by Simon Brett
‘But you were the one who actually fed the story to William Hickey, weren’t you?’ said Mrs Pargeter, modestly spreading her late husband’s glory.
‘Yes. But the concept was his. Magic. Wonderful. No, by my definition, that was sheer genius.’
‘Well, thank you very much.’
There was a silence, a moment of respect for the late Mr Pargeter’s departed genius.
Ellie Fenchurch broke it. ‘Anyway, Mrs Pargeter, what can I do for you? You name it – anything. You have only to say and it’s done.’
‘Well . . .’ Mrs Pargeter took another sip of the Beaume de Venise as she gathered her thoughts. ‘There is a celebrity whom I need to have investigated . . .’
Ellie’s eyes sparkled. ‘Great. You’ve got the right person for any of that kind of stuff.’
‘Yes. That’s what I thought. The fact is, I need to find out some fairly private things about this celebrity . . .’
‘Keep talking. This is meat and drink to me.’
‘Things this celebrity will probably be unwilling to divulge . . .’
‘You’re talking to the person who made a certain Cabinet Minister admit to his nappy-wearing habit, Mrs Pargeter.’
‘Yes. Yes, of course I am. Well, I just wondered . . . whether you’d be willing to help me in my investigation . . .?’
‘The answer’s been yes from the moment I first met your husband. Who is it I’m after?’ the journalist asked eagerly.
‘Sue Fisher.’
‘Oh yes. Yes . . .’
And a new light came into Ellie Fenchurch’s eye. It was the light that comes into a fox’s eye in the moment between grabbing a chicken’s neck and breaking it.
Chapter Twenty-One
‘Stan Bristow . . .’ said Mrs Pargeter as the limousine sped towards the south coast on the Friday morning.
‘Who?’ asked Gary.
‘Stan the Stapler.’
‘Oh, him – right.’
‘Did you come across him much when he was working with my husband?’
‘Sure. He was always around in the early days. Mr Fixit he was – done the lot. Not the brightest – couldn’t talk, you probably know that – but a useful type to have on your side.’
‘Yes. There’s something odd about him, though . . .’
‘How’s that then? You come across him again, have you, Mrs Pargeter?’
‘He’s working at Brotherton Hall.’
‘Oh. Good old Ank. There’s loyalty. Keeping it in the family, eh?’
‘Hm.’
‘What do you mean about him being odd, though, Mrs Pargeter?’
‘Well, I’ve come across a good few of my late husband’s associates over the years – some I’ve specifically contacted, some I’ve just met by chance – and they’ve all had one thing in common. As soon as they’ve discovered who I am, they all say how delighted they are to see me and how much they owe to my husband’s kindness to them.’
‘That’s no surprise, Mrs Pargeter. I mean he was a prince among men, your husband, no question about it.’
‘No . . .’ She resolutely pushed nostalgia from her mind. ‘Stan the Stapler’s the exception, though. He must know who I am – can’t not know who I am, but he hasn’t given any sign of recognizing me. I know he can’t talk, but . . . Well, I’d swear that he’s deliberately avoided me. Can you think of any reason why he might have done that?’
‘Well . . .’ The chauffeur straightened his peaked cap. ‘Maybe he’s just shy or . . .’
‘There’s more to it, isn’t there?’ There was an uncomfortable silence followed by throat clearing from the front seat. ‘You said Stan was always around “in the early days”, Gary . . .’
‘Yes.’
‘Meaning that he wasn’t around so much towards the end?’
‘No. No, Thicko Thurrock took over a lot of his duties after . . .’
Gary wasn’t finding this easy. Again his words trickled away.
‘After what?’
‘Well . . .’
‘After Streatham, was it?’ asked Mrs Pargeter with a flash of intuition.
Awkwardly the chauffeur admitted that she was right. After Streatham Stan the Stapler had not been so much in evidence in the late Mr Pargeter’s business empire.
‘But did anyone ever point a finger at him? Did anyone have any proof that he’d been involved in . . . in what went wrong?’
