“I’m sorry,” Sukula said. “You might as well have these.”
“What are they?” Cook asked.
“The work and medical records of the two men... and those of Mr Freddy Two-Pies Gough. That and some other stuff that Norton-Hunter made available.”
Cook pushed the documents into his briefcase.
“We all know that you are right,” Sukula said. “But the evidence was against the union.”
“One thing has always bothered me,” Finian said. “If Norton-Hunter were so sure of their ground, why didn’t they sue the union, or me, for libel?”
“Good point,” Sukula said. “In corporate libel both sides can demand access to every document with a bearing on the case. Then there would be every chance of discovering the truth. And that’s something they couldn’t risk.”
*
Finian and Nathan met again that night in Ashlin’s office. This time the mood was totally different. The whisky was still being passed around, but more in solace than celebration.
“This is the worst day of my life,” Finian said and hung his head.
“Rubbish.” Nathan patted his shoulder in comfort.
“I know we can no longer be seen to continue the campaign, but we would like you to keep digging. This time secretly,” Ashlin said.
Finian stared into his drink despondently. “Norsteadt will go from strength to strength. God only knows what he’ll do next.” He emptied his glass in a single swallow. Cook passed him the bottle for a refill. “I feel I’ve failed you in some way.”
He turned to Nathan. “I’m beginning to wonder if I ever had the ability to do this job.”
Nathan looked his son full in the face. “You’ve done more to develop campaign techniques in the last few months than...” Nathan shook his head in frustration. “Finn, you have the skills, but you just don’t know it. You haven’t recognised them yet.”
“What are you getting at?” Finian asked.
“If you were still a reporter, you’d know what to do.”
“Yes, of course. Expose the bastard.”
“Well then?”
The door to Ashlin’s office opened. A security man put his head round the corner. “The evening paper, Mr Ashlin,” he said and placed it on the desk.
Finian picked it up and looked at the front page. There was a picture of a grinning Norsteadt and Bonnie outside the High Court. “Norsteadt is quoted as saying, ‘Now this inconvenience is out of the way, the company can get on with more important matters’.”
Finian became enraged. He finished his drink. “Yes. Okay, let’s get the bastard. But in a new way. It’s personal now.”
Finian and Nathan shared a taxi home. It was late. They had put away a lot of whisky, but neither of them felt drunk.
“The union won’t be able to pay you the same fee, not with the campaign being wound down.”
“So?”
“So, you’ll need new work,” Nathan said and passed a slip of paper. “They’re an investment bank I know who want some PR help. They’re expecting a call from you.”
“What do they want?”
“Go and find out.”
Finian raised a questioning eyebrow. “Is this another one of those new business leads that failed to find its way to Bonnie?”
“Might be.”
“What if she finds out?”
“I’m sure she suspects. But what’s she going to do – fire me? She tried that once and look at the trouble it caused.”
Twenty-Two
Norsteadt gave a silly grin. “Where are we going?”
“Surprise,” Bonnie said, as the two slid into her Jaguar.
Behind them stood Roger. Cradled in his arms was a pile of that day’s national newspapers. Each one carried stories about Norsteadt’s High Court victory – and his company’s innocence.
“You might like to relive your triumph on the way over,” Bonnie said.
Roger started the car and it pulled into traffic.
“See this?” Bonnie said. She folded a copy of the Morning Journal in half and tapped a story written by Oscar Mason, Finian’s replacement and a Bonnie ally.
“‘Norsteadt’s ability to rise above the squabbling between his company and the union has earned him many admirers.’” Bonnie almost dug Norsteadt in the ribs with delight. “There’s more. ‘He has become an ambassador for business. If industry is ever in need of a statesman – they have found one in Bram Norsteadt.’ How about that then?”
“You’re joking. Let me see.”
Bonnie passed him the paper. “I said I’d make you famous...”
Norsteadt glanced at the rear-view mirror. Roger wasn’t watching and Norsteadt gave Bonnie’s hand a squeeze.
“Bumped into Culpin the other day. Lunching with a beautiful girl at the Green Door. Didn’t recognise him. Had on this very smart new suit. Must have cost a fortune.” She let that sink in. A minute or so later. “You’re obviously paying him too much.”
“I don’t.”
Then she added, in the most off-hand way possible, “Perhaps he’s fiddling his expenses,” and laughed. Norsteadt made a note on a small pad.
He looked out of the car. They had just swept round the Victoria Memorial and were now heading down Birdcage Walk.
“Your present is coming up now.”
“Still playing games?”
“Not any longer,” she said, as the car entered Parliament Square. “I know how much this place interests you, so I’ve got a friend to show you around.”
Roger stopped the car by St Stepehen’s Gate, the public entrance to the Houses of Parliament. At the door, Bonnie showed her pass to the policeman.
The other side of the security check, Norsteadt tried to act calm, but it was impossible. Bonnie was talking, but his head was in a spin, turning this way and that, making sure that he saw everything. Sir Peter Hiron, the former Chancellor of the Exchequer and now television pundit, stood talking to someone and Norsteadt couldn’t help staring.
