The Money-Go-Round Read online

  The

  Money-Go-Round

  C.J. Neill

  Copyright © 2022 C.J. Neill

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  To Jack, my wife, for her absolute belief in my abilities to do this, and with my apologies for it taking so long.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  Max Stephens will return in

  About The Author

  The Money-Go-Round

  1

  11th February 2012

  It would be over soon.

  Elizabeth Cecil could not face life any longer. The shame was too much. Her solicitors` practicing certificate lay on the coffee table torn into little pieces. No more worries. No more stress. No more threats of violence if she spoke out about what had really happened.

  It was the Gin putting her to sleep, but that alone would only leave her with a serious headache the following morning. It always did. Mothers` ruin, her grandmother called it. What would actually kill her was the cocktail of Tramadol and Naproxen washed down and mixed with the alcohol.

  She had started drinking around six and by ten o`clock had drunk a full litre bottle and begun attacking another. The tonic had run out some time ago and the ice was reduced to a puddle. She was now sprawled naked across the couch in her tiny Docklands apartment, a very small, soulless space that cost a very large slice of her salary. Her eyelids were getting heavier by the second. She would have made a perfect life model for any eighteenth-century artist, her curvy body soft and plump in all the right places.

  Elizabeth died watching the ten o`clock news, just after it was announced that Whitney Houston had passed away in Los Angeles and that her spirit would live on. By the time she was found, her beauty had hardened, disfigured by rigor mortis, beginning with those eyelids.

  But she was finally free.

  Her adoring father could now get on with his life, once he got over the inevitable grief. He would be devastated of course, as he doted on her. But that would pass. And he would forgive her. He always did.

  If only she`d known that just a few days later daddy`s life would end in much the same way. His chosen method leaving him slumped in the passenger seat of his BMW, the garden hosepipe feeding carbon monoxide from the engine into his lungs. His reputation as one of the most senior lawyers in England damaged beyond repair through no fault of his own. Elizabeth`s naivety had done for them both.

  If only she`d known that truth will out.

  2

  Max

  London - January 2013

  I hate law courts.

  The Royal Courts of Justice on the Strand is as busy as ever. People are queueing out of the Gothic, arched entrance onto the pavement, all bundled up in winter coats and scarfs. I walk in and stretch out my arms as though about to be crucified, whilst being patted all over by an overweight security guard.

  Bad memories.

  I`ve hated courts` since my father surprised me with a visit to one on my twelfth birthday because he thought I wanted to be a lawyer just like him. The real surprise was the accused jumping out of the dock and trying to kill us both. Revenge against my father, repayment for advice given but not taken. I`ve hated these places ever since but life keeps dragging me back.

  What am I even doing here. As if I need any more punishment right now.

  I think of Sandy, walking out of the door without so much as a sorry. Seven years of marriage flushed down the toilet in a moment. I know it was on New Years’ Eve but I`m not sure how long ago that was. I`ve spent the last few weeks in oblivion, totally drenched in booze. Now I`m back here in the place I hate the most. And I probably stink.

  I can get divorce advice any time, but I know I`ll find Julia Lovell here and right now I need a friend, almost as much as I need work. Every day, almost without fail, she`ll be in court until about four o`clock when she walks back to her barrister`s chambers at Lincoln`s Inn Fields to spend the next few hours writing opinions, meeting clients and generally arranging what`s left of her life, “Which is not much,” she`s often told me.

  I spot her quickly. Black gown over a grey two-piece suit, grey curly wig and heels. The heels go everywhere. She`s standing with two men, one, obviously the solicitor as he`s loaded with files. The other, the client I imagine, is looking distinctly unhappy. As I pass by heading for the notice boards her eyes acknowledge me and she turns away from the group. With a look of apology she mouths, Sorry, really busy.

  I raise a hand to my mouth and signal back, Coffee?

  Julia checks her watch and holds up three fingers on her left hand. Three O`clock? She points across the road towards the coffee shop lawyers have frequented for more years than most can remember. I nod and she turns back to her group.

  I`ve now got time on my hands and as much as I hate them courts have often been a source of good stories. God knows I need one. I can hardly remember when an editor last paid me for my freelance offerings. This morning saw two more rejections of features and I`m desperate for something interesting. After years on the City Desk of a major broadsheet I`m now without a regular pay cheque and merely surviving. It`s a struggle to pay all the bills and it`s not uncommon for the mortgage to be late. Worse still, it`s all my own fault. A moment of stupidity cost me everything.

  I walk over to the listings board where a court usher immediately recognises me. “Max Stephens, well I never. How`s life in Fleet Street then?” John has worked here for about a hundred years. He knows everything and everybody. And because of his loud Cockney accent everyone knows John.

