Dominic Conlon - Arctic Firepath

During his time in Helmand, Sean was provisionally assigned to a United Nations peace-keeping force. The devastation reminded him of Lashkar Gah — bombed out buildings, rubble everywhere, frightened bystanders. In particular the smell brought back some disturbing memories.

The ambulances had long gone. White suited Scene of Crime Officers inspected the debris. A chief fireman stood talking to a senior police officer, together with a woman in a hi-vis vest. They stopped when he approached.

The police chief regarded him, taking in the two days of stubble, the faded tee-shirt, sweatshirt, jeans and sneakers. Sean flashed his ID again and he was introduced to the girl.

'This is Tracy Schofield, the person responsible for the office.' She shook Sean's hand.

The officer wrinkled his nose in distaste, either with him or the lingering smell from the building. Sean couldn’t tell which. 'What can we do to help you?'

'I need some information about how this started.' He directed his attention to the fire chief. 'When did you get the alert?'

'The first call came in at 3:46 in this morning. By the time my crews arrived one of the floors was already gutted.'

'Which?'

'The fourth. That’s where we concentrated our efforts.'

'Has anybody been into the building?'

'Fire fighters went in to check for anyone still alive — once I judged it safe. We didn't find anything, and Miss Schofield here confirmed that no-one was inside when the fire began.'

Tracy indicated her agreement.

'Can you say if it was started deliberately?'

The fire chief and the senior policeman exchanged a glance. 'Initial indications are an accelerant was used.'

'Could you show me the site of the fire?'

'It's too dangerous.'

'More dangerous now than when you went in?'

The chief sighed, and signalled to a fireman. A minute later he returned with a helmet and hi-vis vest.

Together they crunched over the rubble and glass. Sean saw a complete telephone handset lying on its side, looking as though it might still work. They began to climb the fire escape.

'Was anyone else injured or killed in the incident?'

The fire chief looked over his shoulder. 'No.'

'How were the police notified?'

'A taxi driver rang 999 after picking up some night club revellers. His route took him past and he spotted flames and smoke.'

The location was obvious. When they reached the fourth floor, Sean noticed the stairwell was blackened from the heat. Burnt paper floated on top of carpets awash with water. The fireman pointed out the ceiling void where the tiles had melted, revealing the concrete flooring above. Cables hung from the remains.

'Is it possible to tell the source of the fire?'

The man escorted him to a darkened room. A single scorched hardwood desk sat inside.

Back outside, Sean questioned Tracy. 'Whose office did that belong to?'

'Harry Boyd. He’s a senior partner of the firm.'

'I'd like to see him.'

A pained expression crossed her face. 'He's working from home. He's very busy, trying to deal with all this.' She raised her hands, indicating the gutted offices around her.

'It's important I meet him.'

For a moment she hesitated. 'OK, I'll send someone with you. There's an office junior called 'Chris' who can take you.'

'Thank you. Please phone ahead to let him know I'll be coming.' Sean took one last look at the charred ruins. 'Best of luck with this, and thanks for your help.'

Sean glanced at the youth as he drove. 'Tell me about Harry Boyd.'

Chris seemed too distracted to answer immediately. Sean waited a minute before trying a different tack. 'What do you do at the firm, Chris?'

Chris peeped nervously out of the windscreen as they made their way through the streets. 'Collect and deliver the post, mainly.'

'Do you ever deliver post to Mr Boyd?'

'Yep.'

'What's he like?'

'A bit impatient at times. We never had a conversation.'

Sean’s phone buzzed. It was a txt from Natasha.

returning to states today

parents send regards

love nat x

Sean experienced a sinking feeling in his stomach. He and Natasha had planned to visit her parents and relatives after they left Venice.

Chris leaned over and pointed. 'At the end of this street, turn right.'

Boyd's home was on a wide leafy avenue with luxurious houses either side. They pulled up opposite the driveway, and Sean studied the large square town house. 'Stay here. I'll be back in half an hour.'

A middle-aged woman answered the door. Sean introduced himself and discovered the lady was Boyd's wife. She showed him into a drawing room. 'You know he's incredibly busy right now?' she asked in a brittle tone.

'I understand. But I'm sure you both appreciate we must to catch the people who caused the fire.'

She asked Sean to wait a moment and left the room. A minute later she ushered him into the Senior Partner’s office.

Boyd sat behind his desk, speaking loudly on his mobile. He was short, nearly bald and in his late forties or early fifties with a jowled, animated face and an overly loud voice. He appeared not to have noticed Sean.

Sean checked his watch. Thirty seconds had elapsed since he entered the room. He reached over, took Boyd's mobile and clicked it off, then tossed it in the waste bin.

'What the hell do you think you are doing?' Boyd shouted.

'Getting your attention' replied Sean equably. He leaned forward, placing his hands on the desk. 'And now I need some information.'

'You have no idea what pressure I'm under. I've already spoken to the police and made a statement. You're wasting my time.'

'Correction, you're wasting my time. I want a list of all your recent clients, particularly if they are of Russian origin.'

Boyd glared at Sean, and then away. 'Jesus Christ!' he seethed as he pulled the keyboard to him. As he tapped in the query, Sean moved behind to view the screen. Five names were displayed, none of them with the surname Khostov.

'What's the time span?' Sean asked.

'The last fortnight.'

'You don't have many new clients?'

'We're a boutique law firm. Small client list, big ticket matters.'

Sean pointed to the one at the top. 'Tell me about him.'

Boyd pressed the button to pull up more details. 'Vassily Maskhadov’ he muttered, reading from the monitor. Came to see us last week. My associate Susan spoke to him. He asked her to copy some papers and keep them until Maskhadov contacted her again. He didn’t leave a forwarding address.'

'Any more details?'

Boyd clicked on an icon and a thumbnail print of Maskhadov's passport appeared.

'How did you get that?' Sean couldn't believe his luck.

'The law on money laundering requires us to retain photographic identification for every new client we take on.' Boyd turned to glare at him. 'Is there anything else — I have work to do.'

'Yes. I need everything including the passport details.' Sean took out a plain card with DD's email address and phone number. ‘Send them over to here. I also need to know how many copies you made of Maskhadov's documents.'

Boyd returned to the computer. 'We always make a copy of the client's documentation and archive it.' He scanned the screen. 'Susan made a second photocopy and sent it to my office.'

'Did Maskhadov ask you to review the documents?'

'No. But I supervise Susan's work, and I always have first sight of her cases. Just to ensure she sets off in the right direction.'

'Last question. Where is all your information coming from?' Sean indicated Boyd's computer.

'There’s a backup data centre, somewhere. We would be sunk without it.'

Judging from Boyd's face the company was already heading that way.

Sean left, pausing before starting the engine. 'I see what you mean about Boyd, Chris. Can you take me to your archive site?'