the country. I know the business, I can make it work for you.’
‘But can we trust you, Mr Corsa?’
‘Trust me? What has trust got to do with it? Don’t trust me, control me! I’m willing to back my judgement in the most practical fashion, by allowing the consortium to start its work by buying a substantial stake in the Granite Group. Take hold of the reins. That’s my commitment. My business where my mouth is.’
Corsa’s frank enthusiasm was beginning to prove infectious until, cutting through the general hubbub that ensued, came a pounding from the far end of the table. The slap of Hagi’s hand summoned them to silence.
‘But what of me?’ the Japanese demanded, his voice quivering in offence. ‘Why am I here? My business is entertainment. Fun farms. Not death factories. I have no image problems. No …’ – he struggled furiously with the consonants – ‘pressure groups.’
‘Mr Hagi, there are pressures in every field. Even in fun farms.’
‘What pressures?’
‘OK. Let me ask you all to look inside the envelopes in front of you.’
They took up the envelopes, opening them with distinctive styles. Some tore at them like alligators playing with prey, others pecked like cranebills. Hagi approached his with such caution that for a moment Corsa thought he intended to reuse it.
From each fell share receipts. Ten thousand pounds’ worth.
‘I purchased these shares this morning. In your names. And you will see that they are shares in what Mr Hagi modestly calls his fun farm.’ He inclined his head in the direction of the Japanese. ‘By this time tomorrow they will be worth considerably more.’
‘What!’ Hagi’s voice and eyes were incandescent. ‘You screw around with my company!’
‘Not screwing around with your company, Mr Hagi. Screwing around with your opposition.’
Corsa crossed to a fax machine that had been sitting unobtrusively in the corner of the room and pressed a button. It began to warble.
‘Your main opposition – your only true competition, Mr Hagi – is the Wonderworld complex just outside Paris. Been having a particularly rough time, and they are in the process of major financial renegotiations with their banks. Big discussions about future attendance levels. Am I right?’
‘Correct.’
Corsa took the paper from the fax machine and laid it on the table. ‘I thought you might like to see tomorrow’s front page.’
The paper bore a miniaturized version of the Herald , with a splash headline.
‘ Child Sex Ring Targets Wonderworld.’
‘Sadly for your competition, my intrepid journalists have found evidence of paedophile activity at Wonderworld.’
‘It is true?’
‘Mr Hagi, several million children under the age of sixteen go through Wonderworld every year. Of course it attracts perverts. Just like every fun park in the world. But I have the feeling it won’t be attracting so many families, nor many bankers. Not after this.’
‘You manufacture story?’
Corsa smiled. ‘Manufacture? Such an ugly word. I prefer to see it more as a fishing expedition for the truth. Some newspapers like to fly-fish. I find it easier simply to chuck in a couple of sticks of dynamite.’
‘Boom,’ Di Burston offered, softly and very sensuously.
‘This will blow them apart,’ Hagi insisted.
‘And you will be there to pick up the pieces. You see, gentlemen, image is everything.’
THREE
Goodfellowe decided he might have been a trifle impetuous with Sammy. The ginger spikes had proved to be no more than a wash-‘n’-go frolic for the fashion show; the tattoo had also been nothing more than a temporary adornment, and even though the hole in the navel was all too lasting and left him feeling queasy, he’d been unable to articulate his objections with anything other than pompous flannel. His parables about how officers in World War I had been dragged to muddy deaths by their lanyards made him appear vaguely senile, while the fashion show – Sammy’s fashion
‘But can we trust you, Mr Corsa?’
‘Trust me? What has trust got to do with it? Don’t trust me, control me! I’m willing to back my judgement in the most practical fashion, by allowing the consortium to start its work by buying a substantial stake in the Granite Group. Take hold of the reins. That’s my commitment. My business where my mouth is.’
Corsa’s frank enthusiasm was beginning to prove infectious until, cutting through the general hubbub that ensued, came a pounding from the far end of the table. The slap of Hagi’s hand summoned them to silence.
‘But what of me?’ the Japanese demanded, his voice quivering in offence. ‘Why am I here? My business is entertainment. Fun farms. Not death factories. I have no image problems. No …’ – he struggled furiously with the consonants – ‘pressure groups.’
‘Mr Hagi, there are pressures in every field. Even in fun farms.’
‘What pressures?’
‘OK. Let me ask you all to look inside the envelopes in front of you.’
They took up the envelopes, opening them with distinctive styles. Some tore at them like alligators playing with prey, others pecked like cranebills. Hagi approached his with such caution that for a moment Corsa thought he intended to reuse it.
From each fell share receipts. Ten thousand pounds’ worth.
‘I purchased these shares this morning. In your names. And you will see that they are shares in what Mr Hagi modestly calls his fun farm.’ He inclined his head in the direction of the Japanese. ‘By this time tomorrow they will be worth considerably more.’
‘What!’ Hagi’s voice and eyes were incandescent. ‘You screw around with my company!’
‘Not screwing around with your company, Mr Hagi. Screwing around with your opposition.’
Corsa crossed to a fax machine that had been sitting unobtrusively in the corner of the room and pressed a button. It began to warble.
‘Your main opposition – your only true competition, Mr Hagi – is the Wonderworld complex just outside Paris. Been having a particularly rough time, and they are in the process of major financial renegotiations with their banks. Big discussions about future attendance levels. Am I right?’
‘Correct.’
Corsa took the paper from the fax machine and laid it on the table. ‘I thought you might like to see tomorrow’s front page.’
The paper bore a miniaturized version of the Herald , with a splash headline.
‘ Child Sex Ring Targets Wonderworld.’
‘Sadly for your competition, my intrepid journalists have found evidence of paedophile activity at Wonderworld.’
‘It is true?’
‘Mr Hagi, several million children under the age of sixteen go through Wonderworld every year. Of course it attracts perverts. Just like every fun park in the world. But I have the feeling it won’t be attracting so many families, nor many bankers. Not after this.’
‘You manufacture story?’
Corsa smiled. ‘Manufacture? Such an ugly word. I prefer to see it more as a fishing expedition for the truth. Some newspapers like to fly-fish. I find it easier simply to chuck in a couple of sticks of dynamite.’
‘Boom,’ Di Burston offered, softly and very sensuously.
‘This will blow them apart,’ Hagi insisted.
‘And you will be there to pick up the pieces. You see, gentlemen, image is everything.’
THREE
Goodfellowe decided he might have been a trifle impetuous with Sammy. The ginger spikes had proved to be no more than a wash-‘n’-go frolic for the fashion show; the tattoo had also been nothing more than a temporary adornment, and even though the hole in the navel was all too lasting and left him feeling queasy, he’d been unable to articulate his objections with anything other than pompous flannel. His parables about how officers in World War I had been dragged to muddy deaths by their lanyards made him appear vaguely senile, while the fashion show – Sammy’s fashion
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