CHAPTER 10
Being Saturday afternoon, the front door of Garland and McCready (Solicitors) of St Aldgate’s in Oxford was locked.
“Ring the bell, Ritchie. See if anyone’s up yet.” Mark Dobson instructed Ritchie.
Ritchie pressed the brass button and heard the door being unbolted from inside.
“Mr Dobson, is it? James Garland. We don’t normally open on Saturdays but please come in. It’s Mr Dobson and Mr…?”
“Nolan,” Ritchie said holding out his hand.
“You are expected. Baroness Johnson called me earlier to arrange this. Rather last-minute but she should be here soon.” He led them along a short, stuffy corridor and opened the door to a typical English solicitor’s meetings room.
“You are the company lawyer?” Mark asked.
“No, no,” Garland said. “I’m Baroness Johnson’s private solicitor. Can I get you a coffee?”
He closed the door and left them standing by a long, shiny oak table. A neat row of uncomfortable-looking high-backed chairs stood on either side - hard seats in green leather concaved by the fidgeting backsides of a century of clients. Place mats with black and white prints of Oxford scenes had been evenly laid out across the table and along the wall stood a locked, glass-fronted bookcase filled with legal cases going back to Oliver Cromwell’s time. Ritchie looked out of the window at the rain while Mark Dobson scanned the book case, wondering why it needed to be locked.
Garland returned with two white plastic cups. He chose a place mat for each cup and then left. Mark sat down but Ritchie carried his coffee to the window and continued looking out. “Mind your coffee doesn’t drip on the nice floor, Ritchie.”
Ritchie turned, checked for drips and looked worried.
“What’s the matter Ritchie?”
“I hate these places,” Ritchie said. “They make me nervous like I’ve done something wrong.”
“It’s a guilty conscience, Ritchie. “
“And who reads all this stuff?” Ritchie was now peering into the bookcase at something dated 1903.
“It’s to put your mind at ease so you understand your case already has a precedent.”
“Unlikely,” Ritchie said. “In 1903 my great, great, grandad was wearing feathers and war dancing in Sierra Leone.”
“Does dancing run in the family, Ritchie?”
“No, but I can do a good imitation of Bing Crosby singing and dancing in the rain outside.”
“That wasn’t Bing Crosby. It was Fred Astaire.”
“Never heard of him.”
The door opened again and Steven Garland almost bowed in presenting an elegant dark-haired woman in a light grey skirted suit and red high-heels. “May I introduce Baroness Johnson, Mr Dobson,” he said and scuttled away.
Isobel Johnson held out a delicate white hand, the nails shiny and blood red and looked at Dobson with heavily mascaraed dark brown eyes and thick black eyebrows. Her high cheek-boned and well-proportioned face was framed by neatly trimmed black hair. She looked younger than Mark Dobson expected and he wondered what Eddie thought. He could also smell flowers of a sort that Eddie had probably identified by their Latin name.
“Mr Dobson. Good afternoon. And this is...”
“Ritchie Nolan,” said Ritchie. “We spoke earlier.”
They sat at the table – Ritchie and Mark Dobson on one side, Isobel on the other.
“So,” she said, “How was Taiwan?”
“Taiwan?” Mark repeated.
“Professor Higgins said you’d just been to Taiwan and other places.”
Mark Dobson had almost forgotten his day in Taipei talking to Kenny Tan about his Red Power energy drinks. He’d then headed to Kuala Lumpur to meet Jeffrey. “Much the same,” he said. “Fly in, do the business, fly out.”
“Have you visited the Chiang Kai-Shek monument?”
“I never seem to find much time for tourism when I’m working.”
“A shame. Liberty Square? Taiwan’s long road to democracy?”
“But I read a lot.”
“Reading is no substitute for seeing for yourself.”
“Oh, I see it alright,” Mark Dobson replied, “I just don’t seem to find time to talk about it afterwards.”
