The Fire Man

by Iain Adams

  It was a pity, he thought, that he couldn’t have involved either Suzanne or John, both of whom would have benefited, in a macabre way, from exposure to a catastrophe of this scale. However, the instructions had been clear. No more than one representative from each adjuster could be allowed access at this stage. It wasn’t just people that were restricted. McRae had only twenty-five minutes to carry out a superficial “drive-by” inspection, which equated to five minutes per risk. He didn’t envy Fitzroy, in fact, whose task was so much greater.

  To his disappointment, the first of his cases – an independent newsagents – showed absolutely no signs of damage. The small unit, which was little more than a kiosk, was positioned on the corner of a side access passage leading to the lifts and car park stairs. Obviously the direction of the blast had freakishly skipped the unit entirely, though it had wreaked havoc with the two fashion chain stores only yards away. Fitzroy, of course, had both those jobs on his schedule.

  As they progressed further into the eerie chaos of the mall, it became necessary for the two men to divide their escorts as Fitzroy pursued his interest in a large electrical store and McRae sought out the location of what he hoped would be a seriously damaged café. He noticed many strange, almost eccentric variations in the pattern of damage. Cheek by jowl with pristine shop displays from which models gazed haughtily at the devastation before them, had been shattered glass windows where the plate glass had been sucked outwards and where the suspended ceilings within had collapsed onto the stock and fixtures below.

  The café proved to be another disappointment. There was minor damage to a few tables and chairs, but, so far as he could see, that was that. He took a couple of quick pictures and consulted his list.

  ‘Where next, Guv?’ said his companion. ‘Bit disappointing for you so far, innit?’

  ‘You could say so,’ replied McRae, paying attention for the first time to the short stocky officer who was accompanying him. The man was clearly nearing retirement. He must have been well over fifty. McRae couldn’t recall seeing a constable who looked quite as mature for a long time.

  ‘The next one is a lingerie shop, near the atrium,’ said McRae.

  ‘Ah, you could be in luck there. It’s pretty well fucked in that area.’

  ‘Okay, can you lead on then?’

  As they crunched their way along the wide walkway towards the atrium, the policeman spoke. ‘Do much of this sort of stuff then?’

  ‘Well, we don’t get much, thank God.’

  ‘No, course not. I didn’t really mean terrorism; I meant, like, you know, disasters in general?’

  ‘If I can,’ replied McRae. ‘What about you? You based in Holloway?’

  ‘Good God, no, bit too posh for me round here. I’m based at Commercial Road station normally – been there twenty years. You do anything round there?’

  ‘Certainly do. In fact, I had a small job at a pub there recently. The Squatters Rights, know it?’

  The constable sniffed dismissively. ‘I know it. Gone all gastro, hasn’t it? Always used to be called The King’s Head – a right rough hole but a proper pub, know what I mean? I’ve not really been in it since it got tarted up, but the lads down the station all stopped going there as soon as it got ponced up… . What were you there for anyway?’

  ‘Oh, just a small break in. Bit of vandalism, nothing much.’

  The policeman laughed and absentmindedly investigated the state of his fingernails. ‘Wouldn’t have been anything to nick or vandalise in the old Rag-Picker, I can tell you.’

  ‘Thought you said it was called the King’s Head?’

  ‘Yeah, bit confusing. The real name was the King’s Head, but for some reason everybody called it the Rag-Picker. Think it was ‘cos the whole of that street was occupied by rag collectors and bone merchants back in the day. You know, like, Jack the Ripper times. Rough old place, full of doss-houses – used to sleep thirty-odd in the basements! They say most of those basements were inter-connecting. Coppers could never catch any bugger ‘cos they just scarpered next door, know what I mean?’

  They arrived at the shop” ‘Lucinda’s Lovely Lingerie” did not disappoint. It had clearly caught the full vacuum effect as the blast had deflected up towards the great space of the atrium above. The window glazing had been completely sucked out, suspended ceilings and partitions had been blasted apart and the crude structural block work had been exposed in all its unimpressive glory. The flimsy contents of the shop had been liberally distributed across the marble paving.

