The Fire Man (23 page)

McRae had estimated he would need no more than ten minutes in the garment factory. He had seen fork-lift operators coming and going at odd times, which he hoped accounted for the odd alarm procedures, but his primary concern was to ensure that there was no one in the office section, no late cleaner or shift worker. That would screw up everything.

He had surveyed the place from both the front and the rear alley and it had looked as quiet as the proverbial grave with not a single light showing. Nevertheless, he remained nervous. The great, and possibly sole, beauty of O'Meara Street was that it went nowhere. It was a dead end, with nothing other than the factory on one side and a couple of nondescript offices cum warehouses opposite. Even the corner shop had closed at nine. The only light in the area emanated from the Squatters Rights on the junction with the Whitechapel Road.

He finally plucked up sufficient courage to approach the main door. Fortunately, the huge lantern suspended beneath the portico was unlit. He glanced up at the lamp and noticed for the first time that it was not, in fact, painted green as he had thought, but was covered in verdigris.

He pressed the button. He had already deduced that in the unlikely event of there being anybody in the bowels of the building, they would surely switch lights on as they approached the front door to greet their nocturnal visitor. He was ready to scarper, should such an event occur. The last thing he wanted was to come face-to-face with O'Connell or Kanelos.

Somewhere inside the building, a buzzer sounded. Nothing. He pressed the button again. Same result. It was clear.

Glancing at his watch, McRae could see it was 10.20pm. He patted his anorak pocket to check he had everything he needed. The Microlite torch and surveillance device were still intact. He next switched his phone to silent; the last thing he needed was an unexpected call. It reminded him that he really needed to change the blasted ringtone sometime – a quick burst of Led Zeppelin might be highly inappropriate.

He had chosen the time with great care. The pub was no more than a quarter full. Sufficient patrons to avoid being conspicuous, but quiet enough for what he intended. What he didn't need was the attention of Dwayne the landlord, who he could clearly see as soon as he entered the bar. The man hadn't noticed him yet as he was busy with another customer, but if he hesitated he knew it would only be a matter of time. McRae hurried to the bar and managed to quietly order a half of lager from another bartender. He then walked casually to an unoccupied booth with an unrestricted view of the stairs leading to the men's toilets.

After showing what would, no doubt, be regarded by most as an unhealthy interest in the traffic to and from the men's room, he finally judged the moment to be opportune. He ambled across to the old staircase and started to descend the stairs.

At the bottom, he ignored the men's toilets and the door to the beer cellar, and made his way to the third door. The key was in position as it had been at the time of his first visit. He quickly opened the door and stepped cautiously into the low-ceilinged room, before closing it carefully behind him and switching on the neon light.

The room was still empty. He switched the light back off and made his way across to the opposite stairs. He flicked the torchlight up the steps and swallowed nervously as he began the ascent. This was it.

He checked the position of the key box on the wall and then tapped the glass sharply with the end of his torch. The glass cracked into three distinct pieces but fortunately stayed in place. He carefully removed two shards and pulled out the key. The key was shiny and looked as new as the day it had been bought, but the four-lever padlock itself was cheap and rusty and, for a moment, the key jammed. Sweating and juggling the torch with his left hand, McRae eventually coaxed the key against the wards and the padlock dropped grudgingly open. This was the moment of truth.

So far he had made little noise, but operating the panic bar, even if it worked, would surely be heard inside the factory – if there was anyone to hear. His biggest fear was that the door would have been secured from within the factory or, worse still, connected to the alarm. It would seem illogical but possible.

Taking a deep breath, McRae pushed down on the bar. The door was stiff and heavy but it yielded. It opened, emitting an audible groan. He held his breath, his heart pumping as he waited anxiously for all hell to break loose. He was poised to make a rapid escape but there was only silence in the dark passageway. His heartbeat slowly returned to something resembling normality and he cautiously peered through the crack formed by the barely open door and into the hallway. It was as dark as Hades but there was a dull distant amber glow, which he presumed emanated from the reception area.

He paused and listened keenly, all of his senses engaged, before pushing the door until it was half open. Again he waited, reluctant to commit himself to the last fatal step. Finally, irrevocably, he squeezed through the opening and stood in what he presumed to be the main access route between the front reception and the production area. To his right he could just make out the stairs, which, he presumed, must lead to the main office suite. His eyes were becoming slowly adjusted to the gloom, but he risked switching on his torch for a second to be sure of his surroundings.

Switching the torch back off, he made his way carefully towards the foot of the staircase, feeling the wall with his left hand. The staircase was concrete and he made little noise as he felt his way towards the top.

After what felt like an age, his foot cleared the last tread and he had arrived on the upper floor. The darkness was now absolute. Again he flashed the torch, which quickly revealed four doors – each of which seemed to be firmly shut. None of doors bore any clue as to what lay beyond but he reasoned that the director's offices would in all probability be at the front of the building. He tried the first handle, which failed to give.
Shit
. It was locked.

