The Fire Man (11 page)

The featureless rectangular glass and concrete block that constituted the regional office of West Midlands Police did absolutely nothing architecturally to improve the environs of Green Lane in Walsall. Nevertheless, the six-storey building was always busy and, in its own distinctive way, it made as valuable a contribution to the local economy as the nearby shopping centre. For one thing, off-duty officers were often to be found browsing through the rails of T K Maxx in that very centre. Some could also be found there when they were not off-duty, which was occasionally the case with DI Tina Forsyth. She was interested in clothes.

In truth, Tina liked clothes a lot more than she liked people.
Not too surprising when you had to spend your entire life working with either coppers or scumbags
, she supposed.

The essential problem, as she saw it, was that she was intelligent, stylish and ambitious – qualities that seemed a little under-appreciated in Walsall CID. She also had the disadvantage of being straight, in a sexual rather than legal sense, which, in a profession heavily populated with gay women, meant she had to put up with a disproportionate number of approaches from both male and female colleagues.

Detective Chief Inspector Ray Anderson was one such admirer. Worse still, he was her direct superior. He wasn't a bad bloke, she reluctantly conceded, even handsome, in a dark Heathcliff-ish kind of way. However, he was also deeply unimaginative, not particularly smart, opinionated and, worst of all, patronising – quite apart from being married. Fairly typical of the breed, all in all, but what she really needed was for him to leave her alone. It was becoming embarrassing – all of which went some way towards explaining the unscheduled visit to T K Maxx.

Tina had dressed that morning in a perfectly sedate ensemble, comprising a slim pencil skirt and blouse – or so she had thought, until that creep, DC ‘Willy' Watson, had started leering at her in the office. Taking herself off to the toilets, she realised from the reflection in the mirror that the pale peach blouse was rather sheerer than she had thought. With a case review meeting scheduled for the afternoon with Ray Anderson, she had decided that an impromptu change might be a sensible idea.

Although there was nothing on the rails that particularly inspired, Tina eventually selected a drastically reduced, Ralph Lauren square-necked jersey top with long sleeves. Checking that the fit was appropriate, she paid for the top and then used the changing room to transform herself from wanton hussy into dowdy professional. Satisfied that no one would look twice at her now, she made her way back to the office.

The meeting with Anderson was specifically to discuss the recent spate of petty but violent thefts against elderly women, most of which had occurred in or around the Bentley Lane area. In most cases, the victims had been widowed women in their seventies or eighties. The thief had simply rung the doorbells of the targets and when the women had been unwise enough to answer, the door had been pushed open. The women were then bundled inside and threatened, or, in some cases, punched, before the thief got away with whatever cash and valuables he could grab. In every case, the attack had been completed in minutes and the culprit had made no attempt to conceal his identity.

Tina had a workable description of the man: a scrawny, bald or shaven headed, tattooed, white male, who was aged about 25 and of medium height. She was pretty sure he was a junkie and was absolutely certain he must have a record. Irritatingly, however, all the obvious local candidates proved to have cast-iron alibis. They were, surprisingly enough, all already doing time, so the joker responsible for the Bentley Lane jobs was either new to the area or had adopted a new speciality.

Tina was sick of the case already. She found it both pathetic and sad. The guy was an obvious loser, frequently getting away with less than twenty pounds, while the women had been either badly scared or, at worst, seriously hurt. Following the seventh attack in little more than a week, the local press had picked up on the case, which meant that Ray Anderson was getting it in the neck.

He turned as Tina slipped into his office; he was speaking on the phone and gazing out of the window. He gestured to her to take a seat and she sat waiting for him to finish the call.

‘So, anything new on the Bentley Lane job?'

‘Fraid not Boss, I've got Willy and Jacobs re-interviewing the women and we're also going through the junkie list to see whether we've missed anyone. To be honest, though, it's gone deadly quiet.'

It was ten days since the last theft and Tina had privately come to the conclusion that the perpetrator had been a drifter, and had now moved on from the area. She hoped so; if nothing happened for another week or so, the pressure would be off. The press would lose interest and Anderson would get off her back.

‘Okay, well, just keep me in the loop if anything comes up, eh? Anything else to talk about?' Anderson looked at her intently. There was, as always, something very unsettling about his direct gaze and Tina felt a slow burning flush creep up her neck.

‘I wouldn't mind taking another look at that factory fire,' she eventually muttered hesitantly, conscious that even the mere mention of the fire, which she had discussed with him several times over the past month, would irritate him.

