Bad Influence

by Desmond Harding

  “You’ve dropped something.” Jeff bent down and picked up an envelope. Inside were more cuttings. Of different cases.

  “Never seen those before,” Jeff said.

  “I have.” Finian said. “I wrote this one. And these two came from the Daily Express and The Times. I gave it to the reporters myself.”

  There was another story announcing the start of a union campaign to get justice for the families of two workers employed by a giant pharmaceutical company who had died mysteriously. Alongside that Denny had written, “My God, what have I done?”

  “You must have a lot of things to catch up on,” Finian said. “Don’t let me keep you.” He was worried what Jeff might do if he discovered anything more about his father’s involvement. He had been helpful, but that could change. He might ask Finian to leave. He could burn everything just to protect his father’s memory. “If I need help, I’ll shout.”

  “There are a couple of things I need to do.”

  Finian scooped the cuttings of Potter and Getz’s deaths together and pushed them back into the envelope. Something snagged on the lip of the envelope and he tried again. Still it wouldn’t go in. He saw what it was. A cutting at the back had a piece of paper stapled to it and it was the staple that kept catching.

  Finian prised the staple open with his fingernail. He got a strange feeling when he saw what Denny had written on the note: “My God. They’ve found the marker.”

  Finian tried to get things straight in his mind. Had Potter and Getz been involved with Denny in some way? If so, where? And why?

  *

  Bonnie poured Norsteadt his second breakfast coffee. He was looking at the morning papers and silently spooned two sugars in his cup. “I thought you’d given it up. You know it’s no good for you.”

  “Couple won’t hurt.”

  Norsteadt had already missed three sessions with Merv Getty, now their joint personal trainer. Was he slipping back into his old ways? Bonnie wondered.

  “Have you decided when you’ll see Margaret?”

  “Why?”

  “The thing we discussed the other day.” Norsteadt looked confused. “Your divorce.”

  “Not yet.”

  “After all, she wouldn’t know what to do with a title like Lady Norsteadt.” Norsteadt didn’t react. “Check your diary and let me know when you can fit in another session of television training.”

  “Don’t think I can spare the time. There’s this report for the Prime Minister – and things need doing at Norton-Hunter.”

  “You still need practice at handling awkward questions.”

  “Had no trouble the last time,” He then added, “No thanks to you.”

  “Luck. A fake coughing fit won’t always rescue you.”

  “The answer is, no. I don’t have the time – and I really don’t think it necessary. Anyway, Andy is monitoring the Channel Twenty-Five people, so nothing can go wrong.”

  Thirty Five

  Finian found a small crowbar in the corner of Denny’s study and prised open the remaining packing cases. Inside were a number of smaller boxes, all carefully marked.

  One was labelled “Glynworth Clinic”. Probably a research facility, he thought. He might go back through some of them if he had the time, though he doubted it. He put the box to one side and looked for something more promising.

  Another had the name “Mitsanomol”. What did that mean? He’d never get the hang of these medical terms. Sounded like a cough cure. He put that box on top of the one marked Glynworth.

  Then he found one labelled “Norton-Hunter”. That was more like it. But inside was a disappointment. It was Denny’s employment records and details of his retirement pension. In turn, he stacked that on top of the Mitsanomol box. Mitsanomol. Mitsanomol. He’d heard the name before. Wasn’t that the treatment for...?

  Finian went back to a file he had been studying earlier. There it was, in one of his own press releases. Now he remembered: the slimming treatment.

  In the box Finian found research notes and studies on dosages and various formulations and attempts at different delivery systems and... God, this could take forever. There were even production schedules.

  Finian picked one up. The information meant nothing to him. It looked like it meant little to somebody else as well. By the side of the record of one particular day’s output, somebody had written – it wasn’t Denny’s handwriting this time – “Rubbish. Too high. Check with Denny.”

  Three pages of production data had been stapled together, along with what looked like a despatch note. A quantity of Mitsanomol was being sent to... Finian peered at the form. It was a bad photocopy.

