Je-sus. Anyway, Peter Potter and I used to be sort of buddies way back, before he became too rich to afford me. He specializes in insurance cases.
And hell look into mine?
Not so much look into as glance at. Hell give you five minutes to tell your tale of woe then hell spare five seconds to tell you whether youve got a hope in hell. You want more, youll have to make an appointment and start paying by the parsec for his professional services. Sorry, thats the best I can do, and even that has cost me dear.
Its great, Joe assured her. When do I see him?
In the next half hour. After that, dont bother.
Whats he doing? said Joe, looking at his watch which said quarter past five. Jetting off to Bermuda for his hols?
Dont kick a gift horse in the teeth, Sixsmith. Pete Potter may be self-seeking, hedonistic, and fascist, but he makes the big insurance companies reach for their bulletproof vests. You can be round there in five minutes if you step smartly.
No, I cant, said Joe. The policys back in my flat.
Oh God. Why do I bother? And why are you still cluttering up my workspace? Dont step smartly, run like hell!
Joe ran like hell.
2
Even running like hell and driving like Jehu couldnt get Joe back to his flat and out to Oldmaid Row much before a quarter to six.
Still, he thought, if the guys as good as Butcher cracks him up to be, couple of minutes should be plenty to confirm Ive got a cast-iron case.
He rehearsed it as he kerb-crawled the elegant Regency terrace looking for the chambers.
Back in the autumn, his car had nose-dived through a cattle grid and been bombed by rubble from a ruinous gate arch. Ram Ray had produced an estimate for repairs running into a couple of thousand. No sweat, the Penthouse assessor had said. Cause of accident, faulty cattle grid. The estate owner pays. But when it turned out that the ownership of the estate was in dispute and that the current occupier was about to start a long prison sentence, the tune changed. This was when Mrs Airey, the senior claims inspector, appeared. She came to look at the remains of the car, sucked in her breath sharply, said it was clearly a write-off and if Joe cared to submit his own estimate of value with supporting documentation, it would be taken into account. Joe made his submission. Penthouse made their offer, Joe thought it was a misprint. He pointed out that his car was close to vintage status. They suggested it missed by a good thirty years and pointed out that the same model was still being manufactured in India. In fact, if they took the price of a new one from Ram Ray and projected twenty-five years depreciation, the value came to something less than one hundred. So the argument swayed for a good three months till finally Penthouse ended it with their cheque and Joe was desperate enough to admit he needed a lawyer.
It wasnt that he had anything against lawyers, except that they were slow, pompous, patronizing and extortionate. Nothing personal, just what everybody knew. And he saw nothing in Oldmaid Row to disabuse him. It was described in The Lost Travellers Guide, the best-selling series describing places you were unlikely to visit on purpose, with a rare lyricism.
But now after a long trudge through a desert of architectural dysplasia, the traveller sees before him an oasis of style, proportion and elegance which he may at first take for mere mirage. Here behind a small but perfectly formed park, bosky with healthy limes, runs a Regency terrace so right in every degree that one wonders if some Golden Horde of Lutonian reivers has not rampaged westwards and returned dragging part of Bath amongst its booty. Rest here a while and rebuild your strength for the struggles still to come
No one lived here any more, though royal-blue plaques alongside several doors signalled that some of Lutons brightest and best had once dwelt within. Now it was the best and brightest of the towns businesses that located here. The rentals were astronomical but the letterhead alone was worth a thirty per cent hype of any normal professional fee.
The firm of Poll-Pott occupied the last house on the left, which in olden times had nursed the muse of Simeon Littlehorn, Poet, The Luton Warbler. Though not much known beyond his native heath, his Ode on the Death of Alderman Isengard Who Fell Out of a Hot Air Balloon on the 17th of July 1843 is the shibboleth of all claiming to be native-born Lutonians. As Joe looked at the plaque he could no more keep the opening lines out of his mind than an Englishman can refrain from saying, Sorry, when asked to pass the salt.
Oh Isengard whose winged word,
High borne aloft on fiery breath,
Eer raised the hearts of all who heard,
Can such as thou plunge down to death?
