The Fire Man

Cover

McCartney's double-tracked vocal was cut short by an irritated twist of the dial. He'd never liked the Beatles, couldn't stand “
Can't buy me love
”, and he certainly didn't want to hear it now.

Apart from that, he wasn't even sure he accepted the adage that wealth doesn't equate to happiness. He was prepared to bet that the majority of the population would prefer to discover the truth of this statement for themselves.

McRae was indisputably amongst this number. When he wasn't actively daydreaming about lottery wins and the effect such an unlikely event would no doubt have on his attractiveness to women, he was acutely conscious that a derisory half million or so would be a help. This thought invariably occurred to him whenever his Volvo decided to be uncooperative.

It was certainly being a pain this warm Friday morning. The engine was running – it never failed –but the air conditioning fluid needed recharging, and, horror of horrors, the heated seats were malfunctioning. They wouldn't quite switch off but remained stuck at a low simmer. On a rare July morning when the temperature was already in the seventies, in stop-go traffic on the Edgware Road, McRae really didn't need his backside to be maintained at a casserole temperature. God knew he had a tendency to perspire at the best of times, being less than fit and a stone overweight, but now he was sopping. The glove-box supply of tissues had long since disintegrated and the neckband of his shirt had become increasingly sodden as his dark hair glistened. Perspiration trickled down his neck and gathered in the hollow of his back.

What was really increasing both his temperature and blood pressure was the tension that accompanied a tailing exercise in Central London.
Don't lose him
, was the abiding fear. This was an opportunity that had arisen out of the blue and would not be repeated. A split-second mistake would blow it all.

McRae was hardly an expert. He had never attempted the like before; that was a job for others. Despite a lifetime's addiction to the spy novels of Greene, le-Carré and Deighton, the real thing was proving distinctly taxing.

The police or MI5 would no doubt have at least three cars and half a dozen ace operatives engaged in a single tailing exercise. All manipulated by some hi-tech coordinator who seamlessly switched his resources. At least, that's what happened in the movies. He, on the other hand, was attempting to do the same job solo – on his Jack Jones! He didn't know what he was doing; he really hadn't a clue.

The odds were not in his favour.

The first twenty minutes had been easy. Hunched, sweating, in his tired green Volvo in front of the stucco-dressed houses of leafy Onslow Square, theatrically consulting a London A-Z for what seemed eternity, had been risky, but more from a parking violation perspective than anything else. If there was one thing that remained “world-class” about Britain it was the truly dedicated performance of the country's traffic wardens.

As anticipated, the tall, slim man with the blond, public-school haircut, looking cool and relaxed in a pink shirt and jeans, had emerged from the front door of his Georgian townhouse at around 11am. He had paused briefly to glance back at the house where a petite, dark-haired woman in sunglasses was standing in the doorway, before striding athletically to within a few feet of the Volvo. Tensed up behind his map, McRae had been immeasurably relieved when the man had stepped off the pavement to cross the road. A few moments after this, a silver Mercedes coupe had then nosed its way out of a parking bay.

McRae had, somehow, been able to insert his Volvo behind a green Mini that had screened him from the coupe. He had barely been able to make it through the lights and onto the Brompton Road, but he was, by the skin of his teeth, still in touch with his man. Miraculously, he had maintained this position around Hyde Park without too much difficulty – until now. The cars were crawling a few at a time northwards along the Edgware Road, approaching road-works at the traffic light junction with the Westway and Marylebone Road. The direction the Mercedes chose at the junction would be interesting and could prove crucial to his ability to continue the pursuit.

This is bloody ridiculous
, he thought.
What on earth could be gained from it? Why am I putting myself through this trauma?

Seeking to relax his tension, he fiddled with the radio for a moment before dismissing the LBC phone-in show in which ill-informed, inarticulate punters were, as usual, being patronised by a bombastic host. Switching to the CD player, he distractedly selected a Leonard Cohen album. No sooner had
Famous Blue Raincoat
begun before he decided that the deathly drone was doing nothing for his mood. He clicked the audio off.

