Corporate Bodies (10 page)

The Delmoleen canteen had deprived him of alcohol, but he doubted whether anything would have subdued his excitement that afternoon.

The information he had gathered from Mrs Routledge represented a big breakthrough in the murder investigation. With Trevor's alibi shot to pieces, the possible scenario which had led up to Dayna Richman's death had altered radically. Putting on one side for a moment the reasons for Heather's behaviour, Charles Paris now had to find out more about the forklift operator's actions that fateful lunchtime.

And that meant paying another visit to the warehouse.

On his way across from the canteen, Charles met a very excited Will Parton. The excitement was in part due to the fact that the Delmoleen Executive dining room – unlike the canteen – did include alcohol amongst its privileges, but it had a second, more important, cause.

‘Got another job, Charles,' the writer said gleefully.

‘Oh yes?'

‘Met Robin Pritchard in the Executive dining room.'

‘You know all the stars, don't you?'

‘Anyway, Biscuits and Cereals are launching a new product – very exciting, going to be very
big
. . .'

‘With
global
outreach, no doubt?'

‘You said it, Charles. It's going to be launched to the sales force at the sales conference in September, and he wants me to organise the presentation.'

‘Just you as a writer, or is this a
Parton Parcel
job?'

‘
Parton Parcel.
I mean, obviously I will write everything, but I get to direct it as well, if I want to – or bring in an outside director or . . . well, the possibilities are infinite.'

‘This going to be another video job?'

‘Could be. I'm having a meeting with Robin to sort out the nitty-gritty next week. At the moment we're thinking about a live kind of revue format, possibly with a slide presentation backing it up . . . we might add a video element, though . . . details to be sorted out, as I say. But it's a big, solid job – keep me busy for quite a while.'

‘So the play gets deferred yet again?'

Will Parton looked pained. ‘Got to go where the work is, Charles love.'

‘Oh yes. You don't have to tell me that.'

‘No.'

‘And of course, if there is a role in the presentation for a speaking forklift truck operator . . . or indeed anything else . . . I'm a very versatile actor, you know . . . Forty-eight, but play younger . . .?'

‘I'll bear it in mind, see if there is anything,' said Will loftily. He was rather enjoying the impresario role. His dismissiveness of Charles was revenge for years and years of working as a journeyman in television, endlessly rewriting, doing exactly what directors told him all the time. Through his involvement in
Parton Parcel
and the corporate videos, Will Parton was achieving a taste of that magic possession so rarely granted to writers – power.

‘Are you going to the station, Charles?'

‘Will be shortly. When's the next train?'

The writer, in his new hyper-efficient producer mode, had such facts at his fingertips. ‘Two thirty-seven.'

‘Oh, well, we've got a bit of time. Just someone I want to have a word with, so . . . see you on the platform?'

Will Parton looked at his friend wryly. ‘You're not still off on this murder investigation routine, are you?'

‘Well . . .' Charles shrugged awkwardly and made a hasty change of subject. ‘What is this new product Robin Pritchard's launching?'

‘Oh, couldn't tell you that, Charles. Bound to secrecy.' Will dropped into the earnest tones of the Product Manager. ‘But I can tell you it's going to be very
big
.'

‘Look, I'm not going to pass it on to anyone. No one I know gives a damn about new departures in the wonderful world of foodstuffs.'

‘Ah, you may think that, Charles, but can't be too careful.'

‘What you're actually saying, Will, is that you don't know what it is yet, do you?'

The writer was only momentarily discomfitted. ‘That I'm afraid I can't reveal. But if the information had been kept from me, there would be good reasons for it.' He looked around elaborately and hissed, ‘Industrial espionage – their spies are everywhere.'

‘Come off it.'

‘True. Lot of other companies desperate to increase their market share. If they found out about the new launch at this stage, it'd give them time to develop their own rival products.'

‘Does it really work like that?'

‘You betcha.' Will Parton winked conspiratorially. ‘Biscuits and Cereals is a crumby business, Charles.'

