by Simon Brett
‘Unless they show too much potential.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean there’s a great list of talented people who used to work with you and who got elbowed out when they started to threaten your dominance of the company. You feel more secure surrounded by yes-men and gofers and actually running the whole show yourself.’
‘Look, I thought up Mind Over Fatty Matter. It is my concept.’
‘Exactly. And you’re very happy to keep it that way, doing all the strategy yourself and having the nuts and bolts work done by others.’
‘The art of management is the art of delegation, Ellie.’
‘Sure. I’ve nothing against the way you run this place. It’s efficient and it’s successful. All I do object to is the fact that you present what is undoubtedly a dictatorship as some kind of benevolent workers’ co-operative. I’m not against commercialism, Sue, just hypocrisy.’
‘Calling me a hypocrite in print wouldn’t do you a lot of good from the legal point of view,’ said Sue Fisher coldly.
‘Don’t worry, I won’t do that. I’m not stupid. My interviews always get my point across without breaking the libel laws.’
Given Ellie Fenchurch’s track-record in character-assassination, this was a chilling promise, but it didn’t slow down Sue Fisher. ‘My basic assertion remains that everyone in this company has equal chances to—’
‘Equal chances to rise to the level of a glorified secretary, yes. Those who show the talent to go any higher than that pretty soon get cut down to size.’
‘That is simply not true. I can—’
‘I can give you a few examples, if you like.’ And Ellie Fenchurch started to reel off a list of women’s names.
She was good. Mrs Pargeter felt privileged to be in the company of such an expert; she could understand why the late Mr Pargeter had so valued his Public Relations Officer.
Ellie Fenchurch’d really done her research. Sue Fisher remonstrated against the first couple of names on the list, but as the catalogue continued, she grew silent.
‘I’ve been in touch with all of them,’ Ellie concluded smugly. ‘And I’m very happy to include their views as background research to my interview . . . unless, of course, you’d rather I didn’t.’
Sue Fisher capitulated ungraciously. ‘I think it might be better if you didn’t,’ she mumbled.
‘Good. Fine.’ Ellie Fenchurch beamed. ‘So we can get on to the subject I really wanted to talk to you about . . . which was the reason why I invited Mrs Pargeter of “Sycamore” along.’
‘All right.’ Sue Fisher was quickly regrouping her resources. ‘I can assure you I have no worries on that front. The claims made for all Mind Over Fatty Matter products have been rigorously researched, and I can assure you that nothing goes on sale in the High Street until it has undergone every possible testing process.’
‘Good. Fine,’ Ellie said again. She was deceptively relaxed. Having caught out her opponent once, she felt confident of maintaining the advantage. She drew a printed catalogue out of her handbag. ‘Now, in your manifesto—’
‘It’s not a manifesto,’ Sue Fisher contradicted tetchily.
‘You could have fooled me. It reads like a manifesto. All the pious principles according to which your company is run. All the promises of how your company will single-handedly sort out the economy, bring hope to the Third World, and save the planet at the same time. For a moment I thought I was right back in the middle of the last election campaign.’
Sue Fisher gave a patronizing smile. ‘All right, Ellie. I’m sure you’re enjoying your little performance, but what actually is the point you’re making?’
‘There is a claim in this’ – Ellie waved the catalogue – ‘propaganda document . . . that you do not market any products which you have not tried and found satisfactory yourself . . .’
‘That is true.’
Ellie Fenchurch grinned, luxuriantly in control of the situation. ‘I think I should bring in Mrs Pargeter at this point.’
The lady in question was so entertained by the duel that she would have been quite content to continue just watching it, but she knew where her duty lay and accepted the cue. She opened the folder on her knee and took out a set of papers. ‘Yes, we at “Sycamore” are particularly interested in two products. The first is Mind Over Fatty Matter Face Polish . . .’
The name had an instant effect. ‘That product was never marketed by this company.’
‘Ah, but it was test-marketed,’ said Mrs Pargeter, supremely confident in Ellie Fenchurch’s research. ‘In the Tyne Tees area. Seven years ago, just after the success of the first Mind Over Fatty Matter book, when you were beginning to explore other areas of merchandizing.’
