Peter Robinson - Playing With Fire

It was half past six. The pub was warm and the log fire crackling in the hearth made him feel drowsy. He didn’t want to move, didn’t want to go anywhere. He lit his first cigarette in ages and inhaled the acrid smoke deep into his lungs. Heaven.

But what to do next? He knew he was about fourteen miles from the nearest railway station, back in Thirsk, but thought maybe he could get a bus from Helmsley to Scarborough. He’d have to find somewhere to stay when he got there, though, and that could be a problem if it was late and dark, especially as he was alone and without luggage or transport. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself, even though he was almost a hundred percent certain Clive wouldn’t report him to the police. He also had the killer to worry about, he realized. Somehow or other, he might have found out where Mark was, where he was going. He would have to be careful.

Then he saw the notice behind the bar: “B and B.” The landlord had been friendly enough when he served Mark, even apologizing for the lack of hot meals, so Mark walked over to the bar and asked if there were any rooms vacant.

The landlord smiled. “It’s not often we’re full up at this time of year,” he said. “I suppose it’ll be a single you’re wanting?”

“Yes,” said Mark.

“I think we might be able to accommodate you. Rachel.”

The woman helping behind the bar came over.

“Show this young lad the single, would you? Number six.”

Rachel, a pretty young woman with fair hair and a peaches-and-cream complexion, blushed and said, “Of course, Mr. Ridley.” She turned to Mark. “Come on.”

Mark followed her up the narrow creaking staircase. At the top she opened a heavy door. The room looked magnificent to Mark, and he realized he must have been standing on the threshold with his mouth open. Rachel was expecting him to look around and say something.

“How much is it?” he managed to ask.

“Twenty-eight pounds, bed and breakfast,” she said. “Breakfast’s downstairs, between eight and nine o’clock. Well, do you want it?”

“Yes,” said Mark, reaching in his pocket for the money.

“Tomorrow, silly,” Rachel said. “You pay when you leave.”

“Oh. Right,” Mark said, amazed that someone would trust him not to run off without paying.

Rachel handed him the key and explained about the various locks and how he had to make sure he was in before they closed up the pub. He didn’t even think he was going out, so that was no problem.

“Where’s your rucksack?” she asked.

“Don’t have one,” he said.

She looked at him as if she thought he was daft, then shrugged and left, shutting the door behind her.

It was the nicest room Mark had ever been in in his entire life. It wasn’t very big, but that was all right; he didn’t need much space. The wallpaper was a cheerful flower pattern and the air smelled of lemons and herbs. It had a solid bed and a dresser and drawers for clothes and stuff. There were also a television and facilities for making tea and coffee. But best of all, there was a bathroom/toilet.

It had been difficult managing without running water on the boat. Once a week they went to the public baths in Eastvale, next to the swimming pool, but most days they did the best they could. Mark had found a bucket and a nice big enamel bowl in a junk shop, and usually he would walk half a mile west along the canal bank to the taps installed by the tourist board for the boaters, campers and walkers and get fresh water there, which he would carry back and heat on the stove. It was a hassle, but it was better than being dirty.

But now he had a bath to himself, and soap and shampoo and towels, too. First he turned on the television. It didn’t matter what was on; he just wanted the sound for company. Then he started running a hot bath and made himself a cup of tea. When everything was ready he took his tea into the bathroom, climbed in the tub and lit a cigarette. It was wonderful. He could hear Emmerdale on the television through the half-open door as he lay back and luxuriated in the steamy warmth. This must be what it was like to be normal, he thought. He only wished Tina could be here with him. He knew it wouldn’t all seem so special to her because she’d grown up with all these luxuries, but she would have loved it nonetheless.

He wished he could stay there forever, with the hot water enveloping him, the steam rising and the comforting voices on the television, but he knew he couldn’t. Tomorrow he would have to find a way to get to Scarborough and get a job. Clive’s money wouldn’t last forever, especially if he had to pay so much for a room every night. But maybe he’d find somewhere cheaper in Scarborough. A little flat, even. And then he’d start putting his life back together.

Banks certainly felt as if he needed a drink when half past six came around, but left to his own devices he would have chosen other company than Maria Phillips. Still, he thought, pushing open the pub’s door, duty calls, and she was harmless enough if you kept your distance.

The Queen’s Arms was busy with the after-work crowd, most of whom seemed to prefer standing elbow to elbow at the bar. Banks was the first to arrive, so he managed to get Cyril’s attention, bought himself a pint of bitter and settled by the window to read the paper.

Maria came dashing in ten minutes late, breathless and full of apologies. Someone hadn’t turned up for an evening shift and she’d had to deal with it. Banks offered to get her a drink.

“You dear man,” she said, unbuttoning her coat and unwinding her scarf. “I’ll have the usual.”

When he came back with her Campari and soda, she was composed, smoking a Silk Cut. A momentary pang of desire – for a cigarette, not for Maria – leaped through Banks’s veins like an electric current, then passed as quickly as it came, leaving him feeling vaguely uneasy and fidgety.

“Cheers,” Maria said, clinking glasses.

“ Slainte, ” said Banks. “So what is it you want to see me about?”

Her eyes sparkled with mischievous humor. “It’s all business with you, isn’t it?”

“It’s been a long day.”

“And I don’t suppose there’s a dear devoted woman waiting for you at home, ready to massage your neck and shoulders and run a nice warm bath for you, is there?”

“Afraid not,” Banks said, thinking there was only Gwyneth Paltrow in Great Expectations and a tumbler of Laphroaig. But Gwyneth wouldn’t be massaging him or running him a hot bath. “There’s not even a faithful dog to fetch my slippers. Policing doesn’t lend itself to pet-owning, especially when you live alone.”

“Wives, either,” Maria said.

“Well, I’d never claim to have owned a woman.”

She slapped him playfully on the forearm. “Silly. You know what I mean. Your job. It must make relationships difficult.”

Damn near impossible, thought Banks, realizing he hadn’t even talked to Michelle in a day or two. He wondered how her missing child case was going. Better than his triple murder, he hoped. His train would pass through Peterborough on his way to London. Maybe she could come to the station and he could lean out of the window and kiss her like a scene in an old black-and-white film. All that would be missing would be the atmospheric steam from the engine. “Well,” he said, “you should probably talk to Sandra about that.”

“I would, except she seems to have deserted all her old friends.”

“She’s burned a few bridges, all right,” said Banks. “So, Maria, what is it?”

“Nothing, really. It’s just that after our little tête-à-tête the other day, well, you know how you start thinking back, trying to remember things?”