For the next five minutes Finian sat horrified. Here was the man whom he was convinced was responsible for the deaths of two men – and the subsequent cover-up – appearing on television as the representative of Her Majesty’s Government. Every time Emma tried to say something, Finian said, “Shush.”
The broadcast was good, damned good, Finian had to admit. Totally different from the usual talking heads.
It was Emma who crystallised his main fear. “How has he come so far, so quickly?” she asked.
*
The next morning, Finian and Kit sat in their office going through the papers. “Norsteadt was a big hit last night,” Kit said.
Neither could remember a political broadcast gathering so much newspaper coverage. Usually, the programmes were so dull that they escaped mention.
“The Morning Journal’s reviewed the programme as if it was some Hollywood film,” Finian said. “The Morning Journal... that really hurts.”
“The Daily Mail is calling him a new force in politics,” Kit said. “If he goes on like this...”
“If he goes on like this, he’ll be completely beyond our reach.”
Kit was almost as prodigious a reader as Finian. Between them they would get through close to a hundred newspapers and magazines every week. Each would mark stories he thought the other should see.
“Have a look at this,” Kit said. He folder a copy of the Daily Telegraph in half and circled a story on the foreign page.
The paper had pulled together a number of news agency stories from different parts of Europe, all reporting similar but seemingly unconnected deaths in Italy, Switzerland, Germany and France. In all, seventeen people had now died.
“What’s so special about that?” Finian asked.
“They all died from a strange wasting disease.”
Finian was still staring at Norsteadt’s glowing coverage. Kit wasn’t sure if he’d heard him and put the paper on Finian’s desk. Almost rudely, Finian tossed it on to his “things to read when I have the time’ pile. Kit shrugged.
*
Bonnie was in a mood to show off. She spent the entire morning introducing Ty Spielvogel to every member of staff at Kelloway and Bains. She had just spent a large amount of the money loaned to her by Norsteadt, buying a controlling interest in Spielvogel’s Manhattan-based consultancy and she wanted everyone to know about it.
Spielvogel & Co occupied swish offices on Madison Avenue and were what some people called a “butterfly agency”. Becoming an instant expert on whatever was the business flavour of the month. When corporate takeovers were all the rage, they were there, positioning themselves as experts. And when industry was hit with a range of disasters – be it an oil spill, or package tampering or a plant closure – Spielvogel styled themselves as crisis management experts, sweet-talking their way into boardrooms with plausible buzz words and phoney research and sometimes dangerous advice, for which they banged in their highly-inflated bills. For cash to continue flowing to Kelloway and Bains, the Spielvogel management had to always be at the head of the game. Failure to spot the next goldmine would let in the next butterfly agency.
As soon as they had arrived, Bonnie distributed to everyone an advanced copy of the next day’s PR Times. The front page trumpeted Kelloway and Bains’ move into the States. They described it as the most lucrative PR market in the world. Bonnie would not have been so happy to pass out the paper if she had seen the sage-like warning on the inside leader page. It quietly pointed out that the US had been the “graveyard for many British agencies who had tried to capture a slice of that particular American pie”.
To round off the morning, Bonnie booked a lunch table at the Savoy. She wanted everyone to know how important she had become, and the Savoy was the place to do it.
*
Nathan mooched around the office, looking for a quiet place to write. In one hand was his yellow legal pad and in the other a dozen pencils. Bonnie had given him an office to replace the one she had usurped, but he refused to use it. Instead, he would occupy any small vacant place he could find to do his work.
Raymond was having trouble with a phone call. “Miss Kelloway won’t be back until this afternoon... no, I’m sorry.” Nathan stopped and raised a quizzical eyebrow. “The company president is here. Maybe he can help,” Raymond said and gratefully passed Nathan the phone. “Do you want to take it in Bonnie’s office?” Nathan glared and Raymond knew he had said the wrong thing.
