The Fire Man by Iain Adams Read Free Book Online Page B

It only rarely occurred to him that his own qualities could in any way be deficient.
    Entering their own office, McRae made a beeline for the kitchen. He had just switched the kettle on when he heard Grim clatter in.
    â€˜Everything okay?’ he called.
    â€˜Yeah, no problem, she’s chilled.’
    Bloody typical!
thought McRae.

7
    Birmingham, May 2007
    By 10pm, two draft copies of the Fairclough Preliminary Report on the Hellenic fire, in all its rough and ready glory, were being read and marked up with alterations by the adjusters. Both of them were checking the copies independently, in their respective offices. By 10.45pm, they had agreed upon the final version.
    â€˜I’m shattered,’ pronounced McRae. ‘I think we should leave the report for Karen to polish up tomorrow and get out of here. With any luck the Kashmir will still serve us. If not, we can always grab a takeaway.’ The Indian restaurant, close to the Gas Street Basin, was a firm favourite. Lying conveniently along McRae’s route back to his flat in Edgbaston, he ate there rather more frequently than was healthy.
    As anticipated, the restaurant was far from closed when the two men arrived at a little after eleven. It was heaving with young office workers who had stayed in town after finishing work; the place had a boisterous, alcohol-fuelled feel, but was welcoming nonetheless. Despite the hubbub, a table for two was quickly procured in the corner nearest to the kitchen door, where a steady flow of waiters managed to ensure that the back of Grim’s chair was knocked and nudged on an irritatingly regular basis.
    Amid the incessant apologetic interruptions, the pair managed to continue their discussions in a relatively coherent fashion. They even had time to have a brief chat over McRae’s mobile with Steve Balfour. The forensic man had not finished his site inspection until well into the evening, but his contribution gave them further food for thought.
    By the time the bill had been paid, the plan of action for the presentation to Consolidated had been finalised. All they needed now was not to blow it.
    * * *
    At 11.30am the following morning, exuding more confidence than they truly felt, McRae and Grim were politely shown into the wood-panelled “Chelsea” meeting room of CFG’s offices in New Street.
Clearly the “Arsenal” and “Liverpool” rooms they had passed in the corridor must have been booked for something more important
, thought Grim.
    Derek Smythson and Geoff Rennie were awaiting them. Smythson, wearing a rather good dark-blue suit paired with a tasteful shirt and tie, was standing and looking blankly out of the window, while his colleague, who appeared by contrast to shop at Oxfam, sat at a rosewood meeting table twiddling a pencil.
Little and large
, thought McRae. Tall, skinny and almost cadaverous, Smythson was difficult to age –
probably in his fifties
? – but he cut an elegant figure that contrasted dramatically with the considerably shorter, shabbier, younger and plumper Scot.
    After the normal routine, shaking hands and sorting out their respective coffees, juggling UHT milk containers and sugars, they settled into the meeting.
    â€˜Well gentlemen,’ opened Smythson, ‘I understand we are faced with a bit of a disaster. It’s not twenty thousand but more like eleven million? That right?’
    â€˜Afraid so, Mr Smythson,’ responded McRae. ‘I have no idea where the original estimation came from, but it’s a very significant loss. There is no doubt about that.’
    â€˜Geoff, do you know how we got that initial impression?’ asked Smythson, with just the hint of a glare in the direction of his colleague.
    â€˜Not really, Derek, the call record of the claim notification is here,’ said Rennie, pointing at a pink sheet, which neither of the adjusters could read from the opposing side of the table. ‘It just says