See No Evil Page 2

  ‘We read about what you did to uncover the scandal with that hedge fund,’ Todd said. ‘This is just a case of asking a couple of questions and getting some answers.’

  ‘Who’s the banker?’ Calder asked.

  ‘Benton Davis,’ said Kim.

  Calder closed his eyes. When he opened them, Kim was watching his face with concern.

  ‘You do know him?’ she said. ‘I can tell you know him!’

  Calder nodded. ‘I do. And I’m afraid I can’t help you.’

  Kim frowned. She glanced at Todd, who gave the tiniest of shrugs. Calder had the feeling that she had assured her husband of his assistance and he had disappointed her. ‘May I ask why?’ she said. ‘It would just be a question of calling him up and going to London to see him.’

  Calder took a deep breath. ‘Benton Davis is the head of Bloomfield Weiss’s London office. He was in charge when I resigned from there a couple of years ago. Jennifer Tan, a woman who worked for me, had brought a sexual harassment case against the firm. They made her life hell, and so she quit. She died soon after, falling from a sixth-floor window. At first it looked like suicide: I held Benton responsible, amongst others. That’s why I left the firm. It turned out she had actually been murdered, but I still blame Benton for the way she was treated, and he knows that. There’s no love lost between us; I think the chances of him talking to me are nil. Besides which, I’ve left all that behind me, and I don’t want to go back to it.’

  ‘The poor woman!’ Kim said indignantly. ‘That’s a terrible story. What a bastard.’

  ‘What about just giving him a call and asking him to see us?’ Todd said.

  Calder shook his head. ‘Even if I did, he wouldn’t take any notice. Can’t you tell all this to the police?’

  ‘This was an unexplained death in South Africa in the 1980s,’ Kim said. ‘There were hundreds of those. Thousands.’

  ‘Anything you can do would be really appreciated,’ Todd said. ‘I was very fond of my mother – that’s a dumb thing to say, everyone’s fond of their mother – but I was away at school in England when she died. I hadn’t seen her for four months. I wasn’t there. I know it’s stupid, but I kind of blame myself for that. And I have no idea why she died. It was obvious at the time that the authorities were covering something up, but what? And why? Perhaps the South African security police killed her. Or somebody else. My family has been desperate to bury it all in the past, but that’s not right. We have to know the truth. I have to know the truth.’

  Calder looked at the couple. Their disappointment was plain. They had come a long way to see him. And he sympathized with Todd. His own mother had died at about the same stage in his life. That was a road accident, a head-on collision with a farm worker who had had too much to drink, but Calder too had in some way felt responsible. She had been rushing to pick him up from school after he had missed the bus. His life had never been the same since. And if his own mother had been murdered he wouldn’t have rested until he had found out why. He was tempted to offer to help.

  But Benton Davis? The man at the very heart of all the scheming manipulation he so much detested at Bloomfield Weiss. No. No, he couldn’t do it. There was no point in even trying.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  The food came, and after a couple of awkward minutes the conversation picked up. Todd was an affable, pleasant guy, seemingly unspoilt by all the advantages with which he had been born. Calder found himself warming to him. And Kim, well Kim was as lively as she always had been, and she had that smile, that you-are-the-most-important-person-in-the-world smile, which she flashed at him every few minutes and which sparked a familiar flicker of excitement every time, just as it had all those years ago. To Calder’s disappointment Kim had always been someone else’s girlfriend. At university that someone else had invariably turned out to be a good-looking, charming bastard. But from what Calder could see that wasn’t the case with Todd. And he was pleased. Kim deserved to have someone who treated her well.

  Lunch finished, they stepped outside into the small pub car park. The creek had swollen with the tide; its waters now reached halfway up the hard. The clouds were still low and grey: no chance of any more flying that day.

  Calder was still feeling bad about his refusal to help. ‘I tell you what, Todd. The weather’s supposed to get even worse tomorrow and stay bad until the weekend. But if you’re around next week and it’s cleared up, I can take you up in the Yak. Show you a bit of Norfolk from the air.’

