by Sarah Mason
“What? What?”
“Insurance!”
“Oh.” He breathes a sigh of relief. “I thought I’d run over something.” He settles back down into his seat. “What about it?”
“Maybe that’s the link. Maybe that’s how the burglar knew where to get in and out of the houses so easily and just what to take. If all the details were listed with an insurance company, they wouldn’t have to get into the house to case it. All the information would be on file.”
James stares at the car in front for a few seconds.
I continue. “Didn’t you say that everything stolen from Sebastian Forquar-White’s house was a named item with the insurance company?”
“Yes, it was. And I remember him saying that his insurance company had requested he have the catch fixed on the small window where the burglar got in. I remember thinking how ironic it was to be burgled straight after that.” His brow creases thoughtfully.
“Do you know which insurance company the other victims use? Mrs. Stephens, the Williamses and Mr. Rolfe?”
“No. But we can call as soon as we get back.”
“Would an insurance company actually look around a property though? I mean, I’ve never met anyone from the company who insure my home. I arranged it all over the phone.”
“Somebody would look around a property that’s of a considerable size, especially if they have a number of expensive items which need to be named. They would have to check that they actually exist. Good idea, Holly.” I raise my eyebrows in surprise. Goodness, that was close to an actual compliment.
We travel in silence for the rest of the journey. I feel just a little excited. I mean, what if I’m right? What if it is something to do with the insurance company? We drive into the underground car park and then make our way up toward reception.
“Morning Dave!” says James to Dave-the-grumpy-git-desk-sergeant. Dave looks up and greets him with a smile.
“Morning sir! I’ve got a few things for you!” He bends down and fishes underneath the desk, then produces some gaudy, handwritten envelopes.
“What on earth . . . ?”
Dave leans forward conspiratorially and loudly whispers, “Fan mail, sir, if I’m not mistaken. Strong smell of perfume.” James stares at him and a large grin spreads across my face which I instantly wipe off as James turns toward me. I look at him concernedly as though I haven’t heard.
“This is your fault,” he says through a pursed mouth. I can’t help it. The grin starts across my face again.
“James, I can’t help it if women write to you. That’s nothing to do with me.”
“Hmph.” He turns back to Dave. “You haven’t, er, told . . .”
“Our little secret, sir.”
“Right. Good. Thanks.”
We sweep through the security doors. Dave doesn’t glance at me but he smiles down at his desk without looking up.
We climb the stairs to the second floor in silence.
“So,” I say eventually, “fan mail, eh?”
“If you dare mention this to anyone, anyone at all, I’ll . . .”
“You’ll what?”
“You’ll see. It won’t be pleasant.”
We enter the offices and a chorus goes up as we pass by the desks. “Oh James, we love you soooo . . .” says one high-pitched voice. “Dick, you’re my hero!” says a second. Another officer called John falls into a mock swoon in front of us and we have to step over him.
“You know, James,” I say as this continues all the way to our desks, “I think they might have found out somehow.”
Callum is grinning at us and leaning back in his chair. He saunters over as soon as we both sit down. James opens the bottom drawer of his desk and quickly tosses the offending envelopes in. Callum perches on the end of my desk.
“What’s a guy supposed to do?” he asks.
“How do you mean?” I ask suspiciously.
“Well, I don’t know what to do first. I mean, should I take the piss out of you”—he points at me—“for the TV interview? Or you”—he points at James—“for the fan mail?”
He shrugs and we all laugh. Robin walks into our little group and immediately the atmosphere changes as though she has turned off the sunshine. The tension she brings with her is even more unbearable due to the contrast of a few seconds earlier.
“Am I missing anything?” she says lightly but her face belies something else.
“Nothing at all,” Callum says, matching her tone, but their eyes lock in mutual distaste. Callum seems to be taking James and Robin’s affair very personally, but then I suppose he should feel some sort of immediate responsibility as he is James’ best man. Every time Callum and Robin meet there is a distinct air of hostility. “But then you never miss a trick, do you, Robin?” he snaps now.
