Corporate Bodies (6 page)

The Warehouse Manager nodded. He was completely solid with his boss. Both of them knew that an investigation had to take place; neither of them wanted that investigation to make any waves. All they did want was for Delmoleen to return to business-as-usual as soon as possible.

Already, Charles had noticed with some shock, the site of the accident had been cleared up, sawdust scattered and swept away, disinfectant sprinkled. Along the other aisles of the warehouse forklifts and stockpickers plied their trade, as the waiting lorries slowly filled with Delmoleen products. Whatever kind of investigation did ensue, it wasn't going to have much to go on from the forensic point of view.

‘And it's quite likely,' Brian continued, ‘that we could be the subject of an external investigation too. In fact, it's pretty well certain that the boys from the Environmental Health Department will be along soon.

‘I'm going to be in London and abroad for the next few weeks, so I want to say to all of you now, that if their inspectors do come round to talk to you, please co-operate. Answer any questions they ask you, but – and this is an important “but” – don't tell them more than they ask. OK? No speculation, no comments about the poor kid's character – none of that stuff, all right?'

The assembled group nodded agreement. Ken Colebourne caught Robin Pritchard's eye and shook his head wryly.

‘Isn't it possible,' Charles hazarded gently, ‘that the police might also make some kind of investigation?'

A roomful of cold eyes focused on him.

‘I wouldn't have thought that would be necessary,' said Brian Tressider. ‘We are talking about an
accident
here.'

‘Yes, but –'

The Managing Director's voice continued on a level note. He was not used to being interrupted. ‘I would also have thought that a police investigation was something that you particularly would wish to avoid, Mr Paris – as the last person to leave the warehouse before the accident,
and
the last person to touch the forklift that caused it.'

‘I'm fairly sure I wasn't the last person,' Charles persisted. ‘I'm also positive that I switched the engine off when I left the truck.'

‘I'd doubt that.' Now Trevor had joined in the argument. ‘Did any of you see the way he was farting around on that forklift this morning – bloody hopeless? Hardly knew if it was in “forward” or “reverse”. Can't expect a bloody actor to remember whether he's left it switched on or not.'

Without this aggression, Charles probably wouldn't have made a public accusation, but he was stung and spoke before he could stop himself. ‘I know I switched it off,' he announced firmly, ‘and I'm pretty sure that someone else switched it back on again. In fact, as I left the warehouse, I saw someone going in.'

Trevor sensed he was about to be named and came in quickly with his admission. ‘All right, I was going in there, don't deny it. Left me fags. Just nipped in to get them.'

The operator blushed defiantly, judging that the pro-cover-up mood of the meeting would probably preclude further questions.

But he'd underestimated his Managing Director. Brian Tressider wanted the investigations to be concluded as quickly as possible, but he wasn't going to ignore this new information. ‘Why didn't you mention this before, Trevor?'

The blush grew deeper. ‘Like I said . . . I just nipped in. I, er . . . I . . .'

He looked acutely uncomfortable, but salvation came from an unexpected source.

They all looked round as Heather spoke. ‘That's right. I saw Trevor as he came into the warehouse. Then he came into my office for a chat. You remember, because my mother rang while you were here, didn't she, Trevor?'

There was an infinitesimal pause before the operator replied, ‘Yes, Heather, that's right.'

Charles was convinced they were lying. ‘So how long was Trevor with you?'

‘Till about one, I suppose.'

Nearly all the time that Charles had been absent from the warehouse. He'd seen Trevor on the way out, gone to the canteen to eat his Steak Pie and Jam Roly-Poly, and apparently just missed Trevor on his return. What on earth had Heather and the forklift operator talked about for so long?

‘Yes, it would have been one o'clock,' Heather went on, ‘because that's when you came in, Brian. Trevor had just gone out
there
' – she indicated the door that led to the exterior – ‘when you came in from the warehouse, Brian.'

The Managing Director eyed the actor sardonically. ‘Well, I think we seem to have sorted out Trevor's movements, anyway, Mr Paris.'

