The Fire Man (28 page)

Detective Sergeant Bernard Black, known to many simply as “Boot”, was an unusual man, judged McRae. He had odd eyes; one was blue, the other grey, and the pair seemed small and deep-set. Powerfully built and of medium height, the man had a receding hairline and looked older than what McRae suspected to be his true age, which he guessed was early forties.

Having heard nothing directly from the police since his admission to hospital, McRae had hoped they had dropped the matter. Clearly, he had been wrong.

Black was seated uncomfortably on an upright hospital visitor chair facing McRae, who was now reclining in a soft chair with his plastered leg stretched out before him. He was polite, but clearly sceptical.

‘So, Mr McRae, you can't remember how or why you ended up under a collapsed wall?'

‘Afraid not, Sergeant, it's a total mystery,' he shrugged, acutely conscious that his act was less than convincing.

‘But you had been to the pub previously on business, I understand?'

‘That's correct, it was a month or two ago. I was dealing with an insurance claim there.'

‘So I understand. The landlord also tells us you were concerned about the dangerous state of the wall at that time?'

‘Yeah, absolutely. I can only guess I had decided to take another look, something like that. The problem is that I just can't remember anything leading up to the incident.' Again, he did his damnedest to look perplexed, but the detective showed no sign to suggest he found the explanation remotely credible – not even the usual polite nod. His stony face and penetrating gaze was disconcerting.

Black looked down at his notebook before speaking again. ‘You know, sir, I could just about believe you might have decided to take a second look at the place – but after midnight? In the pitch-dark? Bit bloody strange, don't you think?'

McRae was feeling increasingly uncomfortable. He recognised it was an unbelievable story and that the only explanation he could now use was the amnesia line – nothing else would work.

‘Yes, I know, but what else can I say?' He looked directly into the policeman's implacable face, but tried his best to avoid the peculiar eyes.

‘The other interesting fact is that the door from the beer garden to the back alley was padlocked, had been for months – or so they tell me. So not only are you found in a locked yard, but it's the early hours of the morning, too. Houdini would find that hard to explain, don't you think?'

Aware he had nowhere to go, at least nowhere good, McRae decided he had no choice but to resort to adopting the injured tone of an innocent man under unjustified questioning.

‘Now, look here, I'm beginning to resent your attitude, Sergeant. I've had a bloody wall damn near kill me and you're out to accuse me of trying to nick some garden umbrellas or something. You must be bloody joking. If I could remember what I was doing and why, I'd tell you, but I can't and that is that!'

His outburst, less than impressive in terms of its Oscar-winning potential, had clearly done nothing to rattle the detective, who simply stared back at him with frank disbelief.

‘Of course,' he said eventually, ‘you may have been climbing over the wall when it collapsed, but that doesn't help us much either, does it?' He stood up. ‘Mind if I stretch my legs a bit?' He turned away from McRae and took two paces to the hospital window, where he gazed out for a second or two before speaking again.

‘No, that wouldn't help us at all, because we'd still have a question mark as to how you'd got into the factory yard next to the pub. All in all, it is, as you say, a mystery.'

McRae said nothing. When Black turned back to face him, the detective's demeanour was unchanged – not the slightest flicker of humour or humanity showed in the deep-set eyes. McRae did his best to match the policeman's poker face, but abjectly failed.

Black strode back to the visitor chair, picked it up casually and relocated it back to its normal position against the wall.

‘The thing is, sir, I don't know what you were doing in that yard, but right now it seems to me that the only offence you could be charged with is trespassing. To be honest, that doesn't rate very highly in our crime stats these days. Still, if you do happen to remember what you were doing there, someday… perhaps you'll give me a ring? I don't like funny little mysteries, know what I mean?' He pulled a card out of his wallet and placed it carefully on the bedside table. ‘Anyway, I'll be off. Don't bother to get up.'

As he reached the door, he paused and turned as if he had just remembered something. It was his only false move, McRae was old enough to be reminded of the TV detective, Columbo: he recognised where that tactic had originated.

‘Just one more thing, if you don't mind me asking? How do you happen to know D.C.I. Forsyth? I believe she was the one who found you?'

‘Oh Tina, she's just a friend, Sergeant. Just a friend.'

‘But she knew where to find you?'

Shit, shit, shit,
thought McRae, but he managed to maintain a neutral tone in his reply. ‘You know, I really don't know how all that came about, Sergeant. I guess you'll just have to ask her personally.'

‘I'm afraid that won't be possible, Mr McRae. Sadly, she died last night.'

