Say You're Sorry: A Gripping Crime Thriller (A DCI Campbell McKenzie Detective Conspiracy Thriller No 1)

by IAN C. P. IRVINE

  Walking into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea, he found the note he had written for himself the other day to remind himself about the doctor's appointment at the hospital that following Monday. He mustn't forget that.

  He looked at the clock.

  It was 7.25 a.m.

  Returning to his bedroom he sat in the chair beside his bed and sipped his tea.

  When the tea was finished, he dressed, and then climbed the stairs to his lounge, where he settled down comfortably by the phone, picked up his notebook with the phone number of the insurance company in it, and waited for the clock in the hallway to chime 8 a.m. The time that the insurance company would open: from 8 a.m. to 12 noon on a Saturday. Closed on Sundays.

  "Hello, Swiss Insurance," the friendly voice on the other end of the phone replied.

  Jonathan started to say hello, but was slightly surprised when the voice continued to speak and Jonathan realised it was an automated reply service. "So that we can deal with your call and put you through to the correct department, please have your policy number and personal details ready."

  Responding to the questions the friendly voice asked him, he spoke loudly and confidently into the phone and read off his insurance policy number from his notebook, followed by his name, address, post code and date of birth.

  When presented with a choice of departments, he listened to the menu but found it too quick, and quickly pressed the number five on his keypad so that he could hear the options again.

  Then he selected '3' and waited to be put through to the 'Claims' department.

  By the time another voice came online, he was already beginning to feel quite stressed.

  "Swiss Insurance. Good morning Mr Stuart. First of all, thank you for going through security this morning. Do you mind if I call you Jonathan?"

  "Jonathan? Oh, well, no, I suppose not."

  "Good, thank you, Jonathan. So, how may I help you?"

  "May I speak to David please?"

  "David? I'm sorry, he's on the phone just now. Can I help you?"

  "No, thank you. Sorry, I just want to talk to David. I was rather rude to him yesterday and I think I hung up on him. I need to apologise."

  "That's okay, Mr Stuart. People are often hanging up on us. We are trained to deal with it. If you wish, I can accept your apology on David's behalf?"

  "I'm sorry... what do you mean?" Jonathan was momentarily confused. "Actually, no, I'd prefer to speak to David myself. I've spoken to him several times and he's dealing with my claim."

  "Thank you, Jonathan. But I can help you too, if you wish..."

  Jonathan started to cough.

  "No, thank you. I would just like to speak with David."

  "David isn't available at present..."

  "When will he be available?"

  "I'm sorry, I can't tell. He's on the phone..."

  "Can you please tell him that I called and ask if he can call me back as soon as he's free?"

  "Certainly Jonathan. However, that may not be for a while. Are you sure you don't want me to help you?"

  "I'm sure. Quite sure. Please tell David I'm sitting by the phone waiting for him to call me."

  "I certainly will. Thank you for calling Swiss Insurance, Mr Stuart. I hope we have been able to serve you well this morning. Goodbye."

  Inside the call centre, the red number on the wall showing the number of calls which had successfully been dealt with, quietly increased by one.

  In Portobello, Scotland, Mr Jonathan Stuart sat staring at the phone. Coughing.

  -------------------------

  Portobello,

  Edinburgh

  Saturday 9.55 a.m.

  The phone rang.

  Jonathan jumped, and almost fell off his chair, realising that he had fallen asleep.

  "Hello?" he said weakly, then coughed a few times and spoke again. "HELLO. Jonathan Stuart here."

  "Mr Stuart? Hi, it's David from Swiss Insurance. I'm returning your call. I was just given a note saying that you wanted to speak with me."

  "I do. I do. Thanks. Sorry, I tried calling you earlier, but you were on the phone, and I asked your colleague to ask you to call me back as soon as you were free."

  "Oh, I'm sorry. I was just given the message now." David paused. "How can I help you?"

  Jonathan apologised for yesterday. "After all, I know it wasn't your fault. You're just trying your best to help me, and I appreciate it, so I apologise for stopping the conversation yesterday. I was just feeling a little unwell, and a bit angry. Not at you, but at what's happening, if you know what I mean."

  "Please don't worry about it, Mr Stuart..."

  "Jonathan, we agreed you could call me Jonathan?" Jonathan interrupted.

  "Yes, sorry, thank you, Jonathan. But don't worry about it. It is very normal to be upset. We're specially trained to help you, and we understand how stressful this can be."

  A moment's silence.

  Jonathan carried on.

  "Can I ask you a few questions? Yes... good, well, you see, I'd like to know if you've heard anything back from the car company who took the car away to assess the damage. I'm hoping you can authorise the repairs as soon as possible, and maybe even get the car fixed this weekend. You see, I'm lost without the car. I need it fixed as soon as possible."

  David swallowed hard, and opened the green manual on his desk to page ninety-six, putting his index finger on the first line of the text he needed to start repeating next.

  "Yes, certainly. Let me just check the records," David read from the first line. "Aha, yes, I can see that they've sent in a letter already with details of their assessment of the damage done to your car."

  David paused.

