Lazarus of Norf London

FEW NAMES in business command such attention as Gerald Ronson's. From the moment the property tycoon was disclosed to be interested in Marks & Spencer's property portfolio, the complexion of the 'will he, won't he' speculation surrounding Philip Green's stalking of the retail chain changed dramatically.

Suddenly, alongside Green, a billionaire with a colourful past, was Ronson, also rich, also with form. Against this pair, Stuart Rose, M&S's multimillionaire new chief executive, looked positively lacklustre.

Ronson and Green: it could be the title of a TV mini-series as the rivals, both Jewish, North London, go head to head, drawing on their vast networks of well-connected friends and supporters, spending millions in pursuit of their ambition. At stake: the future of M&S, once Britain's top retailer, Jewish in origin, symbolic, prestigious, hugely exploitable.

The idea M&S executives should have met Ronson to discuss the sale of even part of its property holdings stunned the Green camp.

The retailer may be in difficulty, may each season (or so it seems) send out fashions that fail to please, may have allowed Tesco and others to steal its food hegemony, but sharp commercial brains know there are still jewels to be had in the M&S empire.

Its financial services division is a potential goldmine. Then there are the 300 shops plus extensive offices, all in prime High Street locations, mostly freehold, last valued, in 1988, at £2.1bn, today worth an estimated £4bn.

Green knows this. It's the property turn he's after in M&S, same as in Sears and Bhs. Dispose of the properties you don't want, sell and lease back the remainder, and you're quids in. Trouble is, Ronson knows this too. Of the two men, one is richer than the other. However, that doesn't stop Green knowing that in Ronson he is up against the most formidable of opponents.

Unlike Ronson, Green has not been to jail but the property magnate's conviction, in 1990, has added to his mystique. He is admired for doing his time - he served six months in Ford Open Prison - and for coming out and rebuilding his career.

There's also praise for the way he achieved what in City eyes is almost as creditable a turnaround as going to prison and bouncing back: the raising of his company, Heron, from the dead and its transformation to property colossus.

Less than 10 years ago, Ronson was a busted flush, almost bankrupt, a felon, who appeared to be heading for anonymity, remembered for his part in the Guinness scandal and not much else.

Now, Heron, which nearly went to the wall with debts of £1.5bn, has assets of well over £1bn and is involved in projects worldwide, including Heron City complexes in Spain and Scandinavia. Ronson is working on plans for his 570ft Heron Tower - Britain's second-tallest - in the City; he's moving into casinos; he's been stalking one of our biggest housebuilders, Crest Nicholson.

Meanwhile, he still has his petrol stations, launched in 1966. He, wife Gail (made a Dame in the last New Year honours for her work for charities and the Royal Opera House) and four daughters are between them reckoned to be worth £245m, of which £150m is their stake in Heron. It's the manner of Ronson's Lazarus-like transformation that has drawn approving murmurs in some quarters. Q

uietly, methodically, he's brought in heavyweights as his backers, including Rupert Murdoch, Bill Gates and Larry Ellison and the foundation of Michael Milken, the former junk bond king, not seeking the limelight, not picking up the flash trappings of old (his jet with the call sign G-GAEL, after Gail, and his 186-foot yacht, My Gail III, are long since sold) and he still puts in a full day's work at 65, at his anonymous Holborn offices.

But plenty remain suspicious of Ronson. Despite his success and a public relations campaign conducted on his behalf by his wife, daughters and supporters, he inspires fear and loathing. He likes to bully, to swear a lot, to jab the air with his ever-present cigar.

He's a rough, tough bruiser who still talks with a gruff, 'norf' London accent. He speaks his mind and can be painfully blunt. His trademark dark suit and black hair and his still-powerful physique (he worked out in prison, and on his release built a gym under his offices) add to the image.

Stories of his 'direct' approach abound. There's the one about him going into a meeting when Heron was on its uppers, seeing all the advisers gathered round the table, going to the window, leaning out and shouting: 'If there are any more f*****g bankers and accountants out here, you may as well join this lot.' Then, there's the occasion, when he stood up, dropped his keys on the table and said, 'I'm going for a piss; if you don't want me to stay on running this company, then take the keys.'

The City loves such tales, but hates them as well. Combined with his conviction, they paint a picture of a man more thug than role model, more old-style gangster than modern manager.

His jailing, too, will always be held against him. He got a year and a £5m fine for agreeing to buy shares in Guinness while it made a bid for Distillers. He was among the circle of financiers tapped up by Guinness chief Ernest Saunders to join the share support operation. In return, he was to be paid £5.2m.

It was illegal and Ronson duly paid the price (during the six months he served, he held business classes for the other prisoners). To this day, the City is split on the affair. Some see Guinness as a dark episode, representative of a different, unattractive era, of rampant greed and a devil-may-care attitude to the rest of society and its rules.

The Guinness accused, all rich men standing to get even richer, a privileged club within an already privileged club, seemed to symbolise all that was wrong with the City. They were seen as an embarrassment, doing immense harm to a generally honest place.

Others struggled to see what the Guinness defendants had done that was so wrong, that deserved jail terms and possible ruin. Many in this category had to take a hard look at their own practices, and offered up prayers of gratitude for not being caught in the same net.

There is another group, pro-Ronson people, who put a different gloss on Guinness. It's no coincidence, they say, that those found guilty had Jewish origins, that the Establishment looked after its own while persecuting others.

Whatever the truth, there is no denying Ronson's business record or his reputation. Few could persuade the likes of Gates, Murdoch and Co to put money into their firm.

He left school at 15 to join the family furniture business. Working with his father, Henry (hence Heron), he moved into residential property, and then industrial estates, office blocks and supermarkets. Petrol stations followed. Twenty years ago, Heron controlled £1.5bn of properties and was one of the country's most successful businesses. Then came Guinness. Ronson's company was also hit by mounting debt and the early Nineties property slump.

His return has been spectacular. He remains, though, a businessman grounded in the past, in the 'word is my bond' old school. When he shakes hands on a deal, it's a deal. Green must be hoping he hasn't shaken hands with Rose.