Sins of the Father

by David Harrison

  His route took him west to the end of the promenade and then along the access road by the side of Shoreham harbour. Then he headed inland to Boundary Road, where he knew there would be a bakery open. Laden with fresh rolls and a couple of jam doughnuts still warm from the oven, he returned home and had an unhealthy but delicious breakfast.

  Afterwards he wrote up yesterday’s reports, then he rang the insurers of the other vehicle involved in the Lauren Doyle claim. While on hold, enduring a sugary ballad by the Carpenters that would torment him for the rest of the day, he leafed through his file of papers. The Renault Espace had allegedly sustained heavy rear damage, and he learnt that repairs had been authorised to a garage called Knight’s Accident Repair Centre.

  “Do you have the invoice there yet?” he asked.

  “No. We only authorised… what is it, three weeks ago.”

  “That’s great. Thanks.” He called up Yell.com and quickly located the bodyshop in an industrial park on the edge of East Grinstead, about six miles from the M23. With a major repair, three weeks wasn’t a long time. If this was a genuine accident there was a good chance the vehicle would still be at the garage.

  His next call was considerably more difficult. It was to the converted barn near Bergerac where Sarah’s parents lived. The property had been magnificently refurbished by Gerry and his wife Lisa, an interior designer, and their two-year labour of love had been the subject of a makeover show on one of the satellite channels.

  Nick was hoping that Lisa would answer. Instead he heard a gruff, “Bonjour?” and felt his good cheer begin to deflate.

  “Gerry, it’s Nick. Nick Randall.”

  “Hmph. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

  Gerry had never been one for chit-chat, and Nick was frankly eager to get it over with. “Sarah and I have separated,” he said. “I thought I should let you know, because she walked out two days ago and I’ve heard nothing from her.”

  In the silence that followed, Nick had a vivid image of Gerry squeezing the receiver and wishing it was Nick’s throat. “Has she been in touch with you?” he added.

  “Wait,” Gerry ordered. Urgent voices in the background, and then Lisa took the phone.

  “Nick, what’s happened?” Distressed but sensible: not out for his blood just yet.

  “I’d rather not go into that right now,” he said. “I’m just concerned to know she’s all right.”

  “We haven’t spoken to her for a week or more. Is there any reason to fear for her safety?”

  “Oh no. She told me she’d booked into a hotel, but she’s not answering her mobile.”

  “I’ll ring her straight away.”

  “Thanks. Can you let me know how she is?”

  A pause while Lisa wrestled with her conscience. “I’ll see what I can do,” she agreed.

  He put the phone down, glad of the distance between them. If Gerry had still lived in Sussex he would have turned up on the doorstep within half an hour, ranting about his feckless, waste-of-space son-in-law and probably challenging him to a fistfight. Thank God for the appeal of the Dordogne.

  ***

  Roger Knight arrived for work at just after ten, parking in the space reserved for him as managing director. Knight’s Accident Repair Centre was the flagship of his business empire, a state-of-the-art bodyshop occupying twenty thousand square feet. It had been launched just over six years ago, with an opening ceremony performed by an ex-Formula One commentator and a C-list glamour model. It had contracts with half a dozen insurers, including a couple of the biggest players, and a turnover approaching a million pounds a year.

  And it was barely breaking even.

  The business had evolved from a used car dealership owned by his uncle, Ray McPherson, a dynamic entrepreneur and villain of the old school. Together with a couple of even more unsavoury characters, Ted Wheeler and Mickey Leach, he’d had interests in various businesses, both legitimate and bent: pubs and loan sharking in South London, Kent and Surrey, a club and a massage parlour in Soho, a garage in East Grinstead and a scrapyard run from a farm in West Sussex. Ray had died childless ten years ago, leaving Roger the car dealers and the farm.

  The scrapyard was still in the process of evolving into a fully-fledged salvage company. Against his better judgement, Roger had given responsibility for that to Kevin Doyle, while he concentrated on the bodyshop.

