Corporate Bodies (15 page)

‘Hopefully, yeah.'

One of the discreet uniformed waitresses appeared beside them. ‘Would you like some more wine? Madam? Sir?'

‘Could probably force myself,' said Charles expansively.

Another full bottle of red wine was placed on the table between them. He gestured with it towards Shelley's empty glass.

‘Why not? Neither of us got to drive. The chauffeur car's part of the day.'

‘For me too.'

‘Yeah. Hope you don't mind my asking, Chowss, but why are you here? Funny place for an actor to be, isn't it?'

It was a question he had been fearing, but he managed to fudge together some kind of answer about
Parton Parcel
and the filming that he had done at Stenley Curton.

‘Oh yeah, how is the old place?' asked Shelley.

Charles's detective antennae started twitching. ‘Why, did you ever work there?'

‘Yeah, I started there as a typist straight out of school. ‘Swhere I met Daryl. He was doing Midlands Area then. We got together and . . .' She shrugged, ‘Rest is history, innit?'

‘Yes.' He took a nonchalant sip from his glass. ‘I don't know if you heard, but there was a dreadful accident that day we were filming in the warehouse . . .'

‘Course we heard. Dayna, wasn't it?'

‘That's right.'

‘People been saying for a long time she was going to get her comeuppance. No one thought it'd come that way, though.'

A casual ‘Oh?' proved to be quite sufficient prompting for more information.

‘Well, Dayna really was a bit of a scrubber. I mean, she, like,
used
sex.'

A high moral tone had come into Shelley's voice. Clearly she regarded Dayna's behaviour as very different from her own. What was done within the confines of marriage – or, as it seemed from what she'd said, a series of marriages – was unimpeachably respectable, compared to
using
sex.

‘How do you mean, exactly?'

‘Well, Dayna, like, used her body to get things out of men. You know, early days she'd go out with blokes for nice meals and that. She thought the meal was OK, she'd give the bloke what he wanted. Meal not up to scratch, he didn't get nothing.'

‘Not the first time that kind of transaction's happened.'

‘No, right, I agree, but Dayna went on from there . . . you know, wanted “little presents” from blokes she went out with.'

‘What kind of presents?'

‘Jewellery, hi-fi, that kind of stuff.'

‘Money?'

‘Don't think so. Not directly. No, I think she reckoned if it was just for money, then she might as well be a prostitute. Didn't like that idea. Oh no, our Dayna had her standards – just they was a lot lower than most other people's.'

‘Ah.'

‘Funny thing was, I don't think she really liked sex that much.'

‘Oh?'

‘Well, back in the old days, you know, before me and Daryl got married, there used to be some fairly wild parties around the place.' She looked straight into his eyes, daring him to be shocked and flinch away. ‘You know, lot of couples, go to someone's house, all the bedrooms is open, play some games . . . maybe with forfeits – you have to take off this, take off that, girl has to go off with this bloke, bloke has to go off with that girl – you know the kind of thing I'm talking about . . .'

Charles nodded, as if his social life was one endless round of such parties.

‘It was only fun, you know. We all had a laugh. Anyway, Dayna come along to one or two of these parties, but seemed like it wasn't her scene.'

‘You don't mean she was shocked?'

‘No, no, take more than that to shock Dayna. No, she joined in all right first couple of times, but then she kind of lost interest. No percentage in it for her, you see.'

‘What do you mean exactly?'

‘Well, like I said, she used sex to get something out of blokes. Our kind of scene, you know, where we just did it for fun . . . well, nothing in it for her.'

‘Right. I see.'

Shelley giggled at some recollection. ‘Coo, we used to get up to some daft stuff, though . . .'

If she started expanding too much on what they got up to, Charles was afraid he might not be able to keep up his unshocked eye contact, so he said, ‘A girl who behaves like that's going to be very popular – in one sense – but she's also going to make herself pretty unpopular too, isn't she?'

‘With the blokes she's dumped, you mean?'

‘Yes.'

