When Alan arrived back at the office he decided to give Bill Hadman a call and see if he had anything that might be worth following up.
“Tribunal Insurance,” announced a switchboard voice.
“It’s Alan Penfold from Redfern and Ticehurst. Could you put me through to Mr. Hadman, please?”
“Mr. Hadman’s on holiday. We’re expecting him back next Monday.”
“Somewhere nice, I hope,” said Alan, flying a kite.
“I think he said he was going to Corfu.”
Alan leaned across and stroked his wife’s back, wondering if she was awake.
“If you’re hoping for sex, you can forget it,” Anne said without turning over.
“No, I was hoping to talk to you about shoes.”
Anne turned over. “Shoes?” she mumbled.
“Yes, I want you to tell me everything you know about Manolo Blahnik, Prada, and Roger Vivier.”
Anne sat up, suddenly wide awake.
“Why do you want to know?” she asked hopefully.
“What size are you, for a start?”
“Thirty-eight.”
“Is that inches, centimeters, or—”
“Don’t be silly, Alan. It’s the recognized European measurement, universally accepted by all the major shoe companies.”
“But is there anything distinctive about . . .” Alan went onto ask his wife a series of questions, all of which she seemed to know the answers to.
Alan spent the following morning strolling round the first floor of Harrods, a store he usually only visited during the sales. He tried to remember everything Anne had told him, and spent a considerable amount of time studying the vast department devoted to shoes, or to be more accurate, to women.
He checked through all the brand names that had been on Lomax’s manifest, and by the end of the morning he had narrowed down his search to Manolo Blahnik and Roger Vivier. Alan left the store a couple of hours later with nothing more than some brochures, aware that he couldn’t progress his theory without asking Kerslake for money.
When Alan returned to the office that afternoon, he took his time double-checking Lomax’s stock list. Among the shoes lost in the fire were two thousand three hundred pairs of Manolo Blahnik and over four thousand pairs of Roger Vivier.
“How much do you want?” asked Roy Kerslake, two stacks of files now piled up in front of him.
“A thousand,” said Alan, placing yet another file on the desk.
“I’ll let you know my decision once I’ve read your report,” Kerslake said.
“How do I get my report to the top of the pile?” asked Alan.
“You have to prove to me that the company will benefit from any further expenditure.”
“Would saving a client two million pounds be considered a benefit?” asked Alan innocently.
Kerslake pulled the file back out from the bottom of the pile, opened it, and began to read. “I’ll let you know my decision within the hour.”
Alan returned to Harrods the next day, after he’d had another nocturnal chat with his wife. He took the escalator to the first floor and didn’t stop walking until he reached the Roger Vivier display. He selected a pair of shoes, took them to the counter and asked the sales assistant how much they were. She studied the coded label.
“They’re part of a limited edition, sir, and this is the last pair.”
“And the price?” said Alan.
“Two hundred and twenty pounds.”
Alan tried not to look horrified. At that price, he realized he wouldn’t be able to buy enough pairs to carry out his experiment.
“Do you have any seconds?” he asked hopefully.
“Roger Vivier doesn’t deal in seconds, sir,” the assistant replied with a sweet smile.
“Well, if that’s the case, what’s the cheapest pair of shoes you have?”
“We have some pairs of ballerinas at one hundred and twenty pounds, and a few penny loafers at ninety.”
“I’ll take them,” said Alan.
“What size?”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Alan.
It was the assistant’s turn to look surprised. She leaned across the counter and whispered, “We have five pairs of size thirty-eight in store, which I could let you have at a reduced price, but I’m afraid they’re last season’s.”
“I’m not interested in the season,” said Alan, and happily paid for five pairs of Roger Vivier shoes, size thirty-eight, before moving across the aisle to Manolo Blahnik.
The first question he asked the sales assistant was, “Do you have any of last season’s, size thirty-eight?”
“I’ll just check, sir,” said the girl, and headed off in the direction of the stockroom. “No, sir, we’ve sold out of all the thirty-eights,” she said when she returned. “The only two pairs left over from last year are a thirty-seven and a thirty-five.”
“How much would you charge me if I take both pairs?”
“Without even looking at them?”
“All I care about is that they’re Manolo Blahnik,” said Alan, to another surprised assistant.
Alan left Harrods carrying two bulky green carrier bags containing seven pairs of shoes. Once he was back in the office, he handed the receipts to Roy Kerslake, who looked up from behind his pile of files when he saw how much Alan had spent.
“I hope your wife’s not a size thirty-eight,” he said with a grin. The thought hadn’t even crossed Alan’s mind.
While Anne was out shopping on Saturday morning, Alan built a small bonfire at the bottom of the garden. He then disappeared into the garage and removed the two carrier bags of shoes and the spare petrol can from the boot of his car.
He had completed his little experiment long before Anne returned from her shopping trip. He decided not to tell her that Manolo Blahnik had been eliminated from his findings, because, although he had a spare pair left over, sadly they were not her size. He locked the boot of his car, just in case she discovered the four remaining pairs of Roger Vivier, size thirty-eight.
