Bad Influence

by Desmond Harding

Finian liked to get to the office early, but he was never able to beat Kit. Over the next week Kit signed up every one of the clients that Bonnie had discarded. He never seemed to take a break. If he wasn’t suggesting a new publicity strategy to one of his clients, he was on the phone to journalists, persuading them to write a story about another.

  Finian was envying Kit’s energy when Wendy cut into his thoughts. “Masud and Roth are on the phone.” They were his landlords. “It’s a Mr Porter.”

  “Mr Kelloway,” the voice said. “I thought I’d call to see what you wanted to do about the lease. “

  Finian was only half concentrating on the call. Most of his attention was on Kit, who was happily singing away to himself. “Sorry, I was distracted. You were saying?”

  “Will you be vacating the premises as you first planned?”

  If the call had come a week earlier, Finian would have happily handed back the office and probably left most of the equipment in place for the next tenant. Just then, Kit put a fresh cup of coffee in front of him and gave a gleeful wink. “No, Mr Porter. If it’s all right with you I’ll be renewing it.”

  “Fine. Shall we say another six months?”

  “Let’s make it a little longer – say a couple of years.”

  He looked at Kit and smiled. With this extra responsibility Finian knew there was no other decision he could have made.

  *

  One day, Finian looked at himself in the mirror. His hair hadn’t been cut for nearly three months and his favourite t-shirt looked very tired. “Wendy, I need your help.” He took her hand and led her to the door. “Kit,” he shouted, “we’ll be back in an hour. So it’s all yours.”

  It was nearly two hours before they both returned. Wendy came into the office first and held open the door. “Come on,” she said. “You’ve got to let people see you sometime.” Kit was standing by the photocopier, running off a report.

  When Finian first appeared, Kit hardly recognised him. His hair was cut... and he wore a dark navy-blue suit, white shirt and black brogue shoes. He carried a bag containing his t-shirt, leather jacket and boots.

  “I’m thirty-four years of age and this is the first suit I’ve ever owned.” As he stood there, looking stiff and uncomfortable, Wendy and Kit burst into laughter.

  “You’ve sold out,” Kit teased.

  Finian shook his head and hitched up his trousers over his shoes. “Not quite.” There, almost blinding everybody in the room, were probably the most shocking pink socks in London.

  Twenty Seven

  As part of Norton-Hunter’s take-over of Lycad, Norsteadt insisted that the “numbers men”, as he called them, went over the biotech company’s records in detail. He wanted to know everything about his new acquisition. While he admired Denny as a scientist, Norsteadt thought he was a poor businessman. Hadn’t the way he had out-manoeuvred Denny proved that?

  Norsteadt was convinced there were savings to be made, and identifying them was Harold Grimsby’s job: everybody at Norton-Hunter knew that Grimsby missed nothing. At first sight, Denny recognised Grimsby as a classic bean counter.

  For what seemed like the nine-hundredth time that morning Grimsby came into Denny’s office. He had a mincing walk – pointy toed and no arm swing – like a traditional Irish dancer, but without the grace. “What now?” Denny said.

  “I know this is tiresome, but it has to be done, Mr Denny.”

  “Dr Denny,” he corrected. “Norton-Hunter has taken most things from me, but they can’t steal that.”

  Grimsby didn’t bother to apologise. “Mitsanomol.”

  “The obesity treatment... what about it?”

  “You told me that it was still in trials.”

  “That’s right.”

  “In that case, why are you making so much?”

  “We aren’t.”

  Grimsby pushed the papers Denny was working on to one side and dropped a file in front of him. “Look at the figures.” He had put a series of little crosses and comments in his infuriatingly neat handwriting against a number of items.

  “You must be mistaken.”

  “I don’t make mistakes.” Grimsby said.

  “Perhaps a decimal point in the wrong place.”

  “No, I’ve checked,” the accountant said. “Most of it has gone to Glynworth Clinics.”

  “Never heard of them.”

