The rider was a man named Jimmy Speight, aged forty-nine, a self-employed electrician with a wife and two grown-up children. He had no criminal record, his mortgage had been paid off, he had a healthy bank balance, and his children had recently left home. Life should have been rosy.
Evidently Jimmy had seen it differently. After consuming a roast dinner with his wife, he left the house at two o'clock for his customary Sunday afternoon spin. The first confirmed sighting of his Honda CBR was on the seafront road nearly an hour later, when witnesses saw him jump a red light by the Grand Hotel.
Cutting across oncoming traffic, Speight rode the bike onto the promenade, scattering pedestrians as he accelerated toward the pier. A woman selling candyfloss recalled that he seemed to wave playfully at passersby, expertly steering the bike one handed through the entrance gates.
The shouts and screams spread the alarm along the pier in a kind of bizarre Mexican wave. In the panic, a pushchair was tipped over, throwing a toddler into the path of the bike. She was snatched to safety by a quick-thinking teenager, later hailed by the local paper as the hero of the hour.
The first police patrol arrived within seconds, but it was still far too late. Speight flashed past the long row of sheltered seats, where a few stubborn tourists huddled with hot dogs and doughnuts, and on toward the fairground at the end of the pier.
Brighton is a media-friendly city, well used to hosting film and TV crews, and on first seeing the bike, many people assumed they were watching a movie being made. The noise from the rides had muffled the screams from elsewhere, so if Speight had continued at any speed the casualty numbers would have been enormous.
Fortunately, he had skidded to a halt by the Dodgems. While dozens of people looked on—a few applauding, many laughing and taking pictures—he gunned the engine and launched the bike at full throttle, pulling a spectacular wheelie that one witness likened to Zorro rearing up on his horse.
The bike slammed into the railings, the impact catapulting Speight twenty or thirty feet in the air. Nick had studied the shaky video footage of his last moments, had watched the body tumbling almost gracefully through the air, hitting the water and vanishing beneath the waves.
The Coast Guard launched a full-scale search, but all they recovered was a leather jacket and a helmet, the latter bearing traces of blood and hair. The body, it was assumed, had been pulled out to sea by a strong westward current and would probably never be found.
Back on the pier, the amateur cameraman had adequately captured the shocked reaction of the crowd, but even then the thoughts of many were turning toward the opportunities for personal enrichment. Nick didn't even find it particularly appalling anymore: It was just the way of the world.
* * * *
Tiring of the rain, he took refuge in the bar midway along the pier and bought a coffee. There was something else bothering him, but he couldn't get it clear in his mind. Instead, he brooded on that first question: Why did Speight commit suicide in such a flamboyant manner?
So far twenty-six people had claimed for injury, and Nick doubted that was the end of it. At the entrance to the pier this morning he'd seen a poster tacked to the side of a hot dog stall, bearing the following heartfelt plea:
WERE YOU HURT OR DISTRESSED BY THE MOTORCYCLIST ON THE PIER?
CALL US NOW TO SEE HOW MUCH YOU CAN CLAIM!!
Some people had undoubtedly sustained minor injuries in their haste to avoid the bike, but many were either exaggerated or completely fictitious. Nick had been instructed to interview the key witnesses, prepare a report on the scene, and find the evidence to determine which claims were genuine.
He pondered for a while and then rang Morag Strutton, Claims Manager of CBA Insurance, the company who'd had the misfortune to insure Jimmy Speight's bike.
"Nicholas! Are you finished sunning yourself on the pier?"
"The way the wind's blowing, it feels like the whole thing could pitch into the sea."
"I hope not. I'd hate to lose my number-one investigator."
It was a remark that invited some kind of flirtatious response, but Nick said nothing. As well as being former colleagues, he and Morag had some history—a one-night stand, years ago and never discussed since, but the knowledge of it still permeated every conversation.
"I'm glad you called,” he said. “Is Jimmy Speight's file handy?"
"Aye. What do you need?"
"Have a look at his claims history, will you?"
"Hold on."