  Out in the yard, it was getting dark but the light was still an improvement on Denny’s cubby hole. That was better. He could see it now: Glynworth Clinic, Villa Fiammetta, Lake Como, Italy.

  The fifteen years he had spent as a reporter taught Finian to recognise the early signs. Things to expect, the little hints when he came close to a good story. They all culminated in a pleasant hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. The same nice little ache he was enjoying at that moment.

  Back in the Glynworth box, Finian found copies of the clinic’s sales brochure with its elegant blue cover. He cleared a space on Denny’s desk. Next to the brochures he placed the three photographs he had taken from Elke Carrington’s bedroom. No mistake. Same pretty blue book... and same expensive lake-side Italian villa.

  So somebody had been dosing Elke Carrington and Ruth Mortimer on Mitsanomol. The ultimate slimming cure. Finian was surprised at Denny’s involvement in such a scheme; he had never seemed that sort of man.

  Apart from being labelled, the whole collection had been immaculately catalogued. Finian was almost at the end of his search before he discovered the simple notebook. It was in the last crate and he almost missed it.

  Finian never travelled without a book, but that night he had something much more interesting to read. After dinner – he, Jeff and Harry had gone to the Juniper House – Finian turned in early. He fluffed his pillows and settled down with the innocuous-looking notebook.

  When he had finished, Finian turned out the light. For a while he lay there thinking things over. Why, for example, did Dr Giles Denny devote a complete box to Kelloway and Bains, Public Relations Consultants? They had never worked for Lycad Biotechnology. The company only ever had one public relations consultant – and that was Finian. He hoped he would find the answer in the morning.

  Finian was careful not to rush breakfast. He didn’t want Jeff suspecting he’d made any sort of discovery.

  “How’s it going?” Jeff asked.

  “Like pushing fog uphill,” Finian said. “To read everything would take years. The whole operation is one giant lucky-dip.”

  According to Denny’s records, the Kelloway and Bains box should have been in crate 5. Finian opened the case as soon as he arrived in Denny’s study.

  There were boxes with every name but that. There was even a second box devoted to Glynworth, but nothing for the consultancy. Finian’s heart sank briefly, when he noticed the name of Kelloway and Bains on the back of the clinic’s blue sales brochure. Was that the link – production of marketing literature?

  So far everything started and stopped with Denny – a dead man. There had to be more.

  Finian went back to Denny’s notebook. There it was, “Crate 5: Kelloway and Bains”. By now, Finian knew that Denny seldom made mistakes. If he said it was there – it must be.

  Fortunately, Finian had been careful not to destroy Denny’s ordering and he kept the boxes from each crate together. He quickly identified the boxes and checked them again. Nothing for Kelloway and Bains.

  Alongside each entry in Denny’s book were codings of some sort. At first, Finian had ignored them as he was making good progress his own way. Next to the entry for the consultancy was the coding GSC – 2. That didn’t make sense. Every other code was clearly linked to the subject matter of the box: Norton-Hunter became NH, Mitsanomol becam
e Mtml, and so on. Perhaps Denny’s system had broken down after all.

  While the names were clearly marked on the box lids, the code numbers were on one side. He hadn’t seen them at first. But now he knew where to look.

  He found GSC – 2 in the box marked Glynworth Clinic. It didn’t take Finian long to learn why.

  Inside there were bundles of invoices from Kelloway and Bains. They charged the clinic for public relations services, and were all addressed to Denny. He was described as the President of Glynworth Slimming Clinics, with an address in Vaduz, Liechtenstein. It seemed that the clinic had been billed hundreds of thousands of pounds. If they were genuine, it must have made the obscure clinic possibly the biggest PR account in the world.

  Even more surprising was the executive listed as being in charge of the account – Kit Thayer.

  Kit was eating a sandwich at his desk when Finian called.

  “What work did you do for Glynworth Clinics when you were at Kelloway and Bains?” Finian asked.

