Dick Francis's Gamble - Felix Francis [57]
“In what way?” he asked.
“The factory project would seem to be only the key to a much bigger enterprise,” I said. “The factory was to have cost about twenty million euros, with your family trust putting in just over six million and getting European Union funding at the rate of two euros for each one of yours.”
He nodded. “That’s right,” he said. “It was about five million pounds.”
“Yes,” I said. “But it was the funding of the factory that triggered the grant for the housing project. And that was a whopping eighty million euros, without the need for any further private finance. So it was your investment that was the key to it all.” I paused. “How did you hear about the investment opportunity in the first place?”
“I can’t really remember,” he said. “But it must have been through Gregory Black. Almost everything the trust invests in, other than the family estate, is done through Lyall and Black.”
“So was the naming of the factory Gregory Black’s idea?”
“Oh, I can’t remember,” he said. “What does it matter? The important thing is whether the factory exists. That’s what I’m most concerned about.”
“I haven’t yet managed to find that out. Is there any chance I could speak with your nephew?”
Mr. Roberts looked doubtful.
“I’d just like to ask him where he went and what he saw, or not, as the case may be.”
“He’s up at Oxford,” he said.
“Oxford University?” I asked.
Jolyon Roberts nodded. “At Keble. Reading PPE. Thinks he wants to change the world. Bit full of himself, if you ask me.”
PPE was philosophy, politics and economics. I’d thought of applying for it myself, but had opted instead for a degree course at the LSE.
PPE at Oxford was often seen as the first step on the political ladder to real power, both in British and foreign governments, and elsewhere. Alumni included such diverse members as three UK Prime Ministers, including David Cameron, the Nobel Peace Prize–winning Burmese pro-democracy campaigner Aung San Suu Kyi, the media tycoon Rupert Murdoch and the convicted IRA bomber Rose Dugdale. Even Bill Clinton had studied with the Oxford PPE class for a while when he was at the university as a Rhodes Scholar.
If Jolyon Roberts’s nephew wanted to change the world, he was starting at the right place.
“Do you have a telephone number for him?” I asked.
Jolyon Roberts seemed rather hesitant. “Look,” he said, “I’d much rather he wasn’t involved.”
“But, sir,” I said, “he is involved. You told me he was the one who started your concerns in the first place by visiting Bulgaria.”
“Yes,” he said, “but my brother, his father, has told him to forget it.”
“Does your brother have any idea you have spoken to me?”
“Good God no,” replied Mr. Roberts. “He’d be furious.”
“Sir,” I said formally. “I think it might be best if I left you to sort out any further questions you might have with Gregory himself. I have rather gone out on a limb here to find out the small amount I have, but I think it’s time to stop. The Roberts Family Trust is our client in this matter, and your brother is the senior trustee. I really should not act behind his back.” Nor behind Gregory’s, I thought.
“No,” he said. “Quite right. I can see that.” He paused. “Sorry. Should have realized. I’ll give Gregory Black a call about it on Monday.” He paused again. “Right, matter closed, as far as you’re concerned. I’ll trouble you no further.” He stood up, nodded at me briefly and walked out of the bar.
I sat there for a while longer and transferred my allegiance from white wine to red.
Had I done the right thing?
Definitely.
I was a financial adviser, not a fraud investigator.
But what if there really was a hundred-million-euro fraud going on? Had I not a responsibility to report it to someone? But to whom? Perhaps I should send an e-mail to Uri Joram at the European Commission. But did I care?
I finished the red wine and decided it was time to head home.
Going home to Claudia had always filled me with excitement, raising the pulse a fraction and causing things to stir down below. But now I was hesitant,