‘No, no. No proof. Just a few suspicions was round at the time. Not that your husband’d have any of it. After he come out – I mean, when he was back in circulation – your husband wouldn’t have anyone say a word against Stan, said he still stood by all his staff, would be happy to work with Stan again any time. You know, Mrs Pargeter . . .’ He paused, assembling his words with the maximum delicacy. ‘If there was any criticism I might ever make of your late husband – and it’s only a tiny one, if it is a criticism at all – it’s that he was sometimes too trusting.’
The late Mr Pargeter’s widow nodded in rueful agreement.
‘I mean,’ Gary went on, ‘in many ways he was too generous-spirited . . .’
‘That’s true.’
‘Too ready to think the best of people . . . an innocent, really, in a wicked world . . .’
Mrs Pargeter wiped a little moisture from the corner of her eye as she nodded again. ‘So what you’re saying, Gary, is that Stan the Stapler was involved with Julian Embridge?’
The immaculately tailored shoulders in front of her shrugged. ‘Can’t go as far as saying that. All I can say is it seems odd. Up until Streatham, Stan the Stapler done everything for your old man. After Streatham, even though Mr Pargeter offered him lots of jobs, Stan was somehow always unavailable. Well . . .’ Another shrug. ‘You have to draw your own conclusions, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Pargeter, drawing hers.
The limousine drew up outside the Mind Over Fatty Matter headquarters. Sue Fisher had planted the centre of her empire in the area where she had grown up, the bungaloid sprawl between Newhaven and Beachy Head (offering, in the phrase with which Ellie Fenchurch would begin her Sue Fisher interview, two opposing solutions to weight worries – on the one hand, a ferry to the gastronomic delights of France and, on the other, suicide).
The headquarters was purpose-built – a severely white structure whose award-winning architect appeared to have taken his inspiration from anaemic, elongated Lego bricks. As in the ideal Mind Over Fatty Matter body, curves were excluded in favour of angles. The building was a shrine to the goddess of self-denial.
This theme was echoed in the pervasive minimalist Mind Over Fatty Matter logo over the entrance, and in the stark black-on-white message on an adjacent board – ‘DO BETTER’.
That was typical Sue Fisher philosophy. All her slogans – and she had taken to slogans in rather a big way – contained comparatives. Nothing was allowed to be good in its own right; everything had to be less good than something else. Aspiration – and by definition unfulfilled aspiration – was the dynamo of Mind Over Fatty Matter’s success.
‘I don’t know how long I’ll be,’ said Mrs Pargeter.
‘Don’t you worry. I’ll wait in the car park.’
‘Well, if you’re sure . . .’
‘That is my job, Mrs Pargeter,’ said Gary. ‘I mean, someone as important as you, from an organization as important as the one you represent . . . well, they’re going to have a chauffeur what waits in the car park, aren’t they?’
She giggled. ‘Yes, I suppose they are.’
‘Who is it you’re representing again?’
Mrs Pargeter curbed the giggles and replied demurely, ‘Sycamore.’
‘Sycamore?’
‘It’s an acronym.’
‘Oh,’ said Gary blankly.
‘From the letters SICMOR. The Society for the Investigation of Corporate Malpractice by Overselling Representation.’
‘Oh yeah?’ There was a pause. ‘What’s that mean then?’
‘I’ve no idea
. But it sounds good.’
‘Yes. Oh yes,’ said Gary, with suitable respect.
Ellie Fenchurch was waiting in the white, cell-like Reception. Nothing so frivolous as a plant was allowed to break up its austerity. The only relief in the stark whiteness of the walls was provided by more black-lettered slogans.
‘SELF-IMPROVEMENT IS WITHIN YOURSELF.’
‘PRACTICE BRINGS YOU NEARER PERFECTION.’
‘GET FURTHER FROM WHAT YOU ARE – GET CLOSER TO WHAT YOU CAN BE.’
‘Who does this cow think she is?’ Ellie Fenchurch demanded as Mrs Pargeter greeted her. ‘Jesus Christ, Buddah and Allah all rolled into one?’
‘I don’t think you’re far off the mark.’
The journalist looked at Mrs Pargeter’s bright silk suit doubtfully. ‘You don’t think you should have tried to disguise yourself . . . glasses or something?’