Nathan listened to a frustrated voice at the other end. “Ralph Bender – Bender Transport. Got one of my drivers on the other phone. Making a delivery for you.”
“So?”
“He’s at the address he was given, but it’s deserted. Farm somewhere in Oxford – bleedin’ middle of nowhere, he says. Just a load of barns with rusty roofs. Is that right?”
“You sure you have the right firm? This is Kelloway and Bains.”
“Order in the name of Miss Bonnie Kelloway.”
Nathan was confused and said, “Yes, that’s right.”
“Trouble is, the boxes he’s delivering seem valuable – well, sort of. Full of books.”
“What would she be doing with cases of old books?” Nathan thought aloud.
“No, got it wrong, mate. Brand new. They’re all the same. Something called...” Bender sounded as if he was reading a note, “Curing the World by Bram Norsteadt.”
Nathan felt a sudden surge of excitement. “How many did you say?”
“Boxes of them. Must be hundreds and hundreds.”
“Ah, that explains it.” Nathan hoped he sounded calm. “Obviously for one of our clients. Tell your driver to leave them there, under cover. It will be okay.”
“You sure? Don’t want to be blamed for any damage.”
“The fact that you made this call shows how conscientious you are. For your protection, get your office to email me a scan of the original order, plus any other paperwork you have.” He gave the man his email address.
“Will do.”
Within minutes, an email arrived. There it was, just as Bender had said, instructions from Bonnie to deliver twelve boxes to Cheeseborough Farm, Gravestoke, Oxfordshire. Proprietor, Mr Ashley Capps.
*
Nathan was waiting when Finian’s taxi arrived. He climbed in and was about to close the door when it was tugged from his grasp. A woman pushed her way in.
“This taxi is taken, madam,” Nathan said.
The woman ignored him and told the cabbie to drive on.
Both men thought they recognised the woman. “You’re connected with Kelloway and Bains, aren’t you?” she said to Nathan. Still stunned by what was happening, Nathan just nodded his head.
“In that case, I think you ought to know that Bonnie Kelloway has stolen my husband. And I want him back.”
“That makes us equal, Mrs Norsteadt,” Nathan said. “She also stole our company. And we’d like that returned as well.”
Finian told the driver to take them to Fleet Street. The Old Cock was another of his favourite pubs. It was one place they wouldn’t meet Bonnie.
The three of them talked about Bonnie, about Norsteadt, about anything and everything. After two hours, Finian kissed Margaret’s hand, saying he had to get back to his office.
“We’ll keep each other company,” Nathan said.
“After our talk,” Margaret said, “I don’t feel so alone. At least I know I have two friends in the world.” This time Finian kissed her on the cheek and left.
*
If Finian’s taxi had been five minutes later picking up Nathan, they would have bumped into Bonnie. She knew she’d spent too long at lunch and there were things to catch up on.
She whisked past Raymond’s desk, ignoring his critical look. “Any problems?”
“Just one, but Nathan handled that.”
“You know that doddering idiot is not allowed to touch anything to do with the company.”
“It was just a phone call...”
“Hmmm.”
“Bloody cretin,” Bonnie screamed. She would have happily ripped Raymond to shreds but didn’t have the time. If Nathan knew what she had been doing – her father could never be accused of being slow – it was certain that Finian knew as well. When all this nonsense had died down, she would have to think of a new way to get rid of Nathan.
There were few people she could trust with what had to be done now. She stalked along to the open plan area.
“Where’s Will?” she asked pointing at his empty desk.
“With a client,” Beatrice said.
Back at her desk, she dialled a number. It seemed to ring for ever. “Come on. Come on. Where are you?”
Eventually she heard the phone being answered. “Ashley Capps. Cheeseborough Farm.”
“Mr Capps? Bonnie Kelloway. I’ll make this brief. You know those items you are keeping for me?”
“Yes.”
“Move them.”
“Where to?”
“The further away the better. So long as they’re off your premises.”
“I don’t think I have the time to. You see...”
