The door opened as Barney sent the e-mail on its way and Mary walked in, a pot of English Breakfast on a tray, with two croissants, strawberry jam, and two cups. He lifted an eyebrow at her.
'The police sergeant would like to talk to you, Mr Thomson. Sergeant Monk. Would you care to receive her?'
Heart did a little skip, warning shots were fired across the bow by his subconscious. This could be the real thing. There was no one on the planet he would rather was walking in here right now. Straightened his tie, wished he had time to look in the mirror. Started saying ridiculous things in his head such as don't say anything stupid, and don't be yourself.
Mary walked out. Monk walked in. Suddenly Barney felt ridiculous. A snap of the fingers and in an instant it seemed absurd that he should be sitting here behind a stupid desk, wearing a shirt and tie, playing at being some sort of executive. Just because you could predict a few football scores, didn't mean you got to be coach of Real Madrid. Same here; just because you knew better than some university educated muppet how to sell an absurd toiletries product, didn't mean that you were deserving of sitting behind a desk pretending to be something you're not.
You are what you are, and Barney wasn't a guy in a shirt, helping to shift things he knew to be ridiculous. And it had only taken five minutes and the entrance of Daniella Monk for him to realise it.
She closed the door and stood looking at him. He leaned forward, put his elbows on his desk, hesitated, wasn't entirely sure what to say. Indicated the tea and croissants. Imagined that whatever came out his mouth was going to sound absurd, because of the shirt and tie.
'Weren't you a barber yesterday?' she asked, the tone a little bit wicked, but there was an accompanying smile. The same smile that had first beguiled him two days earlier, and now it relaxed him.
'Tomorrow I'm going to drive the bus, the day after I'm going to be President of Uzbekistan,' he said, and she laughed.
'Seriously,' she said, 'what the Hell are you doing?'
And that was it, all that it took. Fifteen seconds ago he'd felt preposterous, then a smile and a laugh from this woman, and suddenly he felt normal again, felt like it was the people at BF&C who were being preposterous, whilst he was just the dude in the middle, taking advantage of the situation.
'They seem to be missing someone,' he said.
'You're not wrong,' she replied. 'But when the pilot dies, you don't let the toilet attendant fly the plane.'
He laughed. She pulled up a chair opposite his desk and sat down.
'How d'you take your tea?' she asked, attending to the breakfast things laid out before them.
'So, just imagine you're the toilet attendant ... ' began Barney.
'It's not that much of a stretch,' she said, pouring the first cup.
'Hardly any milk, no sugar. You take a break from your regular toilet duties to clean out a cockpit. While you're up there, the pilot says to you, wouldn't mind just flying this thing for a while, would you? I'll watch. So, you do it, you don't crash, no one dies. Next day, the pilot gets murdered, they're looking around for someone to fly the 747 to Sydney, and they grab the first person who comes to mind.'
'The toilet attendant.'
'Exactly.'
She passed over the tea and a croissant on a plate, helped herself to the same.
'They must be pretty desperate,' she said.
'On first appearances,' said Barney, cutting the end off his croissant and dunking it in the jam, 'but that would be to ignore my latent genius as a marketing guru.'
That smile again.
'Well, it's a bit of a bummer,' she said, through some croissant, 'because as the barber to this company of freaks, I had you pegged as my main informant in the investigation.'
'Ah,' he said, 'that makes sense. Have you lost interest in me now that I'm a high-powered business executive?'
'More or less,' she said, smiling and then suddenly she looked down at her plate, saw the strawberry jam, and the vision of Fitzgerald's bloodied head came to mind, and she felt guilty having a flirtatious conversation while there was murder to be solved. She took a drink of tea to wash the croissant away, and to feel the burn on her throat. Focus. Barney Thomson wasn't going anywhere. There would be plenty of time when this business was concluded.
'What?' said Barney, noticing the change, then he nodded as he picked up the vibe. There may have been a rapidly growing understanding between them, but there was a time and a place.