He pictured her tapping away, her nails probably unpolished and a little ragged from biting. Morag was in her thirties, with dark hair and a pale Celtic complexion, carrying a little extra weight but in all the right places. She was loud and exuberant and had the measure of most people in about a minute of meeting them.
"Two fault accidents,” she said.
"Do you have the circumstances?"
"Not readily to hand. They look pretty low value, if you're suspecting fraud."
"I'm not sure what I suspect, to be honest,” he said. “But I'd like to take a look. Can I pop in this afternoon?"
"I have a better idea. Meet me for a drink after work."
* * * *
Jimmy Speight had lived in an impressive Georgian-style detached house adjacent to Hove Park, one of the city's most desirable locations. A van bearing the livery of Jimmy's business, Speight Electrics, was still parked in the driveway, next to a brand new Mercedes.
Jimmy's widow, Elaine, was short and plump, with a worn face and hair that looked as though it had been expensively styled and colored, then utterly neglected. Her clothes were expensive but badly chosen, making her look old and shapeless.
"The insurance investigator?” she barked, before he could offer an introduction. “All right, come in. Take off your shoes."
Without another word, she led him through to a living room full of dark reproduction furniture and oil paintings in heavy gilt frames. Despite the central heating, Nick shivered as he lowered himself onto a pristine leather sofa. He could feel Elaine's anxious scrutiny, as though she didn't trust him not to damage something. She had the kind of face that seemed designed to convey disapproval. Every twitch, every sniff told Nick that she didn't care for him or his duty there.
"This has been so traumatic for me,” she declared, throwing up her hands in a gesture of hopelessness. “I see no point at all in your inquiries."
As she spoke, she sent anxious glances at a row of framed photographs on the mantelpiece: mostly family shots of Jimmy and Elaine with their children, and one of Elaine Speight with an older man who looked strangely familiar to Nick.
He said, “You may be aware that many people are claiming to have been injured by your husband."
She sniffed. “It's no concern of mine. That's what insurance is for."
"But the insurer has to be satisfied the claims are genuine.” He smiled gently. “Otherwise we'd all be paying a lot more premium."
She gave him a withering look. “Do you think I care two hoots about that right now?"
Nick silently counted to three. The photo caught his eye again.
"Judging by the witness statements, your husband was a very competent rider..."
She shrugged, unwilling to commit until she knew where he was heading.
"And yet I understand he'd had a couple of previous accidents?"
"They weren't his fault. Not really. Jimmy used to say bikers get a bad name, but half the time it's people in cars not looking where they're going..."
She trailed off, aware that his attention was elsewhere. Like a zombie Nick rose and took a step toward the mantelpiece.
"That gentleman with you—"
"My father,” she said with cold pride.
He nodded. When he spoke, the first word emerged an octave higher than normal. “You're Terence Wilson's daughter?"
As if she'd been reading his thoughts, she said, “He's an entrepreneur. A highly respected member of the business community."
Nick said, “Absolu
tely,” while a variety of alternative titles ran through his mind. Mad Terry: slum landlord, racketeer, money launderer, killer.
He couldn't blame Morag Strutton. There was no reason why Jimmy's insurance company would know who his father-in-law was, but nevertheless, some warning would have been nice. Odd that it hadn't made the media, though. Had Elaine been exceptionally careful, he wondered, or had Terence brought some pressure to bear?
"It's hit him hard, this has,” Elaine was saying. “At heart I'm still his little girl. And when I get upset—” Her gaze rested fiercely on him. “—he gets upset."
"As any father would.” Nick swallowed heavily. This was a question he couldn't avoid. “Did Mr. Wilson get on well with his son-in-law?"
"Of course,” she snapped. “I hope you're not insinuating anything. Dad respected Jimmy because Jimmy never asked him for anything.” She sniffed and her voice choked a little. “And he made me happy. That's all that mattered to my father."
She produced an inadequate scrap of cloth from her sleeve and proceeded to blow her nose loudly, wiping each nostril several times with savage little jerks. Nick turned to examine the other photographs. There was a shot of Jimmy sitting in a bar somewhere hot, his arm around a tanned, muscular man who bore a strong family resemblance.
