The Fire Man

by Iain Adams

  Kanelos appeared to pay him no attention as he moved to the urinal, but at the precise moment that McRae stepped away from the dryer, he glanced in his direction. Their eyes met fleetingly, but McRae could swear he saw a light of recognition dawn in the blue eyes.

  He hurried back to his car. He had what he needed. As he climbed behind the wheel, he forced himself to look away from the pub but nonetheless he felt rather than saw, out of the corner of his eye, Kanelos standing in the distant pub doorway gazing in his direction.

  It was time to get back to London. He had taken his own investigation far enough. Surely to God the police would be interested now in what he had to say?

  32

  London, July 2011

  She felt good today and it wasn’t simply the balmy weather. DCI Forsyth had felt pretty satisfied with her life ever since she had moved to the South.

  True, the Reading HQ of Thames Valley Police was almost as anally masculine as Walsall had been, but that extra pip had made a hell of a difference. It seemed to Tina that the higher you rose, the easier the job became. True, the responsibility was greater, but she had never been afraid of responsibility, it was the obstructive behaviour of the people above you that had always irritated her. People like her old boss, Ray Anderson for example. If he hadn’t been actively obstructing her investigations he’d been trying his luck, and over time it had become more and more apparent to Tina that she had to get away from him.

  Matters had come to a head when she had struggled to get him out of her flat following a boozy and distinctly disorderly Christmas party that the CID had held at Walsall’s premier restaurant – the kind of place where they knew the difference between jus and gravy, even if the punters didn’t.

  She had been stupid enough to invite Ray into to her place for a coffee after he had dropped her home. Even as the words were out of her mouth, she had seen the size of the error. Ray wasn’t drunk, he wasn’t even merry; he knew what he was doing alright.

  Her face still burned with shame at the memory of how she had allowed him, as the Victorians would have said, to have his way with her. She had been conflicted, she was definitely the worse for wear, and the worst thing of all was that she hadn’t even cared. Ray was simply a man in a moment when she had needed one. Goddammit she had almost encouraged him, allowing him to undress her while her own hand had reached hungrily for his zip.

  The following morning, a miserable, grey and windy Thursday, had been the moment she had known that she must move on. The smug, confident and self-satisfied look on Ray’s face had been unbearable. At that moment she hadn’t just disliked him, she had despised him. So, by the end of the day, she had put in applications for transfer positions to seven separate forces. Within three months, despite all his efforts to obstruct her transfer, the move to Thames Valley had come about. Better still, only six months following the move, she had achieved her much desired, and, in her opinion, grossly overdue, promotion. She was still only thirty-nine and the world, as some would say, was her oyster.

  No one could ever have accused Tina Forsyth of being a romantic. She was a pragmatic, straightforward and brutally practical person. She didn’t spend much time in introspection, but even she was aware that there was one flaw in her otherwise exciting new life. She had no ‘significant other’; indeed, she had very few friends. Women tended not to like her much, a feeling that was generally mutual, and she would never find herself in any kind of relationship with a fellow officer. Following the experience with Anderson, she kept her distance even more so than before.

  She had met a few interesting men who had been prepared to brave her frosty exterior, and she had even had a short-term fling with a successful barrister not long after she had arrived in Reading. Sadly, he had turned out to be a humourless bore on greater exposure.

  Within the last few weeks she had also finally moved out of rented accommodation and into a quiet detached period cottage, which was located a few miles outside Henley on Thames. She loved the area; it was a little precious perhaps, but none the worse for that. The house needed some work and she had little time to organise it, but all in all she was content. No, things were not bad by any means. Still, she had to admit that while she had never felt any desire to have children, it would be nice to have somebody to enjoy her rare spare time with. Sex now and then wouldn’t go amiss either, she thought ruefully.

  She had seriously contemplated internet dating, although so far she had resisted the temptation. The problem, of which she was acutely aware, was that she had ridiculously high standards. The men had to be intelligent with a good sense of humour, extremely successful, of course, and at least tolerably attractive. Under no circumstances should they be in the police. In her experience, it was amazing how rarely the right combination appeared.

