Peter Robinson - Playing With Fire

“Ever heard of an artist called Thomas McMahon? He lived on the next boat.”

“I’ve never been down there. I don’t like water.”

“You didn’t sell McMahon heroin, too?”

“No way.”

“How did Mark and Tina find you in the first place?”

“It’s not difficult, if you want what they wanted. Word of mouth usually works just fine. Anyway, as it happens, there’s this mate in Leeds, said they’re all right.”

That was what Mark had told him, Banks remembered. “What’s his name?”

“Come off it!”

“His name,” Annie said. “If you don’t tell us, Mark Siddons will. His girlfriend’s been killed, remember?”

Danny looked from Annie to Banks, then down at the floor. “Benjamin Scott,” he whispered. “And don’t tell him I told you. He can be a nasty piece of work, can Benjy.” Danny clutched his stomach. “My guts hurt. Are you nearly finished?”

“Address?” Annie asked.

Danny gave her an address in Gipton. Banks would phone DI Ken Blackstone at Millgarth in Leeds and ask him to check out Mr. Benjamin Scott.

“One more thing, Danny,” Banks said as they stood up to leave.

“What?”

“As of now, you’re out of business.”

“What do you mean?”

“You heard.”

“You can’t-”

“I can do what I want, Danny. And I will. Let me put it simply: I don’t like drug dealers. You’ll be watched. Not by me, and not by the drugs squad, but by people I trust. And if anyone sees you dealing smack again you’ll be pulled in before your feet can touch the ground. Got it?”

“I don’t-”

“And if that doesn’t work, pretty soon Benjy and his friends will find out you’ve been two-timing them with the drugs squad. Is that clear enough?”

Danny paled.

“Is it?” Banks pressed.

Danny swallowed and nodded.

At that moment, Nadia walked in again and stood over Danny, rubbing her pale thin arms. “Danny,” she said, “please hurry up. I need something. I need it bad.”

Danny rolled his eyes. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Banks and Annie left with their bag of laundry.

Mark signed for his belongings: money, penknife, keys and the portable CD player he’d stuck in his pocket with an old David Bowie CD in it, the only CD he had left now. He liked Bowie; the man never stood still long enough for anyone to pigeonhole him; he was always changing, moving on. Ziggy Stardust. The Thin White Duke . Maybe Mark would be like that now. When Tina was around, there had been someone worth working for, worth settling down with. But now… what was the point in going on without her?

“What about my clothes?” he asked.

“Not back from the lab yet,” said the custody officer.

“But they’ve done the tests. They’ve proved I didn’t set the fire. It’s cold out there. I’ll need my jacket.”

“It’s the weekend. These things take time. Try coming back next week. In the meantime…” Withobvious disapproval, the officer brought out a carrier bag from under the desk and handed it over to Mark. “DCI Banks said to give you this.” He gestured with his thumb. “You can change in there.”

Mark went into the room they used for fingerprinting and photographing suspects and took off his red overalls. Banks’s jeans fitted him okay around the waist, but they were a bit long, so he rolled up the bottoms. The sleeves of the old three-quarter-length suede overcoat with the worn fleece lining were also too long, and it was hardly top of the line as far as youth fashion was concerned. Still, it looked warm enough, and it was decent of the copper to remember his promise, Mark thought.

This was all he had now, what he was wearing, borrowed as it was, and what had been in his pockets. He didn’t even have any cigarettes left, and given how expensive they were, he probably shouldn’t go spending what little money he had left on them. So this was it, then. Oh, there was stuff back at home, of course, if Crazy Nick hadn’t destroyed it all. Old clothes, toys, some CDs. But he’d never be going back there. Certainly not now his mum had died of lung cancer, as his Auntie Grace had told him, and there was only Crazy Nick left.

At last he walked through the front doors of the police station to freedom, though it was a freedom blighted by loss and uncertainty. To be honest, Mark wouldn’t have complained if they’d locked him up for a bit longer. He’d been warm and well-fed in the nick, and no one had mistreated him. Outside, in the gray Tina-less world, who knew what lay ahead?

A couple of passersby edged around him and looked down their noses, as if they knew exactly where he’d just come from. Well, sod them, he thought, taking a deep breath of cool air. Sod them all.

The copper, Banks, had just come out of the Golden Griddle and was walking across Market Street toward him. “Mark,” he said. “How do they fit?”

“All right,” said Mark. “They’ll do for now. I mean, thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Just a quick word.”

“What?”

“It might be nothing,” Banks said, “but I’ve been thinking about the fire, the way it was spread to your boat.”

“And?”

“Well, I don’t want to alarm you, but it might have been a sort of shot across the bows, so to speak, a warning shot.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe whoever did it didn’t know whether you could identify him or not. Maybe he didn’t even know Tina was there, but he was just sending you a message.”

“What message?”

“Not to say anything, or else.”

“But I don’t know anything.”

“Are you sure, Mark? Are you certain you didn’t get a better look at Tom’s visitors?”

“No. I told you the truth.”

“All right,” said Banks. “I believe you. Like I said, I don’t want to alarm you, but if he thinks you know who he is, you could be in danger. Go carefully. Keep your eyes open.”

“I can take care of myself,” said Mark.

“Good,” said Banks. “I’m glad to hear it. Just watch your back, that’s all.” He gave Mark a card. “And here’s my number if you think of anything. Mobile, too.”

Mark took the card and Banks disappeared inside the police station.

It was market day and the canvas-covered stalls were all set up in the cobbled square, chock-a-block with cheap clothes, car accessories, washing-up liquid, batteries, the cheese van, the butcher, the greengrocer, crockery, cutlery, toys, used books and videos. The older cloth-capped, waxed-jacketed punters milled around with the younger leather-and denim crowd, fingering the goods while barkers shouted out the virtues of their unbreakable tableware or infallible electric bottle openers.

There was nothing Mark wanted at the market, so he set off down the street, hands thrust deep in his pockets, head down, thinking about what Banks had just told him. He’d never realized that he might be in danger. Now, though, he looked at everyone with a keener eye, though he didn’t really know whom he was looking for. Still, if what Banks had said was right, and if the killer did believe that Mark might have seen him, then he’d better watch himself.

Mark felt something in one of the pockets of Banks’s suede overcoat. He pulled it out. A packet of Silk Cut, with two left, and a disposable lighter. What a piece of luck. Mark lit up. At least he had a fag, old and dry as it tasted.

He went through the other pockets to see if Banks had left any money, but all he found was a couple of old parking stubs and a note with “Schoenberg – Gurrelieder – del Mar/Sinopoli” written on it, which meant bugger all to him. Mark had always admitted he wasn’t much when it came to the brains department. He was a hard worker, good with his hands, and he’d tackle anything within reason, but when it came to brains and spelling, leave him out of it. The copper must be a brainy fellow if he’d written that, Mark thought. It didn’t even look like English. Maybe it was somewhere he went on his holidays. Mark had never been abroad, but he’d probably do that one day, too, he thought. Somewhere really weird like Mongolia. Ulan Bator. He’d seen it on a map in the squat and liked the sound of it. Ulan Bator . See, he wasn’t so stupid after all.