‘You'd think so, wouldn't you? Funny, though, I mean a lot of the girls at Delmoleen's badmouthed her all the time . . . you know, what a slut she was and all that, but the blokes on the whole, certainly the blokes she'd been with – I mean, the ones who you'd expect to be really pissed off – I very rarely heard them say anything against her.'

‘That's strange.'

‘Yeah, it is actually, isn't it? Never really thought about it before, but it is strange. Like she had some hold over them or something.'

‘Any idea what that hold could have been?'

Shelley shrugged. ‘Why you asking all this about her, anyway?'

Charles finally broke the eye contact. ‘Just interest, I suppose. You know, having been there on the day she died, and . . . well . . .'

‘Mm.' Shelley stretched and looked up at the television screen. ‘Looks like the ladies is coming to an end. Must go and get my seat before the hunks come on.'

‘Yes,' said Charles hastily. ‘Just something about one other person I met out at Stenley Curton . . . bloke called Trevor . . .'

‘Trevor?' she echoed blankly.

‘Drives a forklift in the warehouse.'

‘Oh,
Trevor
, right.'

‘He been working there a long time?'

‘Well, certainly there when I started, so that's got to be five years back.'

‘Yes. Was he ever involved in any of the parties you were talking about?'

‘Trevor?' She let out a husky bark of laughter. ‘Trevor wouldn't have fitted in to that scene at all. He'd have stuck out like a . . .' She chuckled throatily. ‘Well, he wouldn't have stuck out at all. Ladies are not Trevor's thing.'

‘Ah.'At least he'd got confirmation of Robin Pritchard's information.

‘So he had nothing to do with you lot at all?'

‘No, his social scene was
very
different from ours.' She paused. ‘Only contact we had with him, we might borrow some stuff now and then.'

‘What sort of stuff?'

‘Video. Trevor was very into video. I mean, now everyone's got a camcorder, but five years ago . . . none of us was that well off for a start . . . but, you know, some of the blokes – well, and the girls, let's be fair – was quite keen to have themselves, like, recorded . . . you know, while they was at it . . . and then play it back and get turned on all over again. You ever done that, Chowss?'

Again her mocking blue eyes were very directly fixed on his. At one level, Charles didn't take her brazenness seriously. It was a game she was playing, more for her benefit than his. At another level, though, he couldn't help being titillated by it.

He laughed what he hoped was a man-of-the-world laugh, implying infinite confident experience of every known sexual permutation.

Shelley's grin suggested that she didn't believe the implication. ‘So, anyway,' he said, clearing his throat, ‘you used to borrow Trevor's equipment?'

Shelley roared with laughter. ‘No, like I said, that wouldn't have been any use to us at all. We borrowed his
video
.'

‘Yes, yes. You knew what I meant.'

‘Maybe I did, maybe I didn't.'

‘Did he just lend it, like that?'

‘Oh, I'm sure one of the lads bunged him a flyer. Only happened a few times. Then one of the other salesmen got a promotion and he bought his own camcorder and that was it.'

She went off into another of her giggles. ‘Do you know, Daryl once rigged it up in a bedroom and filmed this couple who didn't know it was there. Then they come round to dinner couple of weeks later and he puts the cassette in the video and plays it to them. Ooh, it was funny. They was dead embarrassed. Got a really evil sense of humour, my husband,' she concluded with some pride.

That kind of practical joking didn't come under Charles's definition of ‘sense of humour', but he let it pass.

‘Just going back on what we were saying . . . you were never aware of any relationship between Trevor and Dayna, were you?'

‘Relationship? Trevor and Dayna? Well, from what I've said about their interests, I can't see it, can you? She was only after rich men and he wasn't after women of any kind – doesn't sound like True Romance to me. No, if they did have any kind of relationship, you can bet your bottom dollar it was financial.'

‘Hm. You say Dayna was after rich men?'

‘Rich . . . powerful . . . comes to the same thing, really, dunnit? No, what Dayna wanted to do was sleep her way right to the top.'

They heard a throat clearing and turned to see Brian Tressider looking at them. Behind him was Ken Colebourne who instantly and protectively steered his Managing Director away to chat to one of their major distributors who was working his way down a brandy bottle.