* * *

Tina's death, and the shock, anger and grief that accompanied the news, set back McRae's recovery significantly. He could barely bring himself to leave the sanctuary of his bed. All motivation had left him, and visits by his mother, brother, John and Suzanne left him cold. Self-pity was his overriding emotion. His bones continued to heal, but his spirit appeared broken. To McRae, it was as if his one remaining chance of future happiness had evaporated.

Suzanne and John were becoming exhausted. They were tired, above all, of trying desperately to keep the plates spinning back at the office while ferrying reports and accounts to the hospital for McRae's listless attention. It came to a head one evening, eight days following Tina's death, when Suzanne arrived with a small pile of files for his perusal.

After a few moments of small talk, McRae dropped the files onto his bedside table and lapsed into silence, clearly showing his desire for Suzanne to leave.

‘Is that it? Do you want me to go now? she asked.

‘I think so, I'm tired,' he replied.

She had had enough. ‘I'm sorry to say this, Drew, but you are becoming pathetic, selfish and self-centred. It isn't easy for anyone, you know! We're working our backsides off and then trudging over here every bloody day just to see your miserable face. I know Tina's death was a terrible tragedy, but... the truth is, you hardly even knew the woman!'

While he stared at her, stunned, she got to her feet and started to put her overcoat on, having only removed it minutes earlier. She clearly hadn't intended to be at all provocative, but somehow her quiet vehemence had penetrated his cocoon of helplessness. He wasn't sure what had surprised him the more, the anger she had felt or the accuracy of her observation. Suzanne was such a mild-mannered person, so considerate and thoroughly decent, that for one of the few times in his life, he genuinely hadn't had a clue what to say. Finally, he spoke.

‘I'm sorry, Suzanne, really sorry. You're right, I have been a bit of a selfish bastard, I suppose. Sit down, please.' He looked up at her with a look of sincere regret in his eyes, but she shook her head, her own eyes glistening.

‘No, I'd better go, but I'm sorry, too. I shouldn't have said what I did about Tina – she didn't deserve it. I'm really sorry, Drew. I'm just a bit frazzled, I guess. Anyway, I'll pop back tomorrow to take those files back if you can find the energy to put a few notes on them?' She smiled weakly and he gave her a rueful grin in acknowledgement.

Once she had left, McRae settled his head back against the pillows and stared at the ceiling. His mind drifted, shutting out the background everyday clatter of the ward. Despite himself, he recognised the stark, inescapable truth. Tina was dead and whatever might have been could no longer be. Suzanne had been right: although he had hoped for some great romantic future, the reality was that he had spent no more than a few hours with the woman. The sadness of what might have been couldn't dominate his life, he had to get well and get back to work or the business would go down the pan and that wouldn't help anyone. He owed it to his friends, family and, most of all, himself to escape from the spiral of self-pity that had consumed him. He would never forget her, though, he was certain of that.

He sighed, picked up his phone, plugged in his earphones and scrolled through the music. Unwisely selecting Dylan's
Blood on the Tracks
album, he reluctantly fingered the first file from the top of the table and sighed again.

‘Actually, those teeth look better than your old ones. With all that weight loss, I could almost fancy you – if I was about thirty years older. The tracksuit bottoms look cool, too!' Suzanne was leaning against his office doorframe, holding a Starbucks.

‘Gee, thanks, Suzanne,' he replied, but couldn't entirely suppress a glow of satisfaction. After all, he reasoned, it was true – apart, of course, from the tracksuit crack. He did look a damn sight better, though pity about the leg. Still, the consultant had been pretty sure that the limp would be minor.

For a first day back at work, he couldn't have asked for more. The number of new case instructions from clients had dropped worryingly over the last weeks, but, that aside, it was clear that John and Suzanne had performed wonders. They had kept on top of everything and Karen had clearly kept a vice-like grip on the finances.

Suzanne had been out on appointments, so although it was nearly four o'clock, it was their first meeting of the day.

‘Seriously, boss, it's great to have you back,' she said bashfully. With difficulty, he rose awkwardly to his feet and, clutching the single crutch under his left arm, lurched unsteadily towards her. He extended his right arm and they embraced awkwardly.

‘Thanks for everything Suze,' he said, feeling a distinct lump in his throat. He turned away as quickly as he could manage, conscious of an embarrassing prickle in his eyes.

‘Anyway, that's enough for one day, I'm afraid. I'm shattered and I've arranged to meet that Tranquil character for a celebration drink in a few minutes, so I'll love you and leave you for now. But I meant what I said, I have a hell of a lot to thank you for – even though things have gone to pot around here.'

He laughed and dodged slightly to one side as she hurled her empty coffee carton in his direction. It was a good job it missed. A trickle of what Starbucks called “coffee” ran down the window pane behind him.

