Bad Influence

by Desmond Harding

  “I don’t usually pay my bills till after I receive the goods. In your case, it’s been different,” she said. From her briefcase she took three pages of typescript. “I’m sure you won’t let me down.”

  Mason looked at the papers.

  “You can put it in your own words, but I want the same message to come out loud and clear.”

  *

  Norsteadt had been in the meeting since eight in the morning. Three hours had gone by and he hadn’t even noticed. He was there – albeit on secondment, part of a Cabinet committee. The ambience of power had always fascinated him and now he was that close to touching it.

  He listened to the gossip of politicians during a break for coffee, smiling when they smiled, nodding sagely when they did. He watched them make decisions that would affect the lives of millions. For the moment he was a spectator who made the occasional comment – when asked. Soon, if everything went right – who knows.

  The meeting broke up and Norsteadt left the room with Lofty Wilde, the very tall Secretary of State for Commerce and Business. Wilde had held his job longer than any other government minister this century, and it showed.

  “I can’t go as fast as I used to,” Wilde said, as the two walked down the corridor. Wilde leaned on a walking stick that he’d had to use since his hip operation. “That went very well, Bram.”

  “Glad you thought so.”

  At the end of the corridor, Wilde saw the stiff figure of Sir Walter Beloff. “Ah. The PM’s messenger boy. Which one of us do you think he wants?”

  “Excuse me, Secretary of State,” said the ever-formal Beloff, “but could I have a word with Mr Norsteadt?”

  Wilde courteously waved Norsteadt closer to Beloff and plodded away.

  “Are you in a hurry, or could you spare the Prime Minister a moment?” Beloff asked. “He’s anxious to have a word.”

  Norsteadt looked at his watch. He was already half an hour late for a meeting with his bankers. “Of course. Bags of time.”

  “Good, I’ll phone ahead and let them know you’re coming.”

  *

  “If you would take a seat, Mr Norsteadt. The Prime Minister won’t keep you long,” he was told. While he waited, at least a dozen people walked past Norsteadt. They all recognised him and many smiled.

  Drucas was reading the Morning Journal when Norsteadt was shown in. “You’re certainly flavour of the month right now.”

  “I thought the broadcast went down very well. There’s another one coming up soon.”

  “I didn’t mean that. Have you read this morning’s papers?”

  “No. I’ve been at the business competition sub-committee all morning.”

  “You’d better look at this.” Drucas slid the paper along the desk to Norsteadt. “The story by Oscar Mason. The main thrust is that politicians like me should retire and hand over the running of the economy to businessmen like you.”

  “Surely not.”

  “Well, not in so many words.” Norsteadt sat down and started to read. “Mason says businessmen – not career politicians and civil servants – should be involved in running the country’s industrial policy. He cites your understanding of the problems of government and industry as the perfect example of someone who should be involved.”

  Was this Bonnie’s work? Norsteadt asked himself. Or was it not just the groundswell of general public opinion. For the first time, he thought it might be the latter.

  Drucas took off his reading glasses and wiped the lenses. “What I’m going to say must remain in the strictest confidence.”

  “Of course, Prime Minister.”

  “Lofty Wilde and I have been colleagues for years. We came into Parliament at the same time. Like you, he had carved out a career in business.”

  As a teenage whizz-kid, Wilde created a highly successful insurance company. When he sold to the giant Inter-American Financial Service Corp, the money financed his subsequent political career. That was something Norsteadt had to think about urgently.

  “As an outsider – someone who’s run a major business – how do you rate him?” Drucas asked, interrupting Norsteadt’s thoughts.

  “In his day, he was probably quite brilliant. Now...”

  “Exactly. In his day... That’s the problem. There’s no one I could trust to take over the business portfolio... till now.”

  Norsteadt’s heart leapt. He hoped his excitement didn’t show through the intelligent frown he had all but welded to his face.

  “I suspect... no, I’m convinced... that he’s partly to blame for our poor showing in the polls. Our policies are right, but he can’t communicate them.”

