Peter Robinson - Playing With Fire

“So he was here?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you lie to me?”

“Because I didn’t want you to think I was a tramp or a slag or anything. It wasn’t like that at all. I only asked him up for a coffee because I felt sorry for him.”

“What happened?” Annie asked.

“We talked, mostly.”

“Mostly?”

Mandy looked down, examining her thumbnail. “Well, you know… One thing led to another. Look, I don’t have to spell it out, do I?”

“What did you talk about?”

“Life.”

“That’s a big subject. Can you narrow it down a bit for me?”

“You know, relationships, hopes for the future, that sort of thing. We’d never really talked like that before.” She frowned. “Nothing’s happened to him, has it? Please tell me he’s all right.”

“He’s fine,” said Annie. “Did he tell you about Tina?”

“Tina? Who’s that?”

“Never mind,” said Annie. “What did he talk about?”

“Does he have a girlfriend? He never told me. The two-timing bastard.”

“Mandy, can you remember what he talked about?”

It took Mandy a few moments to control her anger and answer. “The boat. Living on the boat. How he was only working on a building site, but he wanted to get into masonry and church-restoration work. He told me he had a sister on drugs, and he wanted to help her. That sort of thing. Like I said, relationships, dreams. Wait a minute! Was that Tina? His sister?”

“I don’t know,” said Annie. “Did he say anything about someone called Tom?”

“Tom? No. Who’s that?”

“A neighbor. An artist who lived on the boat next to Mark’s.”

Mandy shook her head. Her curls bounced. “No,” she said. “He never mentioned any Tom. Apart from saying how he liked it there, and how peaceful it was, he just complained about some interfering old anorak who kept trying to get him to move.”

That would be Andrew Hurst, Annie thought, smiling to herself at the description. “What time did he leave here?”

“I don’t know. Late. I was half asleep. I hardly noticed him go.”

“How late?” Annie persisted. “One o’clock? Two o’clock?”

“Oh, no. Later than that. I mean we really did talk for hours, until two at least. It was only after that…”

“What?”

“You know. Anyway, he seemed edgy later, said he couldn’t sleep. I told him to go because I needed my sleep for work.”

“So it was after two?”

“Yes. Maybe around three.”

“Okay,” said Annie, standing to leave.

“Your turn now,” said Mandy, at the door.

“What?”

“You were going to tell me why you’re asking these questions.”

“Oh,” said Annie. “That. You can read all about it in the papers,” she said, and headed down the stairs. Then she added over her shoulder, “Or if you can’t wait, just turn up your radio.”

It was late morning by the time Banks had put in motion the complex machinery of a murder investigation. There was a team to set up, actions to be assigned, and they would need a mobile unit parked down by the canal. Banks had already arranged for a dozen constables to search the immediate area around the narrow boats, including the handiest point of access and the woods where Mark had been hiding. If they found anything, they would tape it off for the SOCOs. Unfortunately, the closest house to the boats was Andrew Hurst’s, and the village of Molesby lay half a mile south of that, across the canal, in a hollow, so he didn’t expect much from house-to-house inquiries in the village. They still had to be carried out, though. Someone might have seen or heard something.

Banks went to his office. His left cheek still stung from where the twigs had cut him as he’d chased Mark through the woods, and his clothes and hair all smelled of damp ash. His chest felt tight, as if he’d smoked a whole packet of cigarettes. There was nothing he wanted more than to go home, take a long shower and have a nap before getting back to work, but he couldn’t. The pressure was on now.

Geoff Hamilton was still at the fire scene and had already put a rush on forensics to find out what accelerant had been used. The gas chromatograph ought to provide speedy results. Dr. Glendenning, the Home Office pathologist, would conduct the postmortems later that afternoon, starting with Tom, the artist, as it was his boat where the fire had started.

Banks knew he was being premature in treating the incident as a double murder before Geoff Hamilton or Dr. Glendenning gave him the supporting evidence necessary for such a decision, but he had seen enough on the boats. It was important to act quickly. The first twenty-four hours after a major crime are of vital significance, and trails quickly go cold after that. He would take the heat from Assistant Chief Constable McLaughlin later, if he turned out to be wrong and to have wasted valuable budget funds, but Area Commander Kathleen Finlay and Detective Superintendent Gristhorpe had agreed with him on the necessity of an early start, so things were in motion. Banks was senior investigating officer and Annie his deputy.

There was one more thing that Banks had to do before he could even think of lunch. He rang down to the custody officer and asked him to send up Mark – whose full name, it turned out, was Mark David Siddons – to his office, not to an interview room. Mark’s hands had checked out negative for accelerants. His clothes were at the lab waiting in line for the gas chromatograph, and would take a bit longer. He wasn’t out of the running yet, not by a long chalk.

While he waited, Banks found a chamber music concert on Radio 3. He didn’t recognize the piece that was playing, but it sounded appropriately soothing in the background. He didn’t imagine that Mark would be a fan of classical music, but that didn’t matter. Mark wouldn’t be listening to the music. Banks remembered an article he’d read recently about playing classical music in underground stations to discourage mobs of youths from gathering and attacking people. Apparently it drove the yobs away. Maybe they should blare Bach and Mozart out of city center loudspeakers, especially around closing time.

Banks glanced at his Dalesman calendar. January’s picture was of a snow-covered hillside in Swaledale dotted with black-faced sheep.

Finally, a constable knocked on the door and Mark walked over the threshold.

“Sit down,” Banks said.

Mark looked around the room apprehensively and perched at the edge of a chair. “What’s going on?” he asked. “You know something, don’t you? It’s about Tina.”

“I’m sorry, Mark,” Banks said.

The loud wail that rang out of Mark’s small body took Banks by surprise. As did the violence with which he picked up his chair and threw it at the door, then stood there, chest heaving, racked with sobs.

The door opened, and the constable poked his head around it. Banks gestured for him to leave. For a long time, Mark just stood there, his back to Banks, head down, fists clenched, body heaving. Banks let him be. The music played softly in the background, and now Banks thought he recognized the adagio of one of Beethoven’s late string quartets. Finally, Mark wiped his arms across his face, picked up the chair and sat down again, staring at his knees. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

“It’s all right,” said Banks.

“It’s just… I suppose I knew. All along I knew, soon as I saw it, she couldn’t have got away.”

“It didn’t look as if she suffered, if that’s any help.”

Mark ran the back of his hand under his running nose. Banks passed him the box of tissues that had been languishing on his desk since his December cold had cleared up.

“Well, at least she won’t suffer anymore,” Mark said, sniffling. He looked up at Banks. “Are you sure she didn’t? I’ve heard terrible things about fires.”