  "Let me just open up the file and read their report. Do you mind if I put you on hold for a moment?"

  "No, that's okay. I'll be here..."

  David pressed the hold button on his phone and stood up from his desk. He took off his headset and walked to the bathroom, splashing his face with cold water.

  Taking several deep breathes and splashing more cold water on his face, he returned to his desk.

  He'd done this bit a thousand times before, but all last night he'd known this was coming and was dreading it. For some reason, he knew this was going to be far harder than usual.

  "Hello, Jonathan, I'm back. Are you still there?" David asked, half-hoping that Mr Stuart would have got fed up waiting and hung up.

  "Yes," Jonathan replied. "I'm still here! Did you manage to read what they said? When can you fix it?"

  "Jonathan," David started, quickly scanning the text on page ninety-seven, having taken a break and left the customer waiting as dictated on page ninety-six. "Yes, I've read the report, and I have the report from the garage concerning their assessment of the damage to your car. They've provided me with a detailed list of all the damages, and their estimated repair costs. Along with due consideration of the age of the car, and the general state of the car in the condition it was before the damage occurred, they've assessed that the cost of repairing the car is far greater than its economic value." David paused, saying nothing more, as suggested in the guidelines.

  Placing his finger on the next line of text, and waiting for Jonathan to respond, he took a deep breath, his heart beating uncharacteristically fast, considering he'd done this a thousand times before.

  "I don't understand. They say the car is still repairable though don't they? Which is good! So, you will still fix it though, ... right?"

  David skimmed the next paragraph in the book.

  Why was he finding it so hard?

  Looking up from the book and scanning round the rest of office, David took a moment to watch the hundreds of others employed in the call centre, all expertly not helping those who had paid for their help.

  David looked down at his desk, pushing the instruction manual away and closing it with his right hand.

  He took another deep breath.

  "Mr Stuart, ... Jonathan... I'm sorry, but we won't be able
to repair the car for you. The report from the garage means that your car is now a Class C write-off. It's no longer safe to drive on the road. This means that we'll determine a value for the car, and send you a cheque for its value, once you have agreed to that course of action."

  "What do you mean a write-off? How much will it cost to repair the car? What does the garage say?"

  "Their costs come to £900, and your car is currently valued at only £500."

  "£500? That's wrong! There is... sorry, was, nothing wrong with the car! I've looked after it really carefully for years and years. If I wanted to do, I could still drive it to London and back at eighty miles an hour. The car's brilliant. It's never ever broken down before!"

  "I'm sorry, Mr Stuart. That was before. But you had an accident, and now it's been classified as a Cat C, sorry, Category C, and it's no longer safe to drive." David replied, starting to go off-script. He could hear the anguish the man was going through. He had also started coughing violently at the other end of the phone.

  "You said, ‘once I have agreed that course of action’. What is the other course of action?"

  "You could retain the car and fix it yourself. Once the repair has been completed, and you have obtained an independent engineer's report and sent us a copy of the invoices for the repair, the status of the car can then be amended on the system, and you will be allowed to find new insurance for the car and drive it again on the roads."

  "Fix it myself and then get an independent report? That could cost a fortune!"

  "Which is why it has been declared an economic write-off," David replied, turning to the screen and going to the website of "Wrexham Magic Cars", the auction website that Swiss Insurance used to sell off all the cars they had written-off. While he waited for Jonathan to think of what he wanted to say next, David entered the number plate of the car into their admin portal for the system and quickly found the webpage that Wrexham Cars were already building, in preparation for selling off Jonathan's car for a 'magic' price. In recent years, the car auction side of the insurance business had grown dramatically, developing a revenue stream for Swiss Insurance which was beginning to rival the revenue from the insurance premiums itself. David had long ago figured out how it worked, and it was another aspect of the business he now lived and contributed to day-to-day that was making him feel sick. Basically, his insurance company was increasingly finding ways to lower the cost-points (a proportion of the value that the car may be valued at) at which they could declare a car a write-off. An increasing number of cars were now successfully being declared as Cat C by the insurer without the values being challenged by the owner... On the same day the car is declared a write-off, one of a network of car auctioneers is passed the details of the car, and it prepares to sell the car immediately. Private garages, or anyone with a knowledge of cars, can then buy the car from the auctioneers and use cheaper parts or labour than the insurance company could 'officially' access, to fix the damage, declare the car roadworthy, and then sell the car on for a significant profit. Everyone profits. Except the customer.

  Last year Swiss Insurance sold on hundreds of thousands of Cat C write-offs, with a lot of the cars having minimal damage - like scratches - that were easily repairable.

  "Hang on a second," Jonathan suddenly questioned David. "Why have the garage sent you a report in the first place? We agreed, - you promised me - , that I wouldn't make a claim on the insurance until we got an estimate from the garage on how bad the damage would be. We never asked them to do such an official report. I haven't even decided whether to make a claim or not!"

  "I'm sorry, Mr Stuart, it says on the system that you did want to make a claim. Which is why the car was valued."

  "That's not true, I only wanted to get the damage looked at to see how bad it was, not to make a claim... or make it official."