‘As I say, the Face Polish campaign was stopped before the product reached the shops.’
‘Yes, and why was it stopped?’ Mrs Pargeter was beginning to enjoy her role as prosecuting counsel. ‘Was it because the actual properties of the product did not live up to the claims that were made for it?’
‘That was part of the reason.’
‘So you mean it didn’t’ – Mrs Pargeter consulted her report – ‘“smooth away wrinkles and restore facial skin to teenage tautness”.’
‘No. The claims of the manufacturer who wished me to franchise his product proved to be exaggerated,’ Sue Fisher replied, shifting the blame away from her own company.
‘And I dare say another reason for suppressing Face Polish,’ Mrs Pargeter went on coolly, ‘was the fact that it brought out the housewives of the Tyne Tees area on whom it was tested . . . in a rather nasty rash.’
‘Well—’
‘“Dry, flaking skin . . . painful cracking . . . irritation and bleeding . . .”,’ she read on relentlessly.
‘Yes, obviously that was one of the reasons why we pulled the product. That’s what testing’s for,’ said Sue Fisher defensively. ‘It’s to see whether there are any unexpected side-effects of a product, and when you do find any . . . well then, obviously, you stop developing that product.’
‘I see,’ Ellie Fenchurch interposed. ‘So Face Polish wasn’t actually one of the products you tested yourself?’
‘Well, I—’
‘Or did you suffer from “dry, flaking skin . . . painful cracking” and—’
‘No, no, of course I didn’t! I’m only involved in the final stages of testing. Once a product has been tried on a series of—’
‘Guinea pigs . . . ?’ suggested Mrs Pargeter.
‘No – volunteers.’
‘These’d be human volunteers, would they?’
‘Of course they would. It’s one of the proud tenets of the Mind Over Fatty Matter organization,’ Sue Fisher went on devoutly, ‘that none of our products have been tested on animals.’
‘I see. You’d rather have humans erupting in flaking skin and that sort of—’
‘No, no. This is perfectly normal practice. Once a product’s been tested on volunteers and proved to have no adverse side-effects, then—’
‘But, if it does have adverse side-effects, what happens to the volunteers?’
‘Well, I don’t know, do I!’ Sue Fisher’s temper was now extremely short. ‘They get paid for their trouble. They agree to take the tests, after all. That’s what being a volunteer means.’
‘Yes. So there are quite a lot of products your company tests that you haven’t actually tried out yourself?’
‘At the early stages, yes, of course there are. But everything that actually makes it into our catalogue or on to the shelves in the shops, I have tried personally.’
‘What about the Mind Over Fatty Matter Slimbic . . . ?’ hazarded Mrs Pargeter.
This product name also stopped Sue Fisher in her tracks. She was distinctly flustered as she retorted, ‘That never reached the shops.’
‘Oh, but it did.’ Mrs Pargeter consulted more of Ellie Fenchurch’s invaluable research. ‘Five years ago. The Slimbic was on sale in the Mind Over Fatty Matter shop in Co
vent Garden. It had no adverse effect on any of the women who bought the product . . . except for the ones who suffered from asthma. They had very serious side-effects from eating Slimbics, didn’t they? Particularly the one who was unfortunate enough to be pregnant. She—’
‘The product was withdrawn immediately those side-effects were known. And the women who suffered were generously compensated.’
‘Oh yes,’ Ellie Fenchurch agreed. ‘The trouble is that someone who’s been bought off once is often very ready to be bought off again. Through your lawyers, you “compensated” the women to buy their silence. It only required another payment from my paper for them to end that silence.’
Sue Fisher was furious. ‘Chequebook journalism is one of the most contemptible—!’
‘I don’t think it’s any worse than chequebook justice,’ the journalist countered evenly.
Mrs Pargeter picked up the attack. ‘The funny thing about it is, though’ – she turned a page of her research – ‘that you’ve been a long-time asthma-sufferer yourself . . . haven’t you, Sue?’ There was no reply. ‘And yet you didn’t suffer any ill-effects from eating Slimbics . . .’