“And what is that supposed to mean?” Robin snaps back.
“You know what it means. You know exactly . . .”
“What can we do for you, Robin?” James hastily jumps in.
“I need a word with Holly.”
“Sure,” I say, quickly getting up, and together we wander toward the door. Callum and James watch us all the way and then James turns to Callum and talks intently to him.
“I just wondered how you were getting on,” asks Robin. “Anything to report?”
I shrug. “Nothing really. We may have a lead on The Fox burglaries.”
“You and James are getting on a lot better I see.”
“Yeah.” I bob my head around in agreement.
“Good,” she says shortly, without meeting my eye, and takes her leave.
I go back to my desk with the distinct impression that she was checking up on James and me. Her manner was unfriendly.
“OK,” says James, turning back to me. “You call Mrs. Stephens and Mr. Williams. Ask them who their insurance company is, who their contact there is and when they last came and viewed the house. I’ll do the other two. Mr. Williams came out of the hospital yesterday so he should be there.”
I get on with the calls; I’m surprised and a little honored that James has asked for my help on this. Ten minutes later I put the phone down. James looks at me expectantly.
“Mr. Williams uses Royal Sun Alliance but Mrs. Stephens says she uses a local company, Elephant Insurance Company. I’ve got both the contacts there.”
“Who is the contact at Elephant?”
“A Mr. Makin.”
“Sebastian Forquar-White uses the same company and has the same contact.”
We look at each other for a minute. “What about the shop— Mr. Rolfe?”
“He uses a different company. But then the burglar could always have cased the shop himself, couldn’t he? He only needed to browse for a bit to note the items of value and then take a short walk down the alley at the back to look at the alarm. He could have said he was lost if anyone saw him.”
“But what about Mr. Williams? How could he have possibly found out about his house?”
We stare at each other again, both of us deep in thought.
“Call him again,” James says suddenly. “Ask him if he has ever used any other insurance companies before Royal Sun Alliance. Or even if he has had quotes from other companies.”
I re-dial the number for Mr. Williams.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Williams? It’s Holly Colshannon. I’m sorry to disturb you again, but can you tell me if you’ve ever been with a different insurance company?”
“No, love. Always the same one.”
“Well then, have you ever had quotes from any other companies?”
“I always get quotes from other companies!” He sounds shocked. “Don’t want no one thinking they can pull a fast one over me just because I’m an old feller! I always take the cheapest quote. It just happens it’s always my usual insurance firm.”
“And did the other companies come and look around the house as well?”
“Oh yes. Don’t do things by halves. I didn’t want them quoting for something and then changing thei
r quote once they’d seen the house. Oh no.”
I hold my breath. “Can you tell me who the other companies were?”
“Not off the top of my head, no. But I’ve kept the quotes somewhere—do you want me to look them up?”
“Yes, please. Could you call me back?”
I replace the receiver and impatiently drum my fingers on the desk. After a few minutes I get us both a drink from the vending machine in the corner. James and I sip our coffee and look thoughtfully at each other. I realize belatedly that it’s a bit strange to be staring at each other like this and hastily look away. James’ phone rings.
“Hello? Is that Mr. Williams? You can give them to me . . . Yep . . . Yep . . . Thank you. Bye.”
He looks over at me.
“Well?” I say impatiently.
“One quote from a Mr. Makin at Elephant Insurance Company.”
eighteen
“Blimey,” I breathe. I didn’t believe there really would be a link.
“Don’t get too excited, Holly. It may just be pure coincidence. They are a local company and they may specialize in large houses or antiques or both. We’ll just go down and see them. I’ll call our Mr. Makin.”
Ten minutes later, he replaces the receiver. “Mr. Makin left this morning to go to a conference for a few days, but I’ve made an appointment for Thursday morning.”
“But you didn’t say you were from the police.”