  Even in his moment of elation, McRae couldn’t help noticing an enormous dry patch of coagulated blood close to the shattered doorway. Some poor woman or maybe even a child was cut to ribbons by flying glass right here, he thought . For a fleeting moment he felt a deep sense of sorrow and stood transfixed, staring at the large brown and crimson stain.

  His moment of reflection was interrupted.

  ‘You’d better crack on if you want to get round to your next one,’ said the constable.

  He made a few quick notes, took a couple of pictures and they moved on.

  The next two jobs, a greeting card retailer and another café, were almost as disappointing as the first. Neither had more than superficial damage, but McRae was satisfied. The damage to Lucinda’s had been significant enough to make it a serious loss; a loss that would generate a substantial fee. Unfortunately, he couldn’t stop himself visualising the ghastly stains on the marble paving.

  * * *

  By the time he got back to the office, it was becoming dark, but the gang were all present. John and Suzanne were ghoulishly eager to hear the gory details and they clustered around his screen to examine the pictures as he downloaded them from his camera. Like McRae himself they were a little disappointed at the relatively minor damage sustained by most of their cases, but cheered by the significant scale of the lingerie shop loss. John, predictably, weighed in with a few risqué observations on the knickers and bras on display, and there was something a bit too conspiratorial about Suzanne’s relaxed response for McRae’s taste. He was even more convinced that there was something going on between the pair.

  He realised, with dismay, that he was jealous; he also recognised with a start that he had completely forgotten to chase Suzanne up with regard to his email. What with Kanelos and the bomb damage, he had almost, but not quite, forgotten about Tina Forsyth.

  After saving the photographs and disconnecting his camera, he asked Suzanne, ‘What’s happening with my email?’

  ‘All done, I’ve given you a new password. It’s been in your office inbox for a couple of days.’

  ‘Oh, right. Don’t recall seeing it, what’s it headed?’

  She looked at him with exasperation. ‘Personal email, I think.’

  ‘Right, obviously I need to go to Specsavers.’

  He opened his business email as she looked on and, sure enough, there was Suzanne’s message, which somehow he had completely overlooked. There was no doubt about it; his brain had been scrambled by the Kanelos incident. Reading the email, he saw Suzanne had created a highly inappropriate password for his personal account. Drewbomb1, that’ll get changed bloody rapid, he thought.

  Opening his mail, some of which was now over three weeks old, he filtered out the spam and there, at last, he found it. She had written to him, nearly two weeks earlier. He opened the message.

  He was every bit as disappointed as Tina had expected him to be. Bullshit! “Insufficient information”, my arse! She clearly didn’t fancy him in the least. Why the hell should she? She certainly wasn’t going to help him; that much was for sure. The tone of the message was cool and restrained, just like the woman herself. What a bitch.

  Well, that was that, he thought. Kanelos and his chums would get no more hassle from him. Without potential support from the police via Tina, he could see no point in pursuing the matter any further. The only reward would be a bloody rape charge.

  He sent the message to print and retrieved it from the printe
r, before folding it and slipping it into his jacket pocket. He would, he decided, reply later – he couldn’t trust himself to be civil right now.

  It was gone five o’clock. He signed what little post there was and, to Sandra’s obvious irritation, caught her just as she was slipping out of the front door. He handed the letters to her and she dashed back to her desk to get them into envelopes, ready for posting. Keen to lift his own spirits, he poked his head around the door to the general office and, with a gaiety he didn’t remotely feel, offered to take the others for a quick drink.

  Suzanne, with a sly glance at John, said, ‘As long as it’s quick, boss?’

  ‘Course, what do you think I am? An alky?’

  Once in the wine bar, McRae managed for a while to maintain a jovial bonhomie, but all too soon he had slipped into a morose, uncommunicative state. Suzanne and John were, he realised, essentially talking to each other. He roused himself as he realised that Suzanne was asking him a question.