It always intruded into his life. Murder, wherever he went. He couldn't meet anyone. He couldn't relax into any situation without the bloody theme of murder raising its head. But then, without it, Daniella Monk would not currently be sitting opposite him, and neither would he be sitting behind a desk, wondering how to head up the marketing campaign to sell sou'esters to Niger.
Harlequin Sweetlips came suddenly into his head; not that he knew the name, not yet. Sweetlips had killed at some time in her life, Barney had no doubt. Perhaps it'd been a while ago, or maybe she was the killer this time around. That might seem like too much of a coincidence, but then the attempted pick-up in the bar might not have been the chance encounter that Barney had presumed at the time. Maybe he'd been an intended victim and something had stayed her hand. A brush with a death which had never materialised.
But he didn't want to tell Daniella Monk that he'd met Harlequin Sweetlips. Couldn't pinpoint the reason, just didn't seem right. Not yet. Maybe if he saw Sweetlips again, maybe if there was a next time, a next time with more contact, he might be able to establish something further; although he wasn't sure how that would play out, not without him dying at any rate. Whatever, now was not the time to tell Daniella Monk, no matter how much good sense suggested it.
'We can wait,' he said, with a strange confidence.
'Yeah,' said Monk, and she reached for her croissant, before deciding that she probably shouldn't even be eating that.
***
Monk spent the day at the company offices, speaking to everyone she had so far not covered, in her search for anything that might lead them to the killer of Hugo Fitzgerald. Another seemingly fruitless day, yet she felt sure that the answer to the mystery had something to do with the absurd company of BF&C and was not just specific to Fitzgerald.
She was still there when Orwell arrived at the office for the first time that day, following a morning meeting at Tory Party Head Office, lunch with William Hague and then a productive afternoon's shop on Oxford Street, building up more ammunition for his attack on the sensibilities of Taylor Bergerac. He hadn't given her his cell phone number, liking the thought of the over-the-top forage into her affections and then making himself unavailable. Had expected a host of messages, calls and e-mails from her when he returned, and was categorically disappointed. Nothing. Two seconds, then he had switched back to positive mode and rationalised that she was a busy woman, more than a little overwhelmed, and wanted to take her time in her response. In the meantime, he would continue his impressive assault on her affections and shortly victory would be his. (It said a lot about the man – mostly his massive lack of inner confidence – that it hadn't even occurred to him to just call her up and ask her out to dinner.)
So Rose gave him a few minutes back in his office, time to settle in, assuming he'd be quickly scanning e-mail for work rather than signs of Taylor Bergerac, and then she appeared at the door.
'Mr Orwell,' she said softly.
'Ro,' he said. 'Nice afternoon. I mean, it's pishing down 'n' all, but you know, it's still nice. You could sell afternoons like this one to anyone, if you did it the right way.'
'Mr Orwell,' she said again, with a little more insistence, 'Sgt Monk is here.'
Daniella Monk, he thought. Monk. Nice enough girl, not in Bergerac's league.
'You'd better send her in,' he said, and leaned back against the chair, waiting for the latest onslaught from the law.
***
Monk had made four pages of notes, without obtaining anything useful. Orwell was standing at the
window, as he had done for most of the twenty-five minutes she'd been there. She wasn't so stressed anymore. She'd cooled down. She thought him rude for presenting his back to her for interview, rather than complicit.
'So, when are you expecting Mr Bethlehem to return?' she asked.
Orwell looked down at the river. There was a damned good question, and she wasn't the only one asking it. He was in Italy at that moment, as far as anyone knew. He'd heard tell that he'd been to Glasgow a couple of times, but nothing concrete.
'Not sure,' he said.
'Doesn't seem to be around much?' she said.
'He's hard to pin down sometimes,' Orwell replied, 'then suddenly he'll come back and he's got deals with Saab, Motorola and Sony. That's how he does business.'
Monk nodded. The guy was a ghost, and she was beginning to think that the only way to really get to the bottom of it was to bring him in. Hard, however, when he was out of the country and no one seemed to know anything about him.
'You know where he is?'