James rolls his eyes. “If he is involved, and that’s only an ‘if,’ do you think it would be a good idea to give him warning that we’re on to him?”
“Er, yes. Maybe you’re right.”
James goes out to follow up some old cases and doesn’t return for the rest of the afternoon, so when I have finished my latest diary installment I leave a note on his desk saying I will see him tomorrow and go to the paper to file copy. I spy Joe over a sea of heads and computers and wave enthusiastically at him in a pathetic effort to win some favor after my disaster of a TV interview. He seems to have forgotten all about it as he trots over, smiling happily at me. Really, the man’s mood changes are frightening.
“Holly! Filing copy?” When I nod he adds, “Great! Keep up the good work!”
I frown to myself; what’s happened to “bloody disgrace” and “absolute shambles”? But I have no time to prevaricate as I need to get somewhere tonight. Fleur called over the weekend and asked if I would like to meet up for a drink. Naturally, I readily agreed. I am really quite curious to get to know her better but I have no idea why she would want to go out with me for a drink. Maybe there is a distinct lack of female company at the counseling charity where she works. We’re meeting at a watering hole on Whiteladies Road at six so I need to get a shift on. I’ve arranged to see Lizzie for our usual Monday night fest afterward.
I hastily download my copy into the main computer, shout to various appropriate bods that I have done so and then scarper to the door. I emerge into bright sunshine a few minutes later. Tristan is beautifully behaved all the way to Park Street, but then starts to splutter and slow down. “Oh please, Tristan. Not here, not now. I’m going to be late,” I cry. I bang my hands on the steering wheel in frustration and then in desperation promise him a service which seems to give him a relatively new lease on life. With one large, final splutter he hums into motion again. We arrive intact on Whiteladies Road a few minutes later and I look in vain for a parking spot. They are a rarefied luxury in this part of the city at the best of times. I spot one next to a Porsche a few minutes later, apologize to Tristan for parking him next to such a smart car, hope they have something in common and march into the bar. Only two minutes late.
Fleur is already sitting at the bar, chatting away to the barman. I’m a little disheveled so I straighten my top, run my fingers through my hair and put my shoulders back. Fleur is looking exquisite I notice as I negotiate the furniture to get to her. She looks as though she has just stepped out of the shower. Her long legs are crossed and she is wearing a little shift dress with a jacket to match. She shakes her head now and then as she laughs at something the barman has told her and the light glints off her glossy, black bob. I slip onto the bar stool next to her.
“Fleur! Hi! Sorry I’m late.”
She turns to face me. “Holly! You’re not really late; besides, I’ve been well entertained!” She smiles at the barman. He asks me, “What will you have?”
“Vodka and, er, ginger ale please,” I say, plunging into unknown territory for vodka drinkers.
“So, how was your day?” she asks.
“Good.” I wonder how much I can tell her. I mean, I know James and she are going to be married but he might not tell her details of cases.
“How’s the Fox case going?”
“We may have a lead.” Surely that would be OK?
“Really?”
“Yeah. Anyway, how was your day?”
“Oh, fine.” Scintillating stuff. My initial enthusiasm waning, I suddenly wonder how successful this is going to be. We probably don’t have much in common. Apart from James Sabine, that is. Seizing on that very topic, I say, “James disappeared off this afternoon, I haven’t seen him since lunchtime.”
Fascinating, Holly. Absolutely fascinating. We fall into a slight pause as the barman serves me my drink and Fleur insists it’s put on the bar tab.
“So, how’s the wedding going?” From my very small experience of weddings I know this is always a captivating topic to all brides.
She tells me a bit about the bridesmaids and the church and then goes on to say, “I’m so sorry, this must be really boring for you.”
“No, not at all.”
“I’m just looking forward to the honeymoon so we can be alone for a while. James has been working hard lately and I’ve been sorting out the details for the wedding.”
I nod sympathetically and wonder fleetingly if some of James’ time has been spent with Robin.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you, actually. There is a Mr. and Mrs. Colshannon on the guest list. They’re not any relation to you, are they? They’re friends of my father.”
