Armadillo Read Online Free PDF Page A

said. Lorimer noticed he had dropped his obsequious use of ‘sir’ and he wondered whether this was a good or bad sign. Rappaport smiled at him, sympathetically. ‘Sleep like a top, I do. A spinning top. No problem. Out like a light. Head hits the pillow, out like a light. Sleep like a log.’
    ‘I envy you.’ Lorimer was sincere, Rappaport had no idea how sincere he was. Rappaport went on to enumerate some epic sleeps he had enjoyed, citing one sixteen-hour triumph on a white-water rafting holiday. He was a regular eight-hour-a-nighter, it transpired, so he claimed with some smugness. Lorimer had observed in the past how a confession of sleep dysfunctions often provoked this good-natured bragging. Few other ailments elicited a similar response. An admission of constipation did not engender proud boasts of regular bowel movements. A complaint about migraine, or acne, or piles, or a bad back generally produced sympathy, not a swaggering testimonial about the interlocutor’s own good health. Sleep disorders did this to people, he noticed. It was almost talismanic, this guileless braggadocio, as if it were a form of incantation, protection against a profound fear of sleeplessness that lurked in everyone’s lives, even the soundest of sleepers, such as the Rappaports of this world. The detective was now expounding on his ability to enjoy restorative catnaps if the demands of the job ever interrupted his restful, untroubled nights.
    ‘Is there anything I can do for you, detective?’ Lorimer asked gently.
    Rappaport removed his notebook from his jacket pocket, and flicked through it. ‘This is a very nice flat, you’ve got here, sir.’
    ‘Thank you.’ Back to business, Lorimer thought. Rappaport frowned at something he had written.
    ‘How many visits did you make to Mr Dupree?’
    ‘Just the one.’
    ‘He had you booked in for two hours.’
    ‘Quite normal.’
    ‘Why so long?’
    ‘It was to do with the nature of our business. It’s time-consuming.’
    ‘You’re in insurance, I take it.’
    ‘No. Yes. In a manner of speaking. I work for a firm of loss adjusters.’
    ‘You’re a loss adjuster, then.’
    And you are a credit to the force, Lorimer thought, but he said merely, ‘Yes. I’m a loss adjuster. Mr Dupree had made an insurance claim as a result of the fire. His insurance company –’
    ‘Which is?’
    ‘Fortress Sure.’
    ‘Fortress Sure. I’m with Sun Alliance. And Scottish Widows.’
    ‘Both excellent firms. Fortress Sure felt – and this happens all the time, it’s almost routine – that Mr Dupree’s claim was on the high side. They employ us to investigate it to see if the loss is in fact as great as it is claimed, and, if not, then to adjust it, downwards.’
    ‘Hence the name “loss adjuster”.’
    ‘Exactly.’
    And your firm – GGH Ltd – is independent from Fortress Sure.’
    ‘Not independent but impartial.’ This was written in letters of stone. ‘Fortress Sure does pay us a fee, after all.’
    ‘Fascinating line of work. Thank you very much, Mr Black. That is most useful. I won’t trouble you no further.’
    Rappaport is either very clever or very stupid, Lorimer thought, standing hidden at the side of his bay window looking down at the detective’s blond head as he descended the front steps, and I cannot decide which. Lorimer watched Rappaport pause in the street and light a cigarette. Then he stared frowning at the house as if its façade might hold some clue to Mr Dupree’s suicide.
    Lady Haigh clambered up from her basement with two gleaming empty milk bottles and as she set them down by the dustbin at the top of the basement steps Lorimer saw Rappaport engage her in conversation. He knew, from the way Lady Haigh nodded her head in vigorous assent, that they were talking about him. And, although he also knew that his character would receive nothing but the staunchest backing from her, the discussion – it had moved on, Lady Haigh was now pointing crossly at a