'Nah,' said Orwell. 'Seems to spend every night in a different place.'
No point in giving the police any more than they had to; as everyone in the company had been instructed.
'So, do you think Fitzgerald had enemies, or the firm has enemies, or do you think Bethlehem has personal enemies?' she said.
'Thomas is the company,' said Orwell, then he turned and looked over his shoulder at her, as he had been doing every so often. 'When you're on the way up in business, there's always someone else on the way down.' And, if Orwell had his own way, that someone would soon be Thomas Bethlehem; that was obviously more than Monk needed to know.
'Wouldn't they just try to screw you business-wise?'
'Sure thing, Monk,' he said, nodding. 'I suppose you're right.'
It was the seventh time he'd called her Monk, and her annoyance had long since given way to resignation.
'So, can you think of any individuals that might hold that strong a grudge?' she asked.
He turned away again and looked down on the river. Women with a grudge against Thomas or this great company of men. God, there could be hundreds, it didn't just have to be business, did it?
'What about Margie Crane?' asked Monk, in reaction to the silence.
Orwell never turned. She couldn't see the look on his face. Edged round towards her after a few seconds.
'Doubt it,' he said. 'Scampered off with her tail between her legs apparently. Wouldn't have thought there was much chance of ever seeing her again, you know.'
'You know where I can find her?' asked Monk anyway.
'Birmingham or somewhere like that,' said Orwell. 'Rose'll probably be able to tell you.'
'Right,' said Monk. 'And what about Forsyth?'
'Spends most of his time in Australia,' he said. 'I suppose he could be hiring some bird to do his dirty work for him, but as far as I know he wasn't that pissed about leaving.'
'Right,' said Monk. She looked up from her notebook. It was a wrap. 'Would you be able to get the employees together before they leave tonight. These guys have to be aware that there's the possibility that this was a hit against the company, rather than against Mr Fitzgerald himself.'
'Sure,' said Orwell, 'sure. I'll get Ro to tell 'em all to get down to the cafeteria. Anything else?'
'We're done,' she said.
'Fine,' said Orwell. 'Can you just give me a couple of minutes, I've got a call to make, then I'll join you downstairs.'
And Monk nodded and walked from the office, leaving him to make his first call of the day, which strangely had nothing whatsoever to do with any of the working accounts currently under his attention.
***
Monk gave her talk, twenty minutes in all, to the women as well as the men, because there was nothing to say that if there was to be another victim, that they wouldn't be female. And they all sat and took it in, and many were nervous and many were given to think thoughts that they hadn't up until now. In short, it brought it all home to them. And of the seven men who were on dates that night, three would cancel and four would ensure their evening took place in a public place, and that they would not be alone with the woman at any time.
One of those would be Piers Hemingway. His date was with a woman he knew very well indeed, and he did not suspect for one second that the talk being given by the very, very attractive police sergeant was in the least bit appropriate to him. However, he arranged to meet his date in public all the same.
Nice try.
Butt Naked Pygmy Women Go Jesus
Piers Hemingway took a quick look at his watch. It was almost time to go, but he had only just begun the meeting with Orwell, Barney Thomson and John Wodehouse. Six fifty-three and most of London would already be on its way out of the office. He needed to get home and have a shower, but he was on the tenth floor discussing one of the upcoming summer's blockbusting CD collections.
'At this stage,' said Orwell, 'the client's just looking for a title. Pure and simple. Once that's sorted, we'll have a couple of weeks to come up with the campaign, but these things usually sell themselves.'
'What's the collection?' asked Hemingway, almost cutting off the end of Orwell's sentence. In a hurry.
'Songs by a bunch of women,' said Orwell. 'The usual suspects, you know. Macie Gray, Beyonce, Climi, etc, etc.'
'What's the problem?'
Orwell nodded at Wodehouse. 'John's been doing some research on titles already used for similar albums. Tell us what you've got, John.'
John Wodehouse looked down at his list and started reading slowly.
