Playing with Fire (16 page)

Mark didn't know where he was going; all he could do was keep walking. If he kept going on, eventually he'd end up at the seaside. Maybe he'd live there. It was easy enough to get a job at the seaside, no questions asked, with all those tourists to take care of. Drake from the squat had told him that. Drake had lived in Blackpool and worked at the Pleasure Beach on one of the rides. Made a fucking pile, he said, and pulled plenty of talent, too. But not in January. Blackpool was a cold and lonely place in January. Still, maybe there'd be some building work. There was always building. And there was the sea. Mark loved the sea.

Running had warmed him up, but now, as he slowed his pace, he realized he was cold, cold as the night he'd watched the fire on the boats. Was it only the other day? It seemed like years ago. Tina had only been dead for two days. And was the rest of his lifetime without her going to be as miserable as it was now? Maybe he should just do away with himself. That would serve them all right, wouldn't it? His mother—bless her miserable little soul and may she rot in hell—Crazy Nick, Lenny, Sal, the police, the lot of them. That's what he'd do; he'd top himself. Join Tina. Even save the bloke who'd killed her from having to kill him, too. But he knew he didn't really have the guts to do it. Besides, no matter what the religious people said, Mark didn't believe in reunions beyond the grave.

He pulled the fleece-lined coat tight around him, tightened up the collar around his neck. Wearing a copper's clothes. That was one for the books. It would serve them all right if he did die, though, wouldn't it? He wasn't even sure anymore whether he cared or not, whether it wasn't such a good idea after all. Everything inside was going numb, like his feet, and he realized he didn't even need to do anything painful to die. It would be easy. All he had to do was find an out-of-the-way spot—plenty of them around here—and lie down in the cold. They said it was just like falling asleep. You got cold, then
numb, so you couldn't feel it, then you went into a coma and died. Especially as he was halfway there already. He saw a stile and the silhouette of a ruined barn in the next field, a little moonlight shining through the empty windows. That would do, he thought, at least for the night. That would do just fine. And if he died there…well, that would serve the bastards right, wouldn't it?

 

It was well after official closing time when Banks and Annie joined Jack Mellor at the table nearest the fireplace in the Fox and Hounds, but the landlord was not in any hurry to lock up as long as the police were drinking there.

Banks dismissed PC Locke, who had been baby-sitting Mellor since his initial questioning at the scene, and ordered three double brandies, breaking any number of laws and police rules in doing so. He didn't give a damn. It was bloody freezing out there and he needed something to warm him up. Annie seemed glad of the fire, too, and sat as close as she could. She didn't seem to mind the brandy, either, judging by the way she knocked back her first sip. Only Mellor, the dog sleeping curled on the floor by his side, let his glass sit without touching it, but he'd had one already, and his moon-shaped face was looking a little less pale than it had at the scene. The landlord tossed a couple more logs on the fire. They crackled and spat, throwing out enough heat for Banks to take off his overcoat. Annie crossed her legs and took her notebook out, giving Banks a look when she caught him glancing at the gold chain on her ankle.

“Can you start by telling us exactly what happened tonight?” Banks asked.

Mellor stared into the flames. “It's still quite a shock,” he said. “Seeing something like that…even from a distance…someone you know.”

Thank God he hadn't seen the body close up, Banks thought. “I'm sure it is,” he said. “Take your time.”

Mellor nodded. His cheeks wobbled. “I was walking Sandy here as usual. We always drop by the Fox for a couple of jars of an evening, ever since my wife died.”

“I'm sorry to hear it,” said Banks.

“Well, these things happen.” Mellor reached forward and took a sip of brandy. “Anyway, as I said, it was habit. Creatures of routine. Boring sort of life, I suppose.”

“And tonight?”

“I saw the fire through the trees. I think Sandy must have smelled it first because he was acting strange.” He leaned over and stroked the dog's glossy ruff. Banks could see from the light ginger fur how he had got his name. Sandy stirred, opening one brown eye and cocking an ear, then drifted off again. “Anyway, we hurried over there, but…I could see immediately there was nothing I could do.”

