Goodfellowe MP

by Michael Dobbs

  For a moment she stood speechless, taking in his appearance. His suit resembled something housewives find on Monday mornings buried at the bottom of the laundry basket.

  Goodfellowe smiled wryly. ‘Evening, Beryl. How’s the HRT?’

  Corsa threw another log on the fire. It didn’t spit. Swiss hearths weren’t allowed to misbehave. In any event, it was only for effect; the late afternoon sun hovered so full and red that even high in the mountains above Gryon they could still enjoy drinks outside on the balcony.

  They had all come. Some had flown in via Geneva, others through Lausanne. The skiing season was about to finish yet there had been a foot of fresh snow which lent a crystalline quality to the air, making the drive around the tip of Lac Léman and into the mountains of Valais nothing less than spectacular. Corsa had chosen a provident spot for his Swiss hideaway. The attractions of the breathtaking panorama across the Rhone Valley to the mountains of France beyond were exceeded only by its status as a tax-free headquarters for the international operations of the Granite Foundation. It seemed little more than pedantry to point out that no employee of the Foundation had ever set foot inside.

  Yet it had been no easy task to gather together the five men and one woman, Di Burston, who had made the journey. Weekends in idyllic locations were neither unusual nor irresistible to the industrial leaders who at this moment were fraternizing on his balcony; it was business rather than beauty that had drawn them here. A transformation of their corporate prospects, he had promised them, like some doorstep insurance salesman. He’d refused to take no for an answer, and his boots were considerably bigger than most.

  They’d been there scarcely an hour but already the informality of snow-draped Alps and invigorating air had relaxed them. The executive chairman whose company produced 400,000 cars a year had also produced his latest mistress, whom he was allowing to ‘synergize’, as he referred to it, with the others. She’d once asked him what the word meant. ‘Comes after synagogue but before syphilis,’ he’d explained. ‘Keep it that way.’ By contrast the European head of a tobacco multinational was there with his wife – ‘in my business we’re not allowed to misbehave even in private,’ he’d complained, but they were clearly a devoted pair and already at ease. So was the CEO of the world’s second-largest nuclear-reprocessing operation, who looked a little like Trotsky with glowing eyes and a moustache like a bramble which appeared to have taken root across his face. Released from the inhibitions of home, he had already propositioned the butler, who had refused, and he was now working his way broadmindedly towards Diane. She, as always, was stunning, standing centre stage in a Karl Lagerfeld tracksuit and explaining to the big-hitter from the UK chemicals industry how he might improve his backhand slice. Meanwhile to one side, cautious and seemingly diffident, stood a Japanese gentleman who everyone referred to simply as Mr Hagi. Hagi had one of those indistinguishable Oriental faces which to Europeans seem neither formed nor finished, with no striking feature to pick him out of a crowd. Yet he had found little difficulty in attracting attention after pouring a billion dollars into the virtual-reality ranch he had created in a cow pasture a few miles from Brussels and its cross-Channel rail link. He drank only tea.

  The sun had begun to slip, the final embers of day burning themselves out on mountain peaks as the shade temperature plunged several degrees. They retreated inside to the flickering hearth and the raw wood walls which acted as a backcloth to several fine pieces of art from the collection of the Corsa Foundation. The Japanese admired two slender Tang statues almost a metre high, remarking on how difficult it was to smuggle such large artefacts out of China without getting them damaged. Corsa promised to give him the name of his restorer on the Portobello Road.

  A meal had been prepared which somehow managed to cater for all their dietary whims, even Mr Hagi, who seemed to enjoy little other than raw fish. He feasted on gravadlax. But no business was discussed, not during the meal.

  ‘A little like Poirot, isn’t it?’ the chemical king enquired, glancing around the dinner table. ‘When do you put on the funny accent and tell us who’s done the foul deed?’

  ‘According to much of your press coverage, you’re all as guilty as sin,’ Corsa replied. ‘That’s why you’re here.’

  And with the minimum of fuss the table had been cleared, the fire replenished, drinks laid out and the staff dismissed. Wife and mistress were guided in the direction of the Jacuzzi.

