Corruption's Price: A Spanish Deceit: The Corruption Series, #2

Corruption’s Price: A Spanish Deceit

Corruption's Price:

A Spanish Deceit

(The Corruption Series #2)

By

Charles Brett

Copyright

Copyright

First published in 2015

By

C3B Consulting Ltd

registered at:

School House, St Philip's Court, Church Hill,

Coleshill, Birmingham, B46 3AD, UK.

This ebook was first published in 2015

All rights reserved © Charles Brett

The right of Charles Brett to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This book is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred,

distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

ISBN-13 978-1517024253

ISBN-10 1517024250

Acknowledgements

My thanks for help with this novel go to Adelita, Clara, Eric, Ian, Karen, Marta, Salvador, Una and Lourdes for reading early versions and giving me valued feedback. José María and Begoña were kind enough to offer input on the legal dimension. Lourdes and Salvador corrected my mistakes in Spanish and about Spain.

Most of all I must 'thank' all those Spanish politicians (and their like) who have provided, and seemingly will continue to provide, the base material for this novel -- and who simultaneously made the writing infinitely harder. Just as I thought that I had pushed my concepts of corruption to their credible limits I would pick up El País or El Mundo to discover their rapaciousness and duplicity know even fewer bounds and exist to an extent that exceeded my worst imagination.

All flaws, idiocies and errors are of my own making.

Charles Brett

Tallinn and Madrid, 2015

CHAPTER ONE

Dilemmas Aplenty

Friday: Valencia, Spain

Marta put her head in her hands. Sitting in a smart, modern office in the old city centre of Valencia she thought: Not another.

She considered the five other identical envelopes lying within a folder on her desk. The details in each were different, but the message was the same. Outwardly each was an innocent standard letter sent by the same company outside Madrid. They seemed banal, merely requests for the return of payments made twice or for refunding credits held within six different organisations. But at each of these six she was a special financial adviser. Worse, the amounts mentioned gave her specific cause for concern. Not only were the cumulative amounts substantial but each was like a bright red coal she knew was too hot to handle. Any one could ruin her.

The trouble was she recognised the amounts. She knew too much. Therein existed the potential to unravel a cat's cradle of systematic dis-ingenuity she had arranged for over a decade. Except that any unravelled results would not produce the harmless pleasure of an enjoyable toy puzzle or a ball of wool. Rather they could reveal the messy links which existed between business and the state politic in Spain. Yes, she reflected, the issues were as big as that.

When the first letter had arrived she had thought it odd. When the second appeared it seemed like an unfortunate coincidence. With the sixth there was no doubt that someone knew something. Was it specifically targeted at her? She thought not. She hoped not. She prayed not. After all, the letters were not addressed to her personally, but to each of the six businesses who were her major clients.

She pondered further before deciding what to do.

First she must find out more about the source of the letters. Its name was cumbersome and it was curious that it was in English, not Spanish. That might be good, or bad. She put a call through to her long-suffering though handsomely-paid assistant.

"Beata. Will you see what you can find out about a business called 'OverPayment Recovery Services SL'? It's located in Alcobendas, just outside Madrid. Gracias. Oh, by the way, I probably won't be back until about 7 this afternoon."

Second, as it was almost 2 o'clock, she was going to enjoy a long-anticipated lunch with her ... Mentally she stopped. If a man had a mistress did it mean that her equivalent was a mister? She didn't dwell on this but instead let herself contemplate not only the meal to come but also the feast she'd enjoy afterwards. It was such a pity that her placid husband was so unimaginative and had proved most unwilling to learn what might have encouraged them both. Instead, as with pretty much everything else she had ever wanted, she had found her own discreet way to satisfy her desires.

Yet that flexibility and urgency was exactly why she was potentially in so much trouble.

Oh well. I might as well make the most of what's there while it's available, she muttered sotto voce as she stood to leave.