The forklifts in the warehouse were plying their endless trade, loading up with pallets from the shelves and carrying them across to the insatiable lorries.

No one seemed to notice Charles's entrance. The Delmoleen overalls had been shed, so perhaps his ‘Trevor' costume helped him melt into the scenery. More likely, the operators on their trucks were concentrating too hard on their work to see the newcomer.

He cast a quick glance at the outer office, but it was empty. Heather was either in the back room or, more likely, still suffering her mother's monody of irrelevancies.

The aisle where Dayna had died was empty. At its end once again there was a pile of empty pallets, though probably the original stack had been removed and another accumulated in the weeks since the incident.

Charles moved softly down the aisle. He knew it was ridiculous to hope that anything might still remain in the cavity between the pallets and the wall, but he was now fully psyched up and had to prove it by the evidence of his own eyes.

The hum of the forklifts and the occasional raucous shout from their operators sounded very distant.

He came to the end of the aisle and, with a quick look to either side, moved forward to the pallets.

‘What the hell are you doing?'

Charles whirled round and found himself face to face with Trevor, who had just emerged from the end of the adjacent aisle. Whether he had been monitoring Charles's progress since the actor came into the warehouse or had just appeared at that moment by coincidence was impossible to know.

But the operator looked very mean. From his hand dangled one of the crowbars that was used for raising the lids of crates.

Charles said nothing as Trevor advanced towards him.

‘Why're you snooping around?'

‘We're here doing some more work on the video,' Charles's dry mouth managed to reply.

‘That's in the canteen. No reason why you should be in here.'

‘No. I just wanted to have a look around.'

Trevor tapped the crowbar on his open palm. ‘Well, nobody wants people like you looking around.'

Charles tried to brazen it out. ‘Perhaps not, but I want to do it. I still want to know what happened to Dayna Richman.'

‘She died. There was an accident with a forklift truck and she died. If you hadn't left the truck switched on, she'd still be alive.'

‘I didn't leave the truck switched on.'

‘Don't try and be clever with me.' Trevor moved closer, close enough for Charles to smell the stale cigarette smoke on his breath. ‘Just mind your own bloody business and get out of here – otherwise you're going to get hurt.' The crowbar was menacingly half-raised.

‘You wouldn't dare hurt me in here. I'd shout. Someone'd hear me.'

Trevor let out a short bark of laughter. He jerked his head back towards the other forklifts. ‘Everyone here's a mate of mine. None of them have got much time for bleeding wankers like actors. If I want to hurt you, nobody's going to stop me.'

‘Listen,' said Charles, sounding calmer than he felt, ‘I want some information from you.'

‘Oh yes? And what makes you think I'm going to give you any information?'

‘To clear your name.'

‘My name doesn't need clearing. Dayna's death was an accident, unfortunate combination of circumstances, the enquiry said. No individual to blame.'

‘But the enquiry was just a cover-up.'

Trevor shrugged. ‘Prove it.'

‘Listen,' Charles said again, trying to assert himself, ‘I don't think Dayna's death was an accident.'

‘Oh no? What was it then?'

‘Murder.'

‘Really? Well, as I just said – you just try and prove it.'

‘What's more,' Charles went on recklessly, ‘I think you are the one who killed her.'

The attack came so quickly he had no time to defend himself. He felt the neck of his T-shirt grabbed so that the collar closed round his neck like a noose. At the same moment Trevor's knee smashed up into Charles's balls.

He supposed he should have been grateful that the crowbar hadn't been used, but, in the eye-watering agony of that moment, he thought he would have preferred it.

Trevor's smoky breath was right up against Charles's face as the voice hissed, ‘Don't you dare ever say that again! You repeat that and there will be a murder done! And you'll be the one whose body never gets found! You breathe another word about –'

‘Trevor,' said an authoritative voice from behind Charles, ‘what the hell do you think you're doing?'

Charles had forgotten just how much a knee in the balls could hurt. His life, though shadowed by alcohol, had included surprisingly little drunken brawling, and he had to think back to playground fights of his schooldays for comparable injuries. But he had no problem in recognising the pain.

