Corporate Bodies

by Simon Brett

  The Managing Director eyed the actor sardonically. ‘Well, I think we seem to have sorted out Trevor’s movements, anyway, Mr Paris.’

  Charles wasn’t satisfied. Nor could he provide a logical motive for Heather’s rescue of Trevor. Perhaps it was done simply in the cause of company solidarity. Or maybe she nursed a secret passion for the operator. Heather must have been in her early fifties. She didn’t look the sort of woman in whose life romance had featured much; so it was in theory possible that she might have a love object as unprepossessing as Trevor.

  But whatever her motivation, Charles still didn’t believe the alibi she had provided. ‘Look, it still seems to me –’

  He was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone on Heather’s desk. She answered it. ‘Yes. Oh, hello, Mrs Tressider. Yes, he’s here. Brian.’ The phone was handed across.

  ‘Yes, darling? Mr and Mrs Richman? Oh, right. Well, say all the appropriate things. Yes, I’ll come over and talk to them straight away. See you shortly.’

  He handed the phone back to Heather, and sighed. ‘Brenda’s at the hospital, with the girl’s parents. I’m afraid Dayna’s just died.’

  There were mixed reactions of shock and other sentiments appropriate to the announcement of a death.

  Only Brian Tressider showed nothing.

  And once again Charles was aware of Heather staring into her boss’s face, looking for some reaction.

  But what reaction she was expecting it was again impossible to tell.

  Chapter Six

  NEEDLESS to say, there wasn’t a bar on the local service from Stenley Curton, nor were Charles Paris and Will Parton lucky enough to catch a properly equipped train from Bedford, so it was St Pancras before they could get a drink. And they needed it so much that they hardly noticed the unappealing surroundings of the station buffet. (Actually, to be truthful, environment never impinged that much on Charles’s consciousness when he was drinking.)

  They had hardly spoken on the journey, both shocked into silence and locked in their own thoughts. The first large Bell’s went down without words, hardly touching the sides, but the second opened the floodgates.

  ‘Do you know anything at all about the girl, Will?’

  The writer shrugged. ‘Not a lot. My in-depth study of the Delmoleen operation didn’t get as far as the typing pool.’

  ‘That’s what she was – just a typist?’

  ‘Come on, she was only about nineteen. She was hardly going to be Sales Manager, was she?’

  ‘No. And you don’t know anything else about her?’

  ‘Just that she tended to be around a lot.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, I’ve been over at Stenley Curton a good few times in the last months and, whoever I had a meeting with, I always seemed to see Dayna Richman at some point. It was as if she was pushing herself forward all the time.’

  ‘What does that suggest – that she had fallen madly in love with you?’

  Will shook his head wearily. ‘No, Charles. It suggests that she had fallen madly in love with the idea of being on camera.’

  ‘Ah. She saw appearing in a corporate video as the first step on the ladder to stardom? Hoping some major film director would spot her talent and catapult her to Hollywood?’

  ‘Maybe something on those lines. Or maybe she just saw it as a way of getting noticed within the company. She was pretty ambitious, I gather. As you saw, liked attention. Hardly a shrinking violet.’

  ‘Hardly. And presumably she worked in the Dispatch Office?’

  ‘No, she didn’t. I think she was in Personnel, some department like that. Though apparently she was always applying for other jobs. Really, Charles, I hardly know any more about her than you do.’

  ‘You must at least know how she came to be in the video?’

  Will Parton spread his hands wide. ‘Think of what she looked like. You’re doing a video to boost the in-house image of the company . . . so who do you show in the Dispatch Office – the frump or the vamp? Heather or Dayna?’

  ‘See what you mean. So you reckon Dayna kept puffing herself forward with just that outcome in mind?’

  ‘I’d have thought so, Charles. And it worked, didn’t it? She got the job.’

  ‘Yes. And who would have given her that job – I mean, who actually said, “All right, Dayna, you do it”?’