  The idea for the fraudulent claims had come from Barry Harper, a partner in a firm of solicitors with historic links to McPherson, Wheeler and Leach. He’d pointed out that Roger had a perfect opportunity: the dealership and salvage yard gave him access to cars, the bodyshop offered control of the repair process, and Barry his friendly solicitor took care of the spurious medical reports.

  The scam, essentially, was a simple one. Two vehicles, one low-value and one high, were acquired and insured with different companies. The driver of the low-value vehicle reported a straightforward accident: rear-ending the expensive car filled with people. A claim was made for the vehicle damage, hire charges and injuries to the occupants. If they kept the claims straightforward, the evidence was rarely disputed. Even if an insurer insisted on their own medical examination, the symptoms of whiplash were easy to fake.

  This was their nineteenth claim. So far they’d collected nearly £300,000, with at least another £400,000 in the pipeline. Barry had urged them to take their time. “Wanting a quick settlement makes them suspicious. And besides, the longer the claim’s outstanding, the more they expect to pay out.”

  Most of the injury compensation was being laundered through the car dealers and salvage yard – if Kevin sold a reconditioned engine for £700, the books would show £1500. Roger suspected that Kevin was also creaming off some cash for himself, but for the time being he was fairly relaxed about that. It gave him some leverage, should he ever need it.

  At heart, though, Roger remained uneasy about the fraud. He told himself it was providing a much-needed cash injection, and that he’d close it down once the legitimate businesses were trading profitably. But when it came to making that decision, he knew Barry Harper and Kevin Doyle might have something to say. What he would do if his partners disagreed was something that regularly kept him awake in the early hours.

  He was staring at the framed photos of his children without really seeing them when the receptionist, Angela, leaned into the room.

  “There’s an insurance assessor here,” she said. “Wants the bodyshop manager.”

  Roger frowned. “Can’t George see him?”

  “It’s about the Renault Espace,” she hissed. Unlike the bodyshop manager and most of the other staff, Angela knew about the profitable sideline, and indeed received a little cash bonus in her pay packet every month.

  “Well done,” said Roger. He’d taken her into his confidence for just such eventualities. “Do you have his name?”

  “Nick Randall,” she said. “It’s funny. I’m sure I know him from somewhere.”

  ***

  Nick sat on a plastic seat in the reception area, which was exactly like every other bodyshop reception he’d ever seen: bland décor, piped music and a selection of stunningly dull leaflets about legal expenses and car breakdown cover. He considered sampling the coffee from the drinks machine in the corner, but experience told him not to bother. Instead he checked his phone for messages, then tried Sarah’s number again, but her mobile was still switched off.

  The receptionist reappeared, followed by a tall, well-built man in an expensive suit. He beamed and extended his hand. “Roger Knight. I’m MD here.”

  “Ah. I was hoping to see…”

  “Our bodyshop manager’s tied up, but I’m sure I can help. Come this way.”

  He led Nick through a narrow corridor and into a nondescript office, modest by executive standards. Apart from a couple of plants, the only human touch was half a dozen framed photographs of children.

  Nick sat down, declining an offer of refreshments. He realised Knight was studying him curiously.

>   “You look familiar. Have we met before?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Would I have seen you on television?”

  “That was my father,” said Nick. “Eddie Randall. He was in a lot of British films in the fifties and sixties.”

  “Of course.” Knight was nodding enthusiastically. “Funnily enough, I think my uncle used to know him. There was a picture of them both in his hall for years.”

  Nick opened his briefcase and pretended to sort the contents rather than betray his interest in this news. “Was your uncle good friends with him?”

  “That I can’t say. He died ten years ago. But I know he had interests in a club in Soho for a time, back in the sixties.” Knight rested his hand on his PC mouse as though it were a comforting pet. “Now, how can I help you?”

  Nick produced a business card and placed it on the desk. “I’m investigating a claim for CBA Insurance. I believe you’re repairing the other vehicle, a Renault Espace.” He handed Knight a copy of the claim form. “Heavy rear-end collision. Quite a large job, I should think.”

