Armadillo

by William Boyd

  ‘Deliberately? Are you sure?’ Gale managed to say, forcing a baffled smile.

  ‘It happens all the time. A week or two’s delay is all they’re after, a rescinding of the penalty clause. Force majeure, sort of thing. The trouble with the Fedora Palace was that it all got out of hand, badly out of control. A little bit of damage to the gymnasium would have sufficed – they’d no intention of destroying five floors and the rest.’

  ‘This is outrageous. Who are these men? They should be in prison, for God’s sake.’

  ‘They deny everything.’

  ‘You should prosecute them,’ Home said brutally. ‘Sue. Destroy them. And their families.’

  ‘Ah, but it’s not our problem, Mr Home. It’s yours.’

  There was a silence. Home began to look genuinely troubled, rubbing his hands together persistently to produce an irritating slippery rasp of moist flesh.

  ‘You’re saying that this will affect payment of the claim in some way’ Gale ventured.

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid so,’ Lorimer said. ‘In a significant way’ He paused. ‘We will not be paying.’

  ‘It’s not a question of disagreeing with the valuation?’ Gale asked, still civil.

  ‘No. But in our opinion it has become a criminal matter. It’s no longer a straightforward claim for fire damage. One of your own contractors has deliberately destroyed a fair proportion of the building. We can’t simply reimburse arsonists, you must understand. The whole city would be ablaze.’

  ‘What do the police say?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. These conclusions are a result of our own investigations, carried out by us on behalf of your insurer.’ Lorimer paused. I have no alternative under these circumstances but to advise them – Fortress Sure – not to honour this claim.’ He paused once more, giving a trace of a saddened smile. ‘Until these matters are satisfactorily resolved. It could take a long time.’

  Gale and Home looked at each other again, Gale making an effort to keep his features composed.

  ‘You’ll have to pay us in the end. Good God, man, did you see our premiums?’

  ‘The premiums are nothing to do with our firm. We are simply loss adjusters. Our advice is that this is a criminal matter and in view of this it would be most inappropriate –’

  It went on for a while in this clipped and politely hostile way, the subtext – Lorimer was sure – emerging plain and lucid for all to see. Then he was asked to leave the room for a while and was served a cup of tea by a brisk, matronly woman who made small effort to disguise the utter loathing she held him in. After twenty minutes he was summoned back – Home was no longer present.

  ‘Is there any way you can see that might get us out of this… this fix?’ Gale asked, more reasonably ‘Any compromise we might reach in order to avoid endless delay?’

  Lorimer met his gaze unflinchingly: it was vital to avoid all sense of embarrassment, of covert shamefulness, of tacit admission of guilt.

  ‘It’s possible,’ Lorimer said. Our clients are normally keen to find a solution – some sort of median figure that is acceptable to both parties is usually the best way forward.’

  ‘You mean if I agree to take less?’

  ‘If you see the difficulties this sort of case presents us with and if you decide in the interests of expediency –’

  ‘How much?’

  This was too bold, so Lorimer decided to press on, formally: ‘-you decide in the interests of expediency that the full claim should be reduced. If I go back to my client with this information, I’m sure a compromise can be reached.’

  Gale looked at him coldly. ‘I see. And what sort of a figure do you think Fortress Sure will be able to live with?’

  This was the moment: Lorimer could feel the pulses pumping in his wrists – 20 million? 15 million? He looked at Gale and his instincts spoke loud and clear.

  ‘I should think,’ he frowned as if making swift mental calculations, but he had already decided, ‘I should think you’d be safe with 10 million.’

  Gale let out a throaty half-laugh, half-expletive.

  ‘You owe me £ 27 million and you offer me 10? Jesus Christ.’

  ‘Remember this is no longer normal business, Mr Gale. Your contractors started this fire deliberately. We would be entitled to walk away from this.’

  Gale stood up, walked to the window and contemplated his soon-to-be-spoilt view of the ancient cathedral.

  ‘Would you put that in writing? The offer of 10 million?’

  ‘You are the one making the offer,’ Lorimer reminded him. ‘I’m sure that if it’s acceptable you will be formally notified.’

  ‘Well, I’ll make the offer formally, you get me an “acceptance” in writing, Mr Black, and we’ll take it from there.’ He bowed his head. ‘If 10 million seems the way of least resistance, then I will – with huge reluctance – reduce my claim on the Fedora Palace.’