  ‘Be Ken Coleboume, I suppose. He’s sort of in charge of the video from the Delmoleen end – he’s the one I have to check everything with. So if he suggested Dayna to Griff . . . well, Griff’s hardly the kind of guy who’s going to argue, is he?’

  ‘No. Did you actually hear that exchange take place – I mean, hear the moment when Ken suggested Dayna should be in the video?’

  Will screwed up his face as he tried to remember. ‘Ye-es. Yes, I did. It was only a couple of weeks back. Griff just said fine. He was getting paid, he didn’t care what was suggested.’

  ‘No.’

  Their glasses had unaccountably emptied themselves once again. Will went to the bar to remedy this defect. Charles looked thoughtful. His mind was buzzing with potential motivations. Taking the proffered refill from Will, he mused, ‘Heather must’ve been pretty miffed.’

  ‘Hm?’

  ‘Heather – the one who runs the Dispatch Office. I mean, she doesn’t look the sort of woman whose life has been full of excitements. For her to have been aced out of the video by some dolly bird who doesn’t even work in the department must’ve been pretty galling.’

  ‘Apparently not. No, according to Ken Colebourne, Heather was delighted.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Maybe hard for you, as an actor, to believe it, Charles, but there are people in this world who don’t like showing off, people for whom the idea of being under public scrutiny is absolutely terrifying. It seems that Heather is one of those. Ken had asked her to be in the video, but the prospect appalled her. She kept begging him to find someone else, and when Dayna was suggested, Heather was over the moon.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Charles, disappointedly watching that particular conjecture crumble away. He moved on to another one. ‘There had clearly been something going on between Dayna and Trevor, hadn’t there?’

  The writer lifted his shoulders dismissively. ‘Could’ve been.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Will. It was obvious. Did you see the way he reacted when she arrived? Up until that moment, he’d been all keen to do more in the video, then suddenly he goes cold on the whole idea. They must’ve been having an affair, or just’ve broken off an affair or . . .’

  ‘Charles,’ said Will with deliberately infuriating condescension, ‘there are other motivations in life apart from sex.’

  ‘Maybe, but –’

  ‘Just because you’re obsessed with the subject, and just because, as a dirty old man, you can’t look at a pretty young girl without immediately wondering who’s bonking her, it doesn’t mean that everyone is the same.’ He affected the drawl of intellectual pretension. ‘As a writer, of course, I have a much deeper understanding of the multifarious nature of human motivations.’

  Will had given too good a cue to the counter-attack for Charles to ignore it. ‘And, as a writer, do tell me – what are you going to be working on next? Can it be that you’re finally about to start on the new play we’ve all heard so much about?’

  The barb found its target. Will Parton coloured. ‘No. That’ll have to wait. I’ve still got quite a lot to do on the Delmoleen front, as it happens.’

  ‘What, more out at Stenley Curton?’

  ‘Uhuh. Few more bits showing what a united company it is. Bijou scenettes in some of the offices, shots of the actual manufacturing process, staff relaxing in the canteen, high jinks in the firm’s social club, all that. And then, if I play my cards right, I might secure Parton Parcel the contract for the Delmoleen sales conference in Brighton at the end of September.’

  ‘I see. This one could run and run.’

  ‘With a bit of luck, yes.’


  ‘Well, if any of those bijou scenettes might involve a forklift truck operator capable of speech, do let me know.’

  ‘Now taking bookings, are you, Charles?’

  ‘Well, I do actually have a few free days . . . Just the odd one or two . . . Well, any time, really . . . Any date you care to mention, between now and my death . . . And, if it’s a really good part, I won’t let a little thing like that stop me.’

  ‘So I just get in touch with your agent, do I?’

  ‘Don’t you dare! Keep Maurice out of this. No, anything corporate, do it direct.’

  ‘OK.’ Will dropped the bantering tone. ‘Actually, there could be a bit in the canteen sequence. Need someone to talk there.’

  ‘I’ll happily expatiate on the virtues of the Jam Roly-Poly for you.’

  ‘May well take you up on that. I’ll let you know.’

