by Iain Adams
He lowered himself quietly into the cubicle. This time he took the opposing bench, so that he was now back-to-back with Mr Michael O’Connell. It was, he was now in no doubt, the very same man he had last seen in Walsall.
While he was debating precisely what to do next, the Irishman’s ‘phone rang. Try as he might, McRae couldn’t hear clearly what the man’s first words were – he was speaking in a dull, heavily accented monotone and he was speaking quietly. The ambient noise in the pub didn’t help either. Now and again he could hear odd words like ‘bank’ and ‘consignments’, which were interspersed with a few expletives. However, there was nothing that made any sense. The accent was definitely Irish, though; McRae was sure of that.
All too soon the conversation was terminated and McRae was regretting his inability to determine anything of value, when he realised that Tuck was now dialling out, the higher registered electronic plink, plink, plink of the ‘phone’s keyboard seemingly more audible than the man’s voice.. This time, he struck gold.
Although initially he could hear no more clearly than before, Tuck was obliged at one point to raise his voice and to repeat one phrase. It was short but meaningful: ‘I said it’s half twelve, Friday, Alex – don’t be fucking late and don’t get done for speeding!’
He nearly fell off his perch. Friday? Alex? It’s bloody Kanelos; it must be! What are the chances of a guy like Tuck knowing dozens of guys called Alex? Zero, that’s what.
As Tuck switched off his phone, McRae decided he needed to get out of the pub ahead of the man. He was convinced he would be heading for the factory next door, but he wanted to be sure. He picked up his file and phone and got to his feet, grateful that he was facing away from Tuck. He edged carefully from the cubicle and scurried out of the main entrance and onto Whitechapel Road.
He carefully picked his way through the crawling rush hour traffic, before taking up a position adjacent to an estate agents window diagonally opposite the pub. He could clearly see both doors. He was betting that the good friar wouldn’t remain in the pub too long now that his calls were finished, and he was right. Barely two minutes after he had arrived outside the estate agents, the O’Meara Street door of the Squatters opened and Tuck emerged, his bald pate now concealed once again by the cap.
As McRae had hoped, he turned left down the side road, forcing McRae to practically run across the road in a frantic effort to keep the black cap in sight. He didn’t need to worry, Tuck wasn’t walking far.
Within 100 yards he saw Tuck turn towards a plain two-storey Georgian style property, which was set back from the road behind a large tarmaced parking area. The man stopped and extracted some keys from his suit pocket, before stooping to insert a key into the bottom rail of a large plain heavy glass entrance door.
From his partly concealed position beneath the tired awning of a rundown newsagent that stood on the opposite corner to the pub, he could clearly read the legend, stencilled across the ground-floor windows of the building, “Le Copa Style”.
It was an unusual building, reminiscent of an old rectory, with a grandiose portico projecting in front of the modern plate glass front door. An enormous, possibly original, ornate lantern was suspended from the roof of the portico. It was a strange set-up, he thought, and didn’t look remotely like a factory.
As he watched, a light was switched on in one of the first-floor rooms.
McRae quickly decided that there was no point hanging around and that it would be a sensible idea to “case the joint” at a quieter time. After all, the weekend was free – as usual.
* * *
Sunday morning at shortly after eleven, a scruffily attired McRae approached the front of the Le Copa with a confident stride. He had been hanging around for over an hour and was certain that the offices were empty. There wasn’t a soul to be seen in the vicinity.
He peered through the ground-floor windows on either side of the over-sized portico, but could see nothing of interest. There were a few desks, chairs and general office junk. He next turned his attention to the entrance.
The original door and surround had long ago been replaced with a rather unattractive but functional plate glass door, through which he could clearly see into the lobby. The lobby was quite substantial, tiled with a checkerboard of black and white tiles, with three olive green straight-backed guest chairs and a hall stand in front of a period mirror. On either side of the hall were panelled doors for the offices and, at the rear, almost opposite the front door, another door, which was ajar. He could just about make out a corridor leading towards the rear.
