The Fire Man

by Iain Adams

  If it was supposed to be a random act of mindless vandalism, then that was pretty easy. But, if they wanted an “accident”; then that called for a bit of scene-setting. When he had begun what he liked to think of as his career, he had known nothing except how to set a match to something. Now, he had seriously studied arson. He normally hated reading but he’d enjoyed reading about those guys. He had practised. He had developed a genuine feel for what was required. He preferred the “accidents”. A bit of creative artistry.

  Of course, he didn’t see himself as a pyro, some wannabe fireman or one of those sick “hero” types he had read about. He didn’t even hang around to watch the fires, like most of the saddos did. He prided himself on being a professional.

  In, out and then collect the money; that was his motto.

  Mind you, it could be a bit tedious. Like when you had to hang around for bleeding hours, just so there was absolutely no chance anyone saw you either entering or leaving. He shouldn’t complain about that, though, as it was the key to success in his opinion.

  This time he had hidden in the men’s toilets until the receptionist had finally shut up shop for the night. Then, he had quietly set about creating his masterpiece.

  He had to concede that it hadn’t been difficult. The materials were already to hand, courtesy of the “redecoration” process: the cleaning rags, nicely permeated with primer and white spirit residues; the masking tape strips and, of course, the amusing little Calor-gas blow-torch cylinders had all been nice touches.

  All he had needed to do was to move the hanging rails around a little, in order to ensure that the longest plastic-wrapped garments were strategically placed. He’d then swept the conveniently discarded wrapping paper, packing materials and cleaning rags into a small pile placed unfortunately close to the decorators’ materials. Oh, and, of course, he had had to carefully insert a one-litre plastic bottle of white spirit neatly into the centre of the pile.

  The theory, and he knew for certain it worked, was that once the trash was ignited it would burn for a few minutes before melting the bottle. This would then release the nicely pre-heated spirit into the equation.

  Whoosh.

  The beauty of this method was that if the fire went as well as expected, all traces of the white spirit bottle and the set-up would disappear. If it didn’t, it was still explainable through the context of the decoration process – it’s amazing how careless people can be.

  Of course, it was in the lap of the Gods to some extent, but, provided the place was well-ventilated (tick), the garments caught (tick) and that no passer-by could discover the fire too early (tick), he should be onto a winner. In fact, he had experienced only one failure, which fortunately had not proved catastrophic. Since then, all had gone well.

  It was all ready now. He just needed to sprinkle a little white spirit onto the pile (never too much; a common mistake of the amateur) and then he could get away. Unfortunately, the boss wanted it done at 11.35 pm precisely and there was still an hour to go.

  * * *

  He was sitting on the floor with his back against the steel pillar, fiddling idly with his disposable lighter, when the blood suddenly ran like ice in his veins. He wasn’t alone!

  In the corner of the warehouse, he could clearly see, through a gap between the rails, a figure stealthily opening the doors from the offices. He watched with mounting anxiety as the figure crept slowly down the steps. He couldn’t move; he didn’t dare move. Who the fuck was it?

  It was a tallish man, a man who was moving inexorably closer to his own position, but who clearly hadn’t the faintest idea that he was there. That was his advantage. He rose slowly and stealthily to his feet, then felt for the heavy rubber-sleeved torch in his jacket pocket.

  Time stood still for a moment as the intruder gazed around the warehouse. Then, as he moved quietly towards the pile, he saw the figure switch on his own torch and illuminate the heap.

  This was his opportunity; he took two rapid, soundless steps between the racks and swung his heavy torch violently in a scything motion towards the back of the intruder’s exposed head. His aim was true. There was a satisfying solid thwack as the torch met the head, followed quickly by a sickening thump as the man’s forehead struck the concrete floor.

  He bent over the body that lay face down on the floor, switched his torch on to illuminate the unconscious figure and recognised him immediately. Despite what appeared to be a broken nose, he could see that it was McRae, whose flat he had so enjoyed trashing. The bloke was clearly a glutton for punishment.

