The Fire Man (19 page)

During the days that followed, Tina Forsyth was busy. Firstly with her Bramshill course and then with her daily routine; so much so that she could devote little time to McRae's conspiracy theories. Even so, they were never far from her mind. She had a dilemma. She was attracted to McRae – an attraction that she was experienced enough to recognise was real – but she was not a love-struck teenager. She was a cool (most would have said “cold”) and tough woman, who was only just the right side of forty.

Women like Tina had massive opportunities in the police these days. The “glass ceiling” had been shattered over the past decade and, if she wanted it badly enough, there would be some great openings in the Met in a year or two. It was necessary to be a politician and Tina was as cute as the best of them.

In truth, she knew should just stay out of the business completely. The more she thought about it, the more obviously the case was one for SOCA – the Serious and Organised Crime Agency. SOCA was the nearest thing the UK had to the FBI.

The great benefit, from Tina's perspective, was that referral to SOCA would sidestep the embarrassment of speaking with Ray Anderson. The question, however, was whether she should report the matter to SOCA directly or get McRae some form of introduction. Did she know anybody who she could contact to set up a meeting that kept her completely out of the picture? No one immediately came to mind, but she decided to make some internal enquiries.

Technically, SOCA was a completely separate entity from the various regional police forces, with its own management and agents, but police officers were seconded to SOCA investigations. From time to time, some of them even made permanent transfers. Somebody she knew
must
have switched at some point, but whom? She determined that she would carefully bring up the agency in casual discussions with her colleagues and hope that some useful titbit would fall her way.

The other, more distant, possibility was to involve the City of London Fraud Squad, which tended to have responsibility for most conventional fraud crimes faced by regional police forces. From Tina's point of view this was a little too close to home, but she didn't automatically rule out the possibility. Again, she concluded, she would need to find a discreet route to follow.

In the meantime, she was taking every opportunity to interrogate the National Police computer, as well as the wittily acronymed ‘“Holmes” – the Home Office Major Enquiry System – for anything remotely relevant to the names that McRae had provided. Contrary to general opinion, it is not easy for even senior police officers to “dig up dirt” on suspects without providing the system with proper justification. The Data Protection Act and numerous other pieces of Human Rights legislation had seen to that.

There was virtually no interesting information. Nothing that indicated that any of the names McRae had provided were the subjects of enquiries by her colleagues. In short, it was a big fat zero. There was, so far as she could find, nothing known of Alex Kanelos apart from a few traffic offences. The name Smythson had produced a number of probably irrelevant possibilities, dependent on the date of birth of the individual concerned, but in the absence of this vital piece of information she could go no further. As for Michael O'Connell, well, the sad fact was that there were simply too many O'Connells to count.

If McRae expected some magic wand to be waved, he was going to be seriously disappointed. With the exception of Kanelos, he had provided no relevant information to work with.

Since their meeting, there had been no further contact and Tina was not about to use her work computer to communicate with McRae. But when she got home one muggy evening, she sat down at her laptop and pulled out the visiting card he had left with her. On the reverse, he had jotted down his private email address.

With a glass of Sauvignon at her elbow, where it was busy forming an annoying circular stain on the polished wood of her desk, she dropped him a brief message as she had promised. She spelled out to him, almost brutally and in very formal, neutral language, that the matter would require delicate handling and that the information he had provided was a little too unspecific to be useful.

Acutely conscious he would be confused, not to mention alarmed, by her carefully chosen but, no doubt to his eyes, provocative words, she finally concluded:
“If you would like to discuss the matter further, kindly call me when convenient. Looking forward to it. Regards, Tina.”

As she pressed the send key she smiled to herself. She was certain he would call her in double quick time. She was looking forward to hearing his voice.

He adjusted the cuffs of his signature pink shirt, turned his head slightly, raised his chin and examined his profile with approval. In the dingy surroundings of the men's room on the ground floor of Le Copa
,
Alex Kanelos's pristine appearance was a distinct anachronism. The filthy wash basin, the greying roller towel and a floor that was littered with discarded paper served only to exaggerate the clinical perfection of his appearance.

