Bad Influence

by Desmond Harding

  “Everything that can be done, is in hand.”

  “There’s no way we’re sitting at home and letting other people fight our battles,” Linda said. “You’ve got to let us help.”

  *

  Winston Culpin couldn’t work out why Norsteadt had asked him to see Angela Nasco. But he was glad that he had. She was not overtly sexy, although she did give him ideas. It was possibly her walk, maybe her smell, or even her way of resting a hand gently on his arm when explaining something. It made him feel good about himself: in short, exactly what Bonnie wanted.

  “I think Mr Norsteadt would like us to work together,” Angela said. “Let’s go over there and I’ll show you what we do.” She sat on a couch and Culpin joined her. Out from behind his desk he would be more vulnerable.

  From a large case, Angela took out dozens of examples of marketing and promotional giveaways, all of which Bonnie had obtained from another supplier. There were also brochures and examples of advertising, and some of those little toys that ended up on the desks of so many businessmen.

  Culpin agreed that there were some products he might find useful. He was bound to say that. It was the only way he could be certain of being able to look at Angela Nasco’s long legs again.

  “Let me leave these samples with you. I’ll call in a couple of days to see if there is something you like,” Angela said.

  I’ve seen something already, Culpin thought.

  “You might also want to think about how we handle our various relationships – between DGS and Norton-Hunter... and the one between ourselves.”

  At that she got up, leaving Culpin in a swirl of memories and fantasies, and confusion over what she could have meant.

  Fifteen

  Tippy Yates looked out of the window of his chandlery and saw Bram Norsteadt’s yacht returning to its moorings. From his store on the Hamble, near Southampton, Yates had been selling equipment to weekend sailors for years.

  “Go and see what’s wrong,” his wife said. “He’s usually out all day.”

  Norsteadt was easing his yacht back into its mooring. He didn’t take his usual care and bumped against the wood piling of the jetty.

  Yates could see Norsteadt’s face clearly for the first time. He was furious. “Problem, Bram?”

  “Nothing you can solve, Tippy.” Norsteadt tossed him the bow and stern lines to make the boat fast.

  “Going out again?”

  Norsteadt looked to the far side of the yacht. “Don’t think so.” For the first time Yates saw the shape of what looked like a woman, draped over the side. She was vomiting into the river.

  After a while, she leaned back into the boat. Bonnie’s face was drained of all colour. “Oh God,” she said and shot her head over the water again. Her stomach retched but there was nothing more to bring up.

  Bonnie took a chance and sat back upright again. “It’s like the worst hangover in the world... times ten.”

  “You’ve only been out thirty minutes, Bram,” Yates said.

  He looked at Tippy and then looked back at Bonnie in disgust. “You said you were a sailor.”

  “I am,” she said defiantly.

  “Then how do you explain this?”

  Bonnie put her head in her hands. Norsteadt was livid at having his weekend’s sailing ruined. “I should’ve known from the way you handled yourself.”

  Norsteadt half carried, half dragged Bonnie along the wooden jetty to where they had both parked their cars. A couple, in their mid-fifties, were walking towards the moorings. Both were dressed for sailing. They stopped and looked at Norsteadt. He was too busy helping Bonnie to notice.

  He left Bonnie by her car, gulping cool air, and returned to collect his gear. The couple were standing where he had first passed them.

  “Excuse me, but are you Bram Norsteadt?” the woman asked.

  Norsteadt was astonished. “Yes, I am,” he said hesitantly.

  “We saw your picture in Business Quarterly,” she said.

  “We used to run a small engineering company in Surrey. It’s wonderful that someone is standing up for business at last. We’ve been sniped at for too long,” her husband said. “Well done. Keep it up.”

  Norsteadt was suddenly delighted. “That’s very kind of you.”

  “On the strength of what you’ve said, we’ve bought shares in Norton-Hunter,” the wife added. She rummaged in her shoulder bag and took out a pen and a scrap of paper. “Could we have your autograph?”

