He stared away from them, descended from the height of his annoyance, suddenly distracted.
'You're right,' he added as an afterthought. 'But for the moment you need to be discreet. Take discreet to new levels. If this gets out we're all, all three of us, completely fucked.'
A pause.
'Tell no one,' said Strumpet, continuing at last. 'No one. You understand what I mean by that?'
They nodded. Strumpet abruptly waved his hand towards the door, feeling mild palpitations in his chest.
Monk and Frankenstein stood up and trooped out of the room, closing the door behind them. They stared at Mrs Trevanian, typing away furiously as ever, then walked through the outer office and into the corridor.
'Well, he didn't kill us,' said Monk.
'Not yet,' said Frankenstein. 'Just wait 'til you fuck up.'
'Thanks for the vote of confidence.'
Frankenstein pushed open a swing door and sent a young PC with a tray full of six coffees for a Burton.
I Will Hang My Head In Zorro
An emergency Saturday morning meeting at the offices of BF&C, all necessary parties in attendance. Apart, of course, from the perennially absent Thomas Bethlehem. Jude Orwell was nominally running the meeting, whilst in effect leaving most of the talking and organisation to Anthony Waugh, head of Miscellaneous Anthropoid Department. Barney Thomson, the latest wunderkind of the marketing world, was feeling a little out of place, but trying to focus on enjoying the surrealism of the moment. Take what comes, enjoy it while you can.
Once you've been sucked into the partner-kids-mortgage prison, seizing the day is no longer an option. But Barney was free of that. He could live his life like he was in a male cosmetics advert. He could go sailing and pull birds and climb mountains and drive fast cars and deep sea dive and paraglide. He could even help Exron launch their new range of cosmetics. Relax, he told himself as Waugh burbled on, and have fun.
However, when you're constantly having to tell yourself to relax and have fun, you're clearly doing neither.
John Wodehouse was in the groove. Getting back all the old confidence which he'd had in spades at Oxford and which had been torn from him the second he'd landed in the real world. But now he was zipping up the company pecking order and he felt empowered. Not for a second did he consider he was in line for the same fate as Fitzgerald or Hemingway. Imagined that the two who'd died had had it coming, and if not, had at least been careless. Not for him some indiscreet date with a strange woman. A straight bat, nothing stupid and he'd be all right. Like the date he had that night. Cast-iron, guaranteed safe as houses.
Spot of dinner, discuss a little bit of business, back to his place, perfectly secure on home ground, and then a solid all-nighter. Couldn't beat it.
There were two others in attendance at the meeting, both dragged in unexpectedly from the sidelines. The first was Marcus Blade, a veteran of the trade and a one-time legend, a man who had not been heard of in years, after becoming a victim of burn-out in the mid-'80s.
That he'd helped create the '80s, then collapsed before he could enjoy them, was the popular myth around him. Most people in the business had heard of him, and most believed him dead. However, he'd spent the previous twenty-two years living in a small flat in Fulham, smoking cheap dope, listening to Radio 4, and painting pictures of fruit and empty cigarette packets. Only forty-seven, a hero that no one knew still existed.
Waugh was pleased that he'd found him. It was the first offer Blade had had since the Thatcher years, and he'd surprised himself by accepting it without a second's thought. Orwell had been genuinely gobsmacked at his arrival; and naturally was exceptionally doubtful that the bloke would still have it. A lot had happened in twenty-two years. Still, it was cool to be sharing a room with a legend, and a distracted Orwell had allowed him to be installed as Deputy Chief of Staff.
Wodehouse, while wallowing in his new-found confidence, found himself staring at Blade every few seconds, having heard all about him and having previously belonged to the Blade-is-dead pattern of belief.
The other member present was the latest of the wet-behind-the-ears brigade, dragged from obscurity to help out at Other Contracts Department, as number two to Wodehouse. Nigel Achebe, a Nigerian lad who'd arrived from Kaduna on a student visa three years previously and who had worked every day since. Poised to go far, as long as he could evade the happy blade of Harlequin Sweetlips, of course.
