Armadillo

by William Boyd

  ‘This stinks,’ Hogg said, stuffing his mouth full of lamb – he was not referring to the cooking. ‘The whole rancid bollocks stinks to high heaven. And I think you know why.’

  ‘I don’t, Mr Hogg.’

  Hogg pointed his knife at him, chewing vigorously. ‘Then you’d better find out, my blue-eyed boy. Everything’s on hold until you do.’

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘Meaning you, your job, your future, your bonus.’

  ‘That’s not fair.’

  ‘You’re sucking on hind tit here, Lorimer. Life’s not fair. You should know that, you work in insurance.’

  Lorimer felt no hunger for his meal; in fact he felt the opposite of hunger – not replete, not nauseous, but suddenly food-phobic, in a curious way, as if he wanted nothing more to do with nutrition, ever. He was still very pro-alcohol, though, decidedly keen on the idea of getting drunk. He gulped Bull’s Blood – give me strength, he prayed, give me the strength of a Hungarian bull. Hogg was tearing into his lamb, knife and fork flashing, as if the beast had once done him personal injury. Lorimer covertly topped up their glasses.

  ‘What have we got exactly?’ Hogg said. ‘A serious fire, deliberately started in a new, nearly complete luxury hotel. A disgusting bit of insurance work that leads to a £27 million claim. Then a loss adjustment to kill for, of positively dreamlike beauty. A week later said hotel is being levelled to the ground. A massive write-off in investment terms – where’s the sense?’

  Lorimer admitted there appeared to be none but something Hogg had said had inadvertently set an alarm bell ringing, some flaw in his reasoning somewhere. He would have to think it over later, Hogg was in full stride.

  And worse,’ he continued, ‘the tenth-rate prat who wrote the insurance is foisted on me days before the whole caboodle goes down the toilet at the personal request of Sir Simon Sherriffmuir himself. I fire this useless wanker as soon as is decent and what does he do? He ends up staying in my favourite loss adjuster’s flat, the very loss adjuster who did the diamond job on Gale-Harlequin. How do you think that looks to me?’ Hogg pushed his plate aside. ‘It looks to me, Lorimer, that someone’s trying to ream George Hogg up his arse and George Hogg doesn’t like it one little bit.’

  ‘It’s pure coincidence – pure malevolent coincidence – that Helvoir-Jayne’s staying with me, Mr Hogg.’ He wanted to tell him about zemblanity, how this was a perfect example of its sinister influence on one’s life, but Hogg was still analysing recent events.

  ‘How well do you know Sherriffmuir?’

  ‘I’ve only met him once. You don’t think he’s –’

  ‘He wanted shot of Helvoir-Jayne, pronto. Why land him on me, though? Because you worked for me and you were going to do the Gale-Harlequin adjust –’

  ‘It makes no sense, Mr Hogg. This is wild speculation.’

  Hogg took out and lit a knobbly panatella.

  ‘Be that as it may’ he said cryptically, through wreaths of bluey smoke. ‘I hear the sound of roof tiles falling.’

  ‘There has to be an explanation. Who’s being exploited? Ripped off? The only ones entitled to complain are Gale-Harlequin.’

  ‘Somebody got ten mil.’

  ‘Only forty per cent of what they were due.’

  ‘But why tear down their hotel?’

  ‘Beats me.’

  ‘Somebody somewhere, has used or is using us and is making a dirty deal.’

  ‘But what? Who?’

  ‘That’s your job, Lorimer. You make sense of it and come and explain it to me in words of one syllable. Everything’s off till you tell me what this has been about.’

  ‘I really need that bonus, Mr Hogg, I’m over-extended, financially.’

  ‘Tough shit. Now, try some of this apple pie.’

  392. Hogg, once, in his convivial days, in a pub after work, over a schooner of Bristol Cream and a pint of lagger chaser, said, ‘Know how you got this job, Lorimer?’

  ME: Because I was a good loss adjuster for Fortress Sure.

  HOGG: No.

  ME: Because I was well-qualified.

  HOGG: The world is full to the gunwales of well-qualified people.

  ME: Because I’ve got a sunny demeanour?

  HOGG: Think back to the interview. One answer you gave swung it.

  ME: I can’t remember.

