The Fire Man

by Iain Adams

  The decision to drive out of town had certainly been the right one, reflected McRae, as he watched the ducks serenely and almost noiselessly making their slow progressions in and out of the fringe of reeds. The meal had been satisfactory rather than gastronomically memorable, but the oak – panelled dining room had lent the evening a sense of occasion. Appropriate, because Drew was intending to leave Birmingham for good, and there would be no other opportunities for a farewell before he left at the weekend.

  While McRae’s rash behaviour in the context of the fire had undoubtedly cost him dear, one man’s “rash” can be another man’s “decisive”, and the decisive McRae had his uses.

  The flat had been sold, the furniture had been disposed of to a piratical house-clearance merchant and he now had his very own, privately-owned ‘wheels’ in the practical but unglamorous shape of a cut-price Volvo. More to the point, he was ready; physically, emotionally and mentally. More than ready, he thought. He was positively excited.

  In more sober moments, he recognised that, in fact, there would be a long hard road ahead, but the thought of being entirely his own boss was daunting and thrilling. He had probably never really been a team player, a bit of a maverick perhaps, but either way from now on it was going to be down to him and him alone. The thought was liberating. What helped was having no baggage; he had a decent sum of money, no wife, no kids and – a rather more chilling thought – few friends. Apart, of course, from Grim and the sainted Karen. Though now he was leaving them behind, as well.

  Karen had been surprisingly relaxed, fatalistic perhaps, and appeared sanguine about his move. He had anticipated rather more angst, but from the moment he had revealed his plans, she had been nothing but supportive – particularly when he had asked her to continue to work for him on a remote basis.

  The proposition was that he would roughly draft out any important reports and documents and email them to her at her home address, where she would wield her magic wand to knock them into professional shape in her spare time. They also had a system by which he could transfer dictation to her electronically, for transcription. It was a perfectly elegant, twentieth-century solution, and it would work well. It meant more money for her and would keep McRae’s overhead costs down. From Karen’s perspective, without saying as much, there was also clearly a realisation that this arrangement had other benefits. It implied a tacit understanding that their relationship would not be ended by his move to London, and this seemed to be more than sufficient for her.

  It had been a frantic couple of days. The flat to vacate, clothes and belongings to pack and innumerable other minor details to finalise. Then, there were various meetings, firstly with Kevin and, subsequently, the quiet drink with Terry.

  Kevin’s information had squared the circle for McRae. He was now satisfied, once and for all, at least in his own mind, that he had a pretty good handle on the Hellenic case. The chat with Terry had been interesting, too. Over the past couple of weeks, the case had been quietly settled by CFG, and although the details of the settlement were not public knowledge, Terry had heard via Wagner that the insurers had eventually paid out “north of £10million”.

  Although some details remained sketchy, McRae now believed that the scenario was clear.

  Smythson, who he was now certain had indeed been in the company of Friar Tuck at the Villa game, was in some way in cahoots with Hellenic. Perhaps it hadn’t been an accident that Fairclough had been appointed to handle the case? Maybe Smythson had wanted a small, possibly out of their depth, company to handle the claim, rather than one of the big boys? Perhaps he had wanted a company that he could, if necessary, manipulate? What he hadn’t bargained for was that McRae and Grim would be stupid enough, if that was the right word, to cause any problems.

  It also seemed obvious to McRae that Hellenic, a clean but tired and failing business, had effectively been taken over, ‘reversed into’ or otherwise acquired by Kanelos and the mysterious O’Connell around six months prior to the fire. The company had then been beefed up to be ready for the fire. The lease on the property had been acquired for very little in relation to the structural reinstatement value. Second-hand machinery and plant had been acquired, probably at auction McRae guessed, and the sums insured lifted significantly. New, but no doubt minimum-waged staff such as Kevin’s girlfriend had been recruited to obscure or disguise the low level of actual trading. Finally, large quantities of low grade or “end of line” stock had been bought in for a song from Greece and relabelled using labels acquired from Kanelos’ brothers’ firm in Thessalonica.