  Todd grinned. ‘I’d love to do that,’ he said. He glanced at Kim, who looked doubtful. ‘We’re staying with my father in London for the next few days, flying back to the States next Wednesday. So, next Tuesday, maybe?’

  ‘Great,’ Calder said. ‘Let’s talk early Tuesday morning and see what the weather’s doing.’

  ‘Your guests from Bloomfield Weiss have arrived, Mr van Zyl.’

  Cornelius looked up from his desk as Nimrod stood at the entrance to his rather grand study. Despite his dashing name, Nimrod was a small, wiry Xhosa with a lined face, watchful eyes and flashes of gold in his teeth, whose suits were always just a little too big for him. He had proved his loyalty over thirty years as driver, fixer and right-hand man, and he was the one relic of Cornelius’s South African past that Cornelius was happy to keep around.

  ‘Show them in.’

  Cornelius grabbed a pad encased in a leather wallet and placed it at the centre of the long walnut table. Edwin was already sitting there, waiting, peering through his thick lenses at a sheet of paper bearing closely printed figures. Cornelius was in shirtsleeves, but his balding son’s flabby body was squeezed into a three-piece suit, as always. Edwin was Cornelius’s eldest child, a product of the first and least successful of his three marriages. The boy was diligent, and he worked hard, but he lacked the charisma or vision of his younger half-brother, Todd. Boy? He was in his mid-forties. But no matter how earnestly Edwin acted, and he did act very earnest, Cornelius could never take him seriously.

  Cornelius himself was over seventy, but he stood tall and straight and precious little of the muscle he had carried when he had played centre three-quarter for the Western Province rugby team fifty years before had turned to fat. His square jaw, firm cheekbones and shock of white hair gave the impression of a block of granite, all the stronger for its age. In his youth, he had earned the nickname of ‘the Dart’ for his ability to pierce a defensive line of three-quarters, but it could equally well have been used to describe his mind, which if anything had sharpened over the years. He was good at what he did. And what he did was buy newspapers and make money out of them.

  The bankers from Bloomfield Weiss had come to advise him on perhaps his boldest move so far, at least since he had taken over the Herald in the late 1980s. The Times was for sale. Its owner, Laxton Media, had bought the paper from an Australian group at the turn of the millennium, the only real-world property in a string of internet acquisitions. The canny Australian had taken cash, not shares, and since the dot-com boom had turned to bust, Laxton Media had limped along under the burden of its borrowings, holding out for an unrealistically high price for what had become the crown jewel of its portfolio. But pressure from creditors was building, and there were rumours that Laxton was close to an agreed sale to Beckwith Communications, a private company owned by Sir Evelyn Gill. Gill already owned the tabloid Mercury, but he had made no secret of the fact that he wanted to own a world-class property like The Times.

  But so did Cornelius.

  Three men came into the room. The first, and by far the most striking, was a tall, elegant black man of about fifty. He held out his hand to Cornelius.

  ‘Benton, how are you?’ Cornelius said, shaking it. ‘I hope you don’t mind meeting at my house. It’s not that I don’t trust the Herald people, I do completely, but the more secrecy we can preserve, the better.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Benton replied in a deep, rich American accent. ‘I do love these Nash terraces. And what a wonderful v
iew of the park!’ He moved over to the window. From his first-floor study, Cornelius could indeed see over the hedges into Regent’s Park, dotted with office workers and tourists enjoying the May sunshine. Benton scanned the room. Computer, printer, telephone and filing cabinets were carefully blended in with the paraphernalia of a gentleman’s library: bookshelves holding leather-bound volumes, decanters of liquid in tints of amber and gold, sturdy but comfortable chairs and tables, a globe, some lithe bronzes and, scattered among shelves and alcoves, three or four replicas of old racing Bentleys. ‘Is that really a Wyeth?’ Benton asked, moving over to a picture of a pair of young boys wading through the long grass towards a wooden farmhouse on the brow of a hill. ‘I don’t remember that from the last time I was here.’

  ‘I’m glad to see you haven’t lost your eye for good art, Benton,’ Cornelius said. ‘We bought it last year.’