Sunday: Madrid

Davide was in a large apartment in Malasaña, one belonging to his mother's favourite and youngest brother. After retiring as a leading lawyer tío Toño lived most of the year in southern Spain in the resort town of Marbella, famed for good living and made popular by a long-dead Saudi King who had spent summers in the cool by the coast. Summers in Andalucía are hot but compared to the equivalents prevailing in Riyadh, or elsewhere in the Saudi Kingdom, Marbella seems balmy and cool. Tío Toño preferred it to Madrid.

The apartment was enormous, with a large salon-comedor and five bedrooms with their own bathrooms. Best of all, for Davide, was the access from the salon to a decent-sized terraza with views out over Madrid as well as comfortable chairs and an outdoor table to work or eat at. Though tío Toño had invited Davide to use his bedroom, Davide had declined, having instead moved into the main guest room. The one change he had made was to take over the smallest bedroom, which was now his study-cum-office.

That still left Davide with more than enough space for one person, especially with tío Toño's chica, Ángela from Ecuador, coming most days to clean, iron and generally mother whomever was in the apartment. In practice Ángela adored having Davide there. Her alternative was presiding over a perfectly polished palace that was used only for days in a year on tío Toño's occasional appearances. Irrespective, he paid her well. In Spain's time of financial crisis, or 'la crisis' as the newspapers referred to it, Ángela was grateful just to have a job. It was even better, however, to have someone to focus on.

Davide paced, up and down, down and up. He was uncertain. All he was sure of was that he needed help. Disagreeably the most logical person was far, far away – both geographically and otherwise.

He pictured Caterina Certaldo. They had met when they were both working for Nelson da Ferraz, the Brazilian cardinal responsible for the HolyPhone. Together with Conor – Davide's friend and Caterina's then boss at Interpol – the three had successfully defeated a particularly pernicious financial scam being perpetrated upon the Roman Catholic Church. By the time the meat of the investigation work was complete Davide could barely stand Caterina. While she was exceptionally capable she could be obnoxious, and almost whine – a disagreeable combination in anyone, even an Australian as good-looking as she.

Their primary task finished and with the miscreants identified, as well as how they were diverting money from the Church, she had shocked him late one evening after he had received generous recompense from the Vatican for his success. She had made him two propositions. The first was to join him in his business. The second to jump into his bed (she had actually been even more direct in her offer).

He recalled his instinctive caution. He had suggested doing nothing precipitate but instead decided to observe how things progressed. Maybe that had been his error. If they had hopped straight between the sheets, would the problems have gone away? He could not be sure but he did know it wasn't his style. Instead they had left for a long weekend together to visit her namesake village of Certaldo in Tuscany, though staying in separate hotel rooms. Through Friday and Saturday all seemed to go well, at least to him, with increasing mutual interest. Yet on Sunday evening ... nothing.

He had come down to dinner on their last day in Certaldo expecting later to honour her earlier proposition. Unexpectedly, she had turned professional and cold, interested only in working with him on the second six-month phase of the HolyPhone project – making sure it was as secure as was conceivable for the long-term.

Even that had not lasted. After four months of intense commitment she had appeared one day to tell him that her part of the work was finished, which was essentially true, even if his was not. She had startled him, first by saying she was booked on the next day's flight home to Sydney, and second by asking if he was joining her.

He had been sorely tempted, having grown beyond respecting her technology abilities where she was a near genius in his estimation. She could be extremely good company, if she relaxed. Yet he knew that she knew that he would have to finish the project. To Davide this was the giveaway. Her's was not a real invitation.

Yet the expression of regret on her face when he declined still made him wonder if he had misunderstood. With Caterina this was always possible. In many ways so brilliant, she could be maddeningly stupid or obtuse, even both at the same time.

Nevertheless, he needed someone with her analytical skills again. Should he or shouldn't he make contact? That was the dilemma he'd been wrestling with for over a week.

He slid his tablet towards him, entered his email and sent a simple message: Currently in Madrid. Need you. Please come. Davide.

