said: “Only ten days ago. Maybe we should look at those videotapes after all.”
“I think you’d better,” I told him. Turning back to Robshaw I said: “I thought, these days, that you could tell who bought what.”
“Not from this program. If a customer holds our loyalty card, certain selected items are recorded and we can use this information to identify their tastes. That’s the theory, but for Grainger’s stores the system is in its infancy.”
Dave said: “Would pineapple slices ’appen to be a selected item?”
“No. It tends to be more specialised lines, such as wine or our cordon bleu ready meals. Then we can target our mailshots and special offers more accurately.”
“Thanks for explaining that,” I said, making a mental note not to ever buy another ready meal. I didn’t want some spotty supermarket analyst dissecting my eating habits. “So, have you sacked anybody in, ooh, the last two months?”
“No. I’ve never sacked anybody ever, I’m proud to say,” he replied. “It’s part of the Grainger’s ethos that everybody can be usefully employed. It’s a question oftraining and finding an employee’s potential. We don’t sack people, we redeploy and redevelop them.”
“Have you redeployed or redeveloped anybody in the last two months?”
He thought about it before answering. “We do it constantly, but most of them go along with it, accept the need. There was one girl…”
“Go on.”
“She was all fingers and thumbs. Kept dropping things on the shop floor. We moved her into the warehouse where she could do less damage, but she handed in her notice after a week.”
We asked him for her name and after a phone call he gave it to us.
“So you don’t know of anybody who might hold a grudge against the company?”
“No, not at all. Sir Morton might have made a few enemies along the way, but none I know of. Has he been told about all this?”
“Not yet. How often do you see him?”
“We have a monthly meeting but we see his wife more often. She likes to play the secret shopper, sneaking in heavily disguised but all the staff recognise her. There’s a daughter-in-law too, who does the same thing, but we’re not so sure about her.”
We sat in silence for a few seconds until he said: “We’ll have to withdraw them all, won’t we? And recall them. Oh God, we need this, we really need this,” and buried his head in his hands.
“Has anything like it happened here before?” I asked.
Robshaw shuffled in his leather executive chair andran a finger under the collar of his shirt. That was the question he hoped we wouldn’t ask. He picked up the phone again and asked someone to bring in the complaints book.
“What do you fancy for lunch?” Dave asked as we climbed into his car in the supermarket car park.
“We could have bought something here,” I replied.
“And risk being poisoned? No thanks.”
“OK. Bacon sandwich in the canteen. The poison in them is slow-acting.” I pulled the door shut and reached for the seat belt.
“What did you reckon to him?” Dave said.
“Robshaw? He was helpful, once he realised we weren’t after his blood. Not exactly managerial material , I’d’ve thought, but he’d done well for himself. Credit where it’s due.”
“He’s a twat,” Dave stated.
Robshaw’s helpfulness extended to furnishing us with a list of the other ten stores in the group, with names and phone numbers, plus Sir Morton Grainger’s home number. Not classified information but it saved us about an hour’s work.
The complaints book revealed that two weeks earlier a customer had returned some peaches that had turned mouldy in the tin, and ten days before that someone had brought back a tin of blue baked beans. These had been sent to the group’s laboratory and found to be contaminated with a harmless food dye. Both customers were placated and the incidents brushed over without involving the local health inspector. There was no investigation
“I think you’d better,” I told him. Turning back to Robshaw I said: “I thought, these days, that you could tell who bought what.”
“Not from this program. If a customer holds our loyalty card, certain selected items are recorded and we can use this information to identify their tastes. That’s the theory, but for Grainger’s stores the system is in its infancy.”
Dave said: “Would pineapple slices ’appen to be a selected item?”
“No. It tends to be more specialised lines, such as wine or our cordon bleu ready meals. Then we can target our mailshots and special offers more accurately.”
“Thanks for explaining that,” I said, making a mental note not to ever buy another ready meal. I didn’t want some spotty supermarket analyst dissecting my eating habits. “So, have you sacked anybody in, ooh, the last two months?”
“No. I’ve never sacked anybody ever, I’m proud to say,” he replied. “It’s part of the Grainger’s ethos that everybody can be usefully employed. It’s a question oftraining and finding an employee’s potential. We don’t sack people, we redeploy and redevelop them.”
“Have you redeployed or redeveloped anybody in the last two months?”
He thought about it before answering. “We do it constantly, but most of them go along with it, accept the need. There was one girl…”
“Go on.”
“She was all fingers and thumbs. Kept dropping things on the shop floor. We moved her into the warehouse where she could do less damage, but she handed in her notice after a week.”
We asked him for her name and after a phone call he gave it to us.
“So you don’t know of anybody who might hold a grudge against the company?”
“No, not at all. Sir Morton might have made a few enemies along the way, but none I know of. Has he been told about all this?”
“Not yet. How often do you see him?”
“We have a monthly meeting but we see his wife more often. She likes to play the secret shopper, sneaking in heavily disguised but all the staff recognise her. There’s a daughter-in-law too, who does the same thing, but we’re not so sure about her.”
We sat in silence for a few seconds until he said: “We’ll have to withdraw them all, won’t we? And recall them. Oh God, we need this, we really need this,” and buried his head in his hands.
“Has anything like it happened here before?” I asked.
Robshaw shuffled in his leather executive chair andran a finger under the collar of his shirt. That was the question he hoped we wouldn’t ask. He picked up the phone again and asked someone to bring in the complaints book.
“What do you fancy for lunch?” Dave asked as we climbed into his car in the supermarket car park.
“We could have bought something here,” I replied.
“And risk being poisoned? No thanks.”
“OK. Bacon sandwich in the canteen. The poison in them is slow-acting.” I pulled the door shut and reached for the seat belt.
“What did you reckon to him?” Dave said.
“Robshaw? He was helpful, once he realised we weren’t after his blood. Not exactly managerial material , I’d’ve thought, but he’d done well for himself. Credit where it’s due.”
“He’s a twat,” Dave stated.
Robshaw’s helpfulness extended to furnishing us with a list of the other ten stores in the group, with names and phone numbers, plus Sir Morton Grainger’s home number. Not classified information but it saved us about an hour’s work.
The complaints book revealed that two weeks earlier a customer had returned some peaches that had turned mouldy in the tin, and ten days before that someone had brought back a tin of blue baked beans. These had been sent to the group’s laboratory and found to be contaminated with a harmless food dye. Both customers were placated and the incidents brushed over without involving the local health inspector. There was no investigation
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