His nostrils flared as if a whiff of sulphur had entered the air. ‘Not that again!' he spluttered. ‘I've told you before, Tina, it's a total waste of time! I've read the fire brigade report and I've read your submission, and I've decided, in the usual jargon, that it's “a complete waste of police resources”. I am not wasting our time on some amateur detective's crackpot theories. If you honestly believe that those useless insurance prats have got the slightest chance of producing any actual evidence
,
you must be mad!'

He sat heavily back in his chair before continuing, ‘We could dick about with a case like that for months and get nowhere. In the meantime, all the real fucking crime would go off like a rocket! Just forget it and try getting some results that matter.' He leaned forward across the desk and gazed at her sternly with a tight irritated-looking mouth, his lips pursed.

It was clear that there was no point in pursuing the matter; all she wanted to do now was to get out of the office. If there was one type that all true policemen despised it was “the amateur” or “wannabe” detective. She wasn't impressed by them herself, but, unlike Anderson, Tina had actually met McRae and she couldn't help believing he had been onto something. Nonetheless, this was not the time for further debate.

‘Okay – point taken.' She rose to her feet, straightening her skirt, and turned towards the door.

‘By the way, Tina, don't forget we're having a few jars at the Beggar for Scott's retirement tomorrow.' He spoke without raising his eyes towards her, but she knew what he was thinking.

Christ, after four hours of lousy wine, fending off Randy Ray is going to be difficult to say the least!

‘I've not forgotten,' she sighed as she closed the door.

The sun was losing its savage ferocity as the afternoon merged almost imperceptibly into dusk. At the height above sea level, at which the village of Gazi was located, the speed of the transition was accelerated. For a second, McRae shivered as a soft breeze gently lifted a few dead leaves on the terracotta paving behind his head. In the distance he could hear his mother calling to her husband, who was parking his Mini beneath the ancient olive tree that gave the villa its name.

Villa Oliva perched, overlooking the coast, around one kilometre from the main Heraklion to Chania road. The property was reached by a dusty, rough, but surprisingly level, stone road. The track twisted its way between dying olive groves and scrubby rock, before finally petering out in front of a plain white house with small shuttered windows and a weather-beaten, terracotta-tiled roof.

The appearance of the villa from the road was misleading. It effectively turned its back to the road for which it cared little. The main attractions were concealed behind a modest wall that extended for twenty or thirty metres on either side of the property.

The original olive press had been heavily converted by an architect couple from Copenhagen, who had added to the property at the south-facing rear and created a three-tiered house that cascaded down the hill towards a large pool and surrounding patio. The conversion had been tastefully designed and superbly executed. The sea-facing rooms were almost entirely glass-fronted and enjoyed distant views across the Sea of Crete. All it had needed was a plant-mad Englishwoman to create a beautiful Mediterranean garden and its conversion to paradise would be complete. Two years' exile in Crete had enabled Anna to complete such a dream garden.
It had indeed become a kind of Eden
, mused McRae; unfortunately, not one he could stand for very much longer.

It was early September and he had been lounging around the pool, taking occasional strolls through the olive groves and generally behaving like a particularly lethargic slob for just over six weeks now. He had been monk-like in his self-imposed isolation, since his arrival on the island, and had turned his back on his old life with the determination and stubbornness of a mule. Although messages by text and email had followed him in torrents, he had studiously, almost cruelly, ignored them. Even messages to Karen and Grim had been brief:
“Be in touch in time – taking a break. Thanks for understanding”.
Otherwise, he had not replied to a single message. He would reply when the time was right.

In truth, he had been a taciturn and depressing guest to have around, but the sun and endless laps of the pool had finally done its work. He felt ready to rejoin the world, but it would be a different world.

The provincial market, dominated by major insurance companies, like CFG, was clearly closed to him. The only real options were either to move overseas or to try the London market, where Lloyd's syndicates and smaller so-called “fringe” companies operated without giving a damn what the likes of Smythson thought.

He had seriously considered trying his hand in Canada, or maybe Australia, but had decided he wasn't ready to disappear into oblivion just yet. No, he was going to do his own thing and try his hand as an independent in the capital.

Eleanor Sykes had delivered. The “bitch” that had represented his wife so successfully had proved equally adept in screwing Frank Jackson. She was distinctly attractive, too, and McRae had found her a joy to work with. The settlement of his “unfair dismissal” case had been fast and generous; it had exceeded his wildest hopes and he now had over a year's salary, free of tax, to fund his one-man band.

The sale of his flat in Birmingham would yield a decent profit and although he couldn't realistically think about buying a place in central London, he could at least rent something decent for a few years. After that, well, who knew? The world, as they said, was his oyster.