  * * *

  O’Connell was as cool and collected as the youth had expected. Nothing fazed him. The voice at the end of the line was as flat as a snooker table. It stilled the panic bubbling up in the youth’s chest.

  ‘Okay, Martin, you did right. We’ll have to postpone things for a little while. Are you certain that he’s out cold?’

  ‘Absolutely. To be honest, I thought I’d killed the fucker at first, but I just checked. He is breathing, but he doesn’t look good.’

  ‘Okay, just tidy the place up. I’ll be with you in about forty minutes.’

  ‘Yeah, but...’

  ‘Not now, son. We’ll sort it when I get there.’ He hung up.

  * * *

  Driving over to the factory in heavy rain, his brain in a controlled turmoil, O’Connell debated whether to update Alex and Derek on the latest developments. As usual, on the night of an “event”, both of them were busy with conspicuous public engagements.

  Both men were becoming increasingly nervous. He knew only too well that they had both had had enough and wanted out. He knew he couldn’t rely on them anymore. Bloody useless English bastards; no bottle at all. He decided there was nothing to be gained. As he watched his windscreen wipers smearing the glass, he formed an idea of how to resolve the problem and he was pretty sure that neither of them would like it.

  44

  Henley-on-Thames, August 2011

  It was a quarter to one when she heard the mobile. She had been asleep, a somewhat unsatisfactory disturbed sleep, for about an hour and she awoke with a start. Her hand grasped the phone and she screwed up her eyes to make out the caller identity before answering.

  ‘Sorry to call so late, Tina, but I thought that you might want to know that one of those guys you were asking about is definitely someone of serious interest to us,’ said Jack.

  She struggled to shake herself into consciousness. ‘Which one?’ she said eventually as she raised herself onto one shoulder and fiddled with the bedside light switch.

  ‘O’Connell. Your pictures were a bit shite but if he’s who I think he is, he used to be, probably still is, a big hitter with the Provos.’

  ‘What, the IRA?’ she said stupidly.

  ‘Yes, of course the bloody IRA. Frankly, though, you sound half-dead, so why don’t I put the history sheet on an email and zap it over to you? If it’s of any interest, let me know tomorrow, eh? Actually, come to think of it, he is of serious interest to us, so let me know anyway, okay?’

  Mumbling her thanks, she switched the phone off.

  Twenty minutes later, she gave up. She wasn’t going to be able to get to sleep again. She simply had to know what Jack had turned up on O’Connell.

  While the kettle boiled, she switched the laptop on and opened her email. She stared intently at the pictures that Jack had sent over and compared them with the small distant images captured by Drew and his people.

  Jack had been right; Drew’s pictures weren’t good but the likeness was inescapable. Not many people had hair like that and still fewer were also called Michael O’Connell. It was him, of that she was in no doubt. Any possible doubts she may have still harboured were blown away completely by the potted history that accompanied the pictures.

  Educated at Trinity College. Active in Sinn Fein university politics, seen as a bit of a rising star but then disappeared from the conventional political scene. (A file note tentatively suggested that Sinn Fein was too
left-wing for him). Re-emerged, in general tittle- tattle, a few years later, as a suspected bag-carrier for “people of interest”. Spotted at various IRA meetings in Belfast and in the “bandit country” of North Armagh. He had even been identified on the fringe of fundraising functions in New York and Chicago.

  It is obvious that O’Connell was involved in the IRA, but equally clear that the security services both north and south of the Irish border found it difficult to nail down his role. He appeared to be a shadowy figure, mixing with some important people but not suspected to be a trigger-man. The belief of the Garda in Dublin, and of the British Special Branch, was that O’Connell was one of the IRA’s backroom intelligentsia, involved in funding, strategy and planning.

  His profile changed dramatically when a horrendous fire occurred at a club called the Barracuda in Dublin in the late nineties.

