‘Good turn-out. More than I expected. More than George would have expected himself, probably, God rest him. He was younger than I remembered. Did you hear? Only seventy-one.’ The octogenarian Lord Grenwood, speaking above the noise of the traffic, was smugly content with the last revelation. He blew his nose vigorously into a capacious white handkerchief, followed this with a tremendous, levitating sniff, then continued in his sharp, penetrating voice: ‘Uplifting address, I thought. Bit long, perhaps. Lot of Royal Air Force people there as well as City. Nice church.’ The diminutive viscount then pointed suddenly to the right, throwing his arm out in that direction so forcefully he might have been trying to get rid of it. ‘That’s a statue of Gladstone. Not many would know that these days. Dull fellow, by all accounts. Read Homer for fun. In the original Greek. Winston Churchill said it served him right. Where’s Mark gone?’
Because of an arthritic neck, the chairman of Grenwood, Phipps, the merchant bankers, had been addressing his clipped phrases to the air ahead of him, and not directly to the man walking at his side. This was of lesser consequence than it might have been since the man was Harry Karilian, the legendary head of the bank’s New Issues Department, and someone well used to coping with his companion’s idiosyncrasies. It was true that Berty Grenwood’s utterances were just a touch more difficult for the other to catch when the two men were on their feet. It was a question of levels. The slightly built Berty was only five feet four in height while his immense companion was a whole foot taller than that.
‘Mark wanted to check something in the church on the way out. He’s catching us up,’ Karilian provided in a voice that could not avoid being melodious, even when he dictated amendments to passages of uninspiring prose in company prospectuses. He had briefly earned a living as an operatic baritone before abandoning singing for a banking career—at the timely insistence of a wise and practical Armenian grandfather.
It was 12.30 on a raw Monday in late February. The two had just emerged from the restored St Clement Danes, the elegant Wren church with Gibbs’s three-stage spire, set on an island site at the eastern end of London’s busy Strand. Berty Grenwood was carrying a bowler hat, and both men were wearing black overcoats—his lordship’s fashionably cut and knee length, Harry Karilian’s a voluminous creation in cashmere which very nearly reached to his ankles and incorporated a wide astrakhan collar. The coat had originally belonged to a deceased uncle: Karilian was known in the City for his careful employment of written down assets.
The ‘George’ referred to, whose memorial service had just ended in the church, had been a well-known industrial baron, an important customer of the bank, a personal friend of the directors, and, in his time, a distinguished and much decorated war hero.
‘It’s the RAF church, of course,’ said Berty, reverting to the earlier topic since his companion had shown no interest in Gladstone. ‘I’d forgotten George was an intrepid airman. Long time ago that was, of course.’ He stopped suddenly to examine the inside of his bowler at very close range, after deciding it might not be his. The effect of this was to have the interior of the hat amplify his voice as he next observed: ‘Did you see dear old Humphrey Sprogg tottering in? He’ll be the next to fall off the perch. Mark my words.’
It happened that the same Humphrey Sprogg, a retired stockbroker, was hurrying past them at that moment, after successfully—and energetically—waving down a cab. Though elderly, there was no sign that he was approaching the imminent demise just prophesied—only his hearing was failing a little, which in the immediate circumstance was fortunate. He was younger than Lord Grenwood, though several years older than the recently departed and now formally lamented George had been. Berty Grenwood took undisguised pleasure in outliving his contemporaries, and even more in surviving his juniors.
‘You don’t think we should take a cab?’ Karilian put in, not because of his companion’s age, but out of his own distaste for walking anywhere if he could just as easily be conveyed. He had only hesitated in asking Sprogg if they might share his cab for fear the man might have heard Berty’s prediction.
‘Not at all. It’s not raining, and it’s only a step to Simpson’s,’ the other replied, without reference to the chilling east breeze coming up from Fleet Street. He clamped the now legitimized hat on his head firmly enough for it to have withstood involuntary removal by a gale force wind.