He didn’t know what he had expected, but he knew he was disappointed by the sheer anodyne normality of the scene.
As he continued to stare into the space, he observed a green light blinking on a control panel adjacent to the mirror. Next to the switchgear, he could discern a small notice in heavy bold type that was taped to the bottom section of the mirror.
Screwing up his eyes, he tried unsuccessfully to make out the words before he had the bright idea of using his phone. If he could take a picture, perhaps he could enlarge the image. He was delighted with the result. Once enlarged, he could just make out that the notice read: “ALARM – IMPORTANT. Remember: 11-7 auto!’ He wasn’t certain what it meant, but it seemed to imply that the system was pre-programmed. But why? Did it start am or pm.? He hadn’t a clue, but he presumed that evening was the likely answer.
Realising that there was nothing further to be gained from the front, he decided to check out the rear. On turning into the alley at the back of the pub, it was immediately apparent that while the front of Le Copa’s property may have been a period house, the rear was a different sort of place altogether.
The yard he had observed from the upstairs room at the Squatters belonged to Le Copa. The whole of the lower elevation of the house had long ago been extended into some kind of lofty single-storey workshop or factory with a profiled steel roof incorporating skylights. He couldn’t tell whether or not there were any windows, because he couldn’t see over the yard wall. After staring at the building for a few minutes, he shook himself. There was nothing more to be gained by hanging around in Whitechapel. He knew what he had to do next and it couldn’t be achieved here.
It was, he thought, time to get home and rustle up “Risotto de la Drew”. He headed again for the tube station, he was elated and his heart was thumping.
30
London, July 2011
It was raining hard, a real summer cloudburst, as John Godwit made it to the office entrance. He had only walked a few hundred yards from Bank station, but his best Italian-style shoes were ruined, he thought gloomily. That was the problem with the British summer; you leave home in Essex in gorgeous sunshine looking a pretty sharp boy, but end up in the office fifty minutes later the image of a drowned rat.
He was pissed off about the shoes. They were Paul Smith! They had cost him plenty. He wasn’t convinced that the suit would be salvageable either. All in all, it was not a good start to the day. The sunny disposition he had started the morning with had certainly evaporated. And so it was that while he stood in the small office kitchen making a cup of instant coffee, he was distinctly not amused by the facetious comments emanating from his boss.
‘Don’t think I’ve seen a wet-look suit before, John? Is that from AQUAscutum?’ sniggered McRae.
Consoling himself with the thought that McRae wouldn’t know fashion if he fell over it, John contented himself with a ‘Very funny, boss’ before dashing into his office to hang up the suit jacket. It could at least dry into some sort of shape, even if it was no longer his own.
McRae followed him and hovered in the doorway, suppressing a smile, as the young man carefully hung the jacket on a plastic hanger.
‘Get anything from Matt on that bloke, Smythson?’ he finally asked.
John replied. It turned out that Matt Ebel had been able to turn up a smidgen of useful history. The word was that Smythson was widely disliked in Consolidated. He was a si
ngle man, rumoured to be gay, and had been with Consolidated for over twenty years, though he had allegedly originally studied to be an architect.
He had started his insurance career as a graduate entrant and had worked in the London head office before being progressively promoted (‘fast-tracked’ in the jargon) to the position of claims manager of the Scottish Region, based in Glasgow. He had supposedly worked there for several years before transferring to the Midlands Region in Birmingham.
‘Is that it?’ asked McRae, the disappointment evident in his tone.
‘Afraid so,’ John responded. ‘The only other thing is that he’s tipped to get the top job of claims director in a year or two.’
‘Typical – is that why he isn’t liked?’
‘Probably, but I suspect the fact that he’s supposed to be gay doesn’t help either. Anyway, you’ve met him, what did you think of him?’
McRae grimaced. ‘A total bastard, but I’m biased,’ he replied. ‘Anyway, thanks for that, I’m just a bit disappointed that there was no Irish link to be honest.’
‘It must be your lucky day, boss,’ smiled John, ‘because there is a tiny Irish link, sort of.’