  Funnily enough, that insurance adjuster, McRae, tended to flit across her mind on those rare occasions she was in a reflective frame of mind. . God only knew why. She had only met him once for a few minutes and he certainly hadn’t been overly impressive. Overweight, under pressure – and you could hardly call him successful as he had just been sacked! Still, there had been something indefinable about him. A certain look, perhaps it had been his lovely green eyes. Whatever, while the case was nothing to do with her anymore, she had agreed to meet him again after more than 4 years. She must, she concluded, have been stark staring mad.

  Now she was on the train from Reading to London Paddington, where she had agreed to meet for their strictly off-the-record chat. It was totally unlike her. The truth was she wouldn’t have done that for any old person, so the guy must have something.

  By the time she had arrived at Paddington, she had already decided she wasn’t going to waste much time with him. There was an exhibition of some recently unearthed Turner sketches she wouldn’t mind seeing at Tate Britain, and she also wanted to hit Peter Jones in Sloane Square. She certainly wasn’t in town just to see this loser, she told herself. Oh no, it would be a brief interlude in a typically hectic day.

  * * *

  McRae had suggested they should meet at the café bar on the upper mezzanine at the back of the station. She ascended the stairs carefully, conscious of the restrictions of her pencil skirt. He was there already, sitting on a bench to the left of the bar. At first she didn’t recognise him; he was noticeably slimmer and looked healthier and fitter than when she had last seen him. His hair was shorter, too, though his green eyes were just as striking.

  He had looked up from the papers on his table as she had entered the bar and he rose awkwardly to his feet, almost knocking his chair over in the process. There was, she could swear, a distinct blush washing over his face. They shook hands, she firmly and him with obvious embarrassment, before he dashed off to the bar to get her the mint tea she requested.

  While he was waiting to be served, she surreptitiously appraised him from her seated position. He was definitely looking better than he had, even his suit seemed more fashionable – a dark grey material, worn with a pale blue shirt. … Nice. He was such a bag of nerves, though.

  When he returned with the drink, he put it in front of her while she regarded him coolly. ‘Thank you, Mr McRae. Now, we haven’t got much time, so you’d better tell me what’s bothering you.’

  ‘Of course... but first let me thank you for taking time out to meet me, Inspector. I honestly didn’t think you would bother, so I really am grateful and surprised,’ he replied, for the first time looking directly into her face.

  ‘Actually, its Chief Inspector now,’ she responded, before instantly regretting how pompous she sounded. She quickly added, ‘But I was coming to town today anyway, so it really is no hardship.’

  And so he began, at first hesitantly and glancing frequently at her to gauge her response, but growing in confidence as he outlined his suspicions and became more convinced of the strength of his own theories. He told her at length what he had uncovered and stressed he believed strongly that the gang was still active, and of his belief that Le Copa cou
ld be the next bonfire lined up.

  She listened patiently, which he began to appreciate was very much her trademark, and interrupted him only once to ask him to repeat a point.

  Eventually, he had finished. He relaxed and leaned back in his chair to listen to her response. It wasn’t what he expected.

  ‘I am interested, Mr McRae,’ she paused, ‘but I don’t think I can help you.’ She saw his face fall in disappointment, before adding, ‘At least, not personally. I am currently in charge of the burglary division of Thames Valley Police. The “crimes”, if that’s what they are, have occurred outside my jurisdiction – you must realise that. You will, I’m afraid, need to go back to either West Midlands or Merseyside.’

  ‘If that all you can tell me, we’ve both been wasting our time,’ the angry words escaped from McRae’s mouth before he could stifle them. He couldn’t help himself; he was furious. ‘Anyway, thanks for coming. I’d better get off.’ He began to get to his feet. As he did so, her cool right hand closed over his wrist.