Hoping his entire mission had not been a total waste of time, he yanked at the next handle. The door swung open with more emphasis than he would have liked and a little yellowish light spilled onto the landing. A strong smell of stale cigarette smoke accompanied the light and McRae felt an instant, intense, almost overwhelming desire to light up one of his Camels. It remained gloomy but the distant streetlights of the Whitechapel Road penetrated the blinds of the front windows to a sufficient degree to enable him to make out the silhouettes of a couple of desks and filing cabinets.

He crept stealthily into the office and was relieved to realise that the reason the first door had been locked was that it was no longer in use. The two doors had both serviced the same office. The first door was now partially revealed to be located immediately behind a rank of filing cabinets.

It looked as if he was in the right place. As he continued to scan the layout, he could see that there were actually three desks, of which only two appeared to be in use. At one end of the room were what appeared to be a few armchairs and a low coffee-table.

Quickly, he moved towards the nearest desk, which bore a computer monitor, two ashtrays and was unpleasantly sticky to the touch. He sought confirmation that this was indeed the director's office and not one used by the general staff. He found what he was looking for quickly: a small untidy column of paper files. He risked flicking the torch on again for a few seconds. Three files down was one clearly marked
“George-Personal
”. He opened it expectantly but was disappointed to find nothing of interest. He moved quickly to the next desk, the top of which was quite unlike the first, being polished and uncluttered. It smelled of beeswax. A precise pile of similar files was positioned at the right-hand corner alongside a wire paper tray. McRae was somehow unsurprised that a file marked
“Alex-Personal”
was in the tray. The file was empty, no more than a shell, but he was not dismayed. He had what he wanted. This was undoubtedly the directors' room.

Following the computer cable that trailed across Kanelos's desk with his fingertips, he located the plug socket low down on the wall, behind a side table. It was a double socket.

Quickly, he removed the plug adaptor from his pocket. It was the device he had acquired, at the very reasonable cost of £200, from the surveillance equipment store. Visually identical to any other double plug adaptor, it had one very significant difference. It contained a SIM card and a microphone that would enable him, or so the multi-lingual instructions had claimed, to listen into conversations inside the room through his mobile phone.

He inserted the adaptor into the vacant socket and straightened up. By the dim light from the window, he could just make out the hands on his watch face. He estimated it had been about seven or eight minutes since he had descended the pub steps into the cellar. It was time to get going.

Carefully retracing his route to the bottom of the stairs, he was about to open the door to the cellar when he decided, on the spur of the moment, that it would be foolish to pass up what might probably be his only opportunity to see the factory's production area. If he was correct, there wouldn't be much left to see very soon.

By now, his eyes had adjusted to the blackness. He could make out the outline of the double doors to the workshops. Pressing gently against the right-hand leaf, McRae felt the door yield and his heart stopped as he felt his face bathed in a yellowish light.

The moon was shining dully through the skylights of the workshop roof and, compared with the murk from which he was emerging, he felt for one alarming moment as if he was stepping onto a floodlit stage. The sensation quickly passed and he was immediately grateful for the improved visibility as he saw that a short flight of steps lay below him.

Stepping down onto the work-floor, McRae had a sense of déjà vu; the layout was so similar to the one at Walsall. Similar, but more compact, and crammed with stock. More overhead rails of hanging garments, more aisles, what looked like a couple of forklift trucks and, so far as he could see, no sewing machines at all. The place made absolutely no pretence of being a production operation; clearly this was no more than an import and export business.
No, forget the export; it was simply a warehouse.

In a sense, he wasn't surprised. The real money had always been in the stock scam, so why complicate matters? It made sense to keep things simple.

He found that his eyes had become so attuned to the moonlit scene that he even noticed small details; the steel uprights that supported the roof, for one thing. It looked as if they were in the process of being repainted, as he could clearly see that the one nearest to the stairs had been rubbed down and coated with primer. The next in line, which was almost concealed amongst the hanging rails, had a painter's ladder leaning against it.

He moved a little closer for a better look. As he did so, he noticed that a small pile of what looked like floor sweepings had been brushed together, almost centrally, to the right of the steel girder, against which leaned a yard brush. Curious, he flicked on his torch for a better view. As he did so, something moved behind him.

The youth thought he was becoming pretty good. He wasn't learning anymore, he had “method”. In truth, he had developed quite a few methods. It all depended on what effect the boss required.

If it was supposed to be a random act of mindless vandalism, then that was pretty easy. But, if they wanted an “accident”; then that called for a bit of scene-setting. When he had begun what he liked to think of as his career, he had known nothing except how to set a match to something. Now, he had seriously studied arson. He normally hated reading but he'd enjoyed reading about those guys. He had practised. He had developed a genuine feel for what was required. He preferred the “accidents”. A bit of creative artistry.

