Requiem

by Clare Francis

  The window, a bay, was tall and uncurtained, the sun hitting the glass and spreading over the film of London grime like gold dust, so that even the most vigilant neighbour would have trouble seeing in. He sat at the desk and, slipping the tapes out of their boxes one by one, made a careful note of which tapes belonged in which boxes before exchanging them for the blanks in his pocket. Just as he was restacking the boxes on the pile of papers the phone rang with a loud shrill. Out of long habit he froze until, with the clicking of the answering machine, he could once more hear beyond the flat to the sounds on the communal stairs and the street below.

  The answering machine spewed out its message, broadcasting it through the room. ‘I’m not here just at the moment, but if you’d like to leave a message …’ The caller took up her invitation, announcing himself as Campbell from Loch Fyne.

  Hillyard suddenly straightened and strode through to the bathroom. Springing onto the side of the bath, he opened a door set high in the wall and thrust his ear as close as possible to the cupboard inside. The hot water gurgled in the tank below, a pipe expanded with a tick-ticking sound, but even when these extraneous sounds ceased it was impossible to hear the whir of the tape in its hidey hole behind the thick bundles of old blankets and abandoned clothing that filled the available space. The caller rang off. There was a clunk from the answering machine in the main room, but from behind the high-set cupboard there was not the faintest sound.

  He didn’t disturb the machine – he’d already had it out once to change the tape and renew the batteries – but closed the door and stepped down, carefully wiping any trace of footmarks from the edge of the bath.

  As he passed the bathroom wall-cabinet he took a quick look inside on the principle that you never knew what you might find, then, after a quick perusal of the street from the bay window, let himself out. He had obtained a full set of her keys, copied from the spare set she kept in the top right-hand drawer of her desk.

  The car was parked in an adjacent street, guarded by Beji. He drove to the heath, to a popular parking place where old dears sat in their cars enjoying the sun and determined dog-walkers set off briskly, chins jutting, into the wind.

  Hillyard collected a holdall from the boot, slid the driver’s seat back as far as it would go and, settling himself comfortably with legs outstretched, began the time-consuming task of dubbing the tapes. He plugged the tape machine into the 12-volt lighter socket and, inserting the first pair of tapes, set the high-speed dubber in motion. He listened to the senseless jabbering for a moment before turning the volume down and making some cryptic notes in his personalized shorthand. These related to the message he’d heard in the flat. Campbell, Loch Fyne. May have found (an)? airfield to west of Stirling. There had been something else noteworthy in the message, but with the distractions of the bathroom expedition, it took him a while to recollect exactly what it was. He wrote: No luck on the spray. When the last tape had been copied he put the originals back in his pocket, repacked the holdall and returned it to the boot. As he headed back through Highgate, he hummed contentedly, thinking of the thick body of facts that would go into the next report. Some weeks it had been necessary to pad things out a bit. Then Beryl, exercising all her wicked ingenuity, had massaged the story forward, hinting at the promise of future disclosures without ever quite diverting from the facts, or, indeed, the lack of them. But this week no padding would be necessary, not so long as Beryl got moving on the transcriptions and had them finished in time.

  He followed the same route back to Upper Holloway and parked within sight of the Field woman’s flat. More from habit than the expectation of seeing anything, he watched the dust-coated windows of the first-floor flat for a couple of minutes before getting out and strolling gently towards the front steps. He was pulling the keys out of his pocket, preparing himself for a rapid entry, when he spotted a man at the far end of the street walking briskly down the hill towards him. At that distance Hillyard couldn’t make out his face but he had a sudden and unpleasant suspicion that this was someone associated with the Field woman. A firm disciple of his own intuition, he accelerated into a more purposeful stride and, ignoring the house, kept walking.

  Within a few yards Hillyard realized several things simultaneously: that he had been mistaken and didn’t recognize the man at all, and that the approaching figure’s resemblance, such as it was, had been to the Field woman’s boyfriend, the Sunday Times journalist, Simon Calthrop, and it was this that had sounded the faint alarm in his mind.