He pressed 'Send' before he could rethink ... and the email was gone. Only later, after climbing into tío Toño's ample spare bed, did it occur to him that his words were ambiguous.

Monday: Sydney

Caterina woke up with a nasty hangover from the long evening before with Emilia. Even now, after knowing each other for well over a decade, she was never wholly sure if Emilia should be counted as colleague or as a best friend. They had met when studying together and had been in and out of each other's lives ever since.

Yet they lived very differently. Where Caterina regarded herself as cerebral, thoughtful and restrained, Emilia was a bundle of energy with short-lived enthusiasms, especially for boys or girls younger than herself, preferably in their twenties.

What both Caterina and Emilia did seem to have in common was an inability to sustain a relationship. In Emilia's case it was because of her love for many brief ones. In, out and move on. Caterina was the opposite. Neither approach had brought either any consistency, though Emilia appeared the happier.

Thinking back over the previous evening, which had been unusual because Emilia had not been on her usual hunt for a new conquest, Caterina wondered if what they'd agreed made any sense. She'd allowed herself to be persuaded by Emilia that together they should go to Europe to find out more about their roots. Where Emilia was part-Spanish, part-Italian and part-Portuguese, Caterina was wholly Italian by parentage. Nevertheless, both regarded themselves as modern Australians.

But, in one particular way, neither was like so many of their antipodean contemporaries who, after uni, travelled for many months, mostly in Europe. They had deliberately missed out, preferring to start work immediately upon graduating. But now they'd been more than ten years in high-pressure jobs. Though Caterina had spent a brief period with Interpol in Lyon before working on the HolyPhone in Rome she hadn't explored France or Italy.

Both she and Emilia knew they possessed a common compulsion to experience more. That previous evening had produced their unexpected joint decision to go as soon as practical. Both were certain they could obtain unpaid time away. Neither had work commitments only they could complete.

What about that Davide you used always to talk about? You know, the one whose Spanish mother preferred the Italian 'Davide' to her native 'David', even though she was married to a Brit? Could he help? Maybe provide a base for us?

Caterina recalled bring stumped for words. She'd stopped talking about Davide months back, deliberately, to dissuade Emilia from asking more. But Caterina had not forgotten Davide, not least her embarrassment about propositioning him for a job and a place in his bed, ultimately chickening-out of the latter just when seeming poised to receive what she sought. She had compounded this error subsequently by walking out of the HolyPhone project with zero notice. Caterina still felt bad about the latter. She knew now, after months of introspection, it was her timidity to blame. Admitting this to herself, however, did not help. Davide was a bridge she'd well and truly burnt even if she'd never admitted as much to Emilia.

Yet Emilia had insisted and pushed. Caterina eventually gave in and agreed to try to contact Davide in order to find out if he might offer some form of base for their travels. She had pointed out to Emilia that he lived outside London and was often abroad.

Emilia's unhelpful response had been: Even better. Perhaps he can lend us his house if he's away.

Now Caterina was stuck with writing Davide an email because she knew Emilia wouldn't let her forget. Using her laptop, she tapped out a brief email describing their plans, also asking where Davide was. On rereading she saw it was polite, even perfunctory.

Caterina sent it, copying-in Emilia as proof that she had done as requested. This complete, she wandered into the kitchen for some coffee before taking a shower. The combination, assisted by an over-the-counter painkiller, cleared her brain.

Half an hour later Caterina returned to her laptop to start exploring flight possibilities and costs. Though making coffee and showering hadn't taken long she found several new emails, including one from Emilia, stating: Well done!

She methodically worked down the list of unread ones. At the bottom was one from Davide. Surely he couldn't have responded that fast. She checked the sent times. No, his was timed just before she had sent hers.

Curious? Coincidence? Caterina opened his email.

Currently in Madrid. Need you. Please come. Davide.

