The Fire Man (9 page)

* * *

When McRae finally caught up with Terry Donoghue, they exchanged banter before he decided to pick his colleague's brains. He outlined his reservations about Kanelos, and Donoghue listened carefully before commenting.

‘Sounds like you need to dig into his background; have you thought about sticking an enquiry agent onto him? You never know, you might find out something useful.'

‘Not sure that CFG would wear it, Terry.'

‘Why tell ‘em? You could just get a bit of background and only inform them if it looked as if there was something to gain. If he looks kosher, you just forget it.'

‘Maybe,' was McRae's non-committed reaction. Instinctively, however, he was tempted. He had been thinking along similar lines, but was encouraged by Terry's relaxed attitude.

Once the call was ended, he sat for a long time weighing up the possibilities before impulsively dialling a London number. John Templeton was twenty years older than McRae and thinking about retirement. The two had worked together for a year or so in Preston before Templeton had resigned and made the journey back to London, where his wife was from.

McRae made polite conversation before he eventually showed his hand and asked the man whether he knew any reliable enquiry agents. Templeton didn't, but it turned out he knew a man who did. He promised to get back to him with the details and, within less than half an hour, McRae found himself phoning someone described as an ‘unusual' ex-policeman with a small office in Wandsworth.

Academy Investigations, (proprietor: Christopher “Kit” Tranquil) was not only a one-man band; the business had, on the face of things, only a single tune: investigations for Lloyd's Underwriters.

It didn't take long for McRae to explain what he was looking for and to agree a budget time allowance equivalent to two days' work.

Christopher Tranquil proved indeed to be anything but your typical ex-copper. Yes, he clearly possessed the regulation sarcastic sense of humour, but he sounded rather aristocratic and, to McRae's ears, almost totally disinterested and only marginally competent.
Tranquil by name, tranquilised by nature,
thought McRae.

As the discussion continued, McRae found the man's casual, almost drawling, style irritating, but, little by little, he began to realise how quickly Tranquil's brain operated. The man was actually quick on the uptake. McRae didn't, he decided, like the guy, but he would do the job.

At the conclusion of the call, it was left that Tranquil would get back to McRae with a verbal report within four days. McRae was careful to emphasise that the enquiry agent should speak only to him.

The Longest Day had been and gone, and the summer couldn't make its mind up – as usual. A heavy thunderstorm had just been followed by a fitful sun, which was now reflecting off the newly installed windows across the road. McRae, however, wasn't paying any attention.

The involvement of OCV had begun to prey on his mind. He wanted to know who they were and why Hellenic had been so transformed with new shareholders and new directors.

OCV was a private limited company, registered in Dublin and, interestingly, had only been registered in June 2006. The only details on the Irish register disclosed that it had four directors and, unsurprisingly, no returns had yet been filed. What was intriguing, however, was the fact that the shares in OCV were seemingly held jointly between a Michael O'Connell and another company: Dundalk Investments. He hadn't yet been able to find anything on record about Dundalk.

‘It's like lifting the tops of a load of Russian dolls,' said Grim, when they were discussing the discovery in the final case review meeting.

They now had the interim payment report drafted for submission to CFG and the point of the meeting was to debate whether or not to approve the request for £400,000. It was, as the crude but appropriate saying goes, ‘Time to piss or get off the pot”.

‘So, do we make the recommendation or not, that is the question,' announced McRae, acutely conscious of paraphrasing Hamlet.

There was a distinct pause before Grim suggested they really had no choice but to proceed. He argued that they had a lot of questions but no answers; so, the real choice was whether to go with the request, without any reservation, or formally submit the request and point out their concerns. In other words, put the onus on CFG to decide. ‘It's their bloody money,' he concluded, in his no-nonsense style.

McRae was acutely aware that there was legitimacy to Grim's suggestion. Fairclough could submit the request from Wagner and carefully point out that they had some concerns, but that, as yet, they were unable to complete their enquiries and ask the client what they were prepared to do. This was unusual but hardly unknown.

He scratched his nose and stared intently at the ceiling. ‘The only problem is that it looks like we're abdicating our responsibilities,' he said finally. ‘What's more, I can see Smythson being fucking furious that we haven't come off the fence. All we'll do is make him question his own judgement in allowing us to handle the case in the first place! It's the kind of worrying little development that will make certain we never get given a second case by CFG.'

‘Fair point, but we're between a rock and a hard place as the Yanks say. It seems to me that we're damned if we do and damned if we don't'.

