And Thereby Hangs a Tale

“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.

When Alan arrived back at the office he decided to give Bill Hadman a call and see if he had anything that might be worth following up.

“Tribunal Insurance,” announced a switchboard voice.

“It’s Alan Penfold from Redfern and Ticehurst. Could you put me through to Mr. Hadman, please?”

“Mr. Hadman’s on holiday. We’re expecting him back next Monday.”

“Somewhere nice, I hope,” said Alan, flying a kite.

“I think he said he was going to Corfu.”

Alan leaned across and stroked his wife’s back, wondering if she was awake.

“If you’re hoping for sex, you can forget it,” Anne said without turning over.

“No, I was hoping to talk to you about shoes.”

Anne turned over. “Shoes?” she mumbled.

“Yes, I want you to tell me everything you know about Manolo Blahnik, Prada, and Roger Vivier.”

Anne sat up, suddenly wide awake.

“Why do you want to know?” she asked hopefully.

“What size are you, for a start?”

“Thirty-eight.”

“Is that inches, centimeters, or—”

“Don’t be silly, Alan. It’s the recognized European measurement, universally accepted by all the major shoe companies.”

“But is there anything distinctive about . . .” Alan went onto ask his wife a series of questions, all of which she seemed to know the answers to.

Alan spent the following morning strolling round the first floor of Harrods, a store he usually only visited during the sales. He tried to remember everything Anne had told him, and spent a considerable amount of time studying the vast department devoted to shoes, or to be more accurate, to women.

He checked through all the brand names that had been on Lomax’s manifest, and by the end of the morning he had narrowed down his search to Manolo Blahnik and Roger Vivier. Alan left the store a couple of hours later with nothing more than some brochures, aware that he couldn’t progress his theory without asking Kerslake for money.

When Alan returned to the office that afternoon, he took his time double-checking Lomax’s stock list. Among the shoes lost in the fire were two thousand three hundred pairs of Manolo Blahnik and over four thousand pairs of Roger Vivier.

“How much do you want?” asked Roy Kerslake, two stacks of files now piled up in front of him.

“A thousand,” said Alan, placing yet another file on the desk.

“I’ll let you know my decision once I’ve read your report,” Kerslake said.

“How do I get my report to the top of the pile?” asked Alan.