening for any crying from upstairs. No bedtime tantrums, apparently.
His hands started banging out a Meade Lux Lewis classic boogie-woogie as loudly as he dared. After the third chorus, he finished the twelve-bar with a neat ending that he’d recently put together and added a couple of glissandos, running his right-hand fingernails up the keyboard and his thumbnail all the way back down.
After this quick shot of blues adrenaline, Brennan headed into the kitchen and pulled a bottle of Oyster Bay Sauvignon Blanc out of the fridge. He pulled out two glasses from a cupboard and poured generous measures into both, gulping down one glass and refilling it. The Kinross meeting continued to bug him—Matterling had disappeared as soon as it had finished. Brennan needed to talk about it with Sarah.
He took the glasses and the bottle into the conservatory. The room was hot; it had been a blistering summer day and he could hear birdsong in the garden. When they’d first moved in all those years ago, he’d spent a lot of time clearing that little garden and then used all the design tricks he knew to make it seem larger than it was. Now it had become overgrown again and he knew that it needed more of his time. He swallowed another glassful of wine and put it out of his mind. He had other things to worry about. He refilled his glass.
Sarah reappeared and looked sharply at the half-empty wine bottle.
‘She’s loving it, isn’t she?’ Sarah said. ‘The piano.’
‘Seems so. At least I can help her with that.’ He handed her a glass. ‘How was your afternoon?’
‘Great thanks. After lunching with a charming man who said he worked in advertising I left my daughter with a friend while I went to taekwondo. Good session.’ She touched his wrist and kissed him on the cheek. ‘How about you?’
‘Not so good.’ He finished his wine and went for another refill.
‘Thought so,’ she said quietly.
They stood silently, looking out over the garden.
‘I got the tickets,’ she said eventually.
‘The tickets? What for?’
‘The sprint finals. At the Velodrome. 6th August — like you asked.’
‘Oh right, right. Thanks.’
She looked at him expectantly. He stared into his glass.
‘No run tonight, then?’
‘Not tonight, no.’
‘As well as getting to see some of the Olympics this summer I’ve been thinking about holidays,’ she said after another pause. Then she smiled brightly. ‘We haven’t been away together for ages. There are so many places where we’ve had a fantastic time. And we can take Cara anywhere now.’
‘Sounds like a great idea.’ It came out flatter than he’d intended.
Sarah’s smile disappeared.
‘What’s wrong, Mike? Is it work?’
‘Mm.’ He waited for another prod. It was just the way they worked. He had to make sure she was ready to get into it.
‘Staff problems?’
‘Bigger than that. It’s Doug.’ He looked into her eyes. ‘I’ve got some concerns.’
‘Doug? What’s wrong with him? Is he ill?’
‘Not that. I’m not sure what’s behind it. But he’s kind of turned.’
‘Turned?’ She gave a short, awkward laugh. ‘Into what?’
‘I know it sounds crazy, but he seems to have turned against the business. He’s getting involved with clients in a destructive way. I saw it for myself this afternoon. And he’s turned against me.’
‘Against you?’ Sarah sounded incredulous. ‘That’s impossible. Without you, there would be no business.’
He smiled at her. ‘That’s not the way he sees it. He thinks my policy on pitching is holding it back.’
‘But you’ve both got the same objectives, haven’t you? You’re both working towards the same goals.’
‘That’s what I always thought. Money, power, love and glory. That pretty much covers it.’
Sarah looked away. ‘I thought business was booming.’
‘Not in the last few months. We’ve just had our first quarterly loss. I was given the accounts this morning.’
‘A loss? How?’
‘That’s what I’m trying to find out. I’ve asked for more analysis but cash flow has suddenly become a problem.’ He put his glass down on the coffee table and slipped his arm around Sarah’s waist. He could feel how tense she was. They never talked about the financial side of the business, only campaigns, personnel and awards. Never the nitty-gritty.
‘I’m sure it’s just a temporary blip,’ he said. ‘There’ll be an explanation.’ He smiled weakly. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you. It’s my problem and I’ll deal with it.’
Sarah pulled away. ‘If Doug is posing a threat, then that needs to be dealt with. Straight away. You can’t let it get worse. There’s too much at stake.’ She glanced around at their home. ‘Everything’s at stake.’
‘I know, I know. But it’ll sort itself out. After I’ve seen the details, I’ll cut costs where necessary and we’ll get through it.’
‘What exactly is he doing? When he was round here last year, you two were toasting each other to the moon. There was no stopping you. The work was flooding in and the champagne was flowing. Even the wives got a look-in.’ She laughed weakly. ‘At least that’s still happening.’
‘Yeah, we’d had a strong run, then. We’d hit a critical mass.’ He frowned at her. ‘What do you mean by ‘look-in’? You’ve always been a key part of it.’
Sarah chewed at her bottom lip. ‘Hasn’t Doug discussed it with you, yet?’ She hesitated. ‘He should have done by now.’
‘Discussed what?’
‘The wives’ salary scheme. I know Doug’s not married, but he said that he was paying his to his sister.’
‘Sister? I didn’t know he had a sister.’ He picked up his glass but didn’t take a drink. ‘Anyway, what payment? What are you talking about?’