  By the time Norsteadt returned to his car, he had almost forgotten his lost sailing. He was like a kid when he told Bonnie what had happened.

  “In the last month we’ve placed nearly a dozen profiles, features or news stories about you,” Bonnie said. “You’re becoming a cult. I told you, Kelloway and Bains can work wonders.”

  Norsteadt gazed out at the river with a far-away look on his face.

  “Now what are you thinking?”

  “My mother would never believe me. Whenever I said I would be famous, she blocked her ears and ran away,” he said. “Pity she’s not here anymore.”

  “So she could enjoy it too?”

  “No. So I could rub the old cow’s nose in it.”

  *

  As a reporter, Finian had walked the corridors of the Federation of British Trades Unions headquarters countless time; interviewing union leaders, covering press conference or reporting on strike talks.

  He felt strange being there as a businessman – albeit only a temporary one.

  Paul O’Shea’s office was at the end of a long corridor. On the door was a sign – UNITY – EDITORIAL OFFICES. Unity was the Federation’s newspaper, which went to every full and part-time official of every affiliated union in the country.

  As Finian entered, O’Shea was working in front of a large computer screen, putting the final touches to the front page of the next edition.

  “The very man,” O’Shea said, in his beguiling Cork voice. Finian was always amused at O’Shea’s refusal to believe he wasn’t Irish too and that his name was simply one Nathan and his mother had liked. “With a name like that, you have to be one of us,” he often said.

  O’Shea stepped back so Finian could admire his work. Finian nodded with approval. The headline was set in big, heavy type. It read “UNIONS URGED TO JOIN DRUG COMPANY BOYCOTT”.

  “If this takes off, Norton-Hunter is going to be really pissed at you, Finian, my boy.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  *

  Stapleton Hall was set in nearly fifty acres of gentle Suffolk countryside. For three hundred years, it had been the home of the Stapleton family. Now it was a hotel and conference centre where businessmen came to think, prepare strategy – and, occasionally, plot.

  More than forty Norton-Hunter directors and senior managers sat in what had once been the Great Hall. Tables were arranged in a large horseshoe shape. They had been going since eight o’clock that morning. Bonnie arrived as they were ending their first coffee break.

  Norsteadt had invited her to meet his first team and add what he called some original thinking to their discussions.

  Bonnie watched Norsteadt introduce each subject on the agenda. Whether or not she could claim total credit was uncertain, but Norsteadt seemed more authoritative.

  Although she was charging the company her usual fee, Bonnie was getting bored listening to one subject after another. Next up was Morris Jackman, the sales director.

  “I was going to review our performance over the past six months,” Jackman said. “However I’ve just had our latest figures emailed to me and I think this group ought to know about them.”

  Jackman put on his glasses. “Over the last few weeks, there’s been a sudden fall in sales of our non-pharmaceutical products. Down three per cent in the first week and a further six to date.”

  People around the table looked at each other. Such a drop was unusual.

  “I know it’s early days, but the trend looks set to continue.” Jackman said.

 
“Morris is right,” Culpin said jumping in. “And things are likely to get worse.” Culpin rarely spoke at such events and everybody turned to look at him. “I suspect it has something to do with the boycott being organised by Miss Kelloway’s – I mean Bonnie’s – brother.”

  There was an audible gasp from those managers who didn’t know about Finian’s relationship to Bonnie.

  From the bottom of his stock of conference papers, Culpin pulled a copy of Unity. He held it up for everyone to see. Quickly, the union newspaper was passed from one manager to another.

  “As our outside expert, it would be interesting to hear how Bonnie plans to deal with this situation.” Culpin said.

  Bonnie rose, and chuckled. “I can assure you...” she looked round the room and smiled, “Winston’s question was no plant. Although when you hear what I have to say, it may seem as if it was.”