  ‘Does it remind you of where you grew up?’

  Cornelius snorted. ‘Oudtshoorn is so dry it’s almost desert. And they farm ostriches there. This was actually painted near our farm in Pennsylvania.’ He paused. ‘But there is something. The American wagon trains heading west; the Boers trekking over the veld. And the freedom to run around barefoot in the fields. I don’t do much of that any more.’ He smiled, and then turned to shake hands as Davis introduced the other two bankers, younger, smaller, more intense men. ‘Now. Have a seat, gentlemen.’

  They took their places opposite Cornelius and Edwin, the sunshine from the large window bouncing off the polished table between them.

  Cornelius began, peering over his half-moon reading glasses at the bankers. The spectacles appeared tiny on his broad strong face and he used them more as a prop to look over than an aid to see through. ‘We think we have an opportunity to snatch The Times from under Evelyn Gill’s nose, if we can move quickly enough.’ He paused to let the excitement build. He was talking about a deal, and a deal meant fees, and fees were what got these Bloomfield Weiss bankers excited. ‘Edwin is pretty sure Gill is offering seven hundred million for The Times and the Sunday Times.’

  ‘That’s a full price,’ Benton said.

  ‘Yes. But it’s not as unrealistic as the billion plus Laxton were talking about a few months ago. We think they’re under pressure to do a clean, quick deal, which is why they are suddenly talking to Gill at the lower price. If we’re going to shut him out I suggest we offer eight hundred and fifty. Cash. And we leave the offer open for seven days only. Laxton can take it or leave it.’

  ‘They’ll want to take it,’ Benton said.

  ‘I think they will,’ Cornelius said. ‘And I don’t think Gill will be able to get hold of an extra hundred and fifty million in a week. But the big question is, can we get hold of that much money?’

  Benton glanced at his colleagues. Cornelius knew it was they who would run the deal, but none the less it was good to see Benton Davis still around. Cornelius had always liked the man, ever since he had agreed to travel down to South Africa during apartheid to help with the acquisition of the Herald, the deal that had moved Cornelius up into the big league. For a black American, that had taken courage and some independence of mind.

  The shorter and chubbier of the two, an Englishman called Dower, answered. ‘I think we can, just. You have a hundred million of cash in Zyl News. We should be able to raise five hundred million in the bank-loan market fairly comfortably. That leaves three hundred and change we would need to raise from a high-yield bond issue.’

  ‘Three hundred and change?’ Cornelius said. ‘Don’t you mean two hundred and fifty?’

  Dower shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Benton smiled. ‘Fees, Cornelius, you mustn’t forget the fees.’

  ‘That much? That’s over fifty million pounds!’

  ‘At least that much,’ Benton said. ‘It’s not just for us, it’s for the banks, the lawyers, the printers, the accountants.’ He shrugged. ‘OK, most of it’s for us, but if we can get a deal like this away, we deserve it.’

  ‘Fifty million is outrageous,’ said Cornelius, scowling. But he knew and the Bloomfield Weiss bankers knew that if they could pull off this deal Cornelius would be happy to pay. ‘Could you get a junk-bond deal that size away?’

  ‘Junk bond’ was market slang for ‘high-yield bond’, a bond that paid a high rate of interest to investors because there was a high risk that the issuer would go bust. Even in its most prosperous moments Zyl News had always been in the high-risk category.

  ‘At the moment, I think so,’ Dower said. ‘You’ve been issuing in the junk market for, what, twenty years? You’ve seen it go through good times and bad during that time. Well, we’ve been through a bad patch, but it looks like we’re coming out the other side. Since we’re funding a UK acquisition, we’d probably do a sterling deal. There’s demand out there from the European fund managers, and not much product. The forward calendar looks thin: we only know of a couple of deals of any size coming to the sterling market and neither of them is in the media space.’

  ‘I haven’t missed an interest payment yet,’ Cornelius said with defiant pride.

  ‘That’s true. But this is going to be tight.’