  At the door Gale turned to face him, blocking his exit. His tan face was flushed with blood, his anger turning him brick-coloured.

  ‘People like you are filth, Black, you’re scum. You’re no better than thieves, lying fucking villains. You’ll happily take our money but when it comes to paying out – ‘

  ‘Would you please let me leave.’

  Gale continued to swear harshly at him in a low voice as Lorimer stepped back.

  As soon as we have your communication we’ll be in touch, Mr Gale. Tomorrow, probably.’

  As Lorimer hummed down in the lift towards the lobby, towards its lush greenness and discreet lighting, he felt his head throbbing slightly, felt his chest fill and lighten, as if packed with effervescing bubbles and – strangely, this was a first – his eyes smarted from unshed tears. But beneath his exhilaration, his buoyant sense of triumph, a keener warning note sounded. Gale had seemed angry, sure – he had just lost £ 17 million that he might reasonably have thought were coming to him – but he hadn’t been nearly angry enough, in Lorimer’s opinion, not nearly, that was the trouble. Why not? This was worrisome.

  117. The First Adjust. You flourished in ‘insurance’ in those early years. Tour father’s connections delivered a lowly but secure actuarial job, you diligently worked and were duly rewarded and routinely promoted. As part of a diversification and work-experience scheme in your first company you were sent on attachment to a firm of loss adjusters. Tour first adjust was at a shoe shop in Abingdon whose stock had been ruined as a result of a burst pipe, inundating the basement, unnoticed over a bank holiday weekend.

  How did you know the owner was lying? How did you know that the grief and handwringing was sham? Hogg said later it was pure instinct. All great loss adjusters, Hogg said, can spot a liar at once because they understand, at a fundamental level, the need to lie. They may be liars themselves – and if they are they are excellent liars – but it is not necessary. What is necessary is this understanding of the philosophy of a lie, the compulsive urge to conceal the truth, its complex grammar, its secret structures.

  And you knew this man was lying about his soaked and sodden stock, and you knew his wife was lying too as she tried gamely to hold back the tears while they contemplated, alongside you, the destruction of their family business. Mr Maurice, that was the name.

  You looked at the papier maché litter of hundreds of drenched shoe boxes, the shining puddles on the floor, smelt the stench of wet leather in your nose and something made you turn to Mr Maurice and say, ‘How do I know you just didn’t turn your hose on the rest of the stock that weekend, Mr Maurice? It seems tremendous damage for one burst pipe.’

  It is the quality of the rage that gives them away. The rage is always there, it always erupts, and Mr Maurice’s rage was impressive, but something about the pitch and tone of an indifferent liar’s rage rings false, troubles the inner ear, like the whine of a mosquito in a darkened bedroom, unmistakable, unerringly disturbing.

  So you told Mr Maurice that you were going to advise his insurers to refuse to honour his claim on the grounds of fraud. Shortly aft
er, Mr Maurice was prepared to accept a cash payment of £2,000 as compensation. You saved the insurance company £14,000, you earned your first bonus, it was inevitable that you became a loss adjuster and your continuing, remarkable success in your chosen field brought you, eventually, to the attention of George Gerald Hogg.

  The Book of Transfiguration

  ‘Well, well, well,’ Hogg said sonorously, and lit a cigarette with his usual little flourish. ‘Well, well, well. Ten million.’ Hogg raised his pint of lager. ‘Cheers, son, well done.’

  Lorimer toasted himself with his half of Guinness. He had calculated as thoroughly as he could on the way over and, as far as he could tell, on the basis of a £ 17 million adjust, the bonus due to him was £ 134,000, give or take a few hundred. A standard 0.5 per cent up to one million and then a complex scale of exponentially diminishing fractions of one per cent as the amount grew. He wondered what the company’s commission would be – Hogg’s commission. Well into seven figures, he guessed. This was a big one: only Dymphna dealt routinely in sums like these with her botched dam projects, unbuilt power stations and disappearing jumbo jets. This was a straight and simple ‘save’ for Fortress Sure. No risk had been laid off. A good day at the office for all concerned, so why wasn’t Hogg happier?

  ‘Any trouble?’ Hogg asked. ‘Missiles? Screamers?’

