The Fire Man (10 page)

He wasn't in the mood to speak to Grim either. It sounded as if Jackson had already briefed Grim and Terry before speaking to him – the whole thing was unbelievable!

Still, it couldn't be avoided. He finished drying himself, dressed quickly in a fresh shirt and a pair of jeans he had dragged out of the washing basket and put the kettle on. After making a cafetière of coffee, McRae sat down at the kitchen table, disconnected his mobile from its charger and stared at it for a few moments.

What the hell was he going to say?

He didn't have long to cogitate. Within seconds, the Nokia began to vibrate in his hand and Grim came on the line.

‘Drew?'

‘Yup.'

‘Have you spoken to Frank?'

‘No, but he has spoken to me. Presumably he's already spoken to you?' he said, unable to disguise the acrimony he felt.

‘Yeah, he called me ten minutes ago. I tried to call you five minutes later but your line was already engaged. I presume you were speaking to him.'

McRae felt a sense of relief. It seemed that Frank had cued the calls up carefully. Perhaps it wasn't a case of Grim being a disloyal bastard, as he had originally feared. In that brief moment, he felt a perverse sense of elation, but one that was tainted with a feeling of regret at having suspected his friend so readily.

‘Drew, Drew, you still there?'

Realising belatedly that he had drifted off inside his head, McRae shook himself. ‘Yeah, yeah, I'm here. Just lost you for a minute. So, what do you think?'

‘Never mind what I think, what do you think? Bastards!'

‘Well, as Frank said to me “It's all for the best” I guess.' Curiously, even as he spoke the words with a deeply sarcastic emphasis, he found himself believing that they might actually be true.
Perhaps there really had been no other credible outcome?

‘Bollocks,' replied Grim,' it's a total disgrace. Fifteen sodding years you've been with the company and you've never put a foot wrong. Rising star and all that shit. Then one case goes tits up and this shit happens. It's not even as if we were wrong and you that know that better than I do.'

‘Come on, Grim, you told me on day one, if I recall, that I was taking a fucking chance. You were right. I just took one stupid chance too many.'

‘Yeah, well. You may be relaxed about being slung on the scrapheap, but I think it's a joke. Just make sure you screw ‘em for every bleeding penny.'

‘Don't worry about that, my friend, I will do. I was debating who to use when I remembered that bitch that represented Helen in my divorce. You remember me talking about her?'

‘How could I forget? You went on about her for weeks. Made her sound like a cross between Cruella De Vil and Myra Hindley, with a touch of Claudia Schiffer thrown in! Why the hell would you want to use her?'

‘Because, bitch though she was, she was bloody good. Course, she might not handle employment law, she might just be a divorce specialist, but she was the only person I could think of. Anyhow, that's neither here nor there for the moment. The main thing is that I'm going to have a bloody good go – you can count on that. Let's hope she can screw Jackson as well as she screwed me! And by the way, what about you? Let's face it: Terry taking over here is giving you a massive break. Practised your Cardiff accent on Moira yet?'

McRae could imagine a grimace flitting across the other man's face. ‘She's out, shopping, so I haven't had a chance to tell her? We only moved here a year ago, so she's not going to be thrilled about upping sticks to Cardiff already, is she? Bloody good job we've no kids yet, I suppose. To be honest with you, though, it is exciting for me – but I swear to God I would never, ever have wanted it to end like this, honestly.'

Hearing the slight tremor and earnestness in Grim's voice, McRae knew that his friend's sentiment was sincere. ‘I know you wouldn't, but I wonder whether Terry feels the same?' he replied.

‘God knows, but in all fairness he didn't look for it either, did he?'

As he soon as he ended the call with Grim, McRae called Terry. The phone rang out and was unanswered. He decided not to leave a message.

* * *

Later that sunny morning, McRae entered the pin code for his office for the last time. Saturdays were good for quiet departures. He knew what he was going to do. He spent the next two hours duplicating the Hellenic file to create his own personal copy, wrote update notes on half a dozen other current files, emptied his desk drawers of personal items (mainly half-finished packets of cigarettes) and spent fifteen minutes ferrying boxes and bags to his car. The last objects to be moved were his precious pictures.