McRae raised his eyebrows quizzically.
‘The thing is, Consolidated don’t write much stuff in the Republic, so the Scottish Region covers Ireland as well. At least, I think that’s the case… any use?’
McRae’s mind whirred; he decided he liked that answer. ‘It could be John, could be. You’ve done well; very well. So well, in fact, that I might even buy you a drink at lunch.’
Never mind a drink; I could do with a new pair of fucking shoes, thought John as he gazed at the departing back.
31
London, July 2011
The Mercedes had turned onto the Westway. McRae gave a sigh of relief that he prayed was not premature. So long as Kanelos remained on the Westway he would be easier to track even at a distance, but there was the danger that a set of traffic lights would scupper him if he let the Mercedes get too far ahead. He couldn’t relax for a second, he knew that.
The steady flow of warm air through the car was easier to bear than the static heat had been, but still McRae could feel the dampness of his shirt. The sun was now high in the sky and the temperature was continuing to climb.
As the cars continued past Northolt Aerodrome, McRae began to worry. How far was Kanelos going? In a few minutes they would be joining the M40 motorway and it would be safe to follow at a considerable distance without attracting attention. But, once Kanelos left the motorway, what then? It could get really tricky and he could not afford to be spotted. If the Greek saw him, he was certain he would remember the man who had nearly caused him much grief.
Sure enough, the Mercedes pressed on over the M25 junction, then onto the M40 and on towards Oxford. If he didn’t turn off before Oxford, surely the game would be over. McRae would have to drop back and he would almost certainly lose his target in the city traffic. Alternatively, if he wasn’t extremely careful, he’d end up getting too close and he would get spotted. The choice was not an attractive one and McRae elected to maintain a healthy distance, an HGV or two, between the cars.
He found that his hands were gripping the wheel with white-knuckled intensity and forced himself to relax. Indeed, he realised that the man he was following was under no suspicion it was happening. The thought was a comfort.
Suddenly, as they approached Junction 6, about ten miles short of Oxford, McRae, who had undoubtedly switched off momentarily, noticed the Mercedes easing towards the slip road. He gritted his teeth, slammed his foot down and, disregarding the potential consequences, closed the gap on a white Ford Transit that separated him from the Mercedes. God only knew what was at this junction and where Kanelos was headed, but he had to take the risk to see which direction was chosen.
The Mercedes chose the Wallingford road and the Volvo managed to slip past the white van at the roundabout to follow it. He knew he would have to keep well back or Kanelos would surely smell a rat. He switched off the day running lights, hoping to disguise his car a little – a pathetic gesture, he thought – and lifted his foot from the accelerator to allow the Mercedes as much distance as he dared.
Ten minutes later, passing through the pleasing but unremarkable village of Watlington, the perspiring McRae, whose concentration had induced a splitting headache, saw the Mercedes, two cars and a couple of hundred yards ahead, indicating a right turn at a set of lights.
Realising he wouldn’t get through the lights this time, McRae resigned himself to losing contact, but the green light stayed in his favour for longer than he could have dared to hope. With his heart pounding, he made the turn precisely as the light turned from amber to red. Immediately after the junction, however, there was not the slightest sign of his quarry. The hedge-lined country lane was quiet and narrow, almost single track. If there was anywhere that Kanelos would finally realise he was being followed by a shit-heap, surely this was it?
Crawling now as slowly as he dared along the lane, fearing at any moment that he might come bumper-to-bumper with Kanelos, the outskirts of a village called Roke came into view. With unutterable relief, McRae could see the silver Mercedes pulled up on the cobbled forecourt of a thatched pub. Instinctively, he slammed on his brakes, hoping desperately that there was nothing immediately behind him. The last thing he needed was to be cruising past as Kanelos got out of his car.
There was no movement from the Mercedes. Waiting impatiently a cautious two or three minutes tucked into a field entrance, McRae eventually concluded that he had been sufficiently far behind and that Kanelos had already entered the pub. Nonetheless, he wasn’t about to approach it in the Volvo.
