Corporate Bodies (20 page)

‘My piece runs straight into the video that introduces B.T. – that's all clips of him from television . . . on
The Money Programme,
interviewed at the CBI conference, in that environmental series, all that stuff. Once we've played the video, B.T. comes on, does his talk and finishes up presenting you with the car.'

‘Well, is he going to be here for the rehearsal?'

‘No, he's hosting a reception upstairs.'

‘Look, if Brian Tressider isn't bloody here, I don't see why I should have to bloody –'

‘Daryl!'

Ken Colebourne's authority was unmistakable. The Top Salesman subsided into ungracious silence.

‘Right, I'll make this as quick as I can.' The Marketing Director strode on to the stage and spoke into a microphone. ‘Are you ready in the box? Marketing Director's Report – OK? Got the script lined up?'

‘Yes. It's there on the autocue,' a disembodied voice replied over the talkback. ‘Who's operating the slides?'

‘I am.' Ken Colebourne picked up the control from a lectern. ‘That way there's no chance of them getting out of synch.'

He launched into his spiel. He was a workmanlike but not a charismatic speaker, reading with level intonation from the autocue on the transparent lectern in front of him, and punching up the relevant slides at the relevant moments. Packshots of products appeared on the screen behind him, graphs of sales figures, pie-charts of market shares. It was all competent, and rather dull.

Charles felt bored. He had done his bit. Will had fulfilled his promise to find something in the sales conference for Charles Paris. Early thoughts of including him in the Delmoleen ‘Green' presentation had fortunately been abandoned. Although Charles had served his time in musicals, singing was not one of his strong points, and his dancing had cut a swathe of despair through battalions of choreographers. Indeed, the
Walton and Weybridge Informer
had once reviewed his performance in
My Fair Lady
in the following uncharitable terms: ‘Charles Paris's Professor Higgins is the best argument I've ever seen against turning
Pygmalion
into a musical.'

But a convenient non-singing, non-dancing role in the Delmoleen sales conference had been found for him. The Product Manager for Confectionery, though very effective at his job, suffered from a mild stutter which was exacerbated by the strains of public speaking, so Charles had been delegated to present the current state of the confectionery market. It was not the most complex role he had ever been faced with, but his reading of it in rehearsal had apparently satisfied the Delmoleen audience.

Even though he'd done his bit, Charles didn't really feel he could leave the conference hall. He was also there in his
Parton Parcel
capacity, and was even wearing his suit to prove it. (The suit, incidentally, had been cleaned and had had its pocket invisibly mended. The effect of these ministrations had been to rob it of its designer shapelessness. Now it just looked shapeless.) So he thought he'd have to sit out the full term of the rehearsal, although he could feel painfully the allure of bars and receptions in the hotel above him. Once again, as in all the Delmoleen ‘shirtsleeve' sessions, lavish salvers of sandwiches had been produced. And, once again – to Charles's considerable disappointment – no liquid stronger than mineral water.

He sneaked a look at his watch. Half-past eight now. Oh, he really could murder a large Bell's.

He half-heard the drone of Ken Colebourne's presentation. ‘And we still stand by the principles which made the company successful when it started. We take pride in those principles. Everyone who works for Delmoleen knows that all our products are made by the most modern manufacturing methods . . .'

Ken Colebourne clicked the control in his hand. A slide of a factory interior full of gleaming machinery, tended by immaculate workers in white overalls, was shown.

‘They know the same high quality Delmoleen goods are sold all over the world . . .'

On the screen, in front of a rusty corrugated iron hut, next to a broken-down tractor, two grinning Caribbean children held up a pack of Delmoleen ‘Bran Bannocks'.

‘They know what the public think of Delmoleen. They know that the public trust the guarantee of hygiene that only comes from Delmoleen – and not from other companies I could mention.'

The screen filled with newspaper headlines about a scandal from earlier in the year which had crippled one of Delmoleen's main rivals. “‘THEY'RE RUBBISH! I'LL NEVER TOUCH ANYTHING THEY MANUFACTURE AGAIN!” SAYS BOTULISM BOY'S HEARTBREAK MOTHER.' (This slide was guaranteed to produce a big laugh from its salesmen audience.)

