The Fire Man (17 page)

It was raining hard, a real summer cloudburst, as John Godwit made it to the office entrance. He had only walked a few hundred yards from Bank station, but his best Italian-style shoes were ruined, he thought gloomily. That was the problem with the British summer; you leave home in Essex in gorgeous sunshine looking a pretty sharp boy, but end up in the office fifty minutes later the image of a drowned rat.

He was pissed off about the shoes.
They were
Paul Smith!
They had cost him plenty. He wasn't convinced that the suit would be salvageable either. All in all, it was not a good start to the day. The sunny disposition he had started the morning with had certainly evaporated. And so it was that while he stood in the small office kitchen making a cup of instant coffee, he was distinctly not amused by the facetious comments emanating from his boss.

‘Don't think I've seen a wet-look suit before, John? Is that from
AQUA
scutum?' sniggered McRae.

Consoling himself with the thought that McRae wouldn't know fashion if he fell over it, John contented himself with a ‘Very funny, boss' before dashing into his office to hang up the suit jacket. It could at least dry into some sort of shape, even if it was no longer his own.

McRae followed him and hovered in the doorway, suppressing a smile, as the young man carefully hung the jacket on a plastic hanger.

‘Get anything from Matt on that bloke, Smythson?' he finally asked.

John replied. It turned out that Matt Ebel had been able to turn up a smidgen of useful history. The word was that Smythson was widely disliked in Consolidated. He was a single man, rumoured to be gay, and had been with Consolidated for over twenty years, though he had allegedly originally studied to be an architect.

He had started his insurance career as a graduate entrant and had worked in the London head office before being progressively promoted (‘fast-tracked' in the jargon) to the position of claims manager of the Scottish Region, based in Glasgow. He had supposedly worked there for several years before transferring to the Midlands Region in Birmingham.

‘Is that it?' asked McRae, the disappointment evident in his tone.

‘Afraid so,' John responded. ‘The only other thing is that he's tipped to get the top job of claims director in a year or two.'

‘Typical – is that why he isn't liked?'

‘Probably, but I suspect the fact that he's supposed to be gay doesn't help either. Anyway, you've met him, what did you think of him?'

McRae grimaced. ‘A total bastard, but I'm biased,' he replied. ‘Anyway, thanks for that, I'm just a bit disappointed that there was no Irish link to be honest.'

‘It must be your lucky day, boss,' smiled John, ‘because there is a tiny Irish link, sort of.'

McRae raised his eyebrows quizzically.

‘The thing is, Consolidated don't write much stuff in the Republic, so the Scottish Region covers Ireland as well. At least, I think that's the case… any use?'

McRae's mind whirred; he decided he liked that answer. ‘It could be John, could be. You've done well; very well. So well, in fact, that I might even buy you a drink at lunch.'

Never mind a drink; I could do with a new pair of fucking shoes,
thought John as he gazed at the departing back.

The Mercedes had turned onto the Westway. McRae gave a sigh of relief that he prayed was not premature. So long as Kanelos remained on the Westway he would be easier to track even at a distance, but there was the danger that a set of traffic lights would scupper him if he let the Mercedes get too far ahead. He couldn't relax for a second, he knew that.

The steady flow of warm air through the car was easier to bear than the static heat had been, but still McRae could feel the dampness of his shirt. The sun was now high in the sky and the temperature was continuing to climb.

As the cars continued past Northolt Aerodrome, McRae began to worry.
How far was Kanelos going?
In a few minutes they would be joining the M40 motorway and it would be safe to follow at a considerable distance without attracting attention.
But, once Kanelos left the motorway, what then?
It could get really tricky and he could not afford to be spotted. If the Greek saw him, he was certain he would remember the man who had nearly caused him much grief.

Sure enough, the Mercedes pressed on over the M25 junction, then onto the M40 and on towards Oxford. If he didn't turn off before Oxford, surely the game would be over. McRae would have to drop back and he would almost certainly lose his target in the city traffic. Alternatively, if he wasn't extremely careful, he'd end up getting too close and he would get spotted. The choice was not an attractive one and McRae elected to maintain a healthy distance, an HGV or two, between the cars.

He found that his hands were gripping the wheel with white-knuckled intensity and forced himself to relax. Indeed, he realised that the man he was following was under no suspicion it was happening. The thought was a comfort.

Suddenly, as they approached Junction 6, about ten miles short of Oxford, McRae, who had undoubtedly switched off momentarily, noticed the Mercedes easing towards the slip road. He gritted his teeth, slammed his foot down and, disregarding the potential consequences, closed the gap on a white Ford Transit that separated him from the Mercedes. God only knew what was at this junction and where Kanelos was headed, but he had to take the risk to see which direction was chosen.

