It was just before nine o’clock when the two of them got their first chance to speak. “How are you doing?” she asked.
“Working the room, just as you told me,” he said.
Suddenly, there was the sound of a loud ringing bell. It made Norsteadt jump. Around the room dozens of Members of Parliament put down their glasses. Everybody else whom Bonnie had invited – peers, civil servants, and “sources of influence’, as she liked to call them – continued drinking.
“It’s the division bell. Had one fitted so MPs could drink here and still not miss a vote. Let’s see them off.”
Outside, a fleet of black cabs waited to whisk the MPs to the House. “They’ll be back.”
Bonnie waved to the last cab. Norsteadt looked round the street. It was strangely quiet. “I’ve wanted to do this all evening,” he said and kissed Bonnie. “Thank you for everything you’re doing.”
“You’re more than welcome.” It was her turn to kiss him.
“Good evening, Bonnie. Aren’t the stars wonderful tonight?” a voice said. The two spun round. “Ah, Mr Norsteadt, so it is you.” The two looked astonished as Andrew smiled and walked by.
Back upstairs Bonnie was upset. “Sorry about that, Bram. I’ll get rid of him in the morning.”
“No need. People have to know about us sooner or later.”
“Why?”
He looked around the room. The remaining guests were happily talking amongst themselves and drinking for free. “I want to be more to you than just a lover.”
Bonnie tried to speak.
“Shush.” He looked at the floor nervously and then back at her. “I want to leave Maggie and live with you.”
Bonnie never thought it would come to this. He was a lovely man. She enjoyed his company, and his body. Over the years she had known many men like Norsteadt. But none had lived up to her ideal.
“I am sincerely flattered,” she said, desperately trying to think of a plausible excuse. “There is no one else in my life but you. But I need more time. I’m used to living on my own... and it would be such a change.”
“Promise you’ll think it over.”
“Promise.”
*
Denny was very nervous. He hated speaking in public. Finian had to give him enough confidence to get this job done.
“Lycad has a great story to tell. You’ve got the script and the PowerPoint presentation. That’s all you need.”
“I’m not so sure,” Denny said nervously.
“How many people know as much about biotechnology as you?”
“Maybe a dozen.”
“How many of them will be in the audience today?”
“None. They are all scientists.”
“Exactly. You’re the expert. So take no crap from nobody.”
Denny grinned at Finian’s intentional grammatical distortion, and gathered up his notes. “If you say so.”
Finian had arranged to launch Lycad with a presentation to City stockbroker analysts and fund managers with the big institutions. Without their support the flotation would be a failure.
He had booked the Armourers’ Hall, one of the many guildhalls in the City. As the audience arrived, they looked at the walls decorated with helmets and breastplates dating back to the English Civil War.
Finian knew Denny had to capture the City’s imagination. The two of them had rehearsed the presentation countless times, introducing new points and removing others. At one time, Finian scrapped the entire presentation and started afresh.
*
Finian had pitched everything just right. By the end of the presentation, his audience was totally won over. Later that day, many boasted they had just seen the birth of a new industry giant.
Denny could have gone on for hours. But Finian persuaded him to stop after thirty minutes. Research, he had told Denny, showed that the human mind could not, or would not, concentrate much beyond that.
Finian told him to use the question and answer session that followed to pass on more information. Denny had done brilliantly and Finian was surprised to discover the audience still had some sceptics.
“Mitsanomol – the obesity treatment. Isn’t it a bit of a waste? Surely it’s all down to gluttony – a basic human weakness,” asked Morris Bradman. He was the pinch-faced pharmaceutical analyst for Dickens and Wolff, Norton-Hunter’s own stockbrokers.
“Not at all. Obesity is now recognised as an illness by the World Health Organization. Studies have linked seventy per cent of those who are dangerously overweight to genetic factors,” Denny said. “There are now more than one hundred million people in the world who are clinically obese. And that’s one hell of a market.”
The audience wrote furiously. That told him, Finian thought.
Gloria Train was a former analyst who now ran a highly controversial industry newsletter. Keeping Train out of a presentation or press conference was like trying to keep flies out of a rubbish bin in high summer.
“Isn’t gene therapy all a bit of a con? You claim to be able to alter the performance of genes, but the treatment doesn’t last. At the end of the day there’s not much of an advance over conventional pharmaceuticals?” The rest of the audience groaned.
“If we weren’t talking about Lycad, I might agree. Some companies are injecting corroded genes into short-lived white blood cells drawn from patients which are then reinfused. That sort of treatment lasts between twenty and thirty days.”
Denny took a sip of water.
“But Lycad has taken the next step. We are working to fundamentally alter a patient’s make-up by inserting the gene into the stem cell. They can reproduce and divide and provide a permanent cure. In time, gene therapy could replace conventional drugs as a treatment for a whole host of diseases.”
A number of the audience turned to see how Train had reacted to the put down. But her head was bent as she scribbled in her notebook.
“Sounds like you’re trying to create some master race,” Bradman said, jumping up again.