‘The salaries being paid to the directors’ wives. Or sister, in his case. Her five-year-old twins both have cerebral palsy. Asphyxia at birth. He said the accountants had recommended it as a way to save tax. That’s when he asked for my bank account details.’
‘Your bank account details?’ Brennan tried to sound casual. What scheme was this? He had never raised this with the accountants.
‘You’d gone out to pick up a takeaway. From that new Thai place on Willesden Lane. He had quite a long chat with me about the iniquities of our corporation tax system. I tuned out after about twenty seconds. Anyway, the monthly payments have been coming in like clockwork since then.’ She hesitated, then said quickly, ‘But I haven’t been spending it. Doug said to treat it like holiday money, so I haven’t touched it. That’s why I mentioned a holiday. I’ve been waiting to talk to you about it for weeks, but you always seem too busy to think about having time off. Doug said to keep the money as a surprise until after your year-end. He said you’d deserve a decent break by then. He was going to talk to you when the time was right. I thought that he would have done that by now.’
‘Our year-end? That’s just gone.’
‘Exactly. So let’s plan something. It would do you good. Even if we just go back to that cottage in Skibbereen for a couple of weeks. County Cork is so beautiful in the summer. Give you a chance to get back to your roots.’
He laughed. ‘My roots are Neasden. Born and bred. No matter what my parents wanted to believe. Anyway, I don’t think now is the right time. Much as I’d like to get away.’
‘We can go anywhere in the world with the twenty-eight grand we’ve got in the holiday pot.’
The glass jerked in his hand and he put it down carefully.
‘Twenty-eight thousand?’ Matterling was dishing out more than pocket money. This was serious stuff.
‘And it’s building up every month, so I can’t see that your cash flow is that bad. Perhaps the accounts you were given are wrong. Doug seemed to want to do everything he could to save some tax for us. I doubt he’d willingly do anything to harm the business. He’d be losing out as well, wouldn’t he?’
‘Of course.’ Matterling was in charge of the financial side. Staff remuneration was the largest expense in the accounts and he could easily have hidden these extra payments. But why would he?
‘Something has changed,’ he said. ‘I’m sure of it. I thought money was his main motivation, but I think it’s something else now.’
Sarah looked puzzled. ‘Power, glory or love.’
‘What?’
‘According to your four categories,’ she said. ‘If it’s not money, it must be one of the other three. So, if he is jeopardising the business, I can’t see it bringing him much love. Or glory.’ She gave him a hard look. ‘If he even is putting the business at risk. Perhaps you’re just being paranoid. Over-reacting to that blip.’
‘Perhaps I am,’ he said. ‘Or not. Either way, it’ll sort itself out. I’ll get a better handle on the figures and we’ll get back on an even keel.’
Sarah started picking up a couple of items of Cara’s clothing that had been shed on the conservatory floor.
‘Or there’s power,’ she said. ‘As his potential motivation. Perhaps he feels threatened by you.’ She dropped to her knees and folded a pink flowery skirt across her thigh.
Brennan shook his head. ‘We’ve always been very careful to separate our roles. I’ve never intruded into his.’ But perhaps he should have. Perhaps he should have kept closer tabs on what Matterling was doing. Especially now the business had expanded to its current size.
‘Just you telling me this means it could be serious. It doesn’t make sense, but you could be looking at the symptoms. Not the real problem.’ Her fingers tightened around the material of Cara’s skirt. ‘We see what we want to see. Isn’t that what you’ve always told me?’
There was no reply to this. She was absolutely right, of course. He was the last person who needed to be told that. After all, hadn’t he built his bloody career exploiting that simple truth?
She was worried, though. He had hoped that by sharing his concern they could make it go away and carry on as normal. But now he’d burdened them both with it. His duty was to shield Sarah from work problems—she had enough to worry about looking after Cara every day. In many ways, she was the strongest woman he had ever met, but she had an underlying vulnerability that he had to protect. He also had to make sure that she never felt she had to return to what she called ‘the puppet theatre’—the world of modelling that she’d worked so hard to leave behind.
‘Remember, Mike, sometimes things don’t just right themselves. Natural justice won’t solve everything.’
She retrieved a toy medical bag from beside the sofa and repacked its contents, which were scattered around it: stethoscope, syringe and thermometer were put away for another day.
‘I trust in you, Mike. I know you’ll do the right thing. And make the right choices.’
Brennan swilled the remaining wine around in his glass and stared into it. He would tackle Matterling in the morning. First thing.
3
London
June
Brennan heard the clanking of weights hitting their stops as soon as he opened the small gym’s door. It was six in the morning. He hadn’t expected anyone else to be here. There never was. Usually, he had all the machines to himself. He liked it that way. He felt a ripple of annoyance that he’d have to share the facility with someone else.
That annoyance turned to surprise when he saw who was sitting astride the pull-down machine. The white vest was already dark with sweat, as was the thick flannel headband. Brennan had planned to talk to Doug Matterling this morning, but the opportunity had arrived sooner than expected.
‘Morning, Mike,’ Matterling said with a welcoming smile. ‘Hope I’m not encroaching on your personal gym time. You’re an inspiration to the rest of us with your early morning work-outs.’
An inspiration? What was Matterling doing here at this time? He’d never shown any interest in the new gym before.
