The Fire Man (32 page)

McRae hadn't been able to make sense of much of what he had heard, but it was clear that some dramatic, catastrophic event had occurred in the Le Copa directors' office. Something had clearly rattled Smythson's cage badly and something rather nasty seemed to have happened to Kanelos, but what?

He terminated the call to the listening device, checked that the recording had been saved and texted Tranquil:
Speak to me NOW – Urgent!

He reached for his cigarettes; he needed one, regardless of Tranquil's strictures.
It was dark, what the hell?
Struggling from the chair, he collapsed onto the mattress and took a deep drag. His mind was racing.

He tried but failed to translate what he had heard into a scenario he could visualise. The only thing that he knew for certain was that something significant was happening and that it was happening now. O'Connell had suggested in his earlier overheard calls that the fire was scheduled for tomorrow, but he began to wonder:
what if it was all a blind? Perhaps it was being brought forward?

He picked up the phone, but there was nothing from Kit.
What the hell was he doing?
He made up his mind; he would have to take a chance, break his cover and find him. He stubbed out the cigarette on the metal floor and shuffled awkwardly on his backside towards the van doors. His leg was aching and he felt as stiff as a board.

* * *

Once the men had disappeared up the warehouse steps, Tranquil was in a quandary. The lights, having been switched off, meant that although he could safely approach the rear windows, he could in reality see very little. He decided initially to sit it out and wait to see if anything further developed. As time went by and the light continued to fade, he changed his mind. He couldn't resist taking a closer look at whatever it was that had so fascinated the Le Copa men earlier.

He crept cautiously towards the metal-framed casement window and inspected the transom that O'Connell had opened. If he turned a pallet on its side and leaned it against the wall, he calculated that he would be able to reach.

He quietly lifted a pallet and inclined it against the brickwork. Standing precariously on its edge, he was able to comfortably reach through the open transom and release the stay and fastener, which was securing the opening casement. The main window clearly hadn't been opened in years; it was very difficult to budge and emitted a short, but alarming, squeal as it finally came ajar. If anyone had been in the warehouse, they would undoubtedly have heard the din. Tranquil sank down beneath the frame and crouched motionless, scarcely breathing, but heard no reaction from within.

He eased his tall frame through the window with difficulty and lowered himself slowly to the concrete floor. He was shielded from the main central walkway, he knew that much, but the aisles of hanging clothes were slightly disorienting. The darkness was now of such an extent that the only illumination was the dull urban glow of the evening sky through the roof lights.

He was careful to feel his way along the aisle without disturbing the garments on either side. Eventually, he could make out the dim outline of a lighter area ahead. Turning to his right along the walkway, he found, as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he could clearly identify the roof support pillar around which the gang members had been assembled. Using the ghostly emission from his mobile phone, he found he could discern the outline of the objects ahead of him. An alloy stepladder was glinting in the pale light, close to the pillar. It was clear even in the poor light that the pillar had been partially painted. Unusually, it seemed to have been started from the base. A short distance away, just a foot or so from two heavily laden hanging rails, was a pile of what looked like rubbish on the floor.

The pile seemed to consist of wrapping paper mixed with polystyrene packing, the odd rag and bits of polythene film. What was strange, though, even to his inexpert eye, was that there was a bottle projecting slightly from the centre of the pile. He moved forward and again used the pale glow from the phone to survey the scene more closely. As he did so, he saw he had received two messages from McRae. He decided he had no time to read them.

He bent down to gain a clearer view. There was something contrived about the set-up;
it was
, he thought,
like a stage set
. The rubbish pile was just a fraction too neat and too symmetrical, and the position of the bottle was as precise as a dartboard's bullseye. He could smell paint and something else. It was either thinners or white spirit, he guessed, and he looked around for the source. The paint was in an open tin, which had been positioned at the top of the stepladders, next to a container of white spirits. When he checked the rubbish pile, it was clear that the rags were wet with solvent.

He was wary of taking the chance but decided that the scene deserved preserving for posterity. Quickly, he fumbled with his phone's camera function and took three rapid pictures with flash. He would have loved to use the digital compact in his pocket, but he sensed that he didn't have the time. He knew he was pushing his luck; the men could return at any moment. It was time to get out.

Only as he clambered back through the window did Tranquil feel his pulse begin to return to normal. It didn't stay there long. As his right foot felt in the dark for the top of the pallet, the neon lights flickered back into life.

The men were making a lot of noise. They appeared to be struggling with something heavy, at least judging by the grunting, shuffling and cursing that Tranquil could hear. Intrigued as he was, though, he didn't dare to snatch a look. He also decided he couldn't risk closing the window. If that metallic screech occurred again, it would surely be heard. He swore under his breath; if for any reason the guys noticed that the window had been opened, the game would be up.

He crouched, collected his thoughts and listened keenly. The open window permitted him to hear only muffled voices, filtered through the racks and rails of stock. It sounded like the Irishman speaking but the words were unclear. After a while, his knees began to ache, so he cautiously turned his body and lowered himself into a sitting position with his back pressed against the brickwork.