  The rest, as they say, had been simple. The scene had been set for a substantial fire, after which the site would, no doubt, be demolished, cleared and sold as a vacant lot.

  If he was a betting man, Drew would guess that the whole set-up had probably cost the conspirators considerably less than £2 million. The profit would have been fantastic. How many times have they pulled this stunt? he mused.

  He stirred suddenly from his thoughts. It was getting noticeably cooler and the flimsy, strapless, scoop-necked pink dress that Karen was wearing was beginning to be a little inadequate. McRae couldn’t help but notice her nipples pressing against the thin fabric of the bodice; he pulled his gaze away. It was time to move. They rose from the seat and wandered back to the bar, for one last drink before setting off back to town.

  Drawing up next to Karen’s house, a small but immaculate semi-detached in Harborne, McRae and Karen half-turned towards each other. For the first time, he kissed her without restraint. Her fingers stroked his neck. His hand rested on her thigh before moving to cup her breast.

  ‘Are you coming in, Drew?

  ‘Why not?’ he replied, eventually.

  23

  London, October 2007

  Furnished flats, even expensive ones, tend to be devoid of personality. However, the small one-bedroomed apartment McRae had rented in Hoxton suited him. The area was buzzy in a youthful, upwardly mobile yet distinctly down-at-heel sort of way, and it had everything he needed. Close to the office, a plethora of edgy bars, some decent restaurants and women, not that he had so far met any, of course. He was, sadly, a little older than the average Hoxtonite, but, no doubt, he would get around to trying his hand in time. In the meantime, he had endured a couple of disastrous internet dates. He really should learn never to discuss politics; what was wrong with him?

  The apartment itself had been decorated in a safe, neutral style, and contained cheap but surprisingly tasteful furniture. It also had the rare benefit of a parking space. The Wi-Fi seemed to work and the place was light and airy.

  The flat was on the second floor of a converted Victorian block that sat above a terrace of quirky shops; these included an open-all-hours general store and an independent coffee house, which was ideal for a quality espresso. Best of all, it was only a ten-minute walk to the tube. Old Street station was where McRae squeezed himself onto the Northern line into Bank every morning, on his way to the newly established offices of Wyndham Adjusters; proprietor and sole employee: Drew McRae. In theory, he could walk to the office in under half an hour, but intuitively he knew that such occasions would be rare.

  The office, just off Lime Street, was even less exciting than the apartment. Ideally situated for Lloyd’s, it was effectively windowless, although one inner wall was glazed and looked into a drab, featureless corridor. His “unit” was surrounded on all sides by identical pre-formed cubicles, all of which were located within the serviced office complex run by Compex – an international office space giant. It contained two desks, two computers, two chairs and two filing cabinets, plus of course McRae’s two watercolour masterpieces. The symmetry of the room was completed by the two slim case files, which sat side by side on McRae’s desk. Well, this was his desk for that particular day; on another, when he felt like a change, he would boldly occupy the alternative desk. When you were master of all you surveyed, these choices were open to you.

  The first couple of weeks had been a blur o
f activity as McRae had inspected flats, identified offices and finally obtained an initial supply of stationery and visiting cards. He had then made the rounds of everyone he could think of in the market and had started to put himself about.

  He normally hated cold calling, but, for some reason, he was only occasionally discouraged by the almost universal indifference displayed by the people he met. It wasn’t because he had acquired a thick skin, but because, in his heart, he had known from the start that progress would be slow. In the London market, it was not what you knew, never really had been, it was who you knew and making contacts would take time, lots of time..

  2009

  24

  Kingston, August 2009

  It would prove to be one of the very few days in the year when Geraldine felt that her recent purchase of a new BMW convertible had been truly worthwhile.

