The Fire Man (31 page)

Boredom often provokes unwise actions. People tend to take risks; they gamble, seek illicit thrills or, alternatively, sink into lethargy.

McRae had been bored, really bored; his leg was aching and his backside was numb as he waited for something, anything, to happen. That was why he had decided, on a whim, to enliven what he perceived to be his lonely vigil by dialling the number stored on his mobile and listed simply as “SD”.

After all, he reckoned, it was a silent activity. He was only listening. If he really needed to contact Kit, he could do so at a moment's notice. Common sense suggested that with O'Connell on his own in the building, he would have nobody to talk to anyway, but what the hell?

Overhearing the Irishman's telephone call and the way he had laboriously spelled out the van's license number to somebody called Spike had been a shock to say the least. McRae almost dropped his mobile. Quickly, he texted Tranquil:
Tuck is checking out van reg. What do we do?

Within seconds, his phone began to tremble in his grasp. When Kit came on the line, he seemed untroubled, although his voice was so quiet that McRae struggled to hear him. Kit assured the distinctly rattled McRae that the van was legitimately registered in the name of a man called Patrick Smith, though the address was that of Tranquil's own office.

‘I don't think we have too much to worry about, my friend,' he said. ‘It'll probably take a while to get the info anyway, unless the bastard has a direct line into Swansea – even then, it should still stack. Just stay cool and let me know when the other blokes show up.' He rang off, leaving the slightly reassured McRae to turn his attention back to his spy hole.

Perhaps not his full attention, however; he couldn't stop himself mulling over the transcripts of the earlier phone conversations. He pulled the dog-eared sheets of A4 from his jacket pocket and read and reread the contents, while keeping one eye on the factory door. There was something worrying him, but he couldn't work it out. There was something that jarred, some inconsistency.

He gave up racking his brain and was starting to refold the paper, when, out of the corner of his left eye, he detected movement. It was the arrival of Smythson. The man was loping slowly along the pavement with his shoulders stooped and his head down. McRae would have recognised the lanky figure anywhere. He checked his watch – it was 7.55pm. It looked like the meeting must be at 8pm, so Kanelos would surely be along soon. He trained his lens carefully on Smythson and was elated when the man looked directly towards the van.
Gotcha
! he thought, firing off a rapid succession of pictures.

Reaching the office door, Smythson pressed the buzzer. A few seconds later, beyond the glass, the figure of O'Connell could be seen approaching before the door swung open. McRae kept his finger hovering on the shutter; despite the light beginning to fade, he was pretty sure that the pictures would still be good. As the two men disappeared into the interior of the factory, he panned back to make sure that the Le Copa sign was clearly in shot and then sat in a state of nervous anticipation, awaiting the arrival of the third “musketeer”
.
By the time he had finished, “The Three Stooges” would be a more apt collective description, or so he sincerely hoped.

He texted an update to Tranquil and arched his now aching back against the chair. Leaning forward in a flimsy garden chair, while keeping the left leg in its brace out of the way, was proving more exacting and tiring than he had expected.

He didn't have long to wait. Barely two minutes after Smythson had arrived, Alex Kanelos wafted onto the scene. He was looking as sickeningly cool as always, his floppy golden hair bouncing across his forehead as he strode past the pub.

McRae thanked the Lord that there was still sufficient light in the summer evening; he wouldn't have to revert to the infrared camera, which he was even less confident using. “Point and shoot” was strictly McRae's style.

Again O'Connell came to open the front door, and again McRae managed to get a couple of acceptable pictures showing the two men together on the doorstep. He was just congratulating himself on his growing competence as a cameraman, when the front leg of his garden chair unexpectedly and devastatingly gave way, propelling his face violently into the cold metal side of the van with a discernible thud. He was on his knees, his cheek smarting and the van rocking as he struggled to right himself.