  "I am sorry, Mr Stuart, but by engaging with the garage and having them take it away, it means that you have started an official claim..."

  "But that’s not what you promised me would happen. I never made a claim..."

  "I am sorry, Mr Stuart, it says on the system that you called us at 10.31 a.m last Thursday, and you informed us of the accident and opened a claim. Which means that now the claim has been opened, we are responsible for the car, and according to the contract between yourself and Swiss Insurance, we can decide what happens to the car. In this case, it has been declared a write-off and we'll retain the car until we agree what happens to it next."

  Jonathan had started coughing repeatedly. His head had begun to swim. His pulse was racing. None of this made any sense to him. It's wasn't logical!

  "But that's stealing! That car belongs to me. I want it back!"

  "There is an option for you to buy the car back from us..."

  "What do you mean, buy it back from you! It's my car!"

  "Mr Stuart, I'm sorry you're finding this upsetting. I understand this can be a difficult time. But since you have registered a claim, the car now effectively belongs to Swiss Insurance, unless you choose the option to buy it back from us. However, if you do, since it's on the system now as a Category C write-off, you cannot drive the car any longer until the damage is fixed and the repairs are verified by us, confirming that the work has been completed and assessed by an independently qualified and recognised engineer."

  "What system? Who put what on which system?"

  "Mr Stuart, since you made a claim, and because we've received the report from the appointed garage concerning the car, the car is now officially down on the system as a Category C. That cannot be changed by anyone without the official paperwork, and if you do opt to buy the car back from us as part of a settlement, then any future owner or purchaser of the car will be able to see that it is a Category C write-off until the car is repaired and the repairs are verified."

  Jonathan was beginning to feel sick.

  "Hang on, hang on, I need to think about his... I don't understand everything you're saying to me. Can you please hang on while I go and get a cup of water?"

  "Yes, certainly."

  "You won't hang up, will you? I just need a moment to think..."

  "Not at all, Mr Stuart. I will wait for you. I understand this is a lot of information."

  David heard Jonathan put down the phone and he could make out his footsteps as he presumably walked towards his kitchen.

  Thinking back to the manual, David knew that it quite clearly stated that the employee of Swiss Insurance should at this point hang up the phone. Let the customer call back. And then, if the phone was finally connected back to the original responder, to simply apologise for the poor line, and the fact that somehow they were disconnected.

  The responder should swiftly move onto another call. Not wait. Not be overly helpful.

  Statistics showed that a significant proportion of callers would not call back.

  Which meant more revenue to the insurance company.

  David knew that from this point forward the focus for the insurance company was to get the customer to accept whatever they were told by themselves. Not to ask too many questions. And, if at all possible, to reduce the likelihood of the customer demanding to speak to a more senior manager, or someone in the Customer Complaints department, which was incidentally, known by everyone in the company to be the most understaffed department in the company.

  If a complaint was transferred to that department, the phone would ring and ring and ring, and only be answered after a very long time.

  Ignoring everything the manual instructed him to do at this juncture, David waited for Jonathan Stuart to come back.

  While he waited, David began to worry about several things.

  First, he couldn’t believe how bad he was beginning to feel about this. What was it about this case that was so different from all the others? Was it simply the straw that was slowly breaking the camel's back?

  Second, was David beginning to develop a conscience?

  Thirdly, what was going to happen next?

  David
was entering unchartered territory.

  While he waited, for the first time in months, the corners of his mouth began to turn up.

  He recognised the feeling.

  Once, in a former life, others would have recognised it as a smile.

  An idea was beginning to form in David's mind.

  A novel idea.

  A cheeky idea.

  Something that no one had ever truly thought of before in his company.

  Despite all his training, from now on, David was going to do his best to help Mr Stuart.

  Chapter 13

  Colinton

  Edinburgh

  Saturday 10.30 a.m.

  DCI Campbell McKenzie pulled into the entrance driveway of Ivor Petrovsky's Edinburgh mansion, wound down his window and pressed the buzzer on the post in front of the large, reinforced wooden gates.

  "DCI McKenzie and Inspector Wessex from Police Scotland. We'd like to speak with Mr Petrovsky please."

  "May I say what it's in connection with?" a disembodied voice asked.

  "We'd just like to have a chat with him. Could you let us in please?"

  There was the sound of muffled voices then the large gates began to swing slowly inward.

  From the street, a casual passer-by would never have suspected that such a large, impressive house sat behind the rather unimpressive gates. Driving slowly onto the gravel driveway that swept in a large curve around a fountain, Campbell wondered at how much such a house would cost. Spread over three floors, in over an acre of land only thirty minutes from the city centre, even if you didn't know Petrovsky's background, anyone would immediately find themselves asking how on earth an immigrant from Poland with little English could so quickly afford such a place - legitimately.

  The answer of course was obvious.

  And anyone hearing one sentence issued from Petrovsky’s mouth, would realise the improbability of him being a Pole. Although not yet proven officially, it was almost certain the man was Russian. One of the first to infiltrate Scotland and extend the empire of the Russian Mafia to the UK.