The construction site across the road was busy, even on a Saturday. The building was clearly nearing completion; the windows were fully glazed and the scaffolding was coming down. It had advanced noticeably over the last month –
unlike
, he thought ruefully,
his own career.

He turned to leave the office for what he knew would be the last time; his hand was on the door handle as the phone rang on his desk.
Fuck it
, he thought and heard the plaintive tone continuing to ring unheeded as he closed the door.

Approaching his car, the keys in his right hand, a plastic Tesco bag of desk-drawer bric-a-brac dangling from the other, his mobile rang. In the concrete cavern of the car park, the tone was sharply metallic. He put the bag down and groped for the Nokia.

‘McRae.'

‘Hello, Mr McRae,' the voice was pleasant yet distant. ‘Its D.I. Forsyth of West Midlands CID here. I just wanted a few words about the Hellenic fire with you, if it's convenient?'

‘To be honest, Inspector, it's not that convenient at the moment – and as I've just been given the bloody elbow, I'm not sure I'm the right man for you to talk to anyway.' He realised belatedly that he had completely failed to conceal his bitterness. He had sounded like a petulant child.

There was a moment's silence before the unruffled reply came. ‘I'm sorry to hear that, Mr McRae, but I still think it might be useful to have a chat. Can we meet up sometime in the next couple of days?'

Her voice was even, cool and firm. McRae somehow felt it would be churlish or even unwise to decline the invitation.

‘Well, if you honestly think it is worthwhile, then fine. Can I call you later?' After taking her number, McRae finished the call and, with a mental shrug, climbed into his car.

Cruising back down the Hagley Road half-listening to an old Peter Frampton album, he spotted an estate agency. Without even pausing to think any further, he decided to call in to set up a valuation inspection for his flat.
There was no point hanging around
, he thought,
the sooner I get out of this place, the better
‘Show me the way' indeed! Thank you, Mr Frampton.

* * *

The sense of misplaced euphoria dissipated instantly as he turned into the drive opposite his apartment block. He couldn't just ignore Karen and the rest of the gang. He would have to meet them soon, to say goodbye properly. Although every bone in his body wanted to disappear from Birmingham today, he knew he couldn't.

He had been putting off speaking to Karen ever since the call to Jackson. She would be devastated, he knew, but now he could delay no more. Without getting out of the car, he called her. She was stunned, but controlled and not completely surprised.
Good old Karen,
he thought.
If she had started crying, I might have too!'
They continued to talk before Karen came out with:

‘So what exactly are you going to do now?'

‘Not a clue,' he lied. ‘Think I'll go off to Crete, spend a week or so with the old lady and think things through.'

‘Well, let me know when you've decided, Drew, you may need me,' she replied lightly.

‘Course I will, Karen. In the meantime, though, can you do me a favour and fix up a little drinks session at the Anchor for Wednesday evening? Say, six-ish?'

‘Ok, will do, but if you need a chat this evening, we could meet for a drink?'

‘Thanks for that, Karen, I really appreciate it,' he replied. ‘I might just take you up on that offer, but I'll call you later if it's a runner.'

Concluding the call and having absolutely no intention of calling Karen later, he put the phone back in his jacket pocket and began wearily transferring the contents of the boot to his flat. The overwhelming depression he had somehow evaded in his demob mind-set finally settled over him as he softly shut the door.

* * *

The “wake”, for that's what it undoubtedly had been, had ended at around ten. He had expected it to be depressing, but somehow the drinks session at the Anchor had been pleasant enough. The initial awkwardness had burnt off like the morning mist on a summers' day and, within a remarkably short time, a healthy spirit of piss-taking and funereal humour had prevailed. But now, the others had gone – even Grim, who had clearly had a pass for the evening from Moira, had reluctantly departed, reminding McRae as he left of the dinner on Friday. Now, only Karen remained.

