Playing with Fire (29 page)

Sandra rolled her eyes. “To each his own.”

“I didn't mean it like that,” Banks rushed on. “I think she's just very insecure underneath it all.”

“Oh, please.”

“She said you spent a lot of time with Tom.”

“And you think she was hinting at an affair?”

“I didn't say that.”

“It's obvious in your tone. For your information, not that it matters anymore, but I didn't have any affairs while we were together. Not one.”

Sinéad stirred and made a gurgling sound. Sandra leaned forward and did something with the blanket again, then she put her hand to the side of the baby's face, stroked it and smiled, murmuring nonsense words. It was a gesture Banks remembered her making with both Brian and Tracy when they were very young, and it cut him to the quick. He had forgotten all about it, and there it was, a simple maternal gesture with the power to hurt him so. What the hell was going on? he wondered, breath tight in his chest. This baby was nothing to do with him. If anything, it was an insult to the relationship he thought he had with Sandra. It wasn't even a particularly beautiful baby. So why did he feel so excluded, so alone? Why did he care?

“So what can you tell me about McMahon?” Banks asked.

“Tom had a lively mind, wandering hands and low self-esteem,” Sandra said.

“Why the low self-esteem?”

“I don't know. Some people are just like that, aren't they?” She rocked the pram gently as she spoke. “Even when he was moderately successful, getting the odd exhibition and managing to sell a painting or two—and I don't mean just the tourist stuff—he still couldn't seem to believe in himself. You know, he once told me he felt more himself imitating other artists than he did doing his own work.”

“Oh,” said Banks. “Who did he imitate?”

“Just about anyone.” Sandra laughed. “He once dashed off a Picasso sketch for me. It took him about five seconds. I don't know if you could have got it by a team of experts but it would have fooled me. Why are you so interested?”

“What about Turner?”

“What about him?”

“Do you think McMahon could have forged Turner sketches and watercolors?”

Sandra swept her hand over her hair. “Do I think he had the talent for it? Yes. Did I ever see him imitate or even hear him mention Turner? No.”

“Just a thought,” said Banks. “Some have turned up.”

“Is this connected with his death?”

“It could be,” said Banks.

Sandra shivered and adjusted her scarf.

“Is there anything else?” Banks asked.

“Not that I can think of.”

“You didn't know his circle of friends?”

“Didn't know he had one. I only saw him at the gallery. Sometimes we'd have a coffee there together. That's all.” Sinéad gurgled again and Sandra leaned over.

“She's a lovely child,” Banks said.

Sandra didn't look at him. “Yes.”

“Well behaved.”

“Yes.” Sandra glanced over at her house. “Look, I'd better go,” she said. “It's nearly Sinéad's feeding time and…” She held her hand out. “I think it's starting to rain.”

Banks nodded. “Good-bye, then.”

Sandra stood up. “Good bye,” she said. “And take care of yourself, Alan.”

Banks watched her push the pram down the path as it started to drizzle. She didn't look back.

“W
ell, Mark,” said Banks, leaning back in his chair and linking his hands behind his head. “Why did you run?”

“How was I to know they were plainclothes coppers? You told me I was in danger, to watch out. That's what I did.”

“And what do you have to say about it all now?”

“Just the same as I told those bastards in Scarborough yesterday. The bloke attacked me. I defended myself. What was I supposed to do, let him put his hands all over me?”

Banks scratched the scar beside his right eye. “I still don't know what you're talking about, Mark,” he said. “What bloke is this? Who attacked you? Where?”

Mark stared at him. He'd been held overnight at Scarborough for resisting arrest and delivered to Western Area Headquarters that morning. The arresting officer had mentioned some gibberish about an attack and self-defense, but he had no idea what Mark was talking about, either. Nor did he want to know. Enough paperwork on his plate already without picking up Eastvale's leftovers. One thing that did bother Banks was the black eye, split lip and bruising on Mark's cheek. He wondered how “necessary” the force was that the two DCs who arrested him used. And had they announced that they were police officers first? Mark said not.

“You mean you don't know?” Mark asked.

“Know what?”

“The bloke. The poofter. He didn't report it?”

“Nobody reported anything, as far as I know. What are you talking about? Did you get into trouble hitching a lift?”

“Never mind,” said Mark. “That's what I thought it was all about, when I found out they were coppers after me. It doesn't matter now. What am I here for this time, then?”

“Know anything about a fire in Jennings Field last Saturday night? Caravan.”

“I don't even know where Jennings Field is.”

“You'd have passed close by there on your way east from your friend's house.”

“I still don't know. Why are you asking me this?”

“Just seems too much of a coincidence, that's all. Two fires, and you pretty much on the scene of both of them.”

“Look, you've already cleared me on the boat fire. Mandy told the truth about where I was, and your blokes tested my clothes. They didn't find anything.”

