Concealment Page 3

  ‘Fucking parents,’ he muttered, shaking his head.

  Five minutes later Jupp’s secretary escorted me into the room. Jupp stood up, took my hand in a vice-like grip and pumped my arm up and down as though trying to dislocate it. He beckoned me to sit at an oversized walnut veneered board table.

  ‘Good of you to meet me so quickly. I’m sure you’re a busy woman.’

  The strength of his Geordie accent startled me. I knew he’d attended the same grammar school as Eric Bailey, but our CEO’s speech carried only the faintest hint of a northern dialect. Sod diversity—Bailey must have spent a fortune on elocution lessons to eliminate every trace of his origins.

  ‘No problem,’ I replied.

  ‘Any hassle with those losers outside?’ he asked.

  ‘None.’

  ‘They call themselves anti-capitalists, but I’ll bet if you gave them ten grand each they’d all piss off. Everyone has their price.’

  He plainly regarded ten thousand pounds as a trivial sum. Did he have any inkling of what life was like for ordinary people, or their outrage at the way obscenely rich people like him slithered past the taxman?

  ‘Ten grand might be over-generous,’ I suggested.

  ‘I don’t see why they’re so fussed anyway. If the money went to the government they’d only piss it up the wall paying middle managers in the NHS. My wife owns the shares and she lives overseas so there’s no tax due when we sell the company. It’s not rocket science, it’s not illegal and it’s certainly not immoral. It’s just the way things are.’

  In fact, Mary’s emigration and tax residency status had been the result of extensive advice from the Pearson Malone private client team. But Jupp was correct in one respect—until such time as the law caught up with the shifting moral climate, what they’d done was perfectly legal.

  ‘Her tax position is watertight,’ I said. ‘Provided she’s followed our advice, that is.’

  This was the nub of the matter. It was almost inevitable she’d have accidentally breached the complex conditions for offshore residence in the past ten years, and she’d be easy prey for an HMRC enquiry. After all, taxmen read the newspapers too. But I would gain nothing by voicing this prediction.

  ‘And JJ Resources pays corporate tax too, not like some of these global firms who ship all their profits offshore.’

  The arrival of Charles Goodchild, JJ’s Finance Director, saved me from any potentially hypocritical agreement to this statement. His bloated appearance reminded me of Smithies, and on this basis alone I was minded to distrust him. And though his suit was more likely Austin Reed than Savile Row, he was equally supercilious.

  On paper at least, he would be comfortably wealthy post sale. All his share options would vest and although some of his proceeds would swap over into Megabuilders’ equity, he would get a reasonable dollop of cash on Day 1. With no easy way for him to avoid tax, he’d nevertheless be left with assets worth upwards of two million—vastly more than such mediocrity deserved. Still, he wasn’t the first person to strike lucky on a takeover and he wouldn’t be the last.

  Goodchild removed his watch and laid it out in front of him, as though to emphasise how little time he could spare out of his busy day.

  ‘Let’s cut to the chase,’ he said, before Jim’s secretary had even finished pouring the coffee.

  ‘Yes, please do. I can see you’re in a hurry.’

  ‘I imagine you’ve heard about the pig’s ear your predecessor made of the reorganisation project.’

  I smirked inwardly, recognising the blustering of someone who’d blundered but avoided detection. Somehow, I doubted whether even JJ knew the truth.

  ‘Yes, I’m told the claim for the slate division tax losses will have to be withdrawn.’

  ‘Indeed, and you were supposed to be drafting a letter,’ he replied, with disproportionate aggression.

  ‘I have it here.’

  The letter, carefully worded by Isabelle, was a masterpiece of diplomacy. However much I loathed the girl, I had to grudgingly admit she was damned clever. We hoped that HMRC would now accept our explanations and withdraw all his enquiries. After all, he couldn’t reasonably continue to argue that profits were overstated if they were taxable.

  ‘This is well written,’ said Goodchild, sounding surprised. ‘But we have a new challenge. Now Megabuilders want to reduce the price for the company because the losses aren’t available.’