That was short and sharp, even curter than hers to him. What did it mean? Well, at least she now had a sort of invitation and to one of the places in Europe that she and Emilia had promised themselves. Caterina copied Davide's email to Emilia, asking her about starting in Spain. It would be a change from the damp grey skies of the UK that so many sun-accustomed Australians instinctively dislike. She began investigating flight combinations more seriously.

A ping alerted her to the arrival of another email, tiresomely from Emilia of course, who was typically straight to the point: What do you think Davide wants? You???

Caterina had not let Davide's words seep through to her. She had automatically assumed that Davide would only consider business interests after what had not happened in Certaldo and later in Rome. Rereading his email she could see Emilia's point. Now she really was 'up shit creek', as Emilia would indelicately put it, especially after sending her own email to Davide.

Another ping. This time it was a second email from Davide. There were more words this time but the gist was simple – he was living in a huge apartment in Madrid with two spare rooms. Both Caterina and Emilia were invited. The sooner she could come the better.

She called Emilia, who responded with: Book the tickets. I'm free as of thirty minutes ago. I sweet-talked my boss and have six months off. It's your turn. It's too good to miss.

CHAPTER TWO

Resolution Initiated

Thursday: Valencia

Marta entered her office. As customary her first task was to check her appearance. While not exactly vain she liked what she saw, especially that her drive from home had not mussed her appearance as all too easily happened when she lowered the roof of her prized BMW convertible, now almost seven years old but definitely a friend of the family. She would change it only when it died.

Her self-inspection revealed a smartly-dressed lady almost in her fifties. Marta was not tall, nor thin but high, high heels and sheer stockings created the illusion of long legs and slenderness. Her ample bosom stretched her blouse tight; few men complained, especially not her 'mister'. Only her husband took no notice. Her skirt was form-fitting and a tad short for her age. It showed-off a decently proportioned stern that almost balanced her prow. Her make-up was on the heavy side. Too much time in the harsh Spanish sun meant she had to work that bit harder to achieve the desired youthful effect. Marta was sure she measured up and could deliver.

That was the good news.

Her brow darkened when considering the bad news. Those letters asking for repayment wouldn't go away. Initially she had replied to the first ones, saying that the elapsed time was excessive and that her clients could do nothing to help. As anticipated, this hadn't worked, at least not for the first couple of letters. Marta did not think it would work for any of the others.

More strident demands followed with the threat not so much of legal action, which she expected to be able to fight, but focusing more on future business, or rather the potential loss of it. The implicit challenge seemed to be that If you do not repay what your firm owes us we will have to suspend buying from you. This was much harder for her clients to resist. It also made sound business sense, she admitted to herself, especially as it did not preclude legal action later if repayments did not occur.

The problem was how to tell her clients. Marta was pretty sure they were not going to be pleased. No, she knew they would be furious and probably with her even though she had only been their agent executing their instructions. That would not prevent them blaming the messenger.

Considering her choices, there was Luis 'El Cerámico' Zavala, now in his late seventies but still the patriarchal bull ruling a ceramics manufacturing empire located near Castellón, just north of Valencia, and permanently engaged in fierce competition with other major tile manufacturers in the region. In some ways, from a suitable distance, he was a favourite of hers. Still lecherous, at least with his hands, he appreciated striking-looking women who were competent. His beloved wife had died almost twenty years before. That did not stop him ruling his children with an iron rod, nor prevent him from expecting whatever he wanted from suppliers or politicians. The only people he treated well were his grandchildren, employees and customers, and the latter only if they ordered often and paid on time. She reflected that starting with him might be unwise. El Cerámico's temper was infamous. She needed practice to polish her story before making any appointment to see him.

