The Humble Beginnings of a Burgeoning Empire

The Humble Beginnings of a Burgeoning Empire
by C. A. Spencer

Mrs Flipchart had made it. She'd rocketed to the top simply by being
wherever the police were in need of a couple of hundred notebooks,
fast.
Having been a housewife since leaving school, Mrs Flipchart was a
little shocked to find herself responsible for the family income when
her husband was made redundant from the spanner factory. The idea of
selling stationary came to her, just before Christmas, with everyone
sending so many cards.
The Fair took place at a large hotel in Wiltshire, with rooms for
exhibitors at knockdown prices. Breakfast was included so today, like
every morning, Mrs Flipchart had filled up on hash browns, bacon,
croissants, coffee, orange juice and toast. At nine exactly she reached
her stand: a trestle table and an A3 poster pinned to a fabric-covered
board behind her. She plonked down the briefcase, which was bulging
with pens and envelopes, notebooks and staplers and started turning the
assortment into a display.
It was day three of the four-day Southern Counties Annual Stationary
Fair and Mrs Flipchart hadn't sold a thing. She'd attended in the hope
that it would lead to her first big sale. But large companies aren't
interested in buying stationary from one-woman shops, operating out of
their garage. There wasn't the capital behind her, let alone the
storage space. Corporations simply went straight to the wholesalers.
Mrs Flipchart sat behind her display, resigning herself to
boredom.
The minutes ticked slowly by. Mrs Flipchart tried some people-watching,
but envelope bulk-buying wasn't really entertaining.
Bored and with an hour until she could break for lunch, Mrs Flipchart
decided to stretch her legs with a trip to the Ladies. Ignoring the
pink rising in her cheeks, she called over to the next stand and asked
if they could watch her stall. Avoiding eye-contact, she escaped the
claustrophobia of the stand. On the way to the bathroom, she felt
excitement rising in her chest, a sense of freedom, the ability to
breathe, the possibility of choice putting a spring in her step.
When she'd exhausted all the possibilities of the well stocked and
luxuriously decorated bathroom, Mrs Flipchart considered going back
into the fair, but the thought made a knot tightened in her
stomach.
Intending, at first, simply to explore the ground floor, she stumbled
across an advertisement for the spa on the fifth floor. She paused and
looked around. No one she recognised as being a stationary magnate was
in sight. She called the lift.
The doors opened immediately and she darted inside, pushing the '5'
button, with glee.
The lift opened. A few feet away a dark-haired woman was standing
behind the spa's reception desk. As Mrs Flipchart approached, the woman
looked up, folding her hands, resting them lightly on the desk.
'May I help you?' Thick layers of make-up were caked in the
receptionist's crows' feet. Frequent exposure to sun-beds had done
nothing to dispel the signs of aging.
'Yes. I'm here with the stationary fair and was wondering if there were
any offers on treatments for exhibitors.'
'Certainly.'
The woman, whose badge labelled her Michelle, reached under the counter
and pulled out a leaflet. She laid it open on the desk and, aided by a
black biro, guided Mrs Flipchart through treatments and prices,
explaining the reductions available.
Mrs Flipchart found her ears were unable to make sense of the unbroken
flow of Essex twang. Instead she asked about freebies once the torrent
had ended. A free manicure was available, after you'd spent at least
thirty quid on other treatments. Hiding her disappointment, both that
she couldn't afford a massage and hadn't been able to snoop around the
fifth floor, Mrs Flipchart folded the pamphlet across its middle
exactly and slipped it into her handbag. The spell that had cast her in
a good mood was broken. It was time to get back to her stand.
A man already occupied the lift when she got in and a few moments later
they emerged onto the same landing. It took a few disoriented moments
for Mrs Flipchart to realise she was on the first, not ground floor.
Reluctant to return to her stall, she decided to look around.
This floor was very similar to the one below, with a range of large
conference and meeting rooms flanking the corridor. The first few rooms
she came to were either empty or had the door shut. Then, at the next
open doorway, she was brought to a standstill by the sight before her
eyes.
Hundreds of people, filling this enormous room, were making copious
notes in little notebooks. A quick search revealed a board outside the
room. It was a training day for the police.
The police! Why hadn't she thought of it before? The police were always
taking notes, on every tiny little thing. A tantalising vision of
burgeoning piles of notebooks flying out of her hands into the pockets
of the police, her bank balance increasing accordingly, hovered before
her mind's eye.
But how could she supply them? She couldn't just dial 999 and ask for
the person in charge of office supplies. No, she needed something
better, a foolproof plan. Her brain racing, she scuttled away,
returning to her seat behind her stall, plotting and planning, not
caring any more if people walked by her stall without a second
glance.