  HOGG: I remember. It was like an ice-water enema. I thought, this boy’s got what it takes, he’s got co-johns

  ME: Cojones. It’s Spanish.

  HOGG: Nonsense, it’s Belgian. It’s a Belgian expression. Flemish for ‘guts’.

  ME: It’s not pronounced ‘co-johns’, Mr Hogg.

  HOGG: I don’t give a gerbil’s dick how it’s pronounced. I’m trying to tell you, matey, how you wound up in this public house sharing a libation with me. I asked you a question right at the end of the interview, remember?

  ME: Oh, yes. Remind me, Mr Hogg.

  HOGG: I said: what’s your biggest fault? And what did you say?

  ME: I don’t recall. I made it up, probably.

  HOGG: You said – and I’ll never forget this – you said, ‘I’ve got a violent temper.’

  ME: Did I?

  HOGG: (musing) That impressed me, that did. That’s why I brought you into the family, into GGH. We all have faults, Lorimer – even I have faults – but not many of us will own up to them.

  The Book of Transfiguration

  ‘Slobodan, this is Torquil. Torquil, Slobodan.’

  ‘Call me Lobby. Everyone else does, ‘cept for Milo here.’

  ‘Milo?’ Torquil looked at Lorimer curiously.

  ‘Family nickname,’ Lorimer said, keeping his voice low. Slobodan couldn’t hear, anyway, he was round the other side of the Cortina, kicking the tyres.

  ‘Welcome aboard, Torquil,’ Slobodan said. ‘You’re insured, completely covered. Clean driving licence, willing to work all hours. You’ve saved our bacon in our eleventh hour of need.’

  ‘Likewise, ah, Lobby,’ Torquil said, shaking his proffered hand. They were standing outside Slobodan’s house, a faint sun spangling off the Cortina’s chrome, a gentle burbling noise of melting snow in the gutters.

  ‘I believe I owe you a fee,’ Torquil said, offering Slobodan a cigarette. The two men lit up.

  ‘Forty quid a week for the radio. In advance.’

  Torquil turned to Lorimer, who gave him forty pounds, which he handed to Slobodan.

  ‘Ta very much, Torquil.’

  ‘I’ll probably need extra for petrol,’ Torquil said, ‘and meals.’

  Lorimer gave him another forty. He didn’t care, he was happy.

  ‘Come and meet my associate, Mr Beazley,’ Slobodan said. ‘We’ll get your first job set up.’

  ‘I’ve got my A to Z,’ Torquil said, hauling Lorimer’s street map out of his pocket.

  ‘That’s all you need for this job. And a car. What do you normally drive?’

  ‘I had a Volvo. Estate.’

  ‘Nice motor.’

  ‘But it was repossessed.’

  ‘Shit happens, Tork. It happens to the best of us.’

  ‘I’ll see you two later,’ Lorimer said. ‘Good luck.’

  He looked back at the two men as they headed for the office, cigarettes on the go, both of an age, both solidly built, both overweight, one with short hair wearing a pinstripe suit, one with a grey ponytail wearing an ex-W ehrmacht combat jacket. For some reason Lorimer had an odd premonition that they would get along. He had been uneasy about bringing Torquil so close to his family but the absolute need to terminate the continued presence and pressure of the man in his life had demanded swift action and this was the only feasible solution available. All he had said to Slobodan was that people called him ‘Lorimer’ at work, Milomre being hard to pronounce. Slobodan had barely paid attention. In the event, Lorimer thought, the less said the better – they were both resolutely incurious types, nothing much seemed to surprise them at all. Anyway, he had more complex problems on his hand
s, such as impending insolvency. He was still rattled from his lunch with Hogg, the man’s suspicions fuelling his paranoia, deepening, if that were possible, his utter ruthlessness. But how was he meant to solve the Gale-Harlequin conundrum quickly? He might have a better chance now his life was comparatively Torquil-free.

  He was on the point of ringing the bell to the family flat when the door opened and Drava appeared, her arms full of folders.

  ‘How’s Dad?’ Lorimer asked. ‘Did the doctor come?’

  ‘He’s fine. Fast asleep. The doctor couldn’t tell what was wrong. Gave him some antibiotics and something to help him sleep.’

  ‘Sleep? Surely that’s the last thing Dad needs.’

