The Fire Man (4 page)

‘Fair point, but it's gone seven now and we haven't even got back to the office – let alone started the report!'

‘Best get cracking then,' said McRae, draining the remains of his lager. ‘You'd better tell Moira not to expect any nookie c'est sois.'

‘Actually, I think I'd better stay at your place tonight. We're going to be seriously late and I may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb or whatever they say.'

‘Fine, let's get out of here.'

By the time the pair had arrived back at Castle Street, it was 7.30pm. The basement car park had been secured for the night, so McRae took a chance and left his car on a side street where the parking limitation had ended. He was a little uneasy about leaving the Audi parked in this part of Birmingham late at night, but it couldn't be helped. While he let himself into the main communal doors to the office block using his out-of-hours pin code, Grim wandered off out of hearing range to make his apologetic call to his wife.
Bet she's as good as gold about it,
conjectured McRae enviously. Not for the first time, he envied his colleague. Moira was what he would consider a truly ideal wife. He wasn't personally attracted to the woman, but he couldn't help admiring what he considered to be her essential qualities. Of course, his view from the outside was flawed, but it seemed to him that she really was a domestic goddess. Sensuous, attractive, hard-working, good-humoured; she never, ever nagged and – was a great cook to boot. She definitely deserved someone better than Grim; someone more like himself, really. Strange that he always attracted the difficult type. He must, he concluded, be a masochist. It only rarely occurred to him that his own qualities could in any way be deficient.

Entering their own office, McRae made a beeline for the kitchen. He had just switched the kettle on when he heard Grim clatter in.

‘Everything okay?' he called.

‘Yeah, no problem, she's chilled.'

Bloody typical!
thought McRae.

By 10pm, two draft copies of the Fairclough Preliminary Report on the Hellenic fire, in all its rough and ready glory, were being read and marked up with alterations by the adjusters. Both of them were checking the copies independently, in their respective offices. By 10.45pm, they had agreed upon the final version.

‘I'm shattered,' pronounced McRae. ‘I think we should leave the report for Karen to polish up tomorrow and get out of here. With any luck the Kashmir will still serve us. If not, we can always grab a takeaway.' The Indian restaurant, close to the Gas Street Basin, was a firm favourite. Lying conveniently along McRae's route back to his flat in Edgbaston, he ate there rather more frequently than was healthy.

As anticipated, the restaurant was far from closed when the two men arrived at a little after eleven. It was heaving with young office workers who had stayed in town after finishing work; the place had a boisterous, alcohol-fuelled feel, but was welcoming nonetheless. Despite the hubbub, a table for two was quickly procured in the corner nearest to the kitchen door, where a steady flow of waiters managed to ensure that the back of Grim's chair was knocked and nudged on an irritatingly regular basis.

Amid the incessant apologetic interruptions, the pair managed to continue their discussions in a relatively coherent fashion. They even had time to have a brief chat over McRae's mobile with Steve Balfour. The forensic man had not finished his site inspection until well into the evening, but his contribution gave them further food for thought.

By the time the bill had been paid, the plan of action for the presentation to Consolidated had been finalised. All they needed now was not to blow it.

* * *

At 11.30am the following morning, exuding more confidence than they truly felt, McRae and Grim were politely shown into the wood-panelled “Chelsea” meeting room of CFG's offices in New Street.
Clearly the “Arsenal” and “Liverpool” rooms they had passed in the corridor must have been booked for something more important
, thought Grim.

Derek Smythson and Geoff Rennie were awaiting them. Smythson, wearing a rather good dark-blue suit paired with a tasteful shirt and tie, was standing and looking blankly out of the window, while his colleague, who appeared by contrast to shop at Oxfam, sat at a rosewood meeting table twiddling a pencil.
Little and large
, thought McRae. Tall, skinny and almost cadaverous, Smythson was difficult to age –
probably in his fifties
? – but he cut an elegant figure that contrasted dramatically with the considerably shorter, shabbier, younger and plumper Scot.

After the normal routine, shaking hands and sorting out their respective coffees, juggling UHT milk containers and sugars, they settled into the meeting.

‘Well gentlemen,' opened Smythson, ‘I understand we are faced with a bit of a disaster. It's not twenty thousand but more like eleven million? That right?'

‘Afraid so, Mr Smythson,' responded McRae. ‘I have no idea where the original estimation came from, but it's a very significant loss. There is no doubt about that.'

‘Geoff, do you know how we got that initial impression?' asked Smythson, with just the hint of a glare in the direction of his colleague.

