55
Thursday, 3 May 2012
Matthew Benson was having a bad week. It had started with the woman in Brentford. She had been as happy as Larry about her shower at the time, even hinting he hop in and give her a demo. Then, at the crack of dawn on Monday, she was on the phone shouting that water was dripping through her lounge ceiling. He knew it would be her hair clogging the trap or a break in the mastic, but when he got there he isolated the problem to the shower valve; he had forgotten to tighten it. Not that he told her; he made out that it was a manufacturing malfunction and got another valve from the van and went through the charade of swapping them. Still, she made it clear she would not want him for her downstairs cloakroom. Back in the day he had avoided her sort like the plague, but now he took any job, however small. Not that Maureen was bothered, since the business of the dead boy she wasn’t talking to him. Except to say she didn’t know how he lived with himself.
When he had finished with the valve, he found a parking ticket on his windscreen. Madam hadn’t offered to pay. Probably let the tosser issue it. She made a wisecrack about the name. ‘Perfect Plumbing’. ‘Not so perfect, Mr Benson!’ Waving the Chronicle. She wasn’t talking about the valve; she meant Joel Evans.
Today he had parked in the corner bay of the plumbing merchants to eat his bacon sandwich and snatch a kip. At eight in the morning the store was buzzing. Where did these blokes find the work? His diary was on the dash; no jobs today or tomorrow and his credit in the store had run out. The couple wanting new radiators had put him off and he was undercut on a shower and WC in Fulham – even for cash. Or maybe because – the lady turned out to be a copper. Probably knew about the hit and run. His petrol tank was reading empty and so was his bank account. Shit week and it wasn’t over yet.
If he went home, Maureen would have a go. Bitch. He should chase up old clients but couldn’t face it. He screwed his sandwich wrapper into a ball.
He was startled by a whooping police siren. It was his phone. The ringtone wasn’t such a laugh now. ‘Perfect Plumbing, hello?’ Nor was the f*cking name.
‘May I speak with Matthew Benson?’
‘Who wants him? Callers were creditors or pissed-off customers; he would say he was ‘out of the office’.
‘It’s Porphyrion Insurance regarding the accident that your vehicle was recently involved in.’
Benson shut his eyes. ‘It wasn’t my fault. The lad was playing chicken – had to be – I had no chance. The police agree.’
‘You don’t consider yourself to blame?’
‘No, I do not. Look, who is this? Are you that reporter?’ It sounded like her. She must think he was born yesterday.
‘Porphyrion Insurance. I need to establish some facts.’
‘I don’t have a policy with you. I’m with Principle Star.’
‘We are a subsidiary of Principle Star; we handle cases meriting further consideration.’ The voice was quiet. ‘We may be able to help you.’
‘How’s that?’
‘I have here that you were doing thirty miles per hour; the speed limit on King Street.’
‘It’s on the camera.’
‘You didn’t stop to provide an officer with your details. Technically you left the scene.’ She inhaled, as if she was smoking. He could do with one himself.
‘I was in shock, OK? I went to the police, else the wife would have killed me. Now she’s killing me slowly. Or softly!’ He’d kept his sense of humour. ‘Anyone would have done the same.’ Another bloody woman on his case.
‘That’s not my department or my concern. I’m dealing with your compensation.’
‘My what? They said I wasn’t eligible. They don’t care what it’s done to my business.’
‘You have a low score on our Culpability Index, Mr Benson.’
‘I wasn’t drinking, if that’s what you mean.’
‘On the contrary, it means you are due a sizeable sum in recompense. We take into account disruption to routine, threat to livelihood: loss of earnings and ability to undertake work to the required standard.’
He let his shoulders drop. Someone out there – the husky voice, as if she lived on fags, that went with gorgeous looks – cared. The valve was not his fault; the boy outside Marks and Spencer’s wasn’t his fault. ‘That kid has ruined my life. What sum are we talking?’
‘We are talking – as you put it – about seven hundred and fifty thousand pounds, perhaps less, but negligibly so.’
‘How much under?’ Matthew Benson rubbed his eyes.
‘I haven’t got the calculation matrix in front of me. There will be minor issues to factor in – your business turnover before the accident, your health. Minor, as I say.’
‘Nothing wrong with my business until last week.’ He shut his diary.
‘Our judgement is reached according to principle. You were not charged with dangerous driving and intrinsic to your punishment was the unfortunate fatality. Your case would not have been referred to me if you were not a clear candidate. It will be a sizeable tax-free sum.’
‘Result!’ He punched the air and then smoothed a hand down his face. The sun had come out, making the van hot and airless. He opened the driver’s door. This would show Maureen!
‘For now, this is highly confidential. Payments from this fund do not meet with popular approval so please tell no one, not even Mrs Benson if there is one. Not until monies have been transferred. Any divulgence will jeopardize your claim.’
Benson wanted to shove down Maureen’s gullet that now that he was a millionaire – he didn’t trouble himself with exact figures – she’d better play her cards right. No debts, no mortgage. No nothing. This changed everything.
‘It will be hard not to tell my wife.’ As he spoke, Benson saw this wasn’t true.
‘I am sure you can keep a secret, Mr Benson.’
The woman was a turn-on. ‘Can it go into a separate account?’
‘We won’t detain ourselves with the nitty-gritty. I shall meet you to dot the i’s et cetera. All contact with Porphyrion is through me. A single point of contact preserves confidentiality and means we expedite your claim faster. When are you free?’
‘I’m busy in the day obviously, or I was until…’ He cast about for the right answer.
‘I can only do evenings for the next month.’
‘Shall I come to your office?’
‘No, we’re based in Cheltenham and I won’t meet at your home for the reasons given. I’ve pencilled in the sixth of May. I hope you don’t mind a Sunday, but the sooner we sort this the better. Do you know Spelling Way?’
Benson was about to say that he did. He’d been apprenticed at a company there thirty years ago and was sacked for persistent lateness. None of it mattered now, except if they were still there, he’d like to rub their faces in it. ‘In a pub? I owe you a drink!’
‘We all pay our dues. Is nine-thirty all right? I apologize for the late hour.’
‘It’s fine.’ Everything was fine. ‘Will you bring the cheque?’
‘You will receive a BACS payment into whatever account you choose.’
‘Yeah, right. I’m not thinking straight. That kid running out was terrible for me, seems every cloud has a silver lining!’
‘Goodbye, Mr Benson. It will all be all right.’
‘Bye then… Hey… Hello?’
‘Yes?’
‘I didn’t catch your name.’
‘Mrs Hunt.’
Benson had not taken a number. No problem, he could look up the last received call. Number unknown. She had come through a switchboard. He could contact Principle Star if he had to cancel. He would not cancel. It was too good to be true.
Matthew Benson deleted the call entry from his phone. He knew how to keep a secret. He did, however, write the appointment and the street name in his diary. Sunday, 6 May. These days he could not trust his memory or his driving reflexes.