Staring frantically through the eyehole, he saw that both Kanelos and O'Connell had clearly heard the noise and both were looking in the direction of the van. He had to do something quickly.

Opening just one leaf of the rear doors, McRae made a noisy show of sliding two pieces of rough timber, which he had been using to raise the level of his chair, ostentatiously out of the van. He was careful to keep his body out of sight. He then reached out from the interior and fiddled about with the roof-mounted ladder. Finally, retracting the pieces of timber, he closed the open door with a slam.

This meaningless activity seemed to achieve the desired aim. When he next peered anxiously, reluctantly, through his “window on the world”, the two watchers had disappeared. Evidently, they had been persuaded that some bona fide activity was taking place, however incomprehensible.

McRae breathed a long, low sigh of relief and sagged slowly onto the unappealing mattress, which he had so far avoided using; he desperately needed to rest his leg. He closed his eyes and laid his head back wearily. He reckoned that he deserved a few blessed seconds of darkness before he switched back to his duties.

Seconds was all he allowed himself. The
Stooges
might well be discussing the van already; he simply had to listen. He dialled the number and was dismayed to hear nothing at all – they must be elsewhere in the building. He strained his ears, but silence prevailed.

* * *

Tranquil was having better luck, and at least he had something to observe. Between the artfully positioned slats of his stack of pallets, he could see two of the men as they appeared and disappeared between the aisles of garments. One of them was O'Connell, his stocky powerful body contrasting with the slim tall figure alongside him. He sharpened the focus on his pocket binoculars and saw that the tall man was Kanelos. Although he had never seen the man in the flesh before, the handsome blond-haired man matched McRae's description precisely. Where the other guy was, he had no idea. He was clearly present in the warehouse, though, as both men turned and addressed occasional remarks to someone else as they continued their inspection of the stock.

It was now becoming a little gloomier in the yard and the lights had been switched on inside the warehouse, which enabled Tranquil to see quite clearly. The only difficulty was distance: the pallets were around thirty-five feet from the property and the men were another twenty feet or so beyond that. He was tempted to move to a position adjacent to the window he had seen O'Connell open earlier. In doing so, he would not only see more but he might also hear something. He dismissed the idea as foolhardy; it was still a little too light to take such a chance. Eventually, the third man appeared fleetingly – a tall, gaunt, almost emaciated figure, who appeared to be burying his face constantly in a handkerchief.
Smythson
, he presumed.

After ten minutes or so, during which time the gang seemed to wander around most of the racks and rails, they disappeared from Tranquil's view. Seconds later, they reappeared when they walked up steps at the rear of the warehouse. As they reached the top, the lights went off and the warehouse was plunged back into shadows.

‘So, where are you off to, Mike? enquired Kanelos suspiciously, as they entered the office. He had spied O'Connell's bag lying on the floor next to the armchair.

‘Just changing hotels, Alex. Why? Do you fancy moving in with me?' he laughed. The other man simply shrugged.

Smythson folded himself into an upright chair, while Kanelos walked to his desk and pulled out his own leather chair. O'Connell showed no immediate interest in sitting down but walked to a filing cabinet, which he unlocked and extracted a pink manila folder.

He pulled out three sets of papers, each consisting of half a dozen stapled A4 sheets. He distributed them and then pulled out the chair from Gallo's desk.

‘Right, here's the numbers. We'll go through them as usual. First, however,' he said casually, ‘why don't we have a little sharpener to help us concentrate, eh?' The others didn't bother to answer and paid little attention – they were absorbed by the numbers.

He slid open the door to the cabinet, pulled out three glasses and put them down on the desk. He then extracted the two bottles and emptied the residual contents of the first into a glass before opening the fresh bottle. He poured a generous measure into each glass and handed one to Smythson.

‘Here you go, Derek,' he muttered as he handed it over, keeping a firm grasp on his own glass. He made no attempt to hand Kanelos one, but walked towards the window, sipping at his whiskey and looking blankly at the papers as he went.