The Mercedes chose the Wallingford road and the Volvo managed to slip past the white van at the roundabout to follow it. He knew he would have to keep well back or Kanelos would surely smell a rat. He switched off the day running lights, hoping to disguise his car a little –
a pathetic gesture
, he thought – and lifted his foot from the accelerator to allow the Mercedes as much distance as he dared.

Ten minutes later, passing through the pleasing but unremarkable village of Watlington, the perspiring McRae, whose concentration had induced a splitting headache, saw the Mercedes, two cars and a couple of hundred yards ahead, indicating a right turn at a set of lights.

Realising he wouldn't get through the lights this time, McRae resigned himself to losing contact, but the green light stayed in his favour for longer than he could have dared to hope. With his heart pounding, he made the turn precisely as the light turned from amber to red. Immediately after the junction, however, there was not the slightest sign of his quarry. The hedge-lined country lane was quiet and narrow, almost single track. If there was anywhere that Kanelos would finally realise he was being followed by a shit-heap, surely this was it?

Crawling now as slowly as he dared along the lane, fearing at any moment that he might come bumper-to-bumper with Kanelos, the outskirts of a village called Roke came into view. With unutterable relief, McRae could see the silver Mercedes pulled up on the cobbled forecourt of a thatched pub. Instinctively, he slammed on his brakes, hoping desperately that there was nothing immediately behind him. The last thing he needed was to be cruising past as Kanelos got out of his car.

There was no movement from the Mercedes. Waiting impatiently a cautious two or three minutes tucked into a field entrance, McRae eventually concluded that he had been sufficiently far behind and that Kanelos had already entered the pub. Nonetheless, he wasn't about to approach it in the Volvo.

Parking next to the
Spar
village shop, McRae mopped his neck with his wet and grubby handkerchief and pulled a black woollen hat out of his glove box. He clambered stiffly out of the car and felt instantly relieved to be finally released from the tyranny of the heated seat.

He allowed himself to cool down, at least as much as the sweltering afternoon would permit, then stretched his arms and bent his legs before donning the beanie hat. He walked to the back of the car, opened the trunk and rooted around before he found what he was looking for. A dark green anorak had been lurking in a corner for months, but it would look totally stupid in this weather. Fortunately, a marginally more suitable navy windcheater, which smelt like an oversized damp dishcloth, was also concealed in the cavernous depths. He pulled it out, winced at both the sour odour and the crumpled appearance, but eventually slipped it on. Finally, he perched his sunglasses on his nose.

He appeared, he was certain, absolutely ridiculous. It must be eighty degrees in the shade. The only saving grace was that he looked like the village idiot. Ludicrous, but, he hoped, reasonably effective. He may have been conspicuous, but he certainly wasn't recognisable. And there was no way he was going to march into the pub looking as he did, but he could at least scout around to get the lie of the land.

He walked decisively past the front of the pub, as if he knew precisely where he was going. A small white-painted building with a thatched roof,
‘The Home, Sweet Home'
possessed a larger car park than he had expected and a beer garden set out with umbrellas, teak chairs and tables. The garden was enjoying a busy lunchtime trade and was crowded with mums, dads, kids and dogs, lying panting in the soporific sun.

Every table was occupied. Just one trestle table in a shady corner was a little out of the ordinary. Around it sat five casually dressed men, one of whom was addressing the others, who all leaned forwards and listened intently. Glancing out of the corner of his eye as he ambled along the roadside and “talking” on his phone, McRae clearly recognised three of them. Lowering the phone, he selected the camera option and took three quick shots, holding the phone at waist level with only the vaguest notion of direction.

Drawn like a moth to a flame, McRae paused once he had rounded the corner and debated whether he should dare enter the pub to closer to the group. He hadn't recognised two of the men, but if he could only get a fraction closer, he might be able to identify them. It was a highly debateable proposition.

His mind finally made up, he approached the front door in the certain knowledge that the men were still in the rear garden. He then made his way to the lounge bar, which was completely empty as anybody with any sense had grabbed a table in the garden. The sun slanted through the low windows at the rear and illuminated millions of floating motes in the air. The bar, which stank of stale beer and disinfectant, was tended by an elderly man with a small and rather greasy moustache, who was washing glasses in the sink. He looked up from his task and stared with obvious amazement at the cartoonish figure of McRae, who realised how preposterous he must have appeared.

