by Iain Adams
Graeme, known predictably as “Grim” on account of his usual somewhat lugubrious demeanour, was, well, just Grim – a short, slim, hard-drinking “real ale” fan. He was an obstinate, dedicated and quick-witted man of 40 or so, who had been McRae’s first selection. Grim had made the move from Preston together with McRae some nine months earlier to set up the new branch in the country’s second city.
It wasn’t immediately clear what the two had in common, apart from a shared affection for the interior design of drinking establishments, but it worked. Grim was married to Moira, a surprisingly glamorous dental nurse. He appeared to have the ideal marriage, whereas McRae’s own marriage had effectively been over almost as quickly as the honeymoon. If he could ever find a belter like Moira, he often conjectured, his life would be complete. In the meantime, he maintained a couple of loose and somewhat long-range “friendships”, both of which were slowly withering on the vine.
As for Karen, what could one say? Hardly drop-dead gorgeous, she possessed a long, plain, pinched face and thin, almost cruel lips. And yet… there was something indefinable about her. Tall, slim, invariably elegantly dressed, with a fierce temper and a cutting wit, she was totally reliable. Come hell freezing over, she would be in the office and would work all the hours that God (or McRae) sent. Her loyalty was indisputable. She was single and at 32 was, in most people’s eyes, “on the shelf” – but if she was, it was undoubtedly her own choice.
The other girls didn’t care much for Karen; her acid tongue was exercised a little too frequently and Puri, in particular, suspected a touch of the closet racist in Karen. Maybe she was right, thought Drew, but if it was there, it was certainly under control. Control was one of Karen’s major strengths; the office administration ran like clockwork.
Reluctantly turning his attention back to the file, McRae yawned, and before opening the file decided to grab a coffee from the kitchen. Karen looked up from her keyboard as he opened his glazed door and gave her typically friendly greeting
‘Where are you off? Home early again?
‘Karen, it’s only twenty past three!’
‘Doesn’t normally stop you; in fact, I thought you were working overtime’ she responded, tartly.
That is just about par for the respect people have for me around here, thought McRae, but contented himself with what he trusted was an ironic, if unseasonal, “Ho, ho, ho” before continuing along the corridor. However, no sooner had he reached the tiny kitchen and filled the kettle than Karen materialised in the doorway.
‘Go on, back to the grindstone Santa. I’ll do it,’ she ordered.
That’s Karen in a nutshell, thought Drew. A piss-taker, but as protective as a lioness where he was concerned. She certainly wouldn’t allow either of the other girls to undertake the smallest, most insignificant, tasks for him.
‘Coffee, sir?’
‘Yes. Can we make it the proper stuff for a change?’ he answered, before striding back to his sanctuary to avoid any further wisecracks.
Easing himself back into his chair, McRae glanced at the file cover on top of his desk and quickly scanned the summary details. Instantly, his attention was engaged. It clearly showed the initials “CFG”… Consolidated Fire and General? But we never work for them, he thought, and never will either. The old man had fallen out spectacularly with somebody important in the late seventies, since when all of CFG’s business had been handled by one or other of the “Big Three” partnerships – these companies were also frequently sarcastically referred to as the “Adjusters to the Nobility’ by wannabe firms such as Fairclough.
‘Karen!’ he shouted. ‘Can you pop in for a moment?’
She appeared almost instantly, bearing the coffee, which he had completely forgotten, in her right hand. ‘Yes, my Lord, couldn’t you wait?’
‘No, it’s not that,’ he smiled. ‘Who took these instructions? We never work for CFG, you know that.’
‘Let me see,’ she said, frowning slightly as she set the cup down. He handed her the file and she stared intently at the cover as if it was capable in some way of delivering the meaning of life. ‘I didn’t take the call, so it must have been Jenny. At least, judging by the fact that it was timed at 12.45 when I was at lunch and you lot were at the Anchor – as usual…’
McRae allowed the barb to fly over his left shoulder, where it no doubt did immeasurable damage to the construction site across the road.