“I know,” said Banks. And he also knew that they couldn't test Mark's clothes for traces of accelerant this time because they'd been given to him by Banks himself. Even if the bloody things were soaked in petrol, that wouldn't make a scrap of difference to the Crown Prosecution Service. “But that doesn't let you out of the Jennings Field fire. Or out of killing Thomas McMahon.”

“How do you work that out?”

“McMahon was unconscious before the fire. Maybe you drugged him. You certainly seem to be able to lay your hands on any drug you want.”

“Why would I do that?”

“I don't know. Maybe he made a move on Tina. He was an artist. Maybe he offered to pay her for posing nude.”

“He didn't.”

“Only your word.”

“He didn't. And I didn't touch him.”

“Okay. Did you see anything when you passed Jennings Field on Saturday?”

Mark looked away, watching the workmen on the scaffolding around the church. “I thought I saw a fire,” he said. “In the distance. But I wasn't anywhere near it. And I had other things on my mind.”

“What time was this?”

“I don't remember. No watch.” He turned to face Banks again. “Look, I'd nothing to do with it. You
know
that. Why don't you ask Dr. Patrick fucking Aspern where
he
was? Or is he beyond your reach? A
doctor
.”

“Don't worry, Mark. We'll ask whoever we want. Anyway, what reason do you have to think Dr. Aspern had anything to do with the Jennings Field fire?”

“I don't know. But if you think it was the same person set both of them, then I'm saying you should have a good look at him, too.”

“We will. Don't worry. Have you got any other suggestions?”

Mark shook his head and looked back out of the window. Banks wrote down a name, address and phone number on a sheet of paper and passed it to him.

“What's this?” Mark asked.

Banks nodded toward the window. “Name of the person in charge of the restoration crew out there,” he said. “He's a friend of mine. Drop by the office or give him a call. Tell him I sent you.”

Mark glanced back and forth from the men on the scaffolding to Banks. Finally, he folded the sheet of paper, and lacking a pocket in the red overalls he'd been issued, held on to it. “Thanks,” he said.

“No problem. And your pal Lenny says it's all right to go back to his place, if you want.”

“You talked to Lenny?”

“Yes, I talked to him. His wife is really sorry. She doesn't like surprises, that's all. They'd be glad to have you.”

Banks could see doubt cloud Mark's features. He didn't blame the kid. He'd be suspicious himself. Things hadn't worked out especially well for Mark so far this past week or so.

“Up to you,” he said. “One more thing.”

“What?”

Banks slid the photograph of Roland Gardiner that Annie had got from Alice Mowbray across the desk. “Recognize him?”

Mark studied the photo. “Dunno,” he said finally. “It could be one of the blokes I saw visit Tom. He's got the right sort of nose. But…”

“Okay,” said Banks. He described Leslie Whitaker. “That sound anything like the other bloke?”

Mark shrugged. “Could be,” he said. “But again…”

“I know,” said Banks. “It's vague.” He thought he should perhaps organize an identity parade, see if Mark could pick out Whitaker from a group of people who looked a bit like him.

“Can I go now?” Mark asked.

“As far as I'm concerned. Where will you be if I need you?”

“Need me? For what?”

“More questions. There's still a chance you can help us find Tina's killer.”

“I'll be at Lenny's,” Mark said.

“I take it you're not pressing charges?”

“What?”

“Police brutality.”

Mark fingered his bruises and grinned. “The pavement was hard,” he said. “I fell.” He got up and walked to the door.

“There's a constable outside,” said Banks. “He'll take you back down to the custody suite and get you sorted.”

“Thanks.”

“And, Mark?”

“Yes?”

“When you were arrested you had over two hundred pounds in your pocket, but when you first left here you only had about ten. Where did you get the rest?”

“Found it,” said Mark, and nipped out of the door quickly.

There was more to it than that, Banks was convinced, but it didn't concern him now. No doubt there had been a problem with someone who had given him a lift, and Mark had probably nicked his wallet in the scuffle. That the theft hadn't been reported made Banks lean in favor of Mark's garbled explanation that he'd been assaulted by the man, who needed police attention like he needed a hole in the head. Call the two hundred “damages,” then, and have done with it.

He watched the restorers at work for a few moments, thinking about the kind of life Mark had been living at home, in the squat and on the boat, and what the future might hold for him. It had to be better than the past. His phone rang.

“Alan, it's Ken Blackstone.”

“Good to hear from you. Any news on the doctor?”

“Nothing you'd be interested in hearing, I'm afraid. Clean bill of health, even down to the scrupulously up-to-date shotgun certificate.”

“He's got a shotgun?”

“Likes to shoot small winged creatures with like-minded people.”

“It takes all sorts. No rumors, gossip?”

“No. Seems he's a capable doctor. Not much of a bedside manner. Some described him as a bit of a cold fish. There was just one little thing.”

“What's that?” Banks asked.

“One of the neighbors saw a black woman coming out of his house carrying a plastic bag on Monday morning. She thought it might be drugs.”

Banks laughed. “That would have been our very own DC
Winsome Jackman with Dr. Aspern's clothing for testing. Which came out negative, as expected, by the way.”

