“Great! Only I’ve probably undone all the good that I got out of the rest Jasmine made me take last week. I’ve had to work pretty long hours on this damn proposal, just to catch up.”
“How’s it going?”
Jennifer looked at the computer screen. “I don’t know really. The trouble is I have nothing to judge it by. I hope it’s all right, because Sam is really counting on me pulling this one off. It would really give the company such a boost if we managed to land it.”
“Who’s it for?”
“Oh, it’s just a gin company in London. Tarvy’s. You ever heard of it?”
“Yup, I know them well.” He paused. “What I mean by that is, ah, I know the brand well enough.”
“Oh, well, thank God for that!” Jennifer laughed. “At least you’ve heard of it.” She reached over and picked up the market research report. “Tarvy’s name doesn’t even appear in this, but at least it gives me an idea as to what kind of sales figures we should be looking to achieve, and I tell you, it’s pretty awesome!”
She tossed the report back onto the desk and let out a sigh. “Anyway, I can’t really do much more. If we don’t get it, well, that’s that, but for Sam’s sake, I sure hope that we’re in with a glimmer of a chance.” She smiled up at him. “Do you want a beer or something?”
“No, don’t bother. I don’t want to interrupt you.”
“You’re not,” she said, getting up from her chair and walking towards the door. “I’ll go get one for you from the kitchen.” She turned back to him. “Anyway, I want to hear what the big secret is all about.”
As her footsteps faded off down the corridor towards the kitchen, David turned and picked up the Morgan Graz market research report from the desk. Heavens, he hadn’t looked at one of these for ages! In the past, he had read them as often as he had the daily newspapers. He shook his head and turned the pages, stopping abruptly as the familiar name of Glendurnich caught his eye. He glanced up at the top of the page. It was the top-ten world-wide sales listings for single-malt Scotch whisky brands. He scanned through the figures, a puzzled frown beginning to crease his forehead.
This wasn’t right. Glendurnich was listed as being number four, exactly the same position they had occupied the year before. He looked down at the bottom of the page to check the date. It was the June issue. Okay, so they were world-wide listings, not specific to the United States, but the country was their single biggest customer, so they must reflect the sales over here. He scratched at his head, trying to work out if there was an alternative explanation. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe Glendurnich had reached a higher position while he’d been absent from the company, in which case, if sales had been on the slide, then Duncan was right in registering concern. But there again, he just didn’t know.
He raised his eyebrows at the anomaly and quickly flicked through the remaining pages of the magazine. He was just about to close it when yet another name bounced out at him from the inside back page, making him shudder just in reading it to himself. Deakin Distribution. For a moment, he found his mind flashing back involuntarily to that appalling day in Manhattan, when every event that occurred and every action that he took seemed to be orchestrated to hasten his downfall. He blew out nervously at the very thought of it, then once more focused his eyes on the article. It was only a small piece in the bottom right-hand corner of the page, listed under the “Management and Appointments” column.
UK’s third-largest drinks company Kirkpatrick Holdings Plc. has announced the recent acquisition of New York–based distributors Deakin Distribution Inc.
Kirpatrick’s chairman John Davenport said that he welcomed the announcement, and that Deakin’s had the proven ability to spearhead a new and aggressive sales drive in the USA, promoting their ever-expanding list of brand names.
David grunted derisively to himself, wondering if Deakin Distribution knew what they were letting themselves in for. “Aggressive” was a complete understatement as far as Kirkpatrick’s were concerned, especially with that corporate shark, John Davenport, at the helm. He bit hard on his lip as it suddenly occurred to him that, as a result of his abortive meeting, Deakin’s could now quite easily be Glendurnich’s distributor. He closed his eyes in concentration, trying to work out in his mind what possible repercussions this might have on Glendurnich. No, it should be all right—for now, anyway. He knew for certain that Kirkpatrick’s didn’t have a malt whisky as part of its portfolio, so there shouldn’t be any immediate conflict of interests. Nevertheless, he didn’t like to think that Glendurnich was giving anything away to that company.