So, a fine collective, gathered around the table to discuss the direction of BF&C, such as it was, i.e. downhill. Waugh, focused, poised, a coiled snake; Orwell, slightly in awe of Blade, but his mind mostly on his latest, so far unproductive, moves on Taylor Bergerac; Barney, trying to persuade himself he was having fun; Blade, in a non-specific state of confusion; Wodehouse, feeling the Force; Achebe, in awe of everything, trying to pull himself out of the burger joint and to stop wishing everyone a nice day; and bringing the collective up to the Magnificent 7, there was the absent, but still overbearing presence of Thomas Bethlehem. The Marcus Blade of his day, except that Bethlehem was no burn-out.
'I'm making a hundred calls an hour,' said Waugh. 'A hundred. No one wants to come here. It's like we've got the plague and no one wants to get on the plane. The WHO might as well come along here and strap a friggin' banner to the front of the building, quarantining the joint. Enter here all ye who want to DIE!' and he bellowed the final word, mostly to get everyone's attention, because Anthony Waugh was a man who could tell when minds were wandering.
Blade raised an eyebrow at him, but it wasn't like he needed the heads up on why Waugh had been so desperate as to go looking for him.
'There's no doubt we're struggling,' said Orwell, trying to drag himself back into the conversation and going against one of his guiding principles by wasting words.
'Struggling?' said Waugh.
'You lost any business yet?' asked Blade, getting back into the groove.
Orwell shook his head.
'We've managed to market a good game. Even managed to get the Standard today to ignore the fact that Hemingway worked for us, so the business hasn't really picked up on it yet. Well, our business will have, our competitors, but the people who use us, the government and the poxy little salted snack companies, they haven't a Scooby.'
'Doesn't mean you're in the clear,' said Blade.
'As sure as eggs is eggs,' said Orwell, with a little bit of a tone.
'Blade's got a point,' said Waugh, who was destined to talk up everything that Blade came out with in a blatant attempt to justify employing him in the first place. 'We can think we're immune, we can attempt news management and damage limitation all we want, but it'll get out there, and one day soon the business is going to melt away just like it never existed. Melt away.'
'Like it never existed,' said Wodehouse, sensing the shift in the balance of power.
There was a pause in the conversation, everyone suddenly taking note of the change in tactics and the power struggle that had not really been acknowledged until that second. Waugh and Orwell were on.
Achebe bit his bottom lip. Wodehouse suddenly felt uncomfortable, but straightened his back even more and looked Orwell in the eye. Orwell swallowed, but still struggled to shift the image of Bergerac from his head. Waugh leaned forward, positive body language, applying the pressure. Blade smiled, realising that he had at least had the good sense to come in on the right side. Barney mentally kicked back and decided that he was in fact enjoying himself after all. He unintentionally caught Waugh's eye and got a bit of a we're all in it together nod. Orwell noticed and slung Barney a what the fuck's going on? Barney glanced between the two men, giving them both an I'm my own man, and if I'm in the mood I might just have a go at overthrowing Bethlehem myself.
'We can manage it,' said Orwell forcefully, trying to control the meeting, but knowing that his head wasn't right for this kind of thing. Bloody women, infecting his brain with sludge. Bloody women. 'Take the pragmatic approach, deal with each problem as it arises.'
'That's madness!' barked Waugh. 'Friggin' madness. When you can see the problems that are going to arise, you deal with them before they come up. A problem tackled is not a problem, full stop.'
'Equalise before they score,' said Blade, thinking he was being cutting edge, and missing by at least a couple of decades.
'Then you end up putting resources into areas where they might not even be needed, and we're low enough on resources as it is.'
'There are always more people,' said Waugh, realising as he said it that it was a weak argument, easily countered. Orwell duly pounced like the hyena on rotting flesh.
'That's why you hired Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go boy here,' he said, adding quickly, ''Scuse me, Marcus, but you know what I'm saying.' Blade nodded, whilst his antipathy towards Orwell grew.
'And what are we going to do anyway?' Orwell continued. 'Fitzgerald and Hemingway were defenceless against this woman, if it was the same one. The police don't know shit and we're stuck. God, we could just be waiting to get picked off. What do we do?'