‘Not really, Derek, the call record of the claim notification is here,' said Rennie, pointing at a pink sheet, which neither of the adjusters could read from the opposing side of the table. ‘It just says “Fire” – looks like one of the girls must have put a standard reserve on it.' He shrugged; it was clear that none of the blame for the initial underestimation was going to attach to him.

‘Anyway, it is what it is, I guess,' said Smythson. ‘Can you tell us precisely where you are up to so far, Mr McRae?'

Here we go
, thought McRae.
They're already thinking about how to kick us off the case.

Ahead of the appointment, the adjusters had made a minor diversion from their route to New Street via a Costa coffee shop, where they had rehearsed their presentation. They were, they thought, pretty well prepared. In addition, the report, as finally tweaked and refined, looked good; the photographs were comprehensive; the reserve, ultimately fixed at £10.75 million, was logical and hopefully more than adequate; and forensics had been appointed. In all, every base was covered, or so they hoped.

So, after taking the CFG men carefully, almost pedantically, through the main features and concluding what he fondly believed to have been a concise and professional presentation of the facts, McRae invited questions.

Smythson, who had been attentive and studiously neutral in his demeanour throughout, cleared his throat and, without so much as a glance at his colleague, began to speak.

‘So what we appear to have is a probable break-in, followed by arson? That right?'

‘That's what it looks like.'

‘Looks like? You've got doubts? Is there any evidence of involvement by Hellenic themselves?'

‘No, uh, not at this stage, Mr Smythson. It appears to have been started by “persons unknown” but we are waiting for Dr Balfour to finish his investigations before getting into any serious discussions with them.'

Smythson, making a steeple with his hands beneath his chin, looked intently at McRae, as if seeking to read his mind before speaking. When he did, his voice rose steadily in pitch.

‘Ah yes, Balfour, we wouldn't have engaged him. If you'd bothered to ask, using what some might call the professional approach, we would have instructed you to put Dr Cartwright on the case...' he paused. ‘To be brutally honest, Mr McRae, I am staggered you didn't call us yesterday afternoon, as soon as you realised the scale of the loss! I would have expected, at the very least, the courtesy of a call as soon as you arrived in Walsall. Let's face it, it must have been blatantly obvious to you that this was not the size of claim we would have considered using you for, or do you think we normally allocate £10 million cases to complete unknowns?'

Smythson's initial bonhomie had suddenly and totally disappeared. He gave the strong impression of being furious and glared at McRae, who sat uncomfortably on the edge of his chair. Smythson's colleague smirked openly.

‘Look, I can assure you I did think very carefully about it,' he replied firmly, colouring a little. ‘But I decided it would be better to use what little time was available profitably and take the right steps to get the investigation underway – especially as we were already on-site. It was going to be dark in a couple of hours. The way I saw it was that if you decided our services weren't required, at least we'd have secured the evidence professionally.' He decided to go for broke; there was nothing to be lost. ‘Please believe me,' he said coolly, 'if you would prefer one of your more regular adjusters to take over the case in view of the size of the loss, then we'd understand completely. We would cooperate fully, with anyone else – no problem at all.'

He paused, expecting some comment from Smythson. When none was immediately forthcoming, he pressed on rapidly.

‘Obviously, I'd far rather carry on with the case, so that we can demonstrate what we are capable of – but I repeat: we would understand completely if you prefer to take a different course.'

There was an awkward silence during which Smythson and Rennie exchanged glances before the ”skeleton” spoke.

‘Well, I am pleased you understand the sensitivity of this position, Mr McRae. I don't want to be rude, but the fact is we wouldn't have ever considered appointing your firm to handle a case of this magnitude. Not in a month of Sundays…. I'm pretty sure you must have realised this yourselves?' He raised his eyes, looking searchingly into McRae's face. McRae knew that, despite his very best efforts, he was surely blushing.

‘Anyway, I have a conference call with head office in half an hour. They will decide whether or not to make any change, so please don't do anything
,
and I mean anything, further, and we'll get back to you around lunchtime. Okay?'

‘That's absolutely fine,' said McRae, smiling hollowly as he and Grim rose as one to their feet.

Within what seemed only seconds, the pair was back on the street. It had begun to rain lightly and as McRae turned, without thinking, to glance back at the edifice behind them, he was embarrassed to see the unmistakeable visage of Smythson staring down at them. For a split second their eyes met and, feeling self-conscious, McRae felt obliged to half wave in acknowledgement. The gesture was not reciprocated.

They trudged back towards Castle Street in silence, before Grim was the first to speak.