When he looked out into what was now becoming the dusk of a fine evening, he saw that the van was still there. However, it no longer concerned him.

He knew the numbers by heart, but stared intently at the papers. All the while, his every nerve and fibre of concentration was focused entirely upon whatever was happening behind him. Eventually, he heard it – a creak as Kanelos left his chair and moved across the room to pick up his own drink.

He forced himself to remain in the same pose, intent on the papers, before he finally turned to survey the two men.

‘So, what do you think? Hardly going to set the world on fire, but still a reasonable turn, eh?'

The final summary sheet of the “Budgeted Profit and Loss” statement suggested that the fraud should net them somewhere between £1.5 million and £2 million. Of course, once the fire was started, the eventual outcome was in the lap of the gods – but, assuming a fair wind, it was the most likely outcome.

Kanelos was still mentally uncurling his toes in reaction to O'Connell's “fire” quip as he took a sip of his whiskey and considered his response. He glanced in Smythson's direction. The man was still studiously examining the papers.
He's keeping his head down,
he thought, before eventually answering.

‘It looks okay, Mike. Speaking for myself, though, I don't give a shit. I just want this to be the last, understood?'

O'Connell merely nodded.

‘I mean it, Mike. Derek, haven't you got anything to say?'

At last Smythson looked up, his watery bloodshot eyes catching the light. When he eventually spoke, his voice seemed surprisingly resolute. ‘I agree. We've done well; it's time to call it quits.'

Swallowing the profound contempt he felt for both of them, O'Connell smiled. ‘Agreed, boys. Here's to one final success.
Slainte
!' He held up his own glass and waited, demanding the others raise their own in acknowledgement.

He downed his own two fingers of whiskey in a single gulp, watching intently as Kanelos did likewise. Smythson merely took a delicate sip, though that didn't bother him in the least.

A feeling of euphoria swept through him as he made a point of pouring another large measure into his own and Kanelos's glasses. It was now all over, bar the shouting. Still, he needed to keep the meeting going for a while, so he began to walk the two men through the different facets of the numbers. It was obvious that they had no further interest but it needed to be done.

Twenty long tedious minutes later, even O'Connell could think of nothing further to highlight in the brief summarised accounts. Worryingly, Kanelos appeared totally unaffected by the drink. He had sniffed his glass and run his tongue around his lips in a slightly doubting manner after downing his first, and it seemed he might have noticed a difference when he had tasted the second.

The Irishman knew he might need more time.

Uncharacteristically, he started to talk about his own, entirely fictitious, recent adventures in Dublin before he eventually asked Smythson what his own arrangements were for the following evening. In effect, how good would his alibi be? He wasn't entirely surprised to hear that Derek would be in a club in the West End, a private members club in Greek Street where he was well known. He was entirely au fait with Derek's movements and, of course, his athletic young friends. Casually, he turned to ask the same question to Kanelos. However, he found himself asking the question twice as the man did not respond, but simply sagged in his chair and stared at the ceiling.

Eventually his head turned slowly and he looked blearily in O'Connell's direction. ‘Whaat did you put in my ffuckin driiink, you bastard?' slurred Alex. ‘I fffucckin knew it tasted wwwierd.'

He couldn't complete the sentence. His eyes were beginning to close, though he attempted to stand up. He pushed his hands against the top of his desk and levered himself almost, but not quite, upright.

O'Connell stepped smoothly around to his side. He pressed firmly onto his shoulders and Kanelos sagged heavily back down into his chair. Slowly, as if it was too heavy for his neck, his head then subsided onto the desk.

‘What the fuck's going on? What's wrong with Alex?' shouted Smythson, finally shaken out of his inertia.

‘What's wrong with him? What's wrong with him? He's a useless cunt, that's what's wrong with him – but tonight, he's finally going to be useful.'

‘Why? I don't understand, Mike. What the fuck is going on?'

