Peter Robinson - Playing With Fire

Annie and Winsome exchanged glances and Annie said, “A few things. We asked around about him – neighbors, coworkers at the university – but nobody seemed to know very much.”

“And the fire?”

“Chip pan. There was no accelerant and no reason to treat it as suspicious at the time. The only thing even remotely interesting was that one of the other lecturers at the university where Masefield worked said he’d recently lost some money in a bad investment. I also got the impression that he was in a bit of trouble at the university over his drinking, that he might have stood to lose his job. But you know what academics are like when it comes to giving out information.”

“A bit like us,” Banks said.

“Anyway, there was a lot of alcohol in his system. The general assumption in the fire investigator’s office was that he’d passed out and left the chip pan on. It happens often enough, especially with alcoholics and drug addicts. You come home pissed or high, put the frying pan on, pop another couple of pills or take another stiff drink, and the next thing you know…”

“No traces of Rohypnol or Tuinal?”

“No. Just alcohol.”

“So it could have been an accident?”

“Yes.”

“And someone, a colleague, friend, whatever, could have taken advantage of Masefield’s demise and stolen his identity?”

“Or helped him along a bit. I mean, nobody saw anyone, but that doesn’t mean whoever did it didn’t leave Masefield passed out on the sofa with the chip pan on full heat.”

“True,” Banks agreed. “Did anyone have any ideas at all about exactly who might have taken Masefield’s identity?”

“Unfortunately not,” said Annie. “Nobody knew who he hung around with, if anyone. Apparently, he wasn’t the gregarious type. If he did have any friends, he kept them a secret from his colleagues and neighbors.”

“What about this bad investment? Who did he make it with? Was he swindled?”

“Don’t know, sir,” said Winsome. “That was all his colleague could tell us.”

Banks sighed. He knew they could get a forensic accountant to look into Masefield’s finances and a computer expert to track down the Internet banking records, but that would all take time. There would no doubt be all kinds of false trails and blind alleys. As it stood right now, they still didn’t have very much to go on. The first big lead, the rented Jeep Cherokee, had led them to a dead end. Or so it seemed at the moment.

“How did ‘Masefield’ get to Kirk’s garage?” Banks asked.

“I assume he took a bus,” said Annie. “They run in a constant loop from Askham Bar to the city center.”

“So he traveled to York by train?”

“Or by bus.”

“What if he didn’t?” Winsome said.

“Didn’t what?” Banks asked.

“Take a train or a bus, sir. Maybe he’s local. What if he drove to the garage? I mean, if he only wanted to use a rental car so that his own car wasn’t spotted by the canal, or by Jennings Field, for whatever reason, then he probably has a car of his own, too.”

“Well,” said Annie, “there are plenty of residential streets around there where he could leave a car for a few days without attracting too much attention.”

“Except he might have got unlucky,” Winsome said.

“The Son of Sam,” Banks said.

Winsome smiled. “Yes, sir.”

“A parking ticket?” Annie said. “Isn’t that how the Son of Sam got caught?”

“Yes,” said Winsome. “It’s possible, isn’t it, Guv?”

“It would certainly be a lucky break for us,” Annie said.

“It’ll probably take a day or two,” Banks said, “but it’s worth checking. Can you get the numbers of all cars ticketed in the area on the dates in question and feed them into HOLMES, see if anything comes up?”

“Can do,” said Winsome. “We don’t exactly have a lot of number plates to cross-reference on this one, but I’ll see what I can do. There might be something on the CCTV cameras, too. They’re all over the place these days.”

“Good,” said Banks. “Definitely worth checking.” He finished his chicken and left the chips, then drank some beer and leaned back in his chair. “This still doesn’t let Whitaker off the hook,” he said. “Even though it seems now that it wasn’t his Jeep Cherokee at the scene of the boat fires.”

“We’ll check the petrol in his car against the accelerant used at the Gardiner scene. That might tell us something. And if we can dig out any connection, however remote, between Whitaker and Masefield…”

“Maybe,” said Banks. “Anything new on those Turners?” he asked Annie, as casually as he could manage.

Her tone hardened. Pure professional. “Phil couldn’t say at first glance for certain whether they were forged or genuine,” she said. “Not without a more comprehensive examination. But he did say they looked genuine, the style and the paper, that sort of thing.”

“Which means they could be very good forgeries?”

“Yes,” Annie agreed.

“I’ve heard that McMahon was a good copyist,” Banks said. “Apparently he didn’t have much original talent, but he did have a gift for reproducing the work of others.”

“Where did you find this out?” Annie asked.

“From someone who knew him,” Banks said.

“What next?”

“I’m going to Leeds.”

“What for?”

“I want to visit Tina’s grandparents. I rang them earlier, and they agreed to talk to me. They might be able to tell me something about Tina’s relationship with Patrick Aspern.”

“Surely you don’t think they knew what was going on, and that even if they did they’ll tell you?”

“Give me some credit. I’m not that stupid, Annie. I just want to sound out their feelings, that’s all.”

Annie shrugged.

“What?” said Banks.

“Nothing.”

“Come on. Out with it.”

“It’s just that I’m not sure the girl has anything to do with all this.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Aspern’s clothes came out clean, didn’t they?”

“Yes,” said Banks. “That’s the problem. So did everybody else’s.”

“To be honest, Guv,” Winsome said, “he could have given me any old clothes. