And Thereby Hangs a Tale

3. High Heels*

I was at Lord’s for the first day of the Second Test against Australia when Alan Penfold sat down beside me and introduced himself.

‘How many people tell you they’ve got a story in them?’ he asked.

I gave him a closer look before I replied. He must have been around fifty years old, slim and tanned. He looked fit, the kind of man who goes on playing his chosen sport long after he’s past his peak, and as I write this story, I recall that his handshake was remarkably firm.

‘Two, sometimes three a week,’ I told him.

‘And how many of those stories make it into one of your books?’

‘If I’m lucky, one in twenty, but more likely one in thirty.’

‘Well, let’s see if I can beat the odds,’ said Penfold as the players left the field for tea. ‘In my profession,’ he began, ‘you never forget your first case.’

Alan Penfold put the phone gently back on the hook, hoping he hadn’t woken his wife. She stirred when he slipped stealthily out of bed and began to dress in yesterday’s clothes, as he didn’t want to put the light on.

‘And where do you think you’re going at this time in the morning?’ she demanded.

‘Romford,’ he replied.

Anne tried to focus on the digital clock on her side of the bed.

‘At ten past eight on a Sunday morning?’ she said with a groan.

Alan leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. ‘Go back to sleep, I’ll tell you all about it over lunch.’ He quickly left the room before she could question him any further.

Even though it was a Sunday morning, he calculated that it would take him about an hour to get to Romford. At least he could use the time to think about the phone conversation he’d just had with the duty reports officer.

Alan had joined Redfern & Ticehurst as a trainee actuary soon after he’d qualified as a loss adjuster. Although he’d been with the firm for over two years, the partners were such a conservative bunch that this was the first time they’d allowed him to cover a case without his supervisor, Colin Crofts.

Colin had taught him a lot during the past two years, and it was one of his comments, oft repeated, that sprang to Alan’s mind as he headed along the A12 towards Romford: ‘You never forget your first case.’

All the reports officer had told him over the phone were the basic facts. A warehouse in Romford had caught fire during the night and by the time the local brigade had arrived, there wasn’t a lot that could be done other than to dampen down the embers. Old buildings like that often go up like a tinderbox, the reports officer said matter-of-factly.

The policy holders, Lomax Shoes (Import and Export) Ltd, had two insurance policies, one for the building, and the other for its contents, each of them for approximately two million pounds. The reports officer didn’t consider it to be a complicated assignment, which was probably why he allowed Alan to cover the case without his supervisor.

Even before he reached Romford, Alan could see where the site must be. A plume of black smoke was hovering above what was left of the hundred-year-old company. He parked in a side street, exchanged his shoes for a pair of Wellington boots and headed towards the smouldering remains of Lomax Shoes (Import and Export) Ltd. The smoke was beginning to disperse, the wind blowing it in the direction of the east coast. Alan walked slowly, because Colin had taught him that it was important to take in first impressions.

When he reached the site, there was no sign of any activity other than a fire crew who were packing up and preparing to return to brigade headquarters. Alan tried to avoid the puddles of sooty water as he made his way across to the engine. He introduced himself to the duty officer.

‘So where’s Colin?’ the man asked.

‘He’s on holiday,’ Alan replied.

‘That figures. I can’t remember when I last saw him on a Sunday morning. And he usually waits for my report before he visits the site.’

‘I know,’ said Alan. ‘But this is my first case, and I was hoping to have it wrapped up before Colin comes back from his holiday.’

‘You never forget your first case,’ said the fire officer as he climbed up into the cab. ‘Mind you, this one’s unlikely to make any headlines, other than in the Romford Recorder. I certainly won’t be recommending a police inquiry.’

‘So there’s no suggestion of arson?’ said Alan.

‘No, none of the usual tell-tale signs to indicate that,’ said the officer. ‘I’m betting the cause of the fire will turn out to be faulty wiring. Frankly, the whole electrical system should have been replaced years ago.’ He paused and looked back at what remained of the site. ‘It was just fortunate for us that it was an isolated building and the fire broke out in the middle of the night.’

‘Was there anyone on the premises at the time?’

‘No, Lomax sacked the night watchman about a year ago. Just another victim of the recession. It will all be in my report.’

‘Thanks,’ said Alan. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen any sign of the rep from the insurance company?’ he asked as the fire chief slammed his door closed.

‘If I know Bill Hadman, he’ll be setting up his office in the nearest pub. Try the King’s Arms on Napier Road.’

Alan spent the next hour walking around the waterlogged site searching for any clue that might prove the fire chief wrong. He wasn’t able to find anything, but he couldn’t help feeling that something wasn’t right. To start with, where was Mr Lomax, the owner, whose business had just gone up in smoke? And why wasn’t the insurance agent anywhere to be seen, when he was going to have to pay out four million pounds of his company’s money? Whenever things didn’t add up, Colin always used to say, ‘It’s often not what you do see that matters, but what you don’t see.’

After another half-hour of not being able to work out what it was he couldn’t see, Alan decided to take the fire chief’s advice and headed for the nearest pub.

When he walked into the King’s Arms just before eleven, there were only two customers seated at the bar, and one of them was clearly holding court.

‘Good morning, young man,’ said Bill Hadman. ‘Come and join us. By the way, this is Des Lomax. I’m trying to help him drown his sorrows.’

‘It’s a bit early for me,’ said Alan after shaking hands with both men, ‘but as I didn’t have any breakfast this morning, I’ll settle for an orange juice.’

‘It’s unusual to see someone from your office on site this early.’

‘Colin’s on holiday and it’s my first case.’

‘You never forget your first case,’ sighed Hadman, ‘but I fear this one won’t be something to excite your grandchildren with. My company has insured the Lomax family from the day they first opened shop in 1892, and the few claims they’ve made over the years have never raised an eyebrow at head office, which is more than I can say for some of my other clients.’

‘Mr Lomax,’ said Alan, ‘can I say how sorry I am that we have to meet in such distressing circumstances?’ That was always Colin’s opening line, and Alan added, ‘It must be heartbreaking to lose your family business after so many years.’ He watched Lomax carefully to see how he would react.

‘I’ll just have to learn to live with it, won’t I?’ said Lomax, who didn’t look at all heartbroken. In fact, he appeared remarkably relaxed for someone who’d just lost his livelihood but had still found the time to shave that morning.

‘No need for you to hang around, old fellow,’ said Hadman. ‘I’ll have my report on your desk by Wednesday, Thursday at the latest, and then the bargaining can begin.’

‘Can’t see why there should be any need for bargaining,’ snapped Lomax. ‘My policy is fully paid up, and as the world can see, I’ve lost everything.’

‘Except for the tiny matter of insurance policies totalling around four million pounds,’ said Alan after he’d drained his orange juice. Neither Lomax nor Hadman commented as he placed his empty glass on the bar. He shook hands with them both again and left without another word.

‘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.’

‘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 on to the middle of 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 on to 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 burnt to a cinder, leaving a small cloud of black smoke spiralling 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 on to 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 on to 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.’