‘Sorry if I kept you waiting.’ Mark Treasure, the urbane, forty-four-year-old chief executive of Grenwood, Phipps had joined them as Berty was leading the way on to a pedestrian crossing—with less notice than the driver now applying the brakes of the approaching No. 9 double-decker bus would have declared reasonable, given a legal option in the matter. ‘Why aren’t we taking a cab?’ Treasure added innocently.
‘Needless expense. We’re as good as there,’ said Berty as they reached the far pavement and he set off westward, his head, neck and trunk in a straight line inclining a little backwards, arms held tight to his body, but bent upwards at the elbows. His legs only ever seemed to move below the knees—but they propelled him with short steps at very great speed.
‘Don’t know why we didn’t keep the car and chauffeur we came in,’ Karilian complained to Treasure, who had arrived for the service separately from the others. ‘Berty said the church was impossible for parking.’
‘Difficult for parking,’ Berty corrected to show he had heard. They could see several limousines still crammed into the road space outside the west end of the church, under the stony, disapproving gaze of Gladstone’s full-length effigy on its towering plinth. ‘Healthier to walk, in any case. Work up an appetite,’ the old man added. ‘Simpson’s was one of my father’s favourite restaurants.’
Karilian smoothed down his thick black hair that was being ruffled by the wind. ‘Your father invariably lunched at the bank,’ he corrected without emotion, as if he were merely keeping the record straight and not getting his own back for having to walk.
‘He liked Simpson’s for dinner,’ his lordship countered with emphasis on the last word.
‘I was right about the Reverend William Webb-Ellis,’ said Treasure as the three were passing the arched entrance to King’s College.
‘He was rector at St Clement Danes?’ Karilian confirmed rather than questioned.
‘Yes. 1843 to 1855. His name’s on a panel of incumbents on the gallery stairs.’
‘Welshman, was he?’ asked Berty.
‘Probably. Became famous as the boy at Rugby School who picked up the football and started running with it.’
‘So inaugurating that hybrid pastime, Rugby Union Football. And all the other hybrid games spawned by it. Rugby League, American Football, and the rest,’ said Karilian with more sorrow than distaste. A soccer man to the core, he was a supporter of Tottenham Hotspurs in North London. ‘Pity he couldn’t have left well alone,’ he added.
‘I agree,’ said Berty. ‘My grandfather was a staunch soccer follower—’
‘Your grandfather was a Rugby man who talked himself into founding the Eel Bridge Rovers Football Club, otherwise known as the Eels, in a fit of pique,’ Harry Karilian interrupted. ‘That was when owning a football team had suddenly become the in thing. His arch enemy had bought the Fulham club. That was the crux of it all. I remember your father telling me. Chelsea wasn’t available at any price, but since he lived on the boundaries of Chelsea and Fulham, and owned a lot of land in that part of West London, your grandfather decided to set up his own team.’ The speaker made a slapping noise with his lips. ‘That was a mistake long term. Should have picked a place with more potential. A football club needs its own clearly defined catchment area.’
‘My grandfather thought Chelsea and Fulham were both too big. He was convinced the Eels could carve out a … a middle following,’ Berty put in with spirit.
Karilian shook his head. ‘The area never offered that kind of promise. You were wise to sell when you did, Berty. Pity you’d already paid for that south stand.’
‘We had a great party to launch it, though. I was there,’ said Treasure with a grin. ‘Have those executive boxes ever been a success?’
The opening of the south stand at Hugon Road, the Eel Bridge Rovers’ ground in Fulham, had been a big event, matching the size of the investment. There had been few football grandstands to compare with the place at the time, and certainly no other outside the Premier League. Apart from its superior seating, dressing-rooms, spectator bars and restaurants, and management offices, the new building included a conference cum banqueting hall for special events, and thirty glass-fronted private boxes for leasing for corporate entertaining. The boxes had been expected to generate a great deal of income for the club.