  ‘No. Just the usual insults and oaths.’

  ‘Sticks and stones, chummy. Still, I take my hat off to you, Lorimer,’ Hogg said. ‘I don’t think even I’d have dared pitch it quite that low myself. So – the question looms large – why did he go for it?’

  Lorimer shrugged. ‘I don’t know’ he said. ‘I couldn’t really figure it out. Cash-flow problems? Doubt it. A little of something better than all of nothing? Perhaps. They seem a pretty secure organization.’

  ‘They are,’ Hogg said, reflectively. Tunny that. I thought there would have been more of an explosion. A few writs, threats, telephone calls…’

  T must say I was a bit surprised too,’ Lorimer admitted.

  Hogg looked at Lorimer, shrewdly. ‘You cut along to the Fort. See Dowling in Finance, be the bearer of good news.’

  ‘Me?’ Lorimer said, puzzled. This was normally Hogg’s prized and privileged role.

  ‘You deserve the credit, son. Drink up. I’ll get another round in.’

  Dowling was genuinely pleased, however. A genial, plump man with a big belly and a capric stink of lunchtime cigars about him, he shook Lorimer’s hand warmly and talked a lot about appalling oversights, damage-limitation and the valued saving to the firm. Then he excused himself and left the room, returning in two minutes with Sir Simon Sherriffmuir himself. Up close, Sherriffmuir’s face was fleshier and more seamed than had appeared the night of Torquil’s farewell party But Lorimer could not fault his clothes: a black pinstripe just shy of ostentation, butter yellow shirt and a big-knotted, pale-pink, self-coloured tie. Everything bespoke, Lorimer knew instantly, even the tie. He wore no watch, Lorimer noticed and wondered if there was a fob somewhere. Interesting: he was not up on the protocols of fobs – perhaps he should affect one? – he would have to check with Ivan.

  ‘This is the young man’, Dowling was saying, ‘who’s saved us all that money’

  Sherriffmuir smiled automatically, his handshake was firm and brisk. ‘Best news I’ve had all day. And you are?’

  ‘Lorimer Black.’ He just managed to prevent himself adding a servile ‘sir’.

  ‘So, you’re one of George’s brilliant young samurai,’ Sherriffmuir mused, looking at him almost fondly. ‘It’s been a bit of a bloody cock-up, this Fedora Palace business, I’m most grateful to you. Can you wrap it up quickly? We want to get the whole mess behind us.’

  ‘I’ve agreed we’ll OK the new claim,’ Dowling interjected.

  ‘Good, good…’ Lorimer felt Sherriffmuir still studying him, with some mild curiosity ‘You’re not Angus Black’s youngest, are you?’

  ‘No,’ Lorimer said, thinking: I’m Bogdan Blocj’s youngest, and feeling a small, rare flush of shame.

  ‘Send my love to your pa, will you? Tell him we’ve got to get him south of the border soon,’ Sherriffmuir said, not listening and turning to Dowling. ‘Peter, see you at –?’

  ‘– Half five. All arranged.’

  Sherriffmuir moved easily to the door, slightly round-shouldered like many tall men, the hair on the back of his head curling up above his collar, Lorimer noticed.

  He gave Lorimer a loose, parting wave. ‘Thanks, Lorimer, fine work.’

  Despite his better instincts Lorimer felt pride in himself, as if he had been suddenly ennobled, vindicated by Sir Simon’s praise and the familiar use of his Christian name. For God’s sake, he rebuked himself almost instantly: the man’s not God Almighty, he just works in insurance, like the rest of us.

  Rajiv was leaning on his counter, smoking, tie off, his shirt unbuttoned almost to his navel, as if he were on holiday.

  ‘Hail to the conquering hero,’ he said, not smiling.

  ‘Thanks, Raj,’ Lorimer said. ‘You lose some, you win some.’

  Rajiv slipped his hand inside his shirt and massaged a plump breast. Now he did smile, a slight puckering of his round cheeks.

  ‘Don’t get too big for those boots,’ he said. ‘Hogg’s in your cubicle.’

  As Lorimer wandered down the corridor Shane Ash-gable poked his head out of his office, jerked a thumb and mouthed ‘Hogg’ at him. Such rare solidarity, Lorimer thought, can only mean one thing: Hogg is in one of his black moods.