  She smiled sweetly at Culpin, but thought: Make the most of your time here, young man, there’s not much of it left.

  “I believe the whole thing will soon die away. But just in case we’re wrong, I’ve developed a response.”

  Culpin stared at her, full of hate. “She’s making it up as she goes along,” he said to the man next to him.

  “Even Bram hasn’t heard what I’m proposing and I would like to run it past him first... to make sure I’m on the right track,” she said.

  “Perhaps a word over lunch?”

  *

  The back of Stapleton Hall was set out in a formal garden. Norsteadt and Bonnie walked along a carefully manicured path that divided two beds of flowers.

  “Okay. Let’s have it. How are we going to bring these unions to heel?”

  “Divert people’s attention,” she said. “TTO.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Trash the opposition,” Bonnie explained. “We’re going to link the two dead men to drug-taking.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Of course not. But we need to put up a smoke screen and slow the union down. They’re making too much of the running.”

  “How are you going to do that?”

  “Evidence has been discovered which your internal security staff are investigating.”

  “Has it?”

  Bonnie looked at him sympathetically and leaned over to smell a rose. “Does Norton-Hunter have a policy on random checks for drugs and alcohol abuse?”

  “Everyone does.”

  “When was the last one?”

  “I don’t know. Couple of months ago maybe.”

  “Have another one – now.”

  “What for?”

  “So we can say checks have been stepped up.”

  “You’ve been wrong so far about your brother,” Norsteadt said. “Make sure this doesn’t backfire on us.”

  “Trust me.” Bonnie breathed in the country air. “This is relaxing.”

  “One last thing,” Norsteadt said. “I want some market research. Is it something you can do?”

  “Into what?”

  “Slimming clinics – the size of market, how price sensitive it is, stuff like that.”

  “What’s wrong with your marketing department?”

  “Some things are better kept secret.”

  Bonnie left Norsteadt and went to her car. When she phoned Oscar Mason on the Morning Journal she was pleased to find him sober.

  “That’s what I said, Oscar, the company’s security people are carrying out their own investigations before calling in the police... Seems the phone numbers of the two dead engineers – Potter and Getz – were found in the desk of a man who had been under suspicion for a long time. Apparently he resigned one day and vanished the next... You’re right, the fact that they worked for a pharmaceutical company means they could get their hands on all manner of drugs. The men may have been poisoned after all. But by themselves.”

  If Mason handled the story properly, she wouldn’t mind signing another cheque.

  Sixteen

  Finian ordered another pint, checked the pub clock behind the bar and went back to writing. As his drink came, a voice behind him said, “I’ll get that. And make mine the same.” Finian turned to see Mike Cook.

  “What’s up?” Cook asked.

  Finian took a sip from his fresh drink. “I may have to resign your account... unless I have some very firm assurances.” Finian was obviously worried.

  “What are you talking about? Things are going so well.”

  “This.” Finian showed him Oscar Mason’s story in the Morning Journal.

  Cook shook his head. “That’s why I’m late. I’ve spoken to the two widows and their doctors. It’s a pack of lies,” Cook said.

  Finian wanted to be convinced.

  “Look at this.” Cook pulled out a photograph of Laslo Potter, in running shorts and vest, crossing the finishing line after a race. “Does he look like a drug addict?”

  “No, he doesn’t,” Finian conceded. “But I need to be sure.”

  “You have everybody’s word on this,” Cook said, “including mine.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Promise.”

  Finian thought for a moment. “Okay.” Cook looked relieved. “This is Bonnie’s work,” Finian said and took another sip of beer. “I knew they’d use dirty tricks, but I didn’t think it would start this soon.”

  “Shows we’re getting to them.”

  “Let’s see if we can get to them some more.” Finian took a sheet of paper from an inside pocket and gave it to Cook. “Can your members at Norton-Hunter get these?”

  Cook looked at the paper. “You want a list of every organisation that does business with Norton-Hunter? What will you do with it?”

