She struggles to make sense of it.
By lunchtime, her head still spinning with the impossibility of matching up the numbers, she decides to go out to a café instead of to the office cafeteria in case she runs into Marc and he asks her how she is doing. She doesn’t want to appear stupid. Instead, she tries to phone Laura for advice, but her phone is switched off.
Then she remembers she has another phone call she promised to make.
She has to listen to a long recorded menu of selections before she finally gets through to the Council’s Planning Department.
‘All objections must be in writing. We can’t discuss details over the phone. You can view the submitted plans at the Planning Offices,’ replies a nasal voice flattened with boredom.
Still, she’s made more progress than with the Nairobi Planning Department. The HN shopping mall development she’s trying to insure seems no more ludicrous than chopping down trees to build more flats. The fluffy pink cherry trees look lovely in this overbuilt part of London, and besides, one of them is Pidgie’s home. Yes, if she finishes early one day, she’ll go over and check out the plans. Somebody has to keep a watch on these developments; otherwise the sky gets eaten up before your eyes.
‘How are you getting on, Violet? Is it all beginning to make sense?’
Marc leans over her desk and places a hand on her shoulder. A shiver runs through her, but she tries to keep her voice cool.
‘I can’t see the point of all these invoices, Marc. Why is the invoice that comes from the British Virgin Isles so much bigger than the invoice that comes from China?’
‘Re-invoicing is an essential tool for wealth preservation, Violet. We use a corporation in an offshore tax haven as an intermediary between the onshore business and the home country. That way, most of the profits accrue to the offshore corporation, with obvious tax advantages.’
‘I see.’ She hesitates. ‘But how …?’
‘Look, say a company sells a million dollars’ worth of goods in a particular country, that company would be liable for tax on the profits, wouldn’t they? But say the goods are bought by a shell company in a low-tax jurisdiction and that company in turn sells on the goods to the first country, all the profit would accrue to the tax haven company, so no tax would be due.’
She feels a thud in her stomach, as though her little ship had struck a rock.
‘But isn’t that a bit —?’
‘It’s what we’re here for, Violet, to provide a service to our clients. It’s our business.’
‘But those buckets — it still doesn’t explain why HN Holdings are selling buckets to the Kenyan Health Authority at $49 each which only cost one dollar to buy.’
He sighs. ‘It’s not up to us to judge the business practices of our clients. We just provide a technical service.’
Her heart is pounding. Her mind is racing, trying to find another possible interpretation of what she is hearing.
‘But you … your name …’
‘Part of the GRM service is anonymity, so the identity of the beneficial owner needn’t be disclosed in the home country. We provide the nominee officers and directors for the shell company, and we issue shares to the beneficial owner, or we help them to set up a foundation. Most tax haven countries have strict laws on disclosure of confidential information.’ He pauses and lowers his voice, speaking close to her ear. ‘I’m hoping you’ll soon be able to act as a nominee, Violet, when you’ve got the necessary knowledge. It’s not difficult, but you have to be on the ball. I thought HN Holdings might be a good one to start with for you, because of your knowledge of Kenya.’
‘I see,’ she says, though she really doesn’t want to see.
‘Look,’ says Marc, ‘it can take a bit of getting used to. Why don’t you take the papers home with you this evening? Get things in perspective. I have an international call to take right now, but if you’re free tomorrow evening, maybe we can talk about it over dinner? Yes?’
She can hear the phone ringing in his office. He squeezes her shoulder again, his hand lingering just a moment too long, then disappears.
She slips her jacket on over her dress. In the lift going down, she changes out of her high heels into her trainers and runs to the bus stop.
‘I’m not sure I can do this job, Laura.’ On the top deck of the bus, she pours out her misgivings into her phone. For some reason, her eyes are wet with tears.
‘I know it doesn’t seem right at first, but you’ll soon get used to it, Violet. Everybody in the City does it.’ Laura sounds tired and harassed. In the background the baby is yelling above the noise of the news on the radio. ‘I read somewhere that ninety-eight out of the hundred top London Stock Exchange companies have subsidiaries, associates, or joint ventures in tax havens. If it wasn’t GRM it would be somebody else doing it, and you’d be out of a job.’
‘I think I might be happier just dealing with insurance.’
‘How are you finding working with Marc?’
‘Fine. Actually, he asked me out for dinner. But now I’m not so sure …’
Laura laughs. ‘Don’t be such a fogey, Violet. Go. Enjoy yourself! But don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
Berthold: Wrest ’n’ Piece
Once in every lifetime, someone comes along with a key to open up the rusty old door of your heart. My excitement over the possibilities of romance with my new neighbour had seized my imagination, and I had come up with a seductive variation on the Gold Blend Gambit: it would be me giving the dinner party, and the next-door goddess who would be the guest. A sweet old lady, i.e. Inna, would be dispatched to her door as a decoy to invite her round for a neighbourly dinner. Then on the elected evening she would ring the bell, the door would open, and there would be Berthold Sidebottom, the distinguished actor, at his most scintillating. Da dah!
Getting to that point would take planning and preparation — a visit to the barber (one has to make the most of what one has), long-overdue laundry, maybe even a spot of shopping. Most of my clothes dated back to the time of Stephanie, who had a strong organising streak and an eye for value. Mother had always said she had the heart of a shopkeeper.
The meal itself would be Inna’s domain, the menu both exotic and irresistibly seductive: globski, klobski, sloshki. But what if she was a vegetarian? So many women are sentimental and tender-hearted when it comes to furry animals. I would have to prime Inna to find out in advance and prepare a deliciously suitable alternative. It would be Inna’s first serious outing in her new role. These musings gave a new focus to my daily routine, pushing the pain of my recent loss into a safe warehouse in the back of my mind.
However, before I could put the Gold Blend Gambit into operation, I received news from the hospital. Mother’s autopsy had been completed at last, she was found to have died of natural causes (what else?) and her body was now available for immediate burial or cremation. I had been so taken up with planning the Gold Blend Gambit that I had made no progress at all in planning the Burial at Sea.
I reached for the Yellow Pages that was propping up one leg of the armchair, and telephoned the undertaker’s firm with the largest display advertisement: Wrest ’n’ Piece. You have to wonder where they get these names from. It was a man who answered my call, a mature man with a sonorous voice, excellent diction and a funereal manner.
‘I’m so sorry about your loss, sir … No, we don’t offer burial at sea … Cremation is often felt to be a very satisfactory and dignified ceremony for all involved. Less expensive than burial, especially if the family themselves take responsibility for disposing of the ashes, which you could always sprinkle at sea or any other location of sentimental significance. Though of course expense would not be the principal consideration for most of our clients … Yes, of course we can collect from the hospital … If you would give me your address, I can send a written estimate. Let me take some details … Berthold? … Berthold Sidebottom?’