  ‘My pitch is simple,’ Corsa began when all was quiet. There were no papers. ‘You have two things in common. You are exceptional business leaders, corporate warriors of the first class. Yet you are all being slowly bled to death because you don’t control the most important weapon in today’s corporate warfare – your images.’ He waved a hand in the direction of the Japanese. ‘No, Mr Hagi, that doesn’t apply to you – yet. But I hope to show you that it will.’

  Corsa handed each one a thin sealed envelope. ‘For later,’ he instructed with deliberate mystery.

  ‘You see, the media control your images. Yet none of you control the media. We, the media, are the king-makers. And the destroyers, if need be. It’s quite simple. We say the currency is about to weaken, so the following day there’s panic selling in the financial markets. And the currency becomes weak. We print a story which states that two friends are rivals for political honours and, by the weekend, they’ve become those rivals. And if we suggest a husband’s close relationship with an actress is the subject of his wife’s close scrutiny, then you can bet that by the time the milk has splashed over his morning cornflakes that’s exactly what she’s doing.’

  ‘You admit you print it even if it isn’t true?’ the car manufacturer interrupted.

  ‘You miss the point. If we print it, it becomes true.’

  ‘To you truth is simply a commodity?’

  ‘Look, in your industry you send off researchers to find out what your customers want. If they want their cars green with sun roofs and chromium headlamps, then you manufacture cars that are green with sun roofs and chromium headlamps. If you run a television station or a newspaper you do exactly the same. Find out what the customers will buy.’

  ‘And manufacture it.’

  Corsa let Nuclear’s remark stand to attention in front of them for a moment.

  ‘We don’t take hostages in the circulation war. If the great British public want to read that Martin Bormann is living as a bisexual vicar in Bognor Regis, or Five-A-Side Fiona does it with half the Chelsea team after every big match, they’ve got a right to it the same as any other customer.’

  ‘But that’s just the tabloids,’ Chemicals interjected.

  Corsa beamed. ‘Think business! Not gutter press and respectable rag, but simply business.’

  They looked nonplussed.

  ‘The tabloids encourage everyone to have sex at least nineteen times a week. If we don’t we’re all left to feel inadequate. Yet if we do, those very same tabloids splash our names all over the front page with illustrated highlights inside. Meanwhile the learned broadsheets make their living editorializing about the nation’s fall into moral turpitude. And who owns the respectable press? The same guys who own the gutter press. They all lie end to end and indulge in practices that would cause blushes even in Bangkok.’

  The Japanese spoke next, slowly but distinctly. ‘You make it sound as if you are not a newspaper man at all, Mr Corsa.’

  ‘I’m not. At least, not like the rest. I understand my business better than any of them.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Because I understand image, and because I control it. Hitler and Goering couldn’t destroy Winston Churchill, but I could have. Destroyed his reputation, his power, his place in history. The destiny of great people – and great companies – lies in the hands of the media. If the media say your new products are great, you’re a success. Yet every time they print a sensational front-page story about how you, all of you personally,’ – he pointed accusingly around the table – ‘about how you’re
killing innocent kids through radiation leaks or tobacco smoke or drugs like thalidomide …’ His audience began to shift uneasily. ‘You spend hundreds of millions of pounds a year between you on advertising and corporate communications and lobbying to manufacture your images, your corporate truths. And practically every penny is wasted. Blown away by a single front-page exclusive branding you as no better than corporate child-killers.’

  ‘So what precisely is it you’re suggesting we do? Stop wasting our millions advertising in your newspapers?’ It was Diane Burston, the first time she had spoken.

  ‘Go direct. Buy the media. Buy the front pages, not just a couple of columns inside. Then use them. To sell your own industries – and, even more effectively, to bury your competition.’

  ‘That’s one hell of a sales pitch. Buy into an industry just when everyone else is selling.’ Tobacco’s tone indicated he was not taking the matter entirely seriously.