  ‘I’ve heard that line before somewhere . . . can’t think where. Still, it would be great if there is anything.’ Charles grimaced thoughtfully. ‘No, I’d really like to get back to Stenley Curton.’

  ‘What, for–?’ Will looked at his friend despairingly. ‘Oh, Charles, no.’

  Charles looked the picture of aggrieved innocence. ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘This is like on the Stanislas Braid series, isn’t it? You see this as the start of an investigation. You just don’t believe in the philosophical concept of an accident. You think that girl Dayna Richman was murdered, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ said Charles.

  Will Parton groaned. Charles Paris went to refill their glasses.

  ‘Frances, it’s me.’

  ‘Ah,’ said his wife’s voice from the other end of the phone.

  ‘Charles.’

  ‘Yes, Charles, I do know who you mean. My “Ah” was not an “Ah” of incomprehension, but an “Ah” of “Ah. That is my husband on the phone.”’

  ‘Is that a good sort of “Ah”?’ he asked hopefully.

  ‘I wouldn’t plan your retirement on it.’

  ‘Ah.’ There was a silence. ‘I just rang because –’

  “You just rang because I had almost reached a state of equanimity about our marriage.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You have an uncanny sense of timing, Charles.’

  ‘Oh?’ To an actor that had to be a compliment.

  ‘Every time I reconcile myself to the fact that we really are finished, and that I won’t ever hear from you again, and it’s just as well, and now thank God I can get on with the rest of my life . . . you ring up.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Always at exactly that precise moment.’

  He let out a little, tentative laugh. ‘Well, that must say something, mustn’t it?’

  ‘Huh. I don’t think you’d like it if I spelled out what it does say, Charles.’

  ‘No, no, fine. Well, leave that as read,’ he said hastily.

  ‘So . . . to what do I owe the pleasure of this call? You’ve missed my birthday, it’s not Christmas yet, so what is it – some mutual form, some documentary relic left over from the days of our marriage, that needs countersigning?’

  ‘No, Frances. No, it’s just, er . . . I wanted to talk to you.’

  ‘Why suddenly now? What is so different about today, as opposed to any other day in the last four months when you could have wanted to talk to me?’

  ‘Oh, surely it’s not as long as –’

  ‘Four months,’ she said implacably.

  ‘Well, I . . .’ He opted for vulnerability. ‘Well, I’ve been feeling a bit low and . . .’

  It was a bad choice. ‘Everyone feels low from time to time, Charles.’

  ‘Yes . . .’

  ‘It’s just that some of us don’t go on about it all the time.’

  ‘No, of course. I just –’

  ‘Charles, why are you ringing?’

  ‘Well, it was kind of to make contact and –’

  ‘You’ve made contact. If you have anything else to say, say it. I’ve got someone here.’

  He was shocked by how much her words hurt. Recovering himself, he said, ‘I was wondering if we could get together . . .’

  ‘What for?’ she demanded brusquely.

  ‘Well, for a . . . you know, for a drink . . . for a meal . . . just to see each other . . .’

  ‘Hm.’

  ‘I mean, that’s what other married couples do, isn’t it?’

  ‘I wouldn’t use the “other married couples” line with me, Charles, if I were you. It doesn’t go down very well.’

  ‘No. Well . . . I . . . As I say, just be nice to see you.’

  All this got was another ‘Hm’.

  ‘As I say, just for a drink or . . .’

  ‘I’d rather it wasn’t just for a drink, Charles.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve served my time hanging round grotty pubs and wine bars, waiting for you to turn up . . .’

  ‘I wouldn’t be late. I’d –’

  ‘No, if you want to see me, you invite me somewhere nice.’

  ‘Nice?’

  ‘Yes. You think of something nice, that I – not you – but I would like to do, and when you’ve thought of it, you ring me up and invite me to it.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘And then, if I like the sound of it, and if I happen to be free on the relevant date . . . then I’ll accept the invitation.’

  ‘Right. Erm, but, Frances –’

  ‘Bye, Charles.’

  He stayed by the pay phone on the Hereford Road landing after he had put the receiver down, still smarting. It was ridiculous to feel like this. Surely he’d long since abrogated any right to feel jealous of Frances.