'It's not about the murders,' said Waugh. 'It's not about who's dying. It's about the public's perceptions of why it's happening.'
'And we're controlling those perceptions!' exclaimed Orwell, getting sucked into an argument he didn't want to have.
'For now,' said Waugh, 'on a flimsy day-to-day basis. We need something solid. We need something to take to the bank.'
Waugh's face twitched involuntarily, the way it always did when he was trying to control his temper. Orwell didn't respond. He'd been drawn into an argument he wasn't going to win and where he also happened to agree with Waugh in any case. So he looked around the room, hoping that someone else would come in, someone other than Blade, and either lend him support or at least give him an honourable way out.
Silence, and with it the obvious feeling that the meeting was siding with Waugh.
'Thomas'll be back in a couple of days,' said Orwell. 'And God knows the contracts he'll come with. We should wait it out until he gets here.'
Couldn't believe the words as he was saying them. How bad had he got, how wasted had his mind become that he was invoking the name of Thomas Bethlehem to try to stave off other internal rivals.
'We need to do something now,' said Blade, using we for the first time.
'And what d'you think that is?' snapped Orwell. 'You're not selling fucking Spandau Ballet to thirteen-year-old girls now, Marcus.'
Wow! thought Wodehouse, that's pretty cool. Achebe felt even more out of his depth than he'd expected.
'We need to attack it,' said Waugh, still talking in generalities, because of course he had no specifics at his disposal. 'So first of all we address exactly what it is that needs to be attacked.'
'We can't employ new staff and we're liable to start losing business in the very near future,' said Wodehouse forcefully, and Orwell slung him an angry look. Insolent little shit, he thought.
Suddenly Barney rose to his feet, naturally grabbing everyone's attention as he did so.
'Gentlemen,' he said, 'this is madness. I'm leaving.'
'You can't!' said Orwell, still thinking that Barney was an ally.
'Bloody right,' said Waugh.
'Wrong,' said Barney. 'I've had enough for today. The obvious thing for you to do is to start murdering executives from other marketing companies, using similar MO's to the murders of Fitzgerald and Hemingway. Levels the playing field, makes it look like all the companies are in the same boat. The police might know it's bogus, but the rest of the business world, they're not going to care, they'll just see it in black and white as ever. The bigger firms might even suffer more than you just because of who they are.'
A beautiful silence. The five other men sat back and stared at Barney, more than a little curious. What a brilliant idea, and to have the balls to throw it into a meeting of this size, with this many confederates. Any one of these men could be straight off to the police. But despite the awfulness of the suggestion, only Achebe was actually appalled by it. Only he had the decency to feel the horror in his bones.
'I was joking,' said Barney, after seeing the looks on their faces. 'Don't even think about it.'
They stared at him. A couple of them smiled.
'I'll tell,' he added, smiling at his own joke. 'Now, I'm off. I'm going to have some tea.'
And with that he turned and walked smoothly from the room, closing the door behind him. They watched him go and all five of them stared at the closed door for at least a minute after he was gone. For all his silence throughout most of the meeting, Barney had presence, and now that he was away, they felt it.
'Who was that masked man?' said Blade jokingly, to break the reverie.
'The barber,' said Waugh. 'He's just the friggin' barber.'
A Harmony Of Diced Pig And Canned Fruit
Barney was sitting in his office, feet on his desk, looking out of the window at the leaden sky. Leaden. Think of another word for leaden, he thought. Grey skies are always leaden. Sombre. Brooding. Grim. Oppressive. Sullen. Miserable as flippin' shite. Checked his watch, was about to go for lunch. Some in-built thing told him he couldn't go until after twelve. Only twelve minutes to go and he would be on his way to pizza.
The door opened and Jude Orwell came charging into the room, looking stern. No thoughts of Taylor Bergerac at the moment. Needing a word with Barney Thomson.
'Jesus, Barn,' he said as his opening salvo, 'what the fuck was that?'