  If he’d had more time to think about it, he’d have known a visit from Calthrop wasn’t likely. The boyfriend always liked the Field girl to go to him. But better safe than locked up, as Beryl liked to point out.

  Passing the man, Hillyard carefully averted his eyes, and reaching the end of the street took a quick look back to make doubly sure that the man was not after all entering number fifty, before turning left and left again, to beat a circuitous path back to the car.

  There he waited until there was a nice long lull in the business of the street. Letting himself back into the flat, he replaced the blank tapes with the originals, and stacked them carefully on the pile of papers, exactly where he’d found them.

  He was in and out within two minutes. To a casual observer, a resident who’d just popped in for something.

  There was a mammoth jam in Park Lane and it took him a good hour to get back to Battersea. He spent the time entertaining himself with Beji, dangling choccy drops above her nose.

  Chapter 15

  NORMALLY SCHENKER NEVER ate alone in hotel suites – he resented the waste of executive time – but today he made an exception and ate breakfast in front of the TV so as to catch the first news of the British government appointments.

  Cable news finally delivered at seven, but gave only the top four cabinet appointments. Schenker called Cramm’s room immediately to find that his assistant, ever the great anticipator, had at that very moment plucked the information from the Reuters wire service.

  Driscoll had got Agriculture.

  Schenker beamed. He beamed at himself in the mirror as he adjusted his tie, and he smiled at Cramm as they descended to the Plaza’s main lobby and went out to the waiting limo. There were still faint signs of pleasure on his face as they headed downtown to their appointment on Madison Avenue.

  ‘The right man,’ he remarked in a self-indulgent murmur.

  ‘Absolutely,’ echoed Cramm dutifully.

  And the right man twice over, Schenker comforted himself. Not only was Driscoll a friend in the most beneficial sense of the word, but almost any change would have been a vast improvement on the last incumbent, Cranbourne, whose obstructive little ways had been a thorn in Schenker’s flesh for a long time. Fortunately Cranbourne had overreached himself and made a slip just before the election. In better times the mistake – allowing the export of some unsafe meat – would hardly have rated more than a brief rebuke in the press, but Cranbourne had failed to realize that for a politician without friends, errors, however minor, were inclined to be fatal. Provided with the appropriate facts – and journalists existed to be fed facts – the media had developed the affair into a minor scandal. The timing hadn’t helped the government’s election chances of course, but that was a risk that had had to be taken.

  ‘You always knew it would be Driscoll,’ Cramm said with suitable admiration.

  Schenker shrugged modestly. ‘Not knew. Just weighed up the chances, and he always came out on top. Not too much of a high-flier, you see. Not too ambitious. Not foreign secretary or home secretary material. And he knows it. That’s his strength. Steady, good grounding, solid ability, someone who can be relied on to spare the prime minister unpleasant surprises.’

  ‘He’s got a lot to deliver though, hasn’t he?’ said Cramm delicately. ‘The manifesto, those environmental commitments … they were pretty heavy.’

  ‘This government will never push Green issues at the expense of its economic programme,’ said Schenker with conf
idence. ‘The economy comes first and, whatever the British people may say, however Green they may think they are, the economy will always come first with them too.’ Summing it up as he thought rather neatly, he added: ‘Food before ideas. Always has been, always will be.’

  The Food Bill, which everyone had got in such a panic about, had quickly got bogged down at committee stage, and the more extreme clauses gradually thinned down until, thanks to the snap election, the entire Bill had got killed off. The government had of course promised to reintroduce the legislation, which was only to be expected, but the details had been left acceptably indeterminate. With Driscoll safely in the chair, the insane warning-label idea for food was not likely to emerge again, and with a bit of luck – which, since Schenker left nothing to chance, meant a lot of hard work – the sampling and penalty proposals would lose most of their teeth.