* * *

McRae had arranged to meet his new best buddy, Christopher Tranquil, for his long overdue re-acquaintance with alcohol, in the Balls Bros wine bar in Lime Street. Stupidly, he had overlooked the inconvenient fact that the bar lay at the bottom of a long flight of steps that required particular care with crutches – not to mention, much exertion. His muscles, never impressive, had wasted somewhat and it would be hard work. For a moment he debated whether or not to change the venue, before eventually concluding that the pending pleasure would offset the pain.

As it turned out, he was wrong. The first vodka martini didn't last long enough to make up for the work-out he had endured, or so he told himself as he quickly re-ordered.

Talking seemed easy for both men. It had been the case since their very first meeting. McRae wasn't sure what it was about Tranquil that he liked, but it was clearly reciprocal. He eventually concluded that it could be summed up simply by the word “attitude”. They both possessed a dry sense of humour and a healthy degree of cynicism, but also an element of idealism. McRae had always worked primarily on his instincts; he had been wrong, many times, but he wouldn't change and his instincts made him trust Tranquil.

In other respects, the two men couldn't be more different. Tranquil was flamboyant, a bit of a flashy dresser and certainly more noticeable than any detective had a right to be. He also appeared to be less cautious than McRae. Some of his opinions were bizarre, at least to McRae's mind. He was able to forgive the man's apparent devotion to Arsenal, but was unable to fathom his passion for Maggie Thatcher.

During the weeks of his hospitalisation, Tranquil had visited no less than three times. At first, McRae had been suspicious of his motives, before realising that, unfortunately for him, Tranquil had rather a lot of free time on his hands. It transpired that, in common with the loss adjusting profession, enquiry agent business could also be a matter of feast or famine. Right now, it was the latter.

Tranquil had always wanted to be a detective. Leaving university with a degree in criminology, he had joined the Met and had even been through the police college at Hendon. Altogether, he'd spent seven years – firstly in uniform and then plain clothes – before he had blotted his copy book. He hadn't exactly been chucked out, but spending the rest of his life pounding pavements in Hammersmith and dodging dog shit hadn't appealed.

He had enjoyed a fair degree of success in his first years in commercial investigation work. He had quickly specialised in insurance-related work (‘Best payers,' he had commented. ‘Not enough, of course, but at least they pay.') and even though he carried out surveillance and many other types of enquiry, the breakthrough had been tracing assets for Lloyd's Underwriters.

Since the introduction of the Proceeds of Crime Act, it had been possible for insurers who had been ripped-off to get some redress, if only they could trace where the scumbags had hidden (or spent) their ill-gotten gains.

Tranquil enjoyed the work; he was good at it and, best of all, it involved a fair amount of travelling to sunnier climes. The only trouble, he told McRae, was that the decline in serious fraud detection was leading to fewer opportunities. In his experience, the standards of claims handling were falling through the floor. ‘Most insurers (even adjusters I'm sorry to say), wouldn't know a fraud if it smacked ‘em in the face,' he had concluded.

McRae, of course, found that the detective's experience chimed alarmingly with his own. A kindred spirit, of that there was no doubt.

By now, they were onto red wine, Pinot Noir, and after weeks of enforced dry dock, McRae was feeling the effects. His tongue was becoming looser by the minute.

McRae found Tranquil intriguing. He had some great yarns, some of them possibly true, and the man's drawling delivery lent a delicious weight to the punchlines. He was arrogant, almost too sure of himself, but – like McRae himself – had a disarming capacity to be self-deprecating. He was certain that women adored him. Not only was he roguishly attractive, but there was a sort of Peter O'Toole raffishness about the man.

They had been in the wine bar for over an hour and had discussed mutual contacts, the pathetic state of the industry, the even more dismal performance of the England football team and the relatively miniscule number of fanciable women they knew, when Tranquil seemed to make up his mind.

He suddenly asked McRae whether or not his office on Lime Street was big enough to accommodate another couple of people. Surprised by the change of direction in the conversation, McRae had replied in the affirmative.

It turned out that Tranquil wanted to move into the City; it was clear that Wandsworth no longer cut it and the detective needed to be much closer to his clients.

To his credit, McRae was only momentarily fazed by the proposition. It made perfect sense: Wyndham's office was brilliantly located, it was big enough and sharing the overheads would be a massive help to both companies. Of course, it was critical that the businesses and their people were compatible, but he knew at a visceral level that they would be. He didn't hesitate.

‘I think you're on. Let me sleep on it tonight, but the answer is almost certainly a yes.'

‘Great, I'll look forward to getting a call then?'

A thought suddenly occurred to McRae.

‘Just before we go, remember that guy Kanelos you asked me about?'

Tranquil nodded.