His concern was not to impress his colleagues, who waited impatiently in the first-floor office, but to ensure that he was looking his best for his lunch appointment. She was, undoubtedly, worth impressing.

He left the toilet and climbed the stairs athletically, two treads at a time, before pushing open the door marked “Private”.

They were all there. Mike and George were sprawled across shabby velour armchairs that were arranged around a low coffee table, which was littered with cigarette burns. They were both smoking, while Derek, who shared his own pathological distaste for the habit, was inclining his angular body against the wall, staying close to the venetian blind that concealed the room's only window. He was gulping in as much oxygen as possible before their discussion commenced.

They looked at him, silently, until Mike opened his mouth, ‘If you want a coffee, give the girl a shout.' Kanelos shook his head. ‘Right, let's get going then. Where are we up to with the stock, George?'

‘Almost there, Mike, just one more delivery to come in and we'll be ready.'

‘When's it due?'

‘Next Tuesday or Wednesday with any luck.' O'Connell turned to Smythson. ‘Any issues your end or are we ready to rock and roll?'

If Smythson privately thought that the expression “rock and roll” didn't suit his decidedly down to earth colleague, he certainly didn't show it.

‘More or less,' he replied laconically.

‘More or fucking less? What the fuck does that mean, Derek? Are we correctly covered or not? Have we got enough? Any nasty little ‘small-print' issues that we need to worry about?' He glared threateningly in Smythson's direction.

Smythson displayed no obvious sign of discomfort, although a seasoned observer like Alex Kanelos couldn't help but notice the small slick of sweat on the man's upper lip. Nonetheless, his voice was steady and under control as he responded to the Irishman's provocation.

‘I've told you before, Mike: setting up the cover and making sure we aren't exposed to any potential issues is, uh, never as straightforward as you always assume. But...' he pressed on hastily before he received another blast from O'Connell, ‘the cover is all in place. The surveys were okay; I've managed to dodge a potentially difficult sprinkler problem and the increased sum insured on stock has been confirmed. The only problem I've got is having to do everything at arm's length through those useless brokers. You've no bloody idea how tricky that is sometimes. Anyway, the short answer to your question is that we could be ready to go in a few weeks.'

‘How many weeks is “a few”?'

‘Three to four,' replied Smythson, ‘but you do know we're pushing it, don't you? Every time we push the button early, we're asking for extra scrutiny. If we can, I'd prefer to leave things for at least another three months.'

‘So, let's say four weeks then,' said O'Connell, ignoring Smythson's clear concern. ‘You'll sort it for us, Derek, as you always do.' He flashed a grim, ironic smile in the direction of the standing man.

‘You know, Derek does have a point, Mike,' said Kanelos. ‘What is the urgency? Maybe it would be better to take a little longer?' He was conscious that his interjection would irritate O'Connell, but he was surprised by the mildness of the man's eventual response.

‘I think we all know why the matter is urgent, Alex.' He paused, almost theatrically. ‘Our friend, the amateur Sherlock himself: Mr fucking McRae.'

George Gallo, the only one of the quartet who, it appeared, was outside the loop on this issue, looked at O'Connell quizzically.

‘Who?'

‘McRae, the fucking loss adjuster who tried to screw things up in Walsall, don't you remember?'

‘Yeah, but...'

Deciding to spare them all the agony of a lengthy question and answer session, Mike quickly brought Gallo up to speed. He looked suitably stunned.

‘So, are you telling me that after all this bloody time, he's been creeping around Malinka?' he asked.

‘He certainly has,' said O'Connell, ‘and Alex isn't totally certain, but he thinks he might have seen the guy hanging around at our last pub meeting. Now that really would be worrying!'

‘How the fuck would he know we were there?' cried Gallo. ‘What's his game?'