  As the limousine undulated down Fifth Avenue, Schenker allowed himself a rare moment of optimism.

  Cramm cleared his throat and said: ‘That problem at the Aurora works, the health scare – ’

  ‘I thought that was under control.’

  ‘In so far as it was possible, yes. But there are ripples. EarthForce, the environmental group, are pressing the EPA to investigate the health reports, and a local congressman’s got hold of the story and is hammering the press.’

  ‘We don’t need this now.’ Schenker was thinking of the US launch of Silveron which, after interminable delays, was finally within sight. He was also thinking of the Stock Market, where Morton-Kreiger shares were still under pressure. ‘Who’s been talking?’ he asked grimly. ‘That scientist again?’

  ‘MKI thinks it was this local doctor who’s been treating the Silveron workers. Someone called Burt. They’re looking into it.’

  ‘I hope they’re doing more than looking into it,’ Schenker said with considerable irritation.

  ‘Oh, sure. They’ve obtained some more medical opinions. No sign of chemicals in the blood, run-of-the-mill diseases: that sort of thing. And of course the results of the new toxicology trial are due fairly soon – ’

  ‘Soon? I thought they were due yesterday!’

  ‘Technical problems at TroChem.’

  ‘Technical problems?’ He let his voice rise sarcastically. ‘I thought these people were meant to be hyper-efficient. Why the hell can’t they deliver?’

  ‘They’ve given firm assurances that the results will be out within two weeks.’

  ‘Two weeks? That’ll be too late! Get through to Research while we’re in the meeting. Tell them today. It has to be today. Or I’ll phone McNeill myself.’ Perhaps he’d phone McNeill anyway. An opportunity to wave Research’s inefficiencies in front of McNeill’s nose was not to be missed.

  Cramm looked doubtful.

  Schenker turned on him. ‘You’re not trying to tell me there’s some kind of problem?’

  ‘No, no. I – ’ He faltered uncharacteristically. ‘I just thought you should be forewarned.’

  Ominous remarks like that had the power to unsettle Schenker. ‘About what?’

  ‘The environmentalists. The press. Like I said.’

  ‘Not the results?’ He examined Cramm’s face. ‘Not the toxicology trials? God, if McNeill’s been holding out on me …’

  ‘No, no. Research say the results are going to be fine. As of last night, that is. Shall I check with them again?’

  ‘You do that. You do that.’ With the launch coming up, any sort of uncertainty frightened Schenker rigid. It took only the smallest scare to rattle the Stock Markets.

  By the time they entered the gleaming portals of the advertising agency Schenker’s mood was sombre.

  Normally he made a point of avoiding advertising agencies, preferring to leave the control of their slick machinations to his executives, but on this occasion he’d been forced to make an exception. The marketing policy at Morton-Kreiger International (US) had been showing less than adequate results for some time and he’d pressed Gertholm into making some big changes in Chicago. The result was a new marketing team who, faced with the challenge of getting Silveron into the three top sellers within two years, had provisionally chosen this Madison Avenue agency for the Silveron account. They had chosen – but were they right? The team was too new, the decision too important for Schenker entirely to trust their judgement.

  Advertising agencies, like public relations companies, rubbed Schenker up the wrong way. They always looked too affluent, too polished by half, and he could never quite forgive them for deriving their plump incomes from clients like him.

  The agency people and the MKI marketing team were standing in stiff groups, coffee cups in hand, when he sped into the room. Conversation faltered, cups were abandoned as, without breaking his stride, Schenker shook a couple of hands and sat himself rapidly in the centre of the front row, staring pointedly ahead. The account director slipped into his welcoming spiel. The mixture of subservience and arrogance irritated Schenker beyond measure and, without removing his gaze from the screen ahead, he interrupted coldly: ‘Let’s go.’