I frown suspiciously. It’s quite an unusual name, as I’ve said before.
“Do you know what their first names are?”
“Em, can’t remember. I think one of them is a herb or something . . .”
“Sorrel.”
“Yes! That’s it!”
“That’s my mother,” I say despondently. They just can’t resist it, can they? They just can’t help muscling in . . . Fleur is staring at me wide-eyed.
“Your parents are coming to my wedding! That’s amazing, isn’t it? What’s your father’s name?”
“Patrick.”
“My father was a financial backer with the theater for a while, that’s how he knows your mother. In fact, I think I might have met them once at a party. I remember her . . .” she says excitedly. And she regales me with tales of how amusing they are and how glamorous they are. I mean, I have no objections to basking in their reflected glory for a while, but really, this is too much. As Fleur talks on, I marvel at how they have managed to get themselves invited to James’ wedding. Curious, isn’t it? To think that James Sabine will be meeting my parents. I wonder what he’ll think of them? I am jolted out of my reverie by a strangely loud silence. Was I supposed to laugh back then? I give a little goodwill chortle. Fleur laughs again.
“Really, it was frightfully funny! You must come, you know!”
I look mystified. “Where?”
“Why, to the wedding of course!” I stare at her, suddenly jolted. It might be bizarre to see James getting married. I realize I’m going to have to say something to this generous, if a little misplaced, offer.
“Oh lovely! But you don’t need any latecomers now!”
“Nonsense, the more the merrier! I’m sure James would like you there as well!” I’m sure he wouldn’t actually. There’s nothing much else I can say but . . .
“Gosh, well, thanks!”
“And you will
come to the hen bash, won’t you?”
To be honest, I can’t think of anything worse. Hen dos are the worst invention ever. I quite like them if they are for really good friends, where you can get companionably drunk together and put the world to rights. But a room full of estrogen-charged screaming strangers—I give an involuntary shiver. The problem is, I can’t think of a good enough excuse to get out of it and Fleur’s eyes are fixed hopefully upon me. “Great!”
“It’s next Monday.”
“So soon?”
“Yes—we’re getting married two weeks on Saturday you know.”
“Gosh, are you? It only seems like yesterday I started with James at the station! That means I’ve got less than three weeks left on the diary!” I stare down into my drink. I am actually truly surprised by this; the weeks seem to have raced by.
“Teresa’s coming to the hen do as well.”
“Teresa? Teresa the—Fothersby, Teresa?”
“Yes, she says she knows you!”
“You could say that,” I say darkly.
“I know her from work. It’s been terribly difficult with all the invites for them. I couldn’t invite one without offending someone else, so Daddy told me to just invite the lot! He said it was easier!” Clever old Daddy.
We order some more drinks. I seem to have become surprisingly thirsty. Tristan may have to be collected in the morning. I’m sure he’ll understand it was an emergency.
So much information seems to have been tipped into my brain over the last half hour that I’m in danger of drowning in it. I blink hastily and try to concentrate. Right. Another topic of conversation is called for.
“So, are you and James planning a big family?” I know this isn’t going to get me the gold medal in the conversational Olympics, but it’s the best I can do, all right?
“Heavens, no!” She sits up straight on her bar stool. I blink in surprise. In my little daydreams of married life I have always imagined children. Children, Agas, chickens. That sort of thing. Maybe a little conventional, I grant you, and in my case perhaps destined for another lifetime, but still infinitely comforting.
“I couldn’t possibly do that to my figure!” she continues. I look down at my figure and sharply draw in my stomach. “Think of all the stretch marks, Holly! Piles! A flabby stomach!” She shivers to herself. I have a sympathetic shiver as well to keep her company. “No, I couldn’t have that!” I lean eagerly forward on my stool to hear her alternative. If there is some other miraculous way that we can have the little blighters without physically giving birth to them then I’m all for it! Science can do marvelous things nowadays.
