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tissue
paper, the cardboard boxes and finally the shoes had been burnt to a cinder,
leaving a small cloud of black smoke spiralling into the air. When it had
cleared, the two men stared down at all that was left of the funeral pyre -- eight
large metal buckles.
    'It's often not what you do see, but what
you don't see,' said Alan without explanation. He looked up at Lomax. 'It was
my wife,' continued Alan, 'who told me that Catherine Deneuve made Roger Vivier
buckles famous when she played a courtesan in the film Belle de Jour. That was
when I first realized you'd set fire to your own warehouse, Mr Lomax, because
if you hadn't, according to your manifest, there should have been several thousand
buckles scattered all over the site.'
    Lomax remained silent for some time before he
said, 'I reckon you've still only got a fifty-fifty chance of proving it.'
    'You may well be right, Mr Lomax,' said Alan.
'But then, I reckon you've still only got a fifty-fifty chance of not being
paid a penny in compensation and, even worse, ending up behind bars for a very
long time. So as I said, I will be recommending that my client settles for two
million, but then it will be up to you to make the final decision, sunshine.'
    'So what do you think?' asked Penfold as a bell
sounded and the players began to stroll back out on to the field.
    'You've undoubtedly beaten the odds,' I replied,
'even if I was expecting a slightly different ending.'
    'So how would you have ended the story?' he asked.
    'I would have held on to one pair of Roger Vivier
shoes,' I told him.
    'What for?'
    'To give to my wife. After all, it was her
first case as well.'

4 BLIND DATE
    T HE SCENT OF JASMINE was the first clue: a
woman.
    I was sitting alone at my usual table when she
came and sat down at the next table. I knew she was alone, because the chair on
the other side of her table hadn't scraped across the floor, and no one had
spoken to her after she'd sat down.
    I sipped my coffee. On a good day, I can
pick up the cup, take a sip and return it to the saucer, and if you were sitting
at the next table, you'd never know I was blind. The challenge is to see how
long I can carry out the deception before the person sitting next to me
realizes the truth. And believe me, the moment they do, they give themselves
away.
    Some begin to whisper, and, I suspect, nod or
point; some become attentive; while a few are so embarrassed they don't speak
again.
    Yes, I can even sense that.
    I hoped someone would be joining her, so I could
hear her speak. I can tell a great deal from a voice. When you can't see
someone, the accent and the tone are enhanced, and these can give so much away.
Pause for a moment, imagine listening to someone on the other end of a phone
line, and you'll get the idea.
    Charlie was heading towards us. 'Are you ready
to order, madam?' asked the waiter, his slight Cornish burr leaving no doubt
that he was a local. Charlie is tall, strong and gentle. How do I know? Because
when he guides me back to the pavement after my morning coffee, his voice comes
from several inches above me, and I'm five foot ten. And if I should
accidentally bump against him, there's no surplus weight, just firm muscle.
    But then, on Saturday afternoons he plays rugby
for the Cornish Pirates. He's been in the first team for the past seven years,
so he must be in his late twenties, possibly early thirties. Charlie has
recently split up with his girlfriend and he still misses her. Some things you
pick up from asking questions, others are volunteered.
    The next challenge is to see how much I can work
out about the person sitting at the next table before they realize I cannot see
them.
    Once they've gone on their way, Charlie
tells me how much I got right. I usually manage about seven out of ten.
    'I'd like a lemon tea,' she replied, softly.
    'Certainly, madam,' said Charlie. 'And will there
be anything else?'
    'No, thank you.'
    Thirty to thirty-five would be my guess.
    Polite, and not from these parts.