by R. S. Sutton
Valerie looked at the file, wondering just what she was being hired for. ‘And you’re suspicious?’
‘No, no. Well, not sure. His brother is the only relative and we got the claim while he was still away overseas.’ She leant back, replacing crossed legs with one ankle placed behind the other. ‘The boat he presumably fell from is a yacht. It’s in a small marina on the River Exe. And it’s registered to his brother.’
‘Off using it when he shouldn’t have, was he?’ Still looking at the brother, Valerie drew the last few words out slowly: ‘Then got into trouble.’
‘Yes, maybe, we’re just not sure. Just seems a little… cloudy, although there may be nothing in it. The police aren’t involved as such, but the inquest has been opened and adjourned. Although the body has been released.’
‘So, where do you want me to start? And what do you want me to look for?’ Valerie thought it was all a little vague, but maybe she could stretch it to a couple of weeks.
‘The boat, his brother and anywhere it leads, I think. We have to be sure on all pay-outs, especially large ones.’ Mrs Benson scooped up her bag. ‘Oh yes. It’s in the details, but the remuneration is expenses plus point seven five per cent of the sum insured.’
Valerie frowned. Point seven five per cent, she thought; even at a hundred thousand the pay-out would only be a lousy seven hundred and fifty quid. She could earn a lot more than that in two weeks of divorce cases.
‘And,’ Mrs Benson added, ‘three per cent if it’s fraudulent. Don’t think it will be, but we never know, do we? It’s all in the folder.’
With her hands behind her back, Jane had been leaning on her desk for the last few minutes. ‘There is the boat retrieval to the Medway at normal delivery rates, I understand.’
‘Yes, of course, if you could arrange that too,’ said Mrs Benson, getting up.
Jane ushered her out before Valerie could say anything more than thank you and we’ll keep you up to date.
‘What have you got us into? And at what fee?’ Valerie pushed her lips together before continuing. ‘We’re not in business just to turn money over. Thought you said pay-out would be good? Point seven five per cent! Are you mad?’
Jane persisted with her smile. ‘And three per cent if fraudulent.’
‘What?! All I can do now to make anything out of it is to massage the expenses.’
Jane suppressed a giggle. ‘You’ve not asked what the sum insured is.’
‘Go on, point seven five per cent of what?’
‘Or three per cent.’
‘Yeah, yeah, of what?’
‘Three million.’ Laughing, Jane smacked her hands together and threw her head back. ‘Twenty-two and a half thousand, or do you know what three per cent is? Ninety grand.’ She repeated the sum slowly: ‘Ninety bloody grand.’ Then, before Valerie could say anything, she reminded her of the boat delivery on top.
‘Ninety? Are you sure? Christ almighty.’
No, calm down, thought Valerie. It’s straightforward, and twenty-two and a half would solve an awful lot of problems. Two, maybe three weeks of creative expenses then a cheque for twenty-two and a half. That’s fine, and if we make up a lovely thick, impressive report, another job. Although, as it’s from a large company, the payment would be declarable to the chancellor. It has to go through the books, more’s the pity.
A fair amount of her business was from clients who paid in cash and didn’t throw up a query when she “forgot” to give them a receipt. In those cases it was straight into her pocket.
‘Need a car.’ Valerie clenched a fist as she screwed up her face in satisfaction. ‘Off to the marina first, I think, see if there is anything that’s been missed.’
‘Make more money taking yours – we can charge by the mile. A hire car is a hire car, just pass on the invoice.’ Jane picked up the phone. ‘Shall I put it on cover? Have you enough money?’
‘The card’s not maxed out… yet.’ Valerie threw her wallet across the desk. ‘Put it on the Barclaycard, I only have enough in the bank for day-to-day expenses. Don’t forget to say it’s a classic car and I only—’
‘I know,’ said Jane, ‘built in nineteen sixty-one and just three to four thousand miles a year.’
‘That’s right, keep the premium down. If the mileage starts to climb, I’ll disconnect the speedo.’
‘Don’t know why you have it connected anyway,’ said Jane, ‘you never look at it!’
Someone else was pushing at the door, and after a couple of tries it opened.