But Charles had seen an unexpected look in Brian Tressider's eyes. He felt sure that the Managing Director had heard Shelley's last words.

And that they had had a particular relevance for him.

Charles had been about to go and watch some tennis, but Daryl had reappeared to claim Shelley for the ‘hunks' match, and the risk of accompanying them to the Centre Court was still too great. To give the Custom Car danger time to recede, Charles had another glass of wine.

Then Ken Colebourne joined him. Patricia, he announced, was quite happy watching the tennis. In fact, she was sitting with Frances and they seemed to be getting on very well. ‘Still, I've never been much of a one for tennis – just knocking the ball back and forth over the net all the time, so far as I can see. Grand Prix racing, now that's the sport I like to watch.'

Charles groaned inwardly. It would be too dreadful to have jumped out of the Custom Car frying-pan straight into the Formula One fire.

But, fortunately, the Marketing Director seemed to have no desire to expatiate on his hobby. Instead, he was in a mood to tell jokes and, after a few glasses of wine, Charles was prepared to indulge the mood. Even to join in it. So the two of them, fuelled by yet more wine, played that traditional pastime of mutual joke-telling which for centuries has kept men from talking about anything that matters, and given them the illusion of conviviality without any real contact.

At one point Charles did try to get the conversation on to Brian Tressider, but Ken Colebourne alertly deflected the subject. Charles was once again struck by the care with which the Marketing Director protected his boss.

And so the afternoon passed. Other Delmoleen guests drifted in and out of the marquee, tea and cakes were served at some point. Drinks were available as long as anyone wanted them, and Charles had a bonhomous sense of having chattered amiably with a great many really nice people.

They were a splendid lot, he decided, really,
really
nice people. All that nonsense that was talked about people in industry and the arts being different . . . People, when you came down to it, people were people – that's what mattered. Not where they came from or what they did, but the fact that they were people. People.

He was saying this with some force to the major distributor who was working his way down a second brandy bottle and finding that, though his new friend was agreeing with him, it was still a point that needed repeating, when he became aware of a cleared throat behind him.

He turned round to see Frances. She still looked lovely in the navy suit. He told her how lovely she looked. Then, in case she hadn't got the message, he told her again.

‘Yes, Charles,' she said – somewhat coldly, he thought. ‘It's time we went to meet our car.'

‘Oh, really? Feels like we've only just arrived.' He rose to his feet. The marquee wobbled rather endearingly around him. ‘Must just have a pee.'

When he came back, Frances was thanking the Managing Director for Delmoleen's hospitality. Brenda Tressider stood by her husband's side, smiling graciously.

Charles joined in the thanks. It really had been a splendid day.

Brian Tressider was delighted he had enjoyed it.

Oh yes, it really had been a splendid day, Charles confirmed.

Brenda Tressider looked forward to seeing him on the television again soon. Were there going to be any more of that delightful
Stanislas Braid
series?

Well, no, there weren't, actually, but there was still no denying that it had been a splendid day.

Frances led him away.

He told her how lovely she looked.

‘Yes, all right, Charles, you've said that.'

‘Have I? Well, it's still true. I –'

‘I hope you didn't make Ken Colebourne drink too much.'

‘What do you mean – make him? I –'

‘I was talking to his wife, Patricia. She's very worried about the amount he drinks.'

‘Oh, come on, he's Marketing Director. In that kind of job, I should think the drinking goes with the territory.'

‘Well, Patricia worries about it. She's very dependent on him, you know.'

What a perfect cue, thought Charles. He took his wife's arm. ‘And I'm very dependent on you, you know.'

Frances firmly disengaged her arm. ‘Ah, there's the car over there.'

They got in the back. ‘Where to first?' asked the driver.

‘Ah,' said Charles. ‘Well, look, Frances, why don't we go back to your flat? Then we can have a drink, and I'll take you out for dinner and –'

‘Hereford Road first, please,' said Frances. ‘My companion will be getting off there.'