‘And they know that Delmoleen goods are sold at a price that's more than competitive . . .'

Another click of the control produced a slide showing a dull semicircle of rival bedtime drinks, all marked with their inflated prices. In the foreground, brightly lit, stood a carton of Delmoleen ‘Bedtime', almost eclipsed by a huge price label of ‘98p'.

‘So they begin to understand what being a part of the Delmoleen family is really worth. And, in these environmentally-conscious times, they know that Delmoleen products are only made from the freshest of organically-grown natural ingredients . . .'

A still life of expensively photographed vegetables appeared on the screen.

‘Yes, Delmoleen cares. Delmoleen is like a family. And I want to show you what sort of people are part of the Delmoleen family . . .'

A slide appeared of half a dozen workers grouped under the arch of the company logo. There were a couple in shining blue overalls, a couple in white, a man and a woman in business suits. They were carefully selected to show a mix of ages and ethnic origins. All wore gleaming smiles.

‘Next,' said Ken Colebourne, ‘you're going to be addressed by the man who keeps that family atmosphere and that family success going – our Managing Director, Brian Tressider. But, first, let's see some of the occasions when he's been in the public eye during the last year. And, seeing this, you'll ask yourself how he manages to fit everything in to just twenty-four hours a day. He seems to be at it all the time!'

This was the cue for the video. The slide of smiling workers disappeared, and instantly the screen filled.

But what filled it was not a compilation of Brian Tressider's media appearances during the previous year.

Instead, two naked bodies thrashed against each other in the steamy heat of a sexual encounter.

Daryl, whose expression suggested he knew of the substitution, sniggered, and Charles, suddenly seeing the aptness of Ken Colebourne's introductory words, could not hold back his own laughter. Will Parton also started giggling.

The Marketing Director was looking out front, puzzled, and it took him a moment to turn and face the source of their amusement.

When he did, his reaction was instantaneous and furious. ‘Where the hell did you get that from? Stop it!' he screamed into the microphone. ‘Stop it! We mustn't see any more! B.T.'d go mad if he knew about it! He thinks it's been destroyed. Stop that bloody tape!'

The unseen operator at the back of the hall, either from genuine incompetence or because he was enjoying the joke, took a while to obey this command, which gave the audience time to see more of the action.

And what Charles saw told him that this was just another commercial pornographic tape. The participants had nothing to do with Delmoleen. Certainly the man was totally unlike Brian Tressider. What was interesting, though, was not the tape itself, but Ken Colebourne's reaction to it. Or rather his over-reaction. He had panicked completely. And, though he could soon recognise that his Managing Director didn't feature, what Ken had said suggested that it wouldn't have surprised him to see Brian Tressider in such compromising circumstances.

‘NAH, IT WAS just a laugh,' said Shelley. ‘Daryl's always doing stuff like that. His sense of humour's bleeding mental.'

‘So he wasn't making any point by getting the video shown?'

‘No, Chowss, he doesn't work like that. Daryl was just miffed that he had to go and sit through hours of rehearsal when all he was going to have to do was say “Thank you very much for my car”. So he thought “What can I do to liven things up a bit? I know, bung the bloke in the control box a flyer – get him to show a smutty video.” That's how his mind works. It's only a joke – that's Daryl all over.'

She looked affectionately across the bar to where her husband was drinking and swapping either scatological jokes or custom car minutiae with a bunch of fellow salesmen.

Charles was inclined to believe her. It would have been in character for Daryl to stage that kind of meaningless prank. And there was no reason to believe that the Top Salesman had any suspicions about Dayna Richman's death, so he really had no other motive for doing it.

For Charles, on the other hand, the video – or rather Ken Colebourne's reaction to it – had triggered an avalanche of new thoughts.

The Marketing Director's first response, before he saw what was actually being shown, was the one that mattered. He had panicked, thinking what was on the screen was not a commercial product, but a secretly-filmed video of a man and a woman making love.