Pulling his phone out, Tranquil read both of McRae's messages for the first time. One thing was certain: he was in no position to speak to McRae, so he texted a curt reply.
Understood.

No sooner had the message left his finger than he heard steps once again on the metal warehouse stairs. It sounded like a single person, but he couldn't be certain. The lights remained switched on for a few minutes and then, quite clearly, he heard a heavier tread on the stairs. This was followed mercifully by the warehouse being plunged into darkness once more.

Erring on the side of caution, Tranquil waited for a further minute before risking closing the window. The screech turned out to be less significant than he had feared.

After making his way across the darkened yard, he quickly opened the gate, deciding to disregard the unavoidable rattle of the chain as he closed it again behind him. He had barely entered the alley when the easily identifiable silhouette of a man and a single crutch appeared against the backlight of Commercial Road's streetlights.

McRae was bursting to speak but Tranquil silenced him by ramming a hand across his mouth. Tranquil then held a finger from his other hand to his lips and they moved, unspeaking, back towards the pub. Once there, and somewhat to McRae's surprise, the other man politely held open the saloon door and gestured for him to enter.

Once inside, while McRae shuffled himself into a booth (ironically it was the very same booth, No 24, he'd occupied when he had first spied O'Connell), Tranquil bought two small whiskies at the bar.

The pub was reasonably busy but the noise levels were disproportionately high. Across the gangway, a group of young women were getting a little out of hand and appeared well on the way to becoming a problem. It was lucky in a way, as the noise meant that no one paid the slightest attention to the two “workmen” in the booth.

They finally had the opportunity to exchange their observations and to make sense of what they had seen and heard, but they knew they didn't have long. It was clear to them both that they couldn't afford to leave the factory unobserved for more than a few moments.

O'Connell should have been worried. The call he'd just received from Spike would normally have called for immediate action.

The van, it had turned out, was indeed dodgy – or, at least,
might
be dodgy, according to McGaughan. While the name corresponded, the address to which the vehicle was registered was an address associated with a private detective.

The way he saw it, there were three possibilities. One: the address was a business centre with many occupants, therefore the connection was coincidental; two: the detective was interested in something else entirely, not Le Copa; three: someone was on to them. The Irishman favoured the latter, but he still wasn't unduly concerned.

According to his watch, which was a Rolex and O'Connell's sole concession to pretentiousness, it was 9.50pm. He intended to get the proceedings underway at 10.05pm precisely. This gave him more than an hour to get to St. Pancras to catch the last train to Brussels.

Within three hours, Mr Michael O'Connell (Irish citizen) would have arrived in Brussels. By 5.20am the following morning, Mr Michael Ahearne (US citizen) would be flying out of Amsterdam bound for Geneva. Within less than twenty-four hours, he would be safely ensconced in his local bar, Delaney's, in Canal Street, Chicago. He smiled at the thought that he would be somewhere where he felt appreciated, and where he would be amongst friends.

God, he loved Chicago. He was tired of this game and he was tired of this old whore of a country. Above all, he was looking forward to starting a new life for himself in a decent country.

The van was a nuisance, there was no denying, but while he would undoubtedly prefer not to be seen leaving Le Copa – just in case any smartarse was capable of identifying him – it wasn't the end of the world. At least, it wouldn't be the end of the world for him; it was a different story entirely for Alex.

He slipped on a pair of fine leather gloves and checked around the office. He walked over to the sideboard and used his handkerchief to wipe down the doors and the top of his desk, before he finally put his feet up and had a sip of whiskey. Not long to go.

* * *

Back in the Peugeot, McRae wearily sorted out his garden chair for the umpteenth time and repositioned himself with his eye pressed to the viewing aperture. The light was still on in the front office, but he could see no movement beyond the half-closed blinds. He relaxed against the backrest of the chair and dialled the listening device once more.

He could hear nothing, but as there was apparently nobody left for the Irishman to speak to, what could he expect? He strained his hearing, but there wasn't a sound – not even the slightest creak of a chair.

Kit and he had both agreed that all the signs strongly suggested that the fire was going to be set this evening and not tomorrow, but they still couldn't be certain. Either way, they had made their fateful decision. The police had to be told without any further delay. Tranquil should be on the line to Boot already. McRae hoped and prayed they would be arriving soon; he really couldn't stand the thought that the gang might get away with it again.

For a moment or two, the nightmarish possibility crossed his mind that they had read it all wrong. If everything turned out by some freakish miracle to be legitimate, he would have blown it beyond redemption. He would be ruined and might even face a rape charge on top.
Unbelievable
! He shivered at the thought, before consoling himself with the sombre realisation that whatever else failed, at least he would still be alive unlike Tina. The thought of her saddened but strangely reassured him. He pinched himself; he had to stay alert. He leaned forward once again towards the tiny hole.

* * *

The call to Boot hadn't gone as well as Tranquil had hoped. In fact, it had been a disaster.