‘Yes, but I've been thinking, there is one other possibility. Let's call it Option C. What if we were to submit the Hellenic request, as we are obliged to do,
but
with a recommendation that CFG decline it?'

Grim stroked his chin nervously as he expelled an extended breath that was not quite a whistle. He rubbed his eyes and eventually spoke, ‘That will mean war. Once Wagner and Hellenic know we're not agreeing to their request, their brokers will go ballistic with CFG.'

‘Agreed, but is it a genuine option?'

‘Well yeah, I suppose it's an option, but frankly it's the most dangerous one. It will make the whole case go shit-shaped. Hellenic will know we don't believe them and it'll be dynamite all the way. I still think the best idea is just to go with the flow.'

He then began to mimic a refined accent, which McRae presumed to be a play on his own. ‘”We've done all the right things; we've made in-depth enquiries – yaddah, yaddah – but, sadly, there is no definitive evidence at this stage that could prevent us recommending payment.” Boom! We look on the ball, but professional. What's wrong with that?'

‘Nothing, absolutely nothing – except that Hellenic will be on the path to ten million quid and we both know that it stinks to high heaven. I just don't think I can do it.'

‘Look, it's your call, Drew, but I know what I would do.'

They lapsed into a brooding silence for a few minutes before McRae declared momentously, ‘I think we can get away with Option C. I'll change the recommendation paragraph and let you look at it.'

He stared intently at Cairns.

‘Okay,' Grim sighed, ‘but I think you're asking for trouble.'

The call had hardly been unexpected. McRae knew that receiving an Interim Payment Report that advocated not making a payment was unusual to say the least.

CFG had been on the phone within minutes of receiving the emailed report. Smythson's frosty secretary had asked him to come into the New Street office right away to discuss the matter.
Explain is more like it
, thought McRae and he had certainly being doing his damnedest to do just that, though it wasn't going well – not at all well.

Initially, Smythson had appeared relaxed and genuinely curious to understand where Fairclough were coming from, but as McRae was reluctant to reveal all the strands of his misgivings – some of which at least would prove to be unfounded – he had been forced to dwell on a limited number of concerns.

He deliberately didn't mention the Athenian enquiries into Kaloudis and played down his views on the stock quality, in case it turned out to be inaccurate. As a result, the case for refusal to recommend payment was, he was becoming acutely aware, sounding more than a little hollow. He felt as though he was on particularly thin ice.

Smythson appeared unconcerned, though, perhaps a tad exasperated. ‘So, to put it in a nutshell, apart from the recent increases in the cover, which can presumably be easily justified, you have some doubts as to the authenticity of this case. To be blunt, however, it doesn't sound as if you have anything remotely concrete. Is that a fair summary?' Smythson gazed piercingly across the table.

Shifting uncomfortably in his chair beneath the gaze of a pair of penetrating grey eyes, McRae swallowed and mumbled, ‘No, not yet,' before adding, ‘but we still have major enquiries underway on the machinery and I think we are pretty close to being able to show that the stock is seriously overvalued.' He was sorely tempted, but decided against, revealing the re-labelling concerns at this stage – better to keep his powder dry on that one.

‘Surprise, surprise, an overvalued insurance claim.' Smythson's open sarcasm was not lost on McRae.

‘Look, I admit overvaluation is common, Mr Smythson, but criminal overstatement is something entirely different,' he retorted, severely piqued by Smythson's clear contempt. He could feel his temperature rising and was beginning to lose his composure. ‘If we can prove the level of exaggeration, which I think we might, then you could well have grounds to decline the entire claim.'

‘If you can prove it,' said Smythson, ‘which I very much doubt. In the meantime, Consolidated would have to suffer terrible publicity, not to mention a stinking reputation in the market by appearing to resist a legitimate and high profile claim. The brokers are already giving us hell, saying that a payment is overdue – and they don't even know about this development! God help us when they do! It's already causing serious waves at head office. Haven't you got anything else? Is this really everything?'

McRae, though desperately raring to reveal all the half-chewed areas of their ongoing enquiries knew only too well that, individually, none of them were yet substantive. He retreated over old ground, repeating that he was still looking carefully at the issue of customer orders and that he just wasn't able, in all conscience, to recommend a payment on the basis of what they had so far. Again and again he stressed that he appreciated Smythson's position, but said that all he needed was a few more days to be able to wrap up their concerns.

By the time he finished speaking, he was acutely aware that he had not convinced Smythson. In fact, he had barely convinced himself.

