Norsteadt leaned forward attentively, with his sincere listening face, as if he was seeing them for the first time. “Smug, over-rehearsed bastard,” Finian said.
*
Whatever time of day it was, Sleepy Joe’s was always dark. Customers preferred it that way. Andrew wondered if there was any part of Sophie’s body that wasn’t proficient. Her hot tongue was magic, and those fingers of hers. And the things she did under the table with her toes when she sat opposite him and took her shoes off. Andrew tried to return the compliment, but he was not as good as Sophie, or not until he received some guidance. Both giggled at the thought of asking a doctor to treat either genital herpes on the big toe, or athlete’s crotch.
The only source of any substantial light came from the television set suspended on a wall bracket. After a piece of exquisite fondling by Sophie, Andrew looked at the screen. “Whoops. I think we’re a little late,” he said, as a picture of Norsteadt flashed on the screen. He moved his wrist back and forth in front of his face to focus his watch. “Really should get back. Bonnie will be going ape-shit.”
On the screen Leech recounted Norsteadt’s career at Norton-Hunter. “Under you, the company became acquisitive. You successfully absorbed Lycad – a research company at the forefront of gene therapy. It specialised in searching for cures to such hereditary diseases as cancer, heart problems, Parkinson’s and Alzheimer’s disease, multiple sclerosis, diabetes, rheumatoid arthritis... and obesity.”
Before leaving Andrew made sure that every button and zip Sophie had undone was respectable again. “The company was headed by the late Dr Giles Denny,” Andrew heard Leech say. “The work of Dr Denny, Lycad and its efforts to find an obesity cure is one of the more interesting facets in the career of Bram Norsteadt.”
“That bit wasn’t in the script,” Andrew said.
“You must have been higher than usual.” Sophie centred his tie knot. “Stop fussing, lover. Come on.”
*
Finian watched Leech dip into the top pocket of his jacket and fish out a folder square of paper. He felt Dunne nudge his ribs. “Here it comes,” Dunne said.
The comment about Denny, Lycad and obesity hadn’t seemed to register immediately with Norsteadt.
Leech deliberately smoothed out the folds in the paper. “What can you tell us about Glynworth Slimming Clinics?”
Norsteadt screwed up his forehead as if in pained concentration.
“Oh, that’s good,” said Dunne. “Your sister trained him well.”
“Glynworth Clinics?” Leech repeated.
Norsteadt threw a nervous glance at the camera. “Never heard of them.”
“Strange. This is a page from the personal memo pad belonging to Bonnie Kelloway of Kelloway and Bains. They are your personal public relations advisers? On it she has written...”
The sheet of paper on which Bonnie had been happily dreaming moments before was being steadily crunch tighter and tighter. On the monitor came a close-up shot of a brass plaque that read “Glynworth Clinic”.
She watched the camera slowly pull back to reveal a large villa caught in brilliant Italian sunshine. “This is Villa Fiammetta, on the shores of Lake Como,” said a reporter’s voice out of shot.
“It was here that Brad Norsteadt established the first of four highly profitable slimming clinics. His secret use of a Lycad gene therapy treatment for obesity – that had no medical approval anywhere in the world – has led directly to the deaths of now more than thirty people in Europe.”
Bonnie clutched herself tightly, pulling her arms into her chest. Drops of warm sweat turned cold as they trickled down her back. She shivered.
The screen cut to a row of single-storey farm buildings that Bonnie didn’t recognise. She heard the voice of the reporter. Bonnie stared hard at the screen. “This story goes back even further; to the deaths of two Norton-Hunter engineers... and ended here in the peaceful farmlands of the United States,” the voice continued.
As the reporter walked into shot, his name appeared superimposed on the screen.
“Arrrghhhh,” Bonnie screamed. She grabbed a glass of water from the table and hurled it at the television, seconds after the camera had swung to a shot of Denny’s highly organised desk and away from the man Bonnie insisted was only her half-brother.