“Well, at least he's been getting wind there's something going on,” Blackstone said. “Already put a complaint in to Weetwood about harassment, and he gave one of his neighbors a right chewing out after he saw her talking to one of our men.”

“Good,” said Banks. “Let's hope it keeps him off balance.”

“Have you thought, Alan, that maybe he hasn't actually done anything?”

“There's something there. Trust me.”

“Instinct?”

“Call it what you will: body language, unspoken communication, but there's something there. The girl was screwed up, and why should she lie to Mark?”

“Junkies lie habitually. You know that as well as I do. And maybe the boyfriend has his own reasons for believing her.”

“I've thought of that. We did a background check on him, and it's true he had it rough at home. I still think there's something going on, though. And if I get any proof, I'll have the bastard.”

“The fires?”

“Possible. But I don't think so. He did something to Tina, though. I'm certain of it.”

“Well, best of luck, mate. Want me to keep trying?”

“No, it's okay. Thanks, Ken.”

“Cheers. And don't forget, if you're down in my neck of the woods, that sofa's always there for you.”

“I won't forget.”

Banks stood at his window after the phone call thinking and looking out at the people in raincoats down in the market square. He was certain that Dr. Patrick Aspern had sexually abused his stepdaughter, and that his wife knew about it. But he had no proof. Nor did he seem to have much hope of getting any now that Tina was dead. Her death was convenient
for Aspern, but Banks was almost certain he hadn't started the fire on the boats. That had something to do with Thomas McMahon, he was convinced of it. Tina was incidental, maybe an unwanted witness. Which made the killer an especially nasty piece of work.

Thoughts of McMahon brought Banks back to Phil Keane and his little lie. He would have to contrive to have a chat with Phil without Annie around. He knew exactly how she would behave if she thought he was trying to dig up some dirt on her precious Phil. And maybe she would be right; maybe Maria Phillips's version was exaggerated or even untrue. But until he knew for certain one way or another, he would distance himself from Phil and Annie, do a bit of discreet digging and wait to hear from Dirty Dick.

 

It felt good to be wearing his own clothes again, Mark thought, as he headed out of Western Area Headquarters for the second time in a week. The old leather jacket felt like a second skin. And it was good to be free again. His face and body still ached from the beating the Scarborough cops had given him, for “resisting arrest,” but, just as he had suspected, Clive hadn't reported the hitchhiking incident, and the police had no reason to keep him in custody.

And he still had over two hundred quid in his pocket.

Mark crossed the market square, anonymous among the crowd of shoppers and the occasional out-of-season tourist. He hadn't a clue where to go, but he knew he wasn't going back to Lenny's, no matter what he'd told Banks. That had been a mistake in the first place. Lenny was a decent bloke, but he had enough on his plate without bringing Mark home. Sure, maybe they did both feel all guilty right now after upsetting him, but that would soon wear off. He knew he wouldn't be able to bear Sal's silent resentment of his presence. And when he thought about it, he realized that, if it
wasn't Clive, then it must have been Lenny who'd set the cops on him. He wouldn't have expected that from him, but there it was. Did Lenny believe he'd started the fires, too? No matter, he wouldn't be seeing Lenny or his bitch of a wife again.

Across the square, he turned left for a short way on York Road and went into the Swainsdale Centre. When he was at Eastvale Comprehensive and wanted to put off going home after school, he had often hung around the center with his mates, not doing anything, just loitering and smoking, sometimes looking in Dixon's windows at the fancy computers and stereos he couldn't afford. Well, there had been an occasional bit of shoplifting, he remembered, but that was as bad as the gang got. Sometimes, too, he had spent the day there instead of going to school at all.

The center wasn't very busy; it never was on a Wednesday morning. Just a few young women pushing prams, and kids skiving off school, the way Mark had done. On the upper level, at the top of the escalator opposite HMV, was a food court, and Mark bought himself a Big Mac, fries and a Coke and sat at one of the Formica-topped tables to eat. There was something about a shopping center that numbed your brain, Mark thought. Something to do with the weird lighting and the barely audible music. Maybe it hypnotized you into buying things. Well, there was nothing Mark wanted, except maybe a new CD. He'd grown tired of
Ziggy Stardust
over the past few days, and it was the only one he had left. Maybe he'd get something by Beth Orton in memory of Tina. He'd probably need new batteries soon, so he might as well pick some up in Dixon's.

As he sat there munching on his Big Mac, lulled by the bland ambience of the Swainsdale Centre, watching the people who seemed to float around him as insubstantial as ghosts or shadows to the faint, pale music of an orchestral version of “Eleanor Rigby,” Mark mulled over the past few days. The
fire had occurred on Thursday night, and it was now the following Wednesday. Had it really only been such a short time since Tina had died and Mark had had his adventures on the road? He'd also been assaulted by a queer, been in and out of jail twice, beaten up by the police and spent the most luxurious evening of his life in a B and B in Helmsley. And there was still a chance that someone out there was after him, wanted him dead.