A few silent seconds followed before he fumbled around the inside of the door pocket. Eventually, fishing out his disposable lighter, McRae lit a Camel – he reckoned it must be his fourth (
or was it the fifth?
) of the day. Either way, it was shaping up to be yet another full-packet day. He sighed heavily. He had been trying to cut down smoking, drinking and eating for six months. However, it seemed as if the effort always flagged in one direction or the other. Of course, recent events hadn't helped. No, they certainly hadn't done anything for either his physical or mental state.

McRae was nervous. He was, he conceded, distinctly jittery. He really didn't need to be doing this. And it was ironic that the cause of McRae's anxieties – the man in the silver Mercedes, currently purring contentedly away only 30 feet or so in front of McRae's Volvo – was himself no doubt cocooned in air-conditioned comfort.

The call had appeared inconsequential at first.

Fairclough and Partners was appointed to investigate around twenty new cases of theft, flood, fire or whatever catastrophe was in vogue for the time of year every working day. Client instructions usually arrived by email but occasionally, as in this case, where the potential loss was either more urgent (or, from the Fairclough perspective, of greater value), the client insurer would phone the case through. Even so, with an estimated reserve of only £20,000, there was no undue sense of celebration or anticipation as Andrew McRae, known to all as Drew, fingered the newly created file that nestled in a pale blue manila folder.

As the recently promoted manager of Fairclough in Birmingham, McRae was still familiarising himself with his new territory, having previously been in charge of a less strategic, albeit longer established, outpost in Preston.

Fairclough had, historically, been a northern-biased partnership, the founding partner a proud (some said bigoted) Yorkshireman. The partnership had only started to seriously expand following Arthur Fairclough's premature death two years earlier. That same death had created the opportunity for McRae and one of his peers to become junior partners.

Loss adjusters such as Fairclough are professionally responsible for negotiating the settlement of complex insurance claims. The company had never been a big player outside of the North of England, but as the major insurers and underwriters began to pursue a policy of employing only those companies capable of providing a truly nationwide service, the time had been deemed right for Fairclough to expand. The old man would no doubt have turned in his grave at the thought that his tight, highly professional and exceedingly profitable company was now hell-bent on catching up with the leaders in the market, and almost at any cost. It was a strategy which was not without risk, but which undoubtedly presented serious opportunities for ambitious young men. Had Fairclough ever deigned to employ a single qualified woman, no doubt she too would have had an opportunity, but the old man had maintained somewhat traditional views concerning the role of women.
Well, he was Yorkshire through and through
, rationalised McRae.

At the age of 37 he was well placed to capitalise on the company's new growth strategy – so, too, was Terry Donoghue, his fellow junior partner and, hence, theoretical rival. In practise, McRae and Donoghue got on pretty well, being of a similar age and background, and any potential competitive issues were a distant future concern. In May 2007 all that mattered to either McRae or Terry, who was now heading up another new office in Cardiff, was simply to survive in their demanding new roles.

Expense had been the number one consideration when the Castle Street office had been selected. It was cheap; the maintenance charges were stunningly low, and low charges naturally equated to little or no maintenance – as the frequently inactive lift could testify. Fortunately, occupying what the landlords wittily referred to as a “suite” on the first floor, the lift, working or otherwise, was not an insuperable problem. McRae had spent a modest sum seeking, unsuccessfully, to turn a sow's ear into a silk purse by redecorating the walls and replacing the original carpet tiles. Though it was a little small, the place looked professional enough and it was indisputably well located.

McRae's own office could only be described as poky. He personally preferred the term “bijou”. It had a cosy feel. The crisp white painted walls had been enlivened – if that was the correct expression – with two of his own watercolours. One was a Highland scene that he had shamelessly and painstakingly copied from a “Learn to Paint in a Day” guide; the other was a muddy, but rather striking mess of deep blood reds, pale blues and heather greens, which, if asked, he described as an abstract. In truth, the “abstract” was an attempt at an interior still life that had gone badly wrong.

He had an irrational affection for both pictures. Although his painting skills had improved, marginally, over the years, he had no intention of discarding these, his first attempts, which many visitors presumed to be the work of his non-existent children.