Ritchie’s head moved as if he was watching tennis, but he needed to get used to it. It was to go on like that for over an hour although his eyes lingered far longer on Isobel Johnson’s face than Dobson’s.
Mark thought he might have sounded a little rude but he didn’t do tourism. With one minute gone though, he’d already decided Baroness Isobel Johnson was a confident member of the chattering classes, probably a feminist, a cocktail party sort, a wearer of expensive perfume and a networker in circles that he avoided like the plague unless essential. Places like the House of Lords which, in his opinion, should be disbanded for all the democratic good it did. Trouble makers, half of them retired, all hellbent on slowing up decision making processes, reminding the world they still existed. Christ, he thought to himself, he was sounding like Eddie.
His sensitive ear, though, detected a slight mid Atlantic accent. “English with a US education?” He was trying to be nice and was spot on.
“The latter, Mr Dobson. Harvard.”
“And now chairman or chairwoman of Vital Cosmetics.”
“Chairman suits me fine.”
“And we’re here to discuss Vital Cosmetics with its headquarters in Oxford and agents, distributors, suppliers and one or two offices scattered across parts of Europe and most of the ASEAN area - except Laos, Burma, Vietnam and Cambodia I understand.”
“I’m pleased to see you’ve already done some homework, Mr Dobson.”
It was two hours before they were on the M40 again driving east back to London. And what had they discovered?
That Baroness Isobel Johnson had tried to stay above the day to day goings on in the business. That she was also a director of some other businesses: a women’s fashion business, a small group of restaurants, a private nursing home. That she was a busy lady who only got involved if a big decision was needed, a casting vote required or she got wind of something that didn’t look right. Even then she tried to delegate, but in the case of Vital Cosmetics, it had been, in her own words, “Time to engage on a more practical level.”
They learned that the company had started fifteen years ago as ‘Vitality Hand Creams’. It had imported and processed raw materials for cosmetics that included palm oil, coconut oil and other so-called essential oils. Some six years ago it had changed its name to Vital Cosmetics when the business was bought by Isobel’s sister, Kathrine with money from Kathrine’s business.
“And what business is that?” Mark had asked innocently.
“An investment management company. “
“Called?”
“KRJ Capital.”
Mark knew all this, of course, but didn’t bat an eyelid. His and Colin Asher’s brief research had thrown up all sorts of interesting family connections within Vital which they’d agreed could help explain problems and embarrassments. “But you have shares in the business?” he asked.
“Yes, I put in some cash when Kathrine bought the business. Then, two years ago, Kathrine asked me to become company chairman. I already had experience in similar businesses.”
“Cosmetics?”
“Clothing and fashion.”
Mark nodded and Isobel went on. “Kathrine’s husband, Peter Lester, my brother in law, is a sizeable shareholder and runs the overseas side of Vital Cosmetics.” She had then paused as if unsure whether to continue. “And then there is my uncle, Nicholas Carstairs. Nick is the younger brother of the Prime Minister, Mr Dobson.”
She looked slightly embarrassed by this interesting fact but Mark feigned not to notice and she continued. “Nick acts as managing director.”
The phrase ‘acts as’ always aroused Mark’s suspicions but they continued to sit and listen as she reverted to describing more about the company and its brand name – skin care by Vital, hair care by Vital, that sort of thing. And that competition came from the big names – Proctor and Gamble, Avon, L’Oreal and so on. Vital was tiny in comparison but they were investing heavily in the energy and sports drinks market using natural products. Vital Nutrition was a new idea and destined for great things in the drinks sector with a drink called Vital Sport.
They learned that Baroness Johnson held shares with some other companies including a French cosmetics company that probably explained her make-up. That Vital Cosmetics’ philosophy was to continue to build on high ethical standards evidenced by numerous certificates for everything from its quality control and good manufacturing practice to its excellent employment conditions.
“We believe in sustainability, Mr Dobson.”
She had banded the word sustainable around so much that Mark stopped listening. He had also been getting increasingly bored as she went around in circles, avoiding the issues, whatever they were. She finally mentioned their south east Asian business. “In south east Asia, Vital employs locals because we believe it’s good for the local economy.”
