Extracted Page 2

  ‘I do. Ben Calshott. Nice to meet you,’ Ben says, offering his hand.

  ‘Very nice to meet you, Mr Calshott. What do you do?’

  ‘Insurance investigator,’ Ben says, wincing like it’s a bad thing. Everyone has a bad story of insurance companies ripping them off or not paying out. ‘Not a loss adjustor though,’ he adds quickly, as most people get the two roles confused.

  ‘Ah, very interesting,’ the man says, taking a long look at Ben’s jeans and open-necked checked shirt.

  ‘I’m on-site today, hence no suit,’ Ben explains. ‘You here for a meeting?’

  ‘Indeed I am,’ he says with perfect politeness as the doors ping open. ‘Nice to meet you, Mr Calshott.’ He walks out and heads straight to the reception with a confidence in his movements. Ben watches him for a second, trying to work out why the man is here. The suit is expensive and well-tailored but something about it looks out of place. People very rarely come for face-to-face meetings too. Not with Skype, conference calls and email so easy to use. He puts it to the back of his mind and rushes on with a glance at his watch.

  ‘Morning morning.’ Ben bustles into the already full conference room. ‘Am I late?’

  ‘You’re fine,’ the boss says. ‘Grab a coffee.’

  ‘Anyone else?’ Ben asks, looking round at the shaking heads and people raising their mugs to show they’ve already got one.

  Ben gets a coffee and snags a croissant from the basket before taking his seat at the round table for the Monday morning weekly brief. The boss insisted on a round table as she said firms that use square tables promote unnecessary ranking and hierarchical structures that lead to division. A round table means anyone can sit anywhere, and the boss is always first to get in, which means she can choose a different place to sit every time. A clever woman is the boss.

  Ben waits his turn knowing he has time to eat the croissant and brush the crumbs from his shirt as big Todd rolls his eyes at him with a smirk. Ben flicks his middle finger at him and gets a chuckle in response. Ben likes Todd. He likes everyone here really. The boss is as careful about recruitment as she is about table selection.

  ‘Ben,’ she says, ‘you had the fire last week? All finished?’

  ‘Yep, the report’s all done.’

  ‘Conclusion?’ she asks.

  ‘Ah.’ Ben pulls a face. ‘Big house in the country, worth a fortune. Wife, husband, two kids and two dogs. Bad times financially. Husband’s firm going down the pan which leads to a loss of income which means they can’t buy the very latest Chesterfield sofa to put in the drawing room. She set the fire on the existing sofa and I reckon . . .’ He pauses, holding his pen up for effect. ‘I reckon she intended to burn just the sofa at first but then got greedy and figured that if a few more bits got damaged she could claim on them too . . . which is why she left the windows open on a cold day . . .’

  ‘To fan the flames,’ someone mutters.

  ‘Exactly. Cigarette left in an ashtray, cigarette falls out, rolls across the fire-retardant material and lands on the carefully placed broadsheet newspaper left on the floor . . . fire starts . . . burns the entire bloody house down and kills the dogs . . .’

  ‘Shit,’ Todd says. ‘What a bitch.’

  ‘Oh, she’s cold, mate,’ Ben says to him. ‘Cruella de Vil but with less emotions.’

  ‘Accelerants?’ the boss asks.

  ‘Had the wooden floors varnished the day before,’ Ben says.

  ‘Was the fire intense?’

  ‘Very,’ Ben says, holding a look on his face that the boss knows only too well. ‘Destroyed all the evidence.’

  ‘I see,’ the boss says, arching an eyebrow at him. She sighs for effect. ‘Go on then,’ she adds with a grin. ‘I know you’ve got something by the look on your face.’

  ‘Ah now,’ Ben says, smiling wryly with one hand on the back of his neck as he dips his head and looks round the room.

  ‘Here he goes,’ Todd says and laughs, shaking his head as the others all start chuckling. The boss leans back and folds her arms with an amused expression.

