The Fire Man

by Iain Adams

  He could, he supposed, also get back in touch with that enquiry agent guy Tranquil of Academy Investigations, who had done a good job on Kanelos’s background, but that would cost serious money – money that, despite his obsession, McRae was not keen to spend on a whim. Tranquil had called him once to see whether he needed any further assistance, but hadn’t spoken to the man since his sacking. For a moment, he debated seriously whether or not to squander some of his own money on it, but eventually concluded he would have to make do without professional help. It would have to be strictly DIY.

  He called Grim, who it turned out was on a short and decidedly rainy break with the delectable Moira in the Lake District. He wasn’t at all happy with McRae’s request, but reluctantly agreed to make a couple of discreet enquiries. He promised to get back to McRae in a week.

  So, the only choice left open to him now was to do his own digging around. He had the time, and the cost would be his expenses only. The reality was that he rather fancied doing a bit more sleuthing, and, in any event, he persuaded himself that it would probably be more rewarding to check out the freshest, most recent fire, which was that of Malinka in Liverpool.

  He decided, if time permitted, he might just fit in a little trip north next week, but also noticed that while he had been engrossed in his screen, Sandra had quietly dropped the Squatters draft report onto his desk for checking.

  He glanced at the file and, yawning, elected to quickly re-familiarise himself with the file notes before checking Suzanne’s effort. He was relaxed about it anyway; he knew she would have done a decent job.

  It was while he was gazing absently at the photographs that Suzanne had conscientiously printed and inserted into an attachment document that something struck him. A shiver of excitement ran through him. The label!

  He again looked at the long-range picture he had taken from the first floor of the pub, and checked the close-up of the label on the pallets in the adjoining yard. It really did seem remarkably similar to the type that Kaloudis and Company had used.

  He shuffled his chair on its castors towards his A-K filing cabinet. There wasn’t much in it. The thickest file was the Hellenic copy that he had squirreled out of Birmingham years ago. Buried inside it was the original label that he had peeled from a soaking pallet in the ruined Walsall warehouse.

  Viktor Kaloudis Ltd – Vlastou 15,Thessaloniki, Greece.

  He held it next to the photograph. It was hard to be 100% certain but the configuration of the large gothic letter “K” which acted as a logo in relation to the name, was identical in both cases. While he had initially thought that the photographed label had contained a letter “R”, he could, he thought, now make out some sort of metal staple, which was possibly bridging the two top arms of the figure.

  ‘It’s a bloody ‘K!’ he shouted incredulously. ‘Sandra, get in here please.’

  A somewhat bewildered Sandra peered hesitantly around the door and he dragged her over to the two images.

  ‘Are these the same? What do you think?’

  She stared carefully for a few seconds, switching the papers in her stubby fingers before delivering the judgement of Solomon.

  ‘Well, it’s a bit distant… but, yes, I think so.’

  It was hardly definitive but it was good enough for him.

  Good enough for a second look anyway. Of course, Kaloudis probably did legitimate business in the UK? No reason why it shouldn’t. Nonetheless, it was intriguing. He decided he would definitely make a point of checking out the adjoining factory more carefully whenever he returned to wrap up the Squatters’ case. It could be interesting. In the meantime, he decided. He would take a little trip to the North.

  27

  Liverpool, June 2011

  It had been over six years since McRae had visited Liverpool, and over 12 years since he had actually worked in the city. He had experienced some of the most interesting times of his life in the place, had crossed swords with some of the worst villains in Britain, and, overall, acquired a reasonably balanced view, he thought, of what made the city tick. He appreciated the atmospheric pubs and the grand Victorian waterfront. He even liked the Scallies.

  Not for nothing had Liverpool coined the term “scallies” as an abbreviation for scallywag. The city was full of people on the make. Scousers have a famous sense of humour. They are genuinely witty and definitely irreverent, but, in McRae’s biased opinion, they were, sadly, all too often as bent as corkscrews. Not all of them, of course, simply a rather conspicuous proportion.