  ‘Sit down, Mr McRae.’

  For a moment he was tempted to snatch his hand away, but instead he stared intently at her and saw that she was smiling. She wasn’t simply smiling, she was almost laughing. He sank back into his chair.

  ‘You think I’m funny?’ he demanded.

  ‘To be honest, yes I do,’ she replied. ‘You’re very funny, almost hysterical, but I actually think you might be onto something.’

  A wave of relief passed through his body. Unless she was a total piss-taker, perhaps she would help after all. Pulling himself together, he smiled back at her and suddenly, before he knew it, he was laughing out loud. Her own laughter joined his and within seconds they were giggling helplessly like a pair of imbecilic children. Quite what was so funny, neither of them had the slightest idea, but it was certainly cathartic. Their shared tension had been snapped. It was somehow okay now.

  ‘Can we have a proper drink now as you’re off-duty?’ McRae finally asked as their laughter subsided.

  Seeing no reason or point in objecting, Tina decided to have a small glass of wine. As McRae wandered off to the bar, she tried to pull herself together. This really won’t do, she thought, but what the hell.

  For the next half an hour, the two talked at length and at ease, before Tina pronounced that she really did have to get going if she was going to fit in the Tate and the shops. It seemed natural, almost pre-ordained, that he join her in the visit to the Tate. As a somewhat lesser painter himself, he deemed it appropriate.

  The gallery was relatively quiet; they had hit the best time of day –mid-week and mid-afternoon; perfect. After a rather cursory glance at the Turners, many of which were disappointingly small, Tina needed little persuasion to adjourn to the café. It was as if they were both anxious to return to their confidences. The whole thing was bizarre. What, she thought, had happened to her inner ice queen? She felt strangely relaxed and comfortable with this man.

  The café had temporarily been moved into an open-sided marquee, which was located on the lawn at the front, and they sat at a small cast-iron table. To her amazement, Tina found herself having a second glass of wine; normally she didn’t touch a drop until the sun went down.

  There were only three other tables occupied in the garden and Tina was surprised and a little alarmed to see a woman waving to her with a gallery leaflet from the furthest table. She was about fifty and had short grey hair, a trim figure and was dressed in a smart navy suit. It took a second or two before she recognised the woman: Anne Daventry, only the Anne Daventry. The woman was a bit of a legend in the Met; she was a Commander and had headed the Anti-Terrorism squad, which was a distinct coup for a woman. Tina had attended several conferences where she had been a speaker. She waved back in acknowledgement, desperately hoping that Commander Daventry wouldn’t expect to have a chat, but it seemed that her fears were unjustified as the woman immediately resumed talking to her companion, a heavily-set woman in a floral dress.

  ‘Who is that?’ asked McRae.

  ‘Just a colleague,’ responded Tina.

  It was time to get back down to earth. For the next twenty minutes they debated and analysed the known facts, or at least what McRae claimed to be known facts. He had taken the precaution of listing the key names and dates on a piece of A4 and had also managed to incorporate two photographs, which had been taken on-site in Walsall by Grim. Both of them featured, entirely fortuitously, rather distant images of Kanelos, O’Connell and George Gallo amongst others. He had helpfully ringed and named the figures. He pointed out the short stocky, balding figure of O’Connell, but Tina, he noticed, showed rather more interest in the strikingly handsome Kanelos.

  Before they knew it, it was 4.15pm and the garden was in shade, the air was growing cold and the slight breeze coming off the Thames was becoming uncomfortable.

  Time to put things back into some sort of order, Tina concluded.

  ‘Okay, Drew, I’ve told you that I truly believe you may be onto something, but – stay calm – the fact remains that this case is well and truly out of my jurisdiction. What we need to do is put together what we’ve got and pass it to either Walsall or Liverpool, and get their fraud people onto it. You do realise that, don’t you?’

  She stared intently into his face and he held her gaze, no longer seeing the professional but simply a damned good-looking woman.

  He nodded.