  ‘It’s a try-on,’ I said, making light of this apparently empty threat. ‘Hardly anyone ever pays for tax losses upfront—there’s too much anti-avoidance legislation to stop them being used.’

  ‘No—you don’t understand. They expect a price adjustment because of the extra tax due for the years already submitted.’

  I cursed myself for not having foreseen this.

  ‘And it’s up to you,’ chimed in Jupp, ‘to find another way to save us tax and put the position back to what it was before.’

  So not enough for us to take the rap for Goodchild’s oversight—they expected us to rectify it to boot.

  ‘Well,’ said Goodchild, sensing my uncertainty and taking obvious pleasure in cranking up the pressure. ‘Any ideas?’

  I sipped at my tea, shamed by my inability to provide the instant solution they expected and desperate to buy a crucial few seconds’ thinking time. The ticking of the antique carriage clock and Goodchild drumming his fingers on the table only added to my stress.

  ‘Capital allowances,’ I said, in a flash of brilliance driven by necessity.

  Yes—they must surely have spent millions on capital expenditure on quarrying and mining equipment. The chances were no one had examined the tax allowances in detail with so many losses swilling around. And the claim could be backdated, which would nicely cover the affected years.

  ‘My thoughts egg-zackly,’ said Goodchild, sounding spookily similar to his brother-in-law, as he attempted to take credit for my idea. ‘So we’d like a full review and agreement with HMRC, free of charge please.’

  ‘I can’t do it for free, but why don’t we get one of our capital allowance specialists to do a site visit and an initial evaluation? Then we can see how much the potential tax savings might be before we do our quote.’

  Goodchild opened his mouth to argue, but Jupp sprung swiftly to my defence, perhaps because he didn’t care to jeopardise whatever deal he’d struck with Bailey.

  ‘Sounds fair enough. But is a site visit really necessary?’

  ‘I think it would be best—yes. But don’t worry—we won’t charge for that.’

  I thought I saw a flicker of worry clouding Jupp’s face, but I might have been wrong.

  ***

  Lisa was less than impressed as we debriefed on the day’s events on the treadmills in the Pearson Malone gym.

  ‘Bloody amazing,’ she puffed. ‘They screw up… we take the rap… and they expect… us to re-save… the tax… they shouldn’t have… paid… in the first place.’

  ‘That’s about the size of it. Still, we should get a decent fee for sorting it out.’

  This was Lisa’s first session in the gym. She’d reluctantly started on the fitness trail, in case she needed a medical for a new job. I was still hopeful I’d persuade her to stay and turn things around, but it wouldn’t do her any harm to slim down however her life panned out. She switched off the machine and wiped the sweat from her face with a towel.

  ‘God... I wish… we’d gone… to the pub instead… this is torture.’

  ‘You’ll love it when you get into it,’ I promised her, although I feared my efforts to encourage her to keep fit were doomed to failure.

  ‘Nah… only until… I’ve had my… medical… bloody hate it. Actually… don’t think... you’re fitter than me…’ she gasped. ‘Not with all the booze you put away…’

  ‘You’re a fine one to talk. And smoking will kill you first.’

  ‘Ah, but you quit… when you were older… than me. At least… I’m not in denial… about any of my vices
… only reason you do this… is to stay a size eight…’

  OK—being fit was overrated. Who wanted to live forever? But being in control of your body shape was a matter of pride.

  ‘Doubt there’s enough… capital allowances claim… to cover those losses,’ she continued breathlessly, as we made our way to the changing room. ‘Meanwhile… we take… the meeting and travel time… on the chin. You do realise… the slate mine’s... in the middle of nowhere… in Wales.’

  ‘I know, but I had to offer them something for free.’

  ‘Oh well, I suppose we can send Isabelle… to support the specialist… it’ll be cheaper than us going… and her folks live about twenty miles away.’

  ‘Really? I assumed she was Home Counties through and through—she doesn’t sound Welsh.’

  ‘I expect she went to a posh school, like you. But she told me her grandfather worked in the slate mine… which is why she wanted to be on the JJ service team.’

