The Fire Man (16 page)

In an ideal world, McRae wouldn't necessarily choose to fly Ryanair.

There was something about the company's hard-nosed attitude towards its customers that he found distinctly unattractive. On the other hand, though, if he was paying for the flight himself, as indeed he unfortunately was, then there was no other way to go. He decided that he could put up with the garish colour scheme, the brash style and simply admire the sheer efficiency of the airline's business model. They were good value and their flights ran on time.

By leaving Gatwick on the nine o'clock flight , he had calculated that he could make his enquiries, have his annual pint of Guinness and still be comfortably back home by eight.

He had once again played the boss card, which meant that he could choose to take a day off whenever he chose. So far as he was concerned he was on a winning streak following the Liverpool trip and decided he now had to find out more about the Dublin dimension. He had absolutely no idea what he was looking for, let alone whether he would recognise it if he found it.

Debating whether or not to divulge to his staff the details of his extracurricular activities, he had eventually elected to bring both Suzanne and John at least partially into the picture. He had been highly economical with the details but they were both told it concerned an old fraud case in which he had been involved. That seemed sufficient to gain their interest.

John was on good terms with Matt Ebel, so he had asked him to speak confidentially to the underwriter to establish whether he could find out a little more about the background of Derek Smythson. He stressed that he didn't want Ebel causing any ripples and that he would just be happy to know a little more about the man. Ebel had done business with Consolidated in the past, so McRae reckoned he might be able to add to his knowledge. Frankly, he knew so little about Smythson that anything would be a bonus.

Suzanne, as a typical modern user of all things electronic, had been allocated the potentially more difficult task of finding out all she could about anything that might link the conspirators
. How had Smythson, Kanelos and O'Connell, not to mention Gallo, come to know each other?
What had they got in common? On the face of it, they couldn't be more different. As he might have anticipated, the woman was positively enthused by her new role as sleuth and he had to stress that he didn't want her doing anything dangerous. However, he soon realised his mistake when Suzanne's eyes had positively lit up at the idea of taking on the bad guys.

‘All I want you to do is check the usual websites. You know, Facebook, Twitter, Linked-in, Instagram – that kind of thing.' Even as he uttered the words, however, he realised the idea of Kanelos and Tuck exchanging holiday snaps on Facebook was, to say the least, ludicrous. All the men were around fifty years of age, he calculated and therefore hardly likely to be users of social media. He reckoned it was still worth a try, though.

In her typically thorough way, Suzanne asked McRae to tell him as much as he already knew about the men she called “the baddies”. In the process of giving her the information she needed, though, he realised how little he actually knew about any of them.

He had some useful information on Kanelos, but pretty much nothing on the others. He didn't have any addresses, dates of birth or car registrations, and for a moment he had been downcast at the realisation of the flimsiness of his knowledge. Still, Suzanne had appeared confident she would be able to pull up something from the internet and her quiet confidence, misplaced or not, had been reassuring.

Grabbing a cab into the city centre, McRae's first port of call in Dublin's fair city was the Companies Registration Office on Parnall Square, which turned out to be a surprisingly small, faux-Georgian office block. Here, he spent a disappointing hour or so endeavouring to research both OCV and Mayfield Property Company.

There was nothing new on OCV; the company was well behind in submitting directors particulars. It was even further adrift where its annual accounts were concerned and had been fined the maximum for the late submission of their accounts. As the maximum fine was only 1200 Euros, though, it was unlikely that Michael O'Connell and his pals would have lost any sleep over the matter.

His enquiry into Mayfield was a similarly disappointing process. However some accounts had been submitted, showing insignificant levels of turnover. The list of directors contained no known names, or at least none known to McRae, and there was nothing of interest on their records apart from a change of registered office address recorded only three or four months previously. It was becoming increasingly obvious that the gang played the system where statutory records were concerned. He duly noted the addresses shown and decided that the least he could do, having come so far, was to check out the offices.

* * *

It was spitting with rain and gusting with wind as he made his way slowly through St Stephens Green in the direction of Leeson Street. He stopped for a moment to watch an elderly lady feeding the swans on the lake, before lighting a cigarette and continuing on his way.