As the ashen-faced and still open-mouthed Smythson stared at him aghast, continually shaking his head in denial of the evidence of his own eyes, the Irishman spelled out his options. ‘Derek, it's dead simple. You help me with this and it's the end of the whole affair. You get a bigger share and no one can touch you. On the other hand, you may prefer going the same way as our friend Alex here.'

He lifted Kanelos' head by his golden hair as he spoke. Alarmingly, the eyes flickered and opened, and the comatose man made some incomprehensible guttural utterance.

Smythson continued to stare wildly, unable to say anything other than, ‘Why?'

‘Why? Use your brain, Derek. You and I have absolutely no connection with this business or this bag of shite. George is as sound as a pound. Alex, on the other hand, does have a connection and he's the weak link. It's the only thing to do. So?'

Derek continued to stare at him blankly. ‘You've got sixty seconds to make your mind up.' He calmly gathered up the dirty glasses and the empty Bushmills bottle. He walked out of the room and made for the small kitchen, where he took exceptional care as he washed the bottle and glasses under the tap before returning to the office.

He looked pitilessly at Smythson as he returned. The man nodded dumbly.

‘Right, give me a hand with him.' He walked over to Kanelos and started to lift the drugged man to his feet. ‘Come on!' he shouted to Smythson, who then took the other arm. Between them, they began to drag the recumbent body towards the stairs.

It took far longer than O'Connell had expected to get Kanelos down to the warehouse. He could have moved him with less ceremony, but he was anxious to avoid unnecessary contusions. By the time they were able to lay the man down on the floor of the warehouse, about ten feet from the intended seat of the fire, Smythson was virtually out on his feet – even the powerful Irishman was blowing hard.

After pausing to regain his breath, O'Connell strode to a small cupboard and returned to join Smythson. He now had a heap of material in his right hand and a one-litre plastic container of white spirits in his left. He allowed the material to dangle and Smythson saw it for what it was; a set of soiled white cotton drill overalls. The garment was covered in different splatters of paint, it looked well used.

Together, they removed Kanelos's expensive loafers and then struggled to manoeuvre the comatose figure into the overalls, before replacing the shoes. ‘Should have brought some bloody trainers,' commented O'Connell. ‘Best-dressed decorator I've ever seen – still, can't be helped. Hand me that brush, Derek.'

He gestured at the top of the stepladders, where an opened tin of white primer was positioned with a broad brush balanced upon it.

Smythson watched as O'Connell dipped the brush delicately into the paint, before promptly wiping the paint off again with a rag. He crouched over the body and gently flicked the brush lightly, ensuring that a fine spray of droplets was deposited on Kanelos' face, hair and shoes. Finally, he smeared paint from the rag heavily onto the hands of the man. As he did so, Smythson was alarmed to see Kanelos' eyes flicker open widely and his hands flinch. Within seconds, however, the accusing eyes closed once more.

Standing up and replacing the brush across the top of the paint tin, O'Connell turned to face the still mesmerised Smythson. ‘Okay, Derek, you're done. Now, fuck off out of here, get down to your dodgy bleeding club rapid and keep your head down.'

He stared menacingly at the pathetic figure, before adding contemptuously ‘You're in this up to your scrawny neck – just remember that, matey. Oh, and by the way, if you ever, ever, ever, speak to anyone, I shall find you.' He stretched out his hand and squeezed the bony chin. ‘Okay?'

The man swallowed hard and his chin nodded vigorously in assent.

Despite being emotionally shattered, as well as physically and mentally drained, Smythson turned and climbed the warehouse steps with the alacrity of a sprightly mountain goat. He was out of the front door and emerging onto the cobbles of O'Meara Street before he knew it. All he wanted to do was get as far away from the murderous O'Connell as was humanly possible. As he hurried, distraught and distracted, towards the lights of Commercial Road, he didn't notice the doors begin to open at the rear of the old van.