  “Just here for a quick word with Miss Lovell, unless there`s anything interesting going on?”

  “Not today I`m afraid.”

  “Just my luck.”

  “Miss Lovell`s got to be more interesting than anything going on in this place, if you know what I mean.” He winks and taps his nose a couple of times.

  I scan the listings but they reveal little of interest other than a Solicitors Disciplinary Tribunal hearing. Why not. These cases often cast light upon the dishonest dealings of what is supposed to be one of the oldest and most honourable professions. I`ve spent enough time reporting on them to know that some of the people involved can be anything but honourable.

  With a small degree of hope I find the court and ease quietly into the chamber as the hearing is already in session. The late 1800`s courtrooms at the RCJ are wood-panelled, dark, austere, and foreboding. Number eleven is no exception. I sit down in the seats usually occupied by journalists
and look directly ahead to the crowded lawyer`s benches. Three defendants are sat directly behind their legal teams separated only by chest-high brass rails, the sort that are easily jumped over, as I recall. Three Judges sit raised up to my left each looking equally ominous.

  One of the Barristers stands up from the front row and addresses the Bench. “Your Honour, I wonder if, as this is not a criminal trial my client might be allowed to leave the dock to join his legal team on the benches behind me?”

  The senior judge looks over his half-rimmed glasses, “No Mr Smithson he may not. This may be a tribunal hearing at this stage, but the offences committed here are extremely serious and it is not beyond progression to a much higher court. As this is a sentencing hearing, I believe it is only right that all three defendants remain where they are, in the dock.” His two colleagues nod in agreement.

  The barrister acknowledges the judge, sits down and turns to the solicitors behind, shrugging his shoulders as if to say, I tried.

  There`s a bald-headed man sitting in front of me, but I know he isn`t a hack by the way he`s taking down notes. Short and stocky, his nose doesn`t appear to be the same shape it was at birth, and he has large chunky hands and fingers clearly not made for holding writing implements. He turns around and inspects me and I give a half-hearted smile. I`m surprised to see anyone else listening to the case as it`s not one that might attract the attention of the general public. The Law Society regularly punishes members who offend but tell the story only to their own kind. This is a private affair between a governor and its subjects. Why tell the whole world that your members are corrupt. Baldie is here for a reason.

  The Judge`s comments focus my attention. Not because I enjoy seeing people lose their livelihoods, being struck off and unable to practise their chosen profession or even because witnessing justice being performed feels right and proper, but because my gut is telling me something`s going on here. I pick up the listings docket and read it again. Applicant: Solicitors Regulation Authority. First Respondent: David John Samuels. Second Respondent: Robert Davis. Third Respondent: Deceased / Name Redacted. Fourth Respondent: Simon Spencer Archbald. The redacted name of the deceased screams at me, and my journalists nose twitches as my favourite question fights to be heard. Why?

  The Court Clerk turns to the chairman of three judges who indicates he`s ready. The Clerk begins, “Would the defendants please stand.”

  All three rise to hear the Clerk ask them to confirm their identity.

  David Samuels. “Yes sir.”

  Robert Davis. “Yes sir.”

  Simon Archbald. “Yes sir.”

  “Please sit down,” the Clerk says, as three pairs of modern leather-soled shoes and chair legs scratch against the old wooden floor and echo around the courtroom.

  As the defendants settle into their seats one of the other barristers stands up from the front bench. “Your Honour, would you like me to kick off?”

  The Judge drops his pen. “No Mr Southam, I would not. This is not a football match. I would like you to open your case in the professional manner this court is accustomed to.”

  Heads turn and dozens of eyes are raised as almost everyone in the courtroom experiences the fear. Rodney Southam QC pulls himself together and begins again. “Your Honour, as has been previously stated to the court this is a matter which is not only about my client or his colleagues currently in the dock. There were others who it is not possible to bring before this tribunal. I suggest to the court that those others and in particular, those who ran the buy-to-let property investment business at the centre of this matter were guilty of misleading many people including my client.”

  It takes about two hours for Southam and his two barrister friends to finish their submissions to the court before the senior judge begins. “It is abundantly clear to this bench that the defendants and the law firm they ran are only one small part in this matter. However, it is not within the remit of this tribunal to deal with anyone other than the defendants currently in the dock. Each of you is therefore being sentenced only for the professional breaches and failings, grave as they are, that you have committed. Those failings have been responsible for hundreds of millions of pounds being lost and this court cannot and will not ignore that.”

  This is sounding more interesting by the minute. I`ve covered many large fraud cases over the years, some of which involved millions of pounds, but this looks like it might dwarf anything I`ve ever seen.