  “Strange. Everything was approved by...” Grimsby checked his notes. “Dr Hans Ketler.”

  Denny grabbed Grimsby’s file. “Leave it with me,” he said.

  Denny found Ketler in his office, going over some note with one of the laboratory assistants. He pointed at the young man. “You – out,” he said. This was most unlike the ever-courteous Denny. Ketler started to rise. “And you – stay exactly where you are.”

  Denny threw Grimsby’s file at Ketler. It skidded across the desk and onto the floor. “What the fuck’s going on?”

  Ketler held out his hands as if seeking an explanation.

  “Don’t play innocent. Mitsanomol production – it’s a hundred times more than it should be.”

  “I can’t say anything.”

  “Oh yes you can.”

  “I’m under strict instructions to refer any questions to Mr Norsteadt.”

  “What have you done to my company?”

  Ketler picked up the file from the floor and pushed it slowly back across his desk to Denny. He shook his head. “It’s not yours any longer; it now belongs to Norton-Hunter.”

  Norsteadt told Denny that he wouldn’t be able to see him for three days.

  “I don’t give a damn. Find time. I’m coming across – right now.”

  *

  “It’s all very simple,” Norsteadt said. Now he had total control, he didn’t mind explaining what was happening. He told Denny everything. How Mitsanomol was being used as the basis for the treatment in the slimming clinics and the help Ketler had given him.

  “We already have four clinics up and running and another three in planning. Our latest is in France.”

  “Glynworth Clinics?” Denny asked.

  “So you’ve heard of them.”

  Denny couldn’t understand why Norsteadt would take such risks. “What you’re doing is illegal. You know the consequences if something goes wrong?”

  “The chances of that happening are remote. Anyway, we’ve taken precautions. The clinics are registered as a Liechtenstein trust. A most accommodating people.”

  “It’s madness.”

  “Not at all,” he said. “In a way, I’m glad this has all come out. There’s something we need to discuss.”

  “What?”

  “I want you to take over responsibility for the clinics. Be a figurehead – you know the sort of thing.”

  “Emphatically no.”

  “Pity.”

  “Do you know what you’ve done?”

  “It’s diversification – an established management practice. When one part of a business is not doing so well, you look for another way to make money.”

  “Think of the risk. Think of what’s happened already.”

  “The death of the two engineers was a coincidence.”

  “You can’t be sure,” Denny said. “What if I exposed it all?”

  “No, no, no.” Norsteadt got up from his desk. He looked at his reflection in the glass of a painting on the wall and straightened his jacket. “Who’s got the more convincing story – me – or someone set on revenge after losing control of his company?”

  Denny blinked in disbelief.

  “We could prove that it was our diligent examination of your books that uncovered what’s been going on.”

  “They’ll never believe you.”

  “They will – once they learn that you’ve been the registered owner of the clinics for the last six months.”

  Denny slumped back in his chair and sobbed silently.

  “Think about it. Who has more need of the money – a company like ours – or someone who’s always looking
for cash to continue his experiments?”

  “You’ll destroy me.”

  “Not if you behave sensibly.”

  *

  It was their first argument and it had taken a very large malt whisky to make Bonnie feel better. That morning they had compared diaries. Neither she nor Norsteadt had any appointments, so they planned to have a rare evening in together.

  When Norsteadt arrived at the house, Bonnie was on the phone. He guessed something was wrong. As Bonnie listened, her mouth was compressed into a thin, mean line. And when he kissed the back of her neck, she showed no reaction.

  She slammed down the phone. “I’m seeing my lawyer in the morning. That bloody woman has got to be stopped.”

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “Your wife,” she snapped. “That’s the fifth complaint.”

  Norsteadt offered her a drink but she waved it away. He could see that Bonnie was unwilling to be consoled.

  “She’s phoned every major client – accusing me of stealing her husband.” Norsteadt couldn’t suppress a smile. “It’s not funny. It could seriously damage the business.”

  Secretly, he was proud of Margaret. She had never acted with that much enterprise before. It was her birthday the next day and he was pleased he had remembered to send her a card and flowers.

