The Barbershop Seven (219 page)

'Right,' said Hemingway, who was reading down the list, 'we've done the wine gums, Ethiopian immigration fiasco, diet headache tablets for women and the pension security thing. That just leaves WonderSocks.'

'Yeah,' said Wodehouse, 'WonderSocks.'

Orwell shook his head. Wodehouse also shook his head. Then nodded. Big contract, they had given it to Fitzgerald because it was a shootie-in.

'What have we got so far?' asked Orwell.

Hemingway sighed and looked over the rough outline that he and Fitzgerald had worked through in ten minutes the previous week.

'We're looking at a nationwide billboard campaign. We're thinking Naomi or Kate, maybe go Hollywood and get Uma or Liv, not sure.'

'What about Kate Winslet?' said Orwell, although as he spoke he was actually thinking about Taylor Bergerac, the main issue which was occupying his mind.

'Too chunky,' said Hemingway.

'Been at the mince pies,' said Wodehouse, shaking his head.

'Jesus, give the girl a break,' said Orwell. 'She's hot.'

'Fine, if we were looking at her breasts,' said Hemingway. 'We're selling socks. We need to stay focused,' he added, because he could tell Orwell wasn't entirely switched on, and he was feeling a new lease of confidence with Fitzgerald's sudden departure. Fancied himself in pole position for the Head of TV Contracts gig. 'So,' he continued, 'we're looking at some slim überbabe, she's in the buff, full frontal breast shot ... '

'So we are looking at her breasts?' said Orwell, smiling. 'You see, Piers, we're always looking at their breasts.'

'The client specified slim,' said Hemingway.

'Slim,' said Wodehouse.

'There'll be the usual stink after the girl's tits go up all round the country,' said Hemingway, 'so we'll have to be ready with the back-up poster as soon as we get the call from the ASW.'

'For the follow up,' said Orwell, 'the bird has to be staring out at the public with a look that says, you could've been looking at my boobs right now if it hadn't been for the complaint from that boring old twat sitting next to you on the bus.'

'Totally,' said Hemingway.

'Yeah,' said Wodehouse.

'Socks can be sexy,' said Hemingway, 'that's the hook. She's lying back on the carpet ... '

'Looking as if she's just been shagged?' said Orwell.

'Depends who we go with. If it's Uma or Naomi, you probably want to go with that whole ice-queen, you can look but you better not touch thing. If we end up with Cameron Diaz, we'd go with the shagged look.'

'Good point,' said Wodehouse.

'She's on the carpet,' said Hemingway, 'with her feet propped up on the edge of a leather sofa. Black and white photograph, socks alone are in bright colour. We'll use a variety, with at least ten different posters.'

'Excellent,' said Orwell. 'How much of that came from Fitzgerald?'

'About twenty-eighty,' said Hemingway, fluffing out his own part in the piece. Orwell bought it and nodded. Any of them could've done it in their sleep. Poor old Hugo, going through the motions.

'And TV?' asked Orwell.

'We're going for a combo of the sex thing and the scientific aspect. Horny and naked-except-for-socks bird walking through a chic apartment, while we explain that WonderSocks improve your posture, thereby making your breasts look great, they ensure your feet are fragrant, even at the end of the day, and they help you go to the bathroom, lose weight, make your hair shine, get rid of spots, banish cellulite forever and reduce stress.'

'Excellent,' said Wodehouse.

'And some sort of spiel like ... Feel the magic. Enter a world of ecstasy and freedom. Dive into a beautiful pool of orgasms and feel the pleasure and rapture caress your entire body. Give in to the breathtaking intensity of what the New York fashion critics are calling
the most exciting socks produced anywhere in the world in all of history
... '

'Nice. And we're using the same chick as for the billboards?'

'Yeah,' said Hemingway.

'Sounds good, Piers, I like the way you're going with it. When do we have to present?'

'End of next week,' answered Hemingway.

'Cool. Can you have a full outline with me by Monday afternoon?'

'No problem,' said Hemingway.

'Easy,' said Wodehouse.