“What time was this?”

“I usually set off at nine, pretty much on the dot, and it's about ten minutes from home, so…”

“Ten past nine, then?”

“About that, yes.”

Banks knew that the emergency call had been logged in at 9:13
P.M
. “Where did you call from?”

“Phone box down the road. It's only a short distance. I hurried as best I could, but…” He patted his stomach. “I'm afraid I'm not built for speed.”

Banks had seen the phone box and estimated that Mellor's timing was pretty much accurate.

“I don't have a mobile phone,” he explained. “No need for one, really. No one to call and no one who'd want to ring me.”

That didn't stop most people owning a mobile, Banks thought, remembering the sad, pointless conversations he'd overheard during the last few years: “It's me. I'm on the
train. We're just leaving the station now. It's raining up here.” And so on, and so on.

“I take it you were by yourself at home?”

“Yes. I live alone now, apart from Sandy, of course.”

“What did you do after you'd rung the fire brigade?”

“I just waited.”

“Where?”

“By the gate.”

“You didn't approach the caravan?”

Mellor sniffed and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I knew there was nothing I could do by then,” he said. “Just watch it burn. I felt so useless. The firemen were very fast getting here.”

“It's all right, Mr. Mellor,” Banks assured him. “Nobody could have done anything by then.” Geoff Hamilton had said the fire would have taken less than half an hour to do the damage it did, and it was well under way by the time Mellor saw it. That would mean that it had probably been set between about eight forty-five and nine o'clock. “Did you see anyone in the area?” he asked.

“Nobody.”

“Nobody passed you on the road?”

“No. I didn't see a soul. Never do at that time of night.”

“Any cars?”

“One or two. We get a fair bit of traffic, especially on a Saturday night. It's the main road between Eastvale and Thirsk.”

“Remember anything about them?”

“I'm afraid not.”

“Anything suspicious or unusual happen?”

“No.”

Banks took a sip of fiery brandy. His knees were getting hot from the fire, and he noticed Annie's shins turning red under her tights. “All right, Mr. Mellor,” he went on. “What can you tell us about the victim?”

“Roland? Not much. He was rather a reserved sort of man.”

“But you drank with him regularly?”

“Well, neither of us is a big drinker. We'd pass the time of evening over a couple of halves, maybe.”

“How often?”

“Two or three times a week. Though sometimes I didn't see him for days.”

“Did he ever say where he was on those occasions?”

“No.”

“But the two of you must have talked quite a bit?”

“Oh, yes. Current events. Politics. Sports. That sort of thing. Roland was very well informed.”

“Did he ever tell you anything about himself?”

“A little, I suppose. It's…”

“Mr. Mellor,” Banks said, sensing some sort of generic regard for the confidences of a dead friend, “it looks very much as if Mr. Gardiner is dead. And anything you tell us would be in the strictest confidence, of course.”

“What do you mean, it looks as if Roland is dead? Is he or isn't he?”

“There was a body found inside the caravan,” Banks said carefully. “It's dead. Unfortunately, we haven't been able to identify it yet, so we're being cautious. Can you think of anyone else who might have been in the caravan?”

Mellor shook his head. “No. Roland valued his privacy, and he lived alone, like me.”

“Then we're assuming it's him, just between you and me, but we can't make any official statement until there's been a positive identification. Right now, anything you can tell us will be a great help. What did he look like?”

“Nothing to write home about, really. I suppose he was about five foot seven or eight, a little overweight.” He patted his belly. “Not quite as much as me, though. Receding hair, a touch of gray here and there. Hooked nose. Not really big, but hooked. Pale blue eyes.”

Mark Siddons had seen a man with a hooked nose visiting Tom McMahon's boat on one occasion, Banks remembered. “How old was he?”

“Early-to-mid-forties, I'd say.”

“Go on.”

