Peter Robinson - Playing With Fire

“What?”

“Well, you know. Sometimes you can’t help but be aware of your history. It can make things difficult. But it’s manageable. And he’s a good boss. Gives me a lot of freedom. Respects my opinions.”

“About those fires?”

“About anything.”

“And what are your opinions?”

“I don’t have any yet. Early days.”

“You’re not comfortable talking about your work with me, I can see. I’m sorry.”

Annie reached out and squeezed his arm. “Oh, it’s all right,” she said. “To tell the truth, I was just getting used to having no one to talk to outside the station. I do have to exercise some discretion, but it’s not as if I’ve signed the Official Secrets Act or anything. Anyway, as I said, I don’t have any theories yet. Not enough evidence. All we know is that they seem to be the work of an arsonist. Which is hardly a bloody secret.” She wasn’t going to tell Phil about the Turner and the money that Banks had phoned her about just yet, not until she had talked to Banks about possibly getting Phil involved as a consultant.

“Not even the tiniest suspicion?”

“I could hardly tell you if I suspected someone, could I?”

“Then you have signed the Official Secrets Act?”

Annie laughed and topped up her glass. She felt a little tipsy, but it had been a long weekend, and she was still fighting off the remnants of her cold. “It’s like doctors and patients,” she said.

“Until your suspect is arrested?”

“Ah, then the rules change, yes. Look, you haven’t told me how long you’re staying up north this time.”

“I don’t know,” said Phil. “It’s fairly quiet at the office, but something could come up and I might get called back.”

“A suspicious Sickert, perhaps? Or a dodgy Degas?”

Phil laughed. “Something like that. Look, do you fancy a weekend in New York?”

“New York!” Annie had never been to America. She and Phil had been to Paris in September, and she’d had a hard time getting him to let her pay her own way. She didn’t think she could afford New York, and she didn’t want him to pay.

“Yes. Next weekend. Business, mostly, I’m afraid. I’ve a few gallery owners and dealers to meet with. But we could take in a Broadway show, dinner later.”

“I’m not sure I’d be able to get away next weekend.”

“The case?”

“Yes. And there’s the money…”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. It’s a business trip. On the company.”

“Both of us?”

“Of course. You’d be my security adviser.”

Annie laughed and carried their empty dishes over to the kitchen sink. “It sounds wonderful, but…”

“Tell me you’ll at least think about it.”

“I’ll think about it.” Annie sensed Phil behind her before she felt his hands on her hips and his lips nuzzle the hollow between her neck and shoulder. She wriggled and he circled his arms around, holding her to him tightly enough so she could feel his erection pressing at the base of her spine. She couldn’t help but experience a moment of fear and panic as she felt his hardness against her. Images of the rape of three years ago flashed through her mind and set her nerves on edge. But she had learned to control the emotions and, if not to enjoy sex as fully as she might, at least not to run away from it.

“Leave those dishes for now,” Phil said, loosening his grip.

Annie turned to face him, surprised to feel the panic dissipating so quickly, the warmth spreading like wetness between her legs, her knees weak. It hadn’t been like this with Alan, she thought, then felt ashamed for making the comparison. Phil put his arms around her and she smiled up at him. “Okay,” she said. “Stay the night?”

“I don’t have my toothbrush.”

Annie laughed and buried her face in the soft cotton of his shirt. “Oh, I think I’ve got an unused one in the bathroom,” she said.

“In that case…” Phil said. He let his arms fall by his side, then Annie took him by the hand and led him toward the stairs.

Annie looked pleased with herself on Monday morning, and Banks guessed it wasn’t entirely to do with her job. She sat down opposite him in his office and crossed her legs. She was wearing tight black jeans and a red shirt made of some silky sort of material, which seemed to whisper when she moved. Her hair looked tousled, and her cold seemed to be on the wane. There was a glow about her that Banks wasn’t sure he liked.

“Anyway,” she said, “I talked to Roland Gardiner’s ex-employer and it seems as if Roland was playing a minor variation on the long firm fraud.”

“Was he, indeed?” A long firm fraud involves setting up a fraudulent company – easy enough to do these days with computer software – and acquiring goods or services without paying. A true long firm fraud takes a long time to get going – hence its name – and requires a bit of capital. You first have to pay your bills promptly to gain the trust of the companies you purchase from. “How did he manage that?” Banks asked. “I thought you told me his ex-wife said he never had a penny to spare.”

“He didn’t. That was the beauty of it. He bought from himself.”

“What do you mean?”

“From the company he worked for. Office products. Good market. Easy to get rid of. Gave himself a nice line of credit and took it from there. He didn’t need to establish trust over a long period.”

“He can’t have made much,” Banks said.

“He didn’t. I think that’s what bothered his ex-wife, too. I get the impression that if he’d made a bit more money she wouldn’t have minded too much where he got it from.”

“What happened when his boss found out?”

“Offered the honorable way out. Pay back and resign. No police. Seems he was well liked enough around the office.”

“So where does this get us?” Banks asked, talking to himself as much as to Annie.

“Well,” Annie answered. “We’ve got a dead art forger, and now it seems as if the second victim was a different kind of fraudster. And he had a Turner watercolor and about fifteen hundred quid in a fire-resistant safe. It seems like too much of a coincidence to me. Whatever it was, they must have been in it together.”

“Sounds logical,” said Banks. “But what? And what’s the link between them? How did they know one another?”

“I can’t answer those questions yet,” said Annie. “Not enough information. But if there’s a link, we’ll find it. What interests me right now is who else was involved.”

“The third man?”

“Yes. Someone killed them.”

“Unless they fell out and Gardiner killed McMahon.”

“Still doesn’t explain who killed Gardiner.”

“His ex? Her new husband?”

“Possible,” said Annie.

“But unlikely?”

“In my opinion. What about Leslie Whitaker?”

“He’s another possibility,” said Banks. “I’m not entirely convinced that he didn’t know exactly what McMahon was up to. I think we should have another crack at him, anyway. Let’s have him in, this time.”

“Good idea.” Annie paused. “Alan, about this Turner…?”

“Yes?”

“I was just wondering, before we do anything else, you know, if we should perhaps bring Phil in, let him have a look at it? After all, it is his line of expertise.”

“I think we’d be better going through correct channels,” said Banks, feeling about as stiff and formal as he sounded.

“That’s not like you,” Annie said. “Besides, it could take ages. Phil might be able to tell us something useful right away.”

“Don’t forget there’s Ken Blackstone,” said Banks. “He’s got a strong background in art forgery.”