Parking next to the Spar village shop, McRae mopped his neck with his wet and grubby handkerchief and pulled a black woollen hat out of his glove box. He clambered stiffly out of the car and felt instantly relieved to be finally released from the tyranny of the heated seat.
He allowed himself to cool down, at least as much as the sweltering afternoon would permit, then stretched his arms and bent his legs before donning the beanie hat. He walked to the back of the car, opened the trunk and rooted around before he found what he was looking for. A dark green anorak had been lurking in a corner for months, but it would look totally stupid in this weather. Fortunately, a marginally more suitable navy windcheater, which smelt like an oversized damp dishcloth, was also concealed in the cavernous depths. He pulled it out, winced at both the sour odour and the crumpled appearance, but eventually slipped it on. Finally, he perched his sunglasses on his nose.
He appeared, he was certain, absolutely ridiculous. It must be eighty degrees in the shade. The only saving grace was that he looked like the village idiot. Ludicrous, but, he hoped, reasonably effective. He may have been conspicuous, but he certainly wasn’t recognisable. And there was no way he was going to march into the pub looking as he did, but he could at least scout around to get the lie of the land.
He walked decisively past the front of the pub, as if he knew precisely where he was going. A small white-painted building with a thatched roof, ‘The Home, Sweet Home’ possessed a larger car park than he had expected and a beer garden set out with umbrellas, teak chairs and tables. The garden was enjoying a busy lunchtime trade and was crowded with mums, dads, kids and dogs, lying panting in the soporific sun.
Every table was occupied. Just one trestle table in a shady corner was a little out of the ordinary. Around it sat five casually dressed men, one of whom was addressing the others, who all leaned forwards and listened intently. Glancing out of the corner of his eye as he ambled along the roadside and “talking” on his phone, McRae clearly recognised three of them. Lowering the phone, he selected the camera option and took three quick shots, holding the phone at waist level with only the vaguest notion of direction.
Drawn like a moth to a flame, McRae paused once he had rounded the corner and debated whether he should dare enter the pub to closer to the group. He hadn’t rec
ognised two of the men, but if he could only get a fraction closer, he might be able to identify them. It was a highly debateable proposition.
His mind finally made up, he approached the front door in the certain knowledge that the men were still in the rear garden. He then made his way to the lounge bar, which was completely empty as anybody with any sense had grabbed a table in the garden. The sun slanted through the low windows at the rear and illuminated millions of floating motes in the air. The bar, which stank of stale beer and disinfectant, was tended by an elderly man with a small and rather greasy moustache, who was washing glasses in the sink. He looked up from his task and stared with obvious amazement at the cartoonish figure of McRae, who realised how preposterous he must have appeared.
Quickly, he removed his glasses and ordered a half of a lager-shandy. He then moved, under the barman’s still curious gaze, to a table by the window from which he thought he could safely observe the garden.
The group remained ensconced in the corner, still deep in what seemed to McRae’s cynical mind to be a highly conspiratorial discussion. He could clearly identify Kanelos, looking as dapper as usual, Mr O’Connell aka “Tuck” and the distinctive features of Derek Smythson. He couldn’t yet make out who the other two were, although one, he thought, could have been George Gallo. The fifth and final man, clearly considerably younger than his colleagues, had his back towards the pub and, try as he may, McRae found it impossible to get a clear view. He thought for a second or two of moving outside into the garden, but soon dismissed the idea.
It was time to go; he knew enough to know that another fire was on the way soon. Better still, he had a damned good idea where it was going to occur.
Calculating that he had sufficient time to answer what was fast becoming a pressing call of nature, he made his way into the small gents, which was located between the lounge and the public bars. After relieving himself, he removed the glasses and hat and splashed water onto his face before washing his hands. He then swivelled towards the rather asthmatic and ineffective wall-mounted hand dryer. He was standing next to the dryer, waiting for his hands to become tolerably dry, as the door opened. A strong odour of aftershave, accompanied by a tall, blue-eyed, blond-haired man entered.