Leeson Street had altered little since his only previous visit over ten years earlier. The buildings, mainly three-storey Georgian terraced townhouses, remained modest and respectable, but, instead of the quirky bars and restaurants that had once occupied the basements, a sprinkling of less salubrious clubs and lap-dancing establishments had sprouted. Above them, the offices predominantly remained the preserve of accountants and solicitors. The street was, however, essentially unchanged, in that it seemed to continue to possess a split personality. By day it was a quiet, commercial street; by night, it became a more edgy place altogether.

Number 53 was an unremarkable building, indistinguishable from the rest of the street. He walked up the few steps towards the elegant front door to gain a closer look at the brass nameplate. It still included, amongst the listed tenants, the name
Mayfield Property Company,
and it appeared that their office could be found on the top floor. For a moment McRae was uncertain what to do. Should he march up the stairs and express an interest in the Liverpool site as he had originally intended? He wasn't so sure anymore. What was beginning to concern him was just how close the relationship might be between these agents and the fraudsters? The very fact that they were based in Dublin somehow suggested a rather closer link than he might find comfortable.

Deciding, in the midst of his uncertainty, that this was an opportune time for both a drink and a think, he turned and looked around for a nearby bar. There was no shortage: Dermot's, The Black Widow, O'Donohue's and one grubby-looking dive with an unlit sign that sat diagonally opposite the office and had a strangely familiar name… The Malinka Bar and Grill.

Deciding it would be as good a place as any to enjoy his much-anticipated glass of Guinness, he strode between the slow moving traffic and crossed the street.

The bar, which was accessed by a short flight of stone steps, was virtually empty, although a tough-looking old boy sat reading a paper in a corner and regarded him with naked hostility as he entered. It was dark, miserable and unwelcoming. Even the bar counter seemed forbidding, covered quite brazenly by no less than two CCTV cameras.

Approaching the bar with a confidence he didn't remotely feel, he was greeted by a smiling woman of about forty with jet-black dyed hair tied in a carmine ribbon. The ribbon matched a rather twee silk scarf that she wore above her tight black sweater. Although she was a little careworn, the barmaid had clearly once been a highly attractive woman with a voluptuous figure and still had the confidence to go with it.

‘A half of Guinness please,' he said.

‘Afraid it's off,' the woman replied.

‘Isn't that typical?' he laughed. ‘Here I am in Dublin for one flipping day, ready to have my only Guinness of the year, and it's off.'

‘Sometimes your luck's just out,' she replied with reciprocal smile. ‘You could always have a Murphy's. That's Irish as well, you know.'

He said he might have guessed that and she laughed openly. It was a charming dirty deep-throated chuckle and he felt himself warming to her, if not to the bar.

While she drew him a small beer, he enquired as to how long the woman had worked at the place. Not very long, it transpired.

‘I only started 3 weeks ago... and if it doesn't get busier than this soon, I'll be gone at the end of the month. Drives you crazy when it's quiet all the time.'

‘What do you put that down to?'

‘What, me being crazy or the place being quiet?'

Before he could respond to her little jest she carried on in a conspiratorial whisper, which he thought was a little unnecessary in the light of the only other customer being seemingly absorbed in a newspaper some distance away. ‘Well, it's not the most welcoming of places, is it? I mean why did you choose to come in here yourself? Pretty well anywhere else on the street is better... and a damn sight cheaper!'

Quickly McRae responded with his own morsel of blarney, ‘I was just looking for some authentic Irish atmosphere and the best looking women.' He cringed at the crassness of his own embarrassing attempt at wit. It didn't seem to bother her.

She laughed again and fluttered her eyelashes archly. ‘Well, there's me thinking only the Irish are full of shit.'

‘To be honest, I didn't really look at the place properly,' said McRae. ‘Just saw the Guinness sign and that was it, but now you come to mention it the place could be a bit more welcoming. If it's always this quiet, I'm surprised they keep going.'

The woman, whose name turned out to be Marie, told him that the agency that had found her the job had disclosed (unwisely in McRae's opinion) that the bar had a very high turnover of staff because every barmaid moved on. The only reason Marie had taken the job was that the owner had agreed to match the opening hours to her requirements and pay her a bonus if she stayed for six months.

‘God, they must be desperate,' remarked McRae, before realising how ungallant his remark sounded. ‘I didn't mean...'

‘I know what you meant,' she said, ‘but the God's own truth is that I won't be staying for another five months – bonus or no bonus. It's crucifying me. Apart from Mike, the owner, hardly anyone other than a few of his mates ever comes near the place and I think they are a bit political, if you know what I mean.' She had lowered her voice as she had uttered the last few words.

