The Fire Man (27 page)

It was at precisely the moment when the two policewomen were shaking hands in the freshly refurbished American Bar of the Savoy that McRae coughed. It was 7.16pm by the ward clock. His eyes opened a fraction, before he again subsided into blankness.

A few hours later, at 3.35am, he stirred again. His eyes remained resolutely closed, but his head turned on the pillow. His right leg twitched.

By the early hours of the morning, his eyes were wide open although he was conscious of nothing. The nursing assistant, who was tidying up the detritus that had accumulated in the ward, was the first to notice. She called Samuel, the male nurse on night duty, and he pulled the screens around the bed. He then sat beside McRae's bed and seized his right hand, squeezing it slightly while he spoke to him quietly. There was no response; the lights were on but there was no one at home. It was just after seven and he was set to go off duty in twenty minutes.

He drew back the screens and made his way to the nurses' station to write up his notes. He'd just finished when Moira arrived to take over from him, though she was a little early. He stood and eased himself past her, smelling the coffee in her hand enviously as he did so.

They exchanged a little social chitchat and he told her what a tedious night he had endured, before commenting casually: ‘You might want to take a quick butchers at Mr McRae. He's showing some signs, got his eyes open – anyway, got to go. See you tomorrow, babe.'

And thus it was that Moira, a jovial, seriously overweight, hard-smoking, hard-drinking nurse of fifteen years' experience, was the first representative of the NHS to hear a word from Mr Drew McRae.

Maybe “word” was putting it too strongly. Whatever he said or attempted to say was merely a soft painful groan to the listener. It was enough, however, to alert her to his slow and painful return to consciousness. She held his hand and asked him to squeeze her own. A faint contraction of his fingers indicated he had not only heard but had understood her request. It was a vital development. He was, she concluded, back in the land of the living.
Poor sod.

* * *

It was nearly four days before the post-traumatic amnesia eased sufficiently for McRae to begin to recall what had happened. He could remember going to the pub and entering the warehouse via the cellar, but nothing beyond that. Ludicrously, he couldn't recall
why
he had entered Le Copa. He could remember, spasmodically, small details, but not what he had been hoping to achieve by getting into the warehouse. When asked repeatedly by Tina and Suzanne whether he had been climbing over the wall, he couldn't say. The only thing he could say for certain was that he did remember how dangerous the wall had been, and he therefore couldn't believe he would have been stupid enough to scale it. Suzanne and Tina had exchanged doubting glances at this remark.

He was feeling much better. The ribs were strapped up, the leg had been set and he was plastered up to the thigh. He had understood only too well when Dr Sutherland had told him he would probably always walk with a limp. 'Have to give up the ballet then,' he had said with an appropriately lame attempt at wit. His head still ached frequently, but the fracture was healing quickly. Most of the time he was comfortable; the sedatives and painkillers cocooned him in a warm drowsy world that helped the time pass.

It was curious, he thought, that the most trivial injuries irritated him the most. Breathing through the broken nose was a constant bugbear and the chipped teeth were a continual irritant. He began to focus on getting out of hospital – the sooner he was out, the sooner he could see his dentist. In the meantime, he intended to continue to avoid seeing himself in the mirror. He had been shocked when Suzanne had delighted in showing him his reflection in her make-up mirror.

* * *

The weeks passed and he became increasingly obsessed with his release. The ribs still ached, but everything else apart from his leg had moved on a pace. Boredom had quickly set in and he wanted out. The monotony of hospital life was eating into him.

Today, he had already read the papers, watched a little TV, checked a couple of reports for the office, spoken to Grim on the phone – who had made him laugh, though it had been at some cost to his painful ribs. What else could he do this afternoon? He fiddled with his battle scarred, but still operational phone. Who could he call? There was no point calling Tina; she would be in later. He didn't feel like calling his brother, either. Karen would be working. He'd already called the office twice.

Idly, he scrolled through his contacts. Not for the first time he became depressingly aware of just how few real friends he had. Still, quality counted for more than quantity, he supposed.

It was then that something struck him: the initials “SD” followed by a mobile number. In a flash, it all came back to him. He sighed with pleasure and unutterable relief. He had squared the circle. He remembered, finally, why he'd been creeping into La Copa. The satisfaction that the missing fragment of his memory had been restored was immense, absolute. It had been frightening him that a part of his life, no matter how small, might be missing forever.

