Eight Ball Boogie - Declan Burke [17]
“What time did you say your appointment was for, Mr Delaney?”
Still suspicious, still polite.
“I didn’t, but it’s for four o’clock. Mr Conway assured me he’d be here.”
“If he said he’d be here, he’ll be here. He’s usually punctual.”
Punctual means predictable and predictable means having a schedule to work around.
“It’s not essential that Mr Conway is here, actually. Perhaps you could help me out with a few details before he arrives? It’ll save time and time is money.”
“Details?”
“Oh, simple stuff.” I opened the battered briefcase, took out a sheaf of brochures and forms. I didn’t know what half of them said, and I was pretty sure she wouldn’t be interested, but I pushed them across the table for show. “How much your premium is, what the return adds up to, how it affects your tax allowance. The kind of settlement in place in the case of divorce. That kind of thing.”
“Divorce?”
She was still a long way off interested but I thought I heard a note of surprise.
“It’s sad, Mrs Conway, but true. All life assurance policies taken out by married couples with First Option have a divorce clause inserted these days. It’s standard practice.”
She laughed, delighted at the vulgarity of it all. My stomach somersaulted.
“I’m sure we don’t have a divorce clause, Mr Delaney.” Twisting her wedding ring absent-mindedly, the light snagging in the rocks and screaming for mercy. “Francis and I were married long before that kind of thing became necessary. As you know very well.”
She smiled, coy. My stomach sprinted across the hurdles and took a flyer at the pole vault.
“I can’t imagine why Mr Conway would even contemplate divorce.” If Helen Conway was fishing she could count on reeling me in. “It’s just a standard question we ask at First Trust as part of our comprehensive customer package.”
Her eyebrows flickered under a brittle frown.
“You mean First Option.”
I grinned, tried to look embarrassed.
“First Option, of course. I’m not that long with the company…”
“Yes, well, I’m sure I’m just wasting your time, Mr Delaney. Francis handles our finances and you really should be talking to him.” She checked her watch, a tiny gold number. “And I don’t want to be rude, but I am expecting some company…”
“Of course, of course. I’m sorry for holding you up.”
“I really can’t understand why Francis is late. He’s usually so punctual. He hates it if someone keeps him waiting.”
“Well, maybe something came up. I’ll ring him and make another appointment. At his office, perhaps.”
“That might be for the best.” She stood up slowly, but not so slow that I wouldn’t get the hint. “I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted trip…”
“Not at all. It was a fine cup of coffee.”
She chuckled a fluttery one out of politeness and my stomach took off, looking for a high building to bound over. I stuffed the brochures into my briefcase. She showed me to the door and shook hands. Her grip was dry and strong.
“Goodbye, Mr Delaney.”
“Bob.”
“Of course.”
She was waiting at the bottom of the drive, hidden from the house by the high shrubbery. Arms folded, shivering in the biting wind, smoking. She had closed the gates and made no effort to open them. I got out of the car.
“An insurance man.”
If you’re going to sneer, throw in a pout, it takes the sting out it. I slipped her the patter.
“I sell ah-ssurance – there’s a difference. Insurance suggests a guarantee. I make the inevitable financially soluble.”
“Bullshit.”
I didn’t take it personally. When you’re seventeen, everything is bullshit, especially the bullshit. I opened the gates, got back in the car. She came and stood beside it, giving it the once-over. I wound down the window. The sneer was toxic.
“Nice car. I like old cars.”
“I collect antiques.”
“You collect antiques