"Who's this?"
"Jimmy's brother. Greg.” A sniff of disapproval. “He lives in Hollywood."
"Really?"
"He started out as Jimmy's apprentice, but it wasn't exciting enough for him. He ended up working for a film studio, then moved to America. Still acts like a teenager, ringing us to brag about his swimming pool or his latest girlfriend. Pathetic behavior. It's about time he grew up."
Nick winced at the venom in her voice. “When was this taken?"
"Last summer. Jimmy flew over to see him for a couple of weeks.” Before he could ask, she added: “I was invited, but I chose not to go."
"How did Greg take the news about Jimmy?"
"I have no idea. He attended the funeral, but I barely spoke to the man. He seemed anxious to get back to his precious film set. And his eulogy was far too flippant. Telling smutty jokes at a religious service ... disgraceful.” Her voice faded on a note of bitter regret.
"Do you have a contact number, just in case I need to speak to him?"
From the ferocity of her sigh, he might have asked her to demolish her house and rebuild it across the road. But she fetched an address book from the hall and allowed him to copy out a phone number.
"Mrs. Speight, is it possible that Jimmy was harboring any secrets?"
"He wouldn't have cheated on me,” she said darkly. A glance at her father's portrait emphasized the point.
"No. Well, what about financial worries, or perhaps a medical condition...?"
"I'd have known. We did everything together."
"You ride a motorcycle?"
She recoiled as if slapped. “No, I certainly do not. But Dad said there's nothing wrong with a man having a hobby."
"On that Sunday, was there any indication of what he might do?"
She flinched and evaded his eye when she said, “No. Nothing."
"He was in a good mood, then?"
"No different to usual. Since our daughter left home he'd been a bit ... low. But that's all.” She blew her nose again. “I'd like you to leave now."
"Of course. Thanks for your help.” He gave her his card, but he had no doubt it would be heading straight for the waste bin. He wasn't too concerned. The visit had given him plenty to think about.
* * * *
From Elaine Speight's he was five minutes from home, but only thirty seconds from Burger King. To the detriment of his wallet and his waistline, fast food won the day. Sitting inside, as more rain showers came and went, he powered up his laptop and ran through the details of the claimants, jotting down notes on the ones that interested him.
His next visit was to the eastern side of the city, and a former spit and sawdust pub in Kemp Town, which had been remodeled to appeal to Brighton's cognoscenti. After circling the block twice, Nick decided to risk parking in a delivery bay.
The interior was a tasteful combination of light wood paneling and dark leather, with artfully subdued lighting. The music was elevator jazz. Trade was surprisingly brisk for two o'clock on a dreary Monday—mostly business types, relying on overpriced Chardonnay to fuel their blue-sky thinking.
A pretty young woman materialized as Nick reached the bar. He ordered a bottle of ginger beer and winced when she charged him three pounds.
"Suppose it's been manic working here the past few weeks?” he said casually.
She raised an eyebrow and said, “How d'you mean, then?” in a broad West Country accent.
"With Jez and Caroline off. And Darren too."
She frowned as if trying to place him. “Jez warn't too bad. Darren's in quite a bad way, though,” she said guardedly.
"It was his back, wasn't it?"
"That's right.” Now openly suspicious. “Do you know them, then?"
"Only to say hello to. But I heard about the thing with the bike."
She nodded pensively. “He must have been a total nutter, that bloke."
"And how's Caroline? Is she still off sick?"
She gave him a glassy smile. “I've been back over a week, thanks all the same."
"Ah."
"And I'm pretty sure I don't know you from Adam. So what's your game? Inland Revenue?"
"Not exactly. I work for Jimmy Speight's insurance company."
She stepped back as though he was radioactive, turning to a colleague serving farther along the bar: “Gary, when you got a minute?"
"It's okay,” said Nick. “I'd just like to ask you a couple of questions—"
"No way. You have to go through my lawyers, that's what I was told. I'm not saying a word.” Another pleading glance at her colleague, who sent Nick a threatening glare.
