Bad Influence

by Desmond Harding

  Bonnie wondered whether it had been such a good idea giving the watchdog job to Andrew. The programme was so important to Norsteadt, she ought to have handled it personally. But the pregnancy was making her feel tired.

  The phone at Channel Twenty-Five Live was answered on the second ring. “Andy St Norris, please. Tell him it’s Bonnie Kelloway.” Bonnie waited a moment, breathing deeply to control her temper.

  *

  Finian and Maurice Dunne sat, collapsed, opposite each other. Finian’s tie was undone and both looked like they needed a shave. Using Finian’s discoveries, the two men had re-scripted the entire programme overnight and were now exhausted.

  “This, my dear Finn, is one bloody fine piece of reporting.” He waved the new programme script. “You should never have left journalism.”

  As Dunne toasted him in what must have been his twentieth cup of coffee, the production assistant interrupted them. “Bonnie Kelloway is on the phone,” she said “looking for Andy St Norris.”

  “Why would he be here?” Finian asked.

  “Part of the deal. To make sure we don’t pull a fast one on Norsteadt.”

  Finian almost choked on his coffee. “You are joking. He’s certainly missed the boat on that one,” he said. “Tell her he’s not here.”

  “No,” said Dunne. “That might start her thinking.”

  “Okay. Say he’s in a script conference. Sounds nice and important. My sister would go for that.”

  Dunne agreed and the girl left to speak to Bonnie.

  “When Andy does come in, how are we going to keep him away from this?”

  “Don’t worry,” said Dunne. “If he does show at all, he’ll be so bombed he won’t know what day it is.”

  “All the same...”

  “Maybe you’re right.” Dunne leaned back in his chair. “Sophie,” he called. “What’s that club – where St Norris goes to get his brains scrambled?”

  “They are two: Benny’s and Sleepy Joe’s,” she shouted back.

  “Right, when he does appear, I want you to take him to one of them... and not let him out of your sight until the programme has started.” As an afterthought, Dunne added, “Before you leave, have him call Bonnie Kelloway – and make sure he says the right things. Don’t want her turning up before time.”

  Sophie peered round the office door. “Going to cost you; I don’t have that kind of cash.”

  Dunne pulled out his wallet and handed Sophie five twenty-pound notes. “Don’t get smashed yourself.” Sophie put on a pretend sulk. “All right,” Dunne said, “but not too much. And don’t let him grab those,” he said pointing to her bouncy breasts.

  “Spoilsport,” she said. “Looks like he’s got nice soft hands.”

  Dunne crossed to the coffee machine and brought two fresh cups. He took a sip. “Ugh. I think I’ve had enough caffeine to keep me awake for a month.” He pushed the cup away. “Let’s see Murray. He’s interviewing Norsteadt.”

  Finian followed Dunne down the corridor. Off each side were doors to studios and mixing and dubbing suites. Finian was glad that all he needed was a laptop.

  At the end was the editorial room. It looked no different from any newspaper reporters’ room; a total mess. “Finn, meet Murray Leech.” The two shook hands.

  Leech was reading the new script. He had highlighted every reference to Glynworth Clinic with a thick felt-tipped pen. “What do you think?” Dunne asked.

  “Bloody good story. Getting that guy who stored the books to sign one as a receipt was a lovely touch. Apart from the clinic, I love the bit about how he got his book into the bestseller list. This man must be a genius at self-promotion.”

  “It’s not Norsteadt; it’s the influence behind him.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “My sister.”

  Leech raised his hands in mock surrender. He didn’t want to become involved in any family warfare.

  “Finn and I have this one problem: getting Norsteadt to sit still long enough before delivering the kick in the balls,” Dunne said.

  “We need to set up the story for the viewers. Here’s a man who has risen at an astronomical rate through the political ranks, and is about to walk straight into the Cabinet.” Finian said.

  “I have an idea.” Leech pulled a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and unfolded it. It was torn from a scratch pad. Across the top was printed Kelloway and Bains. In Bonnie’s writing were the words, “Glynworth Slimming Clinics.”

  “Start with clips from his party political broadcast. Lull him into a false sense of security. Lots of cut-away shots to him looking snug in the studio.”