  Knight examined the papers, but his expression gave nothing away. “What exactly is CBA concerned about?”

  “To put it simply, we don’t think there was any such accident.”

  Knight frowned as though he had misheard. He peered a little closer at the computer screen.

  Nick added, “As you probably know, not all staged accidents actually happen. In some cases it’s a completely paper-based event, putting forward previously damaged cars as evidence of the loss.”

  “And you think this vehicle…?” Knight looked concerned. “Well, I’d better see what I can find.”

  He started tapping at the keyboard, which gave Nick an opportunity to observe him. He put Knight in his mid-forties, but looking pretty good: only a few lines on his face, a hint of grey in his slightly bouffant brown hair. He had the plump friendly face of a young Bill Clinton, and brown eyes that shone with intelligence. His immaculate appearance only served to remind Nick that his own hair was due for a trim, and he had blood on his collar.

  “Nearly there,” Knight murmured, glancing at Nick, who turned his attention to the photographs. His eyes were drawn to a group picture, where a woman with short blonde hair and sparkling eyes was embracing two of the children. Despite her smile, Nick had the impression that she didn’t feel entirely comfortable.

  “Do you have kids?” Knight asked.

  Nick thought of Sarah, and the conversation they’d never quite managed to have. “Not yet,” he said.

  Knight gestured at the photographs. “They live with their mum. In Aberdeen.”

  “Must make it difficult to see them.”

  “Oh, I’d happily fly up there every couple of weeks. No, it’s Lynn who makes it difficult.”

  “Your ex-wife?”

  “Mm. Let me give you some advice. If you’re lucky enough to have children, stay with their mother.” He sighed, clicked heavily on his mouse and a printer whirred into life. “We certainly have this job on our records. I assume you’d like to see the repair documents?”

  Nick leant forward. “It’s already been repaired?”

  Knight greeted the question as a compliment. “We pride ourselves on a quick turnaround.”

  “Did the insurers inspect the vehicle?” Nick tried not to sound uncertain, but his theories about the claim were starting to look doubtful.

  “Via our imaging system. The job was approved by their engineer.” He handed the papers to Nick. “Are you sure you won’t have a coffee?”

  “No, thanks.” Nick saw that the job had been costed on a computerised estimating system, which detailed precise repair times for each stage of the process. Together with half a dozen digital images of the damage, it was more than enough to justify authorising repairs.

  “Do you mind if I keep these?” he asked. “They might come in handy at some stage.”

  “Of course.” Knight sounded amused, as though he was aware that Nick had been wrong-footed.

  Nick put the papers into his briefcase. “When you have a moment, can you check your records to see if this policyholder has had other repairs carried out here?”

  “I’d be happy to.”

  Nick made for the door, then paused: the old Columbo method. “While you’re at it, have a look for the name Lauren Doyle as well.”

  Knight seemed to flinch. “Lauren...?”

  “The other driver involved.”

  “Oh, I see. Yes, yes, I’ll do that.”

  “Thanks.” Nick grinned. Suddenly he was feeling better again.

  Leading him back to the reception area, Knight said, “We sometimes encounter problems collecting on our non-contract work. Do you offer any debt recovery services?”

  “I’ve done a bit of that for insurers.”

  “Excellent. I might be able to put some work your way, then.”

  He saw Nick to the exit, where they shook hands. Knight’s grip was too firm, and a little damper than it had been the first time.

  “Pleased to meet you,” he added. “Let me know if you need any more help.”

  “I’ll do that,” said Nick, wishing he had a more pithy response to hand, but satisfied that the other man understood what had just happened. Knight’s reaction to Lauren Doyle’s name had given him away: he knew something wasn’t right about the claim.

  T EN

  As soon as Nick’s Audi had pulled out on to Copthorne Road, Roger went back to his office and grabbed up his phone. Kevin Doyle answered on the third ring.