"That's your prerogative,” he said. He took a quick mouthful of ginger beer and winked. “I'd appreciate a receipt for the drink, though."
He could feel her hostile gaze on his back as he hurried through the double doors. Stepping outside, he found a big man in a dark suit peering into his car.
"Hey!” he called. “I'm just gonna move that."
"Your car can wait,” said a sly voice behind him. He spun and found another, equally formidable man, this one shaven headed, a prison tattoo peeking from his expensive shirt.
"What is this?” Nick said, more to buy some time than anything. He had a fair idea what it was.
Shaven Head produced a mobile and pressed the speed dial. He listened for a second and then thrust it at Nick. At the same time the other man came up behind him and rested two meaty hands on Nick's shoulders—not painfully, but with enough pressure to make the point.
Nick put the phone to his ear. “Hello?"
"My daughter's been to see me. She was very distraught."
"Ah,” said Nick. “'And when she gets upset ... ‘"
A dry chuckle. “You're a quick learner. I can tell I'm not going to have any problems with you."
"I'm not here to cause problems. But I have a job to do."
Terence Wilson tutted theatrically. The hands on Nick's shoulders squeezed a little tighter. “Now I find you making a nuisance of yourself in one of my establishments."
Nick gave no reaction, but another part of the puzzle had fallen into place.
"Everyone knows insurance is a racket,” Wilson continued. “You lot will look for any reason to avoid paying out. But Jimmy was a good lad, like a son to me. If you don't honor those claims, it's like you're insulting his memory, and I won't take kindly to that. Do you understand me?"
Nick grunted. Wilson's line sounded rehearsed, and he wondered if someone else had supplied it for him. These days the up-market gangsters probably employed PR consultants.
"I only ever give one warning, Mr. Randall. Bear that in mind."
"I appreciate your—” Nick began, but the call had been
terminated. Shaven Head took the phone back, while his colleague smoothed out Nick's jacket and ruffled his hair playfully. Then they both strolled away.
Nick stayed where he was for a few seconds, breathing deeply, waiting for his legs to stop wobbling. He had no intention of heeding the warning, but now he knew he had to be careful. He had to work fast.
And he had to be right.
* * * *
First he checked the time difference: three P.M. in the U.K. meant seven A.M. in California. To his surprise, the voice on the phone sounded alert—strong, youthful, with a strange mid-Atlantic twist. “Yeah?"
"Mr. Speight? I hope I didn't wake you?"
"Nah, just been for a run. Who is this?"
"Um, I take it I'm speaking to Gregory Speight, as opposed to James Speight?"
"Jimmy? What the hell do you mean by that?"
"I understand he's staying with you. Isn't that correct?"
There was a long pause, but Nick could hear Gregory Speight's tense breathing. Some noise in the background, too, as if someone had put down a coffee mug, scraped back a chair.
"Is this some kind of sick joke? You heard what happened to my brother?"
"It's no joke,” said Nick. “But I did want to congratulate you on your superb handling of the bike. That must rate as one of your best stunts."
Now a muffled voice called, “Who is it?"
Greg hissed an expletive. Nick could imagine him gesturing desperately for his brother to be quiet, but it was too late. The voice was unmistakably British.
"Okay,” Speight said finally. “What is this, blackmail?"
Nick chuckled. “Sorry, Greg,” he said. “It's worse than that."
* * * *
The Internet was a wonderful thing, Nick decided. His investigation was virtually complete by the time Morag met him at six o'clock. They had decided on the Druid's Head, a quiet traditional pub in the Lanes, Brighton's genteel shopping district.
Morag had come straight from work. She wore a trouser suit and crisp white blouse, and she looked fantastic, although he wouldn't have dared tell her so. She'd brought along a printout of Speight's policy record, which he studied while she was at the bar.
She returned with two pints of Guinness. As she set them down on the table he glimpsed the lacy edge of her bra in the gap between the buttons. He looked away, but not quickly enough. When he turned back she was shaking her head.
AHMM, September 2007 Page 5