*
“There they are,” Dunne said. “Get in really tight.” The camera moved in until Norsteadt’s forehead filled the screen. Then a handkerchief came into view, dabbing away beads of sweat.
“I’d give him another thirty seconds.”
“Before what?” Finian asked.
Dunne held up a knowing finger, “You’ll see.”
Any trace of a friendly smile vanished from Leech’s face. “We’ll also examine the unusual circumstances surrounding the book which credits you as the author and how it came to appear in the bestseller list,” Leech said.
“His hands,” Dunne shouted. “Get his hands.” The camera dropped its focus to Norsteadt’s lap. In both hands he held his “toy” spectacles with their pointless plain lenses, the ones Bonnie insisted he wore to give extra gravitas and “bottom”. “Great stuff,” Dunne said. Norsteadt’s knuckles almost burst through the skin as he snapped the frames across the bridge. He dropped the two halves to the floor.
“Any moment now.” Dunne watched closely. “There he goes.”
Norsteadt ripped at the wiring of his microphone and hurled it away across the studio floor. He stumbled towards the closest exit sign.
“Don’t miss the departure, boys and girls,” Dunne told his camera team. “Keep with him.”
“Please stay, Mr Norsteadt. There’s a lot more,” Leech said.
*
“Bram,” Bonnie shouted. “Bram.” She no longer knew what was happening in the studio, but felt she must find him. Outside, the corridor looked unfamiliar, nothing like the ones she had arrived through. Bonnie blundered along, opening doors, looking for any familiar area. “Let me out of here,” she bellowed.
*
On the street it was dark. Where was he? Somewhere in North London, that’s all Norsteadt knew. The government car that had brought him was gone long ago. He started walking. Any direction would do. A taxi cruised around a corner, with its light on and he hailed it.
*
Bonnie crashed along corridors. A television was on in a deserted waiting-room. For a moment she stopped. Leech looked into the camera. “Despite the fact that Mr Norsteadt has cut short his stay, we will continue.”
She glared at the screen as it showed a lawyer’s office, which Finian’s voice said was in Liechtenstein, followed by an interview with Kit Thayer.
“No. No. No.” Bonnie ran on, banging open more doors.
*
“Lots of empty offices this way. No one will find us.” Sophie led Andrew along a corridor by his tie. “We’ll finish what we started.”
“Are you sure?”
“You’re mine tonight, soft hands.” She used his tie to reel him close and flicked her tongue, parting his lips. Her other hand was doing that thing again that Andrew liked so much.
Crashing and banging sounded somewhere close. “What’s that?” Andrew asked.
“Probably cleaners. This part is only used during the day. There is a guest room but it’s...”
Sophie was about to open the door where two corridors met, when it flew from her hand. The two stood still as a wild-looking Bonnie blundered through.
“How do you get out of this fucking place?” she demanded. Then, as she realised who it was, she screamed: “Y-o-u.” She lunged at Andrew’s face with her nails. People were going to pay for what happened tonight and she would start with this little toe rag. Andrew St Norris, late of Kelloway and Bains.
In her madness, Bonnie’s attack was off balance. Even half-bombed, Andrew ducked under her outstretched arms and pushed Sophie through the door Bonnie had crashed open. Before Bonnie could recover, Andrew slammed the door and hefted his weight against it.
> Bonnie shook it half-heartedly. It wouldn’t budge. She banged on the wood with her palms. With each successive blow, her effort became weaker.
Through a small glass window, she could see Andrew, wide-eyed, panting, afraid, leaning hard to keep the door closed. She spat, and for a moment watched the spittle dribble down the glass. When she had watched it long enough, she lurched off along the corridor.
*
Finian stood quietly in the reception area where Dunne found him. “The shit’s already hit the fan. There’s talk of charging Norsteadt with corporate manslaughter or something. Does that make sense?”
“Maybe. I don’t know,” he said. Strange, but Finian couldn’t get excited at the idea.
“Finn, this has been one of the most remarkable pieces of television in years. And it’s all down to you,” Dunne said.
Finian nodded. “Thanks.”
