The Portfolio Review at Pennington House
The reception at Pennington Wealth Management smelled of new carpet and warm photocopier ink. Miriam Bassett sat with her handbag on her knees and watched the young receptionist rearrange a stack of folders for the third time. The folders were colour-coded. The receptionist’s smile was not quite reaching her eyes.
Miriam had been waiting eleven minutes. She knew this because the clock above the desk had a slightly loose second hand that ticked twice on each beat, and she had been counting.
She was here about Gerald. Gerald, her brother, dead six weeks ago from a heart attack in his allotment. Gerald, who had left behind a modest terraced house, a collection of seed catalogues, and a portfolio at Pennington House that apparently amounted to considerably more than Miriam had expected.
The adviser came out to greet her himself. His name was Curtis Frayle, and he wore a tie with a very small pattern of blue diamonds that had been pressed flat with an iron. He was perhaps forty-five, tanned in the way of someone who had recently been somewhere warmer, and his handshake was the firm, practised kind.
“Mrs Bassett. I’m so sorry for your loss. Gerald was a valued client. Do come through.”
His office had a view of a narrow courtyard where a single potted bay tree was losing its leaves onto the flagstones. He set a cup of tea in front of her without asking how she took it. Milky, no sugar. She noted that.
“I’ve had a letter from the probate solicitor,” Miriam said, setting her handbag on the floor. “It mentions the portfolio value at the date of Gerald’s death. I’d like to understand how it’s made up.”
Frayle opened a folder on his desk and turned it to face her. “Of course. The portfolio has performed well. Gerald was a conservative investor, as you know. Bonds, primarily. A little property trust.”
Miriam looked at the sheet. She said nothing for a moment.
“He was,” she agreed. “Though he did mention to me last autumn that he’d received a letter from you recommending a restructure. He was rather unsure about it.”
Frayle’s smile held. “We advise all our clients to review their allocations periodically.”
“He rang me about it,” Miriam said. “He thought it was odd. He said the letter used words he didn’t recognise, and that the charges weren’t explained.”
“Restructuring does involve advisory fees. It’s all documented.”
Miriam turned the sheet a quarter turn towards her. She had spent thirty-one years as a bank auditor before retirement. Her reading glasses were in her bag but she did not reach for them. She did not need them.
“These transaction dates,” she said. “The three switches in October and November. Who authorised them?”
Frayle leaned forward slightly. “Gerald signed the instruction forms.”
“Gerald broke his right wrist in September,” Miriam said. “He fell in the allotment. He couldn’t hold a pen without difficulty until at least December. He mentioned it every time we spoke. He was very put out about not being able to write his Christmas cards.”
The courtyard outside was very still. A leaf dropped from the bay tree and settled against the pot.
“These forms,” Miriam continued, her voice entirely level, “would have his signature on them. I’d like to see them, please.”
Frayle stood and moved to the filing cabinet behind him. His movements were careful in the way that suggested he was working out what he had and what he didn’t. He produced three pages and placed them on the desk.
The signatures were in blue biro, tidy and consistent. Exactly as consistent as signatures on three separate occasions never quite are.
“I’d like copies of these,” Miriam said. “And I’d like the name of your compliance officer.”
Frayle sat back down. He picked up a pen and set it down again. “Mrs Bassett, I imagine this is a difficult time. Grief can make us look for explanations.”
“I’m not looking for explanations,” she said pleasantly. “I’ve found one. Those transactions generated fees of approximately nine thousand pounds, paid to a subsidiary management account. I can see the account reference here.” She pointed to the bottom of the sheet. “I suspect that account doesn’t appear in the brochure you give new clients.”
He was very still now.
“You should know,” Miriam said, picking up her handbag, “that I’ve already sent copies of Gerald’s medical records and your October letter to the Financial Conduct Authority. This visit was a courtesy. I wanted to see the signatures in person.”
She stood. She left the tea untouched, still milky, still unsugared.
At the door she paused and turned back. The bay tree in the courtyard had lost another leaf. It was spinning slowly down toward the flagstones.
“Gerald grew his own bay, in the allotment,” she said. “He knew the difference between something healthy and something that’s quietly dying. He just didn’t always know what to do about it.” She looked at Frayle for a moment. “I do.”
She walked through the carpeted reception, past the colour-coded folders and the receptionist whose smile had stopped moving entirely, and out into the cold November street.
Her heels were brisk and deliberate on the pavement. She did not look back.
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