  There was a stir, a sense of having got off to a bad start, which was precisely what Schenker had intended, and the account executives lurched hastily into their opening routine.

  Following normal practice, the presentation began with a summary of Silveron’s market strategy, of which Schenker was well aware, but which the agency felt they had to regurgitate to show how brilliantly they understood the product. Finally they came to the proposed selling point: Silveron offered the broadest most cost-effective protection against pests yet.

  It was to be a press campaign, the agency said, using saturation coverage in all the major target magazines, starting with a six-page pull-out section in the foremost growers’ journals. This campaign would coincide with a free sampling operation, five Hawaiian holidays for the most successful wholesalers, and a $200,000 prize draw.

  So far so obvious. Schenker waited to see how they intended to get the message across. The agricultural and forestry journals were bulging with ads, each indistinguishable from the next, each cluttered with facts, exhortations to purchase and glowing testimonials.

  Finally they came to the bottom line: the treatment. The advertisement was to be a three-page spread, extended over successive right-hand pages. The first page was to be a tease, a page of solid green bled off at the edges, with just four words in small type in the lower right-hand corner: Silveron covers almost everything. Turning over, the reader was then hit by another almost totally green page with a list down the right-hand side, set in equally small type, a restrained, factual catalogue of Silveron’s potential targets: Spruce moth, Tussock moth, Boll weevil, Beauty moth … The list was fifty bugs long. It looked good, Schenker had to admit. Finally, on the third page, came the hard sell: Silveron’s cost-effectiveness, on a par with its main competitors; its persistence; the infrequency of application.

  ‘Very good,’ Schenker said. They were all watching him, trying to work out if this remark was as promising as it sounded. After a moment, he added: ‘But will people really understand what a breakthrough Silveron is?’

  The account executive made a show of looking mildly puzzled. ‘A breakthrough?’ he asked politely. ‘We understood it was more of a development of existing products.’

  ‘An important development,’ Schenker corrected him. ‘And we need to tell people that. Perhaps on that first page. Along with Silveron covers almost everything. Something to announce it’s special. You know – It’s new, it’s special – something like that.’

  There was a silence. They didn’t like that, not at all. He’d forgotten how touchy these people got when it came to their words, as if they were Hemingway or Fitzgerald or somebody who could really write.

  ‘Well …’ the account executive said uncertainly. ‘We could certainly examine the feasibility of that.’

  ‘We also need to tell people it’s safe,’ Schenker continued. The agency people exchanged glances. No one seemed keen to take that
one up. It was finally left to the copywriter to offer an opinion. ‘Safety’s a difficult one,’ he said. ‘There isn’t enough to say.’

  Schenker placed his hands in an attitude of prayer and pressed his fingers to his lips. ‘Not enough? But Silveron has been cleared – or is about to be cleared – for sale in every country we’ve applied to market it. What do you mean – not enough?’

  ‘We couldn’t make the message sufficiently strong to make it worth saying. To use what you’ve just suggested would sound defensive. I mean, the consumer will know the product’s been cleared by the EPA, otherwise we wouldn’t be allowed to sell it in the first place.’

  ‘Morton-Kreiger spends more on safety trials per product than any other major agrochemical company,’ Schenker said calmly. ‘We should make something of that.’

  ‘That might be a useful selling point in corporate advertising, very useful,’ the account executive said smoothly, ‘but for a single product – well, it might be thought to imply that the product is in some way safer than its competitors – and that might cause problems.’

  Schenker wasn’t terribly fond of being told his own business. He said sternly: ‘Might it?’

  ‘Problems at our end I mean,’ said the executive hastily. ‘It would take time to get it past the advertising standards people. They’d want corroborative evidence.’

  The copywriter chipped in: ‘Even then it would only take one smidgen of bad publicity to make the whole campaign backfire.’

  The account executive flinched visibly, as if he’d been stabbed in the back, which, in agency terms, he had. ‘Of course that’s not likely,’ he said hurriedly.