Ellie Fenchurch came in to spell out the point. ‘Which would suggest that you never actually tried one.’ Still silence. ‘Which rather makes nonsense of your claim to have personally tested all Mind Over Fatty Matter products which reach the High Street.’
Sue Fisher was broken. ‘What is all this? What do you want?’ she asked sullenly.
‘Very simple,’ Ellie replied, crisply efficient. ‘You were at Brotherton Hall earlier this week . . .’
‘Yes.’
‘During which time,’ Mrs Pargeter picked up the interrogation, ‘you booked in for a Dead Sea Mud Bath on Wednesday morning . . .’
‘Yes.’
‘Was that with a view to endorsing the treatment as a Mind Over Fatty Matter product?’
‘There was some thought we might introduce a skin treatment based on the baths, yes.’
‘Which was why you were testing them out?’
‘Yes. Well, that is to say . . . that’s why they were tested out.’
‘So you’re saying you didn’t actually test out the bath yourself?’
‘No,’ Sue Fisher conceded.
‘You weren’t in the Brotherton Hall Dead Sea Bath unit last Thursday morning?’
‘No, I wasn’t. One of my staff tested it out for me.’
In her diminished state, Sue Fisher had even forgotten to call her substitute a ‘co-worker’.
Chapter Twenty-Four
‘What do you reckon then, Ellie?’ asked Mrs Pargeter, as Gary’s limousine swept them elegantly towards the good lunch they had promised themselves as a reward for their morning’s work.
‘I reckon we’ve got her over a barrel,’ the journalist replied, with the assurance that came from having had many of the rich and famous over barrels. ‘You’re sure you found out everything you needed?’
‘For the time being, yes. Sue Fisher definitely wasn’t one of the people who overheard me fixing to meet Lindy Galton.’
‘No, and her alibi for the time of the murder sounded pretty solid too.’
Mrs Pargeter had had no hesitation about bringing Ellie Fenchurch up to date with all her suspicions. The journalist’s investigative skills might be needed further; and, needless to say, with someone trained by the late Mr Pargeter, worries about discretion were entirely inappropriate.
‘Yes. I’ll get Truffler to confirm that alibi, but I think she’s in the clear.’
‘On the murder itself. I still think there could be something else suspicious about her involvement with Brotherton Hall . . .’
‘Why?’
‘Sue Fisher never does anything for nothing. Why was she there in the first place?’
‘To make her latest video.’
‘Yes, but there are any number of other health spas all over the country where she could have done that. I’m sure she had some reason for choosing Brotherton Hall.’
Recollection of a conversation overheard from Ankle-Deep Arkwright’s office came to Mrs Pargeter. ‘I did hear her talking to Ank about some kind of testing that he might be doing for her. Or at least she didn’t like the word “testing” – she preferred to have it called “trying out”.’
‘Ah, did she?’ Ellie Fenchurch pounced on the detail with relish. It was exactly the kind of pointer that could set her going on a new investigation. ‘I’ll look into that, Mrs Pargeter.’
‘What, for your article?’
The journalist contemplated her long painted fingernails. ‘Oh, I don’t know whether I’ll actually do an article on Sue Fisher.’
‘But I thought that was the reason why you cancelled Warren Beatty. I thought Sue Fisher was going to be your big interview for this Sunday.’
‘No.’
‘Well, she’d clearly got the impression that she would be.’
Ellie Fenchurch’s face took on the post-coital expression of a female praying mantis. ‘Yes, I know she did. No, I just set this up to help you out.’
‘Well, that’s extremely kind, but it does seem a bit of a waste. Do you mean you’re never going to publish it?’
‘May do, may not. The important thing is that Sue Fisher thinks I’m going to publish it – or that I might publish it at some point. She’ll always have that threat hanging over her.’
‘I see.’
‘And rest assured, Mrs Pargeter, if there’s anything else you ever want to find out from her, that threat will still be quite sufficient for her to tell you anything she knows.’
‘Good.’
