The new mayor was equally disappointed, as he’d anticipated that the occasion would guarantee his photograph appearing on the front page of the local paper.
When the great day dawned, Betty received over a hundred cards, letters, and messages from well-wishers, but to Albert’s profound dismay, there was no telegram from the Queen. He assumed the Post Office was to blame and that it would surely be delivered the following day. It wasn’t.
“Don’t fuss, Albert,” Betty insisted. “Her Majesty is a very busy lady and she must have far more important things on her mind.”
But Albert did fuss, and when no telegram arrived the next day, or the following week, he felt a pang of disappointment for his wife who seemed to be taking the whole affair in such good spirit. However, after another week, and still no sign of a telegram, Albert decided the time had come to take the matter into his own hands.
Every Thursday morning, Eileen, their youngest daughter, aged seventy-three, would come to pick up Betty and drive her into town to go shopping. In reality this usually turned out to be just window shopping, as Betty couldn’t believe the prices the shops had the nerve to charge. She could remember when a loaf of bread cost a penny, and a pound a week was a working wage.
That Thursday Albert waited for them to leave the house, then he stood by the window until the car had disappeared round the corner. Once they were out of sight, he shuffled off to his little den, where he sat by the phone, going over the exact words he would say if he was put through.
After a little while, and once he felt he was word perfect, he looked up at the framed telegram on the wall above him. It gave him enough confidence to pick up the phone and dial a six-digit number.
“Directory Inquiries. What number do you require?”
“Buckingham Palace,” said Albert, hoping his voice sounded authoritative.
There was a slight hesitation, but the operator finally said, “One moment please.”
Albert waited patiently, although he quite expected to be told that the number was either unlisted or ex-directory. A moment later the operator was back on the line and read out the number.
“Can you please repeat that?” asked a surprised Albert as he took the top off his biro. “Zero two zero, seven seven six six, seven three zero zero. Thank you,” he said, before putting the phone down. Several minutes passed before he gathered enough courage to pick it up again. Albert dialed the number with a shaky hand. He listened to the familiar ringing tone and was just about to put the phone back down when a woman’s voice said, “Buckingham Palace, how may I help you?”
“I’d like to speak to someone about a one hundredth birthday,” said Albert, repeating the exact words he had memorized.
“Who shall I say is calling?”
“Mr. Albert Webber.”
“Hold the line please, Mr. Webber.”
This was Albert’s last chance of escape, but before he could put the phone down, another voice came on the line.
“Humphrey Cranshaw speaking.”
The last time Albert had heard a voice like that was when he was serving in the army. “Good morning, sir,” he said nervously. “I was hoping you might be able to help me.”
“I certainly will if I can, Mr. Webber,” replied the courtier.
“Three years ago I celebrated my hundredth birthday,” said Albert, returning to his well-rehearsed script.
“Many congratulations,” said Cranshaw.
“Thank you, sir,” said Albert, “but that isn’t the reason why I’m calling. You see, on that occasion Her Majesty the Queen was kind enough to send me a telegram, which is now framed on the wall in front of me, and which I will treasure for the rest of my life.”
“How kind of you to say so, Mr. Webber.”
“But I wondered,” said Albert, gaining in confidence, “if Her Majesty still sends telegrams when people reach their hundredth birthday?”
“She most certainly does,” replied Cranshaw. “I know that it gives Her Majesty great pleasure to continue the tradition, despite the fact that so many more people now attain that magnificent milestone.”
“Oh, that is most gratifying to hear, Mr. Cranshaw,” said Albert, “because my dear wife celebrated her hundredth birthday some two weeks ago, but sadly has not yet received a telegram from the Queen.”
“I am sorry to hear that, Mr. Webber,” said the courtier. “It must be an administrative oversight on our part. Please allow me to check. What is your wife’s full name?”
“Elizabeth Violet Webber, née Braithwaite,” said Albert with pride.
“Just give me a moment, Mr. Webber,” said Cranshaw, “while I check our records.”
This time Albert had to wait a little longer before Mr. Cranshaw came back on the line. “I am sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr. Webber, but you’ll be pleased to learn that we have traced your wife’s telegram.”
“Oh, I’m so glad,” said Albert. “May I ask when she can expect to receive it?”
There was a moment’s hesitation before the courtier said, “Her Majesty sent a telegram to your wife to congratulate her on reaching her hundredth birthday some five years ago.”
Albert heard a car door slam, and moments later a key turned in the lock. He quickly put the phone down, and smiled.
HIGH HEELS*
3
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 round 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 toward 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 toward the smoldering 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 round 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 round, 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 totaling round 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 mig
ht 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 plowman’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 round 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 newfound 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 smoldering.