McRae pulled his gaze away from the artwork and glanced out of the window, across Castle Street, to the construction site immediately opposite. Despite consistently poor May weather, the building of the new block, which would render the natural light in his office even less when complete, was racing ahead. As he watched, a cherry picker was being used to lift a hard-hatted foreman to a third-floor window opening, where, without apparent concern, the same man leapt the small, but potentially fatal, gap and disappeared into the building.
Good God,
he thought,
the Health and Safety wallahs would have had a fit if they'd seen that!

It was, he concluded, safer in his own line of business. Safer, but not necessarily longer lived, unless the financial numbers started to stack up. McRae loved his job with a passion but he was well aware that the Birmingham office was both a massive opportunity and a threat. He had to succeed.

There was a small team: Graeme Cairns, the office surveyor and his deputy; Dave Jensen, aka the “man in the middle” as he chose to style himself; two junior adjusters, Kevin and Mike; as well as office staff that included Karen, office manager, and Jenny and Puri who basically did everything else. With the exception of Kevin, who drove McRae insane with his sloppy report-writing, he was happy with them all – particularly so with his key lieutenants Graeme and Karen, who as well as looking after most of the administration was effectively McRae's PA.

Graeme, known predictably as “Grim” on account of his usual somewhat lugubrious demeanour, was, well, just Grim – a short, slim, hard-drinking “real ale” fan. He was an obstinate, dedicated and quick-witted man of 40 or so, who had been McRae's first selection. Grim had made the move from Preston together with McRae some nine months earlier to set up the new branch in the country's second city.

It wasn't immediately clear what the two had in common, apart from a shared affection for the interior design of drinking establishments, but it worked. Grim was married to Moira, a surprisingly glamorous dental nurse. He appeared to have the ideal marriage, whereas McRae's own marriage had effectively been over almost as quickly as the honeymoon. If he could ever find a belter like Moira, he often conjectured, his life would be complete. In the meantime, he maintained a couple of loose and somewhat long-range “friendships”, both of which were slowly withering on the vine.

As for Karen, what could one say? Hardly drop-dead gorgeous, she possessed a long, plain, pinched face and thin, almost cruel lips. And yet… there was something indefinable about her. Tall, slim, invariably elegantly dressed, with a fierce temper and a cutting wit, she was totally reliable. Come hell freezing over, she would be in the office and would work all the hours that God (or McRae) sent. Her loyalty was indisputable. She was single and at 32 was, in most people's eyes, “on the shelf” – but if she was, it was undoubtedly her own choice.

The other girls didn't care much for Karen; her acid tongue was exercised a little too frequently and Puri, in particular, suspected a touch of the closet racist in Karen.
Maybe she was right,
thought Drew,
but if it was there, it was certainly under control
. Control was one of Karen's major strengths; the office administration ran like clockwork.

Reluctantly turning his attention back to the file, McRae yawned, and before opening the file decided to grab a coffee from the kitchen. Karen looked up from her keyboard as he opened his glazed door and gave her typically friendly greeting

‘Where are you off? Home early again?

‘Karen, it's only twenty past three!'

‘Doesn't normally stop you; in fact, I thought you were working overtime' she responded, tartly.

That is just about par for the respect people have for me around here,
thought McRae, but contented himself with what he trusted was an ironic, if unseasonal, “Ho, ho, ho” before continuing along the corridor. However, no sooner had he reached the tiny kitchen and filled the kettle than Karen materialised in the doorway.

‘Go on, back to the grindstone Santa. I'll do it,' she ordered.

That's Karen in a nutshell
, thought Drew. A piss-taker, but as protective as a lioness where he was concerned. She certainly wouldn't allow either of the other girls to undertake the smallest, most insignificant, tasks for him.

‘Coffee, sir?'

‘Yes. Can we make it the proper stuff for a change?' he answered, before striding back to his sanctuary to avoid any further wisecracks.

Easing himself back into his chair, McRae glanced at the file cover on top of his desk and quickly scanned the summary details. Instantly, his attention was engaged. It clearly showed the initials “CFG”… Consolidated Fire and General?
But we never work for them
, he thought,
and never will either
. The old man had fallen out spectacularly with somebody important in the late seventies, since when all of CFG's business had been handled by one or other of the “Big Three” partnerships – these companies were also frequently sarcastically referred to as the “Adjusters to the Nobility' by wannabe firms such as Fairclough.