‘We’ve never let more than half the boxes in any year. Rather fewer than that this year,’ was Berry’s doleful answer to Treasure’s question. ‘That’s only part of the problem at the moment, though.’ He seemed to rally a little after this. ‘I’m still an Eels director, you know?’ he went on, making token sideways and upward glances to left and right at his two tall flanking companions. ‘Trouble is, the club’s not exactly having a run of success. Makes things difficult. Over Ray Bims, you see?’
‘Doesn’t in any way make you responsible for his personal problems,’ Treasure responded carefully.
His lordship’s lips moved without his saying anything as he contemplated the people, other than his colleagues, who were also waiting beyond Somerset House to cross Lancaster Place, and with whom he had no intention of sharing confidences: he now accepted that being in a taxi would have provided privacy, except he wasn’t going to admit it. ‘That’s what we need to talk about, Mark,’ he said eventually, when the lights had changed. He was slightly in the lead again as they reached the far side of the wide thoroughfare. ‘As a matter of fact,’ he completed, ‘it’s why I suggested lunch this morning.’
In view of the rumours circulating in the City about Ray Bims since even before the weekend, Treasure had assumed as much.
‘You see, people still think of the Eels as a Grenwood family responsibility,’ Berty announced five minutes later. The three were seated in one of the wooden booths in Simpson’s ground-floor room with its traditional London chop house ambience and British trencherman fare. A bottle of claret had already been opened, and the food ordered.
‘No, they don’t. Bims has owned it for too—’
‘Bims has owned it for rather more than three years,’ his lordship broke in on Harry Karilian who was seated beside him. Treasure was opposite. ‘My family had it for the previous eight decades. Decades,’ he repeated heavily. ‘I should never have let it go to that man. If he’s disgraced it’ll reflect on the Grenwoods. On the bank too.’
Treasure’s unease increased. Berty only ever invoked a need—usually spurious—to protect the bank’s reputation if he knew no other way to enlist its Chief Executive’s help on an issue that otherwise wouldn’t concern him. ‘Oh, come. Bims was respectable enough when he bought the club from you,’ he said. ‘I remember, it was just after he’d sold his DIY chain to the Americans.’
‘He got a good price, too,’ said Karilian, leaning his big frame against the back of his chair, and spreading his generously cut, double-breasted suit jacket about him rather in the manner of a monarch in court raiment. ‘Bit over thirty-four million. For a chain of twenty-seven do-it-yourself retail outlets in the prosperous South of England.’ His recall for such detail was always accurate.
‘Which left Bims with no full-time occupation, of course,’ Treasure mused.
‘You don’t think he could have made the chairmanship of the Eels into a full-time occupation?’ Karilian questioned, a touch cynically, and as though he knew the answer already.
‘He’s never wanted to bother with detail,’ Berty provided. ‘Only with making the big decisions.’
‘According to what are described as well-informed sources, he’s personally invested in a whole raft of foundered enterprises,’ said Treasure. ‘Fancied himself as a financial entrepreneur, for which I doubt he has the experience or capacity.’
‘Quite right, Mark. He’d been a hands-on, innovative retailer, which is something quite different, of course,’ Karilian agreed.
‘He’s been badly advised, probably,’ said Treasure. ‘Anyway, the rumour is he’d lost almost everything before he attempted to recoup by going on the board of some dubious new bank he’s invested in. In the Cayman Islands.’
‘A bank that’s turned out to be a front for illicit drug trading. And it’s more than a rumour now. I’ve heard it’ll be in the papers tomorrow.’ Karilian rubbed his wide upper lip with a thumb and forefinger as he spoke. The grey and black stubble growing there could only broadly be described as an embryo moustache—though it had been kept in that transitory state for as long as the others could remember. ‘So are you thinking of buying back the club, Berty?’ he asked bluntly.
His lordship moved up and down in his chair twice like a mechanical Jack-in-the-box. ‘I’m too old to be chairman again,’ he said, staring blankly at Treasure. ‘That’s part of the reason why I sold before. You know Linkina, the concert pianist, is also a director? He wants me to buy back the club, yes. Thinks the Eels are heading for disaster under Bims. It’s Linkina who’s put up a new plan for the club, but Bims won’t wear it.’