  The Judge continues. “Banks were lied to and as a result, thousands of mortgages have been given out and hundreds` of millions of pounds have been obtained, possibly by deception – but again that is not a matter for this court. One of my learned friends has some other observations at this point.” The senior judge hands over to one of his two colleagues.

  Before beginning the second judge clears his throat and sips from a glass of water. I can`t wait to hear more of this.

  “There are further matters here which this tribunal does not have the power to rule on but on which I will comment.” His voice is deep and powerful. “Mr Samuels,” The defendant stands up. “Whilst it may be apparent that your role here was minimal due to your location on the Isle of Man it is clear to this tribunal that the impact of the arrangements put in place by you is a significant factor in so much money disappearing. On the face of it you are indeed a very clever man. Through your position on the Isle of Man, and on behalf of those at the centre of this debacle, you arranged a variety of complex schemes in jurisdictions around the world with circuitous methods of extracting cash along the way whilst avoiding the payment of tax here in the UK. I am bound to say that we recognise that in doing so you may not have done anything which is considered illegal. However, we want you to know that this tribunal does not approve of these methods. We consider them to be immoral and detrimental to the British taxpayer. But we cannot punish you for what you have not done wrong, and we have not therefore taken those matters into account in sentencing you.”

  This is riveting. Huge fraud and offshore tax havens. It`s the stuff of the money pages and big headlines. With some research I can write this up and dine out on it for months. But with anything based offshore there will be lots of closed doors and I`m going to need answers to a lot of questions, like who was running all this and where are they now, who lied to the mortgage lenders and who is the deceased defendant.

  I sense this will go on for some time and it`s nearing three o`clock. I`ve heard enough to know that I need a full transcript of the hearing and that won`t be available until after it finishes later today.

  Coupled with allowing their firms` client account to be used as a banking facility, possibly for the criminal use of funds, the sky was going very dark over these three soon-to-be “former” solicitors. If they are lucky, they might never practise law again, but something tells me their ultimate punishment might go way beyond that simple sanction.

  3

  Max

  Like most lawyers Julia is late.

  She arrives at a gallop, drops an armful of files and law books onto one chair and throws herself into the one next to me. Once she`s caught her breath she leans over, kisses me on the cheek and says, “Hello you.” Easing back, she frowns, “You`re looking a bit peaky.”

  “Don`t ask.” She doesn`t need to know I haven`t stopped drinking for the last two weeks. Or is it three.

  “Come on, what`s up?”

  It`s futile to think that drinking a single cup of the strongest coffee the café serves is going to clear the alcohol induced fog from my brain and help me organise my thoughts, so I just say, “Sandy`s left me.”

  “What. Really.”

  “Yes, really. New Year’s Eve. All she said was I don’t love you anymore. Then she walked out of the door taking Jake with her.”

  “Bitch. I always knew there was something I didn`t like about her.”

  “What`s the date today?”

  She frowns again. “17th, why?”

  “Just checking.”

  She lean
s in closer. “I want to say I`m sorry but she was a cow. And to take Jake too. I thought he was your dog.”

  “He wouldn`t have let me stay in bed for two weeks that`s for sure.”

  “You`ve been in bed for two weeks?”

  “Nearly three apparently.”

  “You can`t have been drunk, no-one gets drunk for that long.”

  “I had a good teacher.”

  “By the way, this dressed-down look is much more you.”

  In my former city-desk life I could often be called away at short notice to interview a senior figure at the Bank of England or some major industrialist at Rolls Royce and so a business suit was my daily norm. Always dark and sometimes pin-striped with a plain white shirt and college-type tie. Since losing my job I`ve come to realise it had all become a suit of armour and adopted a more casual approach. Lightly coloured chinos, button-down shirt and a navy cotton jacket are now my everyday go to`s. I haven`t worn a tie for at least three years.

  “Is it definitely over?” she asks.

  “Apparently. She says she`s not coming back to the house and that I can stay there, if I can afford it.”

  “Can you afford it?”

  “I haven`t exactly got a lot of work on right now.”

  “Any joint bank accounts or savings?”

  “Just one, for household expenses, the mortgage, that sort of thing. But the mortgage is in arrears, not for the first time, and I`ve got no more grace with the bank. They`ve given me three months to get back on an even keel or they`ll seek possession.”

  “Have you thought of going back to an editorial role.”

  “With my reputation they wouldn`t employ me to push the tea trolley around.”

  Julia says there`s little to be done at this stage of my marital breakdown and adds a few further choice comments about Sandy. Heading off back to her Chambers for another late client meeting she hugs me and says, “Sorry, got to run. I`ll call you.”