‘Well, if we're going to be sharing an office, there's something you ought to know.'

It turned out to be another hour and the best part of another bottle before they finally left the bar, by which time McRae felt his life was taking another turn. His mood had lifted; there was a future, after all.

* * *

His humour was very different when he woke at five the following morning. He had, it seemed, managed to remove his jacket, shirt and the ludicrously inappropriate tie, but was unaccountably still wearing his socks, tracksuit bottoms and a single shoe on his right foot. His left leg ached like hell. He was freezing – probably accounted for by the fact he was lying on top rather than in the bed. He groaned, groped around for the duvet, pulled it roughly over him and promptly fell back into an uneasy sleep.

It was gone ten when the ringing of his phone finally penetrated his consciousness.

He fobbed off the anxious Suzanne with an assurance that he would be in the office by lunchtime and looked around for his alloy crutch. He hobbled carefully around the flat, relying on the leg cast for support. The crutch was nowhere to be found; he had obviously managed to leave the bloody thing in the cab – or the bar? What alarmed him most was that he had clearly been lurching around, relying solely on the removable cast, which was strictly verboten. He opened the hall cupboard and removed the other crutch, which he had discarded a week previously, before making his way to the kitchen.

While he waited for the kettle to boil, he fished around anxiously in what he called his “medicine cabinet” – a battered old tin tea caddy. He was in luck. He took a couple of Ibuprofen and a matching pair of aspirin, washing them down with a swig of cranberry juice straight from the carton.

His head still throbbed and he felt distinctly nauseous. He hoped he wasn't about to throw up. He cursed his stupidity in having drunk so much and tried to recall exactly what he had agreed to with Tranquil.
Kit, what a stupid bloody name,
he thought bitterly.

* * *

It was nearly 2pm by the time he arrived at Lime Street. He felt massively better but the feeling was distinctly relative. He hadn't bothered to shave and he was conscious that his hair was all over the place. Still, he had survived his first drinking session since the injury, and, despite all, he didn't regret it.
The future
, he believed,
was looking interesting
. On sober reflection, he had concluded that the office-sharing concept was inspired and, provided that they managed to stay out of pubs, the relationship would be good for both companies.

Nonetheless, at shortly after 6pm, he was back in a pub – this time, The Grapes – which had been carefully selected to involve no stairs. On this occasion, he nursed a slimline tonic water, chastely enlivened by a slice of a lime. Tranquil was showing a distinct lack of solidarity by working his way rapidly through a pint of lager.

They had shaken hands on the office-sharing idea. Academy Investigations would move into the Lime Street office in four weeks, once Tranquil had terminated the contract on his existing serviced office in Wandsworth. In the meantime, their conversation turned to Kanelos and his friends.

Tranquil asked McRae to run through the background once more; he was keen to see how much detail the adjuster could recall while they were both sober.

‘Okay, I've got it. Surprisingly enough, the information seems exactly as I recall, but who was the copper who came to see you in hospital?'

‘A right bastard; had the name of “Black”, I think. Detective Sergeant Black, a real hard-nosed merchant. He broke the news of Tina's death like he enjoyed it.'

‘What did he look like? How old?'

McRae described the officer and was taken aback when his companion laughed suddenly. ‘He's not a bastard; he's one of the good guys. It must be “Boot” – a bit of miserable git, but he's straight. He obviously just didn't buy your memory loss routine. Seriously, Boot is good news. I know him from way back – his real name's Bernie.'

It was McRae's turn to be amused. ‘Bernard Black? Not much better than Boot, is it? His parents must have had a damn sight better sense of humour than he's got, that's all I'll say. I'll never forget the way he told me about Tina; it was a fucking…' His voice tailed off as he realised Tranquil was no longer listening. The man was clearly lost in thought. ‘Kit?'

‘Ah, yeah, sorry, I was just thinking about how we could play this thing. It really is useful knowing that the job is on Boot's patch. I've got an idea and Boot will run with it, I'm certain – leastways, coming from me, he will.'

If it was possible for grey eyes to sparkle, they did.

By the time they left the pub, McRae had become heartily sick of tonic water. Curiously, he felt slightly inebriated, although he quickly realised that exhilaration was the more accurate term for his emotion. They had a plan and he suspected that, in Tranquil, he might have found the right ally. The burden of grief he had carried over Tina was lifting and instead he felt a sense of renewed determination. While the arsonists had had nothing directly to do with her death, he couldn't help but feel that, if it hadn't been for them, he would never have met her.
Perhaps she would have never even have been in London that night?
The thoughts and recriminations had swirled around his head over the past few weeks, but now he was resolved that, if only for her sake, he was going to nail the bastards.