by L. A. Larkin
She paused and looked into his pale blue eyes. He raised his chin in acknowledgment but directed his gaze over her shoulder, avoiding eye contact. She could tell he was hiding his thoughts from her. All her life he had been the only person she could tell everything to because he’d never judged her. Well, until he’d made a comment shortly before she’d left for the UK. She’d been boasting about winning a cigarette company’s account and her subsequent big bonus. He’d frowned and said, ‘What happened to you, Seri? You’re not the girl I grew up with.’ She’d been floored. ‘At least I’m making something of my life,’ she’d replied, pissed off.
‘You think I’ve done the wrong thing, don’t you?’
John looked at her. ‘What I think doesn’t matter. What matters is you got to spend precious time with your dad before he died.’
‘But I was at a bloody interview,’ her voice cracked, ‘when he …’
Baz appeared in the doorway. John shook his head so Baz quietly withdrew.
‘You did your best. You’ve got to stop beating yourself up,’ he said.
Serena stood up and paced the room. ‘Dad always went on about standing up for what you believe in, but where did it get him? Nowhere. And when I wanted to go after Gene-Asis, he really got angry. He said I was biting off more than I could chew and I’d just destroy my life for a case I had no chance of winning.’
She was red-faced with sudden anger. But she wasn’t angry with John. She was angry with herself. And with her father.
John said carefully, ‘Look, forget about it. You need time to grieve. And who knows? If T-Speed causes cancer, there’ll be other victims out there. You can have another go when you’re not alone. Maybe get a class action going.’
‘I made a promise on his deathbed.’ She hung her head.
‘It’s okay. You’ll keep that promise when you can.’
Chapter 6
Her pitch team sat around the table, eyes focused on her. She stood, they sat. Serena summed them up in a few seconds. Nearest her, Carl, the ad director: rolled-up shirt sleeves, foot tapping under the desk, confident swagger. He would challenge her. The art director next: slick, perfectly styled hair, goatee, lolling back in his chair so far he was almost horizontal. Lazy. The copywriter: anxious, poor sleeper, fidgeting. Needed coaxing. A couple of account executives and assistants: suited and attentive, they looked terrified. They’d heard about her reputation.
‘I’m Serena Swift and I’m the new pitch director for the Mitsubishi account. I guess you know of me but here’s a brief rundown: ten years ago I started with McCann Erickson. I won them Fairfax Media, Apple and Mitsubishi. So I know Mitsubishi’s business backwards. I even spent two years in Japan.’ She paused to allow this to sink in. ‘For the last four years I’ve been with Rooneys London. I won them Sony, American Express, Barclays, Apple, and Sainsbury’s among others. Now I’m back and I am going to win Mitsubishi for Rooneys Sydney, with your help. I’ve read your CVs and you’re a great team. I’ll drive you hard, but you already know that. So let’s talk about where you are up to. Carl, over to you.’
She sat down. Carl stood and picked up a number of A2-sized storyboards. Each one depicted a sequence of sketches that illustrated the key scenes from different ideas they’d been testing. He placed them on a stand, the backs of the boards facing those assembled, so the sketches couldn’t be seen, and stood to the side.
‘Thank you, Serena,’ he said and nodded at her. ‘We’ve been working on this pitch for six months. Its focus is the repositioning of the Mitsubishi brand as the car manufacturer of the future. Green, environmentally friendly, and so on, but still offering the power, the acceleration, the style. So the focus is on the launch of the hydrogen car. As you’d expect, Serena, we’ve explored every angle on this. Everything from futuristic space age technology to kids breathing clean air, the green car company angle, to the beauty of the design and its unique features. And this is where we’ve got to,’ he announced, turning over the first board so the sketches could be seen.
He continued, ‘Matt said the brand needed a point of differentiation and we picked its futuristic technology. Here we have a UFO following the new hydrogen car. The aliens can see inside to its hydrogen fuel cells. They nod. “Hydrogen technology, we don’t even have that yet,” an alien says. The others nod approvingly. The shot zooms in on the happy family in the car, smiling kids in the back. “And no pollution. I want it!” says the alien. Then we go to the voiceover, “Mitsubishi cars—everyone wants one.” And it ends.’