  ‘Sometimes he doesn’t sleep for days. You go into his room at night and there he is laying there, eyes wide open. Excuse me, Milo, can’t stand here talking all day.’

  So it runs in the family, Lorimer thought, as he drove back to the City In my father’s genes, this light-sleeper business. He wondered if he should put another night in at the Institute – because it was so sleep-orientated he always managed a good couple of hours there, even wired up to Alan’s machines. He wondered what the data was showing – they must have enough of it by now – wondered if Alan was going to be able to help. Where was Alan these days, anyway? He hadn’t seen him for ages.

  The Fedora Palace was down to one storey, the jagged concrete of its remaining walls just visible above the hoardings which, he noticed, were now embellished with a new name and logo: BOOMSLANG PROPERTIES LTD, the sanserif type encircled by a stylized drawing of an acid green snake. Boomslang – who the hell were they?

  ‘No idea,’ the site manager told him. Everything had been sold to this new company a matter of days ago, he said, and some young bloke had come along with these plastic signs and had stuck them up.

  Lorimer telephoned Boomslang Properties at an address in Battersea and arranged an appointment for six o’clock that evening. He had told the girl who answered the phone that it was an insurance matter and mentioned he was investigating the prospect of a rebate. The thought of receiving money always made people fix appointments promptly.

  Boomslang Properties was to be found above a shop selling expensive crockery and kitchenware in a prettified parade not far from Albert Bridge. A young girl in jeans and a large sweater printed with cartoon characters put her cigarette and magazine down and stared at him uncomprehendingly.

  ‘We spoke earlier this afternoon.’ Lorimer repeated his business patiently, ‘I’ve come about the Fedora Palace site.’ He could see it was still ringing no bells.

  ‘Oh, God, yah…’ She shouted: ‘Marius? Mr Fedora, insurance?’ There was no reply. ‘He must be on the phone.’

  A giant of a young man, in his twenties, six foot four or five, blond and ski-tanned, stooped out of a door down the passageway, the sound of a flushing toilet in his wake. His sleeves were rolled up and he was wearing braces. He wiped his hands on his trouser seat before offering the right one in greeting.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, ‘I’m Marius van Meer.’ The accent was South African, Lorimer thought, as he followed van Meer – his back the size of a coffee table – into his office, where he spun him some vague guff about a possible misestimate of the claim settlement and the possibility of a further tranche being forthcoming if, etcetera, etcetera. Marius van Meer smiled at him amiably – it was very quickly clear he had no idea what Lorimer was talking about. So much the better: Lorimer quietly dropped his cover story

  ‘You do know there was a fire in that hotel?’

  ‘Ah, yeah, I did hear something about it. I’ve been in Colorado skiing these last few weeks.’

  ‘But you bought the site off Gale-Harlequin?’

  ‘This is really my dad’s business. I’m just learning the ropes, sort of.’

  ‘And your father is?’

  ‘Dirk van Meer. He’s in Jo’burg.’

  This name sounded familiar, one of the southern hemisphere moguls, he thought. Diamonds, coal, resorts, TV stations, something of that order.

  ‘Would it be possible to speak to him?’

  ‘He’s a bit hard to get hold of at the moment. He’s the one tends to call me, you see.’

  Lorimer looked round the small office: everything was new – carpet, chairs, blind, desk, even the giant bag of golf clubs parked in the corner. He could hear the girl on the phone outside talking to a friend, arranging a dinner party. He was wasting his time.

  He stood up. ‘What does Boomslang mean, by the way?’

  ‘That was my idea,’ Marius said proudly. ‘A boomslang is an African tree snake, beautiful but harmless. Unless you’re an ig.’

  ‘An ig?’

  ‘Yah. It eats igs. Robs birds’ nests. Beautiful lime green snake.’