'What d'you mean?' asked Barney, some part of his subconscious making him remove his feet from the desk and straighten his shoulders, so that suddenly he looked like a television presenter.
'That thing with Waugh?' said Orwell.
'Don't get you,' said Barney, thinking that he might as well just deny, deny, deny. Didn't feel like getting into any argument with Orwell that would lead to an unnecessary delay in getting hold of his lunch.
'He looked at you in a funny way,' said Orwell, not entirely sure what he was going to do with Barney in denial.
'He looked at me?'
'Yeah.'
'In a funny way?'
'Yeah.'
Barney slowly shrugged his shoulders.
'Don't know,' he said.
'Fuck, Barn,' said Orwell, 'you're supposed to be on my team. Mine. You and me, we're having a go at the World Championship here. I need you to back me up, not leave me, you know ... '
'Floundering?' suggested Barney.
'Yeah, whatever,' said Orwell, drifting off.
'You were mince,' said Barney. 'I don't see how I can help you when your mind is that far off the job. If I had joined you, that would still only have meant there was one man on the team.'
'Fair point,' said Orwell, ire deflating pretty quickly.
'If you're that rubbish when confronted by Waugh, what are you going to be like when Bethlehem returns?'
'I'll nail him,' said Orwell forcefully.
'Not if Waugh's got the hammer,' said Barney.
Orwell stood over him, agitated, hating the fact that Barney always seemed to get the better of him. He had spent years talking over people, never having to play second fiddle, and now his head was in a complete fudge over a woman, and he'd brought someone into his gang who seemed to hold all the aces.
'You work with me,' said Orwell through gritted teeth, 'and together we make sure he doesn't get it.'
'Totally,' said Barney, and Orwell stared him out for a couple of seconds, and then turned on his heels and legged it from the room, doubting as he went the perspicacity of his move in promoting Barney out of the barber's chair.
Barney watched him go, checked his watch, eight and a half minutes to go, and then he lifted his feet back up onto his desk. Plenty of time for Waugh to make an appearance, he thought. Deny, deny, deny.
However, as it was, Waugh missed him by four minutes, seventeen seconds.
***
Barney had ordered a twelve-inch Hawaiian with garlic bread and a glass of Australian Chardonnay when the chair opp
osite him was pulled out and he looked up to be once more confronted by Sergeant Daniella Monk. Hair a bit mushed up and looking very, very attractive for it. A far greater temptation than your Taylor Bergeracs or even Harlequin Sweetlips of the world, wearing a grey jacket and blue shirt, top three buttons undone. Silver chain around her neck, small blue pendant.
'Mind if I join you?' she said, and Barney smiled.
'You following me, officer?'
'Our meeting is entirely coincidental,' she said, just as a teenage waitress, with three mouths to feed, appeared beside her with a ready smile and a Madonna mic attached to her napper.
'Good afternoon. Would you like to see the menu, Madam?' she asked.
'It's all right. I'll have salmon tagliatelle and a Diet Pepsi, please,' Monk replied, giving her a quick glance.
She punched a couple of numbers into her little electronic handset, the smile disappearing while she concentrated, then she switched it back on as required.
'Would you like anything to start or a side order perhaps? Maybe garlic bread or some fries?'
Monk turned and looked up.
'You're asking me if I want to eat fries with pasta? That's the reason the Europeans think we're Neanderthals.'
'Breaded garlic mushrooms perhaps, or how about a selection from our salad bar? Help yourself for only two pounds forty-five.'
'Salmon tagliatelle and a Diet Pepsi please,' Monk repeated, looking away from the interrogation.
'Would that be a further order of salmon tagliatelle and Diet Pepsi, subsequent to the order you've previously placed, or is that a repeat of your earlier order?'
Monk turned slowly and looked up at her, then she took out her police badge from inside her grey jacket.
'If you don't go and get my order right now, I'll arrest you for being an idiot in charge of a microphone. Now fuck off.'
'Your order will take a few minutes,' the waitress said crisply. 'My name's Cheyenne and I'll be your waitress today if there's anything else you require.'
And she was gone, leaving Barney and Monk alone. At last.
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