  ‘Incredible. Just think, in another two generations your family might be all polished and poised like her.’

  She fixed me with a beady stare.

  ‘So we’ll organise the meeting for a Friday and … our little princess can enjoy a weekend at home.’

  And she probably would have done, had she lived to make the journey.

  5

  The night before the pay review I had the dream.

  Teetering piles of rubbish surrounded me, encroaching on my space before collapsing, entombing me beneath them. I clawed in vain at the debris above me as I struggled for breath.

  Clammy and fearful, I woke to the pungent odour of garbage, and the sensation of insects crawling on my skin. I threw off the duvet and examined the bed in detail. No bug in sight, but the fear and smell both lingered.

  I hurried to the shower and stood under near-scalding water, speculating on what might have precipitated this bout of dread. Sure, there would be some challenging conversations today, but I hadn’t been conscious of any worry about the pay review. Yet what else could have triggered the familiar nightmare?

  Ten minutes later, and satisfied that I’d removed the last vestiges of imaginary squalor, I set about blow-drying my hair.

  Now for the next challenge—who should I pretend to be today?

  Who I was came down to what I wore. I possessed a whole double wardrobe of designer outfits—my corporate armour. People saw the clothes first and made assumptions about the person who wore them. They were the props of the gigantic con act I perpetrated every day, pretending to be this savvy successful woman. In truth, that woman was a stranger to me.

  Black Max Mara trouser suit? No—too mournful, or even aggressive. Navy Armani? No—far too expensive to wear while explaining to staff why we couldn’t afford a raise. Red Luisa Spagnoli skirt suit? God no—why did I even possess a red suit? I quickly transferred it to the bag for the charity shop—I knew the perils of keeping stuff you don’t use. Not a suit at all, then. My eyes lighted on a Nicole Farhi silk jersey wrap dress in a floral print, and I selected a carefully coordinated cardigan. Yes—spot on—I came across as a touch vulnerable, verging on mumsy, but empathetic. Empathetic was perfect for giving bad news. I sprayed myself liberally with Eau De Lancôme, just in case, and painted on a happy face.

  I’ll be straight with you. Number one priority in a downturn is to maintain the partners’ profit shares. And if revenues are static, the easiest fix is to hold down payroll costs. To justify our stinginess, we waffled on about “market forces in the current economic climate”. But everyone we employed was way too smart to be duped—they knew they were footing the bill for our Porsches and Mercedes—so the pretence was futile.

  I guess I could have handled the one-to-one meetings differently and avoided the bullshit, but I had a hundred and twelve to see—everyone in the group, apart from the partners. To finish the exercise in one day as stipulated gave me a bare couple of minutes with each person, and it was quickest to parrot from the approved crib sheet.

  The Pearson Malone offices (built by JJ) were ill-designed for the delivery of bad news, being constructed almost entirely of glass. Erected in the hubris preceding the worst financial collapse in living memory, this magnificent edifice was supposed to symbolise the transparency of our innovative approach to professional services. And though, in this age of diversity, there was no metaphorical glass ceiling, we had real ones here. All the ventilation ducting and other pipes were plainly visible from below, while glass floors surrounded the individual meeting rooms. To break the monotony of this sea of reflectivity, and give a reassuring solidity, islands of stone or carpet had been inserted at random in the design. The walls only added to the bizarre ambience—mirrored partitions alternated with glass screens and windows, juxtaposing interior reflections with framed glimpses of the London skyline.

  Rumour had it Jupp and Bailey got hammered together and Jupp promised him a creation to set Pearson Malone apart from all other major accounting firms in the City.

  He had indisputably delivered that, and the building had garnered awards and accolades along the way for the architects who’d taken on the challenging brief. None of these people cared that the offices were a pig to work in, with no blinds to pull down to allow solitude or privacy. Perception is reality, as we all know, particularly when viewed through a hall of mirrors.

  At the tail end of a recession, there wasn’t much fat left to trim on the payroll. Already, our programme of redundancies had laid waste to many who were basically competent. Now we were forced to restrict promotions, pay rises and bonuses for people who performed well.