‘Really?’ Brennan said. ‘That’s good to hear.’
Matterling allowed the pull-down bar to slowly rise; behind him, the slabs of weights descended. ‘Here. Do you want this one? I can switch.’
‘No, Doug. Thanks for the offer but I’ll warm up first.’
He went over to one of the exercise bikes and started pedalling. He looked at the floor as he built up speed. He imagined he was cycling along a country road. He could smell the early morning dew on the verges and hedgerows.
He closed his eyes and he was eleven years old again, heading out to another fight. On the village green at four o’clock. A fight arranged by the other kids at school. He was happy to oblige—he enjoyed the notoriety of being ‘that new Irish kid’ who would take on anybody.
Most of the fights only lasted a few minutes. They were scrappy affairs with few punches landing cleanly and usually ending up with the two boys rolling around on the grass until one of them got the other in a headlock. Then the pummelling to the head would begin and the one taking the battering would give in. Brennan was never the one who surrendered and the after-school fights became just another part of his daily routine.
When he reached grammar school, he channelled his aggressive instincts into boxing and he was about to make the school team when the sport was discontinued. He was guided towards gentler, more creative activities by his teachers and he didn’t resist. But he had never lost that fighting instinct. An instinct that hadn’t always served him well.
After ten minutes, he slowed. He saw Matterling go over to one of the running machines. Brennan dismounted and stepped onto the adjacent treadmill. He hit the start button and broke into a gentle jog. This would give them the opportunity to talk.
He needed to know what was going on with the Hong Kong acquisition and also the Californian investment. Then there were the wives’ salary scheme and the Kinross meeting to discuss.
Brennan soon matched Matterling’s pace and they glanced at each other in the wall mirror ahead. Matterling was breathing easily. He was obviously fit.
‘Good to see you here, Doug.’ Brennan had to start the conversation, but Matterling being in the gym at this time was no coincidence. He knew Brennan’s schedule. Perhaps he wanted to apologise, but that wasn’t his style and Brennan dismissed the thought immediately. ‘I was hoping to catch you sometime this morning,’ Brennan continued. ‘I’ve got a couple of questions.’
Matterling did an exaggerated eye-roll and shook his head. ‘I know, Mike. I know. I owe you an explanation for yesterday. And a big apology. As well as a massive thank you for coming to the rescue. We’d have lost them if it hadn’t been for you.’
Brennan didn’t respond. This was a very different Matterling to the one that had stared at him so coldly in the meeting yesterday. Perhaps they weren’t heading for a bust-up after all. Thank God for that. The tension drained from his legs and he kicked harder to keep up the pace.
‘I’d specifically asked Boman to give me a thorough briefing beforehand,’ Matterling said, ‘but he never showed. I hope he’s up to the job because he hasn’t started well. We don’t want another Charlie Walsh, do we?’
This confirmed Brennan’s fear. There must have been some kind of barney between Charlie and Matterling. Charlie had refused to be drawn on why he was leaving; he’d simply cited family reasons for the move. But Brennan had sensed that there was something else going on.
Matterling’s expression flicked from concerned to delighted, like a switch had been thrown. ‘But your picture of the granddad and the boy was just brilliant. Good old magic Grandpa. Works every time.’
This was more like the old Matterling. A barb in every compliment.
‘That boy didn’t look like he was going to be abandoned any time soon,’ Matterling continued. ‘There’s no wonder when that happens.’
Matterling’s reflection bobbed up and down in the mirror. Abandoned? Where had that come from?
‘The bog-trotters lapped it up,’ Matterling said. ‘I’ve asked Gilbert and George to work it up and they’re going to ditch that crap they were going with. I did tell them Boman was still the account manager.’ He smiled at Brennan in the mirror. ‘Loyalty is everything, isn’t it?’
Brennan smiled politely back. ‘I like to think so, Doug.’
‘After all, look at us now, eh? In our own company gym. The gym of a multi-award-winning agency.’ He took his hands off the treadmill grips and held them, palm upwards, in front of him. ‘This is our destiny, Mike. You and me. Masters of our own universe. All this was meant to be.’
Brennan did not reply. He looked hard at his business partner. On any other day he might have agreed. But not today.
Matterling grinned broadly and turned back to the treadmill dashboard. He tapped the screen and his pace quickened.
Why the line about destiny? Brennan increased his treadmill’s speed. He hadn’t associated Matterling with that kind of hyperbole before. Their business partnership had been based on pragmatism. Matterling got the clients through the door and Brennan created their stories for them, the stories that they couldn’t necessarily see for themselves. Even though most of the time they were at the centre of them.
Brennan Matterling was a symbiosis that had worked well for both parties. And Brennan couldn’t see why it should not continue to work. As long as they both stuck to their roles, appreciated what was at stake, and kept communicating.
‘So you weren’t upset yesterday?’ Brennan said. ‘You seemed a bit pissed off at the Kinross meeting.’
Matterling threw his head back and laughed. ‘God, yeah. Of course I was pissed off. At Boman. But nothing was directed at you. You’re the one who got his arse out of a sling. You rode to the rescue. It was payback time and I appreciated it.’
Payback time. Brennan gripped the pulse-measuring handles at the front of the treadmill. That again. Matterling was never going to let it go.