‘Hello, Valerie, hello, Jane.’ A man of about forty came in, smiling as he approached Valerie. ‘How are you, beautiful? Thought you were going to phone?’ He pushed at his thinning hair before removing his glasses and bending to kiss her on the cheek. ‘Dinner date? No?’
‘Oh blimey, Nigel, sorry, had to see a client, couldn’t phone. Dropped it in the Thames.’
‘What, phone or client?’ said Nigel, trying to connect with a smile.
‘Phone, silly.’ She gave him a peck on the cheek.
Although hopelessly in love, it was unrequited. Not that she disliked him; he was quite nice, and spoiling her was a regular occurrence: flowers, chocolates, and of course only the best restaurants and theatre seats. He owned several shops, filling stations and flats. A redevelopment company, and more besides, added to his happy empire. He was nice to be with, funny, witty and knowledgeable, but he didn’t ring the bells; didn’t even come close.
‘What about tonight? There’s a great little Italian opened up just off the Strand. Let’s have a meal there before it gets too well known and crowded out.’
‘Love to, Nigel, but I’m looking into something for a client, sorry.’
Having had plenty of practice, Nigel hid his disappointment well. With what he was worth, and his kindly disposition, he could have had a choice of many. But he had been bitten and the wound was deep. There was only one woman for Nigel and, until she was put out of circulation, he would forgo all others and stay faithful. Apart from the lack of sex in their relationship, he was pretty sure he was the only man in Valerie’s life. So he was now relaxed with his place.
‘Okay. When you get back?’
‘Of course, love to.’ Being given a more intimate kiss, he looked embarrassingly at Jane. ‘Don’t worry, Jane’s seen it all.’ The remark was friendly banter, but it still took the smile from his face. ‘Don’t have a spare phone, do you?’
‘Sure, I’ll get it from the car.’
‘Could do with some fuel as well.’
‘No problem,’ said Nigel on the way out. ‘You taking your own car?’
‘Yes, give it an airing; it’s been gathering cobwebs for too long.’
Nigel returned and handed her a Samsung. ‘Use it as much as you want; it’s a spare so it won’t be going off every ten minutes with someone asking you to build them a new house. I’ll call the service station and tell them. You can fill the car up when you get there.’
‘Thanks, you are a sweetie. Now I have to talk with Jane.’
‘Oh, yes, of course, I’ll get off. See you later.’ He shuffled from one foot to the other as he felt the embarrassment of stealing another kiss. ‘Are you okay for money?’
‘I’m okay, Nigel,’ said Valerie, opening the door. ‘Sweet of you to ask.’
Jane took the phone from Valerie and copied the number onto her own.
‘What was it you wanted?’
‘Nothing, just wanted to get him on his way.’
‘Nick his phone and petrol then kick him out – there’s a name for women like you.’
‘Look,’ said Valerie, ‘he’s gone off on cloud nine, happy as Larry with a few kisses.’
‘Oh, dispensing therapy,’ said Jane. ‘Didn’t realise you were an angel stepped down from on high.’
Three
Leaving the house
boat with a grip containing spare clothes and toiletries, Valerie jumped on the next Routemaster.
Half-closing her eyes, she let her head rest against the back of the seat. In the four years since opening the agency, four commissions had come from companies. While they were, in general, satisfied with the reports, a request for further information always followed. It never seemed sufficient to say that a particular enquiry had been unproductive. A page summing up a particular line that had been investigated inevitably brought a follow-up request for further information. The lesson was quickly learnt: a ten-hour day at the computer, turning the original A4 sheet into a dozen, was as lucrative as it was easy. These companies just had to have some middle management justifying their salary.
She looked out onto the day that was now producing a little sunshine. Good, she thought, roof down, blow away the crap. Though better weather could not burn away dominating thoughts of money. Twenty-two and a half thousand. Two for Jane, a bonus, no problem. Twenty in the bank, five hundred for something frivolous. A Christian Dior dress? She’d be two grand adrift, but massaging expenses would get her there.