Hearing his mother clattering onto the patio in her chic gardening clogs for the first time in weeks, McRae looked up at her with a contented smile on his now deeply tanned faced.

‘Mum, can you spare your car this evening? I could do with popping into Heraklion for a while.'

‘Course you can, love. What are you up to?'

‘Oh, nothing much, I just need to spend a bit of time on the internet and the signal keeps dropping out here. Might pop into Demetrious as well while I'm at it.'

* * *

Mythos
, Heraklion's only internet café, was relatively quiet when McRae paid his five euro fee for the access code, parted with another four for a strong coffee and parked himself in a soft corner seat in the shabby-chic gloom. He perched his laptop on his knees.

He had accessed his e-mail at the villa earlier in the day, but had decided not to download the attachments until now. There were two in particular he was keen to read. Both had been forwarded by Karen, who was now doing her best to keep him fully informed as his resident fifth columnist.

Firstly, he carefully absorbed the internal circular that had been issued to all staff by Frank Jackson five weeks earlier. It outlined the staff moves and changes at Birmingham and Cardiff with only scant reference to his own departure, which he saw had been simply described as “moving on”. A prickle of anger passed through him, before he realised that no other form of words would have helped. ‘Still,
would have been nice to see at least a few bloody words about my contribution,'
he thought acidly, before turning to the second attachment.

Karen had done as he had requested in his purdah-breaking email two days earlier. She had prepared for him a cryptic summary of the key developments since his hurried departure.

Terry was settling in nicely; everybody liked him (and he was saying all the right things about Drew!). The Hellenic file had been passed to Turner of Egerton-Walker, who had immediately swung his team into action and, best of all, CFG had refused to pay the Fairclough bill for the work they had completed. Jackson was furious and was in some kind of debate with Smythson, trying desperately to get CFG to at least pay something.

Finally, to add insult to injury, the report had come in from Simmons in Athens confirming that Viktor Kaloudis Ltd. did indeed exist. The brief report included a couple of photographs that clearly showed the front of an unremarkable, shabby, Thessalonican premises.

Finally, Karen had listed the great and the not so good, who had been trying to get in touch with McRae to express their regret at his exit. He was surprised to see that even Danny Wagner had left a message saying he was sorry that things hadn't worked out.

What Karen's summary didn't mention was the Academy Investigations angle, simply because she knew nothing about it. McRae had left no note on the file concerning Kit Tranquil's involvement prior to the meeting with Smythson and hadn't felt inclined to do so afterwards.
A bloody good job in the circumstances,
he concluded.

As promised, Tranquil had communicated only with McRae. The day after the Smythson debacle, they had spoken briefly on the phone and he had provided a verbal report that hadn't sounded too exciting. McRae had told him to submit the written version to his own email address, and since arriving at Villa Oliva he had felt too depressed to bother giving it more than a glance.

He scrolled back through his emails until, finally, he found the one containing Tranquil's report. He opened the attachment and re-read it, this time carefully picking out the salient points.

So far, just an everyday story of rich people
, he thought. He read on:

‘More coffee?' his concentration was broken. ‘Yes, sure, thanks.' He handed his cup to a rather sweet young woman in skinny jeans who leaned over him, her long black hair concealing most of her plain but friendly face.

With his drink replenished, he began to idly scroll through the rest of the online file. He looked for a while at the photographs that Balfour had provided. The more he scrutinised the close-ups of the labels, the more convinced he became of his own gut feelings. Turning back to Simmons' report on Viktor Kaloudis Ltd, he read with disappointment that the business was a completely genuine clothing factory. Kaloudis had manifestly occupied the address at Number 15 Vlastou for at least five years.

Before closing the report, he stared again at the photographs that Simmons had embedded in the report. The first picture had been taken from distance and showed the frontage of a nondescript three-storey block of industrial units. The second was a close-up of the actual ground-floor entrance, which distinctly showed the Kaloudis nameplate. He closed the file before something struck him. He re-opened the file, scrolled back to the photograph and looked again at the image, but this time more closely. To the edge of the picture frame, he could just about discern the left-hand side of the Perspex noticeboard on which the occupants of other floors were vertically listed: Cera Holdings Ltd, Delta-Attica, Hellas Copiers and, finally, a name that was cut off by the edge of the frame, Yannis Kan...

Two hours later, the café was closing. McRae's eyes were gritty and his back was aching from its prolonged crouching posture. He had drunk at least five cups of strong coffee; he felt ‘wired', but it wasn't the coffee.

What he wanted now was a proper drink, but first he would get back to the villa.
Tomorrow
, he thought,
I'll fly to Thessalonica.