‘He always that stressed?’
Sami looks at me a little longer than before, then grins. ‘Who did you say you were again?’
This long into the job, you get a sense for these things. As I look into his eyes, I can tell I’ve been rumbled. Fortunately, at that point a pane of glass swings open at the other end of the office, and my main target emerges.
Rob Wallace is a few years older than Davy was, and posher too. His hair is a similar grey, but it’s longer and still bouffant, swept to a side parting. He’s got a beak you could break an ice floe with, and deep lines running down from it to the corners of his mouth. He would have made a good Roman emperor, I think, which takes me back to the bust in Davy’s office.
Is he a killer? No time to judge that now. There is only time to approach.
‘Mr Wallace?’ I’m up from Sami’s desk like a shot, and before Wallace can get to wherever he was going, I’m by his side. ‘My name’s Ted Marx. I’m here as a representative of one of London’s leading reputation management firms, and I can assure you, you need my help. Can we talk?’ I gesture to his personal office. ‘Alone?’
He looks a bit startled by the speed of my approach, which is exactly what I usually go for. ‘I’m sorry – who did you say you were?’ He looks at me, trying to get my measure from my clothes. I’m glad I wore the smarter shirt.
‘I’m a reputation manager. And you need one.’ I try to look forceful. It’s hard to do when talking to someone twice my age who’s probably screwed over more rivals than I’ve had hot Prets, but I don’t wobble. I know I can blag this one. I read a lengthy BBC Explainer on reputation managers a month ago in a Tudor manor house in Norfolk. That was a happy time.
‘Um … all right …’ It’s bloody worked. As I glance back, Sami is looking totally bewildered. It doesn’t matter. Rule 10 has come into its own again.Approach people sideways, and fast enough, and they’ll go along with whatever you say.
Now Wallace is closing the door of the office. He taps a screen beside it, embedded into the glass. Nothing happens. He taps it again.
‘Why won’t thisfuckingthing …’ He taps it a third time, and it goes opaque. The door clicks at the same time. Rob Wallace has a temper on him. He turns, sits, and gestures me to sit at the other side of the desk. I realise I’m now in a locked, opaque room with a man who might have committed a murder the day before yesterday. Brilliant.
‘Mr …’
‘Marx. Like Karl, not “and Spencer”. No relation. And please call me Ted.’ He opens his mouth, so I plough on. Rule 26:Never let them ask two questions in a row.‘Mr Wallace, I gather your co-founder lost his life in tragic circumstances about’ – I consult my watch – ‘thirty-six hours ago. Have you got any reputation management in place?’
‘We already have some.’
I give a sorrowful chuckle. ‘You’ll need a top-up, Mr Wallace. Has anyone approached from one of the mainstream agencies? Wickham and Brandon, for example? Or Wentworth and Tilney?’
‘I don’t think—’
‘Good. Keep it that way. They’ll try to offer you their boilerplate crisis package and you deserve much better. My firm is Rillette Marx. We deal in crisis management for individual firms that have been marked by—’
‘Wait a second. Let me look you up.’ He pulls over a laptop.Shit. Why on earth did I give a company name?Because I wanted to sound convincing. Idiot. ‘Rill … ette … and …’
Time for evasive action. ‘Mr Wallace. I’m well aware that Mr Harcourt had enemies in this firm. Any whiff that his death was in any way related to the business could cause you catastrophic reputational damage.’
Never mind bluffing on a bad hand, this is like betting on a dog when I’m not even sure it’s a greyhound. But it gets his attention. He stops typing and looks at me. ‘Go on.’
‘For example. You and Mr Harcourt had difficulties in your working relationship.’ Bluff, bluff, bluff. This is taking years off my life. But I suspect that when you’ve been colleagues as long as Wallace and Harcourt were, there will be ways in which you cordially hate each other. Sure enough, he goes pale.
‘That’s absurd. We built this business from nothing.’
‘I know you did.’
‘Anyway, heaps of people hated him. Ask his ex-wife. Ask the daughter he was practically estranged from.’
‘That may well be. But you have to show the world how loved he was, how close you all were. Commission a statue of the man if you have to. Anything to make clear that the firm has taken a terrible blow but will carry on the way he would have wanted it.’
That makes him smile for the first time, rather grimly. He says, more to himself than me, ‘Oh, we won’t be carrying on the way he would have wanted it.’ Then he remembers my presence and his smile fades. ‘And you would offer?’
‘Ongoing advice for the first few months to ensure yourbusiness remains reputable, which in turn will ensure it remains profitable. There is always a rubberneckers’ premium at first, but when that fades you want your clients to know you can provide the service you always have done. Better than ever before. We can be on call twenty-four hours a day. And when the police come by, we can advise how to handle that.’
Is it me, or did his eyes flicker when I mentioned the police? ‘I’ll consider this, Mr Marx.’ He seems to have forgotten about his laptop for the moment, at least. And then there’s a tap at the opaque glass, and the door opens. It’s Mrs P, from the front desk.
‘Mr Wallace? Oh, hello there …’ She looks at me as if she’s groping for my name.
‘Ted,’ I say firmly.