Was the plug adaptor still there or had Kanelos and his chums found it? He didn't hesitate; it was time to try it out. He pressed the call button and heard a slightly strange, almost strangulated tone as the device activated. Then: absolutely nothing. He strained his ears. Had it worked, or not? He hadn't a clue. He terminated the call in disappointment.

As he carefully and painfully rotated his body to replace the phone on top of the bedside cabinet, he caught sight of the wall clock. It was twenty past bloody five! No wonder there wasn't any sound, even the mice would have clocked off. Maybe the thing was working after all? He didn't know, but he certainly thought it might be worth another try. It would have to wait, though. In the meantime he settled down to drowse, before realising it would be a complete waste of time. In NHS hospitals, dinnertime arrived early – too early. He picked up the paper again and turned reluctantly to the chess problem. He'd never been any good at chess.

* * *

By the time Tina arrived, McRae had been fed (chicken curry – unlike any curry he had ever tasted, yet not totally inedible) and watered. He had even managed to shave. The shave had been a thoroughly bad idea, though. He looked worse rather than better, certainly more of his battered face was visible. Sometimes, the less you could see the better, thought Tina.

Nevertheless, his spirits had clearly improved markedly. The consultant had confirmed he really would be released within a couple of days. In his mind, he could already taste his first drink. For some reason, he had decided upon a vodka martini, which was perverse as he normally didn't touch vodka. Maybe his personality had been altered by the bump on the head? Probably not, he concluded, as he knew that he was still deeply attracted to Tina. In fact, it was all he could do to keep his hands off her the last couple of times she'd visited – ribs or no ribs.

He had decided not to mention anything just yet about the device, thinking, with his usual twisted logic, that it would be better to make sure it was working first. Of course, this also meant he had to keep quiet about his memory recovery. For her part, Tina had simply told McRae she had turned up some better information on O'Connell, who used to have connections with the IRA and that she did now have a strategy. She had also said they should only decide their next step once McRae was out of hospital.

In truth, even McRae had become, at least temporarily, relaxed about the fraudsters. For now, his primary obsession was getting himself out of St Thomas' and sorting out his irritating teeth.

When the couple parted, it was agreed that their next meeting would be on the outside. McRae watched Tina walk away and began to fantasise about what he would do to her once the plaster came off his leg – or maybe even before.

His erotic reverie was disturbed when a tall, long-haired man poked his impressive nose around the screen.

‘Mr McRae?'

‘That's me, and you are?'

‘Kit, Kit Tranquil. Hope I'm not disturbing you?'

‘Ah, no, no. Not at all. Suzanne told me you might pop in. It's good to meet you after all this time.'

‘I guess you would have preferred it to be in somewhat different circumstances, though,' remarked the visitor. ‘Okay if I grab a chair?'

‘Course, help yourself.'

After an uneasy silence in which each man appraised the other, McRae felt obliged to start the conversation. ‘So, I finally got a bit of coverage in
Lloyd's List,'
he said.

‘Not just that, you got a mention in
Post Magazine
and the
Insurance Times,'
replied Tranquil. ‘Coverage to die for, you might say.' His smile made it clear that he was intending no offence. McRae, who appreciated mordant wit, returned the smile.

For no apparent reason, it was immediately clear to McRae that Christopher Tranquil was a kindred spirit. He felt at ease with the man – a sensation that he rarely felt with others in the insurance industry. He reminded himself that, of course, Tranquil was hardly a typical insurance man and certainly a somewhat unusual ex-copper.

For a start, there was something aristocratic about the man's appearance; the patrician nose and the strangely delicate lips leant him refinement.
And that voice!
The slight drawl was almost public-school in its confidence.
Maybe he was an Old Etonian?

Without a second's thought, he said what he was thinking: ‘You a public-school man, Kit?'

Surprised at the bluntness, not to say rudeness, of the query, Tranquil laughed as he replied, ‘God no, I just scraped into a grammar school before they turned it into a comprehensive. However...' he paused for a second, ‘my parents were, I suppose, a tad on the genteel side, so I guess it may show through in my voice. You?'

‘Snap. Old-style grammar as well, but I'm afraid there was nothing remotely elevated about my parents. Anyway, I'm sorry to have been so rude. Blame it on my concussion!'

With the ice well and truly broken, the two began to exchange chitchat about characters they both knew in the market (quite a few), clients they had in common (none), before, inevitably, the conversation turned to what McRae had begun to think of as the “wall incident”.

All the time they had been chatting, McRae had been debating whether or not to divulge to Tranquil that the injuries he had suffered were related to the same case that Academy Investigations had helped him on over four years earlier. He decided, on balance, that it might not be wise. In the circumstances, he simply indicated he had been carrying out what he referred to as a little “survey of risk”, when the dodgy wall had fallen on him.

