They stood on the front step for a moment, looking out into the street. The storm had moved away. There was a dripping in the trees and bushes, and the smell of rain on grass. A car drove by, house music pumping from its open windows.
‘By the way,’ Connor said, ‘where were you when I phoned? It sounded strange — the background …’
‘Crystal Palace,’ Jimmy said. ‘I was watching the synchronised swimming.’
Connor looked at him. ‘That’s a new interest, I take it.’
Jimmy smiled faintly, but didn’t comment.
When he was sitting in his car again, he took out his mobile and called the pool. This time a man answered. Jimmy asked if he could speak to Karen Paley.
‘I’m sorry,’ the man said. ‘You can’t.’
‘I must be able to. She’s competing there today.’
‘You don’t understand,’ the man said. ‘It’s finished. It’s all over.’
Cheops
Monday morning, half-past eight. Sun slanting through the glass wall of the boardroom. From Jimmy’s point of view, the weather couldn’t have been more ironic. Bright ideas, clarity of thought, accountability — they were all ideals that had been seriously undermined by what Connor had told him over the weekend; they could come crashing down at any moment, like statues in a revolution. Jimmy sent a surreptitious glance across the table. Debbie Groil seemed to have opened her wardrobe in a defiant mood that morning. She had chosen a scarlet blazer with gold buttons, and a frothy white blouse. Her tights, Jimmy knew without looking, would be blue. Sitting next to Debbie was Neil Bowes. He looked sallow, bilious, the skin under his eyes hanging in the kind of loops that curtains have in cinemas. He would have spent a sleepless night, imagining the worst — though, actually, this was worse than he could possibly have imagined; Jimmy had to keep reminding himself that both Neil and Debbie had been summoned to the meeting knowing nothing of what was on the agenda. Only Connor seemed unconcerned, his hands clasped loosely on the table, his gaze passing beyond the glass and out into a complacent sunlit world.
‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘perhaps we should begin.’
As they were all aware, he went on, the launch of Kwench! had been an extraordinary success. During the first two months of distribution in the UK, sales of the brand had been phenomenal. They had forced most sectors of the market to sit up and take notice. Everyone in the room had played a part in that success, and everybody in the room was entitled to a share of the credit. However, he added, and here his voice dropped an octave, there had been a secret aspect to the launch, an aspect that had been highly original, highly innovative. They had found themselves in new territory, territory that nobody had ventured into before. There had been unpredictable elements, factors they hadn’t always been sure they could control. Which was only to be expected, given the lack of precedent.
Debbie was looking at Connor now, a blank and yet unflinching look, and Jimmy knew instinctively what she was thinking. How long can someone talk without actually saying anything? At that precise moment, though, Connor seemed to sense her impatience because he launched into a detailed outline of Project Secretary — its infrastructure, and the philosophy behind it. He talked persuasively about the excitement of creating word of mouth — quite literally creating it. He even made use of Jimmy’s private vocabulary, describing the people who had been through their programme as ‘ambassadors’. He was just building to a climax when Debbie interrupted.
‘You know, I had a journalist on the phone on Friday afternoon,’ she said, ‘all very nice, very charming, and I was thinking: What does he know that I don’t know? What’s he on to?’ She lifted her eyes to the window and shook her head. ‘I can’t believe you went ahead with something like this.’ She looked at Neil, but Neil was staring at his notepad as though he was hoping it would turn into a trap-door and he could disappear through it. ‘If you’d come to me six months ago,’ she went on, and her voice was shaking a little now and her throat had flushed above the ruffled collar of her blouse, ‘if you’d told me about this, I would have said —’ She checked herself. ‘Well, it’s unrepeatable.’
Jimmy was struck by her outspokenness. No one had ever dared to address Connor quite so directly — at least, not in his experience. To his surprise he found himself admiring her.
‘This is not about recrimination, Debbie,’ Connor said calmly. ‘This is about pragmatism. We have a situation on our hands. What we’re doing here this morning is deciding how best to deal with it.’
‘So what exactly is the situation?’ she said.
‘Probably you’re not aware of this,’ Connor said, ‘but I have several people working for me in the media, people who supply me with information. It helps me to plan strategies. It can also act as an early-warning system. Towards the end of last week I received a communication from one of these people.’ He took out a pair of half-moon spectacles and put them on. After straightening the sheet of paper that was lying in front of him, he looked up for a moment, over the thin gold rims. ‘I’ll just read the relevant passage.
A freelance journalist is thinking of writing an in-depth piece about your company, with particular reference to the division responsible for Kwench!. It seems unlikely that the piece will be favourable. In fact, the journalist in question appears to have information, or access to information, relating to practices that he describes as highly irregular, if not actually illegal. At this point, his source is still anonymous, though I don’t expect it to remain so for much longer. The allegations of irregularity relate specifically to the way in which Kwench! has been marketed. He details instances of bizarre behaviour on the part of certain consumers, and speculates as to the origins of this behaviour. There is some talk of a subliminal campaign, though there doesn’t seem to be any evidence to back this up as yet …’
Connor removed his spectacles. ‘Talk,’ he said, ‘Rumour. Speculation. That, I feel, should be our first line of defence —’
‘But it’s true,’ Debbie broke in. ‘You just admitted it.’
‘Truth is not the issue here.’
There was an edge to Connor’s voice that Jimmy had never heard before. Debbie looked as if she had just been dipped in liquid nitrogen: touch her with your finger and she would shatter into a million fragments.
Feeling sorry for her, Jimmy stepped into the silence. ‘All the same,’ he said, ‘if this article comes out, it could be pretty damaging …’
Connor folded his spectacles, each separate click of the slender golden arms against the frames quite audible, like twigs snapping in a wood in winter. ‘Clearly this journalist, whoever he is, must be discouraged. The article must not be written.’
‘What about the source?’ Jimmy said.
‘Cheops,’ said Connor.
Jimmy stared at him. ‘I’m sorry?’
Connor eased back in his chair. ‘Do you remember the story of the pyramids at Giza? Once they were completed, the Pharaoh had all the slaves who’d been involved in their construction put to death. That way, the design would remain a secret.’ Connor smiled faintly. ‘Let’s just say that I’ve taken equivalent precautions. Figuratively speaking, of course.’
Lambert, Jimmy thought.
‘Hand in hand with any measures I might have taken,’ Connor was saying, ‘are the measures I expect Communications to take — deflecting any attacks the media might be planning, keeping publicity to an absolute minimum.’ His gaze settled on Neil and Debbie. ‘I know I can trust you both to do an effective job on this.’ He paused. ‘It could be a busy week.’