  Norsteadt already knew that. He’d done his market research – or at least Bonnie had.

  Drucas waved the Morning Journal. “This has crystallised my thoughts. I’ve been thinking about you ever since the Blackpool conference, in fact.”

  Norsteadt could hardly hear what Drucas was saying. The banging of his heart was so loud.

  “I don’t know of any other way of putting this, Bram.” Drucas paused – and Norsteadt held his breath. “Are you married to business... or would you consider a career in politics?”

  “Prime Minister, I’m flattered.”

  “Since you started helping us, your advice has been very valuable. Everybody has been impressed.”

  “But don’t you think I’m too old to fight by-elections? Anyway, they are so uncertain.”

  “As I’ve found in recent months.” Both men smiled. “No, I thought probably the House of Lords... in the Queen’s Birthday Honours. And then join the government officially. After all, it won’t be much different from now. You’re almost a member already.”

  Was this what exquisite satisfaction felt like? If so, Norsteadt was well satisfied. He had only the smallest self-doubt. He worried whether he could master the essentials of the trade – like the political compromise and passing off inactivity as a masterly strategy, rather than vacillation. All so different from the swift decisiveness needed to run a business successfully.

  “This must remain between ourselves for the time being. Can’t have newspaper speculation.” He pointed to the Morning Journal story. “If this had appeared after our talk, instead of before, I might be suspicious.”

  “Of course, Prime Minister.”

  “I’ll have to discuss it with my colleagues, including Lofty. Then with Her Majesty. The whole thing will take a few months.”

  “I won’t say a word. You can trust me.”

  “Of course. Anyway, that should give you enough time to make arrangements at your end,” Drucas said. “Till then, our secret. And congratulations.”

  Thirty Two

  Finian’s desk was a mess. Although he was no longer a reporter, some things never changed. Unread newspapers were stacked on a corner table and threatened to overflow onto the floor. He had given Wendy, his PA, the morning off and was forced to make his own coffee. He took one sip and pulled a face at the bitterness.

  “This is foul,” he said and put the cup down on his desk. He looked around the office and thought about asking one of his newly hired staff if they could do better. Finian couldn’t remember how it happened, but, as he swung back to his desk, he knocked over the offending cup.

  “Bugger,” he said, as he watched a muddy pool spread over his work. “Bloody hell,” he shouted, followed by, “Help.” He grabbed an old newspaper from a pile on the next table and started to mop. He grabbed another and then another before he had the mess under control. And then a fourth before things were dry again.

  One final polish and the desk would be like new. As he rubbed away, he saw Kit’s familiar way of circling with marker pen a story he thought Finian should read. Idly, he glanced at the page and then stopped completely.

  “Kit, why didn’t you show me this before?” It was the round-up story the Daily Telegraph had carried weeks ago on the growing number of mysterious deaths in Europe from a wasting disease.

  “I did, but you were too engrossed
in other things,” Kit said.

  “Do you realise this could be the same as the two engineers?”

  “R-e-a-l -l-y,” Kit said.

  Finian missed the sarcasm, picked up his phone and tapped in a number. “Malcolm Clancy, reporters,” Finian said and waited.

  “Clancy, you old bugger – Finn Kelloway.” Finian waited for Clancy’s foul-mouthed reply to end. “Remember writing a story about a month or so ago – a spate of strange deaths?”

  “The ones that wasted away,” Clancy said. “Funny you should call now. I’ve just got a news agency report of another death, this time in Britain.”

  “What can you tell me?”

  *

  It had taken all Finian’s charm to persuade Mrs Mortimer to see him. When he first phoned, she had broken down in tears and hung up. The second time, Finian apologised and assured her he only wanted to help.

  The Mortimers were wealthy. Their house was set in nearly three acres of Hampshire countryside. While Mrs Mortimer did good deeds around the village, Mr Mortimer kept the family well provided for by working as a City stockbroker.