  “Then I’ll slip this in.” He waved the piece of paper. “Till I read the script, I’d forgotten I once interviewed Norsteadt. That time, I didn’t know what the words meant, but he did. Here’s his reaction.”

  Leech pushed a DVD into his PC. He had already cued-in the spot. “Had this messengered over just now from Black’s TV training shop.”

  On to the screen came a picture of Norsteadt. He looked smooth and relaxed with the slow build-up of questioning. Then the coughing fit once Leech mentioned the clinic.

  “Thought it genuine... till I read this. Off he went to find a glass of water and we never saw him again.”

  “Make sure there’s water on the set,” Finian said.

  “Let’s review the running order once we’re into the real story. As you see, Murray, we’re using the aeroplane structure.”

  Leech nodded.

  “What’s that?” Finian asked.

  “Up front, in first class, sit the victims, who kick it off, voicing the problems. We’ve got interviews from some of the relatives of the dead slimmers.

  “Next comes business class. In there we have experts to lend authority to the story – to explain what gene therapy is – and your discoveries.”

  “Finally,” added Leech, “squeezed into the cheap seats, is the target. In this case Norsteadt.”

  “There is the risk of the third-class passenger decamping.”

  “Come again?”

  “I don’t think Norsteadt will sit still while the programme rips his life apart.”

  “In that case, why not run the film of his coughing fit and doing a bolt? I could say something like, “Mr Norsteadt is no longer with us. However he was asked the same question a short while ago and here is his answer,” Leech said.

  “What do you think?” Finian asked.

  Dunne smiled, “Love it. Have the video on standby.”

  Both men left Leech in the editorial room and walked back to Dunne’s office. At the door, Finian grabbed hold of Dunne’s arm and pointed. There was Andrew, with his back to the two of them, propped up against a pillar, speaking on a phone. Sophie was sitting in a typists’ chair which she had wheeled as close to him as was seemly in public. Her tight little figure kept his attention away from Finian and Dunne. That and the way she rubbed the inside of his thigh.

  Finian backed along the corridor. “Even tanked up, he still shouldn’t see me here. Could spoil everything.”

  “Don’t worry, Bonnie, everything is under control.” Andrew said. He was speaking extra slowly. “As if I would.” He ended the call and added, “Nervous cow.”

  Then Sophie slipped her hand through Andrew’s arm and led him to the door. She looked around and twinkled her fingers at Dunne to show they were off.

  *

  As soon as she got in, Bonnie dictated a memo. It read:

  TO: ALL STAFF

  FROM: CHAIRMAN’S OFFICE

  I WANT TO REMIND EVERYBODY THAT BRAM NORSTEADT, CHIEF EXECUTIVE OF NORTON-HUNTER, WILL BE FEATURED ON CHANNEL TWENTY-FIVE LIVE TONIGHT AND URGE YOU ALL TO WATCH. I DON’T HAVE TO REMIND YOU WHAT THE APPEARANCE OF ONE OF OUR MAJOR CLIENTS ON SUCH A PRESTIGIOUS SHOW MEANS.

  THIS CONSULTANCY’S INVOLVEMENT WITH THE SHOW MIGHT BE AN EXCELLENT CASE STUDY FOR US ALL ON HOW TO WORK WITH TELEVISION.

  ADDITIONALLY, YOU MIGHT LIKE TO CONTACT YOUR INDIVIDUAL CLIENTS, SUG
GESTING THEY WATCH IT TOO – AS AN EXAMPLE OF WHAT WE CAN DO FOR THEM.

  BONNIE KELLOWAY

  Thirty Nine

  “You look wonderful,” Dunne said. He took both Bonnie’s hands in his and kissed her cheek.

  “Where’s Andy St Norris?” she asked immediately. Her head swivelled left and right, searching the studio reception area. “He should be here.”

  “Popped out for a sandwich. Been a hard day.” Dunne looked at his watch. “You’re a few minutes early.” Bonnie’s eyes kept darting. “Surely, if anything was wrong, he would have called?”

  She agreed, because that’s what she wanted to believe. If she asked too many difficult questions, she might hear the wrong answers. Bonnie had had many public relations coups in her career, but few as good as this.