‘So did the boy and his granddad resonate with you, Doug?’ Even though he felt that he knew Matterling well enough on the business front, he had no idea about his family life. That had always been a closed book.
‘Not at all. I never had a granddad. I only had Mama and Papa.’ He stabbed at the screen to up the pace.
They ran in silence for a couple of minutes, back in step. Brennan knew that there was more to tell.
Eventually, he said, ‘Did you experience the wonder of flying at a young age?’
‘I did fly. But there was no wonder about it.’ Matterling stared straight ahead at his reflection. ‘There was no wonder in being abandoned. Flying meant being sent to incarceration. It’s when the misery began.’ His voice dropped away. ‘And I couldn’t look after her anymore.’
Matterling switched his attention back to the screen and checked his stats for the workout. That conversation was over.
Nor did there seem to be much more to say about the meeting yesterday. Matterling had dismissed it as a problem with Boman, nothing to do with him. He didn’t seem too exercised by the client’s perception of him. He was above those kinds of detail—even if the agency’s reputation was at stake.
‘How’s Hong Kong going? Any progress yet?’
‘Funny you should ask.’ Matterling looked up from his stats and smiled at Brennan. ‘I’m flying over later today. Got a meeting with PwC, who want to run through a target list with me. Looks promising.’
‘Any names I’d know?’
‘Not sure yet. They didn’t want to disclose much over the phone. Insisted on a face-to-face.’ Matterling grinned. ‘It’s our future, the East. You should come over with me.’
‘Next time, perhaps. When we’ve got something to get our teeth into.’
Matterling prodded the screen again and his pace increased yet further. He was sprinting now. The change of speed indicated that the conversation about Hong Kong was also over. Brennan touched his own screen to keep up.
‘Sarah told me about the wives’ salary scheme.’ He was breathing hard now. ‘We should have discussed it, Doug, you know that. It’s a board matter.’
Matterling looked hurt. ‘Ah come on, Mike.’ He was breathing hard as well. ‘It was meant to be a nice surprise. A little bonus for all the hard work you’ve been putting in. I thought you’d be pleased.’ Several deep breaths. ‘And I’m sure you would have earned a few brownie points with Sarah. I bet she’s been on your back for all the long hours you’ve been putting in lately.’ He reached for the screen again. ‘And it’s not a lot of money, in the scheme of things.’ He started slowing his pace. ‘It’s what you deserve.’
Matterling pulled a towel from the holder at the front of the machine and mopped the sweat from his face. ‘You’ll have a great time away with the family. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? No point in doing all this if you can’t enjoy the fruits of your labour.’
‘What about you?’ Brennan slowed his treadmill. ‘Sarah said that your share was going to your sister. I didn’t realise that you—’
Matterling cut him short with a wave of his hand. His eyes were closed as if in pain. ‘Not now. I’ll tell you all about her another time. It’s a tragic story and I just do what I can. Which is way too little.’ His treadmill had slowed to a gentle walk and he continued mopping himself with the towel. ‘I’m only away for a few days. We’ll catch up when I get back.’
He stepped off the treadmill and gave Brennan an approving look. ‘You’re going well, Mike. These workouts are doing you the world of good. We need them, don’t we?’ He touched the side of his head. ‘To stop us going doolally tap.’
He flashed a big smile and turned towards the door to the changing room. Brennan was slowing down as well. He needed to ask one more thing.
‘What’s happening with the Olson investment? I haven’t heard anything since we made the transfer.’
Matterling stopped and turned.
‘All good. I sent you their report. The money’s fully invested now.’
‘What report? I didn’t receive anything.’
‘Last week sometime. I’m sure I sent a copy as soon as it came through.’
Brennan shook his head. He’d received nothing regarding the investment they’d made six months ago with a venture capital fund in San Francisco. The fund specialised in tech start-ups and at that time BM had a lot of spare cash looking for a home. After all, didn’t everyone want to invest in the next Apple or Oracle?
‘Not to worry.’ Matterling turned back towards the changing room. ‘I’ll send it again.’
He opened the door and flung his towel over his shoulder. Brennan’s treadmill came to a halt.
‘Adios,’ Matterling said as the door closed behind him. ‘Keep at it.’
Brennan took a long swig from his water bottle. Matterling hadn’t provided any answers. None. And now he was off to Hong Kong.
Brennan looked at his reflection. He’d been running for ten minutes and got absolutely nowhere.
4
Hong Kong
July
Even the boatman was finding it difficult to hang on. The rolling and pitching made his footstool slide across the wooden boards, smashing into one side of the broad-beamed junk then the other.
Victor de Souza looked up at the sign telling occupants in Cantonese and English that they were in a Passenger-carrying Sampan Licensed to Carry 12 Persons (Including Crew) Within Aberdeen Typhoon Shelter. But this was a private charter and there were only three of them being carried today. He was the first, the skipper was the second and the third was Doug Matterling. The only one smiling was Matterling.
It had been a long day of investor meetings at Heilong Investment Corporation and this trip around the harbour was supposed to round things off. A little down-time, Matterling had said. To give us both a chance to ensure that our objectives are aligned.
Victor had come to learn that this meant only one thing. It meant that Doug Matterling’s objectives were being aligned. Aligned with Doug Matterling's objectives. The problem was that these objectives had changed. Changed radically.