  Lorimer cruised down Lupus Crescent looking vainly for a parking spot and patrolled the adjacent streets for five minutes until Turpentine Lane yielded a few yards of vacant kerb. He trudged back towards the house, further bemused by this Gale-Harlequin/Boomslang development and further frustrated: what did Hogg expect of him? Should he jump on a plane and fly to Johannesburg? He peered down at Lady Haigh’s basement window. The lights were on, she must –

  The blow glanced off the side of his head (it was that minute inclination of his head to the right that saved him, he later analysed) and his left shoulder took the full brunt of the club-swing. He bellowed his pain and shock, his left arm fizzing in agony, pricked by ten thousand hot needles, and, quite reflexively – he was staggering round from the force of the blow as it was – he wheeled his briefcase in a self-protective arc. He heard a crunching noise as its edge went into his assailant’s face, a noise not violent so much as quietly and domestically satisfying, like a splash of milk falling on crisp cornflakes. His attacker screamed in his turn and staggered away, falling to the ground. Lights were flashing in Lorimer’s face – anti-aircraft fire over Baghdad – and he aimed a couple of kicks in the squirming, scrabbling body’s direction, the second of which connected with an ankle. The figure, wearing dark clothes, a hood over its head, clambered to its feet and limp-ran away, surprisingly fast, club or bat or two-by-four in its hand, and Lorimer fell over, himself, his head suddenly speared with a new form of nerve-end trauma. Gently he touched the hair above his left ear – wet, horrifically tender, a lump rising under his fingertips. Blood.

  No one came out and no one seemed to have heard anything – the whole ‘fight’ must have lasted three seconds. Inside, peering into the bathroom mirror, he discovered he had an oozing one-inch cut above his ear and a lump the size of a halved ping-pong ball. The big muscle on the back of his shoulder was dark red and badly contused but no bones seemed to have been broken. He wondered if he would be able to move his left arm in the morning. He stumbled out of the bathroom and filled a glass with medicinal Scotch. He was very pleased Torquil was not at home. He jammed the telephone receiver under his chin and punched out a number.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Phil?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘It’s Lor – it’s Milo.’

  ‘Hey, Milo, my main man. Lobby’s not here. How you doing?’

  ‘Not so good. Somebody just took a swing at my head with a baseball bat.’

  ‘That scumbag who’s been bugging you?’

  ‘Rintoul.’

  ‘Do you, like, want me to sort him instead of his motor? Break all his fingers or something? It proper fucks you up, eight broken fingers, I tell you. Can’t even take a piss.’

  ‘No, just do the motor. He’ll get the message.’

  ‘Consider it done, Milo. My pleasure.’

  He drank his whisky and took four aspirin and managed to shrug off his jacket and kick away his shoes before sliding himself into bed beneath the duvet. He felt his shoulder and arm stiffening, as if being subjected to some localized freezing device. He felt too an immense weariness descend on him as the adrenalin flood seeped away or wore off or whatever happened to adrenalin when it was
no longer needed. He felt himself start to shiver and for the first time the delayed shock made tears prick his eyes. What a vicious… What kind of desperate coward would… If he had not moved his head that fraction what damage might have been done to him? The only consolation was that he knew that, for the first time in years, he was about to sleep a whole night through.

  Torquil woke him at 2.15 a.m. Shook him awake, his big clumsy paw gripping his ruined shoulder.

  ‘God, sorry,’ Torquil stepped back in alarm. ‘What happened to you? Look like shit.’

  ‘Someone tried to mug me. Got hit on the head.’

  ‘Bastard. Guess how much I made?’

  ‘Torquil, I’ve been attacked, brutalized, I have to sleep.’

  ‘I worked nine hours non-stop. Guess.’

  ‘I need sleep.’

  ‘£285. Lobby said the work’s there for me. Nights are even better. There’s a surcharge after ten.’

  ‘Congratulations.’ Lorimer hunched into the pillow.

  ‘I thought you’d be pleased for me,’ Torquil said, petulantly.

  ‘I am,’ Lorimer mumbled. ‘I’m very pleased. Now go away and leave me alone, there’s a good boy.’

  234. 1953. It is one of the most astonishing facts in scientific history, Alan said, one of the most inexplicable occurrences in the history of the study of the human body. What? Consider this, Alan said, after millennia of sleep and sleeping, REM sleep was only discovered in 1953. 1953! Did no one ever look at another person sleeping and wonder why their eyeballs were moving? Well, did it exist before 1953? I said. Perhaps REM sleep is a late evolutionary refinement amongst human beings. Of course it did, Alan said. How do you know? Because we only dream in REM sleep, and people have dreamed since the beginning of time.