‘No. Be fine.’
‘But if Sue Fisher saw you at Brotherton Hall . . .’
‘Sue Fisher didn’t see anyone at Brotherton Hall. She doesn’t see other people unless they can be of use to her.’
‘Hm. But if your suspicions about her are correct, then she’s going to know who you are.’
‘If my suspicions are correct, I’ll be delighted that she knows I’m on to her.’
Ellie Fenchurch nodded. Then she rubbed her thin hands together. ‘I’m going to enjoy this.’ She flashed a bleak smile at the perfect body behind the barren reception desk. ‘We’re both here now. Could you see if Ms Fisher is ready for us?’
The girl buzzed through on her switchboard and found out that yes, Ms Fisher was ready for them.
Ellie Fenchurch rose to her full bony height and smoothed down the jacket of her latest designer frippery. ‘OK, off we go.’ She grinned a vulpine grin. ‘Sue Fisher is about to find out what it feels like to be the ingredients of a kebab.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
Sue Fisher’s office was as expensively austere as the rest of her headquarters, resembling nothing so much as an operating theatre, an impression which was reinforced by the steel furniture and severely focused spotlights. In place of notices exhorting surgeons to wash their hands, the walls bore further maxims of Mind Over Fatty Matter philosophy.
KEEP GOING, BECAUSE FULFILMENT IS JUST AROUND THE NEXT CORNER.
THE HORIZON OF PERFECTION IS GETTING CLOSER.
NO ONE CAN MAKE ME BETTER THAN I CAN MAKE MYSELF.
(It was not without irony that this last statement should be displayed at the centre of an empire devoted to marketing products which would make people better.)
Somehow even the chrome-framed photographs of Sue Fisher with various heads of state and celebrities presenting her with awards took on the air of X-rays in this clinical environment.
The medical parallel was completed by the surgical green tunic-suit Sue Fisher was wearing. It was one of the latest range of the company’s designs; Mind Over Fatty Matter fashions were now diversifying beyond leisurewear. The suit, in common with all Mind Over Fatty Matter garments, looked much better on Sue Fisher than it would on any member of the public brainwashed into buying one.
The medical analogy could also have been maintained that morning by saying that the knives were out. Sue Fisher knew full well the kind of journalistic carve-up that was going to be attempted, and she relished the prospect. The light of battle gleamed in her eyes.
It gleamed in Ellie Fenchurch’s eyes too. These were two tough women, squaring up to each other. Neither would offer any mercy, or expect any.
Mrs Pargeter relished the confrontation, almost regretting that she could not just sit back to enjoy it as a spectator. She had to remember that she was there to further her investigation.
‘Coffee?’ asked Sue Fisher, once functional introductions had been completed.
Both her guests said yes, that would be very nice.
‘We only serve one kind of coffee here. It’s decaffeinated and made of beans from more than one country, all of whose regimes respect human and animal rights. It’s made with water containing an amalgam of natural salts and minerals. It’s the only one we serve because all other coffees are actually harmful.’
This was a typically uncompromising Sue Fisher sales pitch.
‘This coffee wouldn’t by any chance be a Mind Over Fatty Matter product, would it?’ asked Ellie Fenchurch.
‘Yes.’
‘And the water – is that one of your products too?’ asked Mrs Pargeter.
‘Yes.’
Now that really was marketing – to sell not only the coffee, but also the water to make it with.
‘And I suppose it should only be drunk out of Mind Over Fatty Matter mugs . . .?’
Sue Fisher was either deliberately or genuinely unaware of any irony in Ellie’s tone. ‘It does taste better out of them, yes. The mugs are made from a particular kind of clay I came across when I was on a fact-finding mission in the Gambia.’
‘Fancy,’ said Mrs Pargeter.
‘And they’re fired by a slow method which approximates very closely to sun-drying.’
‘Well, well,’ said Mrs Pargeter.
Sue Fisher turned to a device whose chromium frame, bulbous glass and interwoven tubing continued the medical image, and threw a switch. ‘I had this specially designed in Italy. It’s based on a model I saw out there, but adapted to work on less electricity . . . you know, for the environment,’ she added piously. ‘It’s the best – and most environment-friendly – coffee machine currently on the market.’
