And Thereby Hangs a Tale Read online

  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.

  “You have to prove to me that the company will benefit from any further expenditure.”

  “Would saving a client two million pounds be considered a benefit?” asked Alan innocently.

  Kerslake pulled the file back out from the bottom of the pile, opened it, and began to read. “I’ll let you know my decision within the hour.”

  Alan returned to Harrods the next day, after he’d had another nocturnal chat with his wife. He took the escalator to the first floor and didn’t stop walking until he reached the Roger Vivier display. He selected a pair of shoes, took them to the counter and asked the sales assistant how much they were. She studied the coded label.

  “They’re part of a limited edition, sir, and this is the last pair.”

  “And the price?” said Alan.

  “Two hundred and twenty pounds.”

  Alan tried not to look horrified. At that price, he realized he wouldn’t be able to buy enough pairs to carry out his experiment.

  “Do you have any seconds?” he asked hopefully.

  “Roger Vivier doesn’t deal in seconds, sir,” the assistant replied with a sweet smile.

  “Well, if that’s the case, what’s the cheapest pair of shoes you have?”

  “We have some pairs of ballerinas at one hundred and twenty pounds, and a few penny loafers at ninety.”

  “I’ll take them,” said Alan.

  “What size?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Alan.

  It was the assistant’s turn to look surprised. She leaned across the counter and whispered, “We have five pairs of size thirty-eight in store, which I could let you have at a reduced price, but I’m afraid they’re last season’s.”

  “I’m not interested in the season,” said Alan, and happily paid for five pairs of Roger Vivier shoes, size thirty-eight, before moving across the aisle to Manolo Blahnik.

  The first question he asked the sales assistant was, “Do you have any of last season’s, size thirty-eight?”

  “I’ll just check, sir,” said the girl, and headed off in the direction of the stockroom. “No, sir, we’ve sold out of all the thirty-eights,” she said when she returned. “The only two pairs left over from last year are a thirty-seven and a thirty-five.”

  “How much would you charge me if I take both pairs?”

  “Without even looking at them?”

  “All I care about is that they’re Manolo Blahnik,” said Alan, to another surprised assistant.

  Alan left Harrods carrying two bulky green carrier bags containing seven pairs of shoes. Once he was back in the office, he handed the receipts to Roy Kerslake, who looked up from behind his pile of files when he saw how much Alan had spent.

  “I hope your wife’s not a size thirty-eight,” he said with a grin. The thought hadn’t even crossed Alan’s mind.

  While Anne was out shopping on Saturday morning, Alan built a small bonfire at the bottom of the garden. He then disappeared into the garage and removed the two carrier bags of shoes and the spare petrol can from the boot of his car.

  He had completed his little experiment long before Anne returned from her shopping trip. He decided not to tell her that Manolo Blahnik had been eliminated from his findings, because, although he had a spare pair left over, sadly they were not her size. He locked the boot of his car, just in case she discovered the four remaining pairs of Roger Vivier, size thirty-eight.

  On Monday morning, Alan rang Des Lomax’s secretary to arrange an appointment with him once he’d returned from his holiday. “I just want to wrap things up,” he explained.

  “Of course, Mr. Penfold,” said the secretary. “We’re expecting him back in the office on Wednesday. What time would suit you?”

  “Would eleven o’clock be convenient?”

  “I’m sure that will be just fine,” she replied. “Shall we say the King’s Arms?”

  “No, I’d prefer to see him on site.”

  Alan woke early on Wednesday morning and dressed without waking his wife. She’d already supplied him with all the information he required. He set off for Romford soon after breakfast, allowing far more time for the journey than was necessary. He made one stop on the way, dropping into his local garage to refill the spare petrol can.

  When Alan drove into Romford he went straight to the site and parked on the only available meter. He decided that an hour would be more than enough. He opened the boot, took out the Harrods bag and the can of petrol, and walked onto the middle of the site where he waited patiently for the chairman of Lomax Shoes (Import and Export) Ltd. to appear.

  Des Lomax drove up twenty minutes later and parked his brand-new red Mercedes E-Class Saloon on a double yellow line. When he stepped out of the car, Alan’s first impression was that he looked remarkably pale for someone who’d just spent ten days in Corfu.

  Lomax walked slowly across to join him, and didn’t apologize for being late. Alan refused his outstretched hand and simply said, “Good morning, Mr. Lomax. I think the time has come for us to discuss your claim.”

  “There’s nothing to discuss,” said Lomax. “My policy was for four million, and as I’ve never missed a payment, I’m looking forward to my claim being paid in full, and sharpish.”

  “Subject to my recommendation.”

  “I don’t give a damn about your recommendation, sunshine,” said Lomax, lighting a cigarette. �€