  ‘That’s the point. The Press Bill will force the biggest players to sell some of their titles. I’m suggesting we buy and take their place. Control your own fortunes. Buy the news coverage you want.’

  ‘But no one is going to be allowed more than twenty per cent …’ Tobacco objected.

  ‘No one. No one. But a private consortium made up of six or seven players, with the lines of ownership buried behind shell companies and investment trusts which no doubt you all have located in very private homes like Liechtenstein and Luxembourg …’

  ‘Or Switzerland.’

  ‘Precisely. Together we can control as much as we want without the authorities ever catching on. Newspaper shares are cheap anyway, and I’m offering you a means of increasing their value to you many times over. How much would it be worth to have free advertising? To poison the waters for your competitors?’

  ‘To hang the bloody pressure groups out to dry,’ Nuclear interjected with an edge of bitterness. He was catching on.

  ‘Dig away at their private lives, their finances,’ Corsa added. ‘They’re practically all deviants. And,’ his lips parted encouragingly, ‘the public has a right to know.’

  Diane started laughing and the exchange began in earnest. ‘Someone would see through the scheme, bound to.’ – ‘Did they see through Maxwell?’ – ‘Safety in numbers. And in trusts.’ – ‘A consortium. A very private club. With our own club magazine.’ – ‘Might get the bloody Government off our backs.’ – ‘Great.’ – ‘The majesty of the press. Think about it. Always fancied being a king.’ – ‘Or queen.’ – ‘Oh, to stuff Greenpeace.’ – ‘And we’d still have the value of the newspaper shares.’

  Tobacco, however, remained concerned. ‘But that’s it. I know nothing about newspapers, nor do any of us.’

  ‘Except me,’ their host interrupted forcefully. ‘And I want what you should want: to be part of the mightiest media group in the country. I know the business, I can make it work for you.’

  ‘But can we trust you, Mr Corsa?’

  ‘Trust me? What has trust got to do with it? Don’t trust me, control me! I’m willing to back my judgement in the most practical fashion, by allowing the consortium to start its work by buying a substantial stake in the Granite Group. Take hold of the reins. That’s my commitment. My business where my mouth is.’

  Corsa’s frank enthusiasm was beginning to prove infectious until, cutting through the general hubbub that ensued, came a pounding from the far end of the table. The slap of Hagi’s hand summoned them to silence.

  ‘But what of me?’ the Japanese demanded, his voice quivering in offence. ‘Why am I here? My business is entertainment. Fun farms. Not death factories. I have no image problems. No …’ – he struggled furiously with the consonants – ‘pressure groups.’

  ‘Mr Hagi, there are pressures in every field. Even in fun farms.’

  ‘What pressures?’

  ‘OK. Let me ask you all to look inside the envelopes in front of you.’

  They took up the envelopes, opening them with distinctive styles. Some tore at them like alligators playing with prey, others pecked like cranebills. Hagi approached his with such caution that for a moment Corsa thought he intended to reuse it.

  From each fell share receipts. Ten thousand pounds’ worth.

  ‘I purchased these shares this morning. In your names. And you will see that they are shares in what Mr Hagi modestly calls his fun farm.’ He inclined his head in the direction of the Japanese. ‘By this time tomorrow they will be worth considerably more.’

  ‘What!’ Hagi’s voice and eyes were incandescent. ‘You screw around with my company!’

  ‘Not screwing around with your company, Mr Hagi. Screwing around with your opposition.’

  Corsa crossed to a fax machine that had been sitting unobtrusively in the corner of the room and pressed a button. It began to warble.

  ‘Your main opposition – your only true competition, Mr Hagi – is the Wonderworld complex just outside Paris. Been having a particularly rough time, and they are in the process of major financial renegotiations with their banks. Big discussions about future attendance levels. Am I right?’

  ‘Correct.’

  Corsa took the paper from the fax machine and laid it on the table. ‘I thought you might like to see tomorrow’s front page.’

  The paper bore a miniaturized version of the Herald, with a splash headline.

  ‘Child Sex Ring Targets Wonderworld.’