‘Let's not get too hung up on the pub thing,' said Kanelos smoothly. ‘I'm really not certain about that. I got the chap's car number and Mike is getting it checked out, so we should know pretty soon whether it was him or not. In the meantime, we've sent him a little message to back off.'

‘What kind of message?' asked Gallo.

‘Nothing much,' replied Mike. ‘I just had the boy turn his flat over, but you don't need to worry yourself about that. So, the answer to Derek's original question is that we need to get on with things in case this idiot knows more than we think. I don't see how he could possibly be aware of this project, but the sooner it is put to bed the better. Agreed?' He glared intently at the others and one by one they gestured their agreement.

Smythson felt distinctly uneasy. George Gallo might be satisfied with Mike's dismissive answer but he wasn't. The news of McRae's interest in their affairs had disturbed him greatly. He was amazed that the adjuster was still pursuing his obsession. What depressed him still further was this latest reminder of just how wrong he had been to select McRae to be the fall guy in the first place. It was as well he had got the other selections right.

For his part, Kanelos was also extremely concerned. He didn't think a man who had been pursuing a crazy vendetta for over four years was likely to be deterred by a bit of mild vandalism. They might need to take drastic action and he didn't welcome it. Mike was a ruthless operator; he would not hesitate to take whatever action was necessary. The thought of what the man was capable of disturbed Alex greatly.

* * *

Once their meeting was over, Kanelos –, keen though he was to get off to Marylebone for his lunch with the delicious but absurdly young Tara – hung back for a quick chat with Mike.

‘You've already got them, haven't you? The results?'

‘Yup, how did you know?'

‘Just a wild guess. It was him at the pub, wasn't it?' He stared intently at O'Connell who was gazing blankly out of the window.

‘Yes, it was his car alright. Looks like he's going to need dealing with. If we'd known he was at the pub in Oxford, I think something a little more meaningful than “redesigning” his flat might have been called for. Still, we can soon remedy that.'

‘Can't we just buy him off, Mike?'

‘Maybe, but if not, we will have to do something else, won't we?' The question hung ominously in the air.

* * *

For the first time in years, Alex didn't enjoy his lunch at
L'Autre
Pied
. The food was as excellent, as usual, while Tara was in a flirtatious mood, and virtually falling out of an outrageous dress, but he, the ace seducer, was not at his personal, sparkling best. Not by any means.

Abruptly telling Tara that “something had come up”, Kanelos terminated the lunch as soon as he decently could. He kissed her on the cheek, almost chastely, apologised once again, promised to call her soon and hailed a taxi, leaving the bemused girl on the Charlotte Street pavement. It was beginning to spit with rain and the wind was scattering litter before it.

As the cab wound its way towards the City, Kanelos rehearsed in his mind the argument he anticipated having with Mike. The Irishman was not an easy man to handle – never had been, not even when they had both been students. Quite why they had ever become friends was a mystery to many. They had practically nothing in common. Mike was a working-class, chip-on-the-shoulder Republican, with a square body, odd features and a prematurely bald head; while Alex was an urbane, elegant, ex-public schoolboy with a confident drawl. It was, he could only suppose, the fact that neither of them was what he appeared to be that had drawn them together.

O'Connell, for his part, was a die-hard supporter of the Republican cause and hated the British with a passion, but he also had a poor boy's respect for money. He wanted desperately to be wealthy – possibly, Alex surmised, even more than he wanted a united Ireland.

Kanelos, whose style, education and family connections made him the very image of the quintessential Tory, shared one vital ingredient with the Irishman: he, too, despised the British – more specifically, the English.

It was the name, of course: Kanelos. Somehow, no matter how wealthy, good-looking and athletic he had been at school, he had always been made aware that somehow he wasn't quite a true Englishman. He had deeply resented the childish nicknames thrust upon him.

