the room, returning in two minutes with Sir Simon Sherriffmuir himself. Up close, Sherriffmuir’s face was fleshier and more seamed than had appeared the night of Torquil’s farewell party But Lorimer could not fault his clothes: a black pinstripe just shy of ostentation, butter yellow shirt and a big-knotted, pale-pink, self-coloured tie. Everything bespoke, Lorimer knew instantly, even the tie. He wore no watch, Lorimer noticed and wondered if there was a fob somewhere. Interesting: he was not up on the protocols of fobs – perhaps he should affect one? – he would have to check with Ivan.
‘This is the young man’, Dowling was saying, ‘who’s saved us all that money’
Sherriffmuir smiled automatically, his handshake was firm and brisk. ‘Best news I’ve had all day. And you are?’
‘Lorimer Black.’ He just managed to prevent himself adding a servile ‘sir’.
‘So, you’re one of George’s brilliant young samurai,’ Sherriffmuir mused, looking at him almost fondly. ‘It’s been a bit of a bloody cock-up, this Fedora Palace business, I’m most grateful to you. Can you wrap it up quickly? We want to get the whole mess behind us.’
‘I’ve agreed we’ll OK the new claim,’ Dowling interjected.
‘Good, good…’ Lorimer felt Sherriffmuir still studying him, with some mild curiosity ‘You’re not Angus Black’s youngest, are you?’
‘No,’ Lorimer said, thinking: I’m Bogdan Blocj’s youngest, and feeling a small, rare flush of shame.
‘Send my love to your pa, will you? Tell him we’ve got to get him south of the border soon,’ Sherriffmuir said, not listening and turning to Dowling. ‘Peter, see you at –?’
‘– Half five. All arranged.’
Sherriffmuir moved easily to the door, slightly round-shouldered like many tall men, the hair on the back of his head curling up above his collar, Lorimer noticed.
He gave Lorimer a loose, parting wave. ‘Thanks, Lorimer, fine work.’
Despite his better instincts Lorimer felt pride in himself, as if he had been suddenly ennobled, vindicated by Sir Simon’s praise and the familiar use of his Christian name. For God’s sake, he rebuked himself almost instantly: the man’s not God Almighty, he just works in insurance, like the rest of us.
Rajiv was leaning on his counter, smoking, tie off, his shirt unbuttoned almost to his navel, as if he were on holiday.
‘Hail to the conquering hero,’ he said, not smiling.
‘Thanks, Raj,’ Lorimer said. ‘You lose some, you win some.’
Rajiv slipped his hand inside his shirt and massaged a plump breast. Now he did smile, a slight puckering of his round cheeks.
‘Don’t get too big for those boots,’ he said. ‘Hogg’s in your cubicle.’
As Lorimer wandered down the corridor Shane Ash-gable poked his head out of his office, jerked a thumb and mouthed ‘Hogg’ at him. Such rare solidarity, Lorimer thought, can only mean one thing: Hogg is in one of his black moods.
Pausing at his door, Lorimer could see through the glass rectangle Hogg openly going through the files and correspondence in his in-tray. He glanced towards Dymphna’s door – she was sitting at her desk crying, dabbing at her eyes with a corner of tissue. Bad, bad omens, Lorimer thought. But why the mood change? What had happened? The first wave of Hogg’s wrath had evidently broken on poor Dymphna: he would have to be nicer to Dymphna, he thought suddenly, charitably, perhaps he would ask her for a drink after work.
Hogg did not look round, nor desist from his investigation of Lorimer’s paperwork, when he entered.
‘You heard any more from the police about that suicide?’ Hogg asked.
‘Just a follow-up visit. Why?’
‘Has there been an inquest?’
‘Not yet. Will there be one?’
‘Of course.’
Hogg stepped round the desk and lowered himself slowly into Lorimer’s chair and scrutinized him aggressively.
‘Go all right with Dowling?’
‘Fine. Sir Simon came in.’
‘Ah. Sir Simon, himself. Very honoured.’
Lorimer could see there was a torn-out sheet from a message pad in the middle of his desk blotter. Reading it upside down he saw that it said ‘Dr Kenbarry’ and was followed by a number. A telephone number, and, below that, an address. He felt his throat go dry, tight.
Hogg was wrestling angrily with something stuck in his jacket pocket and cursing silently. Finally he removed it and handed it over to Lorimer – it was a compact disc, still wrapped in its tight cellophane sheath. On a plain white field in jagged child’s handwriting the cover read ‘David Watts. Angziertie.’ Along the bottom of the square was a photograph of three dead bluebottles on their backs, their sets of six legs brittle, half-clenched.
Angziertie,’ Lorimer read slowly ‘Is that German? Or