Edging down the bus at the first change, a caress smoothed across the top of her jeans. Hand raised, she swung around just as a young lad, not yet north of sixteen, pulled away. ‘You’re going to get into trouble, son.’ She grabbed his fingers and bent them back before propelling him into the corner. ‘Keep your hands to yourself until the lady gives you an invitation.’
Forty-five minutes and another change later, she swung from the platform and crossed the road. The building in front of her had once been a large Ford dealership but now was one of Nigel’s petrol stations. Behind the fuel pumps on the forecourt was a large white garage, typical of those built just after the war. The plate-glass windows, that stretched along the entire length, had vintage oil and petrol adverts hiding the interior. Following a side passageway around to an office, Valerie knocked on the door before entering.
‘Miss Stone.’ The station manager put his pen into a Goodyear mug and looked up. A pleasant smile revealed a broken tooth, reputedly from a car accident. The broken veins on his nose and cheeks were just starting to distract from his looks.
To the one side, away from a line of filing cabinets, was a photograph of a brilliant yellow Lancia barrelling along a forest rally stage. Valerie had heard that, at one time, the man behind the desk had been quite a tasty driver.
‘Nigel said you’d be by to pick the car up.’
From the highest manager in his company to the newest apprentice, they called him Nigel. It was one of the company’s foundation stones. ‘We’re all in it together,’ he told them. ‘Everyone is important.’
‘I’ll come through with you.’ The manager leant back in his chair and passed his finger across several hooks before picking out two keys attached to a worn leather fob. ‘We’ve drained and changed the oil, new filter, been round with the grease gun, replaced the plugs and checked out everything else.’
‘Blimey,’ said Valerie, looking at her watch, ‘you must have worked at light speed.’
‘Not really. Nigel told us to service it a few weeks ago. Said you hadn’t taken it out in a while and thought you couldn’t hold out much longer before you’d need a “fix”.’
‘He was probably right.’
Valerie followed him out, passed a couple of hydraulic ramps, to where, in its own private bay, the outline of a car stood under a light nylon cover. Dropping her bag onto a nearby stool, she helped him pull the protective cloth over the back of the car.
Like a stage magician, the manager held out his hand as he moved to the side.
‘There she is.’ He pulled a large yellow duster from his back pocket and needlessly wiped at the flawless black paintwork. Miniature stars sparkled from the chrome wheels and trim under the cold strip lights. ‘You know what Enzo Ferrari said when he first saw the E-Type?’ he said, putting Valerie’s things into the boot. Although she heard it all before, Valerie let him carry on. ‘He said it was the most beautiful car in the world.’ He smiled while flicking at an imaginary piece of fluff. ‘And by God, was he ever so right?’
Taking Valerie’s silence as an approval for more historic reminiscing, he continued. ‘When it made its debut at the New York motor show, Frank Sinatra jumped onto the Jaguar stand, pointed at the Series One and said, “I want that car.” Did you know that?’ Valerie drew a short, silent breath and gave a little, polite shake of the head. ‘And this is the one, of course. The later series and the V12 were great cars, but this one, the original flat floor three point eight, alloy dash, this is the daddy.’ She knew this well enough but continued to feign interest. ‘I know it’s commonplace now, but when it was launched it was a big deal, doing over a hundred in third. I wouldn’t change a thing.’ Grinning, he opened the door. ‘With the exception of that bloody Moss box.’1
‘Better get it filled up,’ said Valerie, quickly cutting him off before the odd anecdote became a flood of quotes about the legendary car.
She eased into the driver’s seat and turned the key. The fuel needle flicked to a quarter as the ignition and oil lights came to life. When the petrol pump had stopped rattling out a succession of clicks as it filled the fuel line, she pressed the black button. The engine turned slowly two or three times then burst into life, giving out the familiar Jaguar ring as the open flywheel disengaged from the starter.
A smile spread over the manager’s face as she blipped the throttle a couple of times. ‘Music.’ He briefly closed his eyes, listening to the exhaust note. ‘Pure bloody Mozart.’
‘Better make that Elgar.’ Valerie glanced at the oil pressure as she released the handbrake. Then, carefully threading the car past a couple of bollards, she drove out into the sunshine.