  Signs of their daughter were everywhere. Ruth had been given a comfortable, if not privileged, upbringing. Mrs Mortimer showed Finian photographs of her daughter on horseback, sailing and skiing.

  “There was no one healthier. Or more fastidious about her appearance. Ruth watched her diet so carefully. Let me show you.”

  Mrs Mortimer led Finian out of the house towards a recently built garage. Inside was a shiny Jeep Wrangler, less than a year old. “That’s Ruth’s and this is where she lived.” Mrs Mortimer pointed to a set of stairs that led to a room over the garage.

  “She moved in here when she was eighteen.” Mrs Mortimer saw the questioning look on Finian’s face. “Nothing like that. We were all still close, but it gave her privacy.”

  The room over the garage was divided into three. There was Ruth’s bedroom, her bathroom and an area equipped like a high-price gym. Hundreds of photographs of what must have been some of the world’s most beautiful, and slimmest women covered the walls.

  Next to a blown-up photograph of Tammy Morgan, whom even Finian recognised as the highest paid model in the world, was a similar sized picture of a young woman. The pose of the two were identical: hands on hips, trunk thrust forward and legs astride.

  “This is Ruth,” Mrs Mortimer said. “Or that was her.”

  An arrow, drawn in black felt-tipped pen, pointed to Ruth’s thighs. Someone had written in a girlish hand, “must lose another two inches from here’. Another pointed to Morgan’s ultra-slim waist. The words “this is what I want’, were written in the same hand.

  Another picture of Ruth, looking stunning in a bathing suit, had a caption thumb tacked to it. It simply read “The Fat Cow”.

  “Ruth weighed herself twice a day and if she was only a pound over her target weight – off it would come,” Mrs Mortimer said.

  She kept repeating her daughter’s name at almost every opportunity, as if by so doing, she could conjure her back to life again.

  “That was my Ruth.” Suddenly the woman burst into tears. “She started to take the weight off... and couldn’t stop.”

  Finian passed a near-empty box of Kleenex to Mrs Mortimer. He guessed that she spent most of her days in the room.

  “It started just after Ruth came back from Italy. She had been with her friend, Elke.”

  Finian absent-mindedly shuffled through a pile of papers by the side of Ruth’s bed. There were slimming and health and fitness magazines and at least eight catalogues for health clubs, in Britain, France and Italy, as well as the United States. Looking around and seeing how well the Mortimers lived, he was sure Ruth could have afforded to pamper herself anywhere.

  “They think that Elke will die within the next few weeks. She seems to be taking longer than Ruth.”

  *

  If anything, Elke’s parents were even wealthier than Ruth’s. While the Mortimers had new money, the Carrington’s fortune had been built up over many, many centuries. Their house had obviously been extended a number of times, the most recent was a wing added probably in the time of Queen Anne.

  Mrs Mortimer had eased the way for Finian. “He had two friends who died the same way a year ago and thinks there may be a connection,” she told Sir Jeremy Carrington, Elke’s father. “Please see him.”

  Finian and Sir Jeremy shook hands. Despite countless years of perfect breeding, Sir Jeremy was clearly unable to hide the fear of losing his only daughter.

  The two were talking when Elke’s doctor came out of the house. Sir Jeremy assured the doctor that it was all right to talk in front of Finian.

  “If I didn’t know Elke better, I’d swear she was bulimic.”

  “What’s that?” Sir Jeremy asked.

  “The slimmers’ disease,” Finian said.

  The doctor nodded. “They eat normally, sort of, but then vomit it up again. Probably out of guilt as much as anything.”

  “Good God,” Sir Jeremy said. He sat down on a wall.

  “In Elke’s case,” he said, “I’m sure it’s something else. I’ve known her all my life; she’s always been too sensible for anything like that.”

  Carrington took a handkerchief from his pocket. “If you’ll excuse me, Doctor. Perhaps you could see yourself out.”