Victor felt sick. The violent rolling was churning his stomach. He could feel the steamed shrimp dumplings and the chicken congee slurping around together like the contents of a washing machine. He had to keep control of himself as well as the conversation. Matterling had pushed two threadbare seats opposite each other so that they could talk. The legs of the chairs were held in place by ropes attached to the supports of the benches running down each side of the junk.
‘Feeling okay, Victor?’ Matterling said. ‘Thought you’d enjoy this outing on the water, with you being a long-time boat owner.’
Victor smiled weakly. ‘I’ve only been out in it once.’ He pushed his right hand against his mouth to keep it closed. There was a short stump where his ring finger had once been.
‘I know,’ Matterling said, grinning at Victor’s discomfort. ‘Shame that. Not everyone’s born with sea legs.’ The junk pitched and yawed past the gaudy lights of the multi-layered Jumbo Kingdom Floating Restaurant and Matterling nodded towards it. ‘Thought we might pay a visit there, later on.’
Victor resisted following Matterling’s gaze. He had to concentrate on anything other than food. He removed his hand from his mouth and took a deep breath through his nose. He refocused on their conversation.
‘What’s wrong with our current arrangement, Doug? Why do you suddenly want control over Heilong? You’re making a fortune on the commissions from the investors.’
‘I set up Heilong, Victor. It’s my creation. A bigger idea than yours. You just got lucky with the way complementary technologies have developed.’
A bigger idea? What the hell was he talking about?
‘But the share structure was your idea,’ Victor said. ‘You were the one who wanted to ensure that I wouldn’t lose control of these voting rights. For the sake of my family.’ He was battling hard to keep control of his stomach but he managed to lean forward defiantly. ‘That’s why you got the deal on the commissions. So what’s changed? Why not just sit tight and let me carry on growing Elba? Your investors will get what they want. They seemed pretty happy today with progress . . . though obviously, they’re not aware of the full picture on the commissions.’
The engine roared louder as the junk headed between the rows of high-rises that lined the harbour, twisting and turning around the moored fishing boats and other craft jostling for the same patches of ink-black water.
Matterling ignored Victor’s questions. ‘Your priorities are different now, aren’t they? I’m not so sure your family ranks highly anymore. You’re not exactly the model family man these days, are you?’
Victor’s head was swimming, but he wasn’t going to let Matterling use this to force a capitulation. He hadn’t relished the idea of this jaunt, but he was determined to stand up to him. Matterling thought he could take anything he wanted. Not only was he taking obscene levels of commission from the Heilong investors, he now thought that he could take the controlling share from Victor.
‘I know I’ve made a mess of certain things. But I know what I’ve done right, as well. And I know that selling my share to you would not be the right thing to do. Not for me or for Carmel and the family. If you get control of Heilong, you’ll want my family’s shareholding next. It’s not going to happen.’ He looked out at the harbour as it flashed by. ‘Now, let’s tell our man here to ease off the throttle, turn this tub around and get back to terra firma. Isn’t there a speed limit around here?’
Matterling went over to the man on the tiller and gestured for him to slow down. The skipper grinned a gold-toothed grin and the junk slowed. Victor’s stomach settled as the motion steadied. Matterling returned to his seat and pulled out an envelope from inside his jacket. He handed it to Victor.
‘You need to reconsider.’ Matterling leaned forward, put his elbows on his knees and steepled his hands together. ‘Let me put it another way. Let me tell you that you will reconsider. Inside that envelope is my final offer. My final offer for the bearer share. I can assure you that I will find it. So, you can either be paid for it . . . or I will simply take it. It’s your choice. It’s a generous offer. And I’m just protecting my long-term interests.’
Matterling turned back to the skipper and pointed upwards. The engine roared even louder and the junk sprang forward. The footstool jumped out from under the skipper’s foot and resumed its clattering across the boards.
The sudden acceleration shunted the two rickety chairs together and Matterling’s head came within a couple of feet of Victor’s. Matterling grabbed the lapels of Victor’s jacket with both hands and pulled him close. He stared hard into Victor’s eyes, looking past his squashed, boxer’s nose.
‘You know I believe in family, Victor. Without that strength we’re nothing. I was the one who had to suffer when my father went down the same road as you. So, make sure I’m not the one who has to explain matters to your poor wife, the delightful Carmel.’ He twisted the lapels in his fists. ‘When your name is called.’
He twisted his fists back again and brushed the rumpled lapels flat.
‘Your decision of course. But all decisions have consequences.’
‘Don’t lecture me about consequences.’ Victor pulled himself away. ‘You’re getting greedy. And we both know where that will end.’
The oily stench of burning diesel drifted through the cabin and Victor’s chest started to heave. He staggered to the side of the junk. The fresher air at the side of the open boat helped, but it was too late. He saw the row of tyres which lined the outside of the junk below and his body folded over the guardrail. A stream of vomit bounced off the tyres and sprayed into the water.
After disgorging the contents of his stomach, he sucked in a few lungfuls of clean air then straightened himself and turned back to Matterling, who was leaning back in his seat, grinning and seemingly enjoying the show. Victor pulled himself a couple of feet along the rail and regained his poise.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘The last thing I wanted to do was add to the pollution around here.’