At the first pump, a motorcyclist removed his crash helmet, put it on the machine’s seat and turned to his mate. ‘Now, ain’t that the best thing you’re going to see all day.’
‘Thought you’d be along for a fill-up.’ Soothing a stiff leg, the attendant left the kiosk. ‘Need a hand?’
‘Thanks, Jack.’ Valerie smiled. ‘Still doing a bit?’
‘Yeah, still helping out now and again, Mr Nigel don’t mind me dropping in. Like to think I’m still useful.’ Holding the trigger against the grip, the old man filled the Jaguar with one hand while leaning on the waste bin with the other.
‘Must get some funny looks when a petrol assistant pops out?’
‘Don’t do much “popping” nowadays, but they don’t mind. Get some pillocks, but people’s mostly nice. It’s like going back to the nineteen sixties.’ He took a piece of muslin to the small spill on the paintwork as the pump automatically cut out. ‘Put it on Mr Nigel’s account, shall I?’ He put the nozzle back in the cradle before snapping down the filler cap.
Valerie nodded as she slid back into the creased and polished oxblood leather. ‘Please, Jack, yes.’
‘Good lass. Love Mr Nigel like a son, I know he can afford it. Always gives me something in an envelope at the end of the week, ’e does, and not just a couple of quid.’ He pushed the car door shut. ‘When you going to marry ’im?’
‘Marry! What, Nigel? You serious? When you’re around getting a pension and some folding stuff every week? I’d marry you first!’ She kissed her fingers before pressing them to the old man’s cheek.
‘Ha,’ he laughed, shaking his head, ‘if I become available, you’d be trampled to death in the bleedin’ rush.’
When a safe distance from the pumps, she stopped and searched around in the glove compartment. Removing a pair of aviators, she pulled a cable end around each ear, before taking a pack of Disque Bleu and Zippo lighter from her jacket. Selecting a cigarette, she put it between her lips, flicked at the lighter and drew in deeply.
With half-closed eyes, she held the smoke momentarily in her lungs before letting it drift into the still air. She raised a hand to
the old man reflected in the mirror, then, sliding the Jag into first gear, pulled out into the traffic.
Filling his Astra, the young man’s grip on the fuel trigger slipped as Valerie drove off. ‘Jesus Christ almighty!’
‘As you so rightly say, son,’ said Jack slowly, as he made his way back to the office, ‘Jesus Christ almighty.’
Notes
1The ‘Moss Box’ refers to the gearbox fitted in the early E-Types. It had been used by Jaguar in their cars through the fifties and was quite crude by modern standards (no synchromesh on first). It was replaced around 1965 when the 3.8 engine gave way to the 4.2.
Four
Three hours later, the satellite navigation, which had been fighting for attention with the Pointer Sisters for the last fifty miles, guided her into the car park next to the marina on the River Exe. Pushing fingers through wind-ruffled hair, she closed her eyes. Breathing in the familiar smell of the sea, she sat silent for a minute. Misty words from another time drifted back. ‘Sailors call it the smell of the land. In fact, it’s neither land nor sea. What you can smell is the shoreline where land and water meet.’
She could still recall slapping his shoulder and pushing him along the jetty. ‘Okay, Sir Frances Drake, it’s the smell of the ruddy shore.’
Pushing old memories away, she grabbed the case file and, squeezing between closely parked cars, made her way alongside a red brick wall entangled with ivy. Towards the corner an attempt had been made to remove the invasive climber, but the wall beneath was crumbling. So an unlikely alliance had been struck between the two, both vine and wall supporting each other.
To the other side of the potholed tarmac, the river provided a watery boundary between the car park and marina. The harbour master’s office at one end, a temporary porta-cabin, was beginning to look like it was there for the duration. The part-completed building to the side had been abandoned, allowing the ivy to send out an exploratory tentacle.
Removing her sunglasses, Valerie pushed at the part-open door. ‘Hello?’ Peering over frameless glasses, the uniformed man kept his forearms resting on the desk. He said nothing. ‘I’ve come to look over Sun Dancer, the yacht that was towed into the marina a few weeks ago.’
