Jenny Parker Investigates

by D J Harrison

  I dismiss these thoughts as unproductive, but my lack of sympathy is rewarded by memories of Martin that churn my stomach and make me unsteady. My brusque wave draws Paul into my office and he sits down heavily. His almost complete lack of hair, long face and drooping eyes give him the air of someone much older. As I look at him carefully, the realisation that he’s the same age as me comes as a sudden shock; the way that I consciously regard him as an older, wiser head shifts decisively, to be replaced by panic induced by loss of support. Today of all days I need to keep believing in him, but now I worry how he will stand up in the presentation when faced by incisive questions from difficult men.

  Before I can deal with all this doubt I have to exorcise the haunting thoughts brought on by Tim last night.

  ‘We were talking yesterday, Tim and me,’ I start, then something grips my chest as if to prevent the words and keep things unsaid. There’s a frightened quality to my voice as if in preparation for the fear and discomfort of knowing. ‘He was asking about Martin, where he was found.’ My nervousness increases to the point where I can hardly go on. ‘I realised I didn’t know, not that it matters of course, just curious I suppose, he was asking …’

  I finish lamely and watch Paul, his hands pulling at his fingers. I look down to see my own fists tightly clenched.

  ‘Oh.’ Paul seemed surprised by the nature of my enquiry, no doubt expecting a hard time over the catering arrangements or some other aspect of the presentation. ‘I thought everyone knew. It’s common knowledge.’

  ‘Was he in London?’ I prompt.

  ‘No.’ Paul shrugs apologetically. ‘It turns out he wasn’t even away. It’s a very strange business if you ask me.’

  I feel like I’m walking slowly into deep icy waters and my chest is gripped in a clammy chill. I know what he is going to say. There is a feeling in my body that knows where Martin was found. I don’t want to make the connection in my head.

  ‘All that time, everyone wondering where he was and it turns out he was right here, here in Manchester, two minutes from this office.’

  I wait for the confirmation but already the waters are covering my mouth, preventing me from stopping the conversation and avoiding the knowledge I do not want.

  ‘It was his own flat, as it turns out. He had several of them which he used to rent out. This one wasn’t let. He must have been using it to crash after a long session at the office.’

  Now I am paralysed, frozen and drowning. I can’t even manage to say, ‘It can’t be true, I was there, he didn’t die in the flat, our flat, it’s not possible.’ Instead I ask, ‘Do you know the address of this flat?’

  Paul tells me the address as if he has passed on some important news. The waters close over my head with the confirmation that he was found in our flat. My mind screams at me, ‘He didn’t die there!’ I have to face the fact that only I know this. Somebody must have moved him there after my visit. Somebody must have moved his dead body.

  I must drag my attention back to the important work I have to do. Today can be the day that brings me freedom, should my new job become officially permanent. But all I can think about are the consequences of the information Paul has given to me. I feel an overwhelming desire to tell somebody about my visit to the flat. The police should be told, of course they should. Moving a dead body about must be a serious offence. I look at Paul and decide he’s the last person I would confide in.

  Eric will be at the presentation, maybe I should tell him. He was close to Martin and might be sympathetic, even with the knowledge that we were having an affair. Men are notoriously supportive of each other when it comes to having a bit on the side. It may be a way of excusing their own behaviour. Eric won’t think less of Martin. What he’ll think of me is another matter. Men who stray are Jack the lads: women who commit adultery are sluts. Eric might not think his Head of Audit post should be filled by a slut. Talking to Eric may not be such a good idea; anyway, I can’t change anything now. Martin is gone and nothing I do or don’t do can bring him back.

  ****

  The presentation is going extremely well, very smoothly indeed. Paul is better than expected, his bumbling awkwardness almost endearing. Even the sandwiches taste like they’ve been freshly prepared a few moments before consumption. Eric sits comfortably next to me, having said little beyond the introductions. Sir Colin Campbell himself is here, a man more associated with the company of royalty and prime ministers. The discussion can only be described as affable, even during the potentially awkward exploration of our proposed fees and charges. I have a feeling that price has little to do with their consideration of new auditors and wonder whether I might have pitched them more generously. If they want us they don’t mind paying for us. If they don’t want us they won’t have us at any price. It’s a situation that seems quite obvious now and I wish I’d realised it beforehand.

  ‘If there’s anything else we might help with, any other members of my team you’d like to meet while you’re here?’ I address the man sitting opposite, who has the soft body of a bureaucrat held in a stiff military bearing. This is Bruce Latimer, Chief Executive Officer and the man I suspect will make the decision that’ll determine my immediate future. Latimer glances sideways to meet the eyes of a lady on his left, she of the auburn locks and generous bosom. Sally Mayer, Director of Communications & Public Relations, is a lady whose luminous charms light up any room she enters, together with all the men in it. Poor Paul still quivers like an electrocuted jelly whenever she so much as looks in his direction.

  ‘Well, there is the matter of the OFT investigation.’ Latimer speaks softly but there is a tension in his voice.

  ‘I understood that had been dropped, that there’s to be no enquiry now.’ Paul rather blurts out his words under the gaze of the majestic Sally Mayer.

