The Fire Man (29 page)

Tranquil yawned theatrically and leaned back in his chair, rotating his shoulders and flexing his neck. He sighed and put the phone down, before standing up and stretching his legs.

He was bored rigid. Three days of intermittent monitoring of the Le Copa offices, via Drew McRae's pathetic listening device, was enough for any man. Each day, he had spent two or three hours listening in; silently waiting to hear something, anything.

Occasionally, very occasionally, he had been able to hear one of the office girls shuffling paper, coughing or opening and closing file drawers, but nothing of interest had happened. He had once caught the tail end of a conversation involving a heavily accented man, who, he guessed to be the manager, Gallo, but it had been too short to be of any use.

Tranquil was a surprisingly patient man. He had spent years undertaking surveillance duties of one form or another, and he was used to the long periods of nothingness. Even so, it had become quickly obvious to him that Le Copa was one of the least active businesses he had ever known. What the office girls found to do with themselves, he hadn't the slightest idea. Unfortunately, McRae had, admittedly for understandable reasons, placed his plug adaptor in the directors' office, whereas, so far as Tranquil could determine, most of the action took place in the general office. If nothing else, Tranquil's mind-bending boredom would have been alleviated had he been able to at least hear the office staff gossiping.

Another problem was the rather limited range of the microphone inside the cheap device. It seemed hard to hear anything distinctly if a conversation or noise emanated from the end of the room. Personally, he would have used more powerful and professional equipment, but beggars could not be choosers and he had rejected the idea of making another entry himself. He would just have to remain patient. At least Drew's modest device possessed one great strength: it was a legitimate, working, electric adaptor plug and consequently took all of its power from the mains. There was no chance of it running out of juice.

All they needed was time and persistence. It was fortunate that he had nothing else much on the books at the time.

He decided to make himself a cup of coffee before taking a stroll. He would try the device one more time after five o'clock. According to McRae, the men tended to have their little chats after the girls and the warehouse hands had left for the night. The only problem was that, so far as he could determine, none of the conspirators ever seemed to attend the place apart from Gallo. He had heard one of the girls answering a short call from someone called Alex, but there appeared to be nothing substantial that linked the three leading lights to Le Copa.

It was shortly before six, just as he had decided to give it no more than ten further minutes, that he finally heard something. It sounded as if the door to the office had opened and he clearly heard footsteps, heavy and measured, before someone coughed. It was a man's cough, the nasty, rattling sound of a habitual smoker. A chair scraped against the floor, then silence. The tapping sound that followed a minute later was, he guessed, the sound of a computer keyboard.

For ten minutes or so, the noises were indistinct – a melodic chinking that sounded like glasses or bottles being moved, which were accompanied by a kind of tuneless humming. It was totally unfathomable. Although there was no possibility of being heard, Tranquil found himself holding his breath as he concentrated.

The telephone calls, when they occurred, were initially confusing. He realised immediately that the man in the directors' room must be O'Connell, who made four calls in quick succession – though it was difficult to determine who the respective recipient was. Also, as the sentences were both terse and heavily accented, they were impossible to decipher. He had pressed the record button as soon as he'd heard the door open. The one thing he knew for certain was that the “job”, as O'Connell referred to it, was imminent.

* * *

The sunlight slanted strongly across McRae's desk as he faced Tranquil, who was sitting at an oblique angle and keeping his own eyes out of the direct dazzle of the rays. They had been listening intently to the recorded conversations and, after nearly two hours and several replays, believed they had a reasonable understanding. Not perfect by any means, but sufficient to suggest that the fire was set to take place on the following Wednesday, after a final meeting on the Tuesday.

If they understood correctly, the conspirators had decided to finally go ahead, with the general consensus being that he, Drew McRae, was no longer a problem – at least, McRae assumed O'Connell's reference to “that insurance wanker” could not reasonably relate to anybody else.

However, one of the call recipients, who McRae suspected to be Smythson, had taken considerable persuasion, though he had eventually seemed convinced there would be no further difficulties. O'Connell had repeatedly stressed in his calls that there was nothing to connect any of them to the business and how he believed that even if “the wanker” had recovered his memory (and some hospital informant had apparently suggested that this was indeed the case) McRae would cause no further problems. ‘Trust me, he's shitting himself,' he had commented. ‘He told the police nothing and if he was ever going to talk, that was the time.'

McRae wondered how O'Connell got his information but couldn't fault his logic. Neither, it seemed, could any of the gang members.

‘How much use is this?' asked McRae eventually.