5
London
August
Mike Brennan knew that there would be fireworks at the meeting. His stomach tightened at the prospect.
It was due to start in a few minutes. Neil Travers had proposed that they call this meeting of creditors of Brennan Matterling plc for four o’clock in the afternoon, on the Friday before the August Bank Holiday. After all, he’d argued, what would any creditor gain by showing up? There was no stock, hardly any assets, and the goodwill—which had once been valued in the millions—had evaporated within weeks. But Brennan knew that feelings were running high and such a crude ruse would only stiffen the resolve of those creditors determined to attend.
As he took his place at the table in the Somerset Room of the Great Westway Hotel in London, he felt bruised and nauseous. Part of him had been ripped away. Shock had given way to quiet fury. The vortex which had sucked him to the bottom over the last couple of months had been remorseless. Now there was nothing left for the creditors to fight over. Just enough cash from debtors to cover the liquidator’s fees. Beyond that, nothing.
This meeting was going to be hell. He knew that despite the timing, many of the senior staff would show up. Some of the suppliers would also make the trip. And Lisa Richards, of course. It didn’t matter what time the meeting was scheduled for. They’d all still want to vent their collective spleen.
Travers had offered them the route of a pre-pack administration, explaining that they could set up a new company, use it to purchase Brennan Matterling’s assets and carry on trading. At least the creditors would get something for their old debts, and new business if they wanted it. It could all have been settled by now and the creditors would have accepted the new reality.
But Matterling had flatly refused to countenance such an arrangement. He’d argued that there was no reason for them to pay anything to the creditors. He’d proposed that a new company should be formed after the creditors meeting, which would then buy the BM name for a song and take over the office lease and most of the employee contracts. This phoenix company would rise from the ashes and be back in business with the necessary working capital provided by a consortium of Hong Kong investors that Matterling had put together. Existing creditors would get nothing.
Brennan favoured the pre-pack but Matterling had dug his heels in, saying that his Hong Kong investors were insisting on the phoenix company route so that all the new money would go into expanding the business rather than paying off old debts. Brennan had finally agreed after seeing photos of Matterling’s two disabled nephews. The pictures were heartbreaking. It seemed Matterling had been supporting them for years and if the company survived, then not only would many of the employees still have jobs, but Brennan and Matterling would be able to continue providing for their families. The only losers would be the companies that had supplied goods and services to BM in good faith.
It was those creditors that he was about to face.
The green padded seats were filling up but Brennan couldn’t bring himself to look up and see who was there. Sarah had wanted to come but he’d managed to dissuade her. It had been difficult enough for her to comprehend the company’s precipitous financial collapse over the past couple of months—he didn’t want her to witness this humiliation too.
He stared at the printed notes in front of him. They contained the statement of affairs, the list of creditors—showing how much each of them was owed—and the all-important company history. He reread them. For the umpteenth time. Eight years of his working life summarised and dissected and then summarised again. Probably his best years, he thought grimly.
He had written the first draft himself for Neil Travers, the insolvency practitioner advising them on these final rites and the man who would, if all went to plan, be nominated as liquidator at the end of the meeting. Neil had edited the draft for popular consumption, taking out the emotion. It would not help proceedings for Brennan’s seething anger to be laid out so crudely in front of an already hostile audience.
Brennan looked up as Travers took his place at the middle of the table. He was accompanied by an assistant who busied himself with stacking half a dozen thick buff files on the table in front of him. Brennan did his best to return Travers’ encouraging smile.
Doug Matterling entered the room and took his place at the other end of the table. He placed a slim leather briefcase on the floor next to his chair, grinned broadly at everyone present and leaned back, crossing his legs at the ankles. He wore a crisp grey flannel suit and conservative blue tie. His dark hair was gelled to his scalp, parted in the centre. Brennan stared hard at his business partner. The past couple of months had tested their relationship to the limit but they were still in it together. They were still on the same team.
The latest testing point had been the news that their investments via the Californian venture capital fund had come to nothing. Despite Matterling’s previous assurances that all was going to plan, the two start-ups that BM had invested in had both hit the buffers. This had been verified by a Statement of Nil Value issued by the American auditors. Matterling had been mortified and was now saying that the appropriate due diligence procedures had not been undertaken. A class action against Olson Associates had already started.
As four o’clock passed the quiet buzz around the room subsided. Travers stood up, looked around wearily and then started to speak.
‘This is the first statutory meeting of Brennan Matterling plc, convened pursuant to Section 98 of the Insolvency Act, 1986,’ he said before continuing with the opening formalities. He spoke with an affected air of boredom as if to say that no one really wanted to be here on the eve of the bank holiday weekend and they should just get it over with and all go home.
As Travers spoke, Brennan finally let himself take in the audience. About fifteen members of staff had turned up. Plus a similar number of creditors whom he recognised immediately and a few sober-suited individuals he assumed to be representatives of other creditors. And, sitting at the very front, was Lisa Richards.
Lisa caught his eye and gave him such a cold look that he could not free himself of it for several seconds. Hatred or disappointment? He couldn’t determine which, but he shuddered inwardly.