  “If she doesn’t stop, I’ll drag her through every court I can find. I’ll make her life a misery.”

  “It’s already a misery.”

  “Rubbish.”

  “Think for a moment. Why do you think she’s doing this?”

  “Revenge.”

  “That’s not in her nature,” he said. “She’s utterly distraught.”

  She was about to tell Norsteadt not to flatter himself but thought better of it. “You really don’t know women very well. Put your amateur psychoanalysis back in the box and let us do the dirty work.”

  “She’s gone through enough recently. Don’t make matters worse.”

  Bonnie moved around the room rattling things. It was her way of keeping the argument going.

  “I’ll speak to her,” he said.

  “It won’t work.”

  “She’ll see sense, I promise.” Bonnie was looking out of the window and Norsteadt came up behind her and nuzzled her hair.

  “She’d better.”

  Norsteadt offered her a drink again and this time she took it.

  Bonnie heard the knock first. At the front door were two delivery men. Their van was parked by the kerb.

  “Boxes for Bonnie Kelloway,” one said.

  “Oh good. It’s here,” she said as Norsteadt joined her.

  The men struggled with two large wooden packing cases. “Leave them in the hall. They won’t be here for long,” she said. The men stopped to gather their breath. “Give them something, Bram.”

  He took two £20 notes from his pocket. “Have a drink on us.”

  “Thank you, sir,” they both said and left.

  “Get something to lever off the lid. Should be a hammer out back.” He returned with a large screwdriver. “This should do.” Norsteadt attacked the first box.

  “Carefully,” Bonnie said, “it’s fragile.”

  “Okay.” Slowly Norsteadt prised open the lid. Inside was a layer of straw. Bonnie thrust her hand down into the box, as if it were a lucky dip. Her hand moved until it found something. “Ah,” she said.

  Carefully, she withdrew a white jug made in the shape of someone’s face. “Good God,” said Norsteadt. “Winston Churchill.”

  Bonnie dived in again and this time produced a beautiful marble bust of Benjamin Disraeli. Backwards and forwards her hand went until the floor was lined with dozens of pots, plates and statues, depicting almost every prominent politician for the last 200 years.

  “It’s probably the best collection of political memorabilia ever put together,” Bonnie said, as she blew a wisp of straw from a bust of David Lloyd George.

  She patted the second box. “The pictures will be in here.” From the second crate Bonnie pulled a set of six framed cartoons cruelly lampooning the Duke of Wellington. Her hand went back again. “There’s a lot more. I can feel them.”

  For ages politicians had been the subject for potters and artists and much of their work had become highly sought after. More than occasionally, the politicians were treated with a total lack of reverence. Few escaped: even the pious Mr Gladstone had to suffer the indignity of having his face used to decorate the bottom of a chamber pot.

  Finally, Bonnie stopped to admire the collection. “They belonged to the Marquis of Ashtead. When he died, his son Rex decided to get rid of them.”

  “They were supposed to be auctioned next week,” Norsteadt said. “Wasn’t there a story about them being withdrawn and bought by a private collector?” Norsteadt asked.

  “That’s right. You.”

  “How did you...?”

  “Rex is an old friend of mine. Leave it at that.”

  Norsteadt started to examine each item carefully. “Don’t get too attached. We’re not keeping them,” she said. “They’re an investment... in your future.”

  *

  Frazer Drucas had been told in advance that the crates were coming. Bonnie didn’t want the bomb squad mistaking the collection for a terrorist attack and blowing them up.

  As an aide carefully unpacked the crate, Drucas read a letter from Norsteadt. He thanked the Prime Minister for a splendid and enjoyable dinner and asked him to accept the collection in gratitude.

  If it had gone to auction, the letter said, the collection would have been broken up and lost. “Instead, I can think of no better place for it to be housed than the residence of the British Prime Minister.”

  Satirists had yet to have a go at Drucas – but his habit of wearing a kilt at every possible opportunity would give them wonderful ammunition when they did.