‘It depends,' came the enigmatic response.

‘That's very helpful,' said McRae.

‘What I mean is that: as evidence, it would be useless. Last time I looked you weren't a copper and the tape would obviously be deemed inadmissible as it was illegally obtained… but… as part of a package to submit to our friend Boot—'

‘Your friend Boot,' interjected McRae.

‘It would be invaluable,' concluded Tranquil.

The sun had shifted its angle minutely, but sufficiently enough to annoy Tranquil, who held his hand across his forehead before continuing. ‘It is also incredibly useful, in another way. These guys are relying on the fact that there is no paper connection between any of them and Le Copa. From what you've told me, it's obvious they've learnt from the past and decided to keep their interest completely below the radar. Looks like Gallo and Kanelos are the only names legally associated with the business.'

‘So, why is that useful? Sounds distinctly use-
less
to me.'

‘Because we know they are meeting at the factory next Tuesday! If we can get some decent footage of them together or arriving and leaving only twenty-four hours prior to the fire, their primary defence goes right out of the window. Thinking about it, it's better than that. The fact that O'Connell and Smythson have no ostensible legal interest in Le Copa will make it even more incriminating. If they don't own the outfit, what the hell are they all doing there?'

‘Hmm, I do get that,' muttered McRae doubtfully, ‘but that's one of the things that bothers me, Kit. Why have a meeting at Le Copa? Why not just at some pub? Why meet somewhere that they are supposed to have no connection with? It doesn't make sense to me.'

‘I know what you mean,' replied Tranquil, ‘but O'Connell seemed pretty keen to have it there, didn't he? I can only assume that they know it's as dead as a dodo at seven in that street. There's no bugger about. I guess they're going to satisfy themselves that everything is in place, you know: check out the dodgy stock etc. Either way, it suits us down to the ground.'

They continued to discuss their tactics for another hour. By the time the meeting was wrapped up, they knew exactly what they were going to do. It was straightforward: they would keep the premises under observation, get the pictures they needed, after which Tranquil would provide a full dossier to Detective Sergeant Black. He was intending to have the very quietest of words with the detective in advance.

‘He might not be too amused, if it came as a total surprise,' he calculated. ‘Don't worry, though, I won't drop you in it.'

McRae undertook to prepare a complete file containing all of the background information in his possession, while Tranquil was tasked with continuing his eavesdropping. He had also decided, without bothering to mention the fact to McRae, that he would do a little more digging on the O'Connell bloke. Tina Forsyth's comment to McRae that the Irishman had had “some involvement” with the IRA had intrigued him. It may have been nothing, but it wouldn't hurt to make a few calls. Anything that might make the case more interesting to Detective Sergeant Black would be helpful, or so he calculated.

‘Is that it?' he said, incredulous.

‘What's wrong with it?' responded Tranquil.

‘Well, I was expecting something a bit… different.'

The two were standing in front of a distinctly off-white, battered Peugeot van. On the side it bore the discreet legend of
Smith Construction,
above a partly obliterated mobile telephone number. Streaks of rust enlivened the wings and side panels, and an extendable alloy ladder was attached to the roof rack, which featured a number of stray dangling pieces of green bailer twine.

McRae strode slowly around the van, noting the yellowing copies of the Sun newspaper artfully displayed on the dashboard alongside a discarded Red Bull can and a few crisp packets. The van incorporated a single small blacked-out window on either side and McRae endeavoured pointlessly to peer inside.

‘I must say it is pretty nondescript, at least,' he eventually conceded. ‘No, it's better than that,' replied his companion. ‘It's high-tech as well. Look at the inside.'

He opened the back doors, releasing a fetid smell that seemed to combine sweat with something even less pleasing, and proudly displayed the interior. Peering over his shoulder, McRae saw a plastic garden chair alongside a single mattress. Along one wall of the van was a small wooden rack containing a number of cans of energy drink and two empty, litre-sized, soft drink bottles.

‘Allow me to explain,' said Tranquil, clambering inside.

‘Chair to sit on, bed to rest on, energy drinks to keep you alert and bottles to piss in – what more could you want? And I'm saving the best until last. See this?' he pointed at a pair of swivelled brackets mounted on either side of the van.

‘Your camera is screwed onto these fittings, and…', he leaned up close to a small panel incorporated on one side and fiddled with a butterfly nut, allowing a small disc of metal to rotate. ‘Here, take a look'.