His brother, the chosen successor to his father's business, had settled quickly into Athenian life, where, ironically, his own English public-school upbringing seemed to have added cachet. Alex, on the other hand, had stayed in London, joined all the right clubs, bedded the right women and cultivated the most influential friends, but he knew at some visceral level that he would, somehow, never be one of the inner circle. He resented it, still.

After Trinity, Alex and Mike had gone their separate ways, as indeed had their other mutual friend, Derek. Quite what either of them had ever seen in Smythson was probably an even deeper riddle. The only thing he had had in common with either of them was his membership of the University Chess Club. Tall, bony, utterly middle-class and, regrettably, irredeemably English, he had been, in many ways, the oddest member of the trio. It had been years before Alex had realised that Derek was gay – not that he cared. It was rather more curious to Alex that he should have ended up in insurance, of all things. If he hadn't, no doubt life, for all of them, would have turned out very differently.

The McRae thing had shaken Alex. He was by nature a risk-taker, virtually a professional gambler, but after the three jobs they had pulled off successfully so far, he had been reluctant to push their luck with this latest project. Strangely, both Mike and Derek had been quite relaxed. Mike was getting greedy, he supposed, and Derek, it seemed, needed the money. He, however, no longer had the same requirement. His brother was doing a decent job running the family ferry business and Alex's own dividends from that direction had increased of late.

Of course, having to stump up for Geraldine and the kids every month was a permanent drain, but the kids' school fees would soon come to an end. He was also gambling less these days, so all-in-all the financial picture was looking rosy. This was why the East End business was, in his opinion, potentially a bridge too far. With McRae, who had so nearly upset the apple cart four years ago, messing around in the background, as a gambler his nose told him their luck could be running out. The insurance man had to be squared away, somehow.

* * *

He finally found O'Connell in the yard at the back of the factory. He was staring at the boundary wall between the yard and the pub.

‘It's in shit condition,' he said, startling O'Connell, who seemed lost in thought.

‘What? Not going to matter soon, is it?' he eventually replied. ‘Anyway, what are you doing back again? Didn't expect to see you until tomorrow.'

‘No, but I've been thinking about McRae. More specifically, what are we going to do about him? I'm worried, to tell the truth.'

They wandered back into the factory and climbed up the stairs to the office. O'Connell was clearly unwilling to utter a single word until he was confident they could not be overheard. Once inside, they sank into the shabby armchairs and O'Connell lit up. He took a short fierce drag on his cigarette before exhaling a slow considered breath of smoke, which hung in the still air.

‘Before I say what I think, tell me what you reckon.'

‘I think we should have a word with him, sooner rather than later. Unless, of course, he has taken the hint already?' He looked expectantly, almost hopefully, into the Irishman's dark eyes, but saw no reason for optimism in his unchanging expression.

Finally, O'Connell replied, ‘Look, I'm working on it. We need a bit more information on that little shite; find out more about what he does or doesn't know. Why don't you leave all that to me, Alex?'

Because I know you,
thought Kanelos, before replying cautiously, ‘I just don't want us to do something that we might all regret.'

O'Connell leaned forward. ‘The only thing I'd regret would be getting nicked. If you think I'm going to do twelve years in some shitty English prison because of some interfering wanker, you can think again.'

He stared moodily down at the overflowing ashtray, before adding, ‘The situation is fucking simple. He may not realise it yet but McRae has two choices: stay schtum or get hurt. There is no in-between.'

Kanelos looked up towards the cracked and yellowing ceiling and took a few seconds before replying. ‘Look, I do agree with you, Mike, but I don't think smashing his flat up is necessarily the way to keep him quiet.'

O'Connell sighed. ‘That was just a tiny, insignificant little warning, Alex. Next time, it'll be a damn sight more painful. If that doesn't work then...' His voice trailed off.

‘Yeah, I realise that, but I'm just trying to be realistic. This guy has been carrying a sort of torch, a feeling, a sense of injustice for years and I wonder whether it wouldn't be smarter to simply buy him off?'