* * * * * *

By the end of the day, a plan had occurred to Mrs Flipchart. She packed
up the display and left the stall ready for the last day of the fair.
Showered and dressed by six o'clock, she dialled reception, a
mischievous grin fixed on her lips.
'Hello, I was wondering if you could remind me of the name of the
speaker at today's police training conference on the second
floor?'
'One moment please.' A keyboard clacked. 'That's Mr Simon, Room
28.'
'Thank you so much.' Mrs Flipchart clenched her hands on her thighs in
utter glee.
Pulling herself together, she left her room and found number 28. She
knocked and the door was opened immediately.
Mr Simon was a tall, well-groomed sort of man, who looked like he kept
fit but probably couldn't spell 'aerobic'. He smelled freshly showered
and had his key in his hand.
'Yes? I'm on my way out.'
'Hello, Mr Simon. I was very impressed with your speech at the training
day and was wondering if I could have a quick word.'
At this flattery, Mr Simon beamed perfectly straight teeth at her and
relaxed a little, although he didn't open the door any wider. Mrs
Flipchart continued.
'While I was watching this wonderful training session, I noticed that
everyone in the room was taking notes, writing everything down in
notebooks and I thought to myself "That's a coincidence! You need a lot
of notebooks, and I would like to sell a lot of notebooks."'
'Hm. Am I right in supposing that you would like to sell me and my
officers a lot of notebooks?'
'Exactly!' Mrs Flipchart clapped her hands encouragingly.
'We have administration and stationary suppliers who deal with that
sort of thing. What you could possibly want with me, I can't imagine.'
Mr Simon stepped out of his room, pulling the door locked behind him
'And if you're here for that stationary fair that's taking up the whole
of the ground floor, what makes you think we'd use you anyway. There's
a whole room full of notebooks down there.' He fixed her for with his
beady left eye. 'Trying to get in on the action early, eh?'
Without another nod in her direction, Mr Simon strode off, mumbling to
himself. Mrs Flipchart watched him go, deflated. With no deal in sight,
she decided to skip dinner and fill up at breakfast.
Back to the drawing board, she slumped down on the bed, flicking the
end of a ballpoint rapidly between her teeth. There was an idea there,
she was sure of it. After lengthy contemplation, the only other people
she could think of that used notebooks were journalists, but she
couldn't think of anyway to supply them either. For now, as they were
here in the hotel, she decided to stick with the police.
What if she forgot about the entire police force? Even if she only
supplied the conferences, she'd still be a very rich woman. But any
deal she could make would be undercut several times by any number of
other stationers. The contract would be big enough for tiny prices not
to bother the corporations. Mrs Flipchart hardly dared think the plan
that was growing in her mind. She'd book herself in for another night,
then she'd be the only supplier in the hotel. If her plan worked, she
could travel round the country, timing visits with friends or relatives
to coincide with police training events.
But even if she was the only stationary salesperson in the hotel, how
could she get a contract out of a police training conference?
Mrs Flipchart sat at the desk thinking harder, perhaps, than she'd ever
thought before. The room slowly darkened round her and it was midnight
by the time her mind was made up. The police had to have something to
write in their notepads, the details of a crime. For the number of
police at the training days, the crime would have to be big enough to
involve them all, for all of them to need a notebook to write in. There
was nothing else for it. Mrs Flipchart had to murder.