There was an awkward pause. McRae shifted in his chair and looked over the other man's shoulder and into the street. He envied the pigeons on the window ledge their freedom to escape.

Smythson's mind now seemed made up, and he sighed with exasperation. ‘We can't leave it any longer; it's becoming a serious embarrassment. Surely you can see that? If you haven't got anything stronger than this, we have no option other than to make the payment.' His scorn was withering.

Under pressure and desperate for some breathing space, McRae found himself disclosing his latest tactic without ever having intended to do so. He almost blurted out the words. ‘Well, I've also just appointed enquiry agents to do some background investigations on Kanelos, because…'

He could not complete the sentence. The effect on Smythson was electric. There was genuine alarm in his expression – alarm and anger. The man's face darkened and he seized the bent metal arms of his chair with ferocity. Even from 5 feet away, McRae could see the man's knuckles whiten.

‘You've done what?' Incredulity was evident in his voice. ‘Without our authority? Without even speaking to us?'

He turned his eyes towards the ceiling as if seeking divine inspiration and paused for a moment. When he finally spoke again, it was decisive.

‘That's it, McRae, you've gone too far this time. This is not the way Consolidated does business. Not now, not ever! I don't know what kind of cowboy outfits you are used to working for, but this is outrageous. Unless there are overwhelming reasons to do so, Consolidated never, ever indulges in underhand tactics. You can stop the enquiry agents, immediately – and I mean immediately, do you hear me? In fact, you can stop whatever else you might be doing as well. Your involvement in this claim is over, as of now!'

He appeared to think for a few seconds before resuming, ‘I'm going to appoint Egerton-Walker to take over. You can hand the file over in its entirety to Bill Turner today.'

McRae felt the colour draining from his face. ‘But…' he stammered, ‘Mr Smythson, this loss is over £10 million! It's riddled with unsatisfactory features! Surely we have to get—'

‘Enough,' interrupted Smythson.

‘If, and it's a very, very big ‘if', there is anything wrong with this claim – and I am not remotely convinced that there is – it won't be any of your concern from now on. I can promise you that. Just do as I say and pass the case over, with all your file notes, to Bill Turner this afternoon. I'll tell him to come to your offices at three o'clock. Why the hell I ever decided to trust you with a case of this magnitude, I shall never know. But one thing is for sure: neither you nor your company will ever work for CFG again – and that is a promise! You can see yourself out.'

He glared again at McRae, raised himself to his imposing height, pushed back his chair, turned and strode out of the meeting room, leaving the stunned McRae, sat with the scattered papers of his file strewn across the table. He remained motionless for a few seconds before coming to his senses.

A deep feeling of emptiness and exhaustion filled his body; he felt weak, almost faint, as he gathered the file together and shovelled it back into his bag. Getting unsteadily to his feet, he inadvertently knocked over the half-filled paper coffee cup and a small rivulet of brown liquid meandered its way to the edge, where it dripped silently onto the carpet tiles.
Fuck it.

Back in the street, McRae gulped in air as the full enormity of the disaster hit him. He felt nauseous; there was a hollow feeling in his stomach. Not for one single moment had he anticipated being kicked off the case. At worst, he had expected CFG to tell him to go away, rewrite the report and resubmit it with a positive recommendation. This outcome was unthinkable.

In no hurry to return immediately to his office, he trudged morosely to the cathedral grounds, where he slumped onto a stone bench.

This was a fucking catastrophe
, he thought. It was way beyond anything he could have anticipated. He had been a total fool when all he had really needed to do was to play the bloody game
.
No experienced adjuster had ever put himself in such an exposed position.
If CFG really want to blow ten million fucking quid, you let ‘em!
For the next twenty minutes, he wracked his brain and desperately tried to figure out a way for the play to be rerun but with a different final scene – to no avail. Smythson would not be changing his mind; the game was up. He looked up for a moment towards the cathedral's baroque tower, as if there could be some salvation. All he could see was that one of the clocks had stopped.

* * *

Entering the office, he was met by a sombre-faced Karen. ‘Frank Jackson wants you. Did he reach you on the mobile?'

His mobile had been switched off since he had entered the CFG meeting room. He hadn't even thought to switch it back on, but now he did. Immediately, no less than three missed calls from Jackson came up on the screen.