  The problem, or so it seemed to McRae, was that some scousers just felt obliged to try it on. Where was the fun if you didn’t screw more out of the DHSS or the insurance “fellahs” than you should? It was always worth a try and if you got caught trying, well, you’d talk your way out of it –it stood to reason.

  All in all, while he was not sorry to have left, McRae had retained a respect and an affection for the city. He also knew his way around a bit, so it didn’t take him long to find the Gascoyne Industrial Estate in West Kirby.

  He was immediately struck by how superficially similar the estate was to the Foundry Business Park in Walsall. Both had been created in the sixties and contained similar types of unit. One obvious difference was that the businesses located on the Gascoyne estate contained fewer manufacturing and more import/export operations, more warehouses, as well as a couple of car dealers who seemed to specialise in customising vehicles.

  It was next to one of these “pimp my ride” outfits, which rejoiced in the name of Mersey Motor Madness, that McRae identified the former home of Malinka (UK) Ltd.

  There was nothing there. The site had been completely cleared. A few discarded beer cans and a burnt-out car were the only items to blight the view of a stretch of levelled rubble, earth and weeds. Tumbleweed would not have been out of place.

  Although he was disappointed to find literally nothing remaining of the old premises, he wasn’t that surprised. The fire had occurred four years earlier and to expect any evidence to remain would have been optimistic in the extreme. A small sign, supported on timber struts, was the only useful lead. It proclaimed simply “Site for Development – Mayfield Prop Co”. The bottom of the sign, which had presumably once contained contact details or a telephone number, was missing. The site was rectangular and it was clear that the property must have been considerably smaller than the Hellenic factory.

  In front of the car outfit was a piece of tarmac on which stood a few garish and heavily customised cars: a couple of Subarus, two VW Golfs and what looked like it had once, in another lifetime, been a Renault Clio, but which was now virtually unrecognisable. The Renault, if that’s what it truly was, was in the process of being washed by a tall, athletic-looking, mixed-race youth with a very severe haircut and a single gold and diamond ear-stud.

  McRae had taken the train to Liverpool Lime Street and had then hired a car, a bright red Mondeo, from Avis. He didn’t think too much of the Mondeo but it looked a damned sight better than the Renault.

  Deciding to grab the bull by the horns, he strolled over to the youth who was eyeing him warily.

  He greeted the boy cheerfully and as an opening gambit asked him whether he happened to know where the people who used to occupy the site next door had moved to. The boy’s accent was as broad as the Mersey and, not having his ear immediately attuned to the local twang, McRae didn’t initially understand his reply. He should have guessed.

  ‘Who wants to know?’ the boy repeated.

  McRae explained that his company had previously supplied Malinka with wrapping paper years ago and that he was just a new sales rep following up old clients.

  The boy – who McRae now realised was probably no older than nineteen and who had almost certainly not worked at the car outfit at the time of the fire – regarded him with continued scepticism, but eventually nodded in the direction of the office, where he indicated that a man named Lol would probably know.

  Thinking to himself that the attitude of Liverpud
lian youth to “men in suits” had certainly not changed much, he wandered into the oily office. A girl, who was rather more amenable than the car washer and certainly easier on the eye, shouted for Lol. A man soon appeared from the garage at the rear, wiping his hands on a rag that had seen better centuries.

  Lol, who wore a filthy “wife-beater” vest that was strained to bursting point by a remarkable gut, was cautiously friendly and appeared to buy McRae’s story. His answers, however, were not particularly helpful. Yes, he had been at the site when the fire had occurred; no, he knew nothing about the current whereabouts of Malinka. He thought they might have gone bust, but he wasn’t sure.

  McRae wanted to ask him what the local rumours were, but concluded that, friendly though he appeared, Lol might well find such a question suspicious. Instead, he asked whether or not the man could recall any names of the manager or anyone else he might regard as senior, just in case he was able to track the firm down.