  ‘Sadly for your competition, my intrepid journalists have found evidence of paedophile activity at Wonderworld.’

  ‘It is true?’

  ‘Mr Hagi, several million children under the age of sixteen go through Wonderworld every year. Of course it attracts perverts. Just like every fun park in the world. But I have the feeling it won’t be attracting so many families, nor many bankers. Not after this.’

  ‘You manufacture story?’

  Corsa smiled. ‘Manufacture? Such an ugly word. I prefer to see it more as a fishing expedition for the truth. Some newspapers like to fly-fish. I find it easier simply to chuck in a couple of sticks of dynamite.’

  ‘Boom,’ Di Burston offered, softly and very sensuously.

  ‘This will blow them apart,’ Hagi insisted.

  ‘And you will be there to pick up the pieces. You see, gentlemen, image is everything.’

  THREE

  Goodfellowe decided he might have been a trifle impetuous with Sammy. The ginger spikes had proved to be no more than a wash-‘n’-go frolic for the fashion show; the tattoo had also been nothing more than a temporary adornment, and even though the hole in the navel was all too lasting and left him feeling queasy, he’d been unable to articulate his objections with anything other than pompous flannel. His parables about how officers in World War I had been dragged to muddy deaths by their lanyards made him appear vaguely senile, while the fashion show – Sammy’s fashion show – had been a startling success, to which he had contributed exactly sod-all. Time to climb down from his mountain top and share a little humble pie.

  Except humble pie was not on the menu at The Kremlin, Westminster’s newest restaurant, which stood no more than a brisk umbrella walk from the House of Commons. This was to be a time for reconciliation, an opportunity for him to recognize Sam’s blossoming maturity and – if he must – to acknowledge that fathers had to grow up, too. It would be worth the damage to his fragile finances. Anyway, he’d been carrying a considerable burden of guilt and The Kremlin seemed an appropriate place to offload it, although he’d have preferred it if they’d managed to recognize him when he arrived and made a little fuss for Sammy’s benefit. Instead he got the table by the noisy kitchen door.

  ‘You’ve never taken me anywhere like this before. I wasn’t expecting it. You’ll have to explain the menu.’

  Sammy’s observation embarrassed him. It wasn’t so much the implication of meanness but her recognition that lunch was somehow part of the rite of accession, of passage from puberty to adulthood. To independence from him.

  ‘Be good to do
it more often. It’s so difficult with you away and, you know, my job. We never seem to have enough time for each other.’

  ‘You’re always so busy.’

  ‘Suppose I am. Do you think I’d be better if I had any other job?’

  She examined him with all the brutal honesty of a teenager, then shook her head. ‘No. Except we’d have more money.’

  ‘Money’s not everything.’

  ‘That must be why we don’t have any of it.’

  He had hoped lunch would be relaxing, like a warm mineral bath. Instead she seemed intent on throwing in buckets of ice cubes.

  ‘I’m sorry about the fashion show. About not being able to help. I thought you were splendid. Your clothes were … splendid.’

  ‘Daddy, what do you know about clothes?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Look at yourself. That jacket’s a disgrace.’ More ice cubes showered down.

  ‘Yes, I had an accident. Tried to have it dry-cleaned, doesn’t seem to have worked.’

  ‘The button’s coming off!’

  He looked down and began to fiddle, only to find the thread unravelling and the button falling into his hand. Diffidently he popped it into his pocket.

  ‘How’s school?’ he asked, trying to find conversation.

  She merely shrugged.

  ‘The headmistress said you’d found some friends in town, outside the school.’ He didn’t entirely know how to handle this so he bundled on. ‘In fact she’s a little worried they might not be the best sort of influence on you.’

  ‘She’s a snob. Anyway, she’s only really worried because one of the girls in our group got drunk last term.’

  ‘You drink?’

  ‘You told me you did when you were sixteen.’

  The temptation to produce more parental flannel was almost overwhelming. ‘But how do you buy drinks? You’re under age. And you can’t afford it.’

  ‘We know a group of boys who are older. Nineteen, twenty maybe. They buy the drinks.’