McRae didn't have a clue what she meant but he nodded sagely. He found himself strangely attracted to his conspiratorial hostess and, as the elderly tough guy in the corner finally finished his drink and exited the bar with a gruff ‘cheers' to the woman, he bought another glass and invited Marie to join him. She chose a white wine, which he presumed must surely be dire, and they carried on their increasingly flirtatious chatting over a couple more drinks; McRae having unwisely switched to Irish whiskey.

It was quite a while later when he realised that the drink on an empty stomach was making him lightheaded. He conceded, as he made his second unsteady visit to the seedy men's toilets, that he was becoming distinctly pissed. He also recognised with a shock that he had to get going if he was going to catch his flight. On his return to the bar, with more than a tinge of regret, he asked for his bill.

As she passed him the printout, he realised she hadn't been joking about the bar being expensive. He raised his eyebrows questioningly and she shrugged, ‘I did warn you that everywhere else is cheaper, darlin'. Anyway, I enjoyed it... would have been a terrible quiet day otherwise.' She smiled, offered her left cheek, which he duly pecked, and he turned to go.

‘Bye,' she called. ‘Have a good flight.'

As he stumbled uncertainly up the short flight of steps back to street level, it was clear that the weather had not improved. Small rivulets of rainwater flowed over the sides of the steps and gathered in the well of the basement. He retraced his steps in the direction of the park, keeping his eyes open for a passing taxi. As usual in wet weather, none were anywhere to be seen.

It was only when he was finally, safely but damply, ensconced in his seat on the Boeing 737 that a penny began to drop. He was, he thought, perhaps fortunate that he hadn't approached Mayfield Property directly.

The particulars of claim, estimates for ceiling repairs and redecoration, plus a list of stolen stock had finally been submitted. It was time for a revisit to the Squatters Rights.

Suzanne was on leave and McRae, dismissing the notion of asking John to accompany him, decided to visit alone. He was looking forward to the opportunity to take another look at the next door business, which had contained the Kaloudis labelled pallets.

He fixed the appointment for five o'clock, intending to get straight on home after the meeting. There was some pre-season football on the box, so with any luck he would be back at the flat in time for the kick-off. Having recently discovered a talent for knocking up a decent risotto he was looking forward to a quiet night in, after a string of tiring, alcohol-fuelled nights out with clients.

Not having his car handy, McRae made his way to Monument Station and jumped on a District Line train to Whitechapel, before walking the last few hundred yards to the pub.

Dwayne, the landlord, had got all his ducks in a row; the claim was properly substantiated and the meeting in the small office behind the bar proved to be painless. The loss had been agreed on a generally equitable basis. The Squatters certainly wouldn't be getting rich, but both Dwayne and McRae were satisfied enough with the outcome.

‘Well, now that that's all done, can I get you a drink?' asked Dwayne.

It was never a good idea for a loss adjuster to accept any form of inducement, however innocuous. Tempted though he was, McRae politely declined the offer. As he walked past the end of the bar, he changed his mind and, turning to the man, said, ‘Actually, I think I will have a quick glass of Chardonnay before I go. If you don't mind, though, I'll pay.'

Dwayne shrugged, reached into the chiller cabinet and poured a generous measure of Australia's best into a large glass – for which McRae paid the princely sum of a fiver. Both sides were satisfied: the manager had clearly discounted the drink, but the adjuster had not received a “gift”.

He carefully carried his brimming glass to one of the high-sided booths, onto which a small brass plate bearing the number twenty-four was discreetly screwed. In the modern manner, he extracted his phone from his pocket and placed it on the stripped pine table top, so he could keep half an eye on it as he leafed through his flimsy case file. For a few minutes he made small adjustments to his notes, before summarising the settlement he had just negotiated while it was still fresh in his mind. It was just gone six and the pub was beginning to slowly pick up trade, although there were still no more than a dozen punters scattered throughout the large high-ceilinged bar.

The side door to the bar leading onto O'Meara Street then suddenly opened. A short, stocky figure in glasses, wearing a shapeless suit and a distinctly inappropriate Chicago Bears baseball cap entered. He made his way to the bar and ordered his drink in a soft and low, almost undetectable, voice. After being served with some kind of stout, he turned and looked around for somewhere to sit.

