The Fire Man (33 page)

Thank God, he sounded a touch more on the ball
, thought Tranquil as he concluded the call. Black had apparently arrived and was sitting in his car a few hundred yards along Commercial Road, waiting for his back-up to arrive.

He stood up with care from the uncomfortable squatting position he had adopted to take the call, his knees protesting painfully. He replaced the phone in his pocket.

By his reckoning, Black was no more than 200 yards from the pub, so he merely had to extricate himself from the yard again and jog around to his car. Black had insisted upon a full debrief before plunging into action.

The warehouse had been in darkness for the past few moments, but he thought he had seen movement up the staircase, shortly before the lights were extinguished. Before he left to liaise with Boot, he thought it would be safe enough to take a final peek through the window. Despite the fact the place was now in darkness, he crept as carefully as he could towards the window.

He slid his fingers lightly along the frame and was dismayed to find it would not give, and that the opening casement was now firmly closed. One of the men inside had obviously secured it, leaving only the small transom open. On one level it didn't matter because he had no intention of climbing back inside, but nonetheless it was a curious development.

It was while he was wondering what to do next when he became aware of a dull flickering glow that seemed to be reflected in the plastic sheeting protecting the hanging garments. He moved to the adjoining window, hoping to gain a less oblique view. As he did so, he sensed that the light was glowing brighter. It was indisputable; he could even hear a low crackling through the glass.

They've done it!
he thought dully.

There was no time to be lost. He ran to the gate, yanked at the chain without ceremony and burst into the alley. He reached into his pocket for the phone as he did so.

‘Drew, answer the fucking phone!' he said under his breath, before he eventually heard it pick up. ‘They've started the fire, so they'll be coming out any minute. I'm meeting Boot; keep your eyes out at the front. Get some pics. We'll be there in seconds.” He didn't wait for McRae's response and started running.

After a few moments, he realised to his horror that he was heading the wrong way and that the policeman must have parked on the City side. There was no Mondeo parked anywhere in sight.

‘Shit, shit, shit,' he shouted, oblivious of the startled stares of two girls at a bus stop, as he turned and retraced his steps.

As Tranquil sprinted along the pavement, showing a turn of speed he would never have credited himself with, he passed the end of O'Meara Street where McRae was struggling with his single crutch across the car park in front of Le Copa. His bad leg was throbbing painfully and he was close to exhaustion. The tarmac had been roughly laid over ancient cobbles, rendering the surface treacherous in the extreme. The camera in his spare hand was an added encumbrance.

It was blatantly obvious he couldn't stand in front of the entrance door, as he would easily be seen by whoever was about to exit, so he elected to take a position just to the right of the portico. There, he could at least lean against the house wall while taking his pictures.

He would be seen as soon as O'Connell emerged from the building, that much was certain, but there was no more room for subterfuge. With any luck, he would get off a couple of pictures before O'Connell became aware of his presence. What would happen then was anyone's guess. Hopefully, the police would arrive before O'Connell had the chance of extracting too painful a price. At the very least, he contemplated the real prospect of a broken nose and a return visit to the dentist. He shuddered as the fate of Kanelos flashed through his mind.
What had happened to him? Where in hell was he?

There was no time for further reflection; there was distinct movement in the reception area.

O'Connell released the lock at the base of the glass door and pushed it open with his shoulder. He turned and placed his shoulder bag on the ground as he bent to secure the door, with the keys in his right hand. Standing upright again, he pulled the bag across his shoulder and turned to leave the premises of Le Copa for the last time.

As the camera flash illuminated the portico twice in rapid succession, he whirled around to see a figure tucked tightly against the wall only a few feet from his position. It was a man in a black cagoule over a blue boiler suit, pointing a camera at him with a single aluminium crutch leaning against the wall besides him. He knew immediately that it was McRae. It could only be him.

He launched himself towards McRae, who, balancing unsteadily on his one good leg, made a grab for the crutch. O'Connell, however, was interested solely in the camera. He seized McRae's arm and pulled the man violently towards him, causing the camera to spill from his grip and skitter onto the tarmac.

It was McRae's sheer instability that saved him from the roundhouse punch that followed. As O'Connell's fist arched purposefully through the air, he stumbled against the wall and instinctively reached out again for the crutch – the fist of the powerful Irishman merely grazing the side of his cheek. Realising in a heartbeat he would never have the same luck again, he swung the crutch savagely in the direction of O'Connell's head with a ferocity he didn't know he possessed,

He missed.

The crutch was too long and O'Connell, too squat. Instead, the arc of travel caused the crutch to strike the huge corroded lantern in the roof of the portico. For a fraction of a second McRae feared the consequences of his miss, before, to his utter astonishment, the overhead lantern was extinguished and replaced instantaneously with a single dazzling light.

O'Connell was on fire. Flames were engulfing his upper body; even the man's head was framed, almost halo-like, as his monkish hair flared alight. Both men were stupefied and for a moment neither moved, seemingly paralysed.

The solvent permeating the Irishman's clothes had been warmed by his body heat and ignited by shards of red-hot glass falling from the shattered light fitting. O'Connell was the first to react. His hands swept up towards his face and, for one brief instance, he resembled the very image of a praying angel to the awestruck McRae.

The burning man began to rip desperately at his clothes; the shoulder bag momentarily frustrating his panicked efforts to remove his jacket and shirt. He hurled himself onto the tarmac-covered ground and frantically rolled over several times, but to no avail. Burning ever more fiercely, he struggled to his feet again and tottered a few painful paces in the direction of the street. He was completely, eerily silent – not a word nor scream escaped his lips, though his face was strangely contorted as he tore at his clothes. Twice, his head swivelled, and his eyes stared wildly at the mesmerised, paralysed figure of McRae. Eventually the remnants of the shirt and jacket fell away, but small flames continued to flicker fitfully from the thighs upwards.

In the distance, McRae dimly heard the ringing of a bell and the wail of sirens. The sounds somehow shook him out of his stupor and he pulled off his cagoule and hobbled towards the half-naked, charred and smouldering figure. McRae had intended to throw it over him, but it seemed too late, far too late.

As the last of the flames were extinguished, O'Connell sank to his knees. His head fell forward and it seemed that it was all over.

Gagging at the sickening odour of burnt flesh and nauseated by the sight before his eyes, McRae stumbled forward and threw the garment over the man anyway. He turned towards the street where he saw Tranquil and Black running towards him, surrounded by a crowd of others. Some of the group were in uniform. He wasn't concentrating on them; something else had caught his eye.

Close to the smoking shoulder bag discarded by O'Connell, he had seen something glinting. He bent down and picked up a small blue booklet with shiny metallic lettering. One corner was slightly charred, but when he opened the shiny, almost pristine American passport, the photograph of an unsmiling Friar Tuck glared back at him alongside the name “Michael Ahearne”.

It didn't take the fire brigade long to extinguish the fire. The stock had nonetheless been ruined by smoke and water, but it had never been worth much anyway.