Just as he made a mental note to himself to check the whole scenario thoroughly when he returned to Scotland, he heard the sound of Jennifer’s footsteps moving quickly back across the hall. He closed up the report and replaced it on the desk, turning round just as she came through the door.
“Sorry I was so long,” she said, coming over and handing him the glass of beer. “Would you believe it, a woman selling cosmetics came to the door? I mean, not only at nine-thirty but also the night before a damned national holiday?”
David raised his eyebrows and took a long drink of his beer, while Jennifer sat back down at her desk. “So when do you expect to hear about the Tarvy’s contract?”
“Tuesday. Ridiculous, isn’t it? I don’t know how they can expect to really study all the proposals in that short space of time. Nevertheless, that’s what they want.”
David looked at his watch, his mind still distracted by what he had read in the market research report and conscious that he had left the children alone in the saltbox. He drained his glass and put it down on her desk. “Listen, I’m going to have to go.”
Jennifer looked up at him, a surprised expression on her face. “Hang on, what was it you were going to tell me?”
David scratched at his head. “Are you going to be back here on Thursday?”
“Yeah, I guess so. I was hoping that Alex would be here, but he telephoned last night to say that he has to be in Dallas for the next two weeks.”
David nodded. “Would you mind if we left it until then? It’s sort of quite important, so I’d rather take time to explain.”
Jennifer shrugged her shoulders resignedly.
“Okay. In that case, I shall await the disclosure with bated breath.”
David smiled at her and walked over to the door, turning back as he opened it. “Listen, best of luck with the account. Judging by the amount of work that you’ve put into it, I’m sure you’ll be in with a shout.”
“Thanks.” She paused for a moment and squinted a rueful smile at him. “I don’t suppose you’d be able to fix it, would you?”
David looked at her inquiringly. “Sorry?”
“No, don’t worry. I was only joking. Just thought that you might have been able to cast a magical spell over this one as well!”
She gave him a wave with her hand, then turned back to her desk and resumed her work.
* * *
An unnatural quietness seemed to be radiating from the little saltbox when he got back to Shore Street, making David think immediately that something had to be wrong. He hurried from the gate to the door of the house and threw it open, breathing out a sigh of relief when he saw the children sitting cross-legged in the centre of the floor, gathered around a Monopoly board.
“Heavens, this is all very harmonious,” he laughed.
Charlie looked up, a disgruntled look on his face. “Well, there’s no telly and we were getting bored waiting for you. Where’ve you been? We thought you were only going to be five minutes.”
“Yeah. Sorry about that. Benji’s moth——”
“Hey, Harriet!” Charlie yelled out. “You can’t do that! You’re meant to be in prison!”
“All right, Charlie!” Sophie said sharply. “She didn’t know!” She reached across the board and pushed Harriet’s top hat back a square. “You’ll have to wait until your next go, Harry!”
“Oh, pig’s whistles!” Harriet excla
imed at being caught out. She rolled backwards onto the floor and bicycled her bare legs in the air, showering off the sand that had accumulated on them during the day on Fire Island. She turned her head and looked up at her father. “Daddy, do you want to play? You can be the ship.”
“Not just at the minute, darling.” He cast a caring eye over his children, noticing in the subdued light that each was beginning to show signs of a healthy tan following just two days on the beach. He walked over to Harriet and gently pressed his foot into her stomach, making her squeal loudly. “I’ve just got to make a quick telephone call, okay?”
He squeezed his way sideways past Sophie’s bed to the desk and took his address book from his brief-case. Then, sitting down on the edge of the bed, he opened it at the correct page and scanned down the list of numbers until he found Gladwin Vintners. He was sure that he had William Lawrence’s home number. Yup, there it was.
He picked up the telephone and dialled, turning to watch the game of high finance in progress while he waited for it to connect.
“Hu-llo?” a man’s voice answered.
“Will, it’s David Corstorphine.”
“David, you old devil! What the hell are you doing phoning at two o’clock in the morning?”