As he mused, a BMW pulled up behind the Mini. A woman got out, looked at the poppied paintwork in horror, then advanced to the door and punched in a code which opened it.
As the door closed behind her, Joe jumped forward and blocked it with his foot.
Excuse me, he said, though in fact he only got as far as Exc before the woman whirled round, jabbed her fingers in his throat, seized his right wrist in both hands, pulled him towards her, then stepped aside and swept his legs from beneath him so that his own momentum sent him crashing to the ground. A knee then rammed between his shoulder blades and his head was dragged back by the hair just high enough for her forearm to slide beneath his chin and crush up against his Adams apple.
Try to move and I snap your windpipe, she said.
Joe tried to croak his understanding, found nothing came out, so tried to telepath it instead.
OK, lets get the police, she said.
The hand holding his hair let go, then the arm beneath his chin moved away. He risked a glance round and saw it was no relenting on her part which had brought this relief but the need of both hands to use a mobile phone.
At sight of his head movement she stopped dialling and raised the instrument like a club.
I told you, dont move! she yelled. You want your head ripped off?
She could do it too, Joe guessed. Hed recently started on a martial arts evening class and if hed learned nothing else after four lessons, he knew that Mr Takeushi, his elderly Japanese instructor, could fillet him and lay him out to dry without breaking sweat. This woman was clearly Black Belt or beyond.
He tried the croak again, this time managed, Potter
Shed resumed dialling. Now she paused once more.
Encouraged, he gasped, Mr Potter appointment
Youre here to see Peter? She didnt sound persuaded. Balding black PIs wearing ex-Luton-works-department donkey jackets and driving antediluvian Minis clearly didnt figure large among Potters clients.
Butcher sent Bullpat Square
Butcher? Youre one of Butchers?
A look of distaste touched her face, but at least it was edging out the look of incredulity. Butcher might be to Luton legal circles what Cerberus was to Crufts, but you couldnt ignore her.
Joe nodded vigorously. The movement eased the pain in his neck and he repeated it.
Go on like that, she said, and youll end up on the back sill of a car.
But at least she removed her knee from his spine. He pushed himself upright, trying to look as if only old-fashioned courtesy had prevented him from defending himself, but a certain weakness round the knees which sent him swaying for support from the reception counter undermined the act.
The woman, who was youngish, good-looking in a glossy-mag kind of way and wearing a short fur coat which he hoped was imitation but wouldnt have bet on it, was regarding him assessingly rather than anxiously as she enquired, Are you all right?
I think so, he said.
Good. You could have caused a serious misunderstanding, forcing your way in like that. Perhaps next time youll ring the bell and wait till someone admits you.
She had to be a lawyer, thought Sixsmith, admiring the way she was already rehearsing her defence against a possible assault charge. He looked around for the file hed been carrying. The woman spotted it first and scooped it up, allowing the cardboard cover to fall open and give her a glimpse of the contents. The sight of his motor policy seemed to convince her finally of his bona fides.
Here, she said, handing it to him. Youll find Mr Potters office on the second floor. You are sure hes here, are you?
Yes. Butcher rang him, said Joe.
She frowned as if puzzled by her colleagues presence, or maybe just his accessibility.
Joe headed for the staircase he could see at the end of the foyer. The woman unlocking a door marked Sandra Iles, called after him, Theres a lift.
Its OK, said Joe nonchalantly. If he couldnt sue her for a million, he could at least demonstrate that her assault had been a gnat bite.
He ran lightly up the first flight, but as soon as he turned out of sight on a half landing, he halted and drew in great gasps of air which did nothing for his bruised ribs. Also his nose felt like it might be broken from when it had hit the floor. He touched it gingerly but it didnt fall off.
Recovered slightly, he made his way sedately up the remaining stairs.
The second floor was unlit but enough light filtered up from below to let him see the names on the doors. Victor Montaigne Felix Naysmith Darby Pollinger Peter Potter all the male partners up at the top with the sole female down below Legal machismo? Or maybe Iles specialized in assault cases and her clients had access problems.