‘Andras Linkina is a brilliant Mozartian, but he’s no business man surely?’ Karilian questioned. He drained his wine glass, drew the bottle towards him, studied the label, nodded to himself, and then refilled the glass.
‘What’s the plan?’ asked Treasure, uncomfortably aware that he might yet be intended to figure in it.
‘To sell the Hugon Road stadium for development, and move everything out to the practice ground at Cherton. Lock, stock and barrel,’ said Berty, his fingers tapping the stiff white cloth at the table edge as if it were a keyboard.
‘Hugon Road is unencumbered? No mortgage? No leaseback? Nothing of that kind?’ This was Treasure again.
Berty gave a self-righteous smile—like a favourite nephew whose deceased, impoverished uncle has turned out to be a millionaire after all. ‘That’s the saving grace,’ he exclaimed. ‘Hugon Road isn’t part of the ordinary fixed assets. My grandfather made it over separately, in trust. And the Cherton ground with it. One ground can be sold if the money it fetches is used to improve the other. Or to improve the club in general.’
Treasure nodded slowly. ‘What happens if the club is ever wound up?’ he asked.
Berty shrugged as if the question were irrelevant. ‘Both grounds can be sold and the proceeds used to pay off the club’s debts,’ he said. ‘At the discretion of the trustees. Anything left would go to sporting charities.’
‘And who are the trustees?’
‘At present? Myself, Bims, and young Charles Wigtree of Dottle, Ram and Wigtree, the solicitors. They’ve always been the club’s lawyers. Charles is a director as well as a trustee. Took over from his father.’ The speaker straightened in his chair. ‘But it hasn’t come to liquidation. Not by a long shot.’
‘Moving everything out to Cherton might make sense,’ said Karilian slowly, bushy brows lowered over calculating eyes. ‘The sale of the main ground should fetch a substantial price. Enough to pay for a new set-up at Cherton and still leave a balance. There’s no First Division football club in that part of Surrey, so the Eels would stand to recruit support locally. It’s not too far for old supporters to travel to matches, either. The really keen ones. Yes, it could work.’ The eyebrows rose again as he beamed his cautious approval, and drank some more claret.
‘There’s a developer interested in Hugon Road?’ Treasure questioned.
‘Two, as a matter of fact,’ said Berty with pride, as if he’d secured them himself, which the others thought unlikely.
‘But Bims is against the plan?’
‘Dead against it, Mark,’ Berty replied, outraged. ‘Won’t hear of selling the main ground in any circumstances. Says it’d be an admission of failure. Damn fool. He wouldn’t even agree to sell the Cherton ground. That’s worth nothing in any case. It’s on the edge of a green belt.’ The speaker made a tutting noise, though whether this was to qualify his view of Bims or his opinion of the countryside protection laws wasn’t clear. ‘Holding on to the grounds has become a fixation with the fellow,’ he continued, which explained the tutting at least. The way he talks about it, you’d think he was a member of the family. I mean my family.’
‘How many Eels directors are there altogether?’ asked Treasure.
‘Five,’ said Berty. ‘The other two are supporting Linkina and me. That’s Charles Wigtree, and a chap called Crayborn, accountant with a small practice in Kingston. Firm’s not doing very well. Reminds me, I said I’d help him if I could.’ Berty scowled, either because of his forgetfulness or because he didn’t fancy honouring the promise. ‘Trouble is,’ he went on, ‘even a majority of the directors doesn’t outweigh the fact that Bims owns nearly all the shares.’
‘Well, since you feel so strongly about it, I think you probably should buy him out,’ Treasure advised. ‘You know he’s hard up. Offer him a price he can’t resist. Might cost you more than he paid you originally, but there it is.’
‘And we don’t want him staying on the board either,’ said Berty firmly.