“Are you listening to me, Bram?”
“Of course,” he said, but his attention was elsewhere.
Bonnie nudged him. “Remember MPs are larger than life characters. If you think we’re prima donnas, talk to some of them.”
Walter Cratchell, a Labour MP for a northern constituency, walked past with Betty Frost, who represented a Midlands industrial seat. Both waved to Bonnie.
“Is there anyone you don’t know?”
“Maybe someone – somewhere.” She smiled and walked on.
The central lobby of the House of Commons was where constituents and the public waited to meet Members of Parliament. Although Bonnie had been there countless times she still looked around the large circular area with a sense of excitement. She knew what Norsteadt meant when he talked about his fascination with politics.
*
Bonnie’s car was waiting by the kerb when they came out. “Not yet,” Norsteadt said. “Just a bit longer.”
Bonnie told Roger to come back in twenty minutes. The two turned left and walked alongside the House of Lords, until they came to Victoria Tower Gardens, a restful stretch of green that ran down to the Thames, between Parliament and Lambeth Bridge.
Norsteadt was deep in thought. His chin was pressed hard down on his chest. He sat on a bench and Bonnie joined him. “Enjoy yourself?” she asked.
“That’s an understatement,” he said. “Utterly fascinating.”
“Good.”
“The surprise is how few politicians understand business.”
Bonnie looked at him hard. “Perhaps they need someone like you.”
“I could certainly do a better job than a lot of them. Most don’t even know what a factory looks like,” Norsteadt started to laugh.
“I’m not joking. You can become anything you want.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I’ve made you a business hero – why not a politician?” She placed her hand on his arm and shook him. “You do believe me, don
’t you?” Bonnie said. “You’re obviously in love with the place.”
Norsteadt looked out across the Thames, thinking about the enormity of what Bonnie had just suggested. Bonnie was thinking too. Making Norsteadt a politician – or even a Cabinet minister – would be the ultimate challenge for her PR skills.
He shook his head. “The idea of spending years on the back benches doesn’t appeal to me,” Norsteadt said.
“There are plenty of precedents for leading figures going straight into the Lords – and getting an immediate government job.”
He looked then at the Houses of Parliament to his left, as if making a decision. “Looks like we have the next phase of our campaign.”
“Oh, Bram.” Bonnie squeezed closer to Norsteadt. “This is going to be such fun.”
*
“We’ve spoken to some of our largest institutional clients and see no problems in getting your placement away,” Rupert de Banks said.
Giles Denny looked relieved.
Divane Monns was a small family-controlled investment bank offering its clients impeccable service. Jeff Denny knew what he was doing when he recommended them to his father.
De Banks had been with Divane Monns since leaving one of the army’s less fashionable regiments. People like Denny were in danger of being overawed by the City and de Banks’s relaxed air put them at ease.
“We’re going to need public relations to keep the market interested,” de Banks said, “Hope you don’t mind but we’ve gone ahead and spoken to someone. Come and meet him.”
He was sitting in a side room reading the daily papers. The door opened and he looked up.
“Giles Denny – meet Finian Kelloway.”
Finian held out his hand but Denny hesitated. “Are you... related to Bonnie Kelloway of Kelloway and Bains?”
“She’s my half-sister,” Finian said. “Is that a problem?”
“Oh dear.”
De Banks knew what was on Denny’s mind and whispered in his ear. A smile spread across his face. “So you’re that young man.” Suddenly everything seemed all right.
“There’s a lot to do,” de Banks said. “Perhaps you could begin by briefing Finn so he can start talking to journalists.”
*
Two Sunday papers carried the Lycad story. They wrote about an exciting biotech company that was going to float on the London stock market. And the fascinating products it was developing, including a revolutionary treatment for obesity, called Mitsanomol.
Even on Sunday mornings Bonnie worked. She spent the first part of the day reading papers, looking for mentions of her clients, items of interest to them, or stories that could be turned into new business leads.
When she saw the report, Bonnie checked the time to see if it was too early to call Norsteadt. It was still only eight. “What the hell,” she said out loud. “This is important.”
Bonnie finished reading the story to Norsteadt.
“I thought he’d dropped that plan.” He thought for a moment, “Let’s see how the City reacts.”
*
Declan Holland ran a successful market research company. Many of Bonnie’s clients used him to investigate public attitudes to subjects ranging from under-age sex to the future of celibacy among Catholic priests.
Bonnie never saw him without a smile or a warm greeting. “How’s it going my bonny one?” he asked, as he put his head round her door.
“Come in, Declan, and cheer me up.”
“That’s what I live for,” he said. “How’s your love life?”
“Pretty good.”
“Then I’m pleased for you.” He flopped into one of her chairs and shook his head. “You know, there’re some funny folk around. It’s a crime to take their money,” he said. “I’m doing a survey into what really concerns people.”
“Who for?”
“Some weird religious sect. They have this idea that if they can start addressing the real issues, people will flock to them. Only they don’t know what the issues are. That’s my job.”
Bonnie perked up. “Could you do it for me?”
“Be serious.”
“I am. One difference. I’m more interested in political concerns – rather than spiritual ones.”