  “Nothing. They were never one of my clients. Bonnie made a song and dance about winning the account – and then forbade anybody to work on it. In fact, I don’t remember anything being done for them.”

  Finian thought for a moment. “You certain?”

  “Hang on and I’ll check.” Kit took down a bright red Economist diary. “When was this?”

  Finian gave him two dates. “The first I was in Paris with a group of financial journalists and the second...” He laughed. “I was in hospital having a rather delicate piece of surgery.”

  “Hmm,” Finian said.

  “I can check everything in detail. I keep all my old timesheets.”

  “That’s okay. Seems the clinic paid tons of cash for work it never had.”

  “Sounds like a Chinese job,” Kit said.

  “Meaning?”

  “Laundry, my dear Finn. Put the dirty cash in one end...”

  “And it comes out lily-white the other.”

  Finian was about to put down the phone when Kit stopped him. “Sir Jeremy Carrington called. His daughter died this morning.”

  Finian took a deep breath. “Poor man.”

  “Do you want his number?”

  “I have it.” He tapped the phone and heard a new dialling tone. Finian knew he was playing havoc with Jeff’s phone bill, but it couldn’t be helped.

  “Sir Jeremy, I got your message. I’m so terribly sorry.”

  “As you were taking such an interest in Elke, I thought you ought to know.”

  For a moment Finian thought about how to phrase his next question. He knew how much Carrington’s daughter had meant to him. “I have some idea what might have happened to Elke and Ruth Mortimer, but I need your help.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Will you arrange for a full autopsy?”

  “Won’t they do that automatically?”

  “Unlikely. Normally they only occur after a sudden death – or when a doctor hadn’t recently seen the patient. With Elke, neither was the case.”

  “I can’t do that. She’s suffered enough.”

  “Sir Jeremy, I think that whatever killed your daughter was responsible for the deaths of more than twenty other people. If I can get a better idea, we might stop others dying. But I need that autopsy.”

  “How would it help?”

  “I’m not absolutely sure. To be honest, I’m playing a hunch.”

  “You’re asking too much.”

  “You’re my best hope. We’ve only known about the other deaths when it’s too late.”

  They were nearly 4,000 miles apart, but Finian could feel him agonising, as if they were standing in the same room. “It’ll be butchery. They’ll cut her open.”

  “They can’t hurt her any more, Sir Jeremy. She’s beyond that.”

  “No. Please don’t ask again.” Finian heard the phone being replaced.

  *

  Bonnie hadn’t had a particularly good day. She had received an email from Ty Spielvogel warning of a big fall in the projected earnings at his Manhattan agency for the next quarter. It gave no explanation, which infuriated her. She’d have their hide for that. This was going to ruin Bonnie’s cash flow.

  *

  On the flight back from Atlanta to Gatwick, Finian had thought the whole thing out. Soon after he touched down, he invited an old friend out for a drink.

  Jeff had let Finian take all the papers he needed. He was going through some key documents when Maurice Dunne walked into the wine bar. Finian had a chilled bottle of Chardonnay waiting. He poured Dunne a glass.

  “Have I got a story for you,” Finian said. He couldn’t think of anywhere better than Channel Twenty-Five Live to expose what was happening at Norton-Hunter.

  “Cheers,” Dunne said and tipped his glass towards Finian.

  “It’s about Bram Norsteadt...”

  “If it’s his rapid climb up the political ladder – we’re doing it already.” Dunne sipped his drink. Finian was dumbfounded. “Looks like you’ve wasted your money on an excellent Chardonnay.”

  “This is something completely different.” For the next ten minutes Finian told Dunne what he’d discovered in Britain and the States. He showed Dunne the documents from Jeff’s farm and the photograph of the two girls outside the Italian villa.

  Finian topped up Dunne’s glass again. “What do you think?”