‘Anyway, can you just check with Jen and ask her to confirm whether this is right or not. If it was them, there may be some cock-up at their end and I’ll need to check because I am not hauling my backside out to bloody… where is it?’ He focused for the first time on the name and address. ‘Some industrial unit in Walsall, then have them take it back from us. We’ve been stuffed like that before.’
Karen snatched the folder from him before he had time to absorb any other information from the cover and waltzed off in the direction of the small general office. A few seconds later she and Jenny Allingham, a plump brunette with prominent breasts and even more prominent tattoos, appeared at the door.
‘Apparently it is CFG’, said Karen. ‘Tell Drew exactly what they said.’
Jenny paused, blushed prettily and then spoke thoughtfully in her most refined Midlands accent. ‘Well, the guy who rang was called Geoff Rennie. He was a Scot or maybe a Geordie, by the sound of him. Obviously I knew we didn’t normally do anything for CFG, so I had to check their address, and I actually said summat to him along the lines of it being unusual to hear from them. He just made some sarky comment like ‘Yeah, I know, don’t get too excited. We just fancied giving you guys a try. It’s nothing special.’ …. Sorry, I meant to mention it you, Drew, but I got bogged down in a pricing job for Grim, then….’ Her voice tailed off.
‘No problem, Jen, you did absolutely fine,’ McRae replied, whilst out of the corner of his eye he couldn’t help observing Karen pursing her thin lips in exasperation and raising her eyebrows. ‘Better take a good close look at this now!’
Once the women had left his office, McRae fingered the file with a new interest. This was a potentially massive opportunity. Consolidated Fire and General was Britain’s second largest general insurer – it operated worldwide. He had, of course, introduced himself to them, along with every other local insurer, when he had first opened the office last October but to no avail. CFG had been polite but had made it totally clear that they were well catered for, thank you very much. He tried to remember whom exactly he had met.
He recalled that there had been a short Scottish guy. However, he hadn’t been the top dog, who was a rather supercilious local man with a stooping, gaunt and emaciated appearance, called something like Smyth or was it Smythson? He would check his records later. What he did recall, only too clearly, was that “Smyth” had politely, but firmly, dismissed him within a mere seven or eight minutes. He had declined the opportunity to watch McRae’s painstakingly produced corporate PowerPoint presentation and had closed the meeting pretty abruptly. Above all, he remembered distinctly being told that there was, regrettably of course, absolutely no prospect that CFG would require their services. It was strange, then, that they – of all the many discouraging potential clients – should have been the first to decide to “give you guys a try”.
Strange or not, it was a fantastic opening. At this time of year, things were pretty quiet. No storms or floods, thefts down a little, hardly any fires and not a riot in sight. The office was therefore in a position to respond quickly to any new claim. If they could manage to perform really well, then maybe CFG would become a significant client?
Before we get carried away, what’s it all about? he thought.
A fire: earlier that same morning, at a fashion business on a small industrial estate – so far, so unsurprising. The only thing that seemed unusual was that, judging purely by the name and contact details – the Hellenic Fashion Co; contact: Mr Kanelos – appeared to be Greek-owned rather than Asian. Apart from that, it was pretty standard.
The cover was substantial, though… £8 million on the Stock alone. It was a considerably higher sum than McRae would have expected for what appeared to be a rag trade outfit in Walsall. In total, the overall cover exceeded £15million. Pity the fire hadn’t been a bit tastier, thought McRae. The same thought was then rapidly tempered by the realisation that CFG would never have appointed them if it had been.
There was scant information in the file. It simply comprised the sums insured, the basis of settlement (which was reinstatement – “New for Old” in layman’s language), the address, contact numbers and a note to the effect that the full policy details were in the process of being scanned and would be emailed later.
Haven’t got time to wait for them, thought McRae. We need to get cracking!
So, what to do? Should he handle it himself or let Grim loose? Frankly, Grim was every bit as good an adjuster as he was himself, but he supposed that he ought to take the personal responsibility, just in case any politics emerged. Better still, perhaps they should double up? The loss was minor, but if he wanted to have the slightest chance of impressing CFG, two heads might prove better than one.