* * * * * *

The final day of the stationary fair was spent in physical stillness at
the stand while her mind raced. That morning she'd booked herself in
for two more nights then had called her husband to warn him she
wouldn't be home for another couple of days. He had grunted something
and she thought he could wait another two days for someone else to cook
his dinner and pour the milk on his cornflakes.
Facing another empty evening, and with nothing else to do until she was
sure all her competitors had left, Mrs Flipchart decided to take
Michelle up on the offer of thirty pounds of spa treatment and free
manicure.
Up on the fifth floor, the spa was moderately busy. There was no one at
the desk so Mrs Flipchart pressed a discreet button, which instead of
ringing, released a brief wheeze on pan-pipes in the direction of the
spa entrance. An assistant, not dissimilar to Michelle, but sporting a
blonde ponytail, came to greet her quickly and efficiently.
'Hello, I was part of the stationary fair and am staying here an extra
couple of nights. I was wondering if I still qualify for any of the
offers for exhibitors.' Mrs Flipchart produced the pamphlet that had
been circled and squiggled on by Michelle, laying it discreetly on the
counter.
The new assistant eye-balled the pamphlet and looked something up in
the open book on the desk top.
'Yes, it should be fine if you take the treatments this evening as the
fair finished today. I'm afraid the spa closes in an hour, so the
choice is limited.'
'Oh, I hadn't realised. What options are there?'
'There are no massages I'm afraid, they're all booked until closing.
There's time for a full wax before the manicure. Or you could use the
gym or the pool, with a health assessor.'
Mrs Flipchart considered the options of having all the hair yanked out
of her body or sweating continuously for an hour, and neither seemed
appealing.
'Finally, we can offer you a seaweed wrap and a facial. That's over the
thirty pounds needed to qualify for the manicure and there's a space
available now, if you want to go straight through.'
'Yes, thank you!' That was more like it.
Mrs Flipchart presented her key to the receptionist and was booked in
for the treatments. Fifteen minutes later she was lying flat on her
back, her body wrapped tightly in seaweed. A fellow clingfilm prisoner
had just been wheeled in. They introduced themselves and chatted a
little. Mrs Flipchart discovered that the woman (Zo?) was visiting the
city with her husband.
The treatment finished and Mrs Flipchart went to change While she'd
been out of the room, an assistant had applied Zo?'s facemask. The
thick layer of quick drying clay had rendered Zo?'s jaw practically
immobile, so it was no surprise that Mrs Flipchart received a grunt in
response to her cheery 'hello'.
Just as she was wondering how they could conduct a conversation with
the mask on, Mrs Flipchart suddenly realised she was fixed by Zo?'s big
blues.
'Oh, they've forgotten your cucumber slices!'
'Ungh!' Zo? responded, which was enough to convince Mrs Flipchart that
Zo? did not want puffy eyes. She marched to the corner of the room,
where half a cucumber could be seen residing in a clear-fronted
fridge.
Behind her, on the table, Zo? wiggled and writhed, producing
disconcerting sounds as the Clingfilm stretched.
'Ungh, UNGH!'
'Don't worry, Zo?. I'm sure they wont mind.' Mrs Flipchart whisked away
from the counter and neatly placed a cucumber slice over each of Zo?'s
eyes.
'Is that better?'
'NO!'
Embarrassed and confused, Mrs Flipchart whisked the slices away and
dumped them in the bin. Zo? relaxed and started mumbling again. Only
the word 'cucumber' was distinct.
'Cucumber...' Mrs Flipchart nodded encouragingly.
Zo? looked grateful that at last she had been understood. In Mrs
Flipchart's brain it all clicked together.
'Oh, I see! I'll just be two seconds, then I've got to run for my
manicure.'
She darted back to the counter, retrieving the vegetable and cutting a
single, thicker slice, before tidying the area and rinsing the
knife.
On her way out, she popped the piece of green vegetable into Zo?'s
mouth, closing the door behind her. Mrs Flipchart didn't notice that
beneath the green mask, Zo?'s face was turning a worrying shade of
purple.

* * * * * *

The next morning, Mrs Flipchart dressed casually as the fair was over.
Today was the day she was putting her plan into action, and at this
point at least, the excitement at the prospect of becoming rich through
supplying notepads to a burgeoning police investigation far outweighed
the heavy feeling in her heart at the prospect of having to kill
someone to get there. She headed down for breakfast, admiring her
manicured fore-finger as she called the lift.
Downstairs, the foyer was packed with police and all the staff were
looking scared and weepy. Curious, but not enough to go up to someone
and start asking questions, Mrs Flipchart headed for the breakfast
room.
The few guests present were not breakfasting peacefully. Everyone was
being asked questions by someone. Mrs Flipchart had barely started her
scrambled eggs on toast, when a young policewoman was sent over to talk
to her, by a man she recognised instantly as Mr Simon.
'Good morning, Madam. We are investigating a death that took place in
the spa just before seven o'clock last night. Can you tell us your
name, please?'
'Esther Flipchart. I was in the spa last night. What's happened?' Even
as the words fell from her mouth, leaving her lips cold, Mrs Flipchart
knew what she had done. She wasn't sure what exactly might have
happened to Zo?, but she knew, in some horrible way, that Zo? was dead
and that she was responsible.
'We were told that there was another guest in the spa just before the
incident occurred. I need to take some basic information, then I'm
going to have to take you for further questioning.'
Mrs Flipchart nodded glumly and the policewoman continued.

* * * * * *

It had been a gruelling day. After several hours of questioning, during
which Mrs Flipchart had assured the police that Zo? was alive when she
left her and that she didn't see anyone else in the spa, she had been
allowed to return to the hotel. She collapsed onto her bed and thought:
'Sod it.'
She dialled room service, ordered fish 'n' chips and cheap white wine,
and lay back on the bed.
She really hadn't planned to murder anyone, not that night, and least
of all Zo?. It looked bad that she had stayed on, for no reason, after
the fair had ended. It looked bad that she had been alone in the room
with the victim minutes before she was found dead.
But the atmosphere at the station had changed in the afternoon. Mrs
Flipchart suspected that Zo?'s husband didn't have an alibi, had been
alone in their room, while his wife was being pampered. And how on
earth could Mrs Flipchart have known that Zo? was allergic to cucumber?
Somebody had waited until she was immobile in the seaweed wrap and the
seemingly innocuous, but potentially deadly, vegetable was easily
accessible.
Alerted by knocking, Mrs Flipchart hauled herself up and opened the
door to Mr Simon.
Mrs Flipchart's stomach dropped through the souls of her feet. She
attempted to drag her hand through her hair to smarten herself up a
bit, but it snagged on some tangles.
He stepped into her room as soon as she opened the door.
'Terrible business, this murder.' His beady left eye was on her.
'There's so many people to interview, it's lucky we had the staff on
site, thanks to the training programme. Equipment is another matter. We
need to buy some notebooks.'

16 May 2003 ABCtales username: mscspencer
2,925 words

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