  ‘Well,’ Ben says, ‘the floors were varnished six months ago. All of them were done by a specialist flooring company. Big house. Lots of rooms. All of them have wooden floors so the cost to get them redone is huge. Why would you get them done again within six months? Especially if you’re having a hard time financially. The average for a domestic house is every five to ten years. Commercial properties or those with lots of foot traffic might do every three to five years, but six months? Even the Queen doesn’t get her floors redone every six months. Now, I did consider maybe some damage to one room which could require the floor to be repaired, but she had the whole house done again and, get this, even the flooring company told her it was unnecessary. That is enough to show preparation for fire and will undermine the insurance claim . . . I’ve got a copy of my report ready for the police once it’s signed off.’

  Smiles round the table. Nods and mouths turning down in recognition of good work.

  ‘Well done,’ the boss says, smiling warmly at Ben. ‘Your hundred per cent success rate continues.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Ben says, shifting uncomfortably from the sudden attention.

  ‘You’ve got the Underground next?’ the boss asks, already knowing the answer as it was her that gave him the case to work on.

  ‘I have.’

  ‘What’s in the Underground?’ someone asks.

  ‘Trains,’ Todd says with a grin, looking round the table. ‘What? That was funny.’

  ‘It wasn’t funny,’ Ben says, deadpan.

  ‘You’re funny,’ he says.

  ‘You look funny,’ Ben says.

  ‘Boys, please,’ the boss says with a good-natured smile.

  ‘Worker was electrocuted,’ Ben explains to everyone.

  ‘From the rails?’ Claire asks.

  ‘No, an electrical switch. He’s claiming faulty wiring,’ Ben replies. ‘Dark space, confined, he’s saying his batteries in his head torch were too weak and the circuits or wiring hadn’t been correctly maintained.’

  ‘Double liability then,’ Claire says. ‘Contractor?’

  ‘Yeah, his firm are subcontractors so he’s claiming on them for the supply of dodgy equipment and Transport for London for failing to maintain their electrical circuits. Very big potential payout as he’s got the union behind him making noises.’

  ‘So that’s you tucked up for the next couple of days crawling about rat-infested tunnels,’ the boss says lightly. ‘Good luck,’ she adds with a big grin. ‘Claire, how was the flood?’

  ‘Wet . . .’

  Ben feels his phone vibrate in his pocket and the temptation to check it is overwhelming, but that’s a fate worse than death. The boss is an incredible person but woe betide the person who crosses her, and not checking your phone during Monday morning prayers is inscribed in scripture. Instead, he sits through the meeting and is first out the door with phone in hand when they finally finish.

  We need to talk tonight

  The words are portentous and foreboding, giving Ben a tight knot in his stomach. He thumbs a quick reply while walking back to the lift.

  That doesn’t sound good. What’s up? X

  We’ll talk tonight.

  I’ll be late home tonight . . . What’s up? Can you talk? X

  No. Busy. We’ll talk tonight.

  I love you Steph but you’re acting weird lately. What was that about last night? I can tell something is wrong x

  Last night?

  The sex. What was that about?

  Did you like it?

  Yeah course I did but it was a bit strange. I hate text conversations. Can you talk?

  From his office to the Tube station, with that knot in his gut growing harder with every reply. Even the delay of her replies spoke volumes. There was a time the replies came almost instantly, but now they didn’t, like he was an afterthought or an irritation.

  The signal goes as the carriage doors on the Undergrou
nd train seal him into the packed masses. He stares down at his phone seeing his future disappear as quickly as the signal bar fades on the screen. In the end he pockets the phone and stares round as glumly as everyone else. His mind filling with images of his fiancée in the arms of another man. He’d kept those thoughts away but with the reality of the situation growing starker by the day it couldn’t help but start to creep in. He clears his throat and blinks rapidly to rid himself of the thoughts. His fist clamping hard on the safety rail.