Carl folded his arms and waited for praise.
‘So you all think this is the way to go?’ she asked, looking at each face in turn. All eyes turned to Carl, who nodded. The team then said yes in unison.
‘Matt clearly didn’t do his homework,’ said Serena. ‘Take a look at this.’
Her smartphone lay on the table. It was the latest model, the Tbyte, and only the top executives at Rooneys received one. It had a smartdoc keyboard, a terabyte of flash RAM onboard, a GPS, blazingly fast wireless connectivity for networking and peripherals, and could even project holographic images, although these were still a bit grainy. A few years ago, she would have carried her laptop around to meetings like this. Now all she needed was her smartphone. Her team watched her click her phone into the keyboard slot so that it stood upright. She pressed a few keys, searching for a file on the network. She found it and then pressed another key, linking her phone to the wall-mounted monitor. It showed another storyboard, with aliens commenting on the technology. But this time it was for Apple computers.
‘This was one of the ideas I pitched to Apple six years ago. Same theme. Almost identical. It was one of three. It wasn’t the one we recommended, thank God. The vice president of marketing hated it. Thought the aliens were ridiculous.’
‘But this is a different account. Hydrogen cars are space age. I mean, all they emit is water. No carbon,’ argued Carl.
‘If it’s shot well, it’ll be very powerful,’ said the art director. ‘Yeah, the aliens idea has been used before but that doesn’t mean it can’t be used again, in a different context.’
‘But we’re talking Mitsubishi. We’ll be pitching to the VP of marketing. Do you know who that is?’
The team looked at each other, confused.
‘Is that a trick question?’ asked the copywriter. ‘Of course we know who we’re pitching to. Aki Shimamoto. Born Japan, educated in the US, worked in Europe and now in Japan.’
‘Aki was the VP of marketing at Apple when I did the pitch. He moved to Mitsubishi two years ago. Do you see? He’s seen the aliens’ idea before and hated it. Loathed it. We are not going to present this idea to him again.’
Stunned silence. ‘Shit!’ said the art director.
‘I’m a pitch director because I know these things. I make it my job to know the client and I know Aki well. We’re karaoke buddies. I know what he likes and hates. I know he’s very much the American playboy in his personal life but in front of the GM of Mitsubishi, he’ll be traditional and restrained. You know, all that Japanese ceremony. He won’t comment on our pitch because the Japanese don’t like to be confrontational in meetings, but he’ll phone me afterwards and tell me what he really thinks. I’ll win us this pitch but you’ll have to trust me.’
She looked around the room. They nodded.
‘Okay, show me the other boards. What other ideas did you come up with?’ she asked.
Carl talked through each of the seven boards and explained the ideas presented in each.
‘Board seven. I love it. We can play around with the letter H. H the symbol for hydrogen. What else does H stand for?’
‘Happiness?’ an assistant suggested hesitantly.
‘Perfect. Happy people, loving their cars. No guilt, no pollution. Good. What else?’
Back in her office, Serena tried to focus on Mitsubishi but found it hard to concentrate. She shot off an email in Japanese to Aki Shimamoto, her software translating the characters into kanji.
But she couldn’t get out of her mind the argument in the foyer yesterday. Gene-Asis was one of the top ten companies in the world. You’d have to be mad to assault the global CEO. Or desperate. She remembered her death bed promise and knew that simply by working for Rooneys, she was betraying it. But the deed was done. Or was it? She wouldn’t go near Gene-Asis but there was nothing stopping her checking out the professor. Where was the harm in that?
She typed ‘Dr Fergus McPherson’ into the search engine and pressed ‘enter’.
Over fifty hits came up. One was a link to his résumé.
Born in Glasgow. B.Sc. in physiology, with first-class honours. Ph.D. in biochemistry. Professor of Biochemistry at Edinburgh University. Founded the Audrey Walters Institute of Genetic Research. Professor of Plant Pathology and Genetics at Harvard. Professor of Genetics and Plant Breeding at Aurthur Phillip University Sydney. Over 300 primary peer-reviewed papers. Written or edited nine books. His last published book, Food for a Hotter Planet—how genetic engineering works with climate change to feed the world, was in 2011. The résumé ended there.
