The Sacred Band Ch. 10

The bitterest pills come sugarcoated. Philip was quite delighted when a Birmingham businessman named Stephen Rotkoff booked an appointment in early 1955. It seemed that he was being heard of outside the East Midlands triangle, and that the reports were good.

Mr. Rotkoff was a large, powerful man in his thirties with a high colour, sparse sandy-coloured hair, a loud, braying laugh and a powerful, crushing handshake designed to hurt.

Luckily for Philip, he had learned how to deal with this sort of bullying in Hong Kong, and, seeing the hard glint in his visitor's eye, he automatically pushed his hand so far forward that Rotkoff could not apply anything like his full grip.

Philip could see a quick spasm of anger in visitor's eyes, swiftly replaced by bonhomie. The two men sat in the handsome, early Victorian office overlooking New Walk. The normal courtesies out of the way, they swiftly got down to business.

"I understand, Mr. Cheshire, that you are not affiliated with any stockbroker, and don't buy or sell shares. How do you make your crust?"

Philip reached into a drawer of his desk, produced a contract and passed it to his visitor.

"It's very straightforward. I recommend purchases and sales of shares or bonds and you make the purchases through your usual broker. I shall give you a mandate to sign and pass on to him. He will then send me copies of any transactions made on your behalf, and I open a ledger page for you.

Alternately, I can deal with a broker on your behalf, and in that case you would be copied in to all the transactions. The broker would send you a quarterly statement and you could collate it with mine.

Any transactions that do not arise out of my advice I disregard, but I keep a running account of all the sales and purchases you make, and identify those that came about directly as a result of my advice. At the end of the year, I calculate what capital gain you have made from following my advice, and I bill you 7% of that gain as my commission.

You also receive my fortnightly newsletter, with current reviews and forecasts. Every time you implement a concrete recommendation from me, I make a one-off charge of £10 guineas."

Rotkoff put the contract on the desk with scarcely a glance. His voice had the quality of a sneer.

"You are not going to get rich like that, but that's your affair."

He opened his wallet, proffered a rather noncommittal business card, and explained that he and his partners owned Hanson, Calke and Partners, an estate agency with branches throughout Birmingham and the Black Country. Philip recognized the name from advertisements in Country Life and The Field.

It all seemed above board, and together they drew up the guidelines and planned a portfolio with an initial value of £70,000; one of the largest the partnership had had handled up to that point.

Within a day or two, Philip produced a well-balanced portfolio made up mostly of lively companies spread through what he took to be the growing sectors of the economy.

Rotkoff took the advice and fifteen months later, when the account was showing a capital gain of 19%, he received a meticulously itemized bill for £712, representing fees and charges plus the standard 7% on the capital growth. Rotkoff had every reason to be delighted, and Philip was gratified when the bill was paid promptly.

***

Alarm bells began to sound one evening at Denise's house. Philip and Laura were having supper with Denise and her new gentleman friend, Andy Summerton, the retired former head of the Leicestershire CID.

The ladies had withdrawn to the dining room to lay out a cold supper, when Andy, refreshing their drinks, casually, asked Philip how business was going on.

Philip was happily telling him about gaining Stephen Rotkoff as a client when he noticed Andy's rather jowly face tighten ominously.

"You're looking a bit iffy Andy. Is there something about him I should know?"

"If it's the same Rotkoff, then there certainly is. He's no more an estate agent than I am. Old Man Rotkoff was the biggest brothel-owner in Brum and the Black country before the war, and Stephen was his muscle.

The brothels were put out of business at the end of the war and now Stephen runs half the street girls in Brum, plus a particularly nasty protection and extortion racket. He's heavily into illegal bookmaking and probably has a slice of the drug traffic to boot.

If it's the same bloke, you really should watch out for him, Philip. Most criminals are a bit pathetic really, but the odd few; men like him; are something else. They're hard, clever and cruel. They thrive on putting the frighteners on people and watching them squirm."

Seriously alarmed, Philip asked.

"What do you think I should do, Andy? I don't want to have dealings with criminals if I can help it, but I have no evidence that there's anything wrong."

Andy reassured him quietly.

"It's probably nothing at all; I should just go on as normal if I were you. But it can't hurt for me to have a quiet word with an old oppo or two in Brum and see what I can find out."

There the matter rested for some time. In the following months, Philip proposed a couple of additions to Rotkoff's portfolio, and suggested that he sell his holdings in one under-performing company and he had the satisfaction of being notified by his stockbroker that Rotkoff had implemented the proposals immediately.

Time went on, the business had another pretty successful year, and again Rotkoff paid up promptly. Andy's warnings had slipped out of his mind, and when he got a message that Rotkoff wanted a meeting, the memory revived, leaving him feeling profoundly uneasy.

It was at the very end of December, when Christmas was over and the New Year celebrations a couple of days away. The office was very quiet and Philip had gone down to the reference Library to catch up on some essential reading. Joan was off or a couple of days and Laura was manning the office when the phone rang.

"Hello, Philip Cheshire Associates."

"This is Stephen Rotkoff. Is Philip in?"

"Hello, Mr. Rotkoff; nice to hear from you. No, Philip is in town right now, and I don't expect him back much before we close. Can I take a message?"