“Why?”
“Someone I know has developed an interest in politics.”
Raymond interrupted her musing. “Where do you want this?” He pointed to a trolley in the corridor. On it was a large cardboard box.
“What is it?”
“Don’t know, but it’s addressed to you.”
“Put it somewhere. I’ll get to it later,” Bonnie said.
“Where’s your curiosity, my bonny girl?”
“Declan wants to play. Put it over there, Raymond.”
“I love presents.” Declan started ripping at the box. He was never short of enthusiasm. “They’re books. Hundreds of books.”
Declan handed her a copy. She read the title, Curing the World: The End to Hereditary Disease, by Bram Norsteadt.
She had completely forgotten about her promise to the publisher to buy 200 copies for PR purposes.
“Buy a few more and it’ll end up in the best-seller list.”
“It’s not like blockbuster fiction. You don’t have to sell hundreds of thousands to make the lists.”
“You sure?”
“Should be. Dad’s in the trade.”
“Declan,” Bonnie said in her most feminine voice. “Your interviewers. They’re all over the country?”
“Y-e-s,” he said cautiously.
“Would they like to do a bit of shopping for me? I do like a good book at bedtime. I’d pay them for their trouble.”
“How many?”
“A couple of thousand should do it.”
“I just love doing business with you. You’re so unpredictable.” Declan kissed her cheek. “Consider it done.”
Bonnie then called in Raymond. “How’s your shorthand?”
“A bit rusty, but I’m sure we’ll manage.”
“Okay. Letter to the Right Honourable Frazer Drucas...”
“The Prime Minister?” Raymond said. Bonnie was pleased that she could still surprise that laid-back Californian once in a while.
Bonnie got up and paced the room. “Let’s make it simple. Dear Prime Minister. I know that you and my father, Nathan, have worked closely together from time to time. He thought you might be interested in the enclosed.
“It is written by a client of ours, Mr Bram Norsteadt. He is chairman of Norton-Hunter, and you may have noticed that he has gained considerable press coverage recently for his strong defence of business.
“His company is involved in biotechnology. And he is determined that Britain should not lose its present lead over other countries in Europe.”
Bonnie stopped and asked Raymond to read it back. She listened carefully and then said, “End it there. That should do it.”
Twenty-Three
Bonnie had a house in one of the maze of streets that fell between Victoria Street and Vauxhall Bridge Road. It had once belonged to a pre-war Conservative minister. There was no proof, but Winston Churchill was supposed to have once slept drunk in the garden.
Since he had been sacked as her lover, Andrew St Norris was desperate to see Bonnie. If he could just speak to her away from the office. It was seven o’clock when he first walked past. He saw nothing, just lights on here and there. He had a drink in a pub and came back half an hour later. When he turned the corner again, there was a long line of taxis dropping people off.
Sod it. One of her political parties. She’ll be hours, he said to himself.
*
Two large rooms on the first floor had been opened up to form one single space. Bonnie had set up a round table at one end. On it she displayed copies of Norsteadt’s new book. Beside it she placed a desk and chair where the author could sign copies. Against the wall was a cardboard box containing more books.
Outwardly, the event was to launch Curing the World.
Nobody knew it was really Norsteadt’s political coming-out party.
“Real cross-section coming tonight,” she told him. “From Tory grandees to lino civil servants.”
“What on earth are they?”
“Junior civil servants – on the way up – but who haven’t risen far enough yet to warrant a carpeted office. Some of them will be tomorrow’s stars.” Norsteadt looked disdainful. “They’re the people who draft legislation. If you want to influence what’s going on in government, talk to them.”
He looked at the invitation list Bonnie had given him. “I’d prefer to chat to a minister.” He pointed at four names on the list who had agreed to come.
“Rubbish. That’s the mistake most businessmen make. Parliament is only the glittering tip of a much weightier iceberg. The real power exists below the waterline.”
“But...” he tried to say.
“If you attempt to bypass officials, you could end up treading on powerful toes,” Bonnie said. She thought he was about to sulk and slipped her arm through his.
“Forget about lobbying ministers tonight: there’s only one job for you – get your face known.”
*
Bonnie saw Lord Cole, the party treasurer, looking at a copy of the book. “Teddy, so pleased you could come.” The two kissed each other on the cheek. “I’m told it’s a very interesting read.”
“Little over my head,” Lord Cole said.
“I hear the Prime Minister’s got a copy.”
“Really?” He looked at the book again with new respect. “Really,” he repeated and took Bonnie by the arm into a quiet corner. “This chap Norsteadt, is he one of us?”
“Not sure – we’ve never talked politics,” she said and pretended to think over the idea. “Suppose he must be. He has some original ideas on the role of business and government. I can’t see anybody from the other side saying the things he does.”
“Good, good,” Cole said and went off to find a fresh glass of champagne.
*
Every so often, Norsteadt caught sight of Bonnie. She cruised confidently among her guests; the perfect political hostess. A hand placed delicately on someone’s arm or a soft word whispered in an ear. Never had Norsteadt seen a woman in business so at ease with herself.
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