McRae was a very long way from sober and yet the presence of Karen, her hips pressing lightly into his side, had a distinctly chilling effect. She, of course, was anything but inebriated. True, she had had a few glasses of wine, but it seemed to him that she knew exactly what she was doing as she crossed her graceful legs alongside him and half- turned to look at him closely. He felt his eyes slide down towards her white blouse and forced himself to lift his eyes back to hers.

‘You look done-in, Drew.'

‘Yeah, think I am. Time to go home.'

‘Shall we share a cab?'

His mind worked quickly, despite everything, and he replied, ‘No, better not, Karen, it'll take far too long for one of us if we do that. You live in totally the wrong direction.'

‘I'm not bothered, I think I need to make sure you get home okay. Come on,' she replied, getting to her feet and pulling lightly on his arm.

Outside, it was a beautiful, still evening and as they walked slowly towards the cab rank on Castle Street, McRae felt Karen's arm link with his own. For once. he didn't mind. It felt right; she felt right.

As the cab negotiated the series of traffic islands at the end of Broad Street, McRae found himself sliding closer to Karen. By the time they pulled up at his flat in Edgbaston, his right arm was around her slim shoulders and her face was buried in his chest. He could feel a small damp patch on his shirt as she disentangled herself and, despite the gloom inside the cab, he could see that her face was moist and her normally immaculate make-up was slightly smudged.

Briefly and clumsily, they kissed. He then turned, paid the driver a ridiculous sum to cover her onward journey, mumbled ‘I'll text you' and was gone, striding unsteadily towards the flat entrance.

Dave Jensen had been right, which could not always be said.

Tina Forsyth was, without doubt, the best looking cop McRae had ever seen – by a country mile. Admittedly, female police officers in real life, as opposed to the TV versions, were not a particularly glamorous bunch, at least not in McRae's experience, but DI Forsyth was an attractive woman by any standards. He found it difficult to reconcile the woman in front of him with the chilly voice he had heard during their phone call. If it was possible to be stunning with little or no make-up and wearing a plain jumper and slacks, then Tina Forsyth undoubtedly managed it. It was plain that she was used to being stared at and she assumed a business-like manner that quickly made clear her professionalism.

She was also revealing herself to be extremely sharp, which wrong-footed McRae, who generally found the police to be less than quick on the uptake. His experience of the “boys and girls in blue” had led him to have somewhat jaundiced views of the profession. In his ungenerous opinion, most of the people who joined the police, particularly in the uniformed branch, had dubious semi-fascist motives for doing so. As for the CID, well… he had only previously dealt with a single detective, who had been remotely interested in fraud or any other so-called “white-collar” crime.

DI Forsyth's intellect had become apparent within a few minutes of talking. She had been courteous, with a more delicate brand of sarcasm than most, but she had forensically dissected the information that McRae had outlined. At one point, she had stopped him completely in his tracks with a withering, almost scornful, but ever so polite, put-down when he had begun to run a little ahead of himself in his conjecturing.

Still, she had listened and, most importantly, had appeared to understand the proposition. For the first time in his life, McRae was seriously impressed by a police officer… in more ways than one.

Nevertheless, when the interview concluded, DI Forsyth had left McRae in no doubt that there was little chance of police involvement. Her grey eyes had fixed on his as she had painstakingly, pedantically explained the restraints under which West Midlands Police were forced to work.

‘I appreciate you taking the time to see me, Mr McRae, and I am sorry, of course, that you will not personally be involved in the matter any further, but if any hard information happens to come your way, please don't hesitate to let me know,' she had concluded.

‘Well, regrettably, I definitely won't be involved any further, but it is always possible, I suppose, albeit bloody unlikely, that the new guy handling the matter might need a chat, so I'll pass a file note on to him accordingly. But, at least I appreciate you not laughing me out of court!'

‘I would never do that,' she replied softly, smiling for the first and only time. ‘I don't think your suspicions are ridiculous at all, Mr McRae. I just don't think we have enough to get involved.'

They shook hands, and McRae was conscious that her fingers were dry and warm, which he supposed was undoubted proof of a cold, cold heart.

With a gentle ‘Good luck' ringing in his ears, McRae turned and descended the Green Lane police station steps and strode towards his car.