Quickly, he removed his glasses and ordered a half of a lager-shandy. He then moved, under the barman's still curious gaze, to a table by the window from which he thought he could safely observe the garden.

The group remained ensconced in the corner, still deep in what seemed to McRae's cynical mind to be a highly conspiratorial discussion. He could clearly identify Kanelos, looking as dapper as usual, Mr O'Connell aka “Tuck” and the distinctive features of Derek Smythson. He couldn't yet make out who the other two were, although one, he thought, could have been George Gallo. The fifth and final man, clearly considerably younger than his colleagues, had his back towards the pub and, try as he may, McRae found it impossible to get a clear view. He thought for a second or two of moving outside into the garden, but soon dismissed the idea.

It was time to go; he knew enough to know that another fire was on the way soon. Better still, he had a damned good idea where it was going to occur.

Calculating that he had sufficient time to answer what was fast becoming a pressing call of nature, he made his way into the small gents, which was located between the lounge and the public bars. After relieving himself, he removed the glasses and hat and splashed water onto his face before washing his hands. He then swivelled towards the rather asthmatic and ineffective wall-mounted hand dryer. He was standing next to the dryer, waiting for his hands to become tolerably dry, as the door opened. A strong odour of aftershave, accompanied by a tall, blue-eyed, blond-haired man entered.

Kanelos appeared to pay him no attention as he moved to the urinal, but at the precise moment that McRae stepped away from the dryer, he glanced in his direction. Their eyes met fleetingly, but McRae could swear he saw a light of recognition dawn in the blue eyes.

He hurried back to his car. He had what he needed. As he climbed behind the wheel, he forced himself to look away from the pub but nonetheless he felt rather than saw, out of the corner of his eye, Kanelos standing in the distant pub doorway gazing in his direction.

It was time to get back to London. He had taken his own investigation far enough. Surely to God the police would be interested now in what he had to say?

She felt good today and it wasn't simply the balmy weather. DCI Forsyth had felt pretty satisfied with her life ever since she had moved to the South.

True, the Reading HQ of Thames Valley Police was almost as anally masculine as Walsall had been, but that extra pip had made a hell of a difference. It seemed to Tina that the higher you rose, the easier the job became. True, the responsibility was greater, but she had never been afraid of responsibility, it was the obstructive behaviour of the people above you that had always irritated her. People like her old boss, Ray Anderson for example. If he hadn't been actively obstructing her investigations he'd been trying his luck, and over time it had become more and more apparent to Tina that she had to get away from him.

Matters had come to a head when she had struggled to get him out of her flat following a boozy and distinctly disorderly Christmas party that the CID had held at Walsall's premier restaurant – the kind of place where they knew the difference between
jus
and gravy, even if the punters didn't.

She had been stupid enough to invite Ray into to her place for a coffee after he had dropped her home. Even as the words were out of her mouth, she had seen the size of the error. Ray wasn't drunk, he wasn't even merry; he knew what he was doing alright.

Her face still burned with shame at the memory of how she had allowed him, as the Victorians would have said, to have his way with her. She had been conflicted, she was definitely the worse for wear, and the worst thing of all was that she hadn't even cared. Ray was simply a man in a moment when she had needed one. Goddammit she had almost encouraged him, allowing him to undress her while her own hand had reached hungrily for his zip.

The following morning, a miserable, grey and windy Thursday, had been the moment she had known that she must move on. The smug, confident and self-satisfied look on Ray's face had been unbearable. At that moment she hadn't just disliked him, she had despised him. So, by the end of the day, she had put in applications for transfer positions to seven separate forces. Within three months, despite all his efforts to obstruct her transfer, the move to Thames Valley had come about. Better still, only six months following the move, she had achieved her much desired, and, in her opinion, grossly overdue, promotion. She was still only thirty-nine and the world, as some would say, was her oyster.

No one could ever have accused Tina Forsyth of being a romantic. She was a pragmatic, straightforward and brutally practical person. She didn't spend much time in introspection, but even she was aware that there was one flaw in her otherwise exciting new life. She had no ‘significant other'; indeed, she had very few friends. Women tended not to like her much, a feeling that was generally mutual, and she would never find herself in any kind of relationship with a fellow officer. Following the experience with Anderson, she kept her distance even more so than before.

She had met a few interesting men who had been prepared to brave her frosty exterior, and she had even had a short-term fling with a successful barrister not long after she had arrived in Reading. Sadly, he had turned out to be a humourless bore on greater exposure.