  I ask you, Channel Twenty-Five Live – twelve to fourteen million viewers – carrying a puff piece for my client. Only a fool would upset a deal like that.

  The main door opened and Norsteadt strode in. He did look good, Bonnie thought. She sniffed. Smelt good too. She went to wind her arms round his neck to kiss, but he stiffened and took half a pace back.

  He nodded towards at two grey-suited men who had followed him in. “They’re from the Press Office.”

  The first man offered Bonnie a lacklustre handshake. “Philip Burlap,” he said. “We met at the institute conference last October.”

  “Did we? I don’t remember,” she said and stared her unspoken question at Norsteadt.

  “They’re here to make sure there are no last-minute problems.”

  Bonnie set her teeth hard together.

  Dunne sensed trouble. “I can’t have this. I’ve got to know who I’m dealing with,” he said.

  The second press officer bustled to the front. “The Prime Minister has asked us to pay special attention to this programme,” he said. “Could we start by checking the script?”

  “Hell you do,” Dunne said. “My arrangement is with Kelloway and Bains – not you. What happens if there’s something you dislike?”

  “We’d recommend that Mr Norsteadt doesn’t appear,” the second man said.

  “You know how sensitive the government is right now,” Burlap added.

  Without Norsteadt there to face the music, the programme would be hollow. What made “Live” such a success was that viewers could see the sweat beads pop out of a target’s head as he was being grilled. The fact it was happening there and then made compulsive viewing.

  “We’d prefer to pull the programme right now than let you interfere,” Dunne said. He knew this was a monster bluff.

  “That would suit us.” Burlap shrugged.

  “Bram, please,” Bonnie insisted.

  “Then we’d issue a press release saying the programme was cancelled at the last moment because of government pressure. People would start asking whether there was anything to hide,” he said. Dunne looked hard at Bonnie. “Is there anything?”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “Well then?”

  “What is your objection?” Bonnie asked Burlap.

  “We see no purpose in it.”

  “That’s why you’re civil servants and I run my own business. You look for reasons not to do something while I search for opportunities to do them.”

  Norsteadt grasped Bonnie’s elbow and steered her into a corner. “You can’t speak to him like that. He’s the director of information at the Department.”

  “He couldn’t direct traffic.”

  Norsteadt let out a deep breath. “I don’t want to take any chances.” He was controlling his anger well. “What’s the downside of pulling out?”

  “If you don’t mind raising the suspicion of every investigative reporter in London – go ahead.”

  “You can handle that.”

  “Think again, Bram. I’m having a baby and I may take some leave – maybe a lot of leave. Then it will be up to the dynamic duo over there to mop up the crap. Do you think they’re up to it?”

  Norsteadt stole a look at the two men who had driven with him in the black government Jaguar.

  Burlap needed a haircut and shave. Designers stubble might be okay in an advertising agency, but not for a senior civil servant. And the other, whose name he thought was Posey, or something like that, needed to clean his shoes.

  “Fourteen million viewers, Bram.”

  He dipped his head, thinking.

  “Andy’s almost lived here for weeks. Everything’s been checked.”

  Norsteadt gnawed his bottom lip. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

  Dunne saw triumph in Bonnie’s eyes.

  Burlap stiffened as Norsteadt gave him the news in a quiet corner. He was not used to having his advice rejected out of hand.

  “You can stay and watch,” Norsteadt said to the two men. He glanced at Dunne. Dunne nodded his agreement.

  “There’d be no useful purpose.”

  As they left, Dunne said, “Let’s have a drink. You can meet Murray Leech.”

  The hospitality room was better decorated than the rest of the studio. As might be expected, it was dominated by a cabinet bursting with bottles.

  “What can I get you, Bram? Look like a whisky man to me,” Dunne said. He started to pour.

  “That would be good. I need...”

  Bonnie’s harsh stare stopped him mid-sentence. He was about to break one of the first rules of television interviewing: no booze until after the programme.

  “Make it an Evian,” Norsteadt said.

  “Help steady the nerves.”

  “No,” Norsteadt said. “I’ll pace myself.”

  “Good idea,” Dunne handed him the water. “Same for the expectant mum?”