It was as clear as NHS soup that Tranquil didn't buy it, but he was too polite to say anything other than: ‘I see, yes, bloody unfortunate, eh?'

‘Certainly was,' replied McRae, feeling a warm sensation in his cheeks.

‘So, when do you get out of here?' asked Tranquil eventually. ‘If you fancy a quickie in town once you're back in harness, it would be great to have another catch-up.'

‘Yeah, that would be good,' replied McRae with genuine warmth. ‘To be honest, I think I'll be out in a few days. I'm feeling miles stronger and I really can't wait.'

With their meeting clearly at an end, the two men shook hands. As Tranquil stood up to leave, he said, as an apparent afterthought, ‘By the way, whatever happened with that Greek fellow, Kanelos, wasn't it? The guy I researched for you?'

McRae looked blankly into the penetrating eyes, before eventually mumbling, ‘Oh, him, yes. I'll tell you all about it next time we meet.'

The lights of the Strand appeared as blurred wet stars as she left the hotel's art deco foyer. The air was chilly and the wind was gusting forcefully from the river. It was shaping up to be a filthy night and the pavements were unusually quiet, almost deserted, as she scurried past vagrants, who were trying, unsuccessfully, to sleep beneath cardboard sheets in shop doorways.

Nothing could impair Tina's mood. She was filled with a fuzzy sense of controlled euphoria; everything was moving in a positive direction. She felt lightheaded and warm, even though she regretted having chosen the lightweight raincoat.

The interview – because she was in absolutely no doubt that that's what it had been – had gone exceptionally well. Commander (‘call me Anne, please') Daventry had been as direct and no-nonsense as her reputation suggested. She was a very tough cookie, but she had a great sense of humour. And while, ostensibly, the meeting had been purely social, it had quickly become clear that Tina was being put through her paces.

They covered a wide range of topics: her experience in the Midlands, the innovations she had introduced to the Thames Valley Robbery Squad, fascinating insights into the Met's Terrorism Unit and, of course, the problems that all women faced in the macho culture of policing. Personally, Tina suspected that Anne Daventry probably faced no resistance at all. She, almost certainly, was the toughest officer, of either sex, she had ever met.

The strange thing about the meeting was that it had been Tina who had suggested it and yet it had felt as if she had been ordered to attend a disciplinary panel. It wasn't that the older woman had been anything other than courteous or considerate. It was just that Daventry had clearly done her homework. She knew everything worth knowing about Tina and her career, although she had been careful not to make it too obvious.

The commander's natural authority was so pronounced that in her presence, Tina, despite her own considerable strengths, couldn't help feeling almost juvenile. Nevertheless, she knew Daventry had liked what she had seen. Even when Tina had, finally and extremely cautiously, broached the subject of the unorthodox fraud case into which she had become
tangentially
embroiled, Daventry's eyebrows had merely lifted a little. She had kept her thoughts to herself, suggesting merely that Tina would no doubt deal with the matter appropriately “when the time was right”. However, if she required assistance at any time, she need only to ask. The assurance, while of little consequence, was of great comfort.

When the question came, it was out of the blue, ‘Would you ever fancy working in my unit?'

‘I'd love to, Anne,' she had responded without a second's thought.

‘Good, something's coming up soon. It'd be up one grade, but that might not be a problem. I'll let you know.'

It had been as casual as that. She had been hooked.

* * *

She glanced at her watch, struggling to read the face despite the streetlights' glow. It was getting late. She decided to abandon the idea of a tube from St Pancras. She'd grab a cab to Paddington instead. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the familiar yellow glow of a taxi sign. She raised her arm to signal to the driver and saw him start to slow. Thinking she would try and call McRae from the cab (perhaps he was still awake?), she stepped off the kerb between two queuing cars and began to cross the road to the small central reservation, her collar up against the driving rain.

The impact was sudden, almost painless. The courier's motorbike caught the slightest glancing blow to her right lower leg. It was enough. She was spun slowly, her body rotating until she faced backwards, away from salvation. She landed almost softly, her head coming finally to rest against the top of the granite kerb stone.

It was the sheer unnaturalness of the position that horrified the elderly cabbie as he ran, as fast as his legs would permit, across the road towards her. He leaned over and looked carefully at the beautiful blue eyes staring sightless at the stars as the rain stained her blonde hair. Turning away, he was promptly and uncontrollably sick.