Such idle thoughts occupied his mind as he raised his hand to knock at Potters door, but before his fist could make contact the door was wrenched open by a huge muscular man whose face registered such anger that Joe leapt back, fearful of provoking yet another attack from yet another pugnacious lawyer.
Who the hell are you? demanded this fearsome figure.
Mr Potter, Im Joe Sixsmith, Butcher rang you, its about my car claim, Im sorry Im late but I had to go home to get my documentation, and then I got talking with Miss Iles downstairs and the time just flew
It came out in a defensive torrent, reinforced by the file which he thrust in front of him.
The man who, on closer examination and as the anger faded from his face, proved to be only about six-one and not much broader than an orang-outang, said, Sixsmith, you say? From Butcher? And youve been downstairs with Miss Iles?
Thats right. Look, I know you said I should be here by quarter to six but its only
He glanced at his watch and saw that the interlude with old Black Belt down below had shrunk his couple of minutes to a couple of seconds.
well, anyway Id be very grateful if you could just take a quick look
He put on what Beryl Boddington called his baby-seal look which she averred might make him irresistible to mummy seals but did nothing for staff nurses who had to be up for the early shift.
Happily, large lawyers didnt seem to be so adamant.
All right, said Potter. A quick look then Im off.
Joe followed him into the room which was smallish and contained a desk with a typewriter, a few filing cabinets and an old-fashioned coat stand. The lawyer took the file and began to leaf through its contents. Joe, perspiring freely from his recent exertions, took off his donkey jacket, to get the benefit later, and began to hang it on the stand.
No need to strip off, said Potter irritably. This wont take long. Youve wrecked your car, right?
It got wrecked
And its a write-off?
So they say but
And it was an old banger, made in the sixties? And theyre offering you one twenty-five? Grab it, youve got a bargain.
He glared at Joe as though challenging him to demur.
Joe thought, glad Im not paying this guy else Id want a refund! He opened his mouth to voice this thought when a telephone started ringing. The man looked over his shoulder, looked back at Joe, snapped, Wait here!, stood up and went through a door behind him. It was dark through there, but Joe got a sense of a much larger room. Or chamber! The bastards kept me in his typists office, thought Joe indignantly.
He heard Potter on the phone, his voice still loud and bad tempered enough to be clearly audible.
Felix, Ive been trying to get hold of you. Yes, thats right. Its urgent. Somethings come up. Can you get back for a meeting tomorrow? Good. Midday would be fine. Hang on a moment, will you?
Potter came back into the outer office.
You still here? he said. Ive told you, you havent got a case. Now if you dont mind, Im busy.
He rammed the contract back into its file and thrust it at Joe, using it as a weapon to force him to the door.
Joe said, Hey, man, no need to get so heavy
Just go away, snarled Potter. The days are past when you could wreck your old banger and get paid for a Jag XJ.
Joe was out in the corridor now. He wasnt a man to raise his voice but some things needed to be heard.
One thing to get straight, he said forcefully. This aint no old banger were talking about. This is a vintage Oxford with an engine so sweet it could sing in the Philharmonic Choir.
And pigs could fly! sneered Potter. Good night!
He closed the door. Joe turned away, paused, turned back, and flung it open again.
Potter re-entering his chamber, turned with a look of such fury that Joe almost fled. But some things are more precious than mere self-preservation.
I may not have a case, he said. But I do have a coat, and youre not having that off my back.
So saying, he seized his donkey jacket and swept it down off the coat stand. Unfortunately for the gesture, the collar caught on the point of the hook and as he dragged it loose, the whole stand came toppling over.
Joes evasive backward leap took him out into the corridor once more as the stand hit the floor with a tremendous crash. It seemed like a good sound to exit on and pulling his coat round his shoulders he went down the stairs like Batman.
Black Belt was standing in the doorway of her office.
She said, What the hells going on up there?
Joe said, Not much. Whoever said Kill all the lawyers just about got it right!
It was a bold thing to say to someone whose earlier response to much smaller provocation was still jangling through his nerve ends. So he didnt pause for an answer but headed straight out into the street where the sight of the Magic Mini brought his indignation back to boiling point.