'So far I've found, Woman, vols. 1, 2 and 3. A completely different CD entitled Woman. Then there's Independent Woman, Wild Hearted Woman, Fire Woman, Country Woman, Simply Woman and Celtic Woman, vols 1 and 2.'
He glanced up; no one said anything. He got a bit of a get on with it feel.
'A Woman's Heart,' he continued, earnestly, 'A Woman's Voice and Any Woman's Blues. I'm a Good Woman, vols. 1 and 2, Love of a Woman, Power of a Woman, A Woman in Love, Woman and Love, and Woman to Woman.'
'Like the sound of that one, mind you' said Orwell, and Hemingway nodded. Barney was staring out of the window, thinking about women in his own way. Daniella Monk and Harlequin Sweetlips. Wodehouse's voice was low and dull, the office was warm, and he could feel the first creep of sleep cuddling his eyes. Give into it and it would be over him in waves. Delicious sleep.
'Natural Woman,' said Wodehouse, '100 Hits – Women, Woman – The Collection, New Woman Classics, and a bunch of others in the New Woman range, The Very Best of All Woman, Real Women Have Curves ... '
'Oh my God ... ' blurted Orwell.
'A Woman's Place is in The Groove, and Story of a Black Woman,' said Wodehouse, and looked up from the list. The others were shaking their heads, but of course, he wasn't finished. 'Then there's Female, Female of the Species, The Female Touch vols 1 and 2, Favourite Female Vocalists, The Greatest Female Vocalists, The Greatest Female Voices Ever and another couple of country and blues things. That's just a quick check of the main ones out there at the moment. Expect there'll be more.'
'It's like a whole different artform,' said Hemingway. 'They've probably all got the same songs on them.'
'Exactly,' said Orwell. 'Which is why we're here. Have to make the Margies and Joes who have bought all that crap, go out and buy this crap. So, let's have it. John, you've been the lead man on this so far, any ideas?'
Hemingway felt a tingling of the spine. He couldn't sit there like a lemon making weak jokes, letting his former deputy take over.
'A Woman's Place Is In The Kitchen,' said Wodehouse seriously.
Good, thought Hemingway, the lad doesn't have a clue.
'Yeah,' said Orwell, 'it's easy enough to come up with gags,' which was big of him, seeing as he hadn't come up with anything himself, 'but we need sensible ideas,' and he looked around the three men, already accepting that he was probably dependent on Barney for anything decent.
'Women Rock,' said Heming
way, quickly.
'Women Roll,' said Wodehouse.
'All Woman,' said Hemingway.
'Total Woman,' said Wodehouse.
'Total Rock, Total Woman,' said Hemingway.
And suddenly, with a snap of the fingers, they were rolling, jousting like knights of old, nerves strained, adrenaline pumping, hot-palmed and armpits sweating. Barney was vaguely amused. Orwell was bored. He wanted to be tackling the issue of Taylor Bergerac.
'Utter Woman,' said Wodehouse.
'The Consummate Woman,' said Hemingway.
'There's no such thing,' said Wodehouse, who could've been the company's poster child.
'There is to our target audience,' said Orwell.
'The Complete Woman,' said Hemingway.
'Absolute Woman,' said Wodehouse.
'Completely Absolute Women Rock,' said Hemingway.
'Absolutely Complete Women Roll?' said Wodehouse.
'Assuredly Female,' said Hemingway.
'Absolutely Incontrovertibly Totally Completely Utterly Definitely Woman,' said Wodehouse.
'Naked Women Go Rock!' said Hemingway.
'Complete & Perfect Woman,' said Wodehouse.
'Just Woman,' said Hemingway, returning to basics.
'Totally Bare-Bummed Woman,' said Wodehouse.
'Whole Woman, Utterly Female,' said Hemingway, getting carried away.
'Butt-Naked Pygmy Women Go Jesus!' said Wodehouse, losing control of all mental functions.
Barney was falling asleep, Orwell had stopped listening to them some time previously, and to be fair to the lads Hemingway and Wodehouse, they had probably already come up with at least ten perfectly adequate titles. After all, who really cared?
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