After a second or two, his decision made, the man – who had a copy of the Metro evening paper tucked under his left arm and the drink in his right – shuffled in McRae's direction. He put his drink down onto the table in the adjacent booth. McRae barely glanced at him.

The man sat down before immediately getting back up to his feet, having decided to remove his jacket for greater comfort. He firstly removed his black baseball cap, at which point McRae happened to glance up again from his paper and saw the figure in side profile. It wasn't his profile that transfixed McRae, though, it was the hairstyle or, rather, the lack of hairstyle. The man had an even fringe of short dark hair arranged in an almost pudding-like fashion around a bald cranium. As the man inclined his head fractionally towards him, McRae instinctively averted his gaze.

He had no chance to sneak a second look, though, as the man had sat heavily down onto the settle and his head was now concealed by several feet of tasteful grey-painted timber.

For what felt like eternity, but was probably no more than a few seconds, McRae felt an electrical excitement coursing through his body. He had been convinced, within a micro-second, that here, in the very next booth in a gentrified boozer in East London, was the same man he had last seen skulking around the Walsall factory four or more years ago. Surely that wasn't possible? He desperately needed to get a better look, but wasn't sure how to do so without being spotted.

Eventually he decided that the long-range approach would be the wisest. He strolled briskly to the front entrance, away from his target, to have a cigarette outside. While smoking, his mind in a fever of conjecture, he ambled around the corner into O'Meara Street in what he imagined to be a relaxed and casual manner, all the time glancing casually into the pub towards the booths that lined the opposite wall. Irritatingly, the object of his interest seemed deeply absorbed in his newspaper and had balanced his head between his two hands. Even when he found an angle that enabled him to see quite clearly into the relevant booth, he found he still couldn't quite observe the man's face.

The cigarette all too soon extinguished, McRae decided to adopt the decidedly risky strategy of re-entering the pub via the alternative O'Meara Street entrance. This had both the benefit, and distinct disadvantage, of meaning he would have to return to his booth by a route that brought him face-on to the occupier of table twenty-five.

Taking a deep breath, he bustled through the single leaf door and, noticing the man glance up in his direction, turned towards the bar to ensure that only his back was visible from that angle.

Fortunately the bar manager, who might well have said something as disastrous as ‘Another Chardonnay, Mr McRae?', had been replaced by a sour-faced, skinny barmaid with a squint, numerous tattoos and an eyebrow piercing, who simply stared at him sullenly, almost daring him to have the temerity to place an order. Virtually inaudibly, he asked humbly for a bag of salt and vinegar crisps. As he paid, he noticed an angled mirror was positioned immediately above the till for the benefit of the bar staff.

By altering his standing position fractionally, McRae found he could at last see the bald man more clearly. He was disconcerted to discover that the object of his scrutiny was, in turn, staring disinterestedly at his own back. After a second or two, the man removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes slowly, before replacing the heavy black frames and turning his attention back to his newspaper. McRae breathed again and, when he gauged the time to be right, ambled casually back towards his own table, carefully using his teeth to open the corner of the crisp bag as he went – thus, he sincerely hoped, concealing his face at the same time.

He lowered himself quietly into the cubicle. This time he took the opposing bench, so that he was now back-to-back with Mr Michael O'Connell. It was, he was now in no doubt, the very same man he had last seen in Walsall.

While he was debating precisely what to do next, the Irishman's ‘phone rang. Try as he might, McRae couldn't hear clearly what the man's first words were – he was speaking in a dull, heavily accented monotone and he was speaking quietly. The ambient noise in the pub didn't help either. Now and again he could hear odd words like ‘bank' and ‘consignments', which were interspersed with a few expletives. However, there was nothing that made any sense. The accent was definitely Irish, though; McRae was sure of that.

All too soon the conversation was terminated and McRae was regretting his inability to determine anything of value, when he realised that Tuck was now dialling out, the higher registered electronic plink, plink, plink of the ‘phone's keyboard seemingly more audible than the man's voice.. This time, he struck gold.

Although initially he could hear no more clearly than before, Tuck was obliged at one point to raise his voice and to repeat one phrase. It was short but meaningful: ‘I said it's half twelve, Friday, Alex – don't be fucking late and don't get done for speeding!
'

He nearly fell off his perch.
Friday? Alex? It's bloody Kanelos; it must be! What are the chances of a guy like Tuck knowing dozens of guys called Alex? Zero, that's what.