Dr McPherson’s credentials were impeccable. It was not the CV of a crank and he appeared to be a steadfast supporter of genetic engineering. But Serena could find nothing after 2011. He was not in the university’s Genetics Department staff directory. She guessed he must have left or even been fired.
Her mobile rang, startling her. It was John, checking what time she wanted to move in that night.
‘I’ll drive by your apartment at, say, seven?’
‘Great. I haven’t much to pack.’
‘Baz’s on a date, so unless you want to try my speciality, which is grilled cheese on toast, we’re having takeaway tonight.’
Serena laughed. ‘Takeaway’s fine,’ she said. ‘John?’
‘Yup?’
She checked her door was closed and then filled him in on the altercation in the foyer the day before and her research on Dr McPherson.
‘Don’t you think it’s … well, a bit strange that his life’s work seems to suddenly stop?’
‘So you haven’t let Gene-Asis go?’
‘I have. I’m just curious, that’s all.’
The momentary pause told her he didn’t believe her.
‘How old was he?’ asked John.
‘I’d guess Dad’s age.’ She felt a tightening in her chest.
‘Sounds as though he didn’t like what Gene-Asis was doing. If it’s bugging you, why don’t you call the uni and ask? It could be he just hasn’t published anything lately.’
‘I guess a phone call can’t hurt. Anyway, thanks. See you tonight.’
‘No worries.’
Serena put her handheld down on the desk without docking it. She leaned her chin on her palm and stared at the phone’s shiny black surface. She spun it around a few times, undecided. Then she quickly dialled directory assistance before she could change her mind and was put though to Arthur Phillip University.
‘Hi, can you tell me if Dr Fergus McPherson is still working for the university?’
‘Er. There’s no Dr McPherson on my list. Do you know which faculty he’s with?’
‘Genetics and Plant Breeding.’
‘I’ll put you through.’
The classical hold music nearly deafened her.
‘Genetics,’ said a clipped female voice.
‘Oh, hello. Can I speak to Dr Fergus McPherson, please?’
‘Who, sorry?’
‘Dr Fergus McPherson.’
‘Oh, him. I reckon he left years ago.’
‘Do you know where he is now?’
‘No idea.’
‘Did he leave a contact number?’
‘If he did, I couldn’t tell you. I can’t give out personal information. Look, I’ve got another call coming in. I must go.’
With that, the line went dead.
Chapter 7
John’s shirt sleeves were rolled up and Serena noticed a tattoo on his arm. He hadn’t had that four years ago. She could only see part of it but could make out that it resembled a fish’s tail. Her suitcases were in the hallway and John was giving her a guided tour of the flat. They stood now in his home office. The white louvre shutters were closed tightly, giving the small room the feel of a dark cave. The only light came from the glare of the monitors, arranged in two rows of three. Three were attached to the wall and three were on the glass-top desk. Cabling coiled like a nest of red-bellied black snakes to the power points. All six screens were on: Serena identified chat rooms on two screens but the other four streamed numbers that made no sense to her. His desk was scattered with memory sticks, empty energy drink bottles and coffee cups, some back-up discs and a football.
‘I often work through the night. I prefer to do it here than at the office.’
‘Why do you work nights?’
‘To catch hackers, you need to be active when they are,’ John said as they left the room. He led her into his bedroom. He had his own balcony and through the glass doors she noticed a surfboard leaning against the wall.
‘When did you get into surfing?’ she asked.
‘Couple of years ago. When I moved to the beach.’
‘Baz is right. You have changed. First banking and now surfing. I guess a lot can happen in four years.’
He opened the balcony doors wider to let more of the sea breeze through.
‘We haven’t exactly stayed in contact.’ John said ‘we’ but Serena was the one who’d ignored his emails and phone messages.
‘And what made you get into surfing?’ she asked, changing the conversation back to a safer topic. She followed him onto the balcony and gazed across the rooftops towards Coogee beach.
‘I don’t know,’ he said, leaning his elbows on the balcony wall. ‘It was something different, new. I mean, we both learned to swim at the town pool, but nothing beats those pounding waves and that salty taste. And it keeps me fit.’