  Cornelius glanced at Edwin. ‘We know,’ Edwin said. ‘But Laxton have been mismanaging the paper for the last five years. There’s plenty of duplication between The Times and the Herald. We think we can squeeze eleven million a year out of things like pre-press, advertising, newsprint, duplicated editorial services and getting rid of a layer of management. We plan to invest some of those savings in improving the editorial quality of the newspaper. We’re sure we can increase circulation and win readers back from the competition. We’ve got a lot of ideas.’

  ‘Good ideas,’ Cornelius said. ‘You know there’s nothing I like to buy better than a badly managed paper. I’ve done this before.’

  ‘You’ll need to convince the banks and the investors,’ Dower said. Then he smiled. ‘But I’m sure you can manage that.’

  Cornelius grinned. Investors loved him. So did bankers. No matter how high the targets he set himself, often written down in black and white in bond documentation and loan agreements, he met them. Always. It was true that at the price they were planning to pay, The Times would be a challenge. But it was one of the few truly classy newspaper properties in the world: there was the New York Times, of course, the Washington Post, the Los Angeles Times perhaps, Le Monde, Le Figaro, not many more. At seventy-two, Cornelius was nearing his last deal. Zyl News already owned over eighty newspapers in America, Britain and Australia, the two largest being the Philadelphia Intelligencer, which he had bought in the early eighties, and the Herald, but it lacked a flagship title. If he could snatch The Times from Evelyn Gill then Zyl News would be one of the two or three leading players in the world. He glanced at the petulant face of his son and heir, who was glaring belligerently at the investment bankers, and the warm glow of anticipation cooled. Then what would happen? That was another problem he would have to deal with.

  ‘So,’ he said. ‘How long will it take to put the bid together?’

  ‘The bank loan shouldn’t be a problem, the banks will be falling over themselves to lend to you. Obviously it will take several weeks to put the bond issue together, but Bloomfield Weiss can underwrite a bridge loan to provide you with the funds until then. Under the takeover code you will need a letter from us saying we are committed to the funding.’ Dower paused. ‘We should be able to get all that together in seven days if we push it.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘Subject to internal credit approval,’ Dower added.

  ‘What?’ Cornelius glared at Dower.

  ‘I’m sure you understand that a bridge loan of this size is a big risk for Bloomfield Weiss; we need to have it signed off at the highest level.’

  ‘Harrison Brothers have been knocking at my door for the last couple of years desperate to deal with me. They say they can sign letters like that on the spot.’

  ‘And that’s exactly what I tell my competitors
’ clients,’ Benton said with a grin. ‘Don’t worry, the approvals are only a formality. You’ll have your letter in a week.’

  Cornelius glanced at Benton. ‘All right. But let me make one thing clear. I demand total commitment from my bankers. Once we’re in a deal, we’re in it together. No dithering, no waiting for conditions to improve, no delays while you bring one of your other clients to market. I want The Times, and what I want, I get. I will need one hundred per cent effort from you, is that understood?’ Cornelius switched his stare back to Dower as he said this. Surprised and intimidated, the banker dithered.

  ‘Of course we understand that, Cornelius,’ Benton said with a smile. ‘When has Bloomfield Weiss given you anything less?’

  ‘Hmm,’ Cornelius said. ‘OK. Let’s do it. If you need any more detailed information, ask Edwin. He’s had our accountants prepare some initial due diligence for you. Don’t go to anyone else in Zyl News. I want the surprise to be total.’

  Cornelius grinned as he thought of Evelyn Gill’s reaction to his bid being topped. Cornelius had never liked the man. He posed as a hard-nosed Yorkshire businessman impatient with the egos and vanities of his editors. But Cornelius knew his rival. Evelyn Gill wanted The Times more than anything else in the world. And he wasn’t going to get it.

  Edwin saw the investment bankers out of the house, and came back upstairs to Cornelius’s study.

  Cornelius rubbed his hands. ‘This is going to work. I can feel this is going to work.’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Edwin. ‘But I don’t see how we can make the numbers stack up.’

  ‘Of course we can make them stack up,’ Cornelius said impatiently. ‘As long as we get the business right, the numbers will come out right as well. And there is so much we could do with The Times.’