Mr Lamb had followed Dedman for a distance, still puzzled by his aberrant activity. The meandering walk that seemed only vaguely to lead to the office was utterly ambiguous. Every day this week the route Dedman had traced had been different and Mr Lamb could not figure out the reason why. Dedman didn’t seem to be meeting anyone and he was certain there weren’t any drop-off or pick-up points either.
He knew without looking at his watch that his time with Dedman had to be temporarily suspended. So leaving Dedman to his mystifying wanderings, he turned around and walked briskly in the opposite direction for exactly one hundred and fifteen seconds to the pre-arranged rendezvous point. Five seconds later and at exactly the appointed time he was sitting on the rear seat of an idling black Jaguar saloon with private licence plates. As he was pulling the door shut the Jaguar breezed silently away from the kerb and slotted neatly into the early morning traffic. Mr Lamb permitted the regal, silver-haired man to carry on reading his newspaper and instead looked at the world outside passing silently by. He thought it amusing (although he refrained from smiling) that such a macho, male-dominated profession tolerated a publication printed on pink paper.
After a couple of minutes studying the FT the man neatly folded the broadsheet and placed it precisely central between them on the highly-polished leather upholstery. He then interlaced his fingers on his lap, turned slightly and gave his full and rather intense attention to Mister Lamb, who knew the look well enough.
After five minutes of one-way discourse the silver-haired man nodded sharply and rapped on the window dividing passenger from driver. Mr Lamb took this as his cue that the monologue was over. Within moments he was on the kerb. The Jaguar pulled away and was lost in the teeming traffic.
He looked around briefly to get his bearings, then headed for the nearest tube station. He gave himself two more days to find out what the hell was really going on.
Serena looked up from the piece of paper in her hand. This was the right place, she knew, because the address and business names matched the discrete plaque fixed to the right of an imposing black door which gleamed as brightly as the brass. She pushed the paper into her handbag and hesitated briefly. This was her last chance to pull out.
No, I am made of stronger stuff than this, she told herself. And besides, what she did today would lead to the ultimate thrill and that, in the end, was the point of it all. After a deep breath she straight-armed the door and entered a reception area that looked just like a very plush surgery, which is exactly what it was.
Jack, too, had reached his destination, but he needed no map as he’d been to (although not in) this building many times before. He stood outside and looked enviously upwards at the glass walls stretching up to finger the heavens. Behind each pane, he suspected, was a thrusting young executive forging his way in the dog-eat-dog world of business.
He brought his vision back down to earth, visibly squared his shoulders, pushed his chest out, marched up to the revolving doors and pushed hard at them. He stepped in, performed two 360o turns and ended up back where he started. He strode away from the building without looking back.
I should be in there with the bastards, he swore to himself, and one day I will be in there with them.
Just not today.
Hershey was in his white Hummer (if it’s good enough for Arnie, it’s good enough for Hershey, he’d decided), a bit of jazz on the radio. However the cheery melody wasn’t lifting his spirits. The traffic was, to put it mildly, fucking awful. He was crawling along, bumper to bumper. Everything on two wheels or two feet was moving at a faster rate than him and buses were rattling along their private lanes with impunity. That the less affluent were reaching their destinations faster simply shredded his nerves. And on public fucking transport as well. It was times like these that made him glad he didn’t pay tax to the UK government.
The next five minutes saw his Hummer nudge forward no more than a couple of car-lengths, whilst three buses and countless bikes and pedestrians undertook him, which was made even more annoying as Hershey was seated on the left side of the car. A few hundred yards in front he saw the lights change from red to green and back to red again. He was very aware of the time ticking away. As the queue of cars concertinaed he squeezed forward another painfully short distance.
Hershey had finally had enough. The lights turned red to amber.
“Fuck this,” he grumbled.
He stamped on the accelerator and yanked on the steering wheel, putting the Hummer into the bus lane as the lights went green. The car spurted forward as fuel gushed into the greedy engine and he pressed his foot all the way to the floor in an effort to reach the lights before they changed back to red.
Too late, they flicked amber and then red. Hershey knew he had to get back into the legitimate lane as there was CCTV everywhere in this goddamned city. Quick as a flash he saw, and took, his chance, cutting in front of a Ford which was merely coasting in the queue and in no apparent hurry.
As he slid his Hummer into the gap the Ford driver woke up to the fact that he was being carved up, but his realisation came too late. Hershey grinned manically and the man raised his hands in frustration.
“Fuck you!” Hershey shouted. The Ford beeped his horn causing Hershey to give the guy the finger and say, “Jerk!”
Hershey could imagine the man simmering behind him. Although he’d absolutely no right to feel indignant, Hershey was pissed off at the guy and determined to get his own back. The lights changed again and Hershey rolled forward, but only at the pace of a mollusc. Just as he reached the lights they started to turn to amber again. Hershey held on until the last moment, as the red bulb was beginning to glow, then accelerated through leaving the Ford stranded.
As Ford guy flashed his lights in frustration Hershey waved cheerily in his rear view mirror, pleased he’d righted the wrong.
Claire started with surprise when she realised her boss was looming at her shoulder. Patricia Hodges (the ‘P’ of P&R PR) was a heavy-boned woman, her mass increased by the welter of gold and well-padded Chanel suits she wore as a method of displaying her wealth. However, those that spent time with Ms. Hodges soon learned by observation that she always wore the same jewellery and rotated three suits, proving her appearance was as shallow as her character.
Claire forced a grin before she swivelled round to face her boss. She stayed seated. Patricia liked to dominate her staff and Claire couldn’t afford to lose her job.
“Morning Patricia!” Claire trilled in forced good humour.
“Would you like to join the lengthening queue of the great failures the government quaintly refers to as job seekers?” Patricia launched. She was always direct and never dealt in pleasantries.
“Um, no. I enjoy my job,” Claire lied.
“Then in that case you need to generate some more business for the company. Your rolling monthly stats are slipping below the median measure.”
P&R PR used a recurring revenue measurement method to track who was performing well and who wasn’t. Those who generated below-average incomes for a period of three months were put on a warning then, if underperformance continued, were summarily sacked. Patricia thought this a clever way of driving continued growth as it meant her staff were forced to bring in more business to stay ahead, so driving up the average and dragging the laggards along with them. That this created less than savoury behaviour from some of her employees bothered Patricia not in the least. As long as it was legal, who cared?
“Well, were you aware that your performance is failing?” Patricia demanded.
“Of course,” said Claire. Patricia’s employees had to be on the ball, even if it was a different one.
“Then what are you doing about it?”
“I have a prospect I’ve been attempting to get a meeting with.”
“Who?”
“Too early to reveal details,” Claire said, knowing full well that Patricia would happily take the information to one of her star performers and she’d be out of a job in no time. It had happened before.
Patricia’s face turned down even further, if that were possible. “You play it that way then, Claire. But you need to be aware you’re on very thin ice. You need to get your bony backside out of that chair more often and into the field if you’re to survive in my company.”
“It’s well in hand, Patricia.”
“Good, it had better be. And it’s Ms. Hodges to you.”
Claire stuck out her tongue as her boss strode away.