  ‘We’re concerned that’s only a temporary respite. There’s every prospect that the new government will resurrect the allegations and we’ll be put firmly back into the spotlight.’

  Mayer speaks directly to Paul, obviously enjoying his complete captivation. It has the appearance of a conversation between a magnificent female cat and a male mouse whose hormones have overwhelmed his sense of self-preservation.

  ‘An investigation will almost inevitably involve a huge increase in workload for our auditors. It would need a thorough review of third party payments, particularly of those made to overseas agents. We need to be certain that Landers Hoffman is happy to be involved in what would be a very public affair, and also that you’re capable of working hard on our behalf to ensure a positive outcome.’ Latimer finishes speaking and guides everyone’s eyes towards me.

  More work, more fees, more profit, more bonus: nothing there not to like in my opinion. As for the publicity, Landers Hoffman could do with it. Obviously it wouldn’t be good if WOS were found to have been making illegal payments. Landers Hoffman’s reputation might suffer by association but that is a chance I’m quite willing to take. I only need Eric to go along with it.

  ‘Before we made our proposal, we were well aware of the possibilities of the OFT investigation,’ I reply. ‘As far as we’re concerned the OFT can investigate anyone at any time. Our knowledge of your business and the high standards to which you work give us every confidence that the accusations are unfounded. In practical terms, a large global business has to operate in the context of its markets. From what I’ve seen, the OFT’s chief concern is that some countries operate their commercial activities somewhat differently to here in the UK.’

  My reply is couched in what I hope are terms which combine reassurance and knowledge. I’m making it up as I go along but continue anyway. ‘Landers Hoffman will provide professionalism and a pragmatic approach in the event. Together I’m sure we can demonstrate the integrity of the WOS position.’

  Here I am committing us and Eric is showing no signs of contradicting me. I need this account, whatever the risks to Landers Hoffman’s reputation. Looking across at Eric I detect no concern at all in his fa
ce. Perhaps he hasn’t been listening and has transported himself internally to some far-off beach hotel and is lying around the pool in the hot sunshine.

  A very strange impulse rises inside me and try as I might I can’t get it out of my head. In the midst of the most important professional meeting I’ve had in my whole career, all that I can think of is getting a spray tan. Where I should go, how much it might cost, how deep to have it, whether to get a very light one at first and then gradually build it up over a few weeks. The summer is coming and it would be really nice to have a bit of colour to go with it. There is a place … I remember now, off Market Street, I can’t remember the name of the road, perhaps John Dalton Street. Anyway, I could get there in my lunch break. They might be busy at lunchtimes; perhaps I will have to book.

  I realise that Sally Mayer has been speaking and I haven’t been listening properly and I drag my attention back to the here and now. It would be great to have a tan though. From the look of her, Sally has either been somewhere sunny or has had the same idea as me. Her complexion looks like it would go pink and freckly in the sun, rather than the even bronze that it displays. Maybe I should ask her where she gets hers.

  18

  The realisation that I’m getting more comfortable at partners’ meetings comes with the irritation I allow myself at Alistair’s whingeing. Once, before my promotion was confirmed, prior to the massive income stream provided by the WOS account, it was very different. Now Alistair’s conscience-stricken moaning is not as threatening, though still hard to endure.

  I look at the faces around the table and detect a similar reaction to mine with a little more patience attached. It is Alistair after all, the blue-eyed boy, the one who gets all the glory, who brings home the bacon every time. Alistair Mann, despite being ten years older than I am, is still very young to be a full partner at Landers Hoffman. His unkempt appearance belies a sharp and ordered mind which he uses to spectacular effect, or so the other partners constantly remark. As far as I’m concerned, Mergers and Acquisitions are inherently more lucrative than standard audit work and any fool can generate good profits in this area. Add in the fact that his father is a bigwig in Rothschild’s and there you have it. That’s where most of Alistair’s business is generated, crumbs thrown by his dad or companies toadying up to him in order to get on the right side of his father. No wonder he can afford to bleat about ethics and standards, he can afford it, unlike the rest of us.

  He is still going on about WOS.

  ‘This latest problem is only the tip of the iceberg. I have it on good authority that the American government tipped Andersens the wink and they dropped them like a hot potato.’

  I can’t let that pass, even though I still feel like a child tolerated at the adult table. He’s undermining my entire position, attacking my right to be here. WOS are mine, they are the badge of my success and the main reason I’m still in this job.

  ‘Hang on, Alistair,’ I interrupt, feeling nervous but allowing my anger to prevail, ‘World Ordnance Systems are one of the largest and the most important companies in this country; they’re our primary defence contractors. The Americans don’t like them because they compete with Lockheed and General Electric. And they compete successfully. They’d love to see WOS in trouble and won’t miss any chance to give them grief. I would suggest you stop repeating any American-led rumours you might hear and concentrate on supporting what has become Landers & Hoffman’s biggest client.’

  Alistair sits quietly for a moment, face reddened as if he can’t believe that I’ve finally begun to fight my own corner. There is the beginning of a smile forming on Eric’s lips as he supervises the exchange from the head of the table.