  “Write to them.” Finian showed the letter he was drafting when Cook first arrived. “Explain what happened to Potter and Getz – and ask them to sever all ties with the company.”

  “If Norsteadt and your sister are mad now, this will send them ballistic.”

  “Isn’t that the idea?”

  “We’ve never done anything like this before.”

  “Nobody has. That’s the whole point. One or two unions in the States have tried this sort of thing. But so far we’re the first in Britain.”

  “It’s economic warfare.”

  “This is how unions will fight their battles in the future.”

  Cook shook his head and looked at Finian’s letter again. “You even want family doctors to stop prescribing their products,” Cook said.

  “I told you, I’m not messing about. We’re going to embarrass the hell out of everybody who does business with them.”

  This was all so new to Cook.

  Finian altered a phrase in the letter he was drafting. “If you want to win, this is what it takes,” he said. “We’re going to follow it up with this.”

  Finian unfolded a draft advertisement. “I’d like to run this in at least four national newspapers.”

  “I know we said we’ll go along with everything you suggest, but this is costing us a fortune.”

  “I warned you it wouldn’t be cheap.”

  Cook pointed to a large empty space in Finian’s advertisement. “What’s going there?”

  “Those companies that continue to have a business relationship with Norton-Hunter.”

  This was over Cook’s head. “What for?”

  “So people can boycott them as well.”

  *

  The larger the company, the more it depended on routine to manage its affairs. Reports had to be in by a specific date. The executive committee always met on the same day of the month; the board so many days after that.

  Watching senior management in any firm gave a good idea of what was going on and everybody at Norton-Hunter knew things were not right when Norsteadt suddenly called an emergency meeting of his top managers.

  Despite his new-found poise, Norsteadt couldn’t hide the fact he was shaken. “Nothing like this has ever happened before,” he said.

  “Has now,” Waugh said.

 
“Is there any way we can settle with the unions?” asked Morris Jackman, “This is killing my sales figures.”

  “If we back down now, it would be like saying we were wrong all along.”

  The door opened and Norsteadt’s PA came in. “You might want to look at these,” she said and placed a list on his desk.

  “How many now?”

  “Thirty.” The phone started to ring. “That’ll be thirty-one.” She left to answer the call.

  Norsteadt studied the list. “Suppliers, customers, other drug companies. They all want to know what’s going on,” he said.

  “What do you want to do, Bram?” asked Foster Crawford, the company’s personnel manager.

  “Damned if I’ll let them win. If they want a fight, we’ll give them one.” Norsteadt said. “This union – the general and technical workers or whatever they are call. We do recognise them?”

  “Yes,” Crawford said.

  “Well, cancel the agreement.”

  “But the next round of wage negotiations starts in two weeks.”

  “Let them go ahead... but with that other body. What are they called... the Norton-Hunter Staff Association.”

  “But you can’t do that.”

  “They’ve declared war on us. I’m just raising the stakes.” Norsteadt knew that Crawford didn’t like anything that created more work for him, but he didn’t care. “Haven’t finished yet. Write to the widows of those two men. Tell them we’re looking at the legal position of their pension following the drug investigation.”

  “You can’t stop that,” Waugh said.

  “I know, but it’ll worry the hell out of them.”

  Across the table, Jackman spread a number of daily papers. They were all opened at the advertisements taken by Finian. “No union can afford such expense indefinitely.”

  Norsteadt crossed to Jackman and looked over his shoulder.

  “You may be right.” Norsteadt bellowed for his PA. Politeness was temporarily forgotten. “Get me Scott Milligan at the bank.”

  Scott Milligan was the deputy chairman of Northern and Provisional and had been a non-executive director of Norton-Hunter for eight years.

  “Scottie, a little bird tells me that, apart from looking after us, you are also bankers for the Associated Union of Technical and General Workers... Good, then think about this.”