  At least the six who’d received their subgrade promotions would be reasonably satisfied, until next year when denied their main grade promotions. Still, I thought gloomily, Smithies would probably have fired me by then. And one person would be ecstatic—that self-satisfied little bitch Isabelle Edwards.

  But first I had to face Lisa.

  Smithies had tried to “make it up to her” for pulling her promotion by giving her a five percent pay rise and a twenty thousand pound bonus—in reality, this was a clumsy mechanism for letting her know how little he cared whether or not she stayed.

  Not surprisingly, Lisa was unmoved by the gesture.

  ‘Only Pearson bloody Malone would have the brass neck to buy off a hundred thousand a year pay rise with a twenty thousand lump sum. That’s it—I’m definitely leaving.’

  She knew better than anyone that I had no slack in my schedule to commiserate with her, and left without saying another word.

  When her turn came, Isabelle trotted in laden down with JJ files, showing off her multi-tasking ability in her usual irritating manner. Most of our files were electronic, but these went back a few years—I cursed her for cluttering up my office.

  ‘I’ve brought you these, so you can review the revised tax computations for JJ before they go out.’

  Unaccountably, conscientious types like Isabelle invariably assume the partner wants to scrutinise everything in minute detail. We don’t—we employ battalions of clever people like her precisely so we don’t have to triple check everything ourselves.

  ‘Lisa said she was too busy,’ Isabelle explained, perhaps picking up on my annoyance.

  I thanked her for dealing with it so promptly, although I could have thumped the stuck-up cow. And then I gave her the good news.

  The little creep made all the appropriate noises, as you’d expect. She gushed on about how grateful she was for all the opportunities she’d been given, blah, blah, blah. But the more she said, the more hollow and insincere she sounded. Mystified, I choked her off sharply for the sake of my timetable.

  I zipped through the next few staff. Smithies hadn’t discussed these with me, because I’d arrived at the “right” answer without his intervention—I’d held them all back. They were disappointed, I sympathised, and they slunk off, no doubt to stick pins in a wax effigy of me.

  Then came Ryan.

  I’d sacrificed him like a pawn in a ga
me of chess. Now, as he stood in my doorway, the multiple reflections of his sheepish grin filled me with guilt. It was as if he anticipated the impending disappointment, but believed that by putting on his best behaviour now, he might magically change the outcome.

  Physically, Ryan was essentially an unfinished version of his older brother Greg—his asymmetrical features moulded by a less accomplished sculptor. To compound his physical imperfections, he wore his clothes sloppily, so that even a designer suit looked scruffy on him. But his troubles ran deeper still—his attitude was flawed too. Whatever Greg’s faults, he had quickly identified that the nebulous quality of “gravitas” was essential for an Irishman to progress in life, and worked tirelessly to cultivate it. By contrast, Ryan basked in his role as the team’s cheeky buffoon.

  ‘No promotion—no pay rise?’ he said, plaintively echoing what I’d told him. The news must have been hard to stomach, especially if he’d already heard that his girlfriend had scooped the jackpot.

  ‘I’m afraid so, Ryan. If it makes you feel any better, there are plenty of your peers in the same position.’

  ‘It doesn’t make me feel better.’

  ‘And in your case, the decision was extremely marginal.’

  ‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘If it was so marginal, why didn’t you let me through?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Ryan, but you fell the wrong side of the line.’

  ‘I hope this isn’t your way of getting back at Greg.’

  ‘What?’

  I was astounded by this suggestion. Smithies had pretty much accused me of nepotism, and now here was Ryan claiming I was biased against him.

  ‘You heard.’

  ‘Ryan,’ I said sighing. ‘Do you seriously think I can’t view your promotion objectively because I was once married to your brother?’

  ‘Well, there’s something behind all this I’m not getting.’

  ‘For the avoidance of doubt,’ I said, taking refuge in the protective mantle of Smithies’ jargon, ‘it has nothing to do with Greg. Even if I minded about Tiffany, which I don’t, it wouldn’t affect my judgement.’