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It was a list Ellen Kennedy had studied with care. Over thirty of Britain’s biggest businesses had committed funds of over a quarter of a million pounds, making Claude Bonning the veritable Santa Claus of the voluntary sector.
‘We’re meeting today to learn how those of you seeking GlobeWatch support would use the funding. What we all want is to see a set of programmes in place which complement each other. We need to move in the same direction to maximise the benefits.’
Around the table there was much nodding and agreement.
‘Each programme sponsor will have the chance to speak. Then, over the next few days, I will canvass the opinion of everyone present and, if there is a general consensus, funding for each programme will be granted, in principle. Any details can be thrashed out at a later stage. If funding is not granted for a particular programme, we may ask the individuals concerned to re-submit new proposals.’
Claude had already explained all of this on the phone to the new Council members. Ellen had asked him in which order people were to make their pitch for funding. Claude had said he hadn’t decided, which was when Ellen had requested to go on last. That way, she knew from past experience, she could make sure her own proposals conveyed none of the weaknesses of those that had gone before. And, what’s more, having detected the reaction of the group to other proposals, she’d have a far better idea of how to play her own.
Not that she need have worried. They were not all competing for the same money but, rather, seeking mutual approval to go ahead with programmes. As one programme sponsor was followed by another, each enthusiastically outlining the benefits of their ideas, Ellen observed how a dynamic of mutual support was soon established – I’ll back your project, if you back mine. The cynic in her couldn’t help being amused by it. But, she reminded herself reasonably, these were all devoted professionals; leaders in their fields, men and women like herself, who for years had wanted to move projects forward but had been held back time and time again for lack of money.
When it came to her own turn to present her proposals, she was her usual brisk, sharp-minded self. She’d prepared a brief presentation on the programmes she had in mind and, unlike many of those present, she also had substantial documentation detailing her plans. For many years, ideas for projects she’d dreamed of setting in motion had sat dormant in her filing cabinet; she had simply dusted them off, updated them and had them copied and heat-bound in clear, plastic covers. The authority and passion with which she spoke on the subject of child labour, and the sensible measures she proposed to stop it, couldn’t fail to move her audience. When she finished, there was even a round of applause.
After the funding proposals, Claude briefly discussed a GlobeWatch publishing and public relations programme, to run in tandem with those projects that were endorsed by the Executive Council. Time was moving on, it was just after four, and people were beginning to glance at their watches. And then Claude came to the final item on the agenda – the GlobeWatch Awards.
‘As I said at the outset, GlobeWatch needs to adopt a high profile if it wants anyone to pay attention to it,’ he enthused, ‘and one of the most effective mechanisms I’ve discovered, while at Family First, is running an awards evening. Awards evenings give a focus to things. If one arranges a well-attended media event, one has the opportunity not only to make sure that GlobeWatch becomes well known, but also to reward those companies whose activities represent best practice. It’s our chance to hand out carrots, instead of always using the stick.’
There was much agreement around the table.
‘I’ve drafted a number of possible categories for an awards event. Although I suggest we keep things confidential – there’s nothing hard and fast about the categories at this stage – I’d appreciate your views.’ He waved towards a pile of papers before glancing at his watch. ‘I realise it’s after four and some of you have to go. But thank y
ou all very much for coming. I’ll be in touch with you individually in the next few days.’
There was an excited buzz as the meeting broke up. The combination of generous funding, well-known Council names and a highly effective Chairman gave the proceedings a decidedly upbeat feel, thought Ellen, packing documents into her briefcase. She overheard someone say that more had been achieved in two hours that afternoon than in the past five years put together. She wasn’t sure she would have put it quite so boldly as that, but there was no getting away from it – something exciting had started. On her way out, having bade her goodbyes, she helped herself to one of the sheets listing possible GlobeWatch award categories. A stickler for paperwork, she wanted to give the categories her full attention. Not, she noticed, that too many other people seemed to have taken copies.
She arrived at Paddington station with just five minutes to spare before her InterCity train departed. She found her seat, and put her briefcase on the one beside her, then leaned back into the first-class luxury. What a treat! She felt positively decadent travelling first class, but Claude Bonning had enclosed the tickets with his notes for this afternoon’s meeting. As the train began to glide slowly out of the station, she found herself being served a complimentary cup of tea and a biscuit. Presently she opened up her briefcase and pulled out the first paper that met her eye. It was the one about the awards scheme. There were no great surprises in Claude’s twelve suggested prize categories: Best Environmental Rejuvenator, Best Corporate Citizen, and a list of similar awards leading up to a main GlobeWatch Company of the Year.
