The Fire Man

by Iain Adams

  What intrigued him further was the shareholding division. Kanelos seemingly owned 40% of the shares, Angelous had 9% and another company under the name of OCV Ltd owned the balance. If the information was correct, Hellenic had changed ownership completely. Consolidated may have insured the company uneventfully for years, but over the last six months it had quietly, effectively become another beast entirely.

  To his credit, Kevin had also attempted to run a search on OCV but had established that it was a company registered in the Irish Republic. There would eventually be information available on OCV, but he hadn’t got it yet. Kevin also pointed out that there was little information on Kanelos himself. It seemed unlikely that his only interest was Hellenic. After all, according to his address, the man lived in Kensington and showed all the signs of being pretty wealthy – or “a rich bastard” as Kevin had succinctly put it. What’s more, he hadn’t popped up on any Google searches, apart from a single listing as a former pupil at Westminster School.

  McRae’s interest was heightened at this. Westminster School, Britain’s third most influential public school, alma mater of umpteen Prime Ministers, was not a school for nonentities. Kanelos must surely have a wealthy background and he absolutely must have other business interests. How the hell did he come to be involved in a provincial rag trade operation like Hellenic for God’s sake? Curiouser and curiouser.

  Dave’s report was less interesting. He had tracked down Detective Inspector Tina Forsyth and had even managed to meet her for a chat. As expected, the police were simply treating the fire as ‘deliberately started by persons unknown’ and, reading between the lines, were not inclined to pursue the matter much further unless someone gave them very good reason. However, Forsyth hadn’t totally ruled out police involvement and had shown a little more interest than most, but the message was clear: unless Fairclough could come up with something solid, they were too busy to take an interest.

  At least Dave had enjoyed the meeting with Forsyth. “Best looking copper I’ve ever seen,’ he joked. ‘You ought to get yourself round there, Drew! Anyway, she might call you. I gave her your card in case anything turns up.’

  ‘Gee, thanks, Dave,’ McRae replied drily.

  The Balfour report was useful though. Attached to it were a series of detailed, magnified photographs, showing quite clearly the formerly microscopic sewing machine holes. Balfour had also been able to confirm that labels had originally been attached to the garments.

  Every single aspect of the claim was turning out to be unsatisfactory. Nothing was straightforward. The problem was that every question simply led to another question. They were no nearer to a resolution, yet were more and more certain that the claim was fraudulent – or were they?

  McRae repeatedly questioned himself. Am I obsessed with getting a result here, or should I just get on with wrapping up a fast settlement and keeping my nose clean? He knew the answer; he should sort the claim out nicely, stick in a bloody big fee and hope that CFG were happy. Frank Jackson would be delighted, Wagner would be rich and Hellenic would be over the moon – sometimes there were no prizes for rocking the boat.

  He knew what he needed: one of those nerdish, geeky, foul-smelling, basement-dwelling teenage geniuses so beloved by fiction writers. Someone who could effortlessly hack their way into Kanelos’s email account, his bank account, mobile phone, the Pentagon and anything else useful – like that girl, (or was it a bloke?) in The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. God, that would be handy.

  Unfortunately, the only geek he knew was Fairclough’s very own in-house IT man, a balding alcoholic whose answer to every technical problem was limited to a reboot with the on/off switch. He strongly suspected that the kind of miracle hacker he was looking for would most likely already be in custody awaiting extradition to the States for penetrating the CIA database. Another solution would clearly be necessary.

  * * *

  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.

  15

  Birmingham, June 2007

  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.’

  16

  Birmingham, June 2007

  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 tacti
cs. 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.