“That's about it, really. Dressed casually most of the time. At least, I never saw him in a suit. Just jeans and a cotton shirt. Soft spoken. Polite. Didn't laugh much.”

“Did he have any living relatives?”

“Not that I know of. He never talked about his family. I think his parents are dead, and he never mentioned any brothers or sisters.”

“Was he married?”

“Well, you see, that's just it, that's the problem,” said Mellor. “Roland was divorced. About two years ago, just around the time he came to Jennings Field.”

“What happened?”

“He lost his job, and his wife walked out on him. Another man. All he had left were the caravan and the car, the way he told me, and he drove around until he found somewhere he could stay, and he's been there ever since.”

“How did he survive?”

“He was on the social.”

“Was he from around these parts?”

“Yes. Not broad-spoken, though, but as if he'd traveled a bit. You know, spent time down south or abroad.”

“What happened to the car?”

“Roland just left it there, where he'd parked his caravan. He said he'd no use for it. He'd given up on life. He didn't want to go anywhere. In the end it just fell apart.”

“How long ago?”

“Maybe a year or so.”

“Where is it now?”

“Hauled away for scrap metal and spare parts.”

“Do you know what Mr. Gardiner did for a living?”

“Yes. He worked for a small office supplies company.”

“What happened?”

“Competition got too big and too fierce. They couldn't afford the kind of discounts and delivery the big boys were offering, so they started cutting costs. Roland was quite bitter about it.”

“Do you know where he lived when he was with his wife?”

“They lived in Eastvale, down on that new Daleside Estate. I'm sorry, but he never told me the actual address.”

“I know it,” said Banks. The Daleside Estate was a mix of council and private housing built on the site of the old Gallows View Fields on the western edge of town. There had been a short debate in council over the name of the place, some suggesting they stick with Gallows View for historical purposes, others arguing that it would put off potential buyers. In the end, progress won out, and it became officially “Daleside,” but most Eastvalers still called it the Gallows View Estate. It was the area where Banks had worked on his first case in Eastvale, although he felt no sentimental attachment. The old row of cottages and the corner shop had all been demolished now to make way for the newer houses.

“Is she still there?”

“He never said otherwise. I assume she stayed on in the house.”

Annie made a note. The ex-wife wouldn't be hard to find, Banks thought.

“How did he feel about his wife?” Banks asked.

“I got the impression that he'd had a hard time supporting her taste for exotic holidays abroad and creature comforts as much as anything else. Then, when he loses his job, she chucks him and walks out. Talk about kicking a bloke while he's down.”

“Yes, I suppose I'd feel pretty bitter about that myself,” said Banks. It certainly gave Gardiner a good motive for killing his wife, but that was not what had happened.

Annie looked at Banks. His situation wasn't quite the same, but he knew—and he knew that Annie knew—that it was close enough to all intents and purposes. Maybe the only real difference was that Banks hadn't pushed so hard at his career only for Sandra's sake—Lord knows her tastes were pretty modest—but more for his own needs. Still, she had left him—out of the blue, it had seemed at the time—and he had almost lost his job and his sanity, and now she was living with Sean and Sinéad in London. Banks certainly understood bitterness and betrayal.

“Did she ever visit him at the caravan?” Banks asked.

“Not that I know of. He never said.”

“Were they actually divorced, or just separated?” Banks was wondering whether the ex–Mrs. Gardiner needed her husband permanently out of the way for some reason.

“He said divorced. In fact, I saw him the day he told me the decree came through and he got quite maudlin at first, then angry. He had a bit too much to drink that night, I remember.”

There went one theory. “Did he ever have any visitors at all?”

“He never spoke of any, and I can't see the caravan from my cottage. I do remember seeing someone leaving the place once while I was walking down the lane, but that's all.”

“When was this?”

“Few months ago. Summer.”

“A man or a woman?”

“A man.”

“What did he look like?”

“Too far away to see, and he was walking away from me.”

“Tall or short, black or white?”