On Monday morning, Alan rang Des Lomax’s secretary to arrange an appointment with him once he’d returned from his holiday. “I just want to wrap things up,” he explained.
“Of course, Mr. Penfold,” said the secretary. “We’re expecting him back in the office on Wednesday. What time would suit you?”
“Would eleven o’clock be convenient?”
“I’m sure that will be just fine,” she replied. “Shall we say the King’s Arms?”
“No, I’d prefer to see him on site.”
Alan woke early on Wednesday morning and dressed without waking his wife. She’d already supplied him with all the information he required. He set off for Romford soon after breakfast, allowing far more time for the journey than was necessary. He made one stop on the way, dropping into his local garage to refill the spare petrol can.
When Alan drove into Romford he went straight to the site and parked on the only available meter. He decided that an hour would be more than enough. He opened the boot, took out the Harrods bag and the can of petrol, and walked onto the middle of the site where he waited patiently for the chairman of Lomax Shoes (Import and Export) Ltd. to appear.
Des Lomax drove up twenty minutes later and parked his brand-new red Mercedes E-Class Saloon on a double yellow line. When he stepped out of the car, Alan’s first impression was that he looked remarkably pale for someone who’d just spent ten days in Corfu.
Lomax walked slowly across to join him, and didn’t apologize for being late. Alan refused his outstretched hand and simply said, “Good morning, Mr. Lomax. I think the time has come for us to discuss your claim.”
“There’s nothing to discuss,” said Lomax. “My policy was for four million, and as I’ve never missed a payment, I’m looking forward to my claim being paid in full, and sharpish.”
“Subject to my recommendation.”
“I don’t give a damn about your recommendation, sunshine,” said Lomax, lighting a cigarette. �
�Four million is what I’m entitled to, and four million is what I’m going to get. And if you don’t pay up pretty damn quick, you can look forward to our next meeting being in court, which might not be a good career move, remembering that this is your first case.”
“You may well prove to be right, Mr. Lomax,” said Alan. “But I shall be recommending to your insurance broker that they settle for two million.”
“Two million?” said Lomax. “And when did you come up with that Mickey Mouse figure?”
“When I discovered that you hadn’t spent the last ten days in Corfu.”
“You’d better be able to prove that, sunshine,” snapped Lomax, “because I’ve got hotel receipts, plane tickets, even the hire car agreement. So I wouldn’t go down that road if I were you, unless you want to add a writ for libel to the one you’ll be getting for non-payment of a legally binding contract.”
“Actually, I admit that I don’t have any proof you weren’t in Corfu,” said Alan. “But I’d still advise you to settle for two million.”
“If you don’t have any proof,” said Lomax, his voice rising, “what’s your game?”
“What we’re discussing, Mr. Lomax, is your game, not mine,” said Alan calmly. “I may not be able to prove you’ve spent the last ten days disposing of over six thousand pairs of shoes, but what I can prove is that those shoes weren’t in your warehouse when you set fire to it.”
“Don’t threaten me, sunshine. You have absolutely no idea who you’re dealing with.”
“I know only too well who I’m dealing with,” said Alan as he bent down and removed four boxes of Roger Vivier shoes from the Harrods bag and lined them up at Lomax’s feet.
Lomax stared down at the neat little row of boxes. “Been out buying presents, have we?”
“No. Gathering proof of your nocturnal habits.”
Lomax clenched his fist. “Are you trying to get yourself thumped?”
“I wouldn’t go down that road, if I were you,” said Alan, “unless you want to add a charge of assault to the one you’ll be getting for arson.”
Lomax unclenched his fist, and Alan unscrewed the cap on the petrol can and poured the contents over the boxes. “You’ve already had the fire officer’s report, which confirms there was no suggestion of arson,” said Lomax, “so what do you think this little fireworks display is going to prove?”
“You’re about to find out,” said Alan, suddenly cursing himself for having forgotten to bring a box of matches.
“Might I add,” said Lomax, defiantly tossing his cigarette stub onto the boxes, “that the insurance company has already accepted the fire chief’s opinion.”
“Yes, I’m well aware of that,” said Alan. “I’ve read both reports.”
“Just as I thought,” said Lomax, “you’re bluffing.”
Alan said nothing as flames began to leap into the air, causing both men to take a pace back. Within minutes, the tissue paper, the cardboard boxes, and finally the shoes had been burned to a cinder, leaving a small cloud of black smoke spiraling into the air. When it had cleared, the two men stared down at all that was left of the funeral pyre—eight large metal buckles.
“It’s often not what you do see, but what you don’t see,” said Alan without explanation. He looked up at Lomax. “It was my wife,” continued Alan, “who told me that Catherine Deneuve made Roger Vivier buckles famous when she played a courtesan in the film Belle de Jour. That was when I first realized you’d set fire to your own warehouse, Mr. Lomax, because if you hadn’t, according to your manifest, there should have been several thousand buckles scattered all over the site.”
Lomax remained silent for some time before he said, “I reckon you’ve still only got a fifty-fifty chance of proving it.”