  “I’ve just had Nick Randall here.”

  “That fucking investigator?”

  “He wanted to know about the Renault. He was surprised we’d repaired it so quickly.”

  “Did you show him the invoice?”

  “Of course,” Roger replied coldly.

  “You reckon he’ll be happy with that?”

  “There’s no reason why he shouldn’t be,” Roger said, but he felt less sure than he sounded. He didn’t know if his reaction to Lauren Doyle had been noticed: only the merest flash of recognition in his eyes, something he’d been helpless to prevent. Surely you’d have to look very closely to notice a thing like that?

  But Nick was looking closely, he reminded himself. He’s trying to prove a fraud.

  “Fuck!” The usual eloquent outburst from Doyle broke the silence. “D’you want me to come over?”

  “No. We shouldn’t be seen together here. I’ll meet you at the farm in about an hour.” He took a breath and added, “We might have to hold fire on the new claims.”

  He thought Kevin would protest, but there was only a disaffected grunt that could have meant anything. He concluded the call, then opened an internet connection on his PC and typed Eddie Randall into Google.

  Know your enemy, isn’t that what they said?

  ***

  Meanwhile, the enemy was buying a sausage sandwich from a greasy spoon close to the M23. Then he drove west, skirting Crawley to avoid traffic, and parked in a country lane a couple of miles from Gatwick. Taking care not to spill HP sauce on his suit, Nick studied Lauren Doyle’s description of the accident.

  According to the initial telephone notification, the collision occurred in the vicinity of Ifield golf club, close to where he was now parked. However, on the claim form Lauren had put the location down as Slaugham, which was about eight miles further south. Was that simply carelessness, or did it mean something more?

  He was mulling it over when his phone rang. Diana.

  “I’ve been trying Sarah’s number all morning and getting nothing.”

  “And?”

  “And… I don’t know. How long should we leave it before we report her missing?”

  Nick had been wondering the same thing himself. “I thought tonight, if there’s still no message from her.”

  After the call he tidied up, wiped the inevitable blob of sauce from his trousers and wandered along the lane. Reaching a gate, he picked his way carefully aro
und the puddles and stood watching a tractor ploughing the far side of the field, seagulls drifting like litter in its wake. He thought how satisfying such a task must be, no uncertainty about either the objective or the result, the evidence of your progress displayed in each strip of glistening earth. Life on the farm.

  And then he thought: farm. Remembering what CBA’s engineer had told him about Lauren Doyle’s Escort. The vehicle had been inspected at a run-down salvage yard near Rusper, which was only a couple of miles from the location she’d first given to the insurer.

  “They realised it was too close,” he muttered to himself. And recalled Folsom saying the Escort looked filthy. It hadn’t been towed there after the accident: it had never left the yard in the first place.

  There was a road atlas in the car, but it wasn’t much help in locating the yard. He rang Morag Strutton and asked her to check the file. Griffin Farm had charged CBA for recovery and storage, the invoice no more than a page from a spiral notebook with a rubber-stamped heading.

  After relaying the directions to him, she said, “Why do I sense you’re really enjoying this one?”

  “Because I know I’m right,” he said.

  “Cocky bastard,” she laughed, and put the phone down.

  With the benefit of directions, the farm was easy to find. Without them, it would have been virtually impossible. The private road which led to it was screened by trees, and for the first fifty yards it was no more than a muddy track. Brambles and nettles grew high on each side, obscuring his view of the farm.

  After quarter of a mile the road twisted to the right and Nick found himself passing through high metal gates into an open yard full of rusting wrecks. A large German Shepherd appeared from some sort of workshop, followed closely by two Rottweilers.

  Nick pulled up in the yard, and against his better judgement started to open his door. The German Shepherd let out a long deliberate growl, and Nick shut the door.

  Hearing a shout from behind him, he looked in his wing mirror and saw a man in overalls climbing down from a JCB excavator. Another shout and the dogs dispersed, but Nick still thought twice about getting out. He opened the window instead.