  “That’s a coincidence,” said Duncan Quest. “You remember asking for a check on Norsteadt? Drucas nodded. “Well I’ve just got the results.”

  Drucas put down an alabaster bust of Lord Palmerston and listened intently to Quest’s findings.

  “He’s regarded as a brilliant communicator,” Quest said at the end. “Done more to raise the profile of business than anybody in the last five years. Journalists know they can’t push Norsteadt around.”

  “Fascinating,” Drucas said. “He gets better and better.”

  “One problem: he’s living with another woman.”

  “Oh, not again.”

  Quest shook his head. “It’s all above board. People are talking about a divorce. All very amicable.”

  “That’s a relief,” Drucas said. “Think I’ll give him a trial.”

  Twenty Eight

  Despite his defeat in the High Court, Finian hadn’t given up his campaign against Norton-Hunter. The Associated Union of General and Technical Workers still paid him a small retainer to keep an eye on Norsteadt.

  The company had just announced its latest financial results and Finian was reading the press release that accompanied them. The release was well over a dozen pages long, an almost unheard of length. It was part of Bonnie’s strategy; she wanted to give so much information that potential critics would mistake the abundance for genuine openness. She called it her “snow job”.

  Tucked away on page ten, Finian saw a note that Norton-Hunter had paid £400,000 in fees to a consultancy. It was such an innocuous entry and Finian didn’t know why it caught his attention. At first he thought it was money for Kelloway and Bains, but he remembered Bonnie charged a lot more than that.

  “Kit, you used to work on the Norton-Hunter account. I need a contact in the accounts department. Somebody senior enough to know what’s going on, but still junior enough to be intimidated.”

  From the bottom drawer of his desk Kit took a small booklet. On the cover was printed the title, NORTON-HUNTER – INTERNAL TELEPHONE DIRECTORY. Let me see. Try this one... or that one.”

  “This is Maurice Segal at Trans Fide
lity,” Finian said, using the first name he thought of. Fidelity was one of Norton-Hunter’s major shareholders. Finian hoped that the man he was calling was not too junior to know it.

  “Yes, Mr Segal,” came the snapped reply.

  “I need to know about this item in your latest results. Page ten. Consultancy fees.”

  The man looked up the reference. “Afraid I can’t tell you that.”

  “Just as I thought. Thanks. You’ve just won me fifty pounds.”

  “Excuse me.” The voice sounded perplexed.

  “I bet Bram Norsteadt that his promise of openness was just a sham,” Finian said. “You’ve just proved the point. I’ll collect my winnings when he comes to lunch next week. Sorry to trouble you.” Finian should have hung up, but he waited for a reaction.

  “Look, let me see what I can do. Could you call back in half an hour?”

  Thirty minutes later Finian was told the money was paid to Riverdale Management Consultants and the contract was still continuing.

  “Never heard of them,” Kit said. “Let me check them out. I’ve got to go to Companies House.”

  *

  Denny sat quietly in his study. He had converted one of the bedrooms in his weekend cottage into a workroom. Around the walls were rows of shelves. On them sat neatly labelled boxes with details of his research work going back to his days as a student, all carefully filed and catalogued. Denny threw nothing away.

  In front of him, spread out across his desk, were a dozen or so medical magazines. From Spain, Italy, France, Germany, Sweden: there was even one from Poland. And on each of the pages was a story that Denny had carefully highlighted.

  He was staring at the magazine intently when the phone rang. It made him jump, but he made no move to answer it. His voicemail message cut in and the caller started to speak.

  “Giles – it’s Hans, Hans Ketler. We’re worried about you. Please call either me or Bram Norsteadt. Let us know you’re all right.”

  Denny heard the receiver being replaced. The phone immediately rang again. “What now?”

  After the third ring the answer phone started again. “Dad? Jeff. Had a strange call from Norton-Hunter, asking if I’ve heard from you. If you’re there, pick up the phone – please.”