‘How much dare we bill them for one day's work?'

‘Not enough, Grim, definitely not enough – but thanks for the optimism!' responded McRae.

‘Actually, you know what? I think you played it about as well as you could, but I honestly couldn't ever see your bluff working. Still, we'll know in an hour or so. They'll put us out of our agony soon enough.'

As it turned out, they didn't have to wait even that long. Just as McRae lowered himself wearily into his chair, a familiar ping announced an arriving email. It was very brief and to the point.

“Please continue to handle this case on our behalf. Submit an update report as soon as possible. Regards, Derek”

He read it again, and then again with incredulity.

‘Don't bother taking your coat off, Grim – we're going out!' he shouted to the shape on the other side of the frosted glass screen.

* * *

Less than five minutes later, the pair were toasting their incomprehensible, virtually unfathomable, good fortune in the Anchor; McRae with a sedate white wine and his friend with an equally prim half of lager.

‘I just don't get it, Drew. The email was sent only ten minutes or so after we left their office, so they can't have had much of a conference call. Actually, they can't have had one at all, because by my reckoning it isn't even due for another fifteen minutes! What's going on?'

‘Who bloody cares?' said McRae. ‘This is one hell of a result – the fees are going to be massive! If we don't cock it up, it could be our biggest ever break. Let's face it: this office could be open for ten bleeding years before we ever had a chance to land a client like CFG. It really is incomprehensible!'

McRae couldn't help thinking that his partnership promotion chances would hardly be damaged either. All in all, rain or no rain, this was turning into a memorable day. However, Grim was right; Smythson appeared to have acted on his own initiative and the outcome was definitely not one he had anticipated. The thin man was proving to be anything but predictable.

After their brief celebratory drink, the men resisted the screaming temptation to “have the other half”. They then returned, in great good humour, to the office, to the unvarnished surprise of Karen, who managed (almost) to conceal her astonishment at their discipline. However, any celebrations would be short-lived as it was time that the pair returned to Walsall to continue their investigations. Time also to get into serious discussions with Mr Kanelos and his colleagues – there was a lot to talk about.

* * *

As an optimistic precaution, McRae had fixed a follow-up site visit for three o'clock, even before he had even been sure of retaining the case. Now, fired with enthusiasm, he decided to put as much in the way of resource into the case as he could spare. Kevin was available for the afternoon so, despite his continuing doubts as to the young man's ultimate capabilities, decided to take him along, thinking that the experience would at least be good for him.

‘When did you book that dinner, Karen?' he enquired to the space beyond his door, hoping it wasn't for this evening.

‘Friday at eight,' came the disembodied reply.

‘That's fine; where?'

‘Bonaparte's, if that's okay?'

Oh my God,
thought McRae, but replied, ‘Fantastic.'
Bonaparte, only the second most expensive restaurant in town!
Good job he'd be able to afford it after the Hellenic result.

‘I'm only winding you up,' said Karen as she entered the room, ‘For a cheapskate like you, I thought Di Mario would be a safer bet.'

With a relief that must have been evident in his expression, McRae smiled and simply nodded his assent.

‘By the way, you've got three messages: Mr Kanelos of Hellenic rang to tell you they have appointed Adelstein and Brooks to act for them,; Frank Jackson called from Manchester, said to call him back when you have a moment; and, finally, Terry rang from Cardiff. He spotted the Hellenic case on the system and was passing on his congratulations.'

Good to know Terry was tracking their performance,
thought McRae. Still, he kept a pretty close eye on Cardiff's performance himself, so it was hardly surprising if his friend did the same.

‘If you get a chance later, can you call Terry and tell him I'll give him a ring this evening?' he said. Karen nodded. ‘And can you look at the photographs of the stock at Hellenic and let me know what you think of the stuff? I'd like to get some idea of the type of fashion we're dealing with here.'

Again she nodded, before leaving the office to get back to her work. McRae then picked up the phone to call his senior partner.
Jackson must have seen the case as well,
he thought.
He‘ll
be pleased!

Pleased did not even come close. Frank was ecstatic, but clearly nervous at the same time. He repeatedly stressed that should McRae need any technical help, he shouldn't hesitate to ask and that Frank himself, or one of the other senior partners, would step in ‘We mustn't cock it up
,'
he repeated just a few times too often for McRae's liking. ‘Chances like this just don't come along these days. We have to make the most of it,' he had said, interspersed with a few:
‘
Still, I know you won't let us down, Drew' type comments, which sounded both encouraging and just a little threatening to McRae's ears.