The Fire Man (21 page)

The eerie silence had been deafening but hadn't lasted. A crescendo of tinkling glass falling in hundreds of thousands of evil shards to the street had quickly followed. Ear-splitting screams, shouts, cries and the obscene cacophony of a hundred alarm bells and sirens joined the discordant symphony.

The bomb had been contained in a van parked in a service road between the shopping centre and the gym. The site had been carefully chosen. The blast had been channelled into the entrances of both the mall and the gym. Both had been packed with people.

The carnage had been catastrophic. At least fifteen people had been killed and over seventy seriously injured. Obscene stains of coagulated blood were still clearly evident on the terrazzo tiled walls and floors of the entrance to the mall. Broken glass crunched under the soles of the safety boots of policemen controlling access to the devastated mall. A steadily growing untidy mound of floral tributes was evident just beyond the cordon.

McRae had been at the scene since ten that morning and had endured the usual lengthy credential-checking procedures undertaken at a series of hastily positioned Portakabins, before eventually being photographed, allocated his access pass and granted an inspection slot for 2.15pm. He showed his pass to the bored officer in charge, who, after scrutinising it for a moment, lifted the security tape for him to duck beneath.

It was now two days since the incident and access was still only permitted to certain tightly controlled areas. A massive forensic exercise remained underway and the representatives of the insurers were only being permitted remote access to their various risks. Only two adjusters were allowed to enter the mall at any one time.

McRae's companion was a senior adjuster from a competitor who he had never met before, but he seemed a decent enough little man. They shuffled through the central walkway of the mall towards the atrium, accompanied, or more accurately shepherded, by two uniformed police officers. The blast had clearly been channelled directly along the canyon formed by the plate glass windows of the stores, before its energy had been dissipated by the atrium itself.

The other adjuster, whose name was Fitzroy, represented one of the major adjusting companies – or the “nobility”, as they were known sarcastically to their lesser brethren – and his schedule of claims was clearly extensive. He had many of the major high-street brands on his slate. McRae, on the other hand, had been delighted to be appointed on just five claims. These comprised five small companies with appropriately small units, but the losses would still be substantial and to be involved at all in London's largest terrorist incident since 7/7 was a sign that Wyndham's had arrived.

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 printer, 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.