That was when Mark’s patience finally snapped because of things that had cropped up during trips to south east Asia looking at counterfeiting for Kenny Tan. These were the companies he’d just shared photos of with Ritchie, companies with unseemly Russian and Chinese influences that had even involved past arrests for credit card fraud and other illegal activities. Was that what she meant by ‘employing locals’?
“And good for those engaged in illegal logging and the forging of credit cards, I understand,” Mark had interrupted. “Are you sure it’s not someone working on the inside? Someone with a nice salary and a long-term employment contract?”
It was deliberately provocative but a practical lesson for Ritchie in how to wind up someone who was beating about the bush. It worked. Isobel started to bite her rosy lips and the pink hue of her facial make-up darkened a little but he didn’t give her time to reply. Instead, he revealed something else – something he’d forgotten to mention to Ritchie earlier.
“I understand your Malaysian partner company, PJ Beauty Supplies was also mentioned in a scandal that involved a Malaysian MP who owned palm oil plantations in Thailand and Indonesia, including one that encroached onto a national park. A Chinese, I believe. Aren’t you paying the locals enough?”
Baroness Johnson had started sniffing and fidgeting and, maybe, even perspiring, so he knew they were getting somewhere. He’d ended it though with a forced but genuine-looking smile to confuse her. It had worked beautifully. She started to come clean.
First, she rummaged in her Dior handbag, retrieved a notepad and started reading out names: names of associates, local companies, agents and distributors many of which were familiar to Dobson although he didn’t tell her.
In Bangkok, it was a company called Far Eastern Inspire. In Malaysia, the well- known PJ Beauty Supplies and in Hong Kong, PL Cosmetics. She’d then started on rather less sophisticated information - rumours, suspicions, doubts and more and all the time her stress level was visibly increasing. Her eyes lost their sparkle and seemed to retreat inside her head.
“It’s quite dreadful Mr Dobson but a year ago Vital Cosmetics company credit cards were used to buy luxury goods in Beijing, Bangkok, London and Paris. And I suppose I must also mention the timber business.” She’d paused to wet her red lips with her tongue, to sniff and give a polite little cough. “Professor Higgins mentioned it but I would hate Vital Cosmetics to be linked to anything suspicious, environmentally speaking. If things got out it would not be at all good for reputations.”
By ‘reputations’, Dobson knew she also meant her own. “So how have you become involved in the timber trade?” he asked.
“Well, I recently learned that Vital has a patent on a method of extracting an essential oil from the krabok tree.”
“A krabok tree?” Dobson had repeated as if he’d never heard of one. The fact was he’d recently had a lecture on krabok nut oil by the world’s foremost expert.
“It’s a hard wood tree,” she said.
“And what is an essential oil?” he pursued with his feigned innocence.
“Essential oils are exactly that, Mr Dobson. They form an essential part of cosmetics, soaps and perfumes.”
“So why might they also be illegal?”
“Essential oils are not illegal, Mr Dobson but the theft of raw materials is and it would not be at all good for business if we discovered we were using inferior raw materials.”
Mark had quickly seen the influence and handiwork of Eddie in those last few words. “Theft from sustainable and properly managed forests, perhaps?” he suggested.
“That would not be good, Mr Dobson, but we are in the hands of local management on that matter.”
Mark liked to think he was a sensitive man, especially if it involved a mildly flushing lady who sniffed in a most unladylike manner and discreetly pulled a tissue from her sleeve. “Do I detect a few lingering doubts at this point?” he said with the sort of raised eyebrow that James Bond had perfected.
She was diplomatic. An essential characteristic for a member of the House of Lords he suspected. “It seems to be the local staff, Mr Dobson. And our - what shall I say? – our relationship with them.”
“So, you harbour concerns about your local staff, about your sustainably-cultivated plants and trees from which you extract essential oils - about credit card fraud and about goods that have gone astray. Am I understanding you correctly?”
