The Fire Man (22 page)

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.

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.

‘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.

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.

She allowed herself to slide carefully down until only her head showed above the suds. The water lapped against her neck and she felt the tension slowly ebb away. Her body was relaxing, but her mind continued to whirl.

There had been a rash of plant and construction machinery thefts across the county. Almost certainly the work of gypsies, but investigations with the traveller community always presented problems. Her stream of consciousness floated away from work. She debated whether or not it was yet time to get on with the renovations, as she found herself tracking an unsightly crack across the ceiling. Finally, McRae's message crept into her thoughts. She soaped herself, dreamily, lazily, and her imagination took a distinctly erotic turn.

There was no other word for it, she decided. She was feeling aroused. The message from McRae had been as neutral as her own had been to him – almost, she thought, a childish case of tit-for-tat – but just reading his last sentence had been enough to remind her of their last touch. That prickle of sexual tension was making her squirm. She imagined him undressing her. God, she was feeling randy. It was, she realised, ridiculous feeling the way she did over a man she had only met a couple of times. For Tina, it was an exceptional, if not unique, experience. There was no accounting for this adolescent fixation. She pulled herself together.

After dressing and roughly drying her hair, she made her way back down the narrow cottage stairs.

She poured a glass of nicely chilled Cloudy Bay Sauvignon and finished drying her hair while half-listening to the news on Radio 4. Still more coverage of the terrorist bomb, lousy GDP figures, unemployment up and, just for a change, the never-ending saga of Afghanistan. She switched the radio off; it was depressing and she didn't want to feel depressed. Soon enough she would be seeing McRae again and that was something to look forward to.

The only fly in the ointment was that she had nothing to report. She had uncovered virtually nothing on Kanelos and even less on Smythson, and there were far too many bloody O'Connells. She hadn't even identified a suitable contact at SOCA. She sighed; one of those guys must have a record.

O'Connell – there really were a hell of a lot of O'Connells.
Was it an Irish name or an Ulster name?
she wondered.
Must be Irish, the Northern names had more Scottish roots, didn't they?
She shook her head at her woeful ignorance of Irish affairs. Still, how many people in England had ever truly understood Irish affairs? So near and yet so incomprehensible.

Jack Reid!
How could it be that she had never thought about him? Eleven years ago, she had had a relationship with Jack. It hadn't lasted long, but it had been intense while it lasted. They had met when they were both with West Midlands. Seemed like a lifetime ago. The last time she had spoken to him must have been at least five or six years earlier. The point was that Jack had been about to transfer to the RUC or whatever they called it these days.

The PSNI, Police Service of Northern Ireland – that's it!
she thought.
God, what an awful, bureaucratic-sounding name.
Still, whatever they were called, he could be well worth talking to, she concluded.

He must be pretty senior by now
.
He was always a smart operator. The PSNI have a load of contact with serious crime and they sure as hell will know a lot of people named O'Connell! Bit like him asking me about a guy called Smith, though.
Still, it would be good to catch up with Jack again.

She pulled open her desk drawer and rummaged through it for her old diaries. Eventually, she found the number she wanted in a dog-eared 2005 Letts. Without hesitation, she dialled.

It was, it turned out, a minor miracle that she was even able to reach him. CID officers in Northern Ireland apparently changed mobile numbers as often as their socks for security reasons. Reid had only retained his old number on a diversion for the benefit of a few of his old mainland mates.

His voice, she thought, sounded ever so slightly different; there was a distinct touch of an Ulster burr blending with his native Black Country twang. Odd, but strangely comforting. Regardless, he was warm, friendly and sounded exceptionally pleased to speak to her. They talked animatedly about old times, updated each other on their careers and it turned out that he too had made it to detective inspector. He was even on the cusp of a further promotion. She was a little surprised to find out how much he loved his life in Belfast, although at times it was apparently still pretty hairy. It made her spate of muggings and gypsy thieves in Reading sound like very small beer.

‘Still single?' he asked, showing a disappointing lack of surprise at her answer. It soon transpired that he had recently divorced, following a brief marriage to a local woman – which no doubt went some way to explaining his almost excessive pleasure at her call. He seemed so delighted to speak to her, in fact, that he was soon telling her how he would be visiting his mother in Wolverhampton shortly and perhaps they could meet?

Oh shit
, she thought. ‘Yes, you never know,' she replied evasively, ‘but what I would like is for you to do something for me.'

‘You haven't changed,' he laughed good-naturedly. ‘Go ahead. What do you want, you scheming hussy?'

Careful not to divulge the nature of her own involvement, Tina gave details of the names she was interested in and explained that they were potentially linked to suspect fires. Jack went silent as he listened to her intently. She promised to email him a copy of the paper summary that McRae had given her. She also probed him gently as to whether he had any contacts inside SOCA.

Jack's response was surprising. The jocular tone had gone; he was all business. He didn't even attempt to address her last question, but, instead, excusing himself abruptly for his need to cut the call short, as he was on his way out, he said:

‘Look, it's been really great talking to you, Tina, but I've got to dash. Sounds interesting. Why don't you get that paper over to me, then I'll think about it and get back to you in a couple of days, alright?'

He gave her his personal email address and the call ended. It was as if Jack had realised that he was distinctly unlikely to be re-kindling his love life.

Funny,
she thought,
he seemed hot to trot until I failed to respond to his come-on.
She mentally kicked herself for not having given a more amenable impression. She suspected she must be losing her touch, but hoped that Jack would still make some effort for old time's sake. Somehow, however, she suspected that she might have blown it. Nevertheless, she scanned and forwarded McRae's summary sheet to the address he had given, accompanying it with a covering note that she hoped sounded a damned sight more enticing than her spoken words had.

Feeling slightly depressed at the turn of events, she drained the last of her glass of wine and promptly refilled it. Her earlier mood of optimism had been deflated by Jack's change in tone. She no longer anticipated any help from across the Irish Sea.