“Mr Capps. Don’t worry. I’ll pay you extra.”
“All right,” Capps said. “Mind you, the other gentleman will be disappointed.”
“What other gentleman?”
“That’s what I was trying to say. Somebody called Finian. Phoned a short while ago. Coming up here tomorrow. Specially.”
Bonnie was careful not to sound over-excited. “I’ve changed my mind, Mr Capps. Don’t move them. Burn them. Now,” she said. “And do a thorough job.”
*
With the rush hour over, the drive out on the M40 to Oxfordshire was relaxing. Finian turned off near Banbury and soon picked up the signs for Gravestoke and then Cheeseborough Farm.
Capps was behind the farmhouse chopping wood. “So you found us all right,” he said.
“Gave me good directions.” Finian looked around at four dilapidated barns. “Which one?”
Capps pointed to a tall building with a rusting corrugated steel rood at the far corner of the yard. Finian set off and didn’t hear Capps say, “But you should know that...” He stopped and shrugged. The young man would find out soon enough.
The door opened easily. The hinges must have been recently oiled. He pushed open the door and found... nothing.
“Mr Capps, the place is empty.”
“That’s what I was trying to tell you,” he said. “It was collected yesterday.” Capps concentrated on his wood chopping and avoided looking Finian in the face.
“But you were paid till the end of next month.”
“How do you know that?” he asked suspiciously.
Finian showed a photocopy of his invoice.
“You, the police – or some newspaperman?” Finian didn’t answer. He just smiled, leaving Capps to make any guess he wanted. “Newspapers pay a lot of money for information.” Capps said.
So the man has a price, Finian thought but showed no reaction. “Why didn’t you tell me, when I phoned, that there was nothing here?”
“Forgot,” he said. Coming to the conclusion there was no money to be had, Capps attacked a fresh pile of wood. “See yourself out.”
Finian pretended to walk back to his car. When he was out of sight of the house, he doubled back and returned to the barn for a closer look. He hadn’t bothered with it before, but coming from behind the building were wisps of smoke.
The fire was almost out and he kicked at the dying embers in frustration. A piece of paper fluttered away. Finian picked it up and was about to throw it back on the fire when he realised it was from part of a book’s dust jacket. The edges were charred but he could still see the photograph of that well-known business hero, Bram Norsteadt.
Finian poked around some more, hoping to find evidence of the book itself. Plenty of paper had been burnt. Most of it looked like old farming journals and machinery catalogues. Finian estimated that Norsteadt would have had to sell quite a few thousand copies to become a bestseller. And even if Capps had destroyed them, the pile of ashes was nowhere near big enough.
“Mr Capps.”
“Thought you’d gone.”
“No. Still here,” Finian said. “It’s a pity we couldn’t do any business.” Finian saw a definite reaction. “I collect books... scientific books. Somebody told me you had some copies of something I’m after.” Finian turned away and pretended to look at the countryside.
“This a valuable book?”
“Depends how many you had.” He could almost hear Capps thinking. “But this conversation is academic. You said you don’t have them anymore.”
“What if I could get hold of some?”
“How many copies?”
“How many would you like?”
In the farmhouse Capps made a pot of tea while Finian wrote out a cheque.
“I’ll need a receipt.”
Capps looked in a drawer. “No. In one of these.” Finian opened the cover of Norsteadt’s book. “If you could make it out for the books I bought from you – and of course, the storage for the rest.”
Capps carefully folded the cheque and placed it in a metal box that he had to unlock. “There’ll be no need to bother my sister again, will there?” Finian said. Capps managed his first smile of the day.
On the way back to London, Finian realised that the discovery of the books took him only slightly closer to exposing Norsteadt. It showed him up as a con man, or at least someone who had been open to a bad influence. But he was still no nearer to linking him to the deaths of the two men.
Thirty One
Norsteadt’s party political broadcast was better than anyone at Conservative Central Office had hoped. He was even making a significant impression in his committee work. Drucas was delighted.