  Lol paused for a moment, before saying he couldn’t really remember: ‘After all, they were only there about six months’. However, he said he had an idea that ‘one of the guys was called something like Gus’,

  Thinking quickly, McRae saw his opportunity and said, ‘Oh really, I thought they were a Greek outfit?’

  ‘Naah, don’t think so,’ said Lol, but thought for a little longer. Then, ‘You sure you’re not a copper?’ while staring directly into McRae’s face.

  The question took McRae totally by surprise and he blustered some not very credible line about his customer file notes suggesting a Greek connection, before thanking the man for his help and beating a rapid retreat. As he drove away, watched closely by the youth, he was sure that his face was a red as the Mondeo.

  * * *

  Embarrassing though the episode had been, McRae contented himself that at least he had established who the property agents were and that Malinka had, in common with Hellenic, only occupied their premises for a very short time. If he could get some useful information from Mayfield Property, he may still have advanced his theory.

  Before leaving the estate, he drove completely around the perimeter road and eventually arrived at a point close to, but out of sight of, the car dealership. He wanted to try his luck with another of Malinka’s former neighbours, but he didn’t want Lol or his car washer to see him. Stopping judiciously out of sight, he walked to a small wholesale warehouse that seemed to specialise in cleaning products.

  Spanky’s Cleaning & Care Products was a tired-looking, single-story shed. The place positively reeked of ammonia and comprised a walk-through store containing racks of commercial industrial cleaning products and machinery, fronted by a kind of checkout that was staffed by two men wearing dungarees.

  Approaching the older of the two men, a cadaverous specimen with glasses and a distinct nervous twitch, McRae again rehearsed his spiel as a paper salesman. He gained no extra information from the twitcher, but as he closed his chat the man coughed and, clearing his throat in a rather distasteful manner, he offered one piece of advice: ‘If I were you, I’d have a word with Sammy at the security office.’

  ‘What security office?’ replied McRae, gormlessly.

  The twitcher directed him to a small Portakabin close to the entrance to the estate, which McRae hadn’t yet noticed and was rather surprised even existed.

  It transpired that the estate had been prone to vandalism and, following the Malinka fire, pressure from the tenants had resulted in the managing agents reluctantly appointing a security firm to improve the general safety of the estate.

  While the security had only come into place after the fire, McRae decided that nothing would be lost by having a quick chat with Sammy on his way out.

  * * *

  Sammy Shah proved to be a goldmine. He was a fat, open-faced man with a friendly smile and a greasy blue serge uniform.

  Like many of his ilk, Sammy was a man with a lot of time on his hands and he enjoyed a good gossip. He didn’t care who he talked to or what about. Mr Shah was happy to speculate, over a couple of McRae’s cigarettes, that the fire had been ‘Dodgy, very dodgy’. He hadn’t personally started on the site until a couple of weeks afterwards, but he had quickly become a point of contact for the various visitors to the gutted site. ‘Contractors, assessors – everybody came through me,’ he bragged.

  ‘Did you meet any of the guys who ran the place?’ asked McRae with as much innocence as he could manage.

  ‘Oh yeah, they was all over the place like a rash for about a month,’ he replied. ‘But once the demolition guys moved in, I never saw no one no more.’

  ‘So who was the boss then?’ asked McRae. ‘Some guy called Gus I understand?’

  ‘Naah, not Gus, there was a bloke called George. Definitely not a Gus. There were a few managers or bosses, directors – whatever you call ‘em – hanging around at different times, but the one I saw the most was a fellah called George. Short, tough-looking geezer, he seemed to be in charge of the place.’

  Sammy went on to say that many of the other tenants had had serious reservations about Malinka. Although McRae quickly decided that Sammy was not a man whose information could be totally relied upon, he had provided a clinching piece of information. The bloke who had supposedly been the top dog at Malinka was a man named George. Sammy Shah had been definite about that.

