Ray cruised his Bentley Turbo through the suburban streets to the house he and his fellow hedge-funders had had converted into their state-of –the-art office. Parking was a nightmare with all the middle class women whingeing on about their school runs or getting the ambulance in for granddad’s outpatient visits, but he could ignore them with ease. It was handy for Heathrow, the races and a little state-of-the art oriental girl he maintained in Wimbledon. It was his big joke. He could make money anywhere. And he could spend it exactly how he wished to.
That was all changing of course. The money he’d made had been drastically reduced, and hiding it away was becoming ever more complicated, but times would change. And when they did, he would be there at the front of the queue. The market belonged to marketeers. It was the natural way of things. He parked up and went in to make money.
When he came out again that evening, he was dumfounded. Gouged into his Bentley’s gleaming bonnet were the words “USELESS EVIL GREEDY BASTARD!” He gazed about him in utter disbelief at the quite road, with its pollarded trees and recycling bins laid dutifully out for the following day. Who on earth round there could do something like that?
Ray went back in to his desk and called the police. They took an hour to arrive, a statement and no further action.