David glanced at his watch, and then clapped his hand on the top of his head. “Oh, God, Will! I’m sorry! I’m in the States. I forgot totally about the time change. Jesus, I’m sorry! Look, I’ll call you in the morning.”
Will laughed. “Don’t worry about it. We’ve just been out at a dinner party which turned into something of a marathon, so we’re not long in anyway. So how are things? Are you out there on business?”
“Yeah, sort of. Listen, are you sure it’s all right to talk now? I can always—”
“No, I promise you. I’m not even out of my clothes yet. So go on, what can I do for you at this ungodly hour?”
“Well, this may seem a ridiculous question to ask under the circumstances, but I was just wondering whether you were still handling the international sales of Glentochry?”
“Yup, I am.”
“Right. You, er, don’t happen to have anything to do with Tarvy’s Gin as well, do you?”
“Yeah, funnily enough, I do. More by default than anything else. Gladwin’s have recently set up a new marketing committee for the product, specifically to target the States, and I’ve been called onto it, ostensibly for my knowledge of the U.S. market. Why do you ask?”
“Well, it’s only that I heard through the grape-vine that Tarvy’s are looking to appoint a new advertising company over here.”
“Christ, how the hell did you hear about that? I only just learned about that this week!”
“As I said, my ears were flapping the other day, and I just happened to hear word of it at a sales conference.”
“Yeah, well, you’re right. Gladwin’s seem to be in an almighty hurry to get Tarvy’s into the U.S. market, so they’re looking to appoint a new agency ASAP. In fact, I’m going to have to spend the first two days of next week going through about five bloody proposals.” He paused for a moment. “So what’s your interest in Tarvy’s?”
“None at all, I promise you. It’s only that … well, listen, I know of one company that is putting in a proposal, and I can tell you that they’re building up quite a reputation as being a pretty smart and up-and-coming lot.”
“What are they called?”
“Culpepper Rowan.”
“Yup, that name rings a bell. Have you got a vested interest in them, then?”
“Absolutely none! It’s only that I know a couple of the directors quite well. From what I can gather about the company, it’s extremely successful, but they’re in need of a major international client to help them break into the big time, and I think that if they happened to be appointed, they would pull out all the stops for Gladwin’s to get Tarvy’s positioned as fast as possible.”
There was a moment’s silence at the other end of the telephone. “Well, I can’t promise you anything, David.”
“Oh, I quite understand that, Will. But if you could give their proposal just a little more than passing consideration.”
Will laughed. “Yeah, okay, you pushy bugger, I’ll do that!”
“Thanks, Will.”
“Hey, listen, David, while you’re on the phone, and talking of grape-vines and all that, is Glendurnich being attacked at the minute?”
David frowned. “What do you mean?”
“No, obviously it’s not. Only I had lunch with Fraser Campbell of Dunmorran Malt the other day, and he said that one of the corporates had been snooping around his company.”
“Christ, that’s all we’re needing in the industry! Which one was it?”
“Kirkpatrick’s.”
David felt his mouth immediately going dry. “Did you say Kirkpatrick’s?” he asked quietly.
“Yeah. Word has it that they’re trying to acquire a malt whisky for their portfolio, but if you’ve heard nothing about it, you should be safe enough.”
David did not reply, but stood staring at Carrie’s painting above the desk. He heard Will yawn at the other end of the telephone.
“Listen, mate, I’m knackered. Is there any more information I can give you, or can I go to bed?”
David shook his head to break his line of thought. “No—sorry, Will. That’s all, and apologies for ringing you at such a ridiculous time.”
“Don’t mention it. And I’ll keep Culpepper Rowan in mind.”
Putting down the telephone, David sat back heavily on the bed and ran his fingers through his hair. Jesus, Kirkpatrick’s couldn’t be after Glendurnich, could they? Surely he would have heard. His father or Duncan would have been in touch with him.
“You all right, Dad?” Sophie’s voice asked quietly.
He turned round to find the three children staring at him with concerned expressions on their faces.