The following call with Jackson was almost as traumatic as the meeting at New Street had been. The senior partner had started quietly and sensibly in an almost conciliatory tone as he had explained how he had been alarmed to receive a disturbing call from Smythson. His control had failed him, however, as he spelled out Smythson's concluding remarks. Not only had CFG stated they would never work with Fairclough ever again, but they had made it quite clear too that they would damn them as an amateur, unprofessional company throughout the market. By the time he had finished speaking, his voice had risen by a dozen decibels and McRae was forced to hold the phone away from his ear. Jackson was, without a shadow of a doubt, apoplectic.

McRae spent some time trying to explain, but his heart wasn't in it and frankly he could understand only too well why Jackson felt the way he did. His efforts were clearly to no avail. The call concluded abruptly.

It was Friday and it was two o'clock. McRae told Karen, who was ashen-faced, to photocopy the file in its entirety and pass the original to Bill Turner when he came in. He put on his coat, picked up his keys and left the office without a word to anyone.

He didn't walk far, just the few hundred yards to the Anchor.

* * *

When the end came it was hardly unexpected, but the timing took McRae by surprise. Having made it through the meeting with Smythson and the fraught call with Frank Jackson, he was looking forward to a therapeutic weekend: the pub and football on TV.

He was in the bath at a leisurely ten o'clock on the Saturday morning, his mind a virtual blank, when he heard his landline ringing. By the time he reached the phone, the call had ended. Checking the caller list, it was not a number he recognised. Pushing the call-return button with his still-dripping hand, he heard the phone ring out for no more than a few seconds before the unmistakeable flat tones of Frank Jackson became apparent.

‘Drew?'

‘Frank.'

‘Ah, glad I caught you, Drew. We need to have a chat, I'm afraid.'

Jackson wasted no time. He and his senior colleagues had decided that McRae had become an embarrassment and it would be in everyone's interests (i.e. Fairclough's) if he “moved on” – as he so gently put it. The firm was grateful for all the work that McRae had done over the past fifteen years and was very sorry it had to end this way, but he was sure that McRae could see it was “for the best”. Of course, he would like to have the opportunity for a face-to-face chat, but time was pressing and, in the interests of all concerned, they had concluded it might be better if he cleared his desk over the weekend and didn't bother to show his face in the office on Monday.

Needless to say, Frank would be delighted to see McRae in Manchester someday next week, to talk through the “legal formalities”
–
perhaps when he returned his Audi? Either way, he wanted to make it clear he really didn't want McRae to appear at Castle Street again
.
“It really is for the best” he had emphasised.

‘Anyway, if you have any queries, it may be best to leave them until we meet. However, we do want you to know that we are genuinely sorry that things had to end like this. You were doing so well, too.'

From the first word, McRae hadn't uttered a syllable; he had just listened silently to the older man's rationalisation. Throughout it all, he had felt a curious, dead stillness and inner calm. Nothing was unexpected, apart possibly from Jackson's totally dispassionate, cold and logical tone. He had worked with the company, often closely with Frank himself, for all those years, fondly assuming himself to be one of the chosen. Yet, when it came down to it, there was no relationship there at all. He was a fucking nobody.

I shall respond in kind,
thought McRae.
I'll be
business-like, cool and controlled; the bastard won't get me down.

‘Well, thank you for calling, Frank,' he said eventually. ‘I'll check my diary and fix an appointment with your secretary on Monday, if that's okay? In the meantime, do you want me to instruct Graham Cairns to prepare to takeover?'

‘No, don't bother, Drew, I've asked Terry Donoghue to takeover in Birmingham and we'll move Cairns to Cardiff. Best for him to have a change as well, don't you think?'

For a few seconds, McRae felt his control slipping.
The fucking bastards, giving my job to Terry of all people!
Through the tightest of gritted teeth, he managed to reply. ‘Okay, I understand, I'll be in touch' and without giving Frank Jackson time to make any further comment, he replaced the phone forcefully into its cradle.

Free at last to react, he shouted at the top of his voice. A string of repetitive expletives escaped from his throat like a swarm of angry bees from a hive. Incoherent with impotent anger, he physically jumped on the spot until the towel he had slung around his waist began to slip, forcing him to regain his senses.

Once the initial paroxysm of fury had passed, an icy calm and sense of resolve returned to him slowly. He began to engage his brain.

First thing he needed was a lawyer. Frank could whistle, the next contact he received would be from his solicitor, whoever that turned out to be – and if he wanted the Audi back, he'd better arrange to collect it. McRae wouldn't be making the drive up the M6. He wasn't in the mood to make it easy for them.