By the time Bonnie found Finian and Dunne, she had no energy left. “Bastards. Bastards.” Tears careered down her cheeks. She leaned forward from her waist, as if to give added force to what she said. “Bastards. Both of you.”
“Tell that to the wives of Ivan Getz and Laslo Potter. The parents of Elke Carrington and Ruth Mortimer. And the relatives of all the rest.” Finian turned and looked away as if she was of no more importance than someone who had stopped him in the street to ask for directions.
Forty
The first thing Norsteadt saw when he arrived at Bonnie’s house was the winking red light letting him know there was a message waiting on the telephone voicemail.
He pressed the playback button. “Bram. This is Archie Maitland from the chairman’s office at Central Office,” said the tinny voice from the speaker. “Been a change of plan, I know this is a bit sudden, but we won’t be needing you for that third party political broadcast after all. Sorry to muck you about.” The machine clicked off.
“Muck me about. We’ll see about that.” Norsteadt banged a number into the phone. He waited and heard a voice say, “Number Ten Downing Street.”
“Prime Minister, please. Tell him it’s Bram Norsteadt.”
“If you will hold for a moment.” Norsteadt drummed his fingers impatiently on the table as he waited.
“Mr Norsteadt, the Prime Minister is unable to take your call,” the voice said.
“When will he be able? It’s very urgent.”
“I’ve been asked to tell you that the Prime Minister will be unable to take your call... at any time.”
*
Bonnie fumbled with her keys in the lock. No lights were showing. “Bram,” she shouted. “Bram, are you in?” There was no answer. He should’ve been home by this time. If anything had happened to him...
She made her way through the house, switching on lights. Bonnie was halfway across the sitting-room before she saw him. Norsteadt sat staring out at nothing. “My God, Bram, you frightened me.” He didn’t look at her. His eyes were fixed somewhere in the middle distance. “What are you doing, sitting here in the dark?”
He remained silent. Bonnie knelt in front of him. “My poor, darling.” She rested her hands on his. “I know how you must feel.” She kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Let me get you a drink. You must need one. I know I do.”
She poured two whiskies and put one in Norsteadt’s unmoving hand. “Heads are going to roll for this. Andrew St Norris – he’ll be gone in the morning. As for Dunne and that bastard Finian, I’ll take them before the Independent Television Commission.”
Bonnie finished her drink in two large swallows. Norsteadt left his untouched. “Another? Come on, Bram, you’re getting left behind.” He glanced briefly at his drink, then back into space.
“We’ve got so much to do,” she said, charging on. “The story has to be killed before it gets hold. Then we have to get the Prime Minister to believe it’s a pack of lies.”
“It’s over,” Norsteadt said in hardly more than a whisper.
Bonnie didn’t hear. She paced up and down the room, rehearsing aloud everything that needed to be done.
“You’re not listening. There’s nothing left,” he said a little louder.
“Don’t be silly. All we need to do is...”
“Bonnie.” He put his untouched drink on a side table. “Stop prattling.”
“Bram, all I want...”
“Shut up.” Even now his voice was quiet. His refusal to shout made him sound even more dangerous. “Nothing is left. My career with Norton-Hunter is gone. My marriage...”
“That was no marriage. It was just an up-market bed and breakfast arrangement.”
Norsteadt ignored her. He was going to have his say. “My political career – such as it was – is over.”
“No.”
“That’s what the Prime Minister thinks – or that’s what I think he thinks. You see he hasn’t actually spoken to me.” His voice was getting slightly louder. “In fact he won’t speak to me at all after tonight. Thanks to you.”
The last three words burst the calm. Bonnie threw up her hands to cover her face. Her whisky glass shattered as it hit the floor.
“I should have realised, you’re just like all the other PRs – no substance. A pretty, hollow shell – all tits and bouncy blonde hair – but nothing on the inside. Thought you were different, but I was wrong.”
“Bram, please.”
“You were supposed to be the expert. The one who knew how television worked. You’re as incompetent as the rest.”
“Darling...”