Treasure shrugged. ‘Then make his resignation part of the deal.’
‘That’s it, Mark,’ Berty agreed resolutely, while slapping the table with both hands. ‘I’ll do it.’ He looked from Treasure to Karilian and back to Treasure. ‘I’ll need help, of course,’ he added carefully.
‘If you really don’t want to be chairman yourself,’ said Treasure, ‘put in someone who understands financial management as well as soccer, who’ll see the plan goes through smoothly. It shouldn’t be very time-consuming.’ He was looking across at the other member of the trio. ‘Harry here would be perfect, of course,’ he completed quickly.
‘Not a chance,’ said Karilian just as promptly. ‘Apart from my known devotion to Tottenham Hotspurs, I live too far away in North London. And I’m too old as well. The new man you want needs to be a high flyer, Berty, and local for preference. Someone the players and supporters can look up to. Identify with. In the right way.’ He cleared his throat. ‘For traditional reasons, he should ideally be a Grenwood, of course.’
‘I agree,’ said Treasure, ‘but—’
‘But since there aren’t any Grenwoods handy, the choice is obvious,’ Karilian continued expansively, affecting not to have heard Treasure. ‘It has to be Mark here, the celebrated chief executive of Grenwood, Phipps. And I don’t believe you can ignore the obligation, Mark,’ he completed, his pious expression suggesting that he had just fearlessly met a challenge and not cannily ducked one.
‘Harry’s right, of course. You’re the perfect choice, Mark. From every viewpoint,’ Berty affirmed.
‘I know nothing about soccer.’
‘That’s of no importance compared to your other qualifications,’ insisted Karilian loftily, intent on consolidating his victory.
‘I don’t have the time to—’
‘You said yourself it wouldn’t be time-consuming,’ Berty put in triumphantly. ‘Just turn up for one or two home matches, that’s all. There’s very little need for formal board meetings. The bank can handle all the work over the deal, and … and so on,’ he insisted, working his bent arms with vigour, as though he was drying the small of his back with an invisible towel. ‘Just you be the rallying figure, Mark. The dynamic focal point for players and supporters. To expunge the memory of Bims. To be the symbol of Grenwood continuity—’
‘But, Berty, I’m not a Grenwood.’
‘… figuratively and morally speaking,’ his lordship completed, fervour undiminished.
Treasure exhaled loudly. ‘Well, only for as long as it takes to complete—’
‘Thank you, my boy. You’ve lifted a great weight from my mind. I’ll make Bims my offer at lunch on Wednesday. One and a half million it is. Covers the one point three million he paid for three new players at the start of this season. The remainder’s twice what he paid me for the shares three years ago. He shouldn’t be able to resist that. As you say, it’ll all be dependent on his giving us his resignation, too.’
Treasure’s eyes narrowed. ‘D’you mean you had the whole thing planned, Berty?’
‘In embryo only, dear boy. It needed your clear mind and personal commitment to resolve it,’ Berty offered, now fingering the gold watch-chain in his waistcoat. ‘There’s a directors’ meeting and lunch at Hugon Road next Saturday,’ he went on hurriedly. ‘Before the match in the afternoon. If you could be there, we can vote you on to the board and into the chair straight away.’
‘I think I can probably manage that,’ Treasure answered after consulting his pocket diary.
‘Good man,’ said Berty, beaming his satisfaction over a job well done. ‘There’s a home match on Wednesday night too. I hesitate to suggest it,’ he continued, showing no hesitation at all, ‘but if you could show your face at that as well, it’d be a tactful move. No obligation, of course. None whatsoever.’ He looked about him, evidently prepared to put down any dissenter. ‘There’s a party afterwards. Drinks and buffet. For the team and the officers of the official Supporters Club. Happens once a season. Good opportunity to meet everyone who counts. You could bring Molly if she’s free. Ah, look, the food’s arriving. Good timing, what?’ he completed, waving open his linen napkin like a white flag—except Treasure felt it was he who had done all the surrendering.