‘Karen!' he shouted. ‘Can you pop in for a moment?'

She appeared almost instantly, bearing the coffee, which he had completely forgotten, in her right hand. ‘Yes, my Lord, couldn't you wait?'

‘No, it's not that,' he smiled. ‘Who took these instructions? We never work for CFG, you know that.'

‘Let me see,' she said, frowning slightly as she set the cup down. He handed her the file and she stared intently at the cover as if it was capable in some way of delivering the meaning of life. ‘I didn't take the call, so it must have been Jenny. At least, judging by the fact that it was timed at 12.45 when I was at lunch and you lot were at the Anchor – as usual…'

McRae allowed the barb to fly over his left shoulder, where it no doubt did immeasurable damage to the construction site across the road.

‘Anyway, can you just check with Jen and ask her to confirm whether this is right or not. If it
was
them, there may be some cock-up at their end and I'll need to check because I am not hauling my backside out to bloody… where is it?' He focused for the first time on the name and address. ‘Some industrial unit in Walsall, then have them take it back from us. We've been stuffed like that before.'

Karen snatched the folder from him before he had time to absorb any other information from the cover and waltzed off in the direction of the small general office. A few seconds later she and Jenny Allingham, a plump brunette with prominent breasts and even more prominent tattoos, appeared at the door.

‘Apparently it
is
CFG', said Karen. ‘Tell Drew exactly what they said.'

Jenny paused, blushed prettily and then spoke thoughtfully in her most refined Midlands accent. ‘Well, the guy who rang was called Geoff Rennie. He was a Scot or maybe a Geordie, by the sound of him. Obviously I knew we didn't normally do anything for CFG, so I had to check their address, and I actually said summat to him along the lines of it being unusual to hear from them. He just made some sarky comment like ‘Yeah, I know, don't get too excited. We just fancied giving you guys a try. It's nothing special.' …. Sorry, I meant to mention it you, Drew, but I got bogged down in a pricing job for Grim, then….' Her voice tailed off.

‘No problem, Jen, you did absolutely fine,' McRae replied, whilst out of the corner of his eye he couldn't help observing Karen pursing her thin lips in exasperation and raising her eyebrows. ‘Better take a good close look at this now!'

Once the women had left his office, McRae fingered the file with a new interest. This was a potentially massive opportunity. Consolidated Fire and General was Britain's second largest general insurer – it operated worldwide. He had, of course, introduced himself to them, along with every other local insurer, when he had first opened the office last October but to no avail. CFG had been polite but had made it totally clear that they were well catered for, thank you very much. He tried to remember whom exactly he had met.

He recalled that there had been a short Scottish guy. However, he hadn't been the top dog, who was a rather supercilious local man with a stooping, gaunt and emaciated appearance, called something like Smyth or was it Smythson? He would check his records later. What he did recall, only too clearly, was that “Smyth” had politely, but firmly, dismissed him within a mere seven or eight minutes. He had declined the opportunity to watch McRae's painstakingly produced corporate PowerPoint presentation and had closed the meeting pretty abruptly. Above all, he remembered distinctly being told that there was, regrettably of course, absolutely no prospect that CFG would require their services. It was strange, then, that they – of all the many discouraging potential clients – should have been the first to decide to “give you guys a try”.

Strange or not, it was a fantastic opening. At this time of year, things were pretty quiet. No storms or floods, thefts down a little, hardly any fires and not a riot in sight. The office was therefore in a position to respond quickly to any new claim. If they could manage to perform really well, then maybe CFG would become a significant client?

Before we get carried away, what's it all about?
he thought.

A fire: earlier that same morning, at a fashion business on a small industrial estate – so far, so unsurprising. The only thing that seemed unusual was that, judging purely by the name and contact details – the Hellenic Fashion Co; contact: Mr Kanelos – appeared to be Greek-owned rather than Asian. Apart from that, it was pretty standard. The cover was substantial, though… £8 million on the Stock alone. It was a considerably higher sum than McRae would have expected for what appeared to be a rag trade outfit in Walsall. In total, the overall cover exceeded £15million.
Pity the fire hadn't been a bit tastier,
thought McRae. The same thought was then rapidly tempered by the realisation that CFG would never have appointed them if it had been.