Alfredo Gómez was very different. A lawyer turned politician, he was an elegantly-dressed snake as far as Marta was concerned. He had made his first pass at her when they were at university and continued periodically ever since. Long ago she had comprehended that he had only two real interests, money and power. Sex was not a third, unless he thought it would increase his powers to influence. Broadly, he was faithful to his wife when he was near home. Beyond this he seemed to have some unsaid licence. In his defence Alfredo had taken his father's modest law firm and, over almost three decades, built this into a Spanish powerhouse with large offices in Madrid and Barcelona as well as Valencia. Now he was Senior Partner Emeritus, in theory with only an economic interest and no management one. This arrangement meant he could play politics from behind the scenes, at which he was rather adept. Alfredo might be approachable in the first instance. After all, they had known each other for more than twenty-five years, plus he was infinitely pragmatic.

María Teresa (Maite for short) Valle was a pain in the neck. As the head of what had started out as a minor Comunidad de Valencia-sponsored Training College she had raised its prominence way above its – and her – competence. What she was best at was obtaining money from commercial enterprises and local government to sustain her position as Rector. To do this she knew everybody and worked everybody in the best American political style. If you needed an introduction she was the person to approach. Marta neither liked nor disliked her. Ten years older and unmarried, Maite was intolerant of anything that failed to improve her 'institution', meaning herself. This had, however, been profitable for Marta over the past decade.

Vicente Pérez was your typical builder's merchant. Essentially a local peasant come good with the ability to charm birds out of any tree, he was devout, a discreet recent member of Opus Dei by reason of his wealth and utterly under the thumb of his wife Rosa whose daily attendance at Mass proclaimed a virtuosity she let no one ignore. He did not wander, being too scared of what could happen. On the other hand he was rapacious in both his business and local political dealings. He exploited all he could with a smile that left you innocent at the very moment he raped your wallet.

The contrast with Estefanía Caballero was immense. Vicente and Estefanía each detested the other and made strenuous efforts to avoid meeting, which was kind of entertaining because they lived almost next door to each other near the old Turia riverbed park that runs through Valencia. Whereas Vicente was a die-hard member of the essentially right-wing Partido Conservador, often now referred to, ironically, as the 'PC' (traditionally this had stood for the now essentially-defunct Partido Comunista), Estefanía had a social conscience and was a life-long supporter of the Partido de la Izquierda or Party of the Left – equally irreverently known as la Piz. These left-leanings had not stopped her making a fortune from founding FyP, a chain of stores now spread across Spain and Portugal, which combined pharmacies and para-pharmacies in one, much like Boots in the UK or Walgreens in the USA. She had become fabulously rich, seemingly happy to ditch a dizzy sequence of boyfriends and husbands, who were no match for her. These days Marta felt somewhat overawed by Estefanía, even a touch lucky to enjoy a small part of her business.

Finally there was Inocenta Acosta. She was the only one whom Marta counted as a genuine friend. In contrast to the others she was not self-made but had inherited her wealth after her much older husband died when Inocenta was in her thirties. Greatly mourning his loss Inocenta had first become depressed. Later she threw herself into supporting various charities related to the illness that had killed her husband. Her generosity had spiralled almost out of control until she met Marta who had introduced her to the disciplines necessary to protect Inocenta from an excess of the greedy seeking to dispossess her of her inheritance, all in the name of charity of course. Inocenta had been and continued to be grateful.

Logically, thought Marta, Inocenta or Alfredo were the right starting points, even though each had their drawbacks. What to do?

Friday: Malasaña

Davide was frustrated. As of yesterday he possessed two Australian house guests and had seen virtually nothing of either. On arriving they had gone to sleep on the terraza sun loungers. They had only woken when the sun went down, demanding food and liquids. Having eaten the former, accompanied by an unhealthy amount of the latter, they had entered a short sharp debate about which room each should choose. Once resolved, they went to bed. He had been an onlooker, no more.

This morning they had woken late and left. He hadn't even had time to give them the keys to the piso, meaning that he couldn't go out until they returned. Luckily this did not matter as he had planned to work from home today rather than go to Alcobendas. If Felipe, the principal for OverPayment Recovery Services (or ORS as Felipe preferred to shorten it) called he would answer but not move from the piso.

