Heads You Win Read online

  “Over my dead body.”

  “And he’s also given orders to transfer the entire Lowell Collection to the bank as security in case the IRS wants to value it.”

  “That could be a problem,” admitted Evelyn.

  “I have to tell you, Karpenko is one tough bastard,” said Ackroyd. “You clearly don’t know the man.”

  * * *

  Alex spent the rest of the week studying balance sheets, dividend returns, tax payments, and even junior staff wages. But it wasn’t until Wednesday afternoon that he came across an entry that needed to be checked a third time before he was sure that no responsible board would have sanctioned it.

  He stared at the item again, thinking it had to be one naught too many. It was tucked neatly in between two other figures of a similar amount so as not to draw attention to the entry. He double-checked the sum and wrote the figure down on a pad by his side. Alex wondered how many more such entries he would come across before he reached the present day.

  The following morning, Alex found a similarly large withdrawal appearing on the balance sheet without explanation. Once again, Alex wrote the figure down. It was already dark by the time he came across the third entry, which was for a far larger amount. He added the figure to his growing list, and wondered how she’d been allowed to get away with it.

  By Friday, Alex had concluded that Lowell’s, by any standards, was trading while insolvent, but he decided not to inform the banking commissioner until Mr. Rosenthal had valued the art collection, and he’d been able to value any other assets the bank might possess.

  When the street lights flickered on, Alex decided it was time to leave the office and go home. He couldn’t wait to see Anna again. He glanced at the diminishing pile of balance sheets that still needed to be studied, and wondered if he’d ever get through them.

  It hadn’t helped that Lawrence had been serving in Vietnam for two years when Douglas Ackroyd had brought a new meaning to the words “when the cat’s away.” He not only paid himself five hundred thousand dollars a year, but claimed another three hundred thousand dollars in expenses, while his two cronies, Jardine and Fowler, only ever traveled first class whenever they climbed aboard his gravy train. But the conductor was clearly Evelyn, who, with her fifty percent of the bank’s shares, appeared to have given Ackroyd carte blanche to do as he pleased. Now he’d discovered just how much she’d expected in return.

  He was looking forward to spending the weekend with Anna, who was traveling up from New York that afternoon, but it didn’t stop him picking up half a dozen more files before he left the office. As he passed Miss Robbins’s room, he noticed that her light was still on. He popped his head around the door and said, “Thank you, and have a good weekend.”

  “I’ll see you at six o’clock on Monday morning, chairman,” she said, without looking up from a pile of correspondence.

  Alex had quickly discovered why Doug Ackroyd had sacked her. She was the one person who knew where all the bodies were buried.

  As Alex left the building, he had a nagging feeling that he was being watched; a throwback from his days in Leningrad. It brought back memories of Vladimir, and he wondered how far up the KGB ladder he’d crawled by now. I ought to give him a call and see if he’d like to join the board of Lowell’s, he thought. He was sure Vladimir would have ways of making Ackroyd, Fowler, and Jardine divulge which entries he should be checking more carefully.

  Alex gave the driver his address before he sank into the back seat of a taxi and opened another file. If he hadn’t read each debit with close attention, he might have missed yet another withdrawal, which could only have been sanctioned by one man. He checked the figure three times, but still couldn’t believe it. The final check had been cashed two days after Lawrence’s death, and the day before Ackroyd resigned, and was by far the largest amount to date.

  Alex added the latest figure to his long list, before he totaled up all the withdrawals Evelyn had made since her father had died and her brother had taken over as chairman of Lowell’s. The final figure came to just over twenty-one million dollars, with no suggestion of any repayments. If you added her profligacy to the outrageous salary Ackroyd had paid himself and his four placemen, plus their countless expenses, it was no wonder that Lowell’s was facing bankruptcy. Alex began to wonder if he would have to sell off the Lowell Collection in order to make sure the bank was solvent enough to lower its debts and continue trading.

  He was considering the consequences as the taxi pulled up outside Lawrence’s home. He would always think of it as Lawrence’s home.

  He climbed out of the car and a huge smile appeared on his face when he spotted Anna standing in the doorway. It evaporated just as quickly when he saw the look on her face.

  “What’s the matter, darling?” he asked as he took her in his arms.

  “You’d better have a large vodka before I tell you.” She took his hand, and without another word led him into the house. She poured them both a drink and waited for him to sit down before saying, “It’s not just the Warhol that’s a copy.”

  Alex drained his glass before asking, “How many?”

  “I can’t be sure until Mr. Rosenthal has given his opinion, but I suspect that at least half the collection are copies.”

  Alex said nothing, while she refilled his glass. After another long gulp, he admitted, “The value of the Lowell Collection is the one thing that’s preventing the bank from going under. I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep until Mr. Rosenthal arrives.”

  “I called him a couple of hours ago and he’s already on his way.”

  “And my mother?” asked Alex. “How is she?”

  “Your mother keeps asking me why we constantly change the date for our wedding,” said Anna.

  “And what did you tell her?”

  “We’re still trying to fit it in between rescuing a bank, opening the latest Elena’s, and preferably when we’re both in the same place at the same time.”

  “We could have grandchildren by then,” said Alex.

  33

  SASHA

  Merrifield

  Sasha had always managed to survive on six hours’ sleep a night, but once the Prime Minister had visited Buckingham Palace and sought a dissolution of Parliament, he had to learn how to get by on four.

  Once again he adopted a daily routine that would have impressed a Bolshoi ballet master, even if it was only for three weeks. He rose every morning at five, and was standing outside Roxton station with a small band of volunteers long before the first commuters arrived. He greeted them with, “Hi, I’m Sasha Karpenko, and I’m…”

  At 8 a.m. he took a break for breakfast, a different cafe every morning, and twenty minutes later he would walk to party headquarters in the high street—three rooms hired for a month—and check the morning papers. The Merrifield Gazette had found several different ways of saying it was neck and neck, a close-run thing, everything to play for, but the morning’s headline took him by surprise: HUNTER CHALLENGES KARPENKO TO DEBATE.

  “Shrewd move,” said Alf. “She didn’t wait for you to make the running this time. You have to accept immediately, and then we’ll agree later on a date, time, and place.”

  “Any time, any place,” said Sasha.

  “No, no!” said Alf. “We’re not in any hurry. We need the debate to be in Roxton, and as close to the election as possible.”

  “Why Roxton?”

  “Because more of our supporters are likely to turn up there than anywhere else in the constituency.”

  “But why hold it off until the last moment?”

  “It will give you more time to prepare. Don’t forget you’re not up against a university student any longer, but a parliamentarian who’s lived in this constituency all her life. But for now, you should get back on the street and leave us to worry about the details.”

  After Sasha had rung the editor of the Gazette to say he would be delighted to accept Ms. Hunter’s challenge, and couldn’t wait to debate with