must raise the bid?’
As soon as possible, Vance tells him.
‘Monday?’
‘Monday morning if we can. Drive the holding up over forty per cent fast and keep the pressure on.’ The talk moves on to a possible number, the amount the bid should be raised. Not having spent weeks ploughing through the relevant spreadsheets, there isn’t much I can contribute here. Nothing, in fact, so I listen. Vance does most of the talking, David makes frequent interventions, and Reuben stays as silent as me. All four of us desperately want this deal to go through. For the Meyers it will be an emphatic statement that in the premier league of property developers they’ve risen to the top of the table. But for Vance and me the matter is much more urgent. If the Meyers get Parnells the simmering revolt in our Corporate Finance Department will die. But if the Meyer bid fails . . . Listening to Vance now, I squeeze my forehead. It has just occurred to me that the only thing between Carltons and calamity at this moment is Stephen Vance’s silver tongue.
After twenty minutes the talk reaches stalemate. Vance wants them to raise their bid from a 160p cash-equivalent to 180p: the Meyers think 170p is enough.
‘180 if you want to be sure,' Vance says.
Reuben smiles. ‘If we really wanted to be sure we'd bid 200. What we want, Mr Vance is not to waste our money.’
Vance looks suitably chastened. David Meyer turns to me and asks who killed our Treasurer. Before I can collect myself, he goes on: ‘I mean, who had reasons to kill him?’
‘That’s what the police are trying to find out.’
‘I’m not asking the police,’ he says. ‘I’m asking you.’
I feel Vance and Reuben both watching me. ‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Someone just shot him - your Treasurer - and you’ve got no idea?’
‘Has this got something to do with Parnells?’ I say tightly.
‘I don’t know,’ David Meyer replies, folding his arms. ‘Has it?’
Beneath my breath, I count to ten. I explain that the police are pursuing their inquiries, and that in the extremely unlikely event of the murder having even a remote connection to the bid, I’ll let him know.
‘Please do,’ he says, unsmiling. When I rise, there’s a round of perfunctory handshakes. Vance and I are passing out the door when David calls after us. ‘And in the extremely unlikely event that we agree to a raised bid, Mr Carlton, don’t call us, we’ll call you.’ The door closes firmly at our backs.
‘What’s up with him?’
‘He’s been like that from day one.’ Vance steps after me into the taxi and gives the driver Carltons’ address. ‘David Meyer has rudeness like the rest of the world has manners.’ He rests his briefcase on his lap and his tanned hands on the briefcase. His week’s holiday in Mauritius last month must seem an eternity ago. He asks me what I made of the meeting. I tell him I think he's doing fine.
‘Vote of confidence noted,’ Vance says, facing me. ‘Now, what did you really think?’
Even after I’d worked with him for years I could never match Vance’s relentless and absolutely focused attention on the deal. Now it’s like being taken in the grip of a creature whose power I’d long forgotten.
‘They’re not idiots,’ I suggest. ‘They’ll come to the party at 180.’ Vance doesn’t reply. A hollow feeling forms in the pit of my stomach. ‘Stephen?’
‘Let’s hope so,’ he says tapping his case. ‘Why do you think he was asking about Daniel?’
The name hovers between us a moment, a spectral presence in the taxi; the nether- world intruding on the everyday.
‘I don’t know. Just being bloody?’
He flips open his briefcase and digs through the paperwork, handing me two sheets: the current acceptances on the bid, and a copy of a Sandersons’ press release, issued this morning. When a bid for a public company is launched, the clock starts ticking: the bidder has sixty days in which to win control, and if they haven’t
As soon as possible, Vance tells him.
‘Monday?’
‘Monday morning if we can. Drive the holding up over forty per cent fast and keep the pressure on.’ The talk moves on to a possible number, the amount the bid should be raised. Not having spent weeks ploughing through the relevant spreadsheets, there isn’t much I can contribute here. Nothing, in fact, so I listen. Vance does most of the talking, David makes frequent interventions, and Reuben stays as silent as me. All four of us desperately want this deal to go through. For the Meyers it will be an emphatic statement that in the premier league of property developers they’ve risen to the top of the table. But for Vance and me the matter is much more urgent. If the Meyers get Parnells the simmering revolt in our Corporate Finance Department will die. But if the Meyer bid fails . . . Listening to Vance now, I squeeze my forehead. It has just occurred to me that the only thing between Carltons and calamity at this moment is Stephen Vance’s silver tongue.
After twenty minutes the talk reaches stalemate. Vance wants them to raise their bid from a 160p cash-equivalent to 180p: the Meyers think 170p is enough.
‘180 if you want to be sure,' Vance says.
Reuben smiles. ‘If we really wanted to be sure we'd bid 200. What we want, Mr Vance is not to waste our money.’
Vance looks suitably chastened. David Meyer turns to me and asks who killed our Treasurer. Before I can collect myself, he goes on: ‘I mean, who had reasons to kill him?’
‘That’s what the police are trying to find out.’
‘I’m not asking the police,’ he says. ‘I’m asking you.’
I feel Vance and Reuben both watching me. ‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Someone just shot him - your Treasurer - and you’ve got no idea?’
‘Has this got something to do with Parnells?’ I say tightly.
‘I don’t know,’ David Meyer replies, folding his arms. ‘Has it?’
Beneath my breath, I count to ten. I explain that the police are pursuing their inquiries, and that in the extremely unlikely event of the murder having even a remote connection to the bid, I’ll let him know.
‘Please do,’ he says, unsmiling. When I rise, there’s a round of perfunctory handshakes. Vance and I are passing out the door when David calls after us. ‘And in the extremely unlikely event that we agree to a raised bid, Mr Carlton, don’t call us, we’ll call you.’ The door closes firmly at our backs.
‘What’s up with him?’
‘He’s been like that from day one.’ Vance steps after me into the taxi and gives the driver Carltons’ address. ‘David Meyer has rudeness like the rest of the world has manners.’ He rests his briefcase on his lap and his tanned hands on the briefcase. His week’s holiday in Mauritius last month must seem an eternity ago. He asks me what I made of the meeting. I tell him I think he's doing fine.
‘Vote of confidence noted,’ Vance says, facing me. ‘Now, what did you really think?’
Even after I’d worked with him for years I could never match Vance’s relentless and absolutely focused attention on the deal. Now it’s like being taken in the grip of a creature whose power I’d long forgotten.
‘They’re not idiots,’ I suggest. ‘They’ll come to the party at 180.’ Vance doesn’t reply. A hollow feeling forms in the pit of my stomach. ‘Stephen?’
‘Let’s hope so,’ he says tapping his case. ‘Why do you think he was asking about Daniel?’
The name hovers between us a moment, a spectral presence in the taxi; the nether- world intruding on the everyday.
‘I don’t know. Just being bloody?’
He flips open his briefcase and digs through the paperwork, handing me two sheets: the current acceptances on the bid, and a copy of a Sandersons’ press release, issued this morning. When a bid for a public company is launched, the clock starts ticking: the bidder has sixty days in which to win control, and if they haven’t
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