  He crosses London to the meeting point at Holborn. It’s early summer, every station and train is packed with a riot of cultures and languages. The winter coats are gone now, replaced with lightweight jackets, shirts and blazers. He gets to Holborn and waits for the site manager at the ticket kiosk. This is the preliminary meeting for Ben to get a first visual inspection of the site, and the works manager is under orders to meet him alone with no union reps or senior managers present. He checks his phone continually but there are no new messages. Steph will be at her desk now but maybe she’ll text him at lunchtime. The knot in his gut twists and drops. Anxiety in his face. He pushes it away to focus on the job at hand and looks round casually then double takes as he spots the man in the nice suit from the lift this morning on the other side of the road. By the time the flotilla of buses has gone he’s lost from view. It’s a small world sometimes, even in London. Ben looks again thinking maybe he has something to do with this meeting today but he was too well dressed to be a works manager and looked more like a top-line executive. A crowd of men and women brush past Ben rushing into the entrance. A tall ginger man turns to glare at Ben from the shoulder contact but this is central London so Ben smiles to show no offence is taken.

  ‘Ben Calshott?’

  ‘Oh hi.’ Ben turns to see an overweight man wearing a crumpled suit glaring at him.

  ‘Works manager,’ he says brusquely with a distinct London accent. ‘You got the short straw then did ya?’

  ‘Yeah, something like that,’ Ben replies.

  ‘Got overalls have ya?’

  ‘Er, no . . . I was hoping I could borrow some?’ Ben asks, pulling a face as though to say he forgot to bring his own.

  The fake grin on the works manager’s face fades instantly. ‘Nope.’ He walks off without another word. Ben falls in behind him as he paces through the terminal towards a service door at the back. The tall ginger man is still there with his group and Ben figures they’re tourists from a western country. Dark hair, light hair, pale and olive complexions and all of them wearing I Love London jackets and carrying bags. They don’t look happy though; mind you, no one ever looks happy on the Underground.

  Ben follows the works manager through the service door, which cuts the thrum of noise from the terminal the second it closes. Plunging them into a weird silence broken only by the rumble and vibration of trains as they go through a catacomb of corridors, doors and stairs leading down.

  ‘Where did it happen?’ Ben asks, knowing exactly where it happened.

  ‘Aldwych,’ the works manager says as gruffly as before. ‘Silly prat,’ he mutters. ‘Oops, not allowed to express an opinion,’ he adds pointedly.

  They reach a room full of workers having a tea break. Orange overalls, safety hats and head torches everywhere and all conversation ends the second they walk in. One set of large overalls rest on the back of a chair that the works manager starts putting on.

  ‘Hi.’ Ben says, looking round at the grimy, expressionless faces. ‘How’s it going?’ No response. ‘You work for the same firm as the bloke who got electrocuted?’

  ‘Are you questioning my staff?’ the works manager asks sharply. ‘Cos they got union reps who should be present if you’re doing that.’

  ‘Ah now,’ Ben says, smiling apologetically with one hand on the back of his neck as he looks up at the works manager. ‘Are they your staff then?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You’re the works manager, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So you’re employed by Transport for London.’

  ‘I am.’

  Ben can see the overalls worn by the men are not Transport for London issued, which in turn means they are not Transport for London workers. ‘These are subbies,’ he says with a nod to the still quiet workers. ‘So they’re not employed directly by Transport for London.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just saying.’ Ben shrugs casually. ‘You know . . . technically they’re not your staff. They’re subcontracted so they’re employed by someone else who you pay to do certain work.’

  ‘We’re going,’ he says with a rapidly reddening face.

  ‘Thing is,’ Ben says, holding his ground and not walking after him, ‘these blokes are covered by the same safety regulations as everyone else working down here . . . but they’re not covered by Transport for London employment rules.’ Ben holds his gaze as though talking directly to him but knowing everyone in the room is listening intently. ‘So they can talk to me if they want to, you know . . .’ He pulls a few business cards from his back pocket, ‘if they want to tell me anything they can.’ He drops the cards on the table. ‘Safety breaches . . . unnecessary risks . . . fault reports not being actioned . . . you know, the sort of thing insurance companies get payouts for . . .’ He lets the last few words hang in the air and feels the change in atmosphere as the works manager looks like he’s about to have a heart attack.