‘And that wouldn’t by any chance be another Mind Over Fatty Matter product, would it?’
‘Yes, Ellie. As a general rule, if something’s the best on the market, then it is a Mind Over Fatty Matter product.’
There was something very unEnglish about Sue Fisher’s certitude, Mrs Pargeter reflected. No diffidence, none of that fatal English mock-modesty. Nor, of course, any leavening of English humour.
Sue Fisher continued. She was evidently prepared to maintain a monologue on the virtues of herself and her company until interrupted. ‘The coffee machine also saves staff time. Everyone here at headquarters has one in their office, whatever their level in the company. Not only is that a convenience, it also avoids all kinds of problems over hierarchy. You’d be surprised how much resentment builds up in the workplace over the simple issue of who is delegated to make the coffee.’
‘So here at Mind Over Fatty Matter everyone makes their own?’
‘Yes.’
‘You don’t think,’ suggested Ellie, gently poisonous, ‘that that encourages selfishness and lack of community spirit among your staff . . .?’
Sue Fisher fielded this one expertly. ‘No. The point is that everyone has the right to make their own coffee, and also the right to make coffee for anyone else. You’d be surprised at the level of spontaneous coffee-making for others which goes on within the company.’ She smiled an invulnerable smile. ‘And, incidentally, here at Mind Over Fatty Matter, we don’t use the word “staff”.’
‘Oh, what word do you use instead?’ asked Ellie Fenchurch sweetly. ‘Underlings? Minions? Slaves? Serfs?’
Sue Fisher conceded a humourless laugh. ‘No, we’re all co-workers.’
Mrs Pargeter, who was enjoying this preliminary sparring, waited keenly for Ellie’s response.
‘Co-workers, eh?’ the journalist echoed. ‘That sounds very impressive. Very . . . one might almost use the word “idealistic”, Sue.’
‘Ideals are not something I shy away from, Ellie.’
‘Good, good. How refreshing that is to hear in these materialistic times. So . . . here at Mind Over Fatty Matter, everyone works for everyone else, is that it?’
‘Everyone works for themselves and for everyone else. They all feel part of the same process. The goals of personal fulfilment and the company’s success become indistinguishable.’
‘That’s a very clever idea. You mean,’ Ellie Fenchurch asked innocently, ‘that everyone in the company is on a p
ercentage of the profits?’
For the first time in the interview Sue Fisher coloured. ‘No, I don’t mean that. That would be impractical.’
‘Why?’
‘I can assure you we have investigated the possibilities of such an arrangement and I’m afraid it would just be an administrative nightmare.’
‘Oh dear. How distressing.’
‘But there are plenty of incentive schemes and promotion prospects to make all co-workers feel that they can become part of the company’s success.’
‘That is a relief.’ Ellie Fenchurch smiled guilelessly. ‘So, in this sublimely ordered community, all the co-workers beaver away together for the greater good of Mind Over Fatty Matter . . . ?’
‘If you like,’ Sue Fisher replied cautiously.
‘Like bees in a hive, maybe . . . ? All buzzing about, thinking of each other, seeing where they can help out the other bees . . . ?’ Sue Fisher did not argue with this analogy. ‘All producing as much honey as possible so that they can benefit from the hive’s incentive schemes and promotion prospects . . . ?’
‘Yes.’
Then came the attack. ‘And all of them totally subservient to the queen bee?’
Sue Fisher looked – rather appropriately – stung.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Before the guru of Mind Over Fatty Matter had time to respond, Ellie Fenchurch pressed on with her offensive. ‘But I’m not really here this morning to talk about your management of this company. The fact that you present the place as the ultimate worker’s co-operative, whereas in fact it’s a despotism – and not even a benign one – is—’
‘Just a minute.’ The wind had returned to Sue Fisher’s sails. ‘You print any of that stuff and you’ll have my lawyers down on you before your paper hits the streets. Mind Over Fatty Matter is run as a co-operative. Every co-worker has the opportunity to fulfil his or her potential—’