“We avoid germ line cells...” Bradman scowled. “Study the science, Mr Bradman. Those are the cells set apart in early embryonic life to become gametes, cells of reproduction: sperm in males and ova in females. As I’m sure you know, such work is banned.”
As soon as Denny’s presentation ended, the analysts ran from the room. Finian smiled. He thought only reporters did that – not dignified City workers. Outside, they all spoke to their offices. Mobile phones pressed to their ears, passing on the story of a company that promised to be one of the biggest players in an exciting new industry.
Morris Bradman retreated to a corner. Although they hadn’t sat together, Gloria Train stood by his side. “It’s as bad as you thought,” he said into his phone. “The City are doing cartwheels in excitement.” Bradman listened briefly. “Okay. Both Gloria and myself will be there. The fee will be the same as we discussed?” He nodded to Train. She smiled, as best she could. “See you soon.”
He was about to ring off when he heard a final question. “Who’s handling the PR for Lycad?” Bradman repeated. “Let me check.” He looked at the briefing pack he had been given. “Here it is. ‘For more information contact Finian Kelloway’. Is he some sort of relation?”
*
Bonnie slammed down the receiver. “Sodding hell,” she said through clenched teeth and immediately dialled again.
“Lycad is getting rave reviews from the City, she said.
“Then the float must be stopped.”
“Bram, it can be arranged but it won’t be cheap.”
“Forget the cost. What are the risks?” Norsteadt asked.
“As long as the truth is not overstepped too much, and no law is broken – then nothing is a dirty trick,” Bonnie said.
“What happens if the press get wind of what we’re doing?”
“Nothing. Those who are part of the scam won’t say anything and our tough libel laws will make sure the rest stay silent.”
Twenty-Four
N
orsteadt had called Winston Culpin to a meeting at half past nine, but he was still waiting at ten. Something was obviously up.
While he waited in Norsteadt’s outer office there was a constant coming and going of people. It must be a financial crisis, as nearly all those traipsing through were from accounts. But when he saw the company’s security chief, Jesse James – the man always had difficulty living down his name – he was as confused as ever.
Things must be serious. Nigel Waugh went in without a word and Culpin regarded him as one of his closest allies.
He was still speculating on what was going on – Culpin prided himself on being one of the first to know the latest gossip – when Jesse James leaned out of Norsteadt’s office. “Come in, Winston.”
Norsteadt sat stony-faced behind his desk. “Sit down,” he said. In front of him were several neat stacks of papers. Culpin thought he recognised them, but couldn’t think from where. Foster Crawford, the company’s personnel director, sat to one side, while James paced around behind him.
“Nice suit,” Norsteadt said. Culpin fingered the lapel automatically. “Who paid for it – Connemara Investments, or Norton-Hunter? Not that there is much difference.”
At that point, Culpin’s life fell apart. He now knew exactly what the papers in front of Norsteadt were.
He sat there, defenceless, as Norsteadt told how the company’s accountants had uncovered the enormous backhanders he regularly received from DGS Communications. There were his tailor’s bills and the receipt for his new car. They had even managed to uncover his flirtation with art.
“Not content with loading the bills, you even insisted on invoices for work that was never done at all.” Norsteadt said.
If Culpin had the smallest inkling of what was going on, he might have concocted some story to explain it all away. But that was no longer an option.
James still paced ominously close to the rear of Culpin’s seat.
“We estimate that you have defrauded this company of thousands of pounds. Does that sound about right?” Norsteadt asked.
Culpin shrugged.
“What didn’t go on your new... lifestyle... is now sitting in an Irish bank – in the name of Connemara Investments.”
Culpin tried to speak. “Could I say...”
“No you may not,” Norsteadt said. “This should be a matter for the police.” Culpin tried to speak again, but this time nothing came out. “However, to protect everybody concerned we will not be pressing charges.”
Culpin reached for a handkerchief. Tears rolled down his cheeks.
“It seems that the poor girl you pressurised to do this... do we have her name?” he asked. James shook his head. “It seems that she’s left the country.”
Crawford handed Norsteadt a file. “Personnel have prepared your termination papers.” Norsteadt signed the letter on top and passed it to Culpin. “Mr James will now escort you immediately from the building. Your personal effects – those which we know to be wholly yours – will be sent on to you.”
Norsteadt waited for his office to clear and then called Bonnie.
“Thank you for that hint about Culpin,” he said.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Your suggestion that we check into his expenses.”
“That was a joke,” Bonnie said.
“Some joke. He took us for a ton of cash. He was forcing backhanders from DGS.”
“Good grief. What’s happening to him?”
“Fired him five minutes ago.”
It was a good thing Norsteadt couldn’t see Bonnie thrust a jubilant clenched fist in the air.
“Bram, I am sorry. I feel so guilty. After all, it was me who recommended the company,” she said. “Did he implicate anybody else?”
“No.”
Everything was working out fine. “Of course, you’re still going to need in-house PR help.”
“That’s true. All those interviews again. What a hassle.”
“Have you heard of Angela Nasco?” Bonnie asked tentatively.
“Is she one of yours?”
“Sort of. Trained with me, here at Kelloway and Bains. I strongly recommend her.”