Within the last few weeks she had also finally moved out of rented accommodation and into a quiet detached period cottage, which was located a few miles outside Henley on Thames. She loved the area; it was a little precious perhaps, but none the worse for that. The house needed some work and she had little time to organise it, but all in all she was content. No, things were not bad by any means. Still, she had to admit that while she had never felt any desire to have children, it would be nice to have somebody to enjoy her rare spare time with.
Sex now and then wouldn't go amiss either,
she thought ruefully.

She had seriously contemplated internet dating, although so far she had resisted the temptation. The problem, of which she was acutely aware, was that she had ridiculously high standards. The men had to be intelligent with a good sense of humour, extremely successful, of course, and at least tolerably attractive. Under no circumstances should they be in the police. In her experience, it was amazing how rarely the right combination appeared.

Funnily enough, that insurance adjuster, McRae, tended to flit across her mind on those rare occasions she was in a reflective frame of mind. . God only knew why. She had only met him once for a few minutes and he certainly hadn't been overly impressive. Overweight, under pressure – and you could hardly call him successful as he had just been sacked! Still, there had been something indefinable about him. A certain look, perhaps it had been his lovely green eyes. Whatever, while the case was nothing to do with her anymore, she had agreed to meet him again after more than 4 years. She must, she concluded, have been stark staring mad.

Now she was on the train from Reading to London Paddington, where she had agreed to meet for their strictly off-the-record chat. It was totally unlike her. The truth was she wouldn't have done that for any old person, so the guy must have something.

By the time she had arrived at Paddington, she had already decided she wasn't going to waste much time with him. There was an exhibition of some recently unearthed Turner sketches she wouldn't mind seeing at Tate Britain, and she also wanted to hit Peter Jones in Sloane Square. She certainly wasn't in town just to see this loser, she told herself. Oh no, it would be a brief interlude in a typically hectic day.

* * *

McRae had suggested they should meet at the café bar on the upper mezzanine at the back of the station. She ascended the stairs carefully, conscious of the restrictions of her pencil skirt. He was there already, sitting on a bench to the left of the bar. At first she didn't recognise him; he was noticeably slimmer and looked healthier and fitter than when she had last seen him. His hair was shorter, too, though his green eyes were just as striking.

He had looked up from the papers on his table as she had entered the bar and he rose awkwardly to his feet, almost knocking his chair over in the process. There was, she could swear, a distinct blush washing over his face. They shook hands, she firmly and him with obvious embarrassment, before he dashed off to the bar to get her the mint tea she requested.

While he was waiting to be served, she surreptitiously appraised him from her seated position. He was definitely looking better than he had, even his suit seemed more fashionable – a dark grey material, worn with a pale blue shirt. … Nice. He was such a bag of nerves, though.

When he returned with the drink, he put it in front of her while she regarded him coolly. ‘Thank you, Mr McRae. Now, we haven't got much time, so you'd better tell me what's bothering you.'

‘Of course... but first let me thank you for taking time out to meet me, Inspector. I honestly didn't think you would bother, so I really am grateful and surprised,' he replied, for the first time looking directly into her face.

‘Actually, its Chief Inspector now,' she responded, before instantly regretting how pompous she sounded. She quickly added, ‘But I was coming to town today anyway, so it really is no hardship.'

And so he began, at first hesitantly and glancing frequently at her to gauge her response, but growing in confidence as he outlined his suspicions and became more convinced of the strength of his own theories. He told her at length what he had uncovered and stressed he believed strongly that the gang was still active, and of his belief that Le Copa could be the next bonfire lined up.

She listened patiently, which he began to appreciate was very much her trademark, and interrupted him only once to ask him to repeat a point.

Eventually, he had finished. He relaxed and leaned back in his chair to listen to her response. It wasn't what he expected.

‘I am interested, Mr McRae,' she paused, ‘but I don't think I can help you.' She saw his face fall in disappointment, before adding, ‘At least, not personally. I am currently in charge of the burglary division of Thames Valley Police. The “crimes”, if that's what they are, have occurred outside my jurisdiction – you must realise that. You will, I'm afraid, need to go back to either West Midlands or Merseyside.'

‘If that all you can tell me, we've both been wasting our time,' the angry words escaped from McRae's mouth before he could stifle them. He couldn't help himself; he was furious. ‘Anyway, thanks for coming. I'd better get off.' He began to get to his feet. As he did so, her cool right hand closed over his wrist.

‘Sit down, Mr McRae.'