It seemed to Kit that his normally taciturn but sensible former colleague was as high as a kite. In all the years he had known the man, he had never seen him inebriated. Of course, he liked his booze – he was a copper, after all – but he hadn't been a heavy drinker, at least not by CID standards. Tonight, however, just when he needed him to be his usual sharp self, Detective Sergeant Gareth Black had sounded as if he was away with the fairies. He had laughed out loud when Tranquil told him he needed to get down to Le Copa immediately. Even after he had laboriously spelled out precisely what they were expecting, the man hadn't seemed convinced. In desperation, Tranquil had tried to impress on the policeman the potentially tragic consequences if there wasn't some urgent intervention.

He wasn't convinced that the message had got through the alcoholic haze the policeman was drowning in. At the end of the call, Black had said he would, in slurring words, “sort something out” but Tranquil was still concerned. He was so concerned that he seriously wondered whether or not he should make another call – one to someone who wasn't pissed.

* * *

The policeman wasn't remotely drunk, but he was undoubtedly “under the influence”. He was also in a certain amount of pain. It had arrived with a badly infected, compacted wisdom tooth that had flared up, nastily causing him to overdose on both painkillers and more than one medicinal scotch. His mind was clear, though, despite his inability to speak properly.

He had got the message alright, although he wished to hell that this had blown up on some other evening. He made a few phone calls and, fervently hoping he didn't fall foul of some of his more zealous colleagues in the traffic division, he shouted a hurried farewell to his wife (who, in truth, was not disappointed to see him go) and climbed into his car.

* * *

O'Connell picked up his bag from the office floor and took a last quick glance around the room, before clicking the light off and making his way to the stairs. As he made his way along the ground-floor corridor towards the warehouse, he stopped and put the bag down, ready to collect on his way out. He had decided to leave by the front door for one simple reason: he had forgotten the keys to the rear gate.

As he clomped down the metal stairs to the warehouse, he stopped suddenly and listened keenly. He could have sworn he had heard something. He listened intently, concentrating as hard as he could. He was right; it was a sort of scuffling noise, gentle but just discernible. He crept cautiously towards the stepladder, the top of which was just in sight beyond the first bank of racking.

It was Kanelos. He was moving; his legs were twitching spasmodically and his smart loafers scraped against the concrete floor. Even so, his eyes remained firmly closed. O'Connell cursed silently – the last thing he needed was the man becoming conscious. He looked carefully at the figure, which seemed to have moved several feet. He was much closer to the stepladder than he had been before; O'Connell was sure he must have moved.

Decisively, he strode towards Kanelos. ‘Alex!' he said, watching the man's face closely. There was no reaction, not a flicker. He relaxed; Kanelos was still unconscious and whatever movements he had made were clearly involuntary. He stood back and took in the scene one last time. Alex was a little bit close to the ladder, but it didn't matter.

He reached for the blowtorch, turned on the gas supply and lit the flame. Turning down the flame to its minimum setting, he placed the torch on its side, a few feet from Kanelos' body, so that the flame gently licked the concrete floor. The stage was set to his satisfaction.

All he needed to do now was to place his “fuse”, a piece of solvent- saturated rag, close to the blowtorch flame and within a minute or two, the fire would be underway. He stepped towards the ladder with a piece of cloth in his hand, ready to soak it in a little more white spirit, when Kanelos began to move again.

With the cloth still in his hand, he saw Kanelos, whose eyes remained tightly closed, attempting to lever himself up from the ground. He watched as the man moaned and sank back down onto his face, his right hand flailing against the base of the aluminium stepladder. The blow was only slight and glancing, but sufficient to rock the ladder. With horror, almost as if in slow motion, O'Connell saw the plastic canister of spirit fall to the floor between them.

A fountain of solvent sprayed up and over both men. The Irishman felt the acrid taste of the solvent on his lips and realised that his jacket, shirt and jeans had been splattered. Furious, he seized the canister before its contents could discharge fully across the floor and he replaced it, next to the paint can, back on top of the ladder.

Kanelos was no longer moving; he appeared to have lapsed back into unconsciousness. With immense control, O'Connell resisted the almost overwhelming desire to stick his boot, savagely, into the troublesome recumbent figure. He cursed and, using the rag that was still clutched in his hand, did his best to wipe himself with it, before realising he was standing uncomfortably close to the naked flame. He moved away.

Conscious of the fumes emanating from his clothes and wondering how in hell's name to safely place the fuse rag, he frantically looked around. Spotting the broom, which was still leaning artfully against the roof support, he grabbed it and placed the rag on the ground in front of the bristles. Using the broom, he cautiously manoeuvred the rag into position. He was gratified to see the blue flame of the blowtorch beginning to lick at the edges of the fabric. There was no more time to spare.

He ran, two treads at a time, up the warehouse stairs and stopped at the top where he turned and looked down into the storage area, waiting with anticipation to observe the spread of the flame. If it didn't work, he would have no choice but to have another try. For a few seconds nothing much happened, but slowly he could see the flame beginning to gain a hold.

It was time, more than time, for him to leave. He flicked off the overhead light and headed for the hall, cursing himself for his failure to bring any spare clothing – he absolutely reeked. He could feel the cold oiliness of the solvent against his skin, even in what little hair he possessed
. Fucking Alex!

Hopefully he might be able to buy a shirt at Kings Cross or St Pancras, but one thing was certain: he would not miss the train.