On the other hand, Waugh was becoming a nuisance. He questioned Norsteadt’s management consultancy fees and the money loaned to Bonnie. Waugh had even raised it with Lord Rolley, Norton-Hunter’s non-executive deputy chairman. While Rolley was satisfied with his answer, Norsteadt knew that Waugh would still be trouble. If Norsteadt could hold off the man for a little longer, everything would work out fine.
The only real threat to his plan was Denny. He knew more than anybody else. And recent outbursts – he could never get used to seeing grown men cry – meant he would have to be dealt with. When he mentioned the problem to Bonnie, she had said, “Leave it to me. What worked at SunGold Margarine, can be used again.”
*
Angela Nasco stood beside Denny as they waited for the lift on the tenth floor. She looked demure. That morning she had chosen a silky white blouse with small pearl buttons down the front. Her skirt was a wrap-around and she smelt of springtime.
The lift arrived and the doors opened. It was only when she started to move and the skirt flipped open, that Denny got a glimpse of the same legs that had been Winston Culpin’s downfall.
Bonnie waited for them two floors below. The door had hardly time to open when Angela came running out. She crashed into Bonnie, sobbing. Her blouse was torn down the front. On the floor of the lift, Bonnie saw four small pearl buttons. One hand held the blouse together – the other prevented her skirt falling down. That too had been ripped.
Both women looked at Denny, who was still in the lift. He moved towards them. Angela sobbed again and ran down the corridor. Denny looked amazed. “Dr Denny,” Bonnie said.
Inside Norsteadt’s office, Bonnie said, “Bram, you have thirty seconds to get the story straight. After that this place is going to be swarming with people.”
“What’s going on?”
“You wanted shot of your turbulent priest, well that’s what I’ve done for you.”
*
“This is so embarrassing, Giles,” Norsteadt said. Denny sat in a chair, in a state of shock. Foster Crawford, from personnel, leaned against the wall. Bonnie placed a comforting arm around Angela’s shoulder.
&n
bsp; “I didn’t do anything.”
“But Miss Kelloway saw you.”
“She’s mistaken.”
“But the evidence.”
“Lies, all lies,” Denny said. “It’s so unfair.”
Norsteadt looked around the room. “Can I have a few words with Dr Denny alone?” Angela still appeared shaken and Bonnie helped her up. Crawford followed them out.
When they were alone, Norsteadt started to chuckle. “Really, Giles. I know Angela’s a gorgeous woman – I’ve often thought about having a go at her myself, but – in the lift?”
“I didn’t. She ripped the clothes herself.”
“Even if you’re right, you know who they’ll believe...”
Denny put his head in his hands, in his now familiar posture of despair.
“The important thing is to save your reputation. You’re one of the best scientists in your field, but after what’s happened today... it could be so damaging.”
Denny looked up. His shoulder shook. He was too distraught even to cry.
“We can retire you early. You won’t lose anything on your pension. Put it down to poor health,” Norsteadt said. “What do you say?”
That evening, Denny phoned his son. “Jeff, how do I get to this farm of yours?”
“How long are you staying?”
“For good, if that’s okay.”
“That’s wonderful,” Jeff said. “Fly to Atlanta and then pick up an internal flight to Tri-City. I’ll meet you from there.”
*
Oscar Mason was getting used to the money Bonnie paid him. If he was going to write the article that she now wanted, there would have to be something extra.
Bonnie had always had two views about sex: it was either a sign of deep affection, or the currency of modern business. With Mason, it was the latter. Bonnie had happily agreed to meet his demands, so long as she got what she wanted. She never saw her pregnancy as an issue.
Mason leant back in the hotel bed, pleasantly exhausted. Bonnie looked down. Her normally flat stomach showed a slight swelling. She quickly put on her underclothes. For the first time in her sexual career, she felt strangely self-conscious walking around the room naked.
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