Tour first adjust was at a shoe shop in Abingdon whose stock had been ruined as a result of a burst pipe, inundating the basement, unnoticed over a bank holiday weekend.
How did you know the owner was lying? How did you know that the grief and handwringing was sham? Hogg said later it was pure instinct. All great loss adjusters, Hogg said, can spot a liar at once because they understand, at a fundamental level, the need to lie. They may be liars themselves – and if they are they are excellent liars – but it is not necessary. What is necessary is this understanding of the philosophy of a lie, the compulsive urge to conceal the truth, its complex grammar, its secret structures.
And you knew this man was lying about his soaked and sodden stock, and you knew his wife was lying too as she tried gamely to hold back the tears while they contemplated, alongside you, the destruction of their family business. Mr Maurice, that was the name.
You looked at the papier maché litter of hundreds of drenched shoe boxes, the shining puddles on the floor, smelt the stench of wet leather in your nose and something made you turn to Mr Maurice and say, ‘How do I know you just didn’t turn your hose on the rest of the stock that weekend, Mr Maurice? It seems tremendous damage for one burst pipe.’
It is the quality of the rage that gives them away. The rage is always there, it always erupts, and Mr Maurice’s rage was impressive, but something about the pitch and tone of an indifferent liar’s rage rings false, troubles the inner ear, like the whine of a mosquito in a darkened bedroom, unmistakable, unerringly disturbing.
So you told Mr Maurice that you were going to advise his insurers to refuse to honour his claim on the grounds of fraud. Shortly after, Mr Maurice was prepared to accept a cash payment of £2,000 as compensation. You saved the insurance company £14,000, you earned your first bonus, it was inevitable that you became a loss adjuster and your continuing, remarkable success in your chosen field brought you, eventually, to the attention of George Gerald Hogg.
The Book of Transfiguration
‘Well, well, well,’ Hogg said sonorously, and lit a cigarette with his usual little flourish. ‘Well, well, well. Ten million.’ Hogg raised his pint of lager. ‘Cheers, son, well done.’
Lorimer toasted himself with his half of Guinness. He had calculated as thoroughly as he could on the way over and, as far as he could tell, on the basis of a £ 17 million adjust, the bonus due to him was £ 134,000, give or take a few hundred. A standard 0.5 per cent up to one million and then a complex scale of exponentially diminishing fractions of one per cent as the amount grew. He wondered what the company’s commission would be – Hogg’s commission. Well into seven figures, he guessed. This was a big one: only Dymphna dealt routinely in sums like these with her botched dam projects, unbuilt power stations and disappearing jumbo jets. This was a straight and simple ‘save’ for Fortress Sure. No risk had been laid off. A good day at the office for all concerned, so why wasn’t Hogg happier?
‘Any trouble?’ Hogg asked. ‘Missiles? Screamers?’
‘No. Just the usual insults and oaths.’
‘Sticks and stones, chummy. Still, I take my hat off to you, Lorimer,’ Hogg said. ‘I don’t think even I’d have dared pitch it quite that low myself. So – the question looms large – why did he go for it?’
Lorimer shrugged. ‘I don’t know’ he said. ‘I couldn’t really figure it out. Cash-flow problems? Doubt it. A little of something better than all of nothing? Perhaps. They seem a pretty secure organization.’
‘They are,’ Hogg said, reflectively. Tunny that. I thought there would have been more of an explosion. A few writs, threats, telephone calls…’
T must say I was a bit surprised too,’ Lorimer admitted.
Hogg looked at Lorimer, shrewdly. ‘You cut along to the Fort. See Dowling in Finance, be the bearer of good news.’
‘Me?’ Lorimer said, puzzled. This was normally Hogg’s prized and privileged role.
‘You deserve the credit, son. Drink up. I’ll get another round in.’
Dowling was genuinely pleased, however. A genial, plump man with a big belly and a capric stink of lunchtime cigars about him, he shook Lorimer’s hand warmly and talked a lot about appalling oversights, damage-limitation and the valued saving to the firm. Then he excused himself and left