What did surprise her, however, was that next to each category except the main one, he had provided a shortlist of three companies, with an asterisked ‘winner’. She didn’t suppose there was anything very controversial about his selections. But surely it would have been better to invite suggestions from the Executive Council? In fact, now that she thought about it, the whole notion of an awards scheme had been presented as a fait accompli. That wasn’t like Claude, she thought. He had always been scrupulous about consensus-building. She noticed that against several of the categories, Starwear had been identified as the winner.
She immediately thought of poor Nathan Strauss’s suicide and that dreadful business of the child slave accusations. She had met Nathan several times at the Institute of Directors in Pall Mall, and there had been instant rapport. His innate intelligence and awkward self-consciousness had had the strangest effect on her – he’d been the first man she’d thought she could simply eat, he was so wonderful. Which was why, when the allegations about Starwear using child slaves in India had come up, she had been deeply upset – until Nathan made his well-publicised statement about it being untrue. An innate sense, deep within her, knew that Nathan could be trusted. That, as far as she was concerned, had been the end of the matter.
So, seeing Starwear appear now as the nominated Best Developing Nations Employer was a decision that appealed. She’d support Claude on that one. It would be her way of doing something for Nathan. As the English countryside began to slip past the window, and the train sped forward in a gentle rhythm, she couldn’t resist resting her head back against the well-upholstered seat and closing her eyes. Claude’s fait accompli regarding the whole awards ceremony might be a little irregular but, she supposed, it didn’t really matter. What mattered, very much more, were all the ideas she’d been gathering over the years which now had some hope of bearing fruit. As she fell into a light doze, her dreams were all of programme funding.
Kate Taylor briefed Chris in the back of the racing-green Jaguar that was taking them to the Young Artists’ Exhibition in Covent Garden. The idea for the exhibition had been hatched by Nathan Strauss and Mike Cullen seven years earlier. All the finalists whose work was exhibited would be guaranteed a sale, and the winner, as judged by an independent team of art critics, would be awarded a cash prize of £10,000. Nathan had paid for the event personally, Kate explained, and Lombard organised it. It was only one of the many charitable activities in which Nathan was involved, but probably the one that had given him the greatest pleasure. He had enjoyed the personal contact he had with the artists, several of whom had gone on to establish names for themselves after first showing at his exhibition. It was also through the exhibition that Mike Cullen’s interest in young artists had developed. Nathan had told him the story of the Francis Bacon painting sold for £150 in the 1970s that had fetched £2 million fifteen years later, and that was all the incentive he needed. Mike’s collection had been growing steadily ever since.
Not that art was the reason Chris had volunteered to join Kate that Wednesday afternoon. Rather, it was the Young Artists’ Exhibition patron: Madeleine Strauss. Madeleine was known to be a formidable woman, grand in manner and, since Nathan’s death, outspoken in her dislike of her brother-in-law. Chris knew that Lombard had tried to set up several photo-opportunities in which she and Jacob appeared together, to present a united front, but she had refused, point-blank.
If he could get her on to the subject of Jacob Strauss, Chris decided, she could be a highly instructive starting point for his investigations. So too could Kate. Turning to her now, he said, ‘Had a few drinks with some friends the other night. One of them said something about Lombard phone calls being recorded.’
‘Financial division,’ she nodded, ‘all our calls are taped.’
He raised his eyebrows.
‘Self-defence,’ she explained. ‘We don’t want to be accused of leaking inside information. If everything’s on tape …’
He was nodding. The explanation put rather a different slant on things.
‘I don’t know about the fourth floor,’ she brought her hands together in prayer position and bowed towards him, wearing a mischievous smile, ‘but I doubt it. Why? D’you have a problem with it?’
He shrugged, ‘Not really. It just … came as a surprise.’
‘In all the years since Lombard started, we’ve only had to dig out tapes on two occasions – both during takeover battles,’ she reassured him. ‘Otherwise, it’s not as if anyone ever actually listens to you.’
They arrived to the popping of champagne corks, as the first guests of the evening were starting to arrive. Madeleine herself swept in about ten minutes later, tall, solid, and expensively finished, with an immaculately coiffed power-set, and resplendent in black and gold brocade. Kate went over to greet her and make sure she was offered a drink, before performing introductions. She and Madeleine were evidently old friends, and what happened next was a well-practised routine. First, Madeleine met that year’s exhibitors, a colourful crew whose clothing ranged from lounge suits to retro-punk. Next, she was introduced to the judges, headed by a suitably servile valuer from Christie’s. Then, with Kate on one side and himself on the other, Madeleine set sail round the exhibition, standing before each of the paintings, glass in hand.
About halfway around the exhibition, Kate had to excuse herself, leaving Chris to accompany the grande dame. The opportunity he had hoped for.
‘My late husband really used to enjoy all this,’ she told him, holding out her glass for a refill from a circulating wine steward.
