Peter Robinson - Playing With Fire

“Don’t worry, Mark. We’ll ask whoever we want. Anyway, what reason do you have to think Dr. Aspern had anything to do with the Jennings Field fire?”

“I don’t know. But if you think it was the same person set both of them, then I’m saying you should have a good look at him, too.”

“We will. Don’t worry. Have you got any other suggestions?”

Mark shook his head and looked back out of the window. Banks wrote down a name, address and phone number on a sheet of paper and passed it to him.

“What’s this?” Mark asked.

Banks nodded toward the window. “Name of the person in charge of the restoration crew out there,” he said. “He’s a friend of mine. Drop by the office or give him a call. Tell him I sent you.”

Mark glanced back and forth from the men on the scaffolding to Banks. Finally, he folded the sheet of paper, and lacking a pocket in the red overalls he’d been issued, held on to it. “Thanks,” he said.

“No problem. And your pal Lenny says it’s all right to go back to his place, if you want.”

“You talked to Lenny?”

“Yes, I talked to him. His wife is really sorry. She doesn’t like surprises, that’s all. They’d be glad to have you.”

Banks could see doubt cloud Mark’s features. He didn’t blame the kid. He’d be suspicious himself. Things hadn’t worked out especially well for Mark so far this past week or so.

“Up to you,” he said. “One more thing.”

“What?”

Banks slid the photograph of Roland Gardiner that Annie had got from Alice Mowbray across the desk. “Recognize him?”

Mark studied the photo. “Dunno,” he said finally. “It could be one of the blokes I saw visit Tom. He’s got the right sort of nose. But…”

“Okay,” said Banks. He described Leslie Whitaker. “That sound anything like the other bloke?”

Mark shrugged. “Could be,” he said. “But again…”

“I know,” said Banks. “It’s vague.” He thought he should perhaps organize an identity parade, see if Mark could pick out Whitaker from a group of people who looked a bit like him.

“Can I go now?” Mark asked.

“As far as I’m concerned. Where will you be if I need you?”

“Need me? For what?”

“More questions. There’s still a chance you can help us find Tina’s killer.”

“I’ll be at Lenny’s,” Mark said.

“I take it you’re not pressing charges?”

“What?”

“Police brutality.”

Mark fingered his bruises and grinned. “The pavement was hard,” he said. “I fell.” He got up and walked to the door.

“There’s a constable outside,” said Banks. “He’ll take you back down to the custody suite and get you sorted.”

“Thanks.”

“And, Mark?”

“Yes?”

“When you were arrested you had over two hundred pounds in your pocket, but when you first left here you only had about ten. Where did you get the rest?”

“Found it,” said Mark, and nipped out of the door quickly.

There was more to it than that, Banks was convinced, but it didn’t concern him now. No doubt there had been a problem with someone who had given him a lift, and Mark had probably nicked his wallet in the scuffle. That the theft hadn’t been reported made Banks lean in favor of Mark’s garbled explanation that he’d been assaulted by the man, who needed police attention like he needed a hole in the head. Call the two hundred “damages,” then, and have done with it.

He watched the restorers at work for a few moments, thinking about the kind of life Mark had been living at home, in the squat and on the boat, and what the future might hold for him. It had to be better than the past. His phone rang.

“Alan, it’s Ken Blackstone.”

“Good to hear from you. Any news on the doctor?”

“Nothing you’d be interested in hearing, I’m afraid. Clean bill of health, even down to the scrupulously up-to-date shotgun certificate.”

“He’s got a shotgun?”

“Likes to shoot small winged creatures with like-minded people.”

“It takes all sorts. No rumors, gossip?”

“No. Seems he’s a capable doctor. Not much of a bedside manner. Some described him as a bit of a cold fish. There was just one little thing.”

“What’s that?” Banks asked.

“One of the neighbors saw a black woman coming out of his house carrying a plastic bag on Monday morning. She thought it might be drugs.”

Banks laughed. “That would have been our very own DC Winsome Jackman with Dr. Aspern’s clothing for testing. Which came out negative, as expected, by the way.”

“Well, at least he’s been getting wind there’s something going on,” Blackstone said. “Already put a complaint in to Weetwood about harassment, and he gave one of his neighbors a right chewing out after he saw her talking to one of our men.”

“Good,” said Banks. “Let’s hope it keeps him off balance.”

“Have you thought, Alan, that maybe he hasn’t actually done anything?”

“There’s something there. Trust me.”

“Instinct?”

“Call it what you will: body language, unspoken communication, but there’s something there. The girl was screwed up, and why should she lie to Mark?”

“Junkies lie habitually. You know that as well as I do. And maybe the boyfriend has his own reasons for believing her.”

“I’ve thought of that. We did a background check on him, and it’s true he had it rough at home. I still think there’s something going on, though. And if I get any proof, I’ll have the bastard.”

“The fires?”

“Possible. But I don’t think so. He did something to Tina, though. I’m certain of it.”

“Well, best of luck, mate. Want me to keep trying?”

“No, it’s okay. Thanks, Ken.”

“Cheers. And don’t forget, if you’re down in my neck of the woods, that sofa’s always there for you.”

“I won’t forget.”

Banks stood at his window after the phone call thinking and looking out at the people in raincoats down in the market square. He was certain that Dr. Patrick Aspern had sexually abused his stepdaughter, and that his wife knew about it. But he had no proof. Nor did he seem to have much hope of getting any now that Tina was dead. Her death was convenient for Aspern, but Banks was almost certain he hadn’t started the fire on the boats. That had something to do with Thomas McMahon, he was convinced of it. Tina was incidental, maybe an unwanted witness. Which made the killer an especially nasty piece of work.

Thoughts of McMahon brought Banks back to Phil Keane and his little lie. He would have to contrive to have a chat with Phil without Annie around. He knew exactly how she would behave if she thought he was trying to dig up some dirt on her precious Phil. And maybe she would be right; maybe Maria Phillips’s version was exaggerated or even untrue. But until he knew for certain one way or another, he would distance himself from Phil and Annie, do a bit of discreet digging and wait to hear from Dirty Dick.

It felt good to be wearing his own clothes again, Mark thought, as he headed out of Western Area Headquarters for the second time in a week. The old leather jacket felt like a second skin. And it was good to be free again. His face and body still ached from the beating the Scarborough cops had given him, for “resisting arrest,” but, just as he had suspected, Clive hadn’t reported the hitchhiking incident, and the police had no reason to keep him in custody.

And he still had over two hundred quid in his pocket.

Mark crossed the market square, anonymous among the crowd of shoppers and the occasional out-of-season tourist. He hadn’t a clue where to go, but he knew he wasn’t going back to Lenny’s, no matter what he’d told Banks. That had been a mistake in the first place. Lenny was a decent bloke, but he had enough on his plate without bringing Mark home. Sure, maybe they did both feel all guilty right now after upsetting him, but that would soon wear off. He knew he wouldn’t be able to bear Sal’s silent resentment of his presence. And when he thought about it, he realized that, if it wasn’t Clive, then it must have been Lenny who’d set the cops on him. He wouldn’t have expected that from him, but there it was. Did Lenny believe he’d started the fires, too? No matter, he wouldn’t be seeing Lenny or his bitch of a wife again.