  ‘We need to get on,’ he growls.

  In the next room, the works manager issues Ben with a safety helmet, an orange vest, a head torch and a safety guide to read through, then makes him sign for a laminated visitor’s card. Ben’s office is full of protective clothing they can use but it’s always interesting to turn up without anything and see what rules they break. Everything here is done properly.

  ‘You’ll stay within sight of me at all times and do as I say when I say it.’ The works manager reels off the instructions. ‘Walk directly behind me and do not touch anything without asking first. We are not going anywhere near the live rails but there are still dangers inherent with an underground rail service. Do you understand, Mr Calshott?’

  ‘I do and you can call me Ben, mate.’

  The olive branch is ignored so they walk in silence through the next maze of corridors until they’re in the high-arched tunnels with their footsteps echoing. Ben feels the vibration of trains passing through other tunnels and stays close behind the works manager until they reach a lit platform adorned with an old-style sign proclaiming they’re at Aldwych. Ben recognises it from movies and knows they keep it for film and television locations and guided tours. They get on the platform and head into the main tiled corridor once used by the public. The manager unlocks a side door and they go into a dark room complete with a bank of electrical switches and circuits.

  ‘In here?’ Ben asks.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I wasn’t here was I? I didn’t see it.’

  ‘Fair enough. Has anything been touched since the accident?’

  ‘Sparky came down and made it safe.’

  ‘An electrician?’

  ‘S’what I said.’

  ‘An electrician has been in here since the accident?’

  ‘S’what I said.’

  ‘Who? I wasn’t told anything about that.’

  ‘Not my responsibility.’

  ‘Who then?’

  ‘Personnel manager.’

  ‘Which wire did he say caused it?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Yes you bloody do, you’re the works manager. Which wire?’ Ben snaps, showing a level of firmness instead of an easy-going smile.

  The manager huffs and walks to the second bank of switches. ‘This one.’ He points to a wire leading into a switch.

  ‘What does that do?’

  ‘It provides electricity to the switch.’

  ‘Not the wire, the switch. What does the switch do?’

  ‘Operates the lights on the
stairwells.’

  ‘Why was he working on it?’

  ‘It’s booked for filming. They want to change the lighting for a period film.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘What was the purpose of the visit by the worker to this room?’

  ‘Ask him.’

  ‘I am asking you.’

  ‘He was tasked to check the fittings in accordance with the instructions of the production company so they could arrange manufacture of the right size of lights and equipment.’

  ‘He’s saying he touched the switch and got zapped,’ Ben says, pointing at the switch. ‘Which suggests the wiring within the switch was loose and made the whole casing live. Did the electrician who attended find anything?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Know what,’ Ben snaps, ‘I am not your enemy, mate. I am not employed by the insurance company . . . I am independent. I just find out what happened and report back.’

  The manager looks away with a distinct lack of interest. A company man through and through and, like a stick of rock, you could break him in half and see the Tube logo running through his core. Ben knows the type and gives up any hope of winning cooperation. The few stabs at humour and firmness have failed, which tells Ben anything short of a briefcase full of unmarked bank notes will also fail. Instead, and with a sigh for effect, he pulls his phone from his pocket and activates the camera.

  ‘I am taking pictures,’ Ben states slowly as he thumbs the screen to fill the room with the irritating noise of the fake shutter clicking, ‘to make sure nothing is tampered with between now and when I return with the claimant.’ He takes more pictures to make more shutter noises and changes the angle a few times, turns the flash on, turns it off and does it all again for good measure. The works manager remains stoic and devoid of expression but even he can’t prevent the physiological reddening of his cheeks, flushing with unconcealed anger.