  It was as balmy as the Cote d’ Azur outside; the air flowed through her hair like silk and the sky was a Mediterranean blue as she cruised along the A3 in a south-westerly direction. Alanis Morissette was belting out Ironic on the sound system.

  It was that time of the week when she treated herself to a spa session after a workout at her new gym in Guildford. She was looking forward to the massage and facial, rather more than the hour-long session under the personal guidance of the cute, but strict Gareth. Nonetheless, it couldn’t be denied that the exercise and a new diet were doing something good. She looked a lot better; she had lost a dress size; her boobs seemed to have firmed up; the bingo wings were disappearing and, best of all, she felt as if she had a sense of direction, a future. For the first time since the divorce, she felt happy and safe.

  Safe was definitely the right word, she thought. For nearly fifteen years she had had an interesting, exhilarating, even exciting, time with Alex, but it certainly had never felt secure – and certainly not after she’d had the kids. Well, maybe that wasn’t entirely fair; for a couple of years after the twins had come along, they had rubbed along okay, but the rot had certainly set in by the time the twins had started kindergarten.

  Alex had never really been a family type of man; too fond of a hedonistic life and that had meant that everything had to be geared towards his pleasure. Pleasure and thrills. His family was wealthy, although most of his income came from his property portfolio, so Alex had never really had to do very much. He had been affluent enough to indulge his passions for skiing, boating and, of course, the bloody gambling. How much he had squandered at Aspinall’s club, she never really knew, but it had been substantial she was certain.

  Of course, the women hadn’t helped either. The trouble was that he was such an attractive bastard, a bit of a dandy perhaps, but his immaculate yet carefully cultivated casual appearance was part of what had attracted her in the first place.

  Geraldine had been attractive herself in a slightly horsey way, with good skin, a decent figure and glorious strawberry-blonde hair, but she knew that Alex could have had any woman he wanted. Charming, intelligent with a tinder-dry sense of humour and a streak of toughness, he was the total package. Well, most of her friends clearly thought so; she knew for a fact that he had had flings with at least three of them. The funny thing was that somehow she really hadn’t been that bothered, at least not until the final episode with Hannah.

  There was nothing exceptional about Hannah Moncrieff, and that was the point. She was absurdly young (naturally), but as plain as a pikestaff and Geraldine had suddenly realised how far her own attractions must have declined. Her hair had picked up a few premature strands of grey, she had a permanently harassed look and the weight had crept upwards inexorably. But still, Hannah!

  It wasn’t just the Hannah business, though. Alex’s finances had clearly been suffering. He had presumably still been solvent, or so she suspected, but their last move had been distinctly downmarket. Kensington to Shepherd’s Bush was really a bridge too far. All Alex had said was that it would be a temporary move, but he hadn’t been prepared to discuss the matter. Tears had followed, the coolness had become arctic and, a short time later, Geraldine had instructed her lawyers.

  She had won a substantial, probably generous, settlement, and the house in Shepherds Bush had become entirely hers. Of course, she had moved out of Shepherds Bush immediately and let the house out to a charming Iranian couple, before finding something smaller but more ‘her’ in Kingston. However, the move had been the least of her concerns. The problem was that the agreed maintenance payments had never appeared. The kids’ school fees had been unpaid for months, causing unbelievable embarrassment. She had screamed, shouted and carried on, but Alex had coolly fended her off for over eighteen months. He had occasionally admitted that he had a “few liquidity problems” and “Dublin wasn’t looking good”, but had assured her that things would eventually be put right.

  Reluctantly, she had to admit that he had now paid the arrears. He had even weighed in with a few pounds on top, hence her shiny new car. She still didn’t understand what the problem had been, but life suddenly looked a lot rosier. All she had to do now was get her herself back into shape, find a new man and Alex could disappear into the mists of time. He could keep bloody Hannah!

  2011

  25

  London, June 2011

  The sun felt warm on his cheeks as he squinted, adjusting his eyes to the brightness of the morning. He half-turned as he sub-consciously glanced upwards towards the source of the warmth, noting with resignation that though the sun was undoubtedly hot, it appeared to be fighting a losing battle with a bank of fearsome grey cloud approaching from the East.