“You’ve gone completely white,” Sophie said.
David smiled and pushed himself up from the bed. “No, everything’s fine.” He clapped his hands together. “Right! Come on, Charlie and Harriet, time for you to get to bed!”
Ignoring their synchronized groans of protest, he reached down and scooped his youngest daughter up in his arms and, carrying her through to the porch, he dumped her down on her bed and tickled her stomach, and amidst screams of playful torture, she shot her legs up to her chin to protect herself.
“Daddy?”
“Yup?”
“Will you play Monopoly with me tomorrow?”
“Course I will.”
“Can I be the top hat again?”
“Sure you can. Now get ready for bed!”
He bent over and planted a kiss on her forehead and walked back into the house, giving Charlie a pat on the top of his head as he passed. He pushed Sophie’s bed over into the middle of the room to make way for a seat in front of the desk, then, taking a piece of paper out of his brief-case, he sat down to try to make some order of the jigsaw of events that were swimming disconnectedly around in his mind.
There was really nothing to go on. Any pattern that he worked out was based purely on supposition and hypothesis. The only real concrete line of connection was Duncan’s recommendation that Deakin’s should take over the distribution of Glendurnich in the States, and that Deakin’s had been acquired by Kirkpatrick’s. Then again, Duncan’s insistence in appointing them as the new distributor had come about because of a fall in U.S. sales, and he didn’t have any solid information to hand proving whether they had or not.
He closed his eyes and scratched hard at the back of his head with both hands. You’re probably reading too much into this, you bloody fool. Lack of brain usage over the past eight months has begun to make you paranoid. Anyway, Kirkpatrick’s surely couldn’t touch Glendurnich. It was a private company, shares held by his father and himself. And, hang on, yes, there would now be a few in the hands of the workers as part of the stock-purchase plan that his father had set up. But they w
ouldn’t account for much. No, Glendurnich was undoubtedly safe from predatory attack.
But then again, how could he make sure that nothing had been mooted within the company? Whom the hell could he contact? Not Duncan anyway—if there were any firm pointers to connect Glendurnich with Kirkpatrick’s, then they would most certainly be directed at him. Nor his father. There was no reason to worry him unnecessarily over something that was probably highly speculative.
Margaret was the obvious person, being without doubt someone on whom he could truly rely for her loyalty. But there again, he wasn’t sure that her normal ebullient manner would be best suited for such detective work. Nevertheless, through her, he could get a fax safely into the right hands. But whose? He suddenly began clicking his fingers over and over. What about the young man his father had called into the boardroom just after the briefing? He thumped his head with his hand, trying to knock the boy’s name back into his mind. What in God’s name was it? Come on, his grandfather had worked in the distillery. Mc, Mc-something-or-other, Mc-McLachlan! That was it! Archie McLachlan!
“Dad?”
David turned to find Sophie standing beside him, dressed in her pyjamas.
“Yes, darling?”
“Are you going to be long? I’m feeling a bit zonked. I wouldn’t mind turning in.”
He glanced round at her bed, which stood hopelessly marooned in the middle of the room.
“Oh, hell, I’m sorry! Look, I promise you I’ll only be five minutes. I just want to send a fax back to the office. Would you mind using my bed until I’m finished, and then I’ll get yours sorted out. If Dodie’s on the bed, just push her off, okay?”
With a shrug, Sophie turned and pushed through the curtain into his bedroom. There was an immediate growl from the dog, followed by a resounding thump as she was dispatched from the bed onto the floor. David picked up a pen from the desk and began to write.
Fax to: Archie McLachlan (VIA MARGARET)
Glendurnich Distilleries Ltd
From: David Corstorphine
Dear Archie,
I wonder if you could do a bit of investigative work for me. I have just heard through a friend of mine in London that a company called Kirkpatrick Holdings Plc. are looking to purchase a malt-whisky business. I know that there is probably nothing to worry about on Glendurnich’s part, but could you just have a few discreet words with some of your associates to see if they have heard anything along these lines?
An Ocean Apart Page 37