  Pausing at his door, Lorimer could see through the glass rectangle Hogg openly going through the files and correspondence in his in-tray. He glanced towards Dymphna’s door – she was sitting at her desk crying, dabbing at her eyes with a corner of tissue. Bad, bad omens, Lorimer thought. But why the mood change? What had happened? The first wave of Hogg’s wrath had evidently broken on poor Dymphna: he would have to be nicer to Dymphna, he thought suddenly, charitably, perhaps he would ask her for a drink after work.

  Hogg did not look round, nor desist from his investigation of Lorimer’s paperwork, when he entered.

  ‘You heard any more from the police about that suicide?’ Hogg asked.

  ‘Just a follow-up visit. Why?’

  ‘Has there been an inquest?’

  ‘Not yet. Will there be one?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Hogg stepped round the desk and lowered himself slowly into Lorimer’s chair and scrutinized him aggressively.

  ‘Go all right with Dowling?’

  ‘Fine. Sir Simon came in.’

  ‘Ah. Sir Simon, himself. Very honoured.’

  Lorimer could see there was a torn-out sheet from a message pad in the middle of his desk blotter. Reading it upside down he saw that it said ‘Dr Kenbarry’ and was followed by a number. A telephone number, and, below that, an address. He felt his throat go dry, tight.

  Hogg was wrestling angrily with something stuck in his jacket pocket and cursing silently. Finally he removed it and handed it over to Lorimer – it was a compact disc, still wrapped in its tight cellophane sheath. On a plain white field in jagged child’s handwriting the cover read ‘David Watts. Angziertie.’ Along the bottom of the square was a photograph of three dead bluebottles on their backs, their sets of six legs brittle, half-clenched.

  Angziertie,’ Lorimer read slowly ‘Is that German? Or bad spelling?’

  ‘For the love of Mike, how should I know?’ Hogg said, angrily.

  He is in a filthy mood, Lorimer remarked to himself, and wondered again what harshness had been visited on Dymphna.

  ‘Who is David Watts?’ Lorimer tried again.

  ‘Your next job,’ Hogg said.

  ‘Who is David Watts?’

  ‘Sweet suffering Christ, even I’ve heard of David Watts.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘He’s a singer. A “rock” singer. D’you know his music?’

  ‘The only contemporary music I listen to these days is
African.’

  ‘Right, that does it.’ Hogg stood up, furiously, abruptly, to attention. ‘You know, Lorimer, sometimes I think you’re fucking barking mad. I mean, for God’s sweet sake, man.’ He began to pace angrily about the office. Lorimer pressed himself against the wall. ‘I mean, Jesus Christ, how old are you? What’s the point of employing young people? You should have this popular culture stuff at your fingertips. He’s a bloody rock singer. Everyone’s heard of him.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Rings a bell, now. That David Watts.’

  ‘Don’t fucking interrupt me when I’m talking.’

  ‘Sorry’

  Hogg stopped in front of him and stared, balefully, frowningly at him.

  ‘Sometimes I think you’re not normal, Lorimer.’

  ‘Define “normal”

  ‘Watch it, right?’ Hoggjabbed a blunt, nicotined finger at him, then he sighed, allowed his features to slump, tutted, and shook his head. ‘I don’t know, Lorimer, I just don’t know… I’m not a happy matelot at the moment. My life is lacking in joy Janice has got the file on this David Watts character. Sounds right up your alleyway.’

  He paused at the door, made sure it was shut and then in a curious crabwise fashion shuffled back towards him, still keeping half an eye on the corridor visible through the glass panel. He smiled now, showing his small yellow teeth through the slit in his lips.

  ‘Know what I’m going to do Monday? First thing Monday morning?’

  ‘No, Mr Hogg. What?’

  ‘I’m going to sack ‘Torquil Helvoir-Jayne.’

  388. A Glass of White Wine. Torquil is not a particularly proud or vainglorious man; I would not say ‘pride’ was listed among his many vices, but he is fiercely defensive about what he considers his sole claim to lasting fame, and he defends his rights to this obscure celebrityhood with adamant passion. He claims, he insists, he demands to be credited, acknowledged to be the originator, the only begetter of apiece of apocrypha, a snippet of contemporary folklore that he himself spawned but which, to his continuing fury, has now passed unattributed into common currency.