For a moment he was tempted to snatch his hand away, but instead he stared intently at her and saw that she was smiling. She wasn't simply smiling, she was almost laughing. He sank back into his chair.

‘You think I'm funny?' he demanded.

‘To be honest, yes I do,' she replied. ‘You're very funny, almost hysterical, but I actually think you might be onto something.'

A wave of relief passed through his body. Unless she was a total piss-taker, perhaps she would help after all. Pulling himself together, he smiled back at her and suddenly, before he knew it, he was laughing out loud. Her own laughter joined his and within seconds they were giggling helplessly like a pair of imbecilic children. Quite what was so funny, neither of them had the slightest idea, but it was certainly cathartic. Their shared tension had been snapped. It was somehow okay now.

‘Can we have a proper drink now as you're off-duty?' McRae finally asked as their laughter subsided.

Seeing no reason or point in objecting, Tina decided to have a small glass of wine. As McRae wandered off to the bar, she tried to pull herself together.
This really won't do
, she thought,
but what the hell.

For the next half an hour, the two talked at length and at ease, before Tina pronounced that she really did have to get going if she was going to fit in the Tate and the shops. It seemed natural, almost pre-ordained, that he join her in the visit to the Tate. As a somewhat lesser painter himself, he deemed it appropriate.

The gallery was relatively quiet; they had hit the best time of day –mid-week and mid-afternoon; perfect. After a rather cursory glance at the Turners, many of which were disappointingly small, Tina needed little persuasion to adjourn to the café. It was as if they were both anxious to return to their confidences. The whole thing was bizarre.
What,
she thought,
had happened to her inner ice queen?
She felt strangely relaxed and comfortable with this man.

The café had temporarily been moved into an open-sided marquee, which was located on the lawn at the front, and they sat at a small cast-iron table. To her amazement, Tina found herself having a second glass of wine; normally she didn't touch a drop until the sun went down.

There were only three other tables occupied in the garden and Tina was surprised and a little alarmed to see a woman waving to her with a gallery leaflet from the furthest table. She was about fifty and had short grey hair, a trim figure and was dressed in a smart navy suit. It took a second or two before she recognised the woman: Anne Daventry, only
the
Anne Daventry. The woman was a bit of a legend in the Met; she was a Commander and had headed the Anti-Terrorism squad, which was a distinct coup for a woman. Tina had attended several conferences where she had been a speaker. She waved back in acknowledgement, desperately hoping that Commander Daventry wouldn't expect to have a chat, but it seemed that her fears were unjustified as the woman immediately resumed talking to her companion, a heavily-set woman in a floral dress.

‘Who is that?' asked McRae.

‘Just a colleague,' responded Tina.

It was time to get back down to earth. For the next twenty minutes they debated and analysed the known facts, or at least what McRae claimed to be known facts. He had taken the precaution of listing the key names and dates on a piece of A4 and had also managed to incorporate two photographs, which had been taken on-site in Walsall by Grim. Both of them featured, entirely fortuitously, rather distant images of Kanelos, O'Connell and George Gallo amongst others. He had helpfully ringed and named the figures. He pointed out the short stocky, balding figure of O'Connell, but Tina, he noticed, showed rather more interest in the strikingly handsome Kanelos.

Before they knew it, it was 4.15pm and the garden was in shade, the air was growing cold and the slight breeze coming off the Thames was becoming uncomfortable.

Time to put things back into some sort of order,
Tina concluded.

‘Okay, Drew, I've told you that I truly believe you may be onto something, but – stay calm – the fact remains that this case is well and truly out of my jurisdiction. What we need to do is put together what we've got and pass it to either Walsall or Liverpool, and get their fraud people onto it. You do realise that, don't you?'

She stared intently into his face and he held her gaze, no longer seeing the professional but simply a damned good-looking woman.

He nodded.

‘So no more Sam Spade stuff from you, I'm afraid. I'll make a few discreet internal enquiries and then I'll get back to you, always assuming that you want me to contact you again?' she said archly.

‘Well, what do you think?' He responded, emboldened by the clear come-on. ‘Tell you what, I'll do a deal with you. I'll stop doing any more detecting, if you'll come for dinner with me next week – how about that?'

Tina snorted and pursed her lips almost provocatively, transforming the tough and sophisticated woman briefly into a distinctly playful girl. It was a change that McRae would have hardly thought possible a few hours ago.

‘I'll think about it,' she replied, ‘but it can't be next week or the week after because I'll be on a course at Bramshill. I'll let you know when I'm back.'

He reached across the table, squeezed her cool hand and gave it a playful shake. ‘Done deal.'