  ‘So no more Sam Spade stuff from you, I’m afraid. I’ll make a few discreet internal enquiries and then I’ll get back to you, always assuming that you want me to contact you again?’ she said archly.

  ‘Well, what do you think?’ He responded, emboldened by the clear come-on. ‘Tell you what, I’ll do a deal with you. I’ll stop doing any more detecting, if you’ll come for dinner with me next week – how about that?’

  Tina snorted and pursed her lips almost provocatively, transforming the tough and sophisticated woman briefly into a distinctly playful girl. It was a change that McRae would have hardly thought possible a few hours ago.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ she replied, ‘but it can’t be next week or the week after because I’ll be on a course at Bramshill. I’ll let you know when I’m back.’

  He reached across the table, squeezed her cool hand and gave it a playful shake. ‘Done deal.’

  The fleeting touch of his fingers thrilled her. As it no doubt would have said in the sort of Mills and Boon romance that she normally scorned, a spark of energy, something electric, had flowed between them. More than lust, it was a coup de foudre – a crazy incomprehensible sensation. For his part, McRae felt a more basic level of simple sexual attraction towards her; an awakening of desire that he had not experienced for years.

  Tina was distracted, her mind in the clouds, as she finally left him, barely able to credit the emotions she was feeling. She didn’t even notice that Commander Daventry was staring intently in her direction. The realisation of the complications that lay ahead only dawned on her as she travelled back to Reading on the five o’clock train.

  She would be obliged to refer the matter to the relevant authority or authorities, which meant West Midlands and Ray bloody Anderson. He was now “cock of the walk” in Walsall and he would be the man to speak to. But could she bear to speak to him? Disclosing, no doubt to his total scorn, that her informant, with whom she was clearly still in touch, was “that useless insurance guy”.

  ‘Been fucking the punters now then, Tina?’ she could almost hear his sarcastic enquiry. It would be unbearable.

  Of course, technically, she could choose to go to Merseyside Police instead, as they had experienced the more recent fire, and let them run with it. Either way, many embarrassing questions would be asked about the unorthodox route by which the case had been raised. This had the potential to be a major fraud enquiry; Tina was in no doubt of that. Equally, she was in no doubt that a good few knowing glances would be cast in her direction. She was no shrinking violet, but did she really need this complication wh
en everything was going so bloody well? The answer was absolutely clear. DCI Forsyth was going places and her future career had fantastic potential, provided that she didn’t do anything stupid that caused her bosses to doubt either her judgement or her professionalism.

  She may have been seized by an unaccountable sudden passion for a charming man, but she had not completely lost her marbles. DCI Forsyth hadn’t got to where she had without being a canny political operator.

  By the time the train pulled up at platform two of Reading Station, she knew what she needed – a little more time and a lot more information.

  33

  London, July 2011

  A strong and gusty wind was dislodging the first leaves from the beech and chestnut trees that populated the cemetery. The trees rattled and rustled sharply, the noise somehow overcoming the distant hum of traffic. Small but well-defined drifts of orphaned leaves were forming against the sides of the tombs.

  McRae halted for a moment to read the inscription on the unassuming headstone of the poet and painter William Blake, 1757-1827. Not a bad innings for the period, he reflected.

  Bunhill Fields lay on the western side of City Road and was one of London’s small marvels. It provided a link to the 17th century that somehow, defiantly, had survived the stranglehold of the modern city. McRae would often take a few paces around the graveyard, which lay on his route home from the City, to clear his mind. John Bunyan, George Fox, Daniel Defoe and, of course, the remarkable Blake, were amongst the great, the good and, no doubt, the less than good, who rested peacefully within these few acres.

  Returning to the office, his mind had been in a tumult. He could scarcely believe what had happened that afternoon. He had been so distracted by his thoughts that the envelope addressed to him and pinned to his chair from Suzanne had barely registered. He had merely detached the envelope from the chair and slipped it into his pocket for later.