As Tuck switched off his phone, McRae decided he needed to get out of the pub ahead of the man. He was convinced he would be heading for the factory next door, but he wanted to be sure. He picked up his file and phone and got to his feet, grateful that he was facing away from Tuck. He edged carefully from the cubicle and scurried out of the main entrance and onto Whitechapel Road.

He carefully picked his way through the crawling rush hour traffic, before taking up a position adjacent to an estate agents window diagonally opposite the pub. He could clearly see both doors. He was betting that the good friar wouldn't remain in the pub too long now that his calls were finished, and he was right. Barely two minutes after he had arrived outside the estate agents, the O'Meara Street door of the Squatters opened and Tuck emerged, his bald pate now concealed once again by the cap.

As McRae had hoped, he turned left down the side road, forcing McRae to practically run across the road in a frantic effort to keep the black cap in sight. He didn't need to worry, Tuck wasn't walking far.

Within 100 yards he saw Tuck turn towards a plain two-storey Georgian style property, which was set back from the road behind a large tarmaced parking area. The man stopped and extracted some keys from his suit pocket, before stooping to insert a key into the bottom rail of a large plain heavy glass entrance door.

From his partly concealed position beneath the tired awning of a rundown newsagent that stood on the opposite corner to the pub, he could clearly read the legend, stencilled across the ground-floor windows of the building, “Le Copa Style”.

It was an unusual building, reminiscent of an old rectory, with a grandiose portico projecting in front of the modern plate glass front door. An enormous, possibly original, ornate lantern was suspended from the roof of the portico.
It was a strange set-up
, he thought,
and didn't look remotely like a factory.

As he watched, a light was switched on in one of the first-floor rooms.

McRae quickly decided that there was no point hanging around and that it would be a sensible idea to “case the joint” at a quieter time. After all, the weekend was free – as usual.

* * *

Sunday morning at shortly after eleven, a scruffily attired McRae approached the front of the Le Copa with a confident stride. He had been hanging around for over an hour and was certain that the offices were empty. There wasn't a soul to be seen in the vicinity.

He peered through the ground-floor windows on either side of the over-sized portico, but could see nothing of interest. There were a few desks, chairs and general office junk. He next turned his attention to the entrance.

The original door and surround had long ago been replaced with a rather unattractive but functional plate glass door, through which he could clearly see into the lobby. The lobby was quite substantial, tiled with a checkerboard of black and white tiles, with three olive green straight-backed guest chairs and a hall stand in front of a period mirror. On either side of the hall were panelled doors for the offices and, at the rear, almost opposite the front door, another door, which was ajar. He could just about make out a corridor leading towards the rear.

He didn't know what he had expected, but he knew he was disappointed by the sheer anodyne normality of the scene.

As he continued to stare into the space, he observed a green light blinking on a control panel adjacent to the mirror. Next to the switchgear, he could discern a small notice in heavy bold type that was taped to the bottom section of the mirror.

Screwing up his eyes, he tried unsuccessfully to make out the words before he had the bright idea of using his phone. If he could take a picture, perhaps he could enlarge the image. He was delighted with the result. Once enlarged, he could just make out that the notice read: “ALARM – IMPORTANT. Remember: 11-7 auto!' He wasn't certain what it meant, but it seemed to imply that the system was pre-programmed. But why? Did it start am or pm.? He hadn't a clue, but he presumed that evening was the likely answer.

Realising that there was nothing further to be gained from the front, he decided to check out the rear. On turning into the alley at the back of the pub, it was immediately apparent that while the front of Le Copa's property may have been a period house, the rear was a different sort of place altogether.

The yard he had observed from the upstairs room at the Squatters belonged to Le Copa. The whole of the lower elevation of the house had long ago been extended into some kind of lofty single-storey workshop or factory with a profiled steel roof incorporating skylights. He couldn't tell whether or not there were any windows, because he couldn't see over the yard wall. After staring at the building for a few minutes, he shook himself. There was nothing more to be gained by hanging around in Whitechapel. He knew what he had to do next and it couldn't be achieved here.

It was
, he thought,
time to get home and rustle up “Risotto de la Drew”.
He headed again for the tube station, he was elated and his heart was thumping.