Serena glanced at him. It upset her that she no longer knew her childhood best friend. They had always been so close.
‘I’m proud of you,’ she said.
He grinned his slightly lopsided smile that gave him a roguish air.
‘Why, thank you, Miss Swift,’ he said cheekily.
When they moved inside, Serena noticed a framed photo on the bedside table. It was of an attractive blonde woman, smiling, with her head resting on John’s shoulder. He saw Serena looking at it.
‘That’s Kat.’
‘Oh. You didn’t tell me you had a girlfriend.’
‘Yeah, well, you didn’t ask,’ he said, a little defensively. He then recovered himself. ‘This is a bit weird. I think we need to … talk.’
She shook her head. ‘No, John, please. With Dad’s death, it’s just too much right now.’
He shrugged. ‘Okay.’
Serena glanced back at the photo. ‘So, when am I meeting Kat? She looks lovely.’
‘She died five months ago.’ His eyes had never left her face and when she looked into them, she could read his devastation. She recalled his email from a few months ago, which she’d immediately deleted. If only she’d read it.
‘John, I’m so sorry,’ said Serena. She put her hand on his arm.
‘It was hepatitis S. By the time they worked it out, her liver was gone.’
‘I’m so sorry. I had no idea.’
He shrugged again. ‘That’s what happens when you don’t stay in touch.’ There was no accusation: he was simply stating a fact. He paused. ‘They couldn’t even bloody well tell us how she got it, let alone why I didn’t,’ he said, his face screwed up with bitterness.
‘It must have been terrible, watching her …’ Serena paused. ‘I feel bad, John. I wish I’d … I wish we’d …’
John looked at Serena, calmer now. ‘Yeah, well, what’s done is done. Baz was the best. He was really there for me, put up with my moods and, God, I was shitty.’ He dropped his eyes to the floor. ‘Wishing won’t bring her back.’ He looked at Kat’s photograph. �
�I made a decision to move on. I have to.’
He walked out of the room. Serena glanced at the framed image, right next to his bed, a daily reminder of Kat’s absence. He was still grieving. After a few seconds, Serena followed him to the kitchen.
‘I need a drink. How about you?’ said John. She nodded.
‘So, did you check out the Prof?’ he asked, changing the subject.
‘Yeah. I called the uni. They said he’d left some years ago.’
He handed her a beer from the fridge.
‘This is kinda weird, don’t you think? He disappears and then turns up in the foyer of your building and picks a fight with the CEO of Gene-Asis. That’s got to be more than just coincidence. I think you were meant to see that fight.’
‘I never thought you would go all Zen on me.’
He shrugged. ‘I spend lots of time alone, hunting hackers. You know, lots of time to think.’
Serena shook her head.
‘The logical explanation is the professor probably worked for Gene-Asis—you know, doing research—and stuffed up. So they fired him and now he bears a grudge, and that’s why he went after Bukowski.’
‘But didn’t he say something about someone being killed? What if he thought a Gene-Asis product had killed someone?’
Serena put her bottle on the table and sat down.
‘Oh, John, don’t go there. I’ve been told to stay clear of anything to do with Gene-Asis and my new boss is watching me like a hawk.’
‘Okay, whatever. But I think this is your second chance.’
Serena waved her hand, as if to dismiss the idea. But she didn’t enjoy her beer after that—it tasted sour and flat. She sat quietly as her mind ticked over the possibilities. She was hooked, however much she was trying to pretend to John and herself that she wasn’t. What if McPherson really did know something incriminating?
Chapter 8
Serena needed to get up to speed on Mitsubishi’s recent advertising campaign. She knew Aki Shimamoto, the client, better than she knew her brother, having grown further apart from Keith in recent years as her visits home had grown fewer and fewer. She never forgot Aki’s daughters’ birthdays: it was her job to remember. But she’d forgotten her niece’s birthday last year and Keith had been furious. So, knowing the client well enough wasn’t a problem. What she lacked was knowledge of the local advertising campaigns. She checked the file of television commercials, or TVCs, as they were called, and sighed when she realised that last year’s were missing. As Jodi wasn’t at her desk, she decided to pay her art director a visit.