Peter Robinson - Playing With Fire

Across the square, he turned left for a short way on York Road and went into the Swainsdale Centre. When he was at Eastvale Comprehensive and wanted to put off going home after school, he had often hung around the center with his mates, not doing anything, just loitering and smoking, sometimes looking in Dixon’s windows at the fancy computers and stereos he couldn’t afford. Well, there had been an occasional bit of shoplifting, he remembered, but that was as bad as the gang got. Sometimes, too, he had spent the day there instead of going to school at all.

The center wasn’t very busy; it never was on a Wednesday morning. Just a few young women pushing prams, and kids skiving off school, the way Mark had done. On the upper level, at the top of the escalator opposite HMV, was a food court, and Mark bought himself a Big Mac, fries and a Coke and sat at one of the Formica-topped tables to eat. There was something about a shopping center that numbed your brain, Mark thought. Something to do with the weird lighting and the barely audible music. Maybe it hypnotized you into buying things. Well, there was nothing Mark wanted, except maybe a new CD. He’d grown tired of Ziggy Stardust over the past few days, and it was the only one he had left. Maybe he’d get something by Beth Orton in memory of Tina. He’d probably need new batteries soon, so he might as well pick some up in Dixon’s.

As he sat there munching on his Big Mac, lulled by the bland ambience of the Swainsdale Centre, watching the people who seemed to float around him as insubstantial as ghosts or shadows to the faint, pale music of an orchestral version of “Eleanor Rigby,” Mark mulled over the past few days. The fire had occurred on Thursday night, and it was now the following Wednesday. Had it really only been such a short time since Tina had died and Mark had had his adventures on the road? He’d also been assaulted by a queer, been in and out of jail twice, beaten up by the police and spent the most luxurious evening of his life in a B and B in Helmsley. And there was still a chance that someone out there was after him, wanted him dead.

It was hard to think with his brain so numb, but there was something very wrong with the picture he was seeing. What did he think he was trying to achieve? Did he have any control over his life at all? He’d run away from Lenny’s more because of echoes of his past than anything else, but had it all happened because he’d been trying to force himself in the wrong direction in the first place?

He had been thinking about putting his life back together. Getting back to work on the building site. Living with Lenny and Sal. Making things normal again. But could they ever be normal again? When he thought about it, he really didn’t think so. And what on earth did he think he was up to, running off to Scarborough? It was the same thing, when you got right down to it. A new start. A job. A place to live. The normal life.

But with Tina gone, nothing could ever be normal again. He felt that as he sat there in the Swainsdale Centre staring into space.

And all the things he had been aiming for, trying to do – the job, Lenny’s, Scarborough – they weren’t meant to be. That was clear now. They weren’t meant to be because there was somewhere he had to go before he could get his own life sorted. Something he had to do. For Tina.

In the Queen’s Arms that lunchtime, Banks, Annie and Winsome managed to bag a corner table near the window. As usual, one or two heads turned at the sight of Winsome, but Banks could tell she was used to it. She had a model’s carriage and managed to handle all the attention with mild amusement and disdain.

“Lunch is on me,” Banks said.

Annie raised her eyebrows. “Last of the big spenders.” She looked at Winsome, who smiled, but Banks sensed less humor in the remark than Winsome had. Annie was still pissed off with him over Phil, even though she’d got her way in the end.

Banks wasn’t very hungry, but he ordered chicken in a basket anyway, while Annie went for a salad and Winsome for a beefburger and chips. That settled, drinks in front of them, they got down to business, and Annie first told Banks about the visit to “Captain” Kirk’s garage and the trail leading to the mysterious William Masefield in Studley.

“And there’s no doubt this Masefield is dead?” Banks asked, after he’d digested what she had told him.

Annie glanced at Winsome. “None at all,” she said. “We checked with the pathologist who conducted the postmortem. Getting hold of him was one of the reasons it took us so long down there. We had to stay over. He couldn’t see us until early this morning. Anyway, Masefield had no living relatives, so DNA was useless, but he was identified by dental records.”

“So someone stole his identity?”

“Looks that way,” Annie said. “And whoever did it simply had Masefield’s post redirected.”

“Where to?”

“A post office box in central Birmingham.”

“I see,” said Banks. “And the credit card company had no way of knowing about this?”

Annie shook her head. “All they cared about was that the bills were paid on time. It’s a common-enough form of identity fraud.”

“He used a bank account in Masefield’s name?”

“Yes. And he paid all his bills from Masefield’s bank account over the Internet, so no signed checks. There’ll be a trail, but these things are complicated.”

“We’ll get computers on it,” said Banks. “Why did no one in the post office spot what was going on?”

“Why should they?” said Annie. “Whoever arranged for the redirected post went to a busy central office, presented the right sort of identification and signed the forms. Whoever it was must have resembled Masefield enough and been able to forge his signature. Easy. And all aboveboard, as far as the post office was concerned. I mean, they’re careful, they have their precautions, but the whole thing’s pretty routine. Most clerks probably don’t even examine the documentation closely.”

“Are we certain it’s the same car?”

“Well,” said Annie, “the tire impressions are identical to those found on the lay-by near the boats. The SOCOs also managed to find a few soil and gravel samples, and they’ve gone to the lab for further analysis.”

“Good.”

“But there is one small problem.”

“Oh?”

“The petrol in the Cherokee’s tank matches the petrol from the garage – it’s Texaco, by the way – but not the petrol used to start the Gardiner fire. That’s Esso.”

“Interesting,” said Banks. “Maybe he used his own car, for some reason?”

“I suppose that’s possible,” Annie agreed.

“Anyway, whatever the explanation, forensics can tie the Jeep Cherokee that this ‘Masefield’rented to the scene of the boat fires, right?”

“Yes.”

“Thank heaven for small mercies. We’re still in business, then.”

Jenna, the young girl who worked in the kitchen, brought their food. Winsome was the only one who ate with a vengeance. Banks glanced at her. “I hope you didn’t run up your expenses too high in the hotel restaurant last night,” he said.

“No, sir,” said Winsome. “We ate at McDonald’s.”

Banks looked at Annie. “It’s true,” she said. “And you can imagine what delights they had for a vegetarian like me. I told you we were busy. All we had time for before bed was a couple of drinks in the hotel bar.”

“And those two good-looking businessmen bought us the second round, didn’t they, Guv?” Winsome added.

“Yes,” said Annie. “Connor and Marcus. So you needn’t worry about our expenses, skinflint.” She picked at her salad.

“It’s ACC McLaughlin gets his underpants in a knot over things like that,” Banks said. “Not me. Did you find out anything else about Masefield while you were down there?”