CHAPTER 53
Isobel, Eddie and Pascale Perillo had gathered in the hotel’s roof-top bar at ten. Mark Dobson had told them he’d join them as soon as he’d spoken to Colin Asher. It was now gone eleven and by then Pascale had become a fresh target for Eddie’s opinions on cosmetics, the environment and everything else.
“Could I just say…” Pascale had tried. Then: “I agree, but there is another view that….”
Finally, after he’d managed to say, “Mark’s a long time,” Mark appeared and apologised.
“Things are coming to a head,” he said before turning to Isobel. “Colin met Kathrine this morning. She needed to know, Isobel, and you’ll need to help each other over the coming weeks because there are bound to be repercussions. He also learned a lot from her that we didn’t already know. We now know why she transferred shares to you and how hard she fought to make you chairman. It’s all to do with Peter. She’s worried about you and wants to help.”
Isobel nodded and dabbed at her eye make-up with a tissue. “Thank you and thank Colin for me.”
“Colin’s writing a report,” Mark continued. “It’s why I’m late. It’s paperwork I’m afraid but we need it to get the police and others involved. I’ve just written some notes and sent them to Colin. The office will now piece it all together with photos. I’ve also had to call Kenny Tan in Taiwan about his Red Power problem.”
“So, the police will now act?” Pascale asked.
“Yes. And it isn’t just a local police matter. We’ll need international co-operation. Colin’s also dealing with that. The job’s not yet over.”
“And where’s Ritchie?” Isobel asked.
“That’s why it’s not over. Right now, Ritchie is meeting Maxim Novak in a house in Wallingford.”
“The Russian? In Wallingford?” Isobel asked. “Doesn’t Peter Lester own a house there?”
Mark nodded. “A house called The Wharf on the riverside. It’s Peter’s house and we suspect he’s there. We certainly know that Ritchie’s there because Colin tagged him. I’m now waiting developments.”
“Is Ritchie in danger?” Eddie asked, eyes blazing.
Mark helped himself to a bottle of water. “Part of the job, Eddie. I’ll know more later. It’s late afternoon in UK and it might be a long night here. If you are all heading home tomorrow the least you can do tonight is relax.”
Eddie leaned back in his seat as if relaxing, but he was staring skywards, his head tipping backwards to watch another big plane, wheels down, landing lights on, as it flew low above the hotel.
“Pollution,” he said pointing upwards. Do you know we’ve got a senior lecturer in physiology at Oxford who likes to claim she lives an ultra-green lifestyle - re-using, recycling, turning off all unnecessary switches, cladding her loft, growing her own lettuce, keeping her ‘fridge full, putting a brick in her lavatory cistern, turning her thermostat down and wearing extra clothing in winter. And then, every year, she flies to New Zealand on holiday.”
“Utterly hypocritical, Eddie,” Mark said, hoping that agreement would stifle further debate. All three of them then watched Eddie wondering if he had anything more to say.
He didn’t so Mark, thinking that was the end of the matter, drained his bottle of water and put it on the table. The breeze then toppled it and it fell, rolling onto the floor at Eddie’s feet. Eddie picked it up, pulled up his half-moons from inside his khaki shirt and read the label.
“You know,” he said, “We spend around 80 billion dollars on bottled water every year. Your average bottle of water is over 300 times more expensive than tap water. Can you believe that? Would you spend over a thousand dollars on a sandwich or seven hundred dollars on a cup of coffee?”
Mark tried a joke. “Colin might,” he said.
“And only around one in six plastic bottles is recycled,” Eddie continued. “The rest are lost and are left to destroy the environment. Did you know it takes more water to produce a plastic water bottle than the bottle can actually hold?”
“Terrible,” Mark said. “Listen, I need to call Colin again. Excuse me.” He stood up, winked at Pascale and left.
“And, yet, how many millions of poor people do not have access to clean water at all?” Eddie continued.
“A lot,” Pascale said.
“Water is under-valued and under-priced. Just like cosmetics, bottled water is mis-sold on the basis it’s better than tap water. As usual it was the French that started it with Perrier. Fancy-shaped green bottles to sell it, just like their fancy-shaped pink and gold perfume bottles. Tap water in most countries is perfectly drinkable but selling it in small, plastic bottles is a financial and environmental scandal. The fact that no-one objects is an even bigger scandal.
“But where are the angry, street-demonstrating students these days? I’ll tell you where they are. They’re checking themselves in the mirror. They’re putting on face creams and make-up, doing heir nails, fixing their hair, shopping for branded clothing that is no different than unbranded and sucking on plastic bottles as if they were still babies.”
Pascale looked at Isobel.
“Regulation is the answer,” Eddie went on. “There are vast opportunities for companies who can legitimately, with evidence, point out the problems of their competitors. Isobel knows this because I’ve told her. There are 13,000 chemicals used in cosmetics and only 10 percent have been evaluated for safety. The fact that thousands of them don’t even work is another matter, but once they’re used and are finished with what happens to them? They get washed down the sink using undervalued, filtered and very drinkable water and are flushed out to sea to destroy millions of critically important micro-organisms that live unseen and unappreciated by ignorant human beings who…”
“I know, Eddie,” Isobel butted in. “I agree.”
“Good,” Eddie said, yawning loudly and dragging a hand through his wisps of grey hair. “Time to sleep. Long flights home tomorrow. And we need to pray for Ritchie.”
“Pray?” said Isobel. “I had no idea you were religiously inclined, Eddie. Is this something else you’ve not yet explained?”
Eddie had been standing ready to go but he sat down again. “By pray I mean hope, Isobel.”
“Hope is not prayer, Eddie. Prayer is a solemn request for help to a God. I had no idea you were so dependent on some sort of deity. Hope is…”
“Please, Isobel. Allow me some latitude. I wasn’t intending to fall on my knees by my bedside tonight. What I meant was…”
“Good night,” said Pascale and took the lift.