Ellie Fenchurch’s face glowed as a female praying mantis’s might after the first satisfying bite of husband. ‘No, she’s made a lot of other people sweat. It’ll give me a lot of pleasure to let the guru of Mind Over Fatty Matter herself sweat for a while.’
When Mrs Pargeter returned to Brotherton Hall after lunch, the receptionist handed her an envelope embossed with the health spa’s quasi-heraldic logo.
Mrs Pargeter opened it when she reached her room. The contents were word-processed on thick notepaper headed with the same logo.
Dear Mrs Pargeter,
I am so sorry that I’m not able to say goodbye to you in person, but I’ve been called away on urgent pressing business. I do hope that you have enjoyed your stay at Brotherton Hall, and that you will feel welcome to use our facilities again whenever you so wish – and to recommend them to any friends who you think might also enjoy them.
We do offer a range of special discounts and bargain breaks for regular customers, and hope to see you again before long.
Yours sincerely,
P. T. Arkwright
MANAGER
It was an odd letter. She knew that there had been a cooling in her relationship with Ankle-Deep Arkwright, but that did not seem to justify this awkward formality. The contents read like a form letter which might be sent out to any client. It was as if she and Ank had never met.
The only personal touches were the signature and the change of the word ‘urgent’ to ‘pressing’. Both of these were in what looked like Ankle-Deep Arkwright’s handwriting.
If that was all he had to say, why had he bothered sending the letter? No communication at all would have been less hurtful than the impersonality of this one.
Her pondering of the anomaly was interrupted by a knock on the door. Kim Thurrock burst in, dressed in yet another Mind Over Fatty Matter outfit and full as ever of the joys of Brotherton Hall.
‘Thought I saw you come back, Melita. Just popped in to check you’re OK.’
‘Fine, thanks.’
‘Oh, good. Must dash. So much to fit in, what with this being our last day. I’m really determined to be right down for tonight’s Nine O’Clock Weigh-In.’
‘Good luck.’
‘Thanks. I’ll do it, don’t worry.’ Her voice took on a note of religious awe. ‘I’m going to get further from what I am, and get closer to what I can b
e.’
Mrs Pargeter winced at the pervasiveness of Sue Fisher’s cracker-motto philosophy. She wondered whether Kim’s hero-worship would have survived the sight of the shifty-looking woman whom Ellie Fenchurch had so discomfited that morning, and decided it probably would. Faith as fervent as that could never be deflected by mere reality.
Kim skipped to the door. ‘Can’t waste a second. Must keep going.’
‘Because “Fulfilment is just around the next corner” . . . ?’ Mrs Pargeter suggested.
But the irony was wasted. ‘Yes, exactly,’ Kim Thurrock agreed as she opened the door.
‘Incidentally, Kim . . . one thing . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘I heard a rumour of something nasty that happened down in the Dead Sea Mud Baths on Wednesday night . . .’
Kim stopped. ‘Oh yes. That poor girl Lindy Galton.’
So news of the murder had not been totally suppressed.
‘What exactly happened?’ asked Mrs Pargeter ingenuously.
‘Well, she had an accident. She was killed, poor kid.’
‘Oh.’
‘Slipped and banged her head and drowned in the mud.’ Kim Thurrock’s face became pious. ‘That’s what comes of having unsupervised treatment. It’s very important that all exercises and treatments should be conducted under proper supervision.’ She quoted a Brotherton Hall tenet. ‘See you.’
So, thought Mrs Pargeter, the ‘accident’ theory of Lindy Galton’s death was now official.
And for a moment she almost wished she could believe it.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Gary drove them away from Brotherton Hall the following morning, the Saturday. Kim Thurrock’s only regret about the experience was that it had to end. At the Nine O’Clock Weigh-In the previous evening she had achieved her lowest weight since arrival and, though of course complacency would have been politically incorrect according to the Sue Fisher ethic, she did feel quite pleased with herself.
‘Oh, the whole time’s been so great, Melita. I can’t thank you enough for organizing everything. Just been wonderful, hasn’t it?’
