Ken came home from work one day and proudly announced to his wife Jill that the bank was ‘planning his career path’. ‘I’ve got to do some psychometric tests to determine my aptitude in various areas’.
Jill wasn’t impressed. ‘Is that legal?’ ‘Of course it is,’ said Ken. ‘It’s a bank!’ But Jill was uneasy. The thought of the bank assessing and exploiting her husband’s mental software sounded like a violation of his human rights.
The psychometric testing took several days. Ken proudly showed Jill the results: a diagram mapping his personality curve and highlighting where it diverged from ‘standard’. According to the graph, he had a high propensity for risk. ‘It’s true,’ said Ken. ‘I did a bungee jump when I was at university.’ Jill laughed. In fifteen years of marriage, Ken had alway struck her as conventional and, if anything, risk-averse.
After the diagnosis, however, his attitude changed. ‘They’re sending me to a branch in a town near Manchester. I’ve got to clean up the mess.’ ‘Manchester’s miles away! What mess?’
‘I shouldn’t really tell you. Don’t repeat this, but it’s the branch manager.’
‘What’s he done? Hands in the till?’ Ken’s expression darkened. ‘Loans to dodgy customers in return for presents. He got involved with some real criminals. The bank wants everything kept quiet.’
‘It’s such a long commute. It’s not worth the stress.’ But the bank had told Ken he was the man for the job, and Ken was determined to prove them right.
The extent of the ‘mess’ soon became evident. Ken didn’t talk about it much, but he did mention dealing with furious clients claiming to have given his ex-colleague some expensive gifts.
‘In return for what?’ asked Jill.
‘You don’t want to know,’ said Ken.
Whatever it was, it kept Ken at the office until late. He stopped coming to bed and would lie on the sofa, watching the TV and drinking.
Then, after about six months, he suddenly seemed more confident. When Jill asked him how things were going, he told her someone was helping him.
‘Who? Another risk taker?’
‘It’s this Serbian guy. He’s helping me with the bank situation.’
‘Does he work for the bank?’
‘Yes. No. He’s more external.’
Ken seemed to regard ‘the Serbian’ with fascinated admiration. He didn’t say much, only that he was brilliant and knew what to do. Jill wondered if his help was all legal.
Months passed and Ken became more relaxed. He started taking Jill to expensive restaurants at the weekend and brought her presents: a Gucci handbag, some jewellery. Then one day he came home driving a large Mercedes that wouldn’t even fit into their garage. His breath smelled of alcohol. Jill was shocked.
‘Have you been drinking and driving?’
‘Only half a glass.’
‘Where did that car come from?’
‘Never you mind. It’s ours for as long as we need it.’
‘But we don’t need it, Ken, we have our own car.’ That started an argument. Ken, who was clearly drunk, shouted at Jill like he never had before.
‘I’m a risk taker, aren’t I?’ he yelled. ‘I deserve a few rewards!’
But the car didn’t last long. About three weeks later, Ken came home in their old Ford. Nervous and bad tempered he wouldn’t discuss it with Jill. When she asked him about the Serbian they had another ferocious argument. They didn’t speak for several days and then Ken frightened Jill by telling her not to go out after dark and to make sure she always locked the front door.
‘Ken, what have you done?’ she shouted at him. ‘Are we in danger? Is it that Serbian?’
Ken sat down heavily. ‘Look Jill, I think you should go and stay with your mum for a few weeks.’
‘Weeks?’
‘Just listen. I’m going to sort everything out, but I need a bit of space. And you’d better give me that jewellery back, and the Gucci bag.’
Jill wanted to argue, but something in Ken’s expression made her agree.
In the end she stayed away for a month. Ken had stopped answering his phone so she had to take a taxi from the train station. When it dropped her off in front of the house she saw a police car outside. As she walked to the front door someone called her name. She turned and saw a tall man in plain clothes, flanked by two police officers. When he spoke he had a light slavic accent.
‘Mrs. Williams?’
‘Yes?’
‘Bogdan Popović. I work for the head office of your husband’s bank.’
‘You’re that Serbian! Where’s my Ken?’
‘We were hoping you could tell us. He was doing great work with me at the bank but I’m afraid he got involved with some criminals and, well, he’s in a bit of a mess.’