Travers referred the attendees to the statement of affairs of the company. He had started explaining that this was a summary of its assets and liabilities when a large man stood up in the centre of the audience, his bloated face flushed crimson. Brennan recognised him immediately as Ron Eddings, a long-term supplier.
‘Never mind these figures, sir,’ he said. ‘They’re probably made up as well.’ He paused and there was an uneasy quiet from the rest of the audience. ‘But could you tell me—you being a professional man used to dealing with these matters—could you tell me how this company could place a print order with me for over thirty thousand pounds, to be delivered within two weeks, collect the money from its client and then tell me that there was nothing left to pay for the order?’ He swung his gaze to Matterling and stared at him aggressively. ‘My company had to organise weekend overtime and call in favours from our own suppliers to get this job out. And we won’t see a penny from it—or the other forty grand owed from before that.’
Travers sailed in smoothly. ‘I was just about to say that there will be an opportunity for questions after I have read out the directors’ statement relating to the history of the company and the reasons for calling this meeting.’ He paused and nodded at Eddings. ‘At that time, I will ask all contributors to identify themselves to the rest of the meeting as bona fide creditors of the company, in accordance with the list you all should have in front of you.’
Brennan stared at the worn carpet under his feet, a gold fleur-de-lys pattern on a dark blue background, in which he sensed a timeless solidity. It offered him a sliver of reassurance.
All things must pass, he thought. Including this ordeal.
He liked and respected Ron Eddings. Ron’s small family company had been supplying the agency with top quality print at what Brennan knew must have been wafer-thin margins for years. He was reliable, conscientious and heavily dependent on the volume of work that BM supplied. And now his own company might go to the wall as a result of all this.
Eddings was in no mood for Travers’ sidestepping. ‘Bastards!’ he shouted. ‘You’re just a couple of bloody crooks.’
Brennan flinched. But he couldn’t blame the man. Eddings was breathing hard, his chest heaving under his ill-fitting suit and Brennan met his burning gaze.
‘Sorry Mike,’ Eddings said. ‘I know a bit of the background—I know who’s really to blame.’ He glowered at Matterling again. ‘At least, I know who bought a seventy grand Merc the day after losing his biggest client. And I know who promised me, hand on heart, full payment would be made on delivery for that last job. But you’re both responsible. You’re both—’
Travers jumped in. ‘Please, please. We must have some order if we’re going to accomplish anything this afternoon. As I said, there will be time for this type of contribution later in the meeting. And I can assure you that if any creditor wishes to draw my attention to any aspect of the company’s trading, I will be giving my contact details at the end of the meeting.’
Eddings snorted and sat down. ‘Bastards,’ he repeated and looked around defiantly for support. A concurring murmur went around the room.
Brennan struggled to contain a reply, but he had been coached by Travers before the meeting to say as little as possible—and preferably nothing.
He looked at Matterling with undisguised contempt, hoping the audience would pick up on it. He relaxed slightly, now that the focus of the meeting was squarely on Matterling, who looked ahead steadily, cheeks hollow, lips drawn tight. No visible response.
Travers read the prepared statement, which outlined the history of the advertising agency he and Doug Matterling had founded all those years ago. As Travers gave a dry history full of facts and figures, Brennan reflected on the real business.
They’d started it with the ten-thousand-pound loan facility each of them had on their Amex platinum cards. They’d been working together for a couple of years and had often talked of breaking away from the mothership and setting up their own outfit. The time had come.
Their Covent Garden offices became the new temple to advertising works. They were in Advertising Age every week. Their campaigns were bright, contemporary, challenging and effective. Clients needed to connect consumers and products quickly and clinically. Brennan Matterling did this. They rapidly built up a reputation for highly-concentrated qualitative research and ruthless campaigns.
Clients knew they were at the limit. They knew that they weren’t missing out. And it worked. That was the agency’s slogan, though they would never have used such a trite term in a campaign: It Works. The words were everywhere, scrawled over the Floral Street entrance, across every email and every slide of every presentation; it was on every invoice, laminated onto every meeting room table and desk, on every screensaver, mug and mouse-mat. It Works. It was even the pattern of the office carpet.
It Works. And don’t you ever forget it, Mr Client.
Travers started ploughing through a summary of the company’s assets and liabilities.
A movement at the front of the table caught Brennan’s eye. Lisa Richards was slowly getting to her feet. She was petite with smooth Oriental features and coal-black hair cut sharply into two symmetrical crescents around her high cheeks. She wore black jeans and a black sequinned jacket over a white T-shirt.
She stood still, not interrupting, waiting for Travers to stop. The rest of the audience seemed to sense that she was someone who had to be heard. They waited expectantly. Travers, reading intently from his notes, must have felt the sudden change in the mood of the meeting. He looked up and saw her standing. He stopped talking.
Lisa smiled at him, a brief but direct smile that told him it was her turn now. He acknowledged it by promptly sitting down. Matterling looked surprised.
‘Thank you, Mr Travers,’ Lisa said. ‘We’ve all had an opportunity to digest the figures over the last few weeks and contemplate the sudden demise of Brennan Matterling.’ Her sceptical tone drew a rumble of approval from the audience.
‘It has not, of course, been all that sudden,’ she continued. ‘A great business like this does not just go down overnight. And all that verbiage about the change in market conditions and global factors is just plain insulting.’ Her voice was gaining strength but it was still steady.