  Why should he imagine that she would always be on her own when he called? Given the amount he was contributing to it, he could hardly criticise her for the way she chose to conduct her own social life.

  And, anyway, ‘someone here’ could mean anything. A fellow-schoolmistress. Any one of her many women friends. An elderly neighbour. A Jehovah’s Witness.

  He was being stupid and he knew it.

  But he was still surprised at how much it hurt.

  In an attempt to shift his thoughts, he dialled another number.

  ‘Maurice Skellern Artistes.’

  ‘Maurice – it’s Charles.’

  ‘Oh yes, how’re things? Got any work?’

  Charles found himself blushing as he replied, ‘No. Surely that’s a question an actor should ask his agent rather than the other way round?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, Charles. Hear so many cases these days of clients getting work behind their agents’ backs and not even telling them.’

  ‘Ah. Do you?’ Charles laughed uneasily. ‘So, anyway, you heard of anything coming up?’

  The reply was so familiar he could have joined in. ‘Not a dicky bird, Charles. Things are very quiet at the moment, very quiet.’

  ‘Not a good time right now . . . you know, with the summer coming up.’

  ‘Sure, and then it’ll be the autumn coming up, won’t it, Maurice? And that won’t help.’

  ‘You’re right there, Charles. And then we’ll be on to the winter, and nobody makes any decisions when there’s Christmas just round the corner, do they?’

  ‘No. So we’ll just have to wait till the spring, won’t we?’

  ‘Yes . . .’ There was a pause. ‘Mind you, that’s never a lot better either, is it?’

  As he put the phone down, Charles wondered why on earth he had imagined that a call to his agent might possibly cheer him up. As always, it just left him more depressed than ever.

  And on this occasion – infuriatingly – because of the work he’d been doing for Delmoleen, it also left him feeling slightly guilty.

  Chapter Seven

  WITHIN A couple of weeks Charles Paris once again found himself doing work his agent didn’t know about. Will had managed to swing it that one of the ‘bijou scenettes’ in the canteen did involve a forklift operator capa
ble of speech, so once again Charles was to don the pristine Delmoleen overalls and give his impression of Trevor.

  It was a bit like being a stuntman, he reflected, though whereas stuntmen did physical tricks for people who could act, he was doing acting tricks for someone who could manage the physical stuff with no assistance.

  This time he wasn’t the only actor involved. When he met Will Parton at St Pancras, the writer introduced a tall figure by his side. ‘Charles Paris – this is Seb Ormond.’

  It transpired on the train journey that Seb Ormond was one of those actors who specialised in corporate work. Indeed, it was a long time since he had set foot on a stage or performed in a film or television production that was seen by the general public. But his conversation left no doubt that he made a very good living from his ‘in-house’ career.

  To Charles it was a constant source of amazement how many specialities there were within his profession, and the broad range of work that being an actor could encompass. He often suspected that the ones who specialised were the shrewd ones. As in any other area of entrepreneurial life, what such actors had to do was to carve out little niches for themselves, maintain the standards of their work, build up goodwill and, hopefully, make themselves indispensable. Charles knew actors who did that in commercial voice-overs, Victorian music hall, cruise ships entertainment and many other unlikely areas.

  Sometimes he regretted that he had never carved out such a niche for himself, but always came back to the view that doing the same thing all the time must get very boring. Doing nothing all the time – which was the pattern that his life seemed to be following these days – was also boring, but at least he could dream of potential employment in every branch of show business (even though so few jobs in any branch actually materialised).

  Seb Ormond was one of the names on the Parton Parcel letterhead. He wasn’t actually a partner, but had an agreement with the company whereby, when Will needed an impressively-suited figure for a business meeting, Seb would turn up. For a substantial fee. Gravitas didn’t come cheap.

  He was also, of course, available for ordinary work as a corporate actor. Which was how he had been booked for that day at Stenley Curton. Again for a substantial fee. Considerably more than Charles Paris was being paid.