  ‘Primary defence contractors,’ Alistair mimics me badly. ‘Arms dealers, that’s what they are, Jenny. Let me tell you about their latest acquisition in the Czech Republic.’

  ‘Did we help them with that?’ Eric speaks up at last.

  ‘No, they didn’t use us. It was done in-house,’ Alistair pauses.

  ‘Then we need to push a bit harder, Alistair.’ Eric is putting him in his place now. ‘International acquisitions can be tricky and of course earn appropriately large fees.’ He smiles now. The atmosphere lightens, but Alistair seems bent on making his point.

  ‘I’m glad they didn’t use us,’ he continues, ‘they bought an ammunitions factory.’

  ‘So what? That’s the business they’re in.’ I feel confident I have the upper hand after Eric’s intervention.

  Alistair leers at me. ‘This factory makes bullets and sub-machine guns, AK 47s to be precise. Its primary market is Africa and the Middle East.’

  I consider a retort beginning, ‘If WOS don’t supply them then someone else will,’ but I recognise the absurdity of it in time to stop myself. I begin to appreciate what is bothering Alistair. It comes down to the grim truth that my best client makes things that allow people to kill each other more efficiently. There’s a massive demand for these products and all Alistair’s protestations won’t change the world. At least Eric seems to have no big problem with the situation. Without WOS, I can see myself back on the shop floor working for Paul, that’s if I manage to keep any job at all.

  The discussion moves away from the sale of armaments to Third World countries and on to more comfortable ground. For the second quarter in a row my departmental earnings have increased way beyond expectations. At this rate I will soon be leading the highest earning department, overtaking Alistair’s Mergers and Acquisitions, despite M & A’s apparent ability to make up their own fees as they go along. This goes some way to explain the nature of Alistair’s intervention and also accounts for Eric’s indifference. As for me, I have a nagging feeling that Alistair is right and I may well have blood on my hands, even if it is second-hand and once removed. The prospect of a healthy year-end bonus does little to dissipate the uneasiness created by this unfortunate reality. Eric decides to recognise my increased workload by transferring some of Alistair’s people to me, allocating space on his floor for my work. Worst of all, judging by the look on Alistair’s face as Eric gently makes the suggestion, Judith, Alistair’s personal assistant, will now be shared with me. While I need all the help I can get, I wonder how it will work in practice. If Alistair continues to feel threatened, having his beloved Judith party to my every thought and movement could be awkward.

  My need for assistance more than compensates for that risk. Judith is without doubt the best and most experienced PA in the firm. I find the prospect of her working for me quite daunting, but that’s not something I’m going to admit, particularly at this meeting. I smile at Eric and nod my gratitude in his direction while trying not to make eye contact with Alistair.

  19

  ‘I know I’m hassling you, I have to.’

  Paul sits opposite, his face long and pathetic following my angry outburst. He is hurt and upset but his condition is positively ecstatic when compared with my own.

  ‘At this rate we’re going to miss the deadline for the WOS audit,’ I continue. ‘We set the timescale, they met their schedule and now you’re telling me we’re so short-staffed we can’t manage to do our part. For heaven’s sake, Paul, it’s a disaster and it’s a disaster we can’t afford to let happen.’

  ‘It’s not my fault,’ Paul mutters, looking down at his feet. I barely restrain from hitting him, punching him in the face, screaming out my frustration.

  ‘It’s not my fault …’ I mimic, ‘I suppose that makes it okay, does it? When the Stock Exchange hears the WOS accounts are delayed by audit problems, what do you think is going to happen?’

  Paul makes no attempt to answer, despite knowing the consequences as well as I do. WOS shares take a dive, Landers Hoffman lose a client and a reputation. I lose my job.

  As if I don’t have enough on my plate, Tim is being even more obnoxious than usual. Apparently he logged the last time we had sexual intercourse in some recess of his mind and today turns out to be its half anniversary. All his hurt male pride s
urfaced this morning in a torrent of abuse that left me shaking and fearful. I can still feel the knot in my solar plexus where I hold the hurt and the guilt. A small voice brings me back to the present predicament. Paul is almost whispering …

  ‘You could sign off with what we have so far.’

  An icy cold clamps itself across my chest. If I do as he suggests, there’ll be no room for manoeuvre in the future, the decision will haunt all dealings we have with WOS. But if I don’t, there may be no future to worry about at all. I make up my mind. I have until Friday; whatever I have by then I’ll have to go with, but I’m determined not to give them carte blanche.

  ‘Look, Paul, this is serious. I can’t just let it go. If it’s what I think it is I need to use it to show them Landers Hoffman are business-like and vigilant. We can’t be a soft touch from the word go, we’ll lose all credibility.’

  Paul seems even more anxious now. My decision has eased the tight feeling in my chest but he’s not displaying any signs that he is convinced. Sod him. I need his help but his support is secondary. I certainly don’t need his agreement.

  ‘Get Emma in here, I want to know how our old favourites in Brackley look to her.’

  A look of alarm spreads over Paul’s features, as if I was making him do something dangerous.

  ‘It’s not necessary,’ he splutters. ‘She reported that everything is fine down there, exactly the same as we both agreed after our visit.’ He emphasises the word both as if desperate to implicate me.