McRae clambered into the van with difficulty, squeezed past Tranquil and squinted through the inch-wide aperture. He found he had a surprisingly good view of the outside world. ‘There's a hole in the dot above the letter
“i”
in the word
Smith,'
explained Tranquil. ‘Works every time.'

McRae's initial misgivings were diminishing. He could see that in its crude fashion, the “Obbo Van”, as Tranquil called his observation vehicle, was fit for purpose. There was certainly no disguising Tranquil's pride in his creation.

‘I suppose it does the job,' said McRae grudgingly.

‘Listen, my friend,' replied Tranquil, clearly stung by the faint praise. ‘I've spent hundreds of hours in this crate and I can promise you that it's brilliant! Nobody pays the faintest attention to you; it's like a cloak of invisibility. All you'll have to do is keep your wits about you and try not to drink too much, otherwise you might find yourself taking a leak at the critical time.'

McRae laughed. They then continued to wander around the outside of the van, while Tranquil pointed out its finer points – which didn't take long.

The vehicle was parked in a residents parking bay, a few hundred yards from the soon to be ex-offices of Academy Investigations. The day was cool with occasional gusts of wind and a few small clouds scudded across the otherwise clear sky. Along the gutter, chestnut leaves scuffled for the privilege of blocking the drain.

As the pair wandered casually back in the direction of the office, Tranquil brought McRae up to date with his own enquiries and his informal chat with Black. He reached into his inside pocket and passed McRae a neatly typed transcript of the various telephone conversations he had recorded. The transcript ran to five pages of foolscap, broken down by time. In total, there were six separate calls of differing lengths. He explained that though he'd listened for quite a few hours over the past couple of days, he had heard nothing at all of interest.

‘So, how much did you tell Black?' asked McRae.

‘Just enough to intrigue him,' he responded. ‘But, you know, it's a bloody good job I did speak to him because he was thinking of interviewing you again. Turns out he disliked you as much as you did him!'

McRae shrugged. ‘I suppose he didn't believe me, but why should he?'

‘No, course he didn't believe you, not at all, but he wasn't that bothered about chasing the matter up until he got a call from some “high-up” at Scotland Yard apparently. Turns out that Tina had a friend there, a very senior officer called Commander Anne Daventry. Know her?'

McRae shook his head mutely.

‘Seems she'd met Tina on the evening of the accident. She'd got some idea that Tina was involved in something tricky, so when she saw the incident report on the wall collapse—'

‘She rang your mate, Boot.'

‘Correct.'

‘So, was that it?'

‘Yes, Boot still wasn't particularly excited; he just put it down to a weird coincidence, but knew he would have to follow you up. Just in case Daventry showed any more interest.'

‘So, what happens now?' asked McRae.

‘Nothing. I've clued Boot up that we'll keep the place under surveillance, but promised that if we come up with anything I'll be giving him something juicy pronto. He didn't show it as he's much too cool, but he's definitely interested.'

After accompanying Tranquil back to the door of his office, McRae made his way wearily to Wandsworth Town rail station. It took effort and by the time he reached the station, he was shattered. He was getting stronger by the day and had mastered his “one crutch” technique. After prolonged use, however, his ribs ached and he desperately needed a rest.

He made his way to the small cafeteria on the platform and juggled his way with a cup of tea to an empty space on a bench. As usual, the awkward manoeuvre resulted in a substantial percentage of the contents escaping from the cup en route. Out of the corner of his eye, McRae could see the swarthy counter attendant scowling at him unsympathetically.

Because there were trains to Waterloo every few minutes, McRae was in no hurry. Instead, he took the opportunity to recover his strength and to read the transcripts carefully.

There was nothing in the carefully typed sheets that he didn't already recall from his numerous hearings, but it was, he found, helpful to see the words in hard, cold, black print. He also amused himself by attempting to identify the other party in each of O'Connell's conversations.

The first call had clearly been to Alex Kanelos as the Irishman had twice referred to him directly by name, but the others were a distinct challenge. O'Connell had used terms such as “mate” or “pal” in the two lengthy calls in which the gang's meeting had been organised, but the last call seemed to have been checking on a travel booking for someone called “Hearn”, “Ahearne?” or “O'Hearne?” Either way, it seemed that Mr (or Mrs, he supposed) Hearn was booked onto a plane or train for Brussels on the evening of the meeting. It was perplexing.
Who the hell was this person? Why should O'Connell be making the arrangements? If there was one thing the man wasn't, it was anybody's idea of a typical PA.

His thoughts led him nowhere, so he left the tea untouched and struggled to his feet. The counter guy didn't look remotely sorry to see him leave.