Charles wasn't satisfied. Nor could he provide a logical motive for Heather's rescue of Trevor. Perhaps it was done simply in the cause of company solidarity. Or maybe she nursed a secret passion for the operator. Heather must have been in her early fifties. She didn't look the sort of woman in whose life romance had featured much; so it was in theory possible that she might have a love object as unprepossessing as Trevor.

But whatever her motivation, Charles still didn't believe the alibi she had provided. ‘Look, it still seems to me –'

He was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone on Heather's desk. She answered it. ‘Yes. Oh, hello, Mrs Tressider. Yes, he's here. Brian.' The phone was handed across.

‘Yes, darling? Mr and Mrs Richman? Oh, right. Well, say all the appropriate things. Yes, I'll come over and talk to them straight away. See you shortly.'

He handed the phone back to Heather, and sighed. ‘Brenda's at the hospital, with the girl's parents. I'm afraid Dayna's just died.'

There were mixed reactions of shock and other sentiments appropriate to the announcement of a death.

Only Brian Tressider showed nothing.

And once again Charles was aware of Heather staring into her boss's face, looking for some reaction.

But what reaction she was expecting it was again impossible to tell.

NEEDLESS to say, there wasn't a bar on the local service from Stenley Curton, nor were Charles Paris and Will Parton lucky enough to catch a properly equipped train from Bedford, so it was St Pancras before they could get a drink. And they needed it so much that they hardly noticed the unappealing surroundings of the station buffet. (Actually, to be truthful, environment never impinged that much on Charles's consciousness when he was drinking.)

They had hardly spoken on the journey, both shocked into silence and locked in their own thoughts. The first large Bell's went down without words, hardly touching the sides, but the second opened the floodgates.

‘Do you know anything at all about the girl, Will?'

The writer shrugged. ‘Not a lot. My in-depth study of the Delmoleen operation didn't get as far as the typing pool.'

‘That's what she was – just a typist?'

‘Come on, she was only about nineteen. She was hardly going to be Sales Manager, was she?'

‘No. And you don't know anything else about her?'

‘Just that she tended to be around a lot.'

‘How do you mean?'

‘Well, I've been over at Stenley Curton a good few times in the last months and, whoever I had a meeting with, I always seemed to see Dayna Richman at some point. It was as if she was pushing herself forward all the time.'

‘What does that suggest – that she had fallen madly in love with you?'

Will shook his head wearily. ‘No, Charles. It suggests that she had fallen madly in love with the idea of being on camera.'

‘Ah. She saw appearing in a corporate video as the first step on the ladder to stardom? Hoping some major film director would spot her talent and catapult her to Hollywood?'

‘Maybe something on those lines. Or maybe she just saw it as a way of getting noticed within the company. She was pretty ambitious, I gather. As you saw, liked attention. Hardly a shrinking violet.'

‘Hardly. And presumably she worked in the Dispatch Office?'

‘No, she didn't. I think she was in Personnel, some department like that. Though apparently she was always applying for other jobs. Really, Charles, I hardly know any more about her than you do.'

‘You must at least know how she came to be in the video?'

Will Parton spread his hands wide. ‘Think of what she looked like. You're doing a video to boost the in-house image of the company . . . so who do you show in the Dispatch Office – the frump or the vamp? Heather or Dayna?'

‘See what you mean. So you reckon Dayna kept puffing herself forward with just that outcome in mind?'

‘I'd have thought so, Charles. And it worked, didn't it? She got the job.'

‘Yes. And who would have given her that job – I mean, who actually said, “All right, Dayna, you do it”?'

‘Be Ken Coleboume, I suppose. He's sort of in charge of the video from the Delmoleen end – he's the one I have to check everything with. So if he suggested Dayna to Griff . . . well, Griff's hardly the kind of guy who's going to argue, is he?'

‘No. Did you actually hear that exchange take place – I mean, hear the moment when Ken suggested Dayna should be in the video?'

Will screwed up his face as he tried to remember. ‘Ye-es. Yes, I did. It was only a couple of weeks back. Griff just said fine. He was getting paid, he didn't care what was suggested.'