*
Because of his reputation as a pharmaceutical analyst, Morris Bradman had no problem speaking to even the most senior fund managers in the City. And, more importantly, getting them to listen to him.
In phone call after phone call, he planted seeds of doubt about Lycad. “A lot of stuff has been suppressed by the company,” he told one. And warned another, “The floatation is bound to be a disaster.” Bradman even hinted of problems in trials that had been hushed up. He questioned the quality of Lycad’s management and cast doubts over its accounting methods.
Over a period of three days, he spoke to every major institution likely to invest in the company. The result was a real hatchet job.
*
Rupert de Banks, Denny’s investment banker, had booked the main Divane Monns conference room to review progress of the Lycad float. If anything, press reaction the day following the presentation was even more enthusiastic than that of the analysts. Finian gathered all the cuttings and mounted them in a special folder.
“Next stage is to start one-on-ones,” said Mitzi Prescott from Jefferson Gill, the stockbrokers. “They’ve all heard the broad story. Now it’s time for real in-depth treatment.”
“We can handle that at Lycad. Maybe couple it with a tour of the laboratories,” Denny said.
“Can you arrange that, Finn?” de Banks asked.
Finian nodded and made a note. While he was writing, the door opened and somebody came and whispered in de Banks’s ear.
“Is it still going on?” The man said it was and left.
“We’ve just had a fresh spate of calls from fund managers, saying there are doubts about the float,” de Banks said.
Denny looked hard at de Banks. “Is it serious?”
“There’s always this sort of nonsense when a new company comes to the market.”
“Do we know who’s spreading the stories?” Finian asked.
“Morris Bradman from Dickens and Wolff. I’m surprised. He’s usually so reliable.”
“Let’s make him one of the first to go down to Lycad.” Everyone agreed. “I’ll call him,” Finian said.
*
That year, the party conference was held in Blackpool. Bonnie insisted that she and Norsteadt stay in different hotels. She wasn’t going to let tittle-tattle wreck her plans.
Norsteadt and Bonnie drove up together. When they stopped for lunch, Bonnie gave him a large envelope. “These are invitations to all the best receptions.”
Norsteadt opened the package and sorted through the bundle of stiff white cards. There were between four and six for each night.
“My liver won’t survive that lot.”
“Pace yourself,” she said. “Being seen in the right company is very important.”
“Is there anything you haven’t thought of?”
“Hope not,” she said. “Tonight we’re having dinner with Lord Cole, the party treasurer. You met him at the book launch. He’ll tap you for a large donation. What you give is up to you.”
Norsteadt made a note on the back of the envelope.
“One thing... under no circumstances reveal your ambitions. He’ll ask, but keep it modest. Otherwise, you’re lost,” she said. “Cole actually keeps a blacklist of people he suspects of trying to wangle a knighthood or peerage.”
Bonnie pulled a second envelope from her briefcase. “Make yourself familiar with this.”
“What is it?”
“A speech I had written... just in case.”
“In case of what?”
“You’ll see.”
Throughout the first day of the conference, Bonnie was constantly by his side, introducing him around. The next morning he saw her for less than five minutes. The debate on business policy was due to start in a few minutes and he wanted to hear it.
Norsteadt was
standing at the rear of the massive Express Ballroom in the Winter Garden when Bonnie suddenly appeared. She seemed breathless and excited. “I think we fixed it.”
“What?”
“Wait,” she said. “Did you bring that speech as I asked?”
He patted his pocket.
Lady Daphne O’Rourke was chairing the debate. From her position on the platform she said, “The motion will be proposed by George Filbert, from Kings Standing constituency party and seconded by Rachel King, from Blyworth.”
“Who the hell are they?” he said in a loud whisper.
“Shush. Listen,” Bonnie said.
“After that could the first two speakers make themselves ready... Pam Grant and Bram Norsteadt.”
Norsteadt’s mouth dropped open. “How did you manage that?”
“Friends in high places.” She nodded towards Lady Daphne. “Let no one say the master has lost her touch.”
Norsteadt made his way to an area at one side of the stage where speakers awaited their turn. Sitting there, he didn’t realise what a major coup Bonnie had pulled on his behalf.
She had paid Oscar Mason to write Norsteadt’s speech and insisted it should be controversial. That was the only way he was going to catch the headlines – and the attention of those who really mattered in the party.
Research carried out by Declan Holland showed that many members of the party felt the Prime Minister was out of touch. And Bonnie intended to take advantage of the findings. What if it was designer politics? It was only wrong if she was found out.
She knew the words off by heart and didn’t need to listen again. Norsteadt had been well trained and there was no need to worry.
Quickly she went to the press room, where reporters wrote their stories – or to get away from “those dreadful delegates”. In one corner was a table stacked with official party press releases. She glanced around the room. Nobody was looking. From her case Bonnie took copies of Norsteadt’s speech and placed them among the others.
Back in the hall, she wandered around the audience to see how well Norsteadt was being received. When he suggested that the Prime Minister should create a new “ideas team’ with the broadest possible range of experience, a number of heads nodded in agreement.
Bad Influence Page 16