“You may well be right, Mr. Lomax,” said Alan. “But then, I reckon you’ve still only got a fifty-fifty chance of not being paid a penny in compensation and, even worse, ending up behind bars for a very long time. So as I said, I will be recommending that my client settles for two million, but then it will be up to you to make the final decision, sunshine.”
“So what do you think?” asked Penfold as a bell sounded and the players began to stroll back out onto the field.
“You’ve undoubtedly beaten the odds,” I replied, “even if I was expecting a slightly different ending.”
“So how would you have ended the story?” he asked.
“I would have held onto one pair of Roger Vivier shoes,” I told him.
“What for?”
“To give to my wife. After all, it was her first case as well.”
BLIND DATE
4
The scent of jasmine was the first clue: a woman.
I was sitting alone at my usual table when she came and sat down at the next table. I knew she was alone, because the chair on the other side of her table hadn’t scraped across the floor, and no one had spoken to her after she’d sat down.
I sipped my coffee. On a good day, I can pick up the cup, take a sip, and return it to the saucer, and if you were sitting at the next table, you’d never know I was blind. The challenge is to see how long I can carry out the deception before the person sitting next to me realizes the truth. And believe me, the moment they do, they give themselves away. Some begin to whisper, and, I suspect, nod or point; some become attentive; while a few are so embarrassed they don’t speak again. Yes, I can even sense that.
I hoped someone would be joining her, so I could hear her speak. I can tell a great deal from a voice. When you can’t see someone, the accent and the tone are enhanced, and these can give so much away. Pause for a moment, imagine listening to someone on the other end of a phone line, and you’ll get the idea.
Charlie was heading toward us. “Are you ready to order, madam?” asked the waiter, his slight Cornish burr leaving no doubt that he was a local. Charlie is tall, strong, and gentle. How do I know? Because when he guides me back to the pavement after my morning coffee, his voice comes from several inches above me, and I’m five foot ten. And if I should accidentally bump against him, there’s no surplus weight, just firm muscle. But then, on Saturday afternoons he plays rugby for the Cornish Pirates. He’s been in the first team for the past seven years, so he must be in his late twenties, possibly early thirties. Charlie has recently split up with his girlfriend and he still misses her. Some things you pick up from asking questions, others are volunteered.
The next challenge is to see how much I can work out about the person sitting at the next table before they realize I cannot see them. Once they’ve gone on their way, Charlie tells me how much I got right. I usually manage about seven out of ten.
“I’d like a lemon tea,” she replied, softly.
“Certainly, madam,” said Charlie. “And will there be anything else?”
“No, thank you.”
Thirty to thirty-five would be my guess. Polite, and not from these parts. Now I’m desperate to know more, but I’ll need to hear her speak again if I’m to pick up any further clues.
I turned to face her as if I could see her clearly. “Can you tell me the time?” I asked, just as the clock on the church tower opposite began to chime.
She laughed, but didn’t reply until the chimes had stopped. “If that clock is to be believed,” she said, “it’s exactly ten o’clock.” The same gentle laugh followed.
“It’s usually a couple of minutes fast,” I said, staring blankly up at the clock face. “Although the church’s perpendicular architecture is considered as fine an example of its kind as any in the West Country, it’s not the building itself that people flock to see, but the Madonna and Child by Barbara Hepworth in the Lady Chapel,” I added, casually leaning back in my chair.
“How interesting,” she volunteered, as Charlie returned and placed a teapot and a small jug of milk on her table, followed by a cup and saucer. “I was thinking of attending the morning service,” she said as she poured herself a cup of tea.
“Then you’re in for a treat. Old Sam
, our vicar, gives an excellent sermon, especially if you’ve never heard it before.”
She laughed again before saying, “I read somewhere that the Madonna and Child is not at all like Hepworth’s usual work.”
“That’s correct,” I replied. “Barbara would take a break from her studio most mornings and join me for a coffee,” I said proudly, “and the great lady once told me that she created the piece in memory of her eldest son, who was killed in a plane crash at the age of twenty-four while serving in the RAF.”
“How sad,” said the woman, but added no further comment.
“Some critics say,” I continued, “that it’s her finest work, and that you can see Barbara’s devotion for her son in the tears in the Virgin’s eyes.”
The woman picked up her cup and sipped her tea before she spoke again. “How wonderful to have actually known her,” she said. “I once attended a talk on the St. Ives School at the Tate, and the lecturer made no mention of the Madonna and Child.”
“Well, you’ll find it tucked away in the Lady Chapel. I’m sure you won’t be disappointed.”
As she took another sip of tea, I wondered how many out of ten I’d got so far. Clearly interested in art, probably lives in London, and certainly hasn’t come to St. Ives to sit on the beach and sunbathe.
“So, are you a visitor to these parts?” I ventured, searching for further clues.
“Yes. But my aunt is from St. Mawes, and she’s hoping to join me for the morning service.”
I felt a right chump. She must have already seen the Madonna and Child, and probably knew more about Barbara Hepworth than I did, but was too polite to embarrass me. Did she also realize I was blind? If so, those same good manners didn’t even hint at it.
And Thereby Hangs a Tale Page 4