‘Where’s Grim, Karen?’ His shout echoed around the outer office. No reply, she must be out. Probably gone to the bank, he thought, before easing himself out of his chair. No sooner, however, had he reached the door than she materialised.
‘You bellowed?’ she snapped.
‘Yeah, just wanted to know where Grim is?’
‘I’ve just seen him parking downstairs, should be here in five minutes. Anything else… sir?’
‘No, that’s fine,’ he responded, musing that even to a man of his equanimity, the constant smart-arse chippiness could become a little wearing. At Karen’s personnel review every quarter, he entered the three-word summary: “Brilliant, but Stroppy”. It summed her up perfectly.
Actually, come to think of it, Karen did seem just a little crankier than was normal – even for her. He reached behind him into the inside pocket of his suit jacket, which was draped over the back of his chair. Extracting his diary, the reason for the woman’s mood became horribly apparent. He had promised her lunch today.
‘Shit.’
He had automatically shuffled off to the pub with Grim, forgetting the promise that he now dimly recognised was of rather more significance to her than it was to him. Still, there was time to put it right, he thought. He could suggest dinner, which she would undoubtedly leap at even though she knew perfectly well he had forgotten the lunch.
He decided to bluff it out.
‘Karen,’ he called out to the outer office. ‘I thought rather than lunch we might have an early dinner today, after I get back from the Walsall job. What do you think?’
There was a lengthy pause before she replied evenly through the open doorway. ‘Okay, shall I book somewhere?’
Damn, he thought, that’s going to cost me. Then, with heartiness he didn’t entirely feel, replied: ‘Great!’
3
Walsall, May 2007
Walsall – “famous” to pub-quiz cognoscenti as the birthplace of the leather-lunged Noddy Holder of 1970s pop group Slade – was not a pretty place, even at the best of times.
In this persistent downpour, against the backdrop of a yellow tinged, slate-grey sky, the entrance to the Foundry Business Park looked as unwelcoming as Broadmoor. The partially illuminated, graffiti-scrawled sign listing the “inmates” was a fair reflection of the area’s industry. Buckle makers, panel beaters, zip importers and assorted metal-bashing companies predominated with just a sprinkling of leatherworkers to add a touch of levity. Hellenic Fashion’s name stood out like a ballet dancer at a rugby league ground.
Screwing up his eyes to decipher the unit number, which was partially obscured by the scholarly addition – “wanker” in blue aerosol paint, McRae eventually made out the letters H16.
‘Looks great, eh?’
‘Depends what you’re used to,’ muttered the small figure slumped in the passenger seat of McRae’s Audi.
‘What the hell does that mean?’ retorted McRae.
‘Well… to those in a position to allocate themselves all of the high quality cases in Solihull and Stratford, it no doubt appears a little unsavoury – but to lesser mortals, fed an unending diet of Black Country crap, it looks pretty good,’ sniped Grim.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, thought McRae, here we go again. He contented himself with a dismissive snort. Listening to Grim, you’d think he had never got his hands dirty, but 12 years exposure to rundown council estates, converted mills and dodgy customers in Manchester, Liverpool and the Lancashire mill towns, had given McRae a thorough grounding in the gritty side of life. Come to think of it, Grim had been with him in most of those places anyway, so he should know better. It was, he reasoned, hardly his fault that Grim and his delightful missus had chosen to live in Aldridge on the northern fringe of Brum, so it stood to reason that he was going to pick up a lot of jobs in less-than-desirable locations. He chuckled to himself.
‘What’s so bleeding funny?’ enquired Grim.
‘Nothing, but from the look of that police tape, it would appear that we’re nearly there. I’ll park up.’
Running the Audi half onto the grass verge, which was scattered with pasty wrappers, beer cans and similar high-quality detritus, McRae applied the handbrake and switched off the engine.
‘Shall we take a quick butcher’s before we announce ourselves?’
‘Why not?’
The two men ducked under the flapping tape, which was somewhat easier for Grim than McRae, before striding towards the incident location that was concealed behind a screen of fire tenders and police vehicles. Altogether McRae counted five pumps and a ladder platform amongst the assembly, although one or two of the tenders were looking ready to leave. The smell in the air was unmistakable: a distinctive acrid blend of burnt wood, plastic and chemicals that seemed to accompany every serious fire. A thick column of smoke could still be seen hovering above the vehicles.
