Peter Robinson - Playing With Fire

“The way it looked,” said Banks, “is that she probably died in her sleep of smoke inhalation before she even knew there was a fire.” He hoped he was right. “Look, Mark, we’ve still got a long way to go. If there’s anything else you can tell me, do it now.”

Mark shot him a glance. “There’s nothing else,” he said. “I was telling you the truth about where I was. I only wish to God I hadn’t been.”

“So you were gone from ten-thirty to four in the morning?”

“About that, yes. Look, surely the tests-”

“I need to hear it from you.” Banks felt sorry for the kid, but procedures had to be followed. “We’re looking at murder here,” he said, “two murders, and I need a lot more information from you.”

“Someone murdered Tina? Why would anyone want to do that?” Mark’s eyes filled with tears again.

“She probably wasn’t the intended victim, but it amounts to the same thing, yes.”

“Tom?”

“It looks that way. But there’s something else, another criminal matter.”

Mark wiped his eyes. “What?”

“Are you a user, Mark?”

“What?”

“A drug addict, a junkie.”

“I know what it means.”

“Are you?”

“No.”

“Was Tina?”

“Tina was…”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Look, Mark, we found a syringe beside her, on the boat. I’m not looking to bust you for anything, but you’ve got to tell me. It could be important.”

Mark looked down at his shoes.

“Mark,” Banks repeated.

Finally, Mark gave a long sigh and said, “She wasn’t an addict. She could take it or leave it.”

“But mostly she took it?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Whatever. Heroin, if it was around. Morphine. Methadone. Demerol. Valium. Downers. Anything to make her oblivious. Not uppers. She said those only made her too alert, and alertness made her paranoid. And she stayed away from pot, acid and E. They made her see things she didn’t want to see. You have to understand. She was just so helpless. She couldn’t take care of herself. I should have stayed with her. She was so scared.”

“What was she scared of?”

“Everything. Life. The dark. Men. She’s had a hard life, has Tina. That’s why she… it was her escape.”

“Did Tina have any drugs when you left?”

“She had some heroin. She was just fixing up.” Mark started to cry again. Banks noticed his hands had curled into tight fists as he talked. He had tattoos on his fingers. They didn’t read LOVE and HATE like Robert Mitchum’s in The Night of the Hunter , but TINA on the left and MARK on the right.

“Where did she get the heroin?”

“Dealer in Eastvale.”

“His name, Mark?”

Mark hesitated. Banks could tell he was troubled by the idea of informing on someone, even a drug dealer, and the inner struggle was plain in his features. Finally, his feelings for Tina won out. “Danny,” he said. “Danny Corcoran.”

Banks knew of Danny “Boy” Corcoran. He was strictly a small-time street dealer, and the drugs squad had been watching him for weeks, hoping he might lead them to a large supplier. He hadn’t done yet.

“How did you know about Danny Corcoran?”

“A contact in Leeds, someone from the squat where we used to live.”

“How long had Tina been using?”

“Since before I met her.”

“When was that?”

“About six months ago.”

“How did you meet?”

“At the squat in Leeds.”

“How did you end up on the boat?”

“We didn’t like the squat. There were some really ugly characters living there, and one of the bastards kept putting his hands on her. We got into a fight. And the place was always dirty. Nobody bothered cleaning up after themselves. Think what you like of Tina and me, but we’re decent people, and we don’t like living in filth. Anyway, the boat needed a lot of work, but we made it nice.”

“How did you find the boat?”

“I knew about it. I’d seen them before. I used to go for walks on the towpath and sometimes I’d stop and wonder what it would be like, living on the water like that.”

“When was that?”

“A year or so back.”

“So you’re from around here? From Eastvale?”

Mark gave a quick shake of his head. Banks didn’t pursue the matter. “Carry on,” he said.

“We just wanted to be together, by ourselves, without anyone to rip us off or fuck up our lives. I was trying to get Tina off drugs. I loved her. I don’t care if you believe me or not. I did. I looked out for her. She needed me, and I let her down.”

“What about her parents? We’ll need to contact them. Someone will have to identify the body.”

Mark glanced sharply at Banks. “I’ll do it,” he said.

“It needs to be a relative. Next of kin.”

“I said I’ll do it.” Mark folded his arms.

“Mark, we’ll find out one way or another. You’re not doing anybody any favors here.”

“She wouldn’t want those bastards anywhere near her,” he said.

“Why not?”

“You know.”

“Was she abused?”

He nodded. “Him. Her stepfather. He used to do it to her regularly, and her mother did nothing. Too frightened of losing the miserable bastard. I swear I’ll kill him if I ever see him again. I mean it.”

“You won’t see him, Mark. And you don’t want to go talking about killing anyone. Even in grief. Now, where do they live?”

“Adel.”

“La-di-da,” said Banks. Adel was a wealthy north Leeds suburb with a fine Norman church and a lot of green.

Mark noticed Banks’s surprise. “He’s a doctor,” he said.

“Tina’s stepfather?”

“Uh-huh. That’s how she first got addicted. She used to nick morphine from his surgery when he’d… you know. It helped her get over the shame and the pain. He must have known about it, but he didn’t say anything.”

“Did he know where she lived, on the boat?”

“He knew.”

“Did he ever visit you there?”

“Yes. To try to take Tina back. I wouldn’t let him.”

Mark probably weighed no more than eight or nine stone, but he looked wiry and strong. People like him often made deceptively tough scrappers, Banks knew, because he’d been like that himself at Mark’s age. He was still on the wiry side, despite all the beer and junk food. A matter of metabolism, he supposed. Jim Hatchley, on the other hand, seemed to show every pint he supped right in his gut.

“So Tina’s father knew about you?”

“Yes.”

“When was the last time he paid you a visit?”

“About a week ago.”

“You sure he didn’t come yesterday?”

“I don’t know. I was at work. On the building site. Tina didn’t say anything.”

“Would she have?”

“Maybe. But she was… you know… a bit out of it.”

A little chat with Tina’s stepfather was definitely on the cards. “What’s his name?” Banks asked.

“Aspern,” Mark spat out. “Patrick Aspern.”

“You might as well give me his address.”

Mark gave it to him.

“And stay away,” Banks warned him.

Mark looked sullen, but he said nothing.

“Is there anything else you can tell me about Tom on the next boat? What did he look like?”

“Ordinary, really. Short bloke, barrel-chested. He had long fingers, though. You couldn’t help but notice them. He didn’t shave very often, but he didn’t really have a beard. Didn’t wash his hair much, either.”

“What color was it?”

“Brown. Sort of long and greasy.”

Maybe the victim wasn’t Tom after all. Banks remembered the tufts of red hair that had somehow escaped the flames and made a note to talk to Geoff Hamilton about the discrepancy.