Felipe was essentially decent in Davide's assessment. He was a typical hard-charging American, who had made good at a young age in the hyper-competitive American commercial environment. The son of Mexican parents who had illegally migrated to the US they lived without formal residence papers. Felipe described them as constantly existing in a state of constant fear of being deported, despite having been in Texas for over thirty years and ignoring Felipe's birth, which meant he was a US citizen. This apparently protected his parents but meant they had not been happy when he accepted the Madrid post with ORS.

Felipe worked twelve hours or more a day. The trouble was that he expected everyone else to want to do the same. This was not quite how the Spanish work, nor was it Davide's preference. He was glad he was only a consultant to ORS and not an employee.

He sat with pen and notepad before him. Usually he preferred to think into his laptop. On this occasion, so woolly were his fears, he found using traditional methods on paper opening more doors as to how he might set out what he needed to say to Caterina – if ever offered the opportunity.

He was about to answer the doorbell when he heard Ángela step out of the kitchen. Shortly afterwards the unfamiliar sound of Australian-accented Spanish was plain to hear. Clearly Emilia was sharpening her Spanish.

He did not hear anything at all of Caterina. Perhaps only Emilia had returned.

There came a gentle knock on his door. He swivelled in his chair to find Caterina looking doubtful.

Am I disturbing you?

I seem to remember you saying that once before ... he began, before discovering himself blushing fiercely. He saw she was doing the same, though much more prettily. He hurried on: Did you sleep well? Did you do whatever you needed when you went out? At least you managed to find your way back here.

Caterina smiled through her own discomfort. In a way it was heartening to see that Davide was similarly ill-at-ease. Might all not be ruined?

We wanted to get SIM cards for our mobiles. We didn't realise how long this would take. It was my fault because I made the mistake of insisting we investigate several networks to see what was on offer. In the end, according to Emilia's analysis, it was cheaper to buy one pan-European plan to share between us. Into the bargain we got a large data allowance and a new generation of the latest toys. She held up a brand new Samsung smartphone. Completing the paperwork took forever. Is it always so slow here? By the way, I did send you an SMS with both our numbers. Didn't you get it?

Davide checked his phone. Caterina was right. He had been too intent on his papers.

You'll also need the Wi-Fi password for the apartment.

Caterina nodded, saying, Actually, I must confess ...

Both coloured, remembering previous confessions in Rome. This was awful. Whatever either said seemed to bring back explicit associations guaranteed to embarrass.

I woke in the middle of the night. I couldn't get back to sleep, so I used some software to crack the Wi-Fi code. I hope you don't mind. Using WEP makes it all too easy. I cracked another router as well, presumably next door or below.

She managed to combine looking sheepish and clever at the same time.

Davide smiled before answering, perhaps his first unselfconscious reaction to her since her arrival.

"That's fine. I would have given you the piso's password last night but you both seemed unable to concentrate on anything other than food, wine or sleep."

I'm sorry, Davide. We were awful. The travel to and from Sydney is horrible and so drawn-out going through Dubai. Plus that second leg to Madrid was really, really uncomfortable. Will you forgive us?

You, I'm not sure about. Emilia, yes, but only because I hardly know her well enough to blame.

What am I being forgiven for in my absence? said Emilia walking in.

For us treating Davide like shit when we arrived yesterday, and this morning, putting it bluntly.

Yes, you're right, Caterina. I apologise, Davide. Can we take you out for dinner tonight to make amends?

Another time would be great. However, Ángela has been assembling a feast for this evening. Shall we indulge her? She loves it when I take advantage.

I've already discovered that. She wouldn't stop talking about what she was preparing. But that's good for my Spanish. She's delightful and she obviously likes having you to mother.

Okay. Let me finish off some things in here. Shall we get together in a couple of hours? Or is that too early, or even too late, for you two?

Sounds good to me, responded Emilia.