  “Strange thing is that both Elke and Ruth Mortimer should both come down with the same... disease... condition... as soon as they returned from Italy,” Finian said.

  “That makes me think it’s something other than anorexia. The pattern is too precise. The decline of the two girls looks almost programmed. There’s no fluctuation.”

  “What else could it be?”

  The doctor shrugged.

  “How is she?”

  The doctor looked back at the house to make sure Carrington was not about to join them. “She’s five foot eight tall and currently weighs little more than sixty pounds – well under half what she should.

  “We’re giving her nourishment, yet she’s still on the edge of starvation. The likelihood now is that fluid will gradually fill her lungs, making breathing increasingly difficult.”

  “How long?”

  “Her body has already started to digest its own muscle.” Finian shuddered at the thought. “If it continues at the present rate, there will be heart failure leading to death in a week to ten days.”

  “This is identical to what happened to two men I knew – except they never went to Italy. They just worked together.”

  Back in the house, Carrington was waiting.

  “I know it sounds strange, but do you mind if I see your daughter?” Finian asked.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, but I feel I should.”

  “Are you sure you want to?”

  “I’ve seen it before: I know what to expect.”

  Elke Carrington was once a beautiful young lady. Finian wouldn’t have known that from the corpse-like form that lay still under the bedclothes. He’d seen the photographs around the wall. Not the gaunt ghosts that decorated the walls of Ruth Mortimer’s room, but a jolly girl. Sometimes on her own, sometimes with a laughing crowd of boys. Sometimes with Ruth.

  Like the shots he found in a photo wallet by the side of her bed. “They’re from her holiday. She and Ruth were at Lake Como, catching some late sunshine,” Sir Jeremy said.

  Finian went through the photographs one by one. There were pictures of the two girls being cuddled by doe-eyed local boys, a giggling Ruth at the wheel of one of the ferries that connected the towns on both sides of the lake, and a third of Elke buying roasted almonds from a market stall.

  Another shot showed the two girls posing together outside a large magnificent house. They both carried some sort of dark-blue brochure. On the back of the photo was a handwritten note. “Ruth says, Arrivederci, thunder thighs. See them before they’re gone forever.”

  “What does that mean?” Finian showed the photograph to Sir Jeremy.


  “No idea.”

  Next shot. Elke and Ruth again, outside the same fine building. This time, Finian could see a small notice on the wall. It gave the name, Villa Fiammetta. On the back of this one, Elke had scribbled, “just after the works’. Both the girls were peering through copies of the same blue brochure, rolled up like telescopes.

  Sir Jeremy shook his head again. It meant nothing to him.

  The final shot in the pack showed the two girls inside a cool-looking building sitting at a desk, smiling for the camera. Behind them a rack of blue brochures, similar to the ones the girls were carrying in the two previous shots.

  “I’ve seen that somewhere before.” Finian flicked the corner of the print. “The brochure. I think it was in Ruth Mortimer’s room.”

  On his return to the Mortimer’s house, Finian found Mrs Mortimer in her garden. She poked a blazing fire with a rake.

  “Only after you left did I accept the connection between Ruth’s mania for slimming and her death,” she said and prodded at the flames again. “This is my way of exorcising it from our memory.”

  From a box at her feet she pulled the last few shots that had formed part of the photographic collection of models and the world’s most beautiful people, the shots that had once adorned the walls of Ruth Mortimer’s bedroom.

  “Last of them?” Finian asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Anything left at all?”

  “No.”

  Finian watched another possible lead vanish in the ashes of a garden fire.

  “Was there something else you wanted, Mr Kelloway?”

  “Nothing. Except to thank you for introducing me to the Carringtons.”

  Thirty Three

  Although it was not much larger than a smallholding, Jeff called it a farm. The ground in that part of the Kentucky – West Virginia border was good and fertile. There was enough room to erect six greenhouses where he could grow his flowers. For the first few weeks, Jeff had woken up each morning deafened by the silence. The twenty-four hour noise of Manhattan had made a lasting impression on his mind.