Charles only knew of one person in the Delmoleen set-up who had ever been into that kind of stuff. Dayna.

She had tried to persuade Trevor to film her with a sexual partner, and blackmail seemed to be a speciality of hers. Even though the forklift operator said he'd refused her request, it was quite possible that she'd found someone else more ready to co-operate. Or indeed she could have set up the apparatus herself. It wouldn't have been a problem; camcorders were getting easier to use all the time.

Assuming then that such a blackmailing tape existed – and Ken Colebourne's reaction suggested he knew it did – the question arose as to who was Dayna's co-star.

And Charles didn't reckon he had to look far for the answer. Dayna Richman had made no secret of her intention to screw her way to the top. She had confronted Brian Tressider in an unequivocally sexy way in the warehouse on the day she died. And, what was more, he had been on the premises at the time when her ‘accident' happened. The scandal her disclosure of their relationship might cause to a man in his position was quite sufficient motive for murder.

All the evidence suddenly seemed to be pointing in the same direction.

“Well, all that looks bloody boring.'

Shelley's words brought him back to the present. She was looking disparagingly at a printed sheet of paper.

‘What's that?'

“The Wives' Programme.”' Her voice was heavy with irony. ‘Always at these conferences they set up some exciting things for the little ladies to do while the men are stuck in meetings.' She held the paper out. ‘Look – “Visit to the Royal Pavilion and tour of its kitchens; Shopping in the Lanes; Lunch; then a Tour of a Local Winery, followed by Cream Tea” . . . Well, stuff that for a game of soldiers!'

‘Doesn't appeal?'

‘No, bleeding boring. Got all the other wives to cope with, apart from anything else. Dreary load of old bags most of them are. And dear Brenda Tressider leading us on, like some bleeding Chief Guide or Brown Owl. Won't catch me doing any of that, I can tell you.'

‘So how're you proposing to spend tomorrow?' asked Charles.

Shelley grinned a rather mischievous little grin. ‘Thought I might look for some entertainment here.'

‘Here? What, at the conference, you mean?'

‘Nah. Upstairs in my room is what I mean. Do I make myself clear?'

She certainly did. Charles was once again struck by how very attractive she was. Shelley Fletcher had that overt sexiness which can always override masculine better judgement.

She chuckled throatily. ‘Might you be free then during the day tomorrow, Chowss?'

He was hooked instantly. ‘Well, yes. I've got to do the Confectionery presentation, but that's first thing in the morning, so, say, after eleven . . . yes, I am pretty well free.'

She turned the full beam of her blue eyes on to his. ‘Good. Good.'

‘Good,' Charles echoed.

“Cause Daryl and some of the lads'll be able to sneak out from the odd session, I'm sure.'

‘Oh?' said Charles.

‘And some of the secretaries, and some of the wives 'n' all – there are a few who swing a bit and wouldn't be that keen on the Royal Pavilion, if someone suggested the right alternative . . .'

‘Ah.'

‘No, I think we could have a nice time tomorrow, Chowss,' she purred.

‘Tomorrow. Oh,
tomorrow.
Oh, Damn,' he said, preparing to lie. ‘I've suddenly remembered Will Parton, my partner in this business, is insisting that I should sit in on as many of the conference sessions as possible tomorrow.'

He'd had no alternative. He knew it was a hopelessly old-fashioned reaction, but – much though he would have relished an individual encounter with Shelley Fletcher – Charles Paris had never been able to come to terms with the idea of sex as a community activity.

Perhaps because his day's drinking had started so late, Charles did find he was rather making up for lost time. Or it may have been the company. The Delmoleen salesmen and their wives seemed determined to enjoy their employers' hospitality to the full, and round of drinks followed round with astonishing fluency.

It was only when he crossed the hotel's reception area to find a Gents and felt a blast of cold air from outside, that Charles realised how drunk he was. Must slow down, he thought. Mustn't cock up the Confectionery presentation in the morning. A speech delivered by someone with a really bad hangover wouldn't be much improvement over one delivered by a man with a stutter.

‘Excuse me,' asked a voice from the reception desk, ‘are you Mr Paris?'