Caterina nodded, suddenly feeling sore about the way Emilia was taking over. Was this how it was going to continue?

Friday: Valencia

Marta walked into the Bar Borja, named for the family had originated some kilometres south of Valencia in the town of Gandia before becoming infamous as the Borgias, namely Pope Alexander VI and his notorious children Cesare and Lucrezia. It was a bar Marta liked because it was modern, well-lit and comfortable. What it did not have was particularly good service, at least not compared to Madrid.

This was one of the aspects of Valencia Marta found most tiresome. The city had the potential to be a future Barcelona, fashionable and by the sea if without the soaring mountains of its Catalan neighbour. What ruined Valencia's aspirations was its consistency of miserable customer service. This seemed to apply to everybody. Coming from the centre of Spain this had irritated her no end when she first arrived. Now she was accustomed to it, though still disliked it. At least the owner of the Bar Borja, when he was there, was courteous, which was notable for its rarity.

She looked around, despite expecting to be the first to arrive. Estefanía was almost invariably behind schedule. Indeed, she had a reputation for appearing long after any agreed time, not that Marta herself could afford to be late for such a successful client. She was surprised, therefore, to see a hand waving at her from a side table. Estefanía was on time for once, even early.

They exchanged greetings by kissing each other on both cheeks before Estefanía followed up with: I bet you didn't expect to see me for another half an hour ... or more?

She smiled as she spoke, which took years off a face that was beginning to reveal the strains of successfully running an ever-expanding business.

Marta was shocked by this open display of self-knowledge, though thinking about it, this was just like Estefanía: refreshing, direct, honest and without self-importance.

You're right. I even brought my tablet to read, just in case you were held up.

Very sensible of you, given what people say and the facts. What will you have?

Estefanía gestured to a waiter hovering nearby.

"For me, I think a vino blanco."

Good choice. What I just had was most refreshing. The same again for me too, please.

The waiter departed.

They chatted inconsequentially for a few minutes, covering the social bases, until Estefanía prompted Marta with, So why did you want to see me? What's the urgency? At least, knowing your usual understated way, I assume it is urgent and not just a desire to spend time with me?

Marta reddened a little. She was not used to such familiarity from Estefanía, which only made what she was going to have to say more difficult. She was uncertain where to start.

Come on. It can't be that bad ... can it?

I'm not sure, Estefanía. Something odd has occurred. I'm uncertain what to do. But it does involve you, or at least FyP.

She took a deep breath.

About a couple of months ago FyP received letters from a company called ORS, which stands for OverPayment Recovery Services, asking for repayment by FyP of various transactions it claimed reflected double payments or uncredited credit notes. These letters were forwarded by your accounting people to me as your 'special adviser'. ORS wrote each letter on behalf of three major customers of FyP.

Estefanía nodded when Marta named them.

These claims dated from one to five years ago. In fact the biggest were from three, four and five years ago.

So? I trust you resisted? encouraged Estefanía.

Yes, but that only produced letters more firmly asserting their accuracy and implicitly threatening to stop doing business with FyP unless FyP either paid or demonstrated that ORS had made a mistake.

Ah. I see what you mean. Losing any one of those three customers wouldn't be good; losing all three would hurt big time.

"The difficulty is that ORS provides a detailed list of what it thinks is owing, right down to the invoice double payment and credit note details with dates. As far as I can make out it can only have obtained this information from each of those three customers.

By the way, I undertook some research into ORS. The service it offers is to examine past Accounts Payables in large commercial organisations' to identify where there might be monies owed, which had been written off because the buying organisation had not realised these could be repaid. It does appear to be legitimate. It's American-owned, operates on a percentage of the refunds it obtains and enjoys some reputable multi-national clients.

After Marta named several, Estefanía said, Again I ask, what's your problem, or mine?

In essence there are two problems. The first are the total amounts being asked for –

Which are?

"For FyP it is, over the five years, around 840,000 euros. But that's not