‘Hear, hear!’ came a shout from the back followed by other angry noises of support. Eddings roared his own affirmation.
‘I know that this is an attempt at some kind of ending,’ she said and gestured at the meeting in general. ‘I know that a conclusion is needed in order to pick up the pieces.’ She paused and looked at Travers hard. ‘But there’s one thing I—and everyone here—has to know.’ She looked around at the captivated audience as her voice rose. ‘And that is: who exactly is to blame?’
Travers recoiled at the ferocity of her tone.
‘I invested over one hundred thousand pounds of my family’s money into this company in its early stages,’ she said more calmly. ‘I gave my backing to a fast-growing business that needed working capital. The business was sound. Good clients, good reputation. Then the crash came but it not only survived — it grew at its fastest rate, picking up clients at will from the big boys who were too slow to adapt. It was heading for the stars.’ Her gaze swung from Travers to Brennan to Matterling and back again.
Brennan could only stare at her. His nausea was subsiding. Perhaps this was what he had been fearing—her approval . . . or the lack of it. Now that it was happening, he felt calmer. She certainly wasn’t going to pull any punches and he was squarely in her sights.
‘And somehow,’ she said, ‘these two directors managed to screw it all up. They managed to lose all their investors’ money and lead their suppliers up the garden path. They kept their employees in the dark. And yet they still sit here like a couple of innocent bystanders who didn’t have anything to do with it.’
The meeting erupted. Several creditors jumped to their feet and joined Eddings in hurling expletives at the top table. Lisa’s speech was greeted with enthusiastic applause and she remained on her feet, awaiting an answer.
Brennan stared at the tabletop. He felt that these people might kill him if they could. What could he say that wouldn’t fuel their anger further? The measured responses, the quiet contrition and the mea culpa attitude weren’t going to work. So he decided to say nothing. Any sound would draw the mob onto him.
After what seemed like an eternity, Travers got to his feet.
He and Lisa looked at each other for several seconds. Everyone in the room fell silent, although many were still standing. Travers took his time over adjusting his notes. He took his glasses off and put them back on. Brennan knew he was buying time, allowing the temperature to cool.
But as Travers tried his tricks, Matterling also stood up. He had taken a bright red wallet folder from his briefcase and put it on the table. He walked out from behind it and took a couple of steps towards his audience. He stretched both arms towards them and waved at them to calm down.
Travers sat down again as the room quietened. There was nothing Matterling could say that would do much good. Brennan felt more apprehensive than ever.
‘I can fully understand your feelings,’ Matterling said. His rich brown voice was deep and smooth. ‘You have all lost something. Mike Brennan and I deeply regret that. But we cannot do anything now to get that money back. It was lost in a commercial venture, a venture which for many years was extremely successful and promised much, but which then hit difficult times.’ He paused, as if to search for his next thought.
‘As I am sure many of you will appreciate, when a business grows quickly it requires expert financial management. Well, Brennan Matterling—or BM as it came to be known—grew more quickly than most. I am sure you will all agree with me that it is no fault of Mike Brennan’s that he is not a corporate accountant.’ He smiled broadly at the B of BM.
‘He is an advertising man, through and through,’ Matterling said and Brennan’s gut twisted in anticipation. ‘And generally, he’s considered to be a pretty good one.’
Brennan felt the blood drain from his face at this attempt to focus the meeting’s anger on his own abilities—or lack of them. What the hell was Matterling doing? What about Travers’ plan to ride out the storm and then put their efforts into the new company?
‘He’s won awards,’ Matterling went on. ‘And no one can ever take that away from him. He was always an inspiration to his staff and I’m sure that we all learned a lot from him.’ Matterling reached into his briefcase and pulled out a hardback book with a bright yellow cover. ‘He even wrote what is fast becoming the bible for the industry.’ He held the book aloft and showed it to his audience. ‘It’s called The Magic of Persuasion and it’s a masterclass in modern-day advertising.’
This was getting worse. Although the book was now receiving a good deal of acclaim, he couldn’t see its relevance here. It would only serve to antagonise those who were struggling to understand how they’d lost money.
Matterling said, ‘And we all hope that the future brings him better luck than he has had in the recent past.’
He paused, as if to gauge the mood. It was still hostile but Brennan sensed they were keen to hear him out. Matterling turned back to the table, put the book down and picked up the red file. He solemnly handed it to Travers, who looked surprised, but accepted it instinctively. Brennan saw the label: Radix Research Ltd.
Radix Research? Brennan had never heard of them.
‘However, at least he will be financially secure.’ The room fell silent as Matterling gave the audience his full attention. ‘Or at least he thought he would be.’
The audience looked towards Travers and the red file he was holding.
‘I have just handed Mr Travers a file containing documents related to the activities of a company called Radix Research. This company is owned by Michael Brennan through a network of nominee shareholdings. It is a company that has billed Brennan Matterling a considerable amount of money for market research. In the file are all the relevant invoices and details of payments made by Brennan Matterling to Radix. Some of the money received by Radix has already gone out in expenses. Expenses such as a salary to a Sarah Brennan. Who happens to be Mike Brennan’s wife.’
THIS IS THE END OF THE SAMPLE
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