  Bonnie knew she shouldn’t, but what the hell? “After that little scene out there, give me Bram’s whisky.”

  The phone in the corner rang. Dunne picked it up.

  “This is Murray. Don’t say anything. I’m staying out of Norsteadt’s way... till he’s safely in the studio.”

  Dunne manoeuvred his back towards Norsteadt and Bonnie. “Why’s that?” he asked in his most bland voice.

  “Don’t forget, I interviewed him before. He may remember. I’m taking no chances. Get him seated, wired up and powdered before I come in.”

  “That was the studio,” Dunne lied. “They’re ready for us.”

  Outside in the corridor, Bonnie gave Norsteadt a last pep talk. “You’re thoroughly prepared. Forget about the questions. Concentrate on getting across the points we discussed. Nice easy soundbites.”

  Norsteadt stared at the floor in concentration. Hands thrust in his trouser pockets, he kicked at something that wasn’t there.

  “Forget it’s a studio. Imagine you’re in a pub, having a conversation with a stranger. You would try to share your knowledge, your enthusiasm and the pride in your achievements.”

  “Got it.”

  They arrived at the door of the studio. “Only Mr Norsteadt from here,” Dunne said. “You’re in the guest room, Bonnie. There’s a TV monitor so you can watch the programme. Give me a minute and I’ll show you where.”

  “It’s unlikely, but don’t let the interviewer push you around with interruptions and loaded questions.” She picked a piece of imaginary fluff from Norsteadt’s lapel.

  “Perhaps you should do the interview, Bonnie,” Dunne joked.

  She ignored Dunne. “Stand your ground, firmly but politely.”

  Norsteadt kissed her cheek and Dunne led him away.

  Before the door swung closed again, she shouted, “Remember, most of the interviewer’s tricks are to keep the programme entertaining.” The door swung closed. “It’s not a personal attack on you.”

  *

  Bonnie had been led to the guest room by Dunne. “You’ll be comfortable here,” he had said. She didn’t know whether it was because of the excitement, or that she was on the far side of the building, but Bonnie didn’t know where she was.

  Dunne switched on a television set in the corner and looked at his w
atch. “Shouldn’t be long.”

  From her briefcase Bonnie pulled a pad. If there was anything she disliked she was going to take notes and let Dunne know about it at the end of the programme.

  The Channel Twenty-Five Live logo flashed on the screen. Its familiar voice-over introduction filled the room. “Channel Twenty-Five Live – bringing you the world as it is tonight.” Bonnie shifted to the edge of her chair and propped her chin in cupped hands. The camera closed in on Murray Leech.

  “Tonight we bring you the story of what some have called a political phenomenon – the rise of Bram Norsteadt. A highly successful company executive, he is on the verge, so the rumours go, of bringing his business expertise into the heart of government.”

  The camera panned to Norsteadt. He looked confident, dignified, in command – just like a statesman. Bonnie was proud of her handiwork.

  The screen blacked out for a second and then filled with clips from his first two political broadcasts. He walked calmly through offices, across factory floors, into laboratories. His hand gestures, which Bonnie knew had taken hours to perfect, looked so natural. His voice – that deep, measured timbre designed to create confidence.

  I wonder, she thought. Bonnie picked up a pen and doodled. Down the left-hand side of the pad she repeated a dozen or so times, the word, Lady. Next to it, another dozen times, she wrote Bonnie. And then Norsteadt.

  She held the pad at arm’s length to see how it looked. Bonnie wouldn’t actually say the words yet; that would tempt fate.

  *

  Finian felt oddly removed as he watched the programme unfold. He had worked long and hard to uncover what had happened to Ivan Getz and Laslo Potter, Elke Carrington and Ruth Mortimer. And all the rest. Now he had handed it all over to someone else, and all he could do was watch from a distance... and wait.

  On a small monitor in the control room he watched the camera cut back to Leech. “Of course, the story starts before then,” he said. A montage appeared of newspaper cuttings. The headline of the first read, “Norton-Hunter Hits Trouble”. Followed by, “Pharmaceutical Giant Brings in Company Doc’. And then, “Norton-Hunter Heads for Record Profits”.