managed a good couple of hours there, even wired up to Alan’s machines. He wondered what the data was showing – they must have enough of it by now – wondered if Alan was going to be able to help. Where was Alan these days, anyway? He hadn’t seen him for ages.
The Fedora Palace was down to one storey, the jagged concrete of its remaining walls just visible above the hoardings which, he noticed, were now embellished with a new name and logo: BOOMSLANG PROPERTIES LTD, the sanserif type encircled by a stylized drawing of an acid green snake. Boomslang – who the hell were they?
‘No idea,’ the site manager told him. Everything had been sold to this new company a matter of days ago, he said, and some young bloke had come along with these plastic signs and had stuck them up.
Lorimer telephoned Boomslang Properties at an address in Battersea and arranged an appointment for six o’clock that evening. He had told the girl who answered the phone that it was an insurance matter and mentioned he was investigating the prospect of a rebate. The thought of receiving money always made people fix appointments promptly.
Boomslang Properties was to be found above a shop selling expensive crockery and kitchenware in a prettified parade not far from Albert Bridge. A young girl in jeans and a large sweater printed with cartoon characters put her cigarette and magazine down and stared at him uncomprehendingly.
‘We spoke earlier this afternoon.’ Lorimer repeated his business patiently, ‘I’ve come about the Fedora Palace site.’ He could see it was still ringing no bells.
‘Oh, God, yah…’ She shouted: ‘Marius? Mr Fedora, insurance?’ There was no reply. ‘He must be on the phone.’
A giant of a young man, in his twenties, six foot four or five, blond and ski-tanned, stooped out of a door down the passageway, the sound of a flushing toilet in his wake. His sleeves were rolled up and he was wearing braces. He wiped his hands on his trouser seat before offering the right one in greeting.
‘Hi,’ he said, ‘I’m Marius van Meer.’ The accent was South African, Lorimer thought, as he followed van Meer – his back the size of a coffee table – into his office, where he spun him some vague guff about a possible misestimate of the claim settlement and the possibility of a further tranche being forthcoming if, etcetera, etcetera. Marius van Meer smiled at him amiably – it was very quickly clear he had no idea what Lorimer was talking about. So much the better: Lorimer quietly dropped his cover story
‘You do know there was a fire in that hotel?’
‘Ah, yeah, I did hear something about it. I’ve been in Colorado skiing these last few weeks.’
‘But you bought the site off Gale-Harlequin?’
‘This is really my dad’s business. I’m just learning the ropes, sort of.’
‘And your father is?’
‘Dirk van Meer. He’s in Jo’burg.’
This name sounded familiar, one of the southern hemisphere moguls, he thought. Diamonds, coal, resorts, TV stations, something of that order.
‘Would it be possible to speak to him?’
‘He’s a bit hard to get hold of at the moment. He’s the one tends to call me, you see.’
Lorimer looked round the small office: everything was new – carpet, chairs, blind, desk, even the giant bag of golf clubs parked in the corner. He could hear the girl on the phone outside talking to a friend, arranging a dinner party. He was wasting his time.
He stood up. ‘What does Boomslang mean, by the way?’
‘That was my idea,’ Marius said proudly. ‘A boomslang is an African tree snake, beautiful but harmless. Unless you’re an ig.’
‘An ig?’
‘Yah. It eats igs. Robs birds’ nests. Beautiful lime green snake.’
Lorimer cruised down Lupus Crescent looking vainly for a parking spot and patrolled the adjacent streets for five minutes until Turpentine Lane yielded a few yards of vacant kerb. He trudged back towards the house, further bemused by this Gale-Harlequin/Boomslang development and further frustrated: what did Hogg expect of him? Should he jump on a plane and fly to Johannesburg? He peered down at Lady Haigh’s basement window. The lights were on, she must –
The blow glanced off the side of his head (it was that minute inclination of his head to the right that saved him, he later analysed) and his left shoulder took the full brunt of the club-swing. He bellowed his pain and shock, his left arm fizzing in agony, pricked by ten thousand hot needles, and, quite reflexively – he was