‘No.'

Their glasses had unaccountably emptied themselves once again. Will went to the bar to remedy this defect. Charles looked thoughtful. His mind was buzzing with potential motivations. Taking the proffered refill from Will, he mused, ‘Heather must've been pretty miffed.'

‘Hm?'

‘Heather – the one who runs the Dispatch Office. I mean, she doesn't look the sort of woman whose life has been full of excitements. For her to have been aced out of the video by some dolly bird who doesn't even work in the department must've been pretty galling.'

‘Apparently not. No, according to Ken Colebourne, Heather was delighted.'

‘Why?'

‘Maybe hard for you, as an actor, to believe it, Charles, but there are people in this world who don't like showing off, people for whom the idea of being under public scrutiny is absolutely terrifying. It seems that Heather is one of those. Ken had asked her to be in the video, but the prospect appalled her. She kept begging him to find someone else, and when Dayna was suggested, Heather was over the moon.'

‘Oh,' said Charles, disappointedly watching that particular conjecture crumble away. He moved on to another one. ‘There had clearly been something going on between Dayna and Trevor, hadn't there?'

The writer lifted his shoulders dismissively. ‘Could've been.'

‘Oh, come on, Will. It was obvious. Did you see the way he reacted when she arrived? Up until that moment, he'd been all keen to do more in the video, then suddenly he goes cold on the whole idea. They must've been having an affair, or just've broken off an affair or . . .'

‘Charles,' said Will with deliberately infuriating condescension, ‘there are other motivations in life apart from sex.'

‘Maybe, but –'

‘Just because you're obsessed with the subject, and just because, as a dirty old man, you can't look at a pretty young girl without immediately wondering who's bonking her, it doesn't mean that everyone is the same.' He affected the drawl of intellectual pretension. ‘
As a writer
, of course, I have a much deeper understanding of the multifarious nature of human motivations.'

Will had given too good a cue to the counter-attack for Charles to ignore it. ‘And,
as a writer
, do tell me – what are you going to be working on next? Can it be that you're finally about to start on the new play we've all heard so much about?'

The barb found its target. Will Parton coloured. ‘No. That'll have to wait. I've still got quite a lot to do on the Delmoleen front, as it happens.'

‘What, more out at Stenley Curton?'

‘Uhuh. Few more bits showing what a united company it is. Bijou scenettes in some of the offices, shots of the actual manufacturing process, staff relaxing in the canteen, high jinks in the firm's social club, all that. And then, if I play my cards right, I might secure
Parton Parcel
the contract for the Delmoleen sales conference in Brighton at the end of September.'

‘I see. This one could run and run.'

‘With a bit of luck, yes.'

‘Well, if any of those bijou scenettes might involve a forklift truck operator capable of speech, do let me know.'

‘Now taking bookings, are you, Charles?'

‘Well, I do actually have a few free days . . . Just the odd one or two . . . Well, any time, really . . . Any date you care to mention, between now and my death . . . And, if it's a really good part, I won't let a little thing like that stop me.'

‘So I just get in touch with your agent, do I?'

‘Don't you dare! Keep Maurice out of this. No, anything corporate, do it direct.'

‘OK.' Will dropped the bantering tone. ‘Actually, there could be a bit in the canteen sequence. Need someone to talk there.'

‘I'll happily expatiate on the virtues of the Jam Roly-Poly for you.'

‘May well take you up on that. I'll let you know.'

‘I've heard that line before somewhere . . . can't think where. Still, it would be great if there is anything.' Charles grimaced thoughtfully. ‘No, I'd really like to get back to Stenley Curton.'

‘What, for–?' Will looked at his friend despairingly. ‘Oh, Charles,
no
.'

Charles looked the picture of aggrieved innocence. ‘What are you on about?'

‘This is like on the
Stanislas Braid
series, isn't it? You see this as the start of an investigation. You just don't believe in the philosophical concept of an
accident.
You think that girl Dayna Richman was murdered, don't you?'