  ‘You still doing anything about that old fraud case, Drew?’

  ‘No, not really.’

  ‘So that info on those Dublin guys was no use then?’

  ‘It was, but not quite specific enough, apparently.’

  ‘Shame, it seemed like you were pretty excited about it when I told you’

  Anxious not to be excluded, John put in his pennyworth. ‘Fitted with what I told you as well, didn’t it, about that guy covering Ireland as well as Scotland?’

  Looking at the two keen, young faces, McRae was too embarrassed to admit he was dropping the matter. He explained that he was trying to interest a certain police connection in the case, but the “contact” needed something less circumstantial ‘like a signed fucking confession.’ Seeing their expressions drop, he added, ‘I haven’t given up on it just yet, though.’

  The lie seemed to reassure them.

  Changing the subject, Suzanne asked, ‘Any chance of another crack at a job like the Squatters? I still need to get more theft experience.’

  ‘Actually, my girl, I’ll have you know that the pub used to be called “The King’s Head” and was actually known by the cognoscenti of the East End as “The Rag-pickers”,’ said McRae, affecting a knowledgeable tone. He went on to explain the source of his erudition.

  ‘Was that place near O’Meara Street?’ asked John.

  ‘Yeah, how did you guess?’

  ‘That’s where my nan used to live. In fact, most of my relatives come from round there. It was bloody rough from what I hear. Back in the day, everybody was like a beggar, collecting rags and rubbish or working in tanneries. Poor as church mice; it was a real shithole. Jack the Ripper, all that stuff. When you mentioned “The Rag-Picker”, I just thought it sounded familiar from nan’s old stories. Fights, drunks, people kipping in cellars, real squalid conditions. See, my family haven’t always been country people!’

  Staggered at the concept of Romford as “country”, McRae amused himself further with a mental image of John as a straw-sucking yokel. No doubt he’d have a slim-fit smock tailored by Hugo Boss.

  Dismissing the strong temptation to have a further drink, McRae set off towards Shoreditch, parting with John and Suzanne at Liverpool Street station.

  On a whim and in no particular hurry to get home, he decided he would rather take one more look at the O’Meara Street factory. He had frequently made a point of diverting during his various pilgrimages into East London and seemed drawn to the place as if by magnetism. He had observed office girls coming and going, the warehousemen and fork-lift drivers turning up at different times, but somehow he had never spotted the people he was really interested in, which he found frustrating.

  He made the journey to Whitechapel by tube, but he was out of luck again. Something was going on in the warehouse; he could hear the whine of some machinery, presumably a fork-lift, but there was nothing to be seen. It really was time to go home.

  By the time he had stepped out of Old Street station, the thirst had returned and he diverted into the first pub he found on Hackney Road. It was a place he hadn’t previously visited and he vowed never to return. It was rank with an odour of sweaty rags, virtually empty but disturbingly noisy, with all the volume emanating from an excessively loud and distorted PA system that was banging out the Eagles’ greatest hits. He loved ‘Hotel California’ as much as the next man, but if anything could put him off it, it was this place.

  He bought a small, distinctly iffy, white Rioja and sat at a shabby bar stool. Despite the surroundings, he felt considerably better than he had a few hours ago, having been cheered by alcohol and the convivial chat with his colleagues. He remembered that he would have to reply to Tina on his new computer when he got home and he pulled her printed email from his pocket.

  His mood, chemically-enhanced as it was, he now found her words less depressing than on first reading. It had been written with great precision. She wasn’t saying that she wouldn’t help, but that more solid evidence was needed. Best of all, he recognised that the closing words held out a lifeline. She was expecting – no, inviting – him to get back in touch. He read it again. There was no doubt.

  * * *

  The takeaway chicken madras had been remarkably good – either that or McRae’s critical faculties had been severely blunted. He suspected that the latter was true. Now finished, he crammed the bin with the discarded aluminium trays and assorted small polystyrene pickle pots, then dropped the plate and cutlery into the sink where it balanced uneasily on top of other quietly soaking crockery and pans. He really would have to wash up soon, if only because he was running out of clean plates.