Surprising number of appliances, thought McRae. Must have been a quiet day down at the Blue Lane station – either that or they’re all on attendance bonus.
After negotiating the flank of a water tender and stepping carefully over a nest of unruly and heavily weeping hoses, the premises of Hellenic Fashions came into view. Grim was the first to react.
‘Well, well, well… I’ll be buggered. If that’s a twenty grand loss, I’m the effing Pope!’
Certainly, the sight that greeted them was unexpected. Unit H16 had been an extensive steel-framed, single-storey warehouse with a brick façade, fronted with a two-storey office administration block. The offices had clearly survived largely intact but the warehousing had been pretty much gutted. The perimeter walls had buckled, pushed out of the vertical by the expansion of the steelwork, and much of the profiled steel roof had collapsed in on itself. The atmosphere was thick with the damp stench of destruction.
The car park fronting the offices was piled high with debris, presumably pulled from the storage areas by the firefighters. Miscellaneous garments in a multitude of garish colours, mainly tops, skirts and dresses, lay scattered on the ground like battered flowers, muddied, soiled and saturated. What hadn’t been smoke- stained or soaked by the enthusiastic efforts of Walsall’s finest, was now benefitting from unexpected exposure to the rain, which was now gusting across the depressing scene.
Well, depressing to some, thought McRae. It looked like a very substantial case, hence an equally substantial fee, to his jaundiced eye.
The usual cast had assembled in their respective knots: police, fire brigade personnel, some unnecessary ambulance guys and a bunch of what McRae presumed to be factory employees in grey overalls. A group of local youths in their regulation hoodies were clowning about on undersized bikes on the fringe. McRae’s eyes were drawn to four men wearing suits under yellow hi-visibility vests who were sheltering under a pair of umbrellas. They were smoking and looking suitably sombre. Two of the men were li
stening intently to a tall, slim guy gesticulating towards the rear of the property, while the fourth, a stocky, swarthy man, with an almost Friar Tuck-like fringe of short hair surrounding an oval bald patch, appeared more interested in the activity of the firemen who were now winding down their operation. As the adjusters stared at the group, Friar Tuck glanced in their direction.
‘Right, let’s get back to the car before we introduce ourselves,’ said McRae. ‘Going to need the weather gear and boots, I reckon.’
‘I need a fag is what I reckon,’ was the reply.
The appointment Karen had arranged with Hellenics’ head man had been fixed for approximately 3pm and, glancing at his watch as he opened the driver’s door of the Audi, McRae noted it was not quite 2.35pm. He squeezed back into his seat and slammed the door.
‘Let’s just think about how we approach this a second, eh?’ he said, shaking a cigarette out of his pack and offering the pack to his colleague. Grim simultaneously extracted a cigarette with his right hand, while lowering his window with his left. What a talent, thought McRae. Having lit his cigarette and adjusted the window to his satisfaction – just a fraction; enough to let the smoke out, but keeping the rain from entering – Grim eventually replied.
‘Shall I concentrate on the structural damage and machinery, as usual, while you do the chat and get a handle on the stock?’ he enquired.
‘Mmm, maybe,’ replied McRae, ‘or perhaps we should both do the interview this time and then split the assessment later.’
‘But it’ll take longer that way,’ protested Grim.
‘Yeah, but I don’t want us to miss anything on this one, mate. Two heads better than one etc.… In fact, that’s what we’ll do,’ he said, suddenly decisive. ‘CFG are going to be bloody nervous when they see the reserve on this, so we’d better make sure they have no excuse to take the case back from us.’
Concluding their cigarettes and having struggled into Fairclough-emblazoned wet-weather gear, hard hats and boots, the pair, laden with cameras, files and clipboards, retraced their steps to Hellenic Fashions. It was now 2.50pm, but the sky was as dark as Hades and the rain was showing no sign of relenting. It was a bit of an ominous day, all in all.