Orwell sat back and nodded. Twenty-five minutes and that was a wrap on the work of Hugo Fitzgerald. That was how it was sometimes. Didn't mean he wouldn't have been Premiership some day, but certainly not now. Dying might be a cool career move for movie stars, but in advertising it's a complete wash-out.

Hemingway rose and walked from the room, Wodehouse on his coat-tails. When the door was closed, Orwell stood up and looked out of the window. Had a wonderful view up the north bank towards the city, as well as out across the river and away south. Almost time, he thought, to nip along to the Wilbury Close for a quick pint. Sort out a few things in his head.

In the thirty-three minutes between Frankenstein and Monk leaving, and the arrival of Hemingway and Wodehouse, Orwell had concentrated on the Waferthin.com file. It was good work, an excellent presentation of a quality business plan. Trashed the opposition, talked their own product up to the sky. There was no mention, of course, of what they had verbalised to him – Orwell thought in terms of words like verbalise – that the genuine business plan included a definite intention to fold the company.

Three and a half seconds after Hemingway and Wodehouse had left the room, the door opened. Orwell didn't turn round.

'The police sergeant is back,' said Rose.

Orwell's heart sank, his initial thought being that this would be the pointless little man who had so offended him, because he'd had exactly the same opinions on art as he had himself. He turned to see Rose usher Daniella Monk into the room, and immediately he relaxed.

'If you've got a few more minutes,' said Monk.

'Just going for a pint,' he said. 'You want to come, Sergeant?'

Monk hesitated – bad move to let them dictate the location – but then the alternative was his office with absurd banana wallpaper.

'Sure,' she said.

***

M
onk sat and stared at the floor of the Wilbury Close while Orwell got the drinks in. She'd ordered a half cider and hoped it wouldn't be Strongbow, that ultimate triumph of marketing over taste. While she waited, she looked at an empty packet of Honey Roasted Nuts – roasted in solar-powered ovens,
may contain nuts
– and tried not to let her prejudices get the better of her. Orwell represented everything that she hated about life in the new millennium, style over substance, money over values. Quietly hoping that he was going to turn out to be the killer.

Orwell returned with the drinks and lowered himself into a soft chair. Half Strongbow for Monk, pint of Heineken for himself.

'Cheers,' he said, raising his glass, and she nodded and took a sip. She shouldn't even have been there. She should have had a quick ten minute chat in his office, and then gone amongst the staff.

'What can you tell me about Hugo Fitzgerald?' she said, getting on with it.

'Not a lot,' said Orwell. 'Been with the company a couple of years, a while before I got there. Risen up through the ranks. Maybe not as fast as he ought, but he was getting there. Head of TV Contracts, one of the major positions.'

'So you dealt with him directly?'

'All the time.'

'How many staff does the company employ?'

'Two hundred and thirty-one.'

Monk took out a notebook and started jotting down, trying to obscure with her hand what she was writing.

'Fairly equal men and women?' she asked. There was no answer and she lifted her head. Orwell was looking a little uneasy. 'Equal numbers of men and women?' she repeated.

'Well, you know,' said Orwell, 'I don't believe these things are straightforward.'

'What does that mean?' she said. 'Either it's fairly equal or it's not.'

'Two hundred and eleven of the staff are male orientated.'

A clock ticked. A woman at the bar opened a bag of crisps.

'Male orientated. You mean they're men?'

'Yeah, they're men,' he said.

'So,' said Monk, 'the company employs twenty women. Right?'

'Yeah, Monk, you know, I want to say that that's about right. About twenty women,' he said.

Monk? Who did this guy think he was?

'And how many of those female orientated employees are secretaries or typists?' she asked.

Orwell nodded and took another long drink. It wasn't his company, but he was representing it here and now; and it wasn't as if he didn't agree with Bethlehem's recruitment policy.

'About one hundred percent,' he said.

'That would be all of them, then?' she said.

'Yeah,' said Orwell, 'all of them.'

'That's not exactly representative of today's workforce now, is it?'

'I don't know,' said Orwell. 'I mean, I don't know. Isn't it?'

'The company does not employ any women in executive positions, Mr Orwell. That's not representative.'

'Hey, look,' he said, 'apart from the lousy jobs that men won't do, we don't employ them in clerical positions either. We ain't biased.'

She closed her notebook.