  “Lovely story, Finn. But something is missing: all you’ve proved so far is that this guy Denny is implicated in the deaths of more than twenty people. A man who happens to be dead, by the way. And that your sister’s company is in some way involved.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing. There’s no evidence that links Norsteadt to any of this. The chain of money ends with your sister.”

  Dunne was right. Finian suddenly realised he’d been standing too close to everything. He’d been so anxious to nail Norsteadt that he hadn’t done a proper job.

  Thirty Six

  Norsteadt’s second party political broadcast had appeared the night before. If anything, it was even better than the first. As a special favour to the Prime Minister, Archie Campbell, a fellow Scot who now made blockbuster hits in Hollywood, handled the direction.

  The next morning, Drucas and Sir Wesley Heffner studied the morning papers. Nearly all carried speculative stories about the imminent arrival of Lord Norsteadt. Some had even picked up the hint that he could take charge of the industry portfolio and go straight into the Cabinet.

  “Any negative reaction?” Drucas asked.

  “Just those you’d expect, Prime Minister. The Mirror has a quote from the new Socialist Labour faction calling for the abolition of the House of Lords.”

  “Apart from that?”

  “Apart from that, we’re home and dry.”

  “Good. Go to the next phase.”

  *

  Mike Cook kicked open the door to the union’s main conference room. “Here’s another one,” he said, struggling into the room. He hugged a large bundle of papers in his arms.

  Freddy Two-Pies Gough grabbed the door. “Let me help.” Ever since his size had been used to secure the injunction – he constantly blamed himself for the outcome – the man had given nearly all his spare time to helping the union pursue Norton-Hunter.

  Finian looked up. “Keep ’em coming.”

  “Sure you want to do this?”

  “We must have missed something,” Finian said. “So we’ll go through it all again.” He looked at the stacks of papers steadily growing in front of him. “I know it’s here.” He held his thumb and forefinger a fraction apart. “We’re that close.”

  “But where?” Cook asked, as he left the room again.

  These were the files Finian had brought back after Denny’s funeral. The evidence provided by both sides at the court hearing was there too. So was almost every press comment. In fact, every scrap of paper collected by the union during the campaign covered the table.

  The door opened again and Cook backed in
. He dropped a box on the floor. “That’s the lot.”

  “Let’s start again,” Finian said. He picked up the next bundle of papers. “Haven’t seen these before.”

  Cook glanced at the documents. “Must have. They came across with the other court papers from the hearing. Part of the Norton-Hunter evidence.”

  Across the front page was stamped, CONFIDENTIAL. Because of his reporter’s training, Finian’s heart always performed a small leap when he saw that word.

  “It’s the special autopsy that Norsteadt insisted on – to prove Potter and Getz weren’t poisoned,” Cook said.

  “We now know they weren’t poisoned... not in the way you and I expected.” Finian started to read. Almost immediately he experienced the same problem he had when going through Denny’s papers in the States.

  “What on earth is... B-Galactosidase?” Finian even had difficulty pronouncing the word, let alone understanding it.

  “No idea.”

  “It was found in both Potter and Getz.”

  “Doesn’t sound too life-threatening,” Cook said. He looked at his watch. “Getting late and I’m thirsty. Let’s start again in the morning.”

  Outside, the rush-hour traffic was building up. Cook took Two-Pies for a drink. Finian turned down the invitation to join them. He wanted to get home. As he waited, a taxi pulled up at the kerb to drop a passenger. At least something was working right, he thought.

  He didn’t look at the man paying the driver. He was about to open the taxi door when the passenger said, “Mr Kelloway? Is it Finian Kelloway?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your office said I’d find you here. I hope this is worth it.” Finian watched Sir Jeremy Carrington place a slim white envelope in his hand. “After what I put my girl through.”

  The envelope wasn’t sealed. Inside were just two pages. The top sheet carried the letter heading of Dr Ailbert MacCallum, Pathologist.

  “They’re the results of the autopsy examination on Elke Carrington, beloved daughter of...” He broke down into a fit of sobbing. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s not a large document. There wasn’t much of her at the end.”