‘Care for some literature, sir?’
He thumbed through the glossy clutcher she pressed into his hand. It was full of pictures of happy, beaming people, supposed beneficiaries of Merseycredit’s financial advice. Arriving at the small print on the inside back page, he read that the firm was a partnership. And the only partners named were Stuart Graham-Brown and Rosemary Graham-Brown.
Well, well, well. So Rosemary had a direct share in the profits…
‘Let me arrange an interview for you, sir,’ urged the brunette. ‘Free of charge, no obligation. Discretion assured.’ She made it sound like a dating agency.
‘This would be with Mr Graham-Brown, presumably?’
‘Our senior partner? You’ll understand, sir, he does have very many commitments and it’s normally our assistant executives who see new clients. But if you particularly wanted to see Mr Graham-Brown, I’m sure we could fix something up next month. Unfortunately, I don’t have his diary here. Perhaps I could take your telephone number?’
‘No need,’ said Harry. ‘I’ll give him a ring myself.’
‘Wait a minute!’ She was desperate not to let a prospect slip away. ‘I can see him over there, talking to one of our clients. Do hang on for a moment, I’m sure he won’t be long.’
She pointed to a man with greying hair further down the aisle. Stuart Graham-Brown was tall, with a suave manner and immaculate dress sense. He was, Harry judged, a good twenty years older than his wife. And he was deep in discussion with someone instantly recognisable — Nick Folley, of all people.
Harry made a quick decision. If Merseycredit’s staff were unaware of the Graham-Browns’ imminent flight to the sun, this wasn’t the right time or place to introduce himself to the man responsible for their fate.
‘Sorry, but I can’t wait. But you can tell him my name’s Harry Devlin and I’ll be in touch.’ He walked briskly over to the adjoining aisle, where the Liverpool Legal Group was trying to convince an indifferent public of its urgent need for skilled professional advice. Most of the men passed quickly on to the next pitch, where a blonde wearing a low-cut top and tight leopardskin pants was encouraging the belief that an impulse buy of a Turkish time-share would prove their virility.
‘Harry, my dear fellow. Good of you to come.’ Geoffrey Willatt greeted him from behind a counter which bore a placard saying contact maher and malcolm for professional services in complete confidence.
‘Hello, Geoffrey. Sure you’re not using your legal business as a front for a brothel with a slogan like that?’
Willatt chortled his appreciation. ‘One of the things I always liked about you, Harry — splendid sense of humour.’
‘What’s up?’ Harry asked, suspicious of the excessive bonhomie. ‘Don’t say you need me to do an extra stint?’
‘No, no, no. Glad to see you at all, good heavens. Appreciate your coming along at short notice. Partner sick, busy man, damn good show. Here, take some leaflets. To be frank, we’re a little quiet at present; people don’t seem yet to appreciate how much we can help. So you won’t find your task too arduous.’
‘Fine. Now, about Crow’s Nest House. The tree trouble has been resolved, you’ll be glad to hear, so when can we complete?’
‘Ah,’ said Willatt. He invested the syllable with a wealth of meaning, as if to convey brave hope dashed by life’s vicissitudes.
‘Come on, then. Spit it out.’
Willatt’s pained expression made it clear that he had never spat anything out in all his days. When he spoke his words were emollient.
‘We have a slight problem with the Ambroses, I fear. Namely, the Byzantium Line have announced their half-yearly results today. Rather poor, as you’ll have seen if you keep in touch with the stock market. No? Well, anyway, they have found it necessary to impose cutbacks. The Liverpool office is to be slimmed down and there’s going to be no room in it for Mr Ambrose, poor chap. Apparently they need to rationalise, concentrate on major international business and as a result, they want him out in Nigeria instead.’
‘So a house in darkest Formby won’t be too much use to him, then?’
‘I’m afraid that’s about the size of it. But if any of your clients are looking to rent out an air-conditioned penthouse flat in Lagos, we’d be happy to look at it.’ Willatt’s blustery guffaw did not disguise his apprehension as he awaited a reaction.
‘Not good enough, Geoffrey — you know that. Contracts have already been exchanged.’ Harry said this as though the deal had been cast in tablets of stone, but as he spoke he tried to reach back into the past and his days as a baffled student of the law of real property. Couldn’t the Graham-Browns issue to the Ambroses something called a notice to complete? But what would be its legal effect?
Willatt allowed himself a superior smile. Harry realised that his former principal was, for all his professional embarrassment, relishing the sight of a defector from Maher and Malcolm groping in vain for a basic bit of legal know-how.
‘I think you’ll find that my people are willing to make an offer to forestall the need for any unpleasantness.’
Willatt never soiled his hands with court work; he let colleagues do the dirty work associated with lucrative disputes. In lectures and after-dinner speeches he invariably described litigation as a necessary evil, rather like a Middle East arms dealer deploring the outbreak of war.
‘You’re well aware of the urgency. My clients need the sale so they can move abroad themselves in the very near future.’
‘Tax exile, is it? I didn’t know your firm made a habit of acting for the well-heeled, Harry. Or are these people simply aiming to get beyond the reach of the extradition laws?’
As Willatt chuckled, Harry wondered if it was a case of truth being spoken in jest. He decided to tough it out. ‘I’m afraid you’ll find,’ he said, ‘that my people regard this as a matter of principle.’ Lawyers’ code for they’ll drive a ruthless bargain.
‘I can assure you,’ said Willatt, responding in the same language, ‘the Ambroses are prepared to be reasonable.’
In other words, he’d advised them they didn’t have a leg to stand on. Money was therefore unlikely to be a barrier to a deal, but Harry was sure that would not satisfy the Graham-Browns.
He shrugged. ‘I’ll take instructions.’ Meaning God knows what they’ll say. Geoffrey Willatt beamed and bade him farewell.
Harry’s half hour of marketing would have turned into less a test of his P.R. skills than of his ability in staying awake, had Geoffrey Willatt’s news not intervened. A few feet away, the leopardskin girl was attracting much attention, but the pamphlets Geoffrey had left him, entitled Let a Lawyer Look at your Lease and Speak to a Solicitor when you want to sell a Shop, failed to divert a single passer-by. Even so, he had plenty to think about.
He turned his mind to the Ambroses’ impending default. What would Rosemary make of it? She seemed so keen to emigrate. But why was that? Was she the anxious one, or merely acting on her husband’s strict instructions? Until now Harry had typecast Stuart Graham-Brown as an older man with money to burn, ready to indulge his wife’s fantasies. Was that a mistake? Was Graham-Brown the one desperate to flee to his hideaway on the Spanish coast? ‘Financial services’ covered sins ranging from dodgy investment advice to wheeler-dealing on the futures market. Plenty of people in that line of business must have something to hide — was he one of them? He tried to think of an honest reason why Graham-Brown should allow his staff to talk about booking him for appointments he would never keep. For once, imagination failed him.
No wonder it was so important to complete the house sale quickly. No wonder the Graham-Browns were willing to drop the asking price. The financial prize of their scam — whatever it might be, a confidence trick played on investors, perhaps — must be huge to warrant leaving the business behind.