'You're going to explain that,' she said.

Orwell leaned forward. Might as well be open, because this was a murder enquiry about Hugo Fitzgerald, not some trumped up complaint from the equal ops brigade.

'Look, bottom line is, Monk,' he said, 'and I don't mean this personally, but Mr Bethlehem believes that you can't trust women. That's the truth, and you know, I'm inclined to agree with him. Now this may be old fashioned, and you may not like it, but it's what I believe, so I'm owning the statement. Women are unreliable. They have loose tongues. They have no conception of discretion. I don't know if that's genetic, but it's the truth. Then there's the whole menstruation thing, and of course, the fundamental need to go and have a baby the minute they get into a position of responsibility. There are all sorts of issues going on with women.'

'I've heard about men from your planet,' she said.

'Hey, look, Monk,' he said, and she was about to smack his head open over the Monk thing, 'I know what you're thinking. A lot of men ain't much better, and I agree. Okay, we don't menstruate, and the baby thing's way off, but men have faults too. But lets park that for the moment. Basically, men are like dogs. You can read 'em like a book. Happy, pissed off, whatever, it's obvious. But women are like cats. You never know what they're thinking. They'll suck up when they want something, but they've always got their own agenda, and as soon as a better deal comes along, bad-a-bing, they're outta there.'

She took a long drink, holding his gaze throughout.

'Bad-a-bing,' she said.

'Look, it's Mr Bethlehem's company,' he said. 'He has to run it the way he thinks best. We interview women for jobs, course we do, and if ever we get an applicant we think is up for it, she'll be in there.'

'As long as she's had a hysterectomy?' said Monk, witheringly.

'Monk,' said Orwell, and she pursed her lips, 'it is what it is. You want another?'

She straightened her shoulders, until she realised she was pushing out her chest and that Neanderthal Man would probably take it as a come on. So she relaxed and rose to her feet, despite the fact that Orwell was not even half way through his pint.

'I'm going to get back to your office and speak to some of the people who worked with Fitzgerald,' she said.

'Sure thing,' said Orwell. 'Ask for Waugh in MAD, he'll be able to help you out.'

'Thanks,' said Monk, although she wasn't sure what she was thanking him for, and with a nod she turned and walked to the door.

'See you, Monk,' he said to her back She stopped, then turned back and returned to the table, stood over him, held his condescending gaze for a few seconds.

'If you call me Monk again,' she said, 'I'll rip your scrawny little dick off and stick it down your throat. You got that, dude?'

Orwell nodded, said nothing. Monk held his gaze, then walked quickly away, stepping out into the damp chill of a late morning in March.

––––––––

M
onk opened the door to the small shop on the tenth floor. Caught the view first, the main window staring along the Thames towards the barrier, then she looked at the man sitting in the barber's chair, feet on the floor, staring out into space. He didn't turn at the sound of the door. Long day, she presumed, not looking for any more customers. She waited, curious, but he didn't look round.

'Barney Thomson?' she said eventually.

Another second and then Barney turned to face her. Careworn face, eyes that had seen too much. She saw the same attractiveness that most women who saw Barney Thomson for the first time recognised; and she had the sudden shock of wondering if this was a moment such as Sergeant Khan had been talking about the day before.

'Aye,' he said. 'Hair cut?'

'Do I look like an employee?' she asked, her previous two hours in the building having given her a fair understanding of the few women who worked in the establishment.

'Fair point,' said Barney. 'You'll be the police sergeant that everyone's been talking about.'

'Yeah. Can I ask you a few questions?'

Barney gave a slow shrug of the shoulders in reply. There always seemed to be police officers in his life. Didn't make any difference to him anymore what they asked. Had felt the weight of the world on those shrugging shoulders all day, his premonition of the morning having turned out to be true. Fate would have its day once more.

'Take a seat,' he said.

'I'll stand,' she replied. She walked to the window and stood looking down at the murky waters of the river, turning her back on him. This guy was just a routine interview, all in the course of her enquiries; straight bat, ignore the attraction.

'You're employed by the company to do the hair of the staff?' she asked to start the ball rolling.

'You
are
in the police,' said Barney in reply.

She started to turn, but stopped herself.