‘Something isn’t right,’ Alan said out loud as he walked slowly back to the site. What made it worse was that he had a feeling Colin would have spotted it by now. He briefly considered paying a visit to the local police station, but if the fire officer and the insurance representative weren’t showing any concern, there wasn’t much chance of the police opening an inquiry. Alan could hear the chief inspector saying, ‘I’ve got enough real crimes to solve without having to follow up one of your “something doesn’t feel right” hunches.’
As Alan climbed behind the wheel of his car, he repeated, ‘Something isn’t right.’
Alan arrived back in Fulham just in time for lunch. Anne didn’t seem particularly interested in how he’d spent his Sunday morning, until he mentioned the word shoes. She then began to ask him lots of questions, one of which gave him an idea.
At nine o’clock the following morning, Alan was standing outside the claim manager’s office. ‘No, I haven’t read your report,’ Roy Kerslake said, even before Alan had sat down.
‘That might be because I haven’t written it yet,’ said Alan with a grin. ‘But then, I’m not expecting to get a copy of the fire report or the insurance evaluation before the end of the week.’
‘Then why are you wasting my time?’ asked Kerslake, not looking up from behind a foot-high pile of files.
‘I’m not convinced the Lomax case is quite as straightforward as everyone on the ground seems to think it is.’
‘Have you got anything more substantial to go on other than a gut feeling?’
‘Don’t let’s forget my vast experience,’ said Alan.
‘So what do you expect me to do about it?’ asked Kerslake, ignoring the sarcasm.
‘There isn’t a great deal I can do before the written reports land on my desk, but I was thinking of carrying out a little research of my own.’
‘I smell a request for expenses,’ said Kerslake, looking up for the first time. ‘You’ll need to justify them before I’ll consider parting with a penny.’
Alan told him in great detail what he had in mind, which resulted in the claims manager putting his pen down.
‘I will not advance you a penny until you come up with something more than a gut feeling by the next time I see you. Now go away and let me get on with my job... By the way,’ he said as Alan opened the door, ‘if I remember correctly, this is your first time flying solo?’
‘That’s right,’ said Alan, but he’d closed the door before he could hear Kerslake’s response.
‘Well, that explains everything.’
Alan drove back to Romford later that morning, hoping that a second visit to the site might lift the scales from his eyes, but still all he could see were the charred remains of a once-proud company. He walked slowly across the deserted site, searching for the slightest clue, and was pleased to find nothing.
At one o’clock he returned to the King’s Arms, hoping that Des Lomax and Bill Hadman wouldn’t be propping up the bar as he wanted to chat to one or two locals in the hope of picking up any gossip that was doing the rounds.
He plonked himself down on a stool in the middle of the bar and ordered a pint and a ploughman’s lunch. It didn’t take him long to work out who were the regulars and who, like him, were passing trade. He noticed that one of the regulars was reading about the fire in the local paper.
‘That must have been quite a sight,’ said Alan, pointing to the photograph of a warehouse in flames which took up most of the front page of the Romford Recorder.
‘I wouldn’t know,’ said the man after draining his glass. ‘I was tucked up in bed at the time, minding my own business.’
‘Sad, though,’ said Alan, ‘an old family company like that going up in flames.’
‘Not so sad for Des Lomax,’ said the man, glancing at his empty glass. ‘He pockets a cool four million and then swans off on holiday with his latest girlfriend. Bet we never see him around these parts again.’
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ said Alan and, tapping his glass, he said to the barman, ‘Another pint, please.’ He turned to the regular and asked, ‘Would you care to join me?’
‘That’s very civil of you,’ said the man, smiling for the first time.
An hour later, Alan left the King’s Arms with not a great deal more to go on, despite a second pint for his new-found friend and one for the barman.
Lomax, it seemed, had flown off to Corfu with his new Ukrainian girlfriend, leaving his wife behind in Romford. Alan had no doubt that Mrs Lomax would be able to tell him much more than the stranger at the bar, but he knew he’d never get away with it. If the company were to find out that he’d been to visit the policy-holder’s wife, it would be his last job as well as his first. He dismissed the idea, although it worried him that Lomax could be found in a pub on the morning after the fire and then fly off to Corfu with his girlfriend while the embers were still smouldering.
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, centimetres 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 on to ask his wife a series of questions, all of which she seemed to know the answers to.
Alan spent the following morning strolling around 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.’