Peter Robinson - Playing With Fire

“Here, of course,” Aspern answered after a short pause. “Where the hell else do you think I’d be, with my daughter so recently deceased? Out for a night on the town?”

“I understand she was your stepdaughter?” Winsome said.

“I always thought of her as my own.”

“I’m sure you did. No blood relation, though. Probably a good thing.”

Aspern’s face darkened. “Now, look here, if Banks has been putting ideas in your head…”

“Sir?”

Aspern took a few calming breaths. “Right,” he said. “I see. I understand what you’re up to. Well, it won’t work. Last night Fran and I both stayed in and watched television, hoping for something to take our minds off what’s happened.”

“Did you succeed?”

“What do you think?”

“What did you watch?”

“A film on Channel Four. I’m sorry, but I can’t remember the title. I wasn’t really paying attention. It was set in Croatia, if that helps.”

“Is your wife here at the moment?”

“She’s resting. As you can imagine, this has been very hard on her. Anyway, she’d only corroborate my statement.”

“I’m sure she would,” said Winsome. “We’ll let her rest for now.”

“Very good of you, I’m sure.”

“But you must admit it’s not a very strong alibi, is it? It’s been my experience that wives will often stand by their husbands, no matter what horrors or atrocities they might be guilty of.”

“Well, I’m not guilty of anything,” said Aspern, getting to his feet. “So if that’s all, I’ll bid you good-bye. I don’t have to sit around and listen to your filthy insinuations.”

Winsome held her ground. “What insinuations would those be, sir?”

“You know what I’m talking about. Banks obviously briefed you on his groundless suspicions, and you’re here to do his dirty work for him. It won’t wash. I’ll be complaining to my MP about the both of you.”

“That’s your prerogative,” said Winsome. “But you have to understand that our job can be difficult at times, insensitive, even. I really am sorry for your loss, Dr. Aspern, but I still have questions to ask.”

“Look, I’ve told you what I was doing. What more do you want?”

“What clothes were you wearing?”

“Come again?”

“You seem a bit hard of hearing this morning, sir. I asked what clothes you were wearing last night.”

“I don’t see how that’s relevant to anything.”

“If you’d just tell me. Or, better still, fetch them for me.”

Aspern narrowed his eyes, then stomped out of the room. A few moments later he returned and flung a dark-blue cotton shirt and a pair of black casual trousers over the arm of the chair beside her. “Unless you want my underwear, too?” he said.

“That won’t be necessary,” said Winsome. She knew it was a farce, that he could have given her any old clothes and said he’d worn them last night, or that he could have washed and dried them in the meantime, but that wasn’t the point of the exercise. The point was to shake him up, and in that she thought she was succeeding remarkably well. “What about your jacket and overcoat?” she asked.

“What jacket and overcoat? I told you we stopped at home last night. Why would I need a jacket and overcoat?”

“Of course, sir. My mistake.” Winsome stood. “Mind if I take these?”

“Take them where? What for?”

“For forensic testing.”

“And what do you hope to find?”

“I don’t hope to find anything, sir. It’ll just help us eliminate you from our inquiries.”

“I love the language you people use. ‘Eliminate you from our inquiries.’ Talk about bureaucratese.”

“That’s a very good word for it, sir. Sometimes it does sound a bit overly formal, doesn’t it? Anyway, if you could lay your hands on some sort of a bag… Plastic would be best. Bin liner, or something like that.”

Aspern went into the kitchen and found her a white plastic kitchen bag.

“Thanks. That’ll do just fine,” Winsome said.

“Eliminate me from what inquiries?” Aspern asked.

“What do you mean, sir?”

Aspern sighed. “You said earlier that this would help eliminate me from your inquiries. I’m asking exactly what inquiries you’re talking about.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t heard,” she said. “It’s been all over the news. There was another fire last night, remarkably similar to the one in which your stepdaughter died, and not too far away.”

“And I’m a suspect?”

“I didn’t say that, sir, but we’d look pretty unprofessional if we didn’t cover every possibility, wouldn’t we?”

“I don’t care what you’d look like; this is discrimination, pure and simple.”

“Against what group? Doctors, for a change?”

“Now, look here, you fucking-”

Winsome raised a finger to her lips. “Don’t say it, Doc,” she said. “You know it’ll only get you into trouble in these politically correct times.”

Aspern ran his hand over his hair and regained his composure, and his arrogant air. “Right,” he said, nodding. “Right. Of course. I apologize.” He spread his hands. “Take whatever you like.”

“That’s all right, sir,” she said, lifting the bag of clothes. “This is all I need. I’ll be on my way now.”

“I’m sorry you’ve had such a wasted journey. It’s a long way to come for so little.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t call it wasted,” said Winsome. “Not at all.”

She felt absurdly pleased with herself as she walked down the path to her car. Curtains twitched again and Winsome smiled to herself as she hefted the bag onto the seat beside her and drove off.

Annie tracked down the ex-Mrs. Gardiner easily enough – she was now Mrs. Alice Mowbray, wife of Eric – and by mid-morning she was knocking on the door of their semi on Arboretum Crescent. The woman who answered the door looked about forty, and she had a hard-done-by air about her. The red cashmere jumper and black skirt she was wearing looked a bit Harvey Nicks, the gold necklace wasn’t cheap, either, and her blond hair definitely came from a bottle.

“Who is it, Alice?” a voice from inside the house called. “If it’s those bloody Jehovah’s Witnesses again, tell them to bugger off!”

Annie showed her warrant card and Alice stood back to let her in. “It’s the police,” she called out.

A man came out of the room on the left of the hall, a curious expression on his face. Annie put him at about the woman’s age, or maybe five years younger. It was hard to tell. He didn’t have a gray hair on his head and was, she supposed, handsome in a way, the sort of bloke who’s full of confidence and tries to pick up women in the better class of pub. Well, some women fall for the brash, sleazy charm, Annie realized.

“What do you want?” he asked. “If it’s about that speeding ticket, then-”

“It’s your wife I want to see, sir,” said Annie.

“I can’t imagine why,” said Alice, “but let’s talk in the conservatory. I know the weather’s not very good, but it’s a nice view, and we’ve got an electric heater.”

“That’ll be fine,” said Annie, aware of Eric Mowbray breathing down her neck as she followed Alice to the conservatory. Well, it wouldn’t do any harm to talk to him, too, she thought. He looked the type who would get nervous easily and blab, if there was anything to blab.

They settled in the conservatory, which was warm enough and did indeed have a magnificent view looking west into Swainsdale, the distant hills shrouded in light mist. Alice Mowbray sat down on a wicker chair and tugged her skirt over her plump knees. The skirt was at least two inches too short for someone with her thighs, Annie thought, and in conjunction with the peroxide-blond hair it gave her a definite look of mutton dressed as lamb. Her husband, black hair slicked back with a little gel, jeans too tight over the slight paunch he was already beginning to show, looked as if he didn’t mind. Unbidden, an image of the two of them disco-dancing under a whirling glittering globe, Eric waving his hands in the air and doing his best John Travolta imitation, came into her mind, and she had to hold back the laughter.