turning towards me, jutting out his jaw.
‘I believe that you have recently sent a large sum of money to Rock Bank Limited of Gibraltar as an investment in a hedge fund.’
I paused but he didn’t respond. He just continued to stare at me with unfriendly eyes. It was slightly unnerving and I began to question if coming here had been a mistake. I suddenly wondered if Toleron was, in fact, part of the conspiracy. Had I just walked into the lion’s den like a naïve lamb to the slaughter?
‘And I have reason to believe,’ I went on, ‘that the investment fund in question does not actually exist, and you are being defrauded of your money.’
He continued to sit and look at me.
‘Why are you telling me this?’ he demanded, suddenly standing up. ‘What do you want from me?’
‘Nothing,’ I said.
‘You must want something.’ He was almost shouting ‘Otherwise why are you here? You didn’t come here to give me bad news so you could simply gloat. Is it money you’re after?’
‘No, of course not,’ I said defensively. ‘I came here to warn you.’
‘But why?’ he said aggressively. ‘If, as you say, I have already invested money in a fraud, your warning would then be too late. And why is it you believe I’m being defrauded anyway? Are you the one who’s doing it?’
Things were not going well.
‘I just thought you would like to know so you didn’t send any more,’ I said, again on the defensive. ‘I am not involved in the fraud other than being the son of another victim. I had hoped you might have some information that would be helpful to me in trying to recover her money. That’s all.’
He sat down again and remained silent for a few seconds.
‘What sort of information?’ he asked eventually, and more calmly.
‘Well,’ I said. ‘With respect, my mother is no financial wizard, far from it, and I can see how she was duped, but you …’ I left the implication hanging in the air.
He stood up from the chair again and went to the desk. He picked up a large white envelope and tossed it into my lap. It contained the glossy offering document for what it called the ‘opportunity-of-a-lifetime investment’. I skimmed through the prospectus. It was very convincing and certainly gave the impression of being from a legitimate organization with photos of supposed business offices in Gibraltar, graphs of past and predicted investment performance, all of which moved in the right direction, and with wonderful glowing testimonials from other satisfied investors.
‘Why do you think it a fraud?’ he asked.
‘I know of two separate cases when people, including my mother and stepfather, after investing through Rock Bank Limited, have lost all their money. They were both told that the hedge fund in which their money had been placed had subsequently gone bankrupt, leaving no assets. I have reason to believe that the funds never actually existed in the first place and the money was simply stolen.’
I flicked through the glossy brochure once more.
‘It’s a very professional job,’ he said. ‘It gives all the right information and assurances.’
If they were after ‘investments’ in million-dollar chunks, it would have to be a professional job.
‘But did you check up on any of it?’ I asked.
He didn’t answer, but I could tell from his face that he hadn’t.
‘Why didn’t your mother complain to the police?’ he said. ‘Then there might have been a warning issued.’
‘She couldn’t,’ I said without further clarification.
I thought back to his strange question at the gate about me being from the Revenue, and his rather belligerent attitude towards me since. ‘Mr Toleron,’ I said, ‘excuse me asking, but are you being blackmailed?’
As in my mother’s case, it wasn’t the loss of his money that worried Martin Toleron the most; it was the potential loss of face because he’d been conned.
If I thought he would thank me for pointing out that his investment was a fake, then I was mistaken. Indirectly, he even offered to pay me not to make that knowledge public.
‘Of course I won’t make it public,’ I said, horrified by his insinuation.
‘Everyone else I know would have,’ he said with something of a sigh. ‘They would gleefully sell it to the highest bidder from the gutter press.’ He may have been a highly successful businessman, and he had clearly made pots of money, but he’d obviously been accompanied by precious few real friends on the journey.
He was not being blackmailed – at least, he denied he was