The trouble was, the way it made him walk instantly identified the cause of his problem, and he'd found the short trip from the warehouse to the office of his saviour, Ken Coleboume, extremely embarrassing. Delmoleen workers – both male and, to his surprise and mortification, female – provided a range of ready, if unoriginal, witticisms as he passed.

In the office – thank God – the Marketing Director kept a secret supply of liquor, and a couple of medicinal brandies slightly dulled the grinding agony in Charles's testicles – so long as he didn't try to do anything clever, like moving. He felt a sudden, totally irrational desire to sneeze, and prayed that he would be able to control it.

On the other side of the desk, Ken Colebourne looked serious. ‘I'm extremely sorry about what's happened, Charles, but I'd really be grateful if you could keep quiet about it.'

Yes, of course. The Delmoleen name mustn't be tarnished by any adverse publicity. The company must be kept smelling of roses, just as it had been after Dayna's death.

As it happened, Charles didn't want any enquiries into what he had been doing to provoke Trevor's attack, so he had no intention of making a fuss. He told Ken as much.

The Marketing Director didn't look totally reassured. ‘It really is very important that this is kept quiet.'

‘Don't worry. It will be.'

‘Good.' But a note of doubt remained in his voice. ‘Why did you want to talk to Trevor?'

‘I didn't. I was just down there, and he started talking to me.'

‘I'd keep well away from him if I were you. He's a nasty piece of work. Can be quite violent.'

Charles made the mistake of moving. ‘You don't have to tell me,' he agreed through gritted teeth.

‘No.' Ken still seemed uncertain, as if there was something else, some further reassurance, he wanted from Charles. ‘If you had been thinking of having any dealings with Trevor,' he went on awkwardly, ‘I'd give up the idea. It won't do you any good. You won't get anything out of him. He's trouble, you know.'

‘I do know.'

‘Hm.' But the Marketing Director couldn't leave the subject alone. ‘You weren't asking him about what he and Dayna got up to, were you?'

‘No. As I say, he just came up to me and started getting aggressive. I think he was probably still miffed that I was substituted for him in the video.'

Ken Colebourne nodded, not believing the explanation any more than Charles did. ‘Yes, that was probably it. Anyway, as I say, Charles, I'd leave it. Difficult for an outsider to understand quite how things work in a place like Delmoleen. I'd just steer clear of Trevor and forget the whole business, if I were you.'

Charles nodded. That was unwise; the movement jolted right through his body and ripples of pain lapped outwards from his groin.

The Marketing Director looked at his watch. ‘You going to be all right to get back on the train? I could lay on a car for you if you like.'

‘Oh, I'll be fine.' Then Charles thought of the gleeful pleasantries with which Will Parton was likely to greet his affliction. The prospect of the writer's wit working overtime all the way to St Pancras was more than he could face. He winced. ‘Well, actually, if you wouldn't mind . . .'

Ken Colebourne got on the phone to his secretary and organised transport. He proffered more brandy. Charles was at first inclined to refuse, but then thought, what the hell, I'm not going to be in any state to do anything else today, may as well succumb. He allowed his glass to be generously filled, without worrying about the fact that he'd almost definitely move on to the whisky when he got back to Hereford Road. He'd cross that hangover when he came to it.

‘So I have your word that you won't mention this to anyone?' Ken insisted.

‘No problem. Forgotten all about it already.'

Charles was intrigued by the man's over-reaction. Again it suggested some involvement in the affairs of Trevor and Dayna, and stimulated rather than allayed suspicion.

What the Marketing Director said next stimulated it even more. ‘And if there's any favour I can do for you that'll help you forget the whole business, well, you only have to say the word . . .'

This was so unexpected that it took Charles a moment to realise he was being offered a bribe. ‘Favour?' he echoed stupidly.

‘Yes.' Ken Colebourne wasn't finding these negotiations particularly easy, but he was managing without total embarrassment, which suggested it wasn't the first time he'd made such offers.