  * * *

  Dropping his Ford back at the Avis offices, McRae had twenty minutes spare before catching his train from Lime Street Station. He had his last cigarette outside the concourse before grabbing a cup of coffee and finding a seat on the 15.04 to Euston.

  Everything, he concluded, had worked out well; he had been able to make some minor headway with his quest for the Holy Grail and had still been able to catch one of the earliest and quietest trains back to London. Luxuriously, it seemed he was the sole occupant of Carriage H.

  He stretched out his legs beneath the table and settled back into his seat. Best of all, he now had a couple of hours to really sift and collect his findings. What did he know and what did he only suspect? Did he have enough solid information to risk getting back in touch with the delectable DI Forsyth?

  He started to summarise his findings:

  Disappointingly, Grim had established there had been no obvious links between the Swansea fire and the Hellenic boys. He had asked around the South Wales market and had eventually established the identity of the adjusters who had handled the Top Girl fire in 2006. It had apparently been a little suspect in its own right, but the owners had turned out to be Asians and Grim had been adamant there was nothing whatsoever to link them with Kanelos and Co. This had undoubtedly been a setback but, after his visit, it seemed that Malinka could potentially be a little more promising.

  Soberly, McRae realised with a sense of disappointment that he had, in fact, uncovered virtually nothing, and certainly nothing that would count with DI Forsyth. Still, he could possibly get something more from the property company. They must know more. He called Sandra on the phone and after checking the day’s developments; none, asked her to trawl around the internet and find some contact details for Mayfield Property Company. He stayed on the phone, idly gazing at the passing scenery while Sandra did her surfing and, after no more than a minute or two, she came back on the line and gave him an address and a number.

  ‘Are you sure? Is that the only possibility?’ he said.

  She was adamant, Mayfield Property Company were an Irish outfit based in Dublin.

  Now he had something to think about. OCV was an Irish company, Friar Tuck was ostensibly Irish and, of course, if he remembered rightly, Alex Kanelos had property interests in Dublin.

  It was all beginning to make some kind of sense, if the idea of a Greco-Irish conspiracy made any sense at all. Apart from both being basket-case members of the European Union, McRae doubted whether Greece and Ireland had anything much in common. Whatever it was, it certainly wasn’t the weather. In some way, Tuck and Alex must have met – possibly over a Dublin property deal?<
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  Quite how and why they had decided to start burning down factories together was beyond him, but Alex had family connections with the Greek fashion industry via his brother, which presumably explained the fashion angle. What did Friar Tuck bring to the party? Money? McRae didn’t know, but he was determined to find out – and where did the “walking skull” Smythson fit in? Obviously he made damn sure that the claims got paid, but how had he become involved in the first place?

  There were still many unexplained angles, but the whole affair had taken a hold of him. He just had to solve the problem, if only for his own sanity. He might be useless at Sudoko and poor at crosswords, but he had a feeling he was slowly but surely cracking this particular puzzle.

  28

  Dublin, July 2011

  In an ideal world, McRae wouldn’t necessarily choose to fly Ryanair.

  There was something about the company’s hard-nosed attitude towards its customers that he found distinctly unattractive. On the other hand, though, if he was paying for the flight himself, as indeed he unfortunately was, then there was no other way to go. He decided that he could put up with the garish colour scheme, the brash style and simply admire the sheer efficiency of the airline’s business model. They were good value and their flights ran on time.

  By leaving Gatwick on the nine o’clock flight , he had calculated that he could make his enquiries, have his annual pint of Guinness and still be comfortably back home by eight.

  He had once again played the boss card, which meant that he could choose to take a day off whenever he chose. So far as he was concerned he was on a winning streak following the Liverpool trip and decided he now had to find out more about the Dublin dimension. He had absolutely no idea what he was looking for, let alone whether he would recognise it if he found it.