  A dozen young people, mainly students, died of asphyxiation because the emergency exit doors of the club had been wrongly locked. It was one of the worst disasters of its type in Irish history. O’Connell, it was suspected, had, in some way, been involved. The working assumption of the Garda was that the Provisional IRA had been funding an arson-based fraud as part of a money-laundering exercise.

  Somehow, something had gone badly wrong.

  Perhaps unsurprisingly, O’Connell had adopted an even lower profile following the fire disaster, until he finally disappeared from the radar completely around 1998. His subsequent whereabouts were unknown. The Garda didn’t have an official warrant for his arrest, but the last entries in the papers suggested that they were, in the usual police jargon,”keen to talk to him.”

  She read the notes again, but found no reason to doubt that McRae’s Friar Tuck and the IRA man were one and the same. There was no more time for prevarication; she knew that she had to take action. Most of all, she knew that whatever McRae was up to, and she was certain he would still be pursuing his obsession, it had to stop. He could be in serious danger – potentially mortal danger.

  It was half past one in the morning, but regardless she rang McRae’s mobile. Strangely, it did not go straight to voicemail but rang out, leading her to hope that he might still be awake. There was no reply, so she left a short terse message telling him to call her immediately, whatever the time.

  Reluctantly, concluding that there was nothing else she could do, Tina decided to return to bed. As she climbed the stairs, she felt the onset of a headache and trudged back downstairs to find a couple of paracetamol. Running the kitchen tap for a glass of water, she was seized by a sense of dread. What exactly had McRae meant by “having an idea”? She hoped to hell he hadn’t done something rash.

  Half an hour later, the headache was easing but sleep was certainly not arriving. Feeling more alert than ever and, reconciled to the fact that her mind would not let her rest, she wearily pulled on a baggy jumper and went back downstairs.

  The Wyndham’s visiting card was still in its position of splendid isolation on the kitchen noticeboard where she’d pinned it. She looked at it again. Her memory was correct; there was a twenty-four hour emergency number listed.

  After a noticeable delay, an adenoidal young man, who was clearly reading from a script, answered her call. It was clearly some subcontracted “out of hours” response service, which had been set up to ensure that Wyndham’s could be appointed on major losses at any time of day.

  She let the man finish his prepared sentences and then spoke. ‘It’s D.C.I. Forsyth of Thames Valley Police speaking. I’m not phoning about a claim but I need to speak to whoever is the duty call-out person for this company urgently. Can you check your records and let me know who the contact is please?’

  The line went quiet for a moment as the operator put the call on hold. Just as she was becoming seriously annoyed, he came back on to the line. ‘The person on the rota for this week is someone called Suzanne Delacroix. Will she do?’

  * * *

  It took Suzanne only a few seconds to collect her thoughts. She had washed her hair and gone to bed early for a change, so when the phone rang at a quarter to three she had already had four hours sleep. Nevertheless, she still wasn’t quite as quick on the uptake as she normally was.

  ‘So, you are?’ she repeated.

  ‘Tina Forsyth, Thames Valley Police. I’m a… friend of Drew McRae and the fact is I need to contact him urgently.’

  Suzanne had never heard Drew refer to the woman and she sounded a little desperate. She wasn’t at all sure it would be a good idea to give her any information. ‘Sorry, but I really can’t give out his mobile number—’ she began, but was interrupted.

  ‘I don’t need his bloody mobile number – I’ve got it and already tried it, but to no avail. The truth is I’m a bit worried about him. I can’t go into details but I think he could be in a bit of difficulty. Have you got the faintest idea of where he might be tonight?’

  She didn’t have a clue why, but Suzanne began to have an inkling that the call could be connected to whatever it was that Drew hadn’t been “looking forward to”.

  ‘I haven’t got a clue, I’m afraid, but… do you happen to know anything about an old fraud—’

  Tina broke in urgently, ‘Yes, I do know, but is it relevant to what he’s up to tonight?’