"Yes, I am in Nottingham on the third of January, and I should like to see him later on in the afternoon. Does 4.pm. sound a possibility?"

"Yes, four o'clock seems fine. Shall I put it into his diary?"

"Yes, do that small thing." With that he rang off rather abruptly, leaving Laura thinking what a rude man he was.

When Philip got back to the office shortly before five, Laura told him about the phone call. She had no idea what Andy had said about Rotkoff's reputation, so she had given the matter little or no thought.

The news hit Philip like an electric shock. Laura could see he was upset but Philip decided to keep her in the dark a bit longer, so he covered up as best he could, by inventing something about maybe forgetting to mail him a receipt.

As soon as he could do so in privacy, Philip picked up the phone to call Andy Summerton.

"Hello Andy. Yes, we're fine thank you, and you? Good. You remember a few months ago you were telling me some very disturbing things about Stephen Rotkoff? Well he's surfaced again, and I was wondering if you got any information about him."

Andy's reply made Philip's heart sink.

"Yes. I'm afraid it is the same Rotkoff. He's a heavyweight gangster, associated with at least half a dozen killings as well as beatings and maimings. And there's no doubt at all that he is heavily into the heroin trade."

"Well, he's coming over to see me next Thursday. I offer all my clients an annual review meeting to see how their portfolios are going on, and I guess he's taking advantage of it."

"It may all be above board for all I know, but you need to be on your guard. Is there any chance that I can listen in to the conversation without him knowing?"

Philip thought rapidly.

"Not in the office – there's nowhere you could keep out of sight."

"Maybe we could set up a hidden mike and I could make a wire recording?"

"You really are taking this seriously, aren't you Andy?"

"You can't take scum like Rotkoff too seriously. The man's a cold-blooded killer, there are no half-measures with him.

At three a.m. a couple of nights later, a couple of Andy's old mates in the fraud squad, moonlighting for old time's sake, hid two microphones in the office. Then it was a matter of waiting until the man himself appeared.

Rotkoff arrived for his appointment forty-five minutes early. He ignored Laura's friendly greeting and walked into Philip's office as if he owned it. He spent five minutes chatting amiably about this and that; then stood up abruptly.

"You're sweating Philip. Perhaps it is a bit close in here, let's go outside and take a stroll."

The two men walked slowly down New Walk, towards the Art Gallery and sat down on a bench.

"You seem very nervous Philip. I don't know why you should be. I'm bringing you some very good news. You have done a really very good job for us, and we are very pleased. So pleased, in fact, that you can stop looking about for new clients altogether.

My accountants reckon that you are handling somewhere in the region of £800,000 in clients' money. They also calculate that you are taking a gross income of around £6,000 a year. How do those figures strike you?"

They were disturbingly accurate. How could he have got so close?

"Yes, that's about right, but how could you possibly have known that?"

"Philip, Philip, your security is about as good as my kiddy's piggybank. My men went through your desk a couple of weeks ago and photo'd everything. By now we know more about your business than you do. And we shall continue to keep an eye on you, so don't get any ideas."

"How could they have? There wasn't a thing out of place."

"Glad to hear it. If you had suspected anything my men would be due for a hospital visit.

Anyway, here's the plan. You will be working for me in future. I'll put at least a million in up front and regular installments after that. I want to see at least an average of 10% growth a year.

Don't worry. I'm not unreasonable. I understand that the markets fall now and again, just give me an average of 10% plus over a five-year period and I shan't complain. I'm better off; you're better off."

"But what about my partners? They own 40% of the business."

"No problem. What do you owe them? About £20,000? Pay them off out of the advance I'm giving you, and pay me back over two-three years. I'm not asking you anything unreasonable. Get rid of your other clients. Tell them that you can no longer carry such small accounts and refer them on.

Now, let me make myself crystal clear. You will run a totally clean business. Declare every penny for tax. Pay your employees well and keep your books clean. Do nothing to draw the attention of the authorities."

"Why should I just hand my business over to you on a plate?"

"Philip, you are so transparent. I knew as soon as I saw you today that you have heard something about me that frightens you. You do well to be frightened. People who turn down my offers of partnership do not thrive. You are the researcher. Take a look at what happened to these people, and then come back to me – but don't take too long making up your mind. I don't like people who play hard to get."

He handed over a piece of paper. On it was a typed list of five names and locations.

Dr. and Mrs. W Butler - Rugby

Michael Hanson and Adrian Calke - Birmingham

Patrick Kavanagh - Wolverhampton

Edgar Abrahams - Birmingham

Charles and Diane Rollinson - Walsall

"Don't think you can go to the police about this. If you do I shall hear about it within 24 hours, and I might be driven to do something you'll regret. Oh, and by the way, if you did take that piece of paper to the police, they'll find that it was typed on the typewriter in your office. The one that pretty fiancée of yours was using this morning".

Rotkoff got up and walked calmly away, leaving Philip staring blindly at the list, his whole life crumbling about him. After a while, like an old man, he walked slowly back to the office, a feeling of cold, clammy dread in the marrow of his bones.

following: chapter eleven: Laura, Philip and Judy.