Peter Robinson - Playing With Fire

“Which means it’s either counterfeit, bootleg Rohypnol, or another member of the benzodiazepine family. Remember, this test took a bit more time because they had to do a general tox screen. They’re still working on it to pin down specifics, but I thought you’d like some sort of advance notice of what you’re dealing with.”

“Thanks, Stefan,” said Banks. “Much appreciated. How long does it take to act?”

“Twenty minutes to half an hour.”

“Any idea what quantities they were given?”

“Certainly enough to be effective. One odd thing.”

“Yes?”

“Gardiner, the caravan victim, also had a significant amount of Tuinal in his system. Tuinal’s-”

“I know what Tuinal is, Stefan. It’s a form of barbiturate.”

“Yes. It’s not prescribed very often these days.”

“We know who Gardiner’s doctor is. We can make inquiries. He’s the one who had more to drink, too?”

“Yes. Just thought you’d like to know.”

“Interesting,” said Banks. “I wonder why?”

“Search me. One more thing,” said Stefan as Banks walked toward the door.

Banks paused and turned. “Yes?”

“The tire tracks are consistent in all their dimensions with those of a Jeep Cherokee, and if you ever find a suspect, he was wearing Nike trainers with a very distinctive pattern of crisscross abrasions on the right heel.”

As Banks left the office, he had a mental image of McMahon in his cabin and Gardiner in his caravan, each welcoming an old friend, chatting, making plans for whatever it was that was going to make their fortunes, drinking to it, then after a while starting to feel drowsy, finding it hard to move. At which point their faceless killer splashes turpentine or petrol about the place, drops a match and leaves. Couldn’t be easier.

Or crueler.

“I’m Clive,” said the driver.

“Mark.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mark.”

“Likewise. And thanks for the lift.”

“My pleasure.” Clive turned and flashed Mark a quick smile. “I’d stop awhile so we could admire the view when we get to the top, but I’m afraid we wouldn’t see much today.”

They were climbing the winding road up Sutton Bank now, the Audi moving easily despite the one on five and one on four gradients. The higher they got, the mistier it became, as if they were ascending into the very clouds themselves. Mark’s ears started to feel funny. He was enjoying the warm, plush interior of the car.

Sutton Bank forms the western edge of the North York Moors, and when you get high up, you can look back over your shoulder and see all the way from the Vale of York to the Dales. Only on a clear day, of course.

When they finally crested the top after about a mile or so, Mark managed a quick look behind and saw nothing but vague shapes through a gray veil. Ahead was mostly rough moorland, similarly mist-shrouded. It was an eerie landscape, and the occasional sheep that materialized out of thin air only made it seem eerier. Sheep gave Mark the creeps. He didn’t know why, but they did.

“What do you do, Mark?” Clive asked.

“I’m looking for work.”

“What sort of work?”

“Restoration. Old buildings. Churches and stuff.”

“That’s interesting. Where do you live?”

“Eastvale,” Mark said. It was the first thing that came to his mind.

“Lovely town,” said Clive. “Have you got a girlfriend?”

Mark said nothing, thought of Tina, the way she had looked at him from the TV screen. He felt his heart shrivel in his chest.

Clive turned and flashed him another quick smile. Mark didn’t like the way he did that. He didn’t know why, just a feeling.

“A handsome, strong lad like you surely must have a pretty girlfriend?” Clive went on. He patted Mark’s knee, and Mark stiffened instinctively.

“It’s all right, you know,” Clive said. “You can be frank with me. I’m a doctor. Look, I know you young people today. You’re always at it, aren’t you? I do hope you practice safe sex, Mark.”

Mark said nothing. He was thinking of another doctor, Patrick Aspern, and how he’d like to smash the bastard’s face in. He was aware of Clive chuntering on beside him, but he wasn’t really paying much attention. He just hoped they’d get to Scarborough soon. The sea.

“…very important to be circumcised, you know,” Clive went on. “I know it’s not always fashionable, but it’s much more hygienic. There are plenty of germs around that part of your body, you know, Mark. Your penis. And smegma. It’s nasty stuff. Circumcision is much better all around.”

“What?”

“Weren’t you listening?” Clive glanced over at Mark. “I’m talking about circumcision. It doesn’t have to be painful, you know. Look, I’ve got some cream in the boot that will numb all feeling, like the dentist gives you, only it’s not an injection. If you like, we could pull over into a lay-by and I can do it for you right now.”

His hand slid over into Mark’s lap, groping for his penis. Mark lashed out with his left fist and caught Clive a hard blow on the side of his head. Clive gasped and the car started to snake along the road. Mark hit him again, this time connecting with soft tissue near his nose and drawing blood. Then he did it again and thought he felt a tooth crack.

Clive barely had control of the wheel now. He was trying to talk, pleading, calling Mark a maniac, blood dribbling with the saliva from his mouth. But Mark couldn’t stop. He wasn’t even looking to see if there were any cars coming the other way; he just kept on pummeling at Clive, seeing Crazy Nick and Patrick Aspern and everyone who had ever hurt him.

Finally, they came to a sharp bend, and Clive had to slow down. He barely managed to change down in time, and as he gave all his attention to keeping control of the wheel, Mark slipped his hand into Clive’s inside pocket, grabbed his wallet, then opened the passenger door and leaped out, rolling on the wet grass by the side of the road. A little dazed, he sat up ready to run, but he was just in time to watch Clive reach over and pull the door shut, then speed off into the mist. When the sound of the car’s engine had faded, Mark was left with nothing but the occasional baaing of a distant sheep to break the silence in the gathering dark.

Banks was pleased to find the mercury pushing nine or ten as he walked down Market Street toward the main Eastvale Fire Station, where Geoff Hamilton had his office. January had been quite a month for ups and downs in temperature. He unbuttoned his overcoat, but he still felt a little too warm. The whiskey-soaked strains of Cesaria Evora came from the headphones of his portable CD player.

As he walked past the end of the street where he used to live with Sandra, Tracy and Brian, Banks couldn’t resist the temptation to walk up to the old house and see how much it had changed. He stood by the low garden wall and looked at the front window. It hadn’t changed. Not much. The curtains were closed, but he could see the flickering light of a television set in the living room. The most surprising thing was the “For Sale” sign on the lawn. So the new owners were selling already. Maybe it wasn’t a happy home. But how many innocuous-looking houses on innocent streets ever were? Inner-city slums and tower blocks hadn’t cornered the market in human misery yet.

Banks arrived at the fire station, put away his CD player and went inside. Two of the firefighters on shift were working on equipment maintenance, another was doing paperwork, and two were playing table tennis.

Banks tapped on Geoff Hamilton’s office door and entered. Hamilton ran his hand across his hair and bade Banks sit down. Certificates hung on the wall, and an old-fashioned fireman’s helmet rested on top of the filing cabinet. Hamilton’s desk was tidy except for the papers he was working on.