  ‘I don’t know, honestly, but he did say he had something to do tonight that he wasn’t looking forward to. He was very uptight at the office this afternoon and…’

  ‘Listen, Suzanne, the fact is I now have reason to believe that the people Drew is investigating may be extremely dangerous. So, please think carefully, what could he be doing?’

  One of Suzanne’s greatest strengths was that she always thought with a cool head, even under pressure. However, she felt her powers of rational thought evaporating, before cautiously asking: ‘Do you know anything about a fashion warehouse in the East End?’

  ‘Is it called “Le Copa”?’

  ‘Yes, that’s it. I’m wondering whether he might have decided to take a closer look, but… I’m only guessing.’

  Guessing all too bloody well, thought Tina. She didn’t know him well enough yet, but she had already formed a view of McRae as a potentially impulsive, nay downright rash man. Throw obsession into the mix and anything was possible.

  ‘Do you know where it is?’ she asked and, having been assured that the girl knew exactly where it was, made up her mind.

  There was a train out of Reading at 4.39am, which got into Paddington at just after 5.30am. If Suzanne was willing, they could meet and go to Commercial Road together. She would decide what exactly she was going to do at the warehouse en route. She was unsurprised when Suzanne jumped at the suggestion.

  Another would-be detective, she concluded as she put down the phone.

  45

  London, August 2011

  O’Connell gazed impassively at the lifeless form below. Martin had certainly given him a good one. He stared intently at McRae’s broken face; the clearly fractured nose bent slightly to the left and a trickle of blood showed above his lips. He was breathing, though, with small bubbles forming and dissolving on his lips, but he seemed out cold – cold enough for what O’Connell had in mind.

  He bent down and patted the pockets. A wallet in the inside pocket, a set of keys, some loose change and a mobile phone. He looked at the mobile but it was protected by a password, so there was no chance of checking out McRae’s contacts. He saw that the phone was switched to silent, so flicked it back to loud. Might as well know about it if anyone called. He wiped the phone carefully and placed the items back into the pockets from which they had come. Everything needed to look just right.

  ‘He was carrying this, boss.’ Martin handed the older man the torch that had been dropped by McRae. Again, O’Connell wiped it carefully and slipped it into a pocket.

  ‘How’d he get in?’

  ‘That old escape door to the pub cellar. I’ve locked it again and blocked the keyhole.’

  Fucking hell, thought O’Connell, but inst
ead said, ‘Well done, son.’

  The silver-lemon moonlight was still glinting fitfully between the clouds, glancing occasionally off the metal machinery and clothing rails of the warehouse, and casting strange flickering shadows in the aisles of hanging garments. With any luck, there would be sufficient illumination for his purposes.

  ‘Just keep an eye on him,’ he said as he turned, feeling Martin’s eyes on his back, and walked toward the back wall of the warehouse. He unlocked the wicket door and stepped silently into the gloom of the rear yard. He allowed his eyes to adjust to the murk. It was still raining and small puddles reflected the intermittent shafts of moonlight.

  He looked carefully in every direction. There were no houses that overlooked O’Meara Street. A couple of warehouses had been converted, but it was basically an exclusively commercial area. He knew that the landlord of the Squatter’s Rights had a flat on the top floor of the pub, but it was now past midnight, the pub had been closed for an hour and there was only a single light showing – in what he guessed to be a landing – on the top floor. He continued to scrutinise the upper floors for some seconds before being satisfied that all was well.

  He moved closer to the pub wall. It was as precarious as he had remembered it, leaning at a disturbing angle. Carefully, and with a delicacy that few would have suspected of him, he pulled on the handle of the communicating gate between the two yards. Fortunately, it opened towards him and the hinges creaked ominously. He folded the door back on itself and stepped gingerly through the opening. It would do, he was sure of that and retraced his steps.

  Once back, Martin and O’Connell lifted the body together. They carried it out of the factory and into the yard, where, temporarily exhausted, they lowered McRae to the ground. His clothes began to soak up the water from the small dirty puddle into which he had been dropped.