Perhaps thirty per cent of the younger generation was female – power-dressed in black or grey business trouser suits, sporting large “designer” handbags, (what is a “designer” handbag? I would have thought that every single handbag in existence had been “designed” by someone!), tossing their hair to the side to be able to slide the mobile phone against their ear. Heads tilted, earnest conversations taking place. The occasional wave to someone who passed. It gave the definite impression that it was all for show. Why not go out into the corridor to phone?
Two of the younger males sat down next to me – not so much as a “good morning” – and I received a full whiff of scented gel, mixed with the strong musky perfume of the girl in front. Fortunately on my other side I had a couple of guys of my generation who voiced the standard greetings and we exchanged a few normal comments about the weather, the traffic and last week’s rugby match. At least it was human contact.
At the appointed hour the three conference presenters mounted the four short steps at the side of the stage and took their places behind the table, each behind their own name plate. If they had got it right Mr Alan Purdy was sitting in the middle. I looked at him with interest. This was the man I had come to see. This was the guy that Pierre suspected was ripping him off.
He was about six feet tall and I guessed his age at around fifty-two or fifty-three. His face was starting to round out, the cheek bones no longer prominent and the beginnings of a jowl around his chin. The eyes under the slightly bushy eyebrows were blue and gave off the impression of a certain degree of intelligence. This impression was strengthened by a large forehead. He was smartly dressed in a three-piece suit, a blue and white striped shirt and a bright emerald green tie. A matching handkerchief had been thrust casually into his top pocket.
He was overweight – not yet dramatically, but on the way. But it was the mouth that bothered me. Set above a weak, slightly receding chin, his mouth was narrow, held in place by soft thickish lips. The overall first impression was of physical strength and relative good looks – a combination that, if not imbued by humility, tends to develop a liking for power. But that was only a first impression. I hoped that during the conference he would show more of the kind of man he was.
The master of ceremonies walked on to the stage, microphone in hand, beaming at everyone and proceeded to announce the beginning of the conference. Everyone quietened down. The younger crowd dutifully switched off their telephones; the older contingent folded away their newspapers.
This was probably the culmination of a couple of months of earnest work by the man with the microphone and he was basking in the attention. I won’t describe him because he didn’t really have very much to him that made him stand out. He was just one of these guys that do this sort of thing and as far as I was concerned he could have his moment of glory.
He told us how delighted he was with such a large attendance for the fourth annual conference on “Investing for You” (with a nice commission for him, I thought to myself), and proceeded to introduce the speakers. Each name was greeted with polite applause, a little bit more for Mr Alan Purdy, Chairman and Managing Director of Ailsa Investment Management, but not from me. I’m sparing with my applause – certainly when no one has done or said anything yet. Why should you applaud someone just for turning up? If what the speaker has to say is worth it, I’ll willingly applaud – at the end.
There were to be three presenters who would each speak for about half an hour and there would be twenty minutes of question time after each presentation, announced the MC. Mr Purdy, who was clearly the star of the show, would be speaking last – after a coffee break.
I was not in the least bit interested in the presentations on “Succession Planning” or “Tax-effective Investing”. I would let them drift by. Mr Purdy’s presentation was entitled “Winning with the Big Boys”, sub-titled “How the man in the street can gain as much as the large corporate investors”. Why he couldn’t have thought up a title which was self-explanatory and didn’t need a sub-title to explain what it meant I don’t know. Probably there was some deep marketing philosophy behind the idea.
The elder contingent listened with attention to the discussion on Succession Planning, which was not surprising. The question session lasted about fifteen minutes and various people could be seen taking notes. After all, if they could pass on as much of their wealth to their children and grandchildren without the taxman grabbing half of it, why not?
Needless to say, each discourse had been accompanied by a bloody Power Point presentation. The “Succession” man treated us to a plethora of family trees with arrows flying all over the place. There was even one which simulated a situation of two men who had formed a civil partnership and adopted two kids, one of which had produced two grandchildren!
The taxman’s contribution was a series of slides containing reams of words and numbers and percentages. He proceeded to read them to us, presumably on the basis that he thought we couldn’t read them ourselves.
In spite of the fact that he had announced that we would all receive a hard copy afterwards, the younger generation earnestly scribbled away on notepads. He overran his time by about ten minutes, but that didn’t really matter because there were only two questions at the end – both of which were unnecessary because the answers had already been given in the presentation.
We had a short break for coffee in the lobby. I knew nobody, apart from Pierre and Steven, so I stayed off on the side, observing the sheep networking. After a couple of minutes a lady nervously approached me and held out her hand.
“Good morning,” she said somewhat nervously. “Are you enjoying the conference?”
I smiled down at her. She looked about ten years older than me, in her mid-seventies perhaps and was wearing a powder blue suit, the jacket over a white blouse adorned with a pearl necklace. Nothing to indicate poverty or wealth. Just a nice person. Her hair was white and neatly kept. She was sporting a black patent leather handbag, clutching a brown foolscap envelope under her hand bag arm and trying not to spill the coffee in her other hand.
“Here, let me help you.” I took the cup from her, placed it on the table beside us and turned back to answer her question.
“To be honest, the first two presentations bored me rigid. I really just came to hear what Mr Purdy has to say.”
“Me too. I’m Alice Hetherington, by the way. I don’t know anybody else here so I hope you don’t mind me importuning you.”
“Not at all. My name is Bob Bruce.” “Originally Robert, I suppose,” she said with a smile. “How did you guess? What brings you here?” “Well . . .” she said hesitatingly, and looked intently at me. “I’m also very interested in what Mr Purdy has to say. You see, I’m a client of his and I’ve given over most of the money my late husband left me to AIM for them to manage. I’m not very good at financial things but I’m a bit concerned about what they are doing with it.”
My antennae moved into gear. “Go on,” I said. “Well I don’t know if I should. You look like a nice, trustworthy person – certainly different from all the others here – but I don’t know you.”
“Mrs Hetherington – may I call you Alice? I’m basically here for the same reason as you. Not for myself, but for a friend who expressed exactly the same concerns to me. I promised him I’d come along here and listen to what they have to say and see if I could help him.”
“Are you, or were you, a financial person?” “To a degree. Let’s say I know more than my friend.” “And certainly more than me,” she went on. “The trouble is that I live up in Perthshire and I’m not exactly surrounded by smart financial management people. Our family lawyer knows a fair bit about conveyancing but that’s about it.”