Of course, he didn't see himself as a pyro, some wannabe fireman or one of those sick “hero” types he had read about. He didn't even hang around to watch the fires, like most of the saddos did. He prided himself on being a professional.

In, out and then collect the money; that was his motto.

Mind you, it could be a bit tedious. Like when you had to hang around for bleeding hours, just so there was absolutely no chance anyone saw you either entering or leaving. He shouldn't complain about that, though, as it was the key to success in his opinion.

This time he had hidden in the men's toilets until the receptionist had finally shut up shop for the night. Then, he had quietly set about creating his masterpiece.

He had to concede that it hadn't been difficult. The materials were already to hand, courtesy of the “redecoration” process: the cleaning rags, nicely permeated with primer and white spirit residues; the masking tape strips and, of course, the amusing little Calor-gas blow-torch cylinders had all been nice touches.

All he had needed to do was to move the hanging rails around a little, in order to ensure that the longest plastic-wrapped garments were strategically placed. He'd then swept the conveniently discarded wrapping paper, packing materials and cleaning rags into a small pile placed unfortunately close to the decorators' materials. Oh, and, of course, he had had to carefully insert a one-litre plastic bottle of white spirit neatly into the centre of the pile.

The theory, and he knew for certain it worked, was that once the trash was ignited it would burn for a few minutes before melting the bottle. This would then release the nicely pre-heated spirit into the equation.

Whoosh.

The beauty of this method was that if the fire went as well as expected, all traces of the white spirit bottle and the set-up would disappear. If it didn't, it was still explainable through the context of the decoration process – it's amazing how careless people can be.

Of course, it was in the lap of the Gods to some extent, but, provided the place was well-ventilated (tick), the garments caught (tick) and that no passer-by could discover the fire too early (tick), he should be onto a winner. In fact, he had experienced only one failure, which fortunately had not proved catastrophic. Since then, all had gone well.

It was all ready now. He just needed to sprinkle a little white spirit onto the pile (never too much; a common mistake of the amateur) and then he could get away. Unfortunately, the boss wanted it done at 11.35 pm precisely and there was still an hour to go.

* * *

He was sitting on the floor with his back against the steel pillar, fiddling idly with his disposable lighter, when the blood suddenly ran like ice in his veins. He wasn't alone!

In the corner of the warehouse, he could clearly see, through a gap between the rails, a figure stealthily opening the doors from the offices. He watched with mounting anxiety as the figure crept slowly down the steps. He couldn't move; he didn't dare move. Who the fuck was it?

It was a tallish man, a man who was moving inexorably closer to his own position, but who clearly hadn't the faintest idea that he was there. That was his advantage. He rose slowly and stealthily to his feet, then felt for the heavy rubber-sleeved torch in his jacket pocket.

Time stood still for a moment as the intruder gazed around the warehouse. Then, as he moved quietly towards the pile, he saw the figure switch on his own torch and illuminate the heap.

This was his opportunity; he took two rapid, soundless steps between the racks and swung his heavy torch violently in a scything motion towards the back of the intruder's exposed head. His aim was true. There was a satisfying solid thwack as the torch met the head, followed quickly by a sickening thump as the man's forehead struck the concrete floor.

He bent over the body that lay face down on the floor, switched his torch on to illuminate the unconscious figure and recognised him immediately. Despite what appeared to be a broken nose, he could see that it was McRae, whose flat he had so enjoyed trashing. The bloke was clearly a glutton for punishment.

* * *

O'Connell was as cool and collected as the youth had expected. Nothing fazed him. The voice at the end of the line was as flat as a snooker table. It stilled the panic bubbling up in the youth's chest.

‘Okay, Martin, you did right. We'll have to postpone things for a little while. Are you certain that he's out cold?'

‘Absolutely. To be honest, I thought I'd killed the fucker at first, but I just checked. He is breathing, but he doesn't look good.'

‘Okay, just tidy the place up. I'll be with you in about forty minutes.'

‘Yeah, but...'

‘Not now, son. We'll sort it when I get there.' He hung up.

* * *

Driving over to the factory in heavy rain, his brain in a controlled turmoil, O'Connell debated whether to update Alex and Derek on the latest developments. As usual, on the night of an “event”, both of them were busy with conspicuous public engagements.

Both men were becoming increasingly nervous. He knew only too well that they had both had had enough and wanted out. He knew he couldn't rely on them anymore.
Bloody useless English bastards; no bottle at all.
He decided there was nothing to be gained. As he watched his windscreen wipers smearing the glass, he formed an idea of how to resolve the problem and he was pretty sure that neither of them would like it.