“In a nutshell,” she replied as if there might still be details as yet untold.
“In a nutshell, you’re not happy with the way the company is being managed.”
She’d nodded with pursed lips.
“If Vitals’ local staff are involved in any of this, sack them,” he replied. “Build a fresh team.”
She’d shrugged. “Dismissing staff is very difficult under current employment law.”
“Not in South East Asia it isn’t. If they’re a problem you open the door and kick them into the street.”
“Yes, but over here,” she replied. “You know how it is, Mr Dobson.”
He’d nodded. Dismissing low paid workers was bad enough but getting rid of company directors was a minefield. Shareholders even more so. If cases like that ever came to family lawyers like Garland and McCready, they usually beat a hasty retreat. Vital Cosmetics had the look of an expensive and stressful liability rather than an easy legal fee.
“So, who is it?” he’d asked. “Who would you like to get rid of?”
“Peter Lester.”
Ah, he’d thought. Here we go. The facts and the true nature of the problem had floated to the surface. “Your brother-in-law? What has he done?”
“Nothing I can put my finger on, Mr Dobson. He is generally in charge of day to day matters and seems content to leave things as they are.” She raised both of her thick black eyebrows. It was enough to show that she suspected Lester of complicity.
“Do the other directors and shareholders share your concerns?”
“It appears not. They do not want to cause any fuss and publicity.”
“And you don’t agree?”
“Would you, Mr Dobson?”
“Not even remotely,” he admitted and watched the crumpled tissue appear once again over the edge of the table.
“It’s causing family problems, you see, especially with my sister. My sister and Peter are separated. Kathrine doesn’t get involved in the day to day running of Vital and I don’t interfere in her private life. It’s not my business. My sister is very independently minded and we’ve not always been very close but the main board have recently suggested I resign if I’m not happy with the way it’s being run.”
“That would be a pity. What is your shareholding?”
They had only slowly reached the crux of the matter but, as Ritchie till listened and watched, Mark still played the innocent fact finder. “So, who owns the other seventy percent?”
“Peter Lester has thirty three percent, Nick Carstairs twenty percent, and Boris Hamilton, the UK sales director has ten percent. Then there are some small, minority shareholders including Kathrine.”
“You’re on a very weak footing, aren’t you?”
She’d nodded. “And, I must be truthful Mr Dobson, I don’t really trust them. I really am at my wit’s end.”
And then both Ritchie and he had watched the wetness forming in her mascaraed eyes and, at last, the tissue found a job, delicately dabbing at moisture around the sides of her eyes. Being unsure what to do – after all, to lean over the table and comfort her seemed a little out of order – Mark had said and done nothing. Another short silence followed before two big, mascaraed eyes looked across at him from between two strands of displaced hair. She pushed the strands back behind her ear where he now noticed the simple ear stud. It was probably a diamond that matched her rings, he decided, though he was no expert. Despite Ritchie fidgeting alongside, strange, manly feelings of protection and concern suddenly spread through Mark Dobson’s loins. He needed to go careful. He certainly didn’t want to add to her woes – or his own.
They’d waited for the eye dabbing to finish before he mentioned Eddie. “How did you get on with Eddie?”
She hesitated and at last managed a faint smile. “A very passionate and obsessive man, Mr Dobson. A simple man with no airs and graces. He has strong but very fixed opinions and does, perhaps, thrive on grudges and private vendettas. But, in all honesty, I have to agree with much of what he said. And he’s understood our internal problems. Very quickly. I’m glad I recommended his appointment as scientific adviser.”
“That was your decision?”
“Yes – in the face of a lot of opposition.”
Another silence descended. Ritchie coughed. Isobel checked her nails. Mark played with his empty plastic coffee cup. It was time for a commitment of some sort. “Do you want Asher & Asher to do something in a more formal capacity?” he’d asked.
“In my name only, Mr Dobson. I’ll fund it. The company must know nothing.”