discovered who I am, they all say how delighted they are to see me and how much they owe to my husband’s kindness to them.’
‘That’s no surprise, Mrs Pargeter. I mean he was a prince among men, your husband, no question about it.’
‘No…’ She resolutely pushed nostalgia from her mind. ‘Stan the Stapler’s the exception, though. He must know who I am — can’t not know who I am, but he hasn’t given any sign of recognizing me. I know he can’t talk, but… Well, I’d swear that he’s deliberately avoided me. Can you think of any reason why he might have done that?’
‘Well…’ The chauffeur straightened his peaked cap. ‘Maybe he’s just shy or…’
‘There’s more to it, isn’t there?’ There was an uncomfortable silence followed by throat clearing from the front seat. ‘You said Stan was always around “in the early days”, Gary…’
‘Yes.’
‘Meaning that he wasn’t around so much towards the end?’
‘No. No, Thicko Thurrock took over a lot of his duties after.. ’
Gary wasn’t finding this easy. Again his words trickled away.
‘After what?’
‘Well…’
‘After Streatham, was it?’ asked Mrs Pargeter with a flash of intuition.
Awkwardly the chauffeur admitted that she was right. After Streatham Stan the Stapler had not been so much in evidence in the late Mr Pargeter’s business empire.
‘But did anyone ever point a finger at him? Did anyone have any proof that he’d been involved in… in what went wrong?’
‘No, no. No proof. Just a few suspicions was round at the time. Not that your husband’d have any of it. After he come out — I mean, when he was back in circulation — your husband wouldn’t have anyone say a word against Stan, said he still stood by all his staff, would be happy to work with Stan again any time. You know, Mrs Pargeter.. ’ He paused, assembling his words with the maximum delicacy. ‘If there was any criticism I might ever make of your late husband — and it’s only a tiny one, if it is a criticism at all — it’s that he was sometimes too trusting.’
The late Mr Pargeter’s widow nodded in rueful agreement.
‘I mean,’ Gary went on, ‘in many ways he was too generous-spirited
…’
‘That’s true.’
‘Too ready to think the best of people… an innocent, really, in a wicked world…’
Mrs Pargeter wiped a little moisture from the corner of her eye as she nodded again. ‘So what you’re saying, Gary, is that Stan the Stapler was involved with Julian Embridge?’
The immaculately tailored shoulders in front of her shrugged. ‘Can’t go as far as saying that. All I can say is it seems odd. Up until Streatham, Stan the Stapler done everything for your old man. After Streatham, even though Mr Pargeter offered him lots of jobs, Stan was somehow always unavailable. Well…’ Another shrug. ‘You have to draw your own conclusions, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Pargeter, drawing hers.
The limousine drew up outside the Mind Over Fatty Matter headquarters. Sue Fisher had planted the centre of her empire in the area where she had grown up, the bungaloid sprawl between Newhaven and Beachy Head (offering, in the phrase with which Ellie Fenchurch would begin her Sue Fisher interview, two opposing solutions to weight worries — on the one hand, a ferry to the gastronomic delights of France and, on the other, suicide).
The headquarters was purpose-built — a severely white structure whose award-winning architect appeared to have taken his inspiration from anaemic, elongated Lego bricks. As in the ideal Mind Over Fatty Matter body, curves were excluded in favour of angles. The building was a shrine to the goddess of self-denial.
This theme was echoed in the pervasive minimalist Mind Over Fatty Matter logo over the entrance, and in the stark black-on-white message on an adjacent board — ‘DO BETTER’.
That was typical Sue Fisher philosophy. All her slogans — and she had taken to slogans in rather a big way — contained comparatives. Nothing was allowed to be good in its own right; everything had to be less good than something else. Aspiration — and by definition unfulfilled aspiration — was the dynamo of Mind Over Fatty Matter ’s success.
‘I don’t know how long I’ll be,’ said Mrs Pargeter.
‘Don’t you worry. I’ll wait in the car park.’
‘Well, if you’re sure…’
‘That is my job, Mrs Pargeter,’ said Gary. ‘I mean, someone as important as you, from an organization as important as the one you represent… well, they’re going to have a chauffeur what waits in the car park, aren’t they?’
She giggled. ‘Yes, I suppose they are.’
‘Who is it you’re representing again?’
Mrs Pargeter curbed the giggles and replied demurely, ‘Sycamore.’
‘Sycamore?’
‘It’s an acronym.’
‘Oh,’ said Gary blankly.
‘From the letters SICMOR. The Society for the Investigation of Corporate Malpractice by Overselling Representation.’
‘Oh yeah?’ There was a pause. ‘What’s that mean then?’
‘I’ve no idea. But it sounds good.’
‘Yes. Oh yes,’ said Gary, with suitable respect.
Ellie Fenchurch was waiting in the white, cell-like Reception. Nothing so frivolous as a plant was allowed to break up its austerity. The only relief in the stark whiteness of the walls was provided by more black-lettered slogans.
‘SELF-IMPROVEMENT IS WITHIN YOURSELF.’
‘PRACTICE BRINGS YOU NEARER PERFECTION.’
‘GET FURTHER FROM WHAT YOU ARE — GET CLOSER TO WHAT YOU CAN BE.’
‘Who does this cow think she is?’ Ellie Fenchurch demanded as Mrs Pargeter greeted her. ‘Jesus Christ, Buddah and Allah all rolled into one?’
‘I don’t think you’re far off the mark.’
The journalist looked at Mrs Pargeter’s bright silk suit doubtfully. ‘You don’t think you should have tried to disguise yourself… glasses or something?’
‘No. Be fine.’
‘But if Sue Fisher saw you at Brotherton Hall…’
‘Sue Fisher didn’t see anyone at Brotherton Hall. She doesn’t see other people unless they can be of use to her.’
‘Hm. But if your suspicions about her are correct, then she’s going to know who you are.’
‘If my suspicions are correct, I’ll be delighted that she knows I’m on to her.’
Ellie Fenchurch nodded. Then she rubbed her thin hands together. ‘I’m going to enjoy this.’ She flashed a bleak smile at the perfect body behind the barren reception desk. ‘We’re both here now. Could you see if Ms Fisher is ready for us?’
The girl buzzed through on her switchboard and found out that yes, Ms Fisher was ready for them.
Ellie Fenchurch rose to her full bony height and smoothed down the jacket of her latest designer frippery. ‘OK, off we go.’ She grinned a vulpine grin. ‘Sue Fisher is about to find out what it feels like to be the ingredients of a kebab.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