  For a brief second he contemplated returning to his flat for a coat of some description, before deciding that he would rather risk the weather than climb the stairs. He wasn’t quite as lazy as the avoidance of the stairs implied, though; he knew he’d be at Lime Street within twenty minutes and was pretty sure the clouds wouldn’t catch him.

  His calculation was correct. He had been in the office for more than an hour before he glanced up on hearing the first spattering of heavy drops against the skylight above his desk. It wasn’t yet nine, but already John and Suzanne had arrived and he could hear them gossiping on the other side of the flimsy partition wall. Sandra hadn’t arrived yet, but then she was almost invariably a few minutes late. Strangely enough, it never bothered McRae because it was so totally consistent. The woman was reliable in her own way. While she would never be able to compete in McRae’s affections with the sainted Karen, she didn’t need to; Karen was continuing to work with him, albeit at a distance.

  The arrangements had worked out pretty well. Karen handled all Drew’s personal work, prepared the company’s business proposals and maintained the accounts. Sandra, for her part, looked after the other two adjusters and answered the phone. The arrangement was incredibly economical for Wyndham Adjusters and yet it enabled Karen to make a good additional income. Of course, what both McRae and Karen had also come to appreciate was that the arrangement allowed them to stay in contact. In many ways, they were now closer than ever.

  The last few years had been a tough slog.

  For quite a while McRae had been unable to employ anyone else, but eventually a corner had been decisively turned. So much so that the fateful decision had been made: the serviced office had been abandoned and a top-floor, unfashionable but atmospheric, permanent base had been acquired on a five-year lease, only fifty yards further along Lime Street. A little later, John and Suzanne (and Sandra, of course) had joined him. He was still running the old Volvo, but perhaps he would have a chance to change it soon.

  Slowly, almost glacially, Wyndham’s had achieved a degree of acceptance by Lloyd’s Underwriters. God only knew how many lunches, football matches, horse races and drinks it had taken, but, little by little, a handful of claims managers had become clients. By the end of the third year, it had become apparent that McRae would, quite simply, no longer be able to manage on his own.

  For some totally unfathomable reason, McRae had become a good
friend of Matthew Ebel, who was a classic Essex Man if ever there was one. Ebel ran his own up-and-coming syndicate. He was quick-witted, loud and extremely brash. He appeared to have little in common with the dry and restrained McRae; nonetheless, when Matt had acquired a significant new book of commercial property business, it turned out to be highly beneficial for Drew.

  The scheme involved a huge portfolio of independent pubs and restaurants distributed throughout southern England. Matt had wanted, nay insisted, that Wyndhams be the nominated loss adjusters for all claims, which meant that McRae could no longer cope. He simply had to recruit –and so it was that John and Suzanne had appeared.

  John Godwit was a bright, cocky, keen, but rather raw young man from Romford. The vital thing, however, was that Matt Ebel absolutely loved him; they got on like a house on fire, which was an unfortunate simile but apposite. John, with his sharp almost “dandified” Hackett suits and pointy shoes, was not really McRae’s idea of a conventional adjuster, but he was intelligent and personable and just what certain clients ordered.

  Suzanne was a rather different proposition. With a good law degree from Edinburgh University, Suzanne Delacroix was one of many graduates who had found that the major London law firms were a tough nut to crack. Not prepared to settle for a life of conveyancing with a provincial practice, she had somehow drifted into a multi-national insurance broking firm where she had, somewhat to her surprise, acquired a taste for the intricacies of public and employer’s liability claims. She dressed severely with a taste for unflattering trouser suits, wore her chestnut hair cut short and little make-up. Her accent was pure Home Counties; her manner was abrupt, though behind the brusque, uber-sensible, carapace was a great sense of humour and genuine ability. In short, Suzanne had the makings of a star.