  He thought again about ringing Tina Forsyth. He wanted to but he was acutely conscious that he was, ever so slightly, pissed. No, it would be better to call her later, when he hoped he might have something else to tell her. After all this time, though, perhaps it would be better to reply to her email.

  He quickly rattled off his overdue reply, his very first effort on his shiny newly acquired replacement computer. Following deep consideration, he had decided to match her guarded, restrained tone. His message began with a brief explanation of the reasons for his tardiness, the discovery of the break in when he had got home from meeting her and the damage to the computer. He acknowledged the necessity to add a little more substance to the evidence and said that he now “had an idea” and would get back to her very soon.

  He leaned back in his chair and read over the message. It was perfect, he thought. Cool and professional; it just needed a warm ending. “I’ll be in touch soon. You can count on it.” He pressed send.

  He logged off the machine and opened the sliding door to the balcony. It was raining yet again, but the wet streets and twinkling lights held their usual magic. The space, which had been laughably described by the estate agents as a “Juliet balcony”, was so small that there was only room for a single folding chair and a small table.

  He parked his rear on the small metal chair, realising too late that it was soaking wet. He smoked, oblivious, as a dull damp chill penetrated his trousers. He barely noticed; he was far too pre-occupied with his thoughts. Tina, Kanelos, Victorian rag-pickers and bloodstains – most of all, the bloodstains.

  40

  London, August 2011

  Thursdays were always busy. Seven new cases had been received that morning alone and, to his irritation, he could overhear Suzanne and John bickering over his allocation. Suzanne, it seemed, wished to swap one of her water damage cases in Chelsea for one of John’s cases in Holborn. He leapt out of his chair and wrenched open the door.

  ‘Oi! No bloody swapping. There is method in my madness, you know. If I allocate a case to either of you, it’s for a good reason. Alright?’ He sounded, he realised, uncharacteristically fierce and the two adjusters looked at him sheepishly. They were clearly stunned. Neither replied. He glared, closed the door softly and returned to his desk.

  Later, much later, he called Suzanne into his office. John was out on an appointment.

&n
bsp; ‘Sorry if I snapped at you this morning,’ he said.

  ‘No, that’s okay, I just wanted to—’

  ‘Look, it doesn’t matter what you wanted to do, always ask me first, okay? I think long and hard about who does what, and the truth is that sometimes it matters and sometimes it doesn’t... okay?’ He smiled, keen to show that he wasn’t having a go, but simply wanted her to take on board what he was saying.

  ‘Okay,’ she returned the smile, clearly relieved. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘It is really, I just thought I’d better have a word because the two of you stared at me like I was Jack the Ripper.’

  She laughed. ‘I was just shocked ‘cos you’re not normally so...’ she paused, searching for the right expression, ‘sharp, so…’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I know, I know. I think it’s just because I’ve got something to do tonight that I’m not really looking forward to, so…’ His voice tailed off.

  ‘Anything I can help with?’ she asked. She was as eager to help as usual and, for a fleeting second, McRae was sorely tempted to involve her.

  Finally, he replied, ‘No, not really, just pass onto John what I’ve said, will you?’ He stood up to indicate that the chat was over.

  The remainder of the afternoon dragged until, finally, he found himself making his way back to the flat. He was itching for a drink but was acutely aware that it would be insane to impair whatever wits he had this evening. A drop of Dutch courage wouldn’t go amiss, but he could easily see himself losing his resolve. No, it would have to wait.

  41

  Henley-on-Thames, August 2011

  The bath was filling; it had been running a while, so she hurried up the narrow stairs to turn the taps off. Her arrival was timely as the water was lapping dangerously close to the top.

  She tested the temperature and was surprised to find it was still okay; a little warm, but bearable. She added a squirt of primrose bath oil and lit the scented candle, before slipping off her robe and lowering herself into the water. She had a soft spot for candles in the bathroom. Her colleagues would never have suspected that she possessed such a “girly” weakness.