“It seems that the only member of your family who knows how to do his job is Finian.”
Bonnie had never seen Norsteadt like this. She slowly eased herself into a chair. “I know it’s been terrible for you.”
“You’re not listening. There’s nothing left.”
“Not quite.” She stroked her slightly rounded stomach.
“That’s about the only thing you did get right,” he said and walked to the door.
“Where are you going?”
“Not sure.”
“Don’t go.” She ran ahead of him and stood with her arms outstretched.
“You look ridiculous. Try to retain your dignity, if nothing else.”
“We can still rescue the situation. I know how to do it. I made you...”
Norsteadt gently, but firmly, took hold of her arm and moved her to one side.
“I know it’s been a terrible shock. Go to a hotel for a day or two. Think things over.” She grabbed her phone. “Wait. I’ll make the booking for you right now. Come back when you’re feeling better.”
When he had gone, she pressed her head hard against the front door. “Come back, Bram. Make it soon, please.” She rubbed her stomach again. “We both need you.”
She slipped down, her back now to the door. She sat there, huddled on the floor. Her knees under her chin, her arms hugging them tightly.
*
Bonnie slept badly. She woke at least four times in the night. On each occasion her hand went out, only to find Norsteadt’s place still empty. Everything she hoped was a dream had, it seemed, really happened.
It was mid-morning before Bonnie arrived at work – late for her. She had taken a taxi to the office. She had told Roger, her chauffeur, not to pick her up as she was expecting to drive in triumphantly with Norsteadt.
At the front door of Kelloway and Bains she put on a pair of dark glasses. No one was going to see her red-rimmed eyes. Then she braced back her shoulders, and said aloud. “Sod ’em. Sod ’em all.”
Bonnie strode across the open plan floor to her office. Her head erect, facing straight ahead. But behind the dark lenses, her eyes darted this way and that, looking for the slightest sign of insubordination.
Nobody dared look at her. People spoke intently on their phones, or tapped furiously on keyboards. Some stared at files, covering their eyes in mock concentration.
She had hardly turned into the corridor that led to her office when, from behind her, she heard, “Channel Twenty-Five Live – bringing you
the world as it is tonight.” The mock stentorian tones mimicked perfectly the show’s famous opening and sign-off. There was a moment of silence, then the spluttering guffaw that no one could stifle any longer.
“Little turds,” she said, through her teeth.
She would have felt a little better if she had heard Will coming to her defence. “Shut up, you sniggering hypocrites.” He looked round the office with contempt.
Raymond had seen her coming and scuttled off to find fresh coffee. In the centre of her pristine desk was a sheet of paper. A polystyrene coffee cup, still with the previous day’s dregs in the bottom, weighted it down.
She threw her briefcase into a corner and snatched up the paper. It was a copy of the memo she had sent out the day before, all but ordering staff to watch Norsteadt. She shuddered at her embarrassment. Across the bottom someone had printed in block capitals, “NICE ONE BOSS – SO THAT’S THE WAY IT’S DONE”.
Alongside the memo was a pile of carefully clipped stories from the morning papers, every one reporting the Norsteadt programme. “Do you want these included in the client’s daily cuttings?” a note on top asked, cruelly.
Raymond came in, carrying her cup of coffee. “Who put these here?” she snapped.
He shook his head. “Weren’t there a minute ago.”
With one movement, she swept the papers to the floor. “Now pick them up and bin them.”
As Raymond knelt, scrabbling at the papers, he said, “Could you call Dixon McCall, Linda Weiss and Lord Kell? They all rang earlier.”
“What did they want?”
“Don’t know. Only that it was urgent.”
It took Bonnie nearly half an hour to convince three of her oldest and most profitable clients that Kelloway and Bains was not about to collapse under the weight of bad publicity now erupting following the Norsteadt disaster.
All three had received a barrage of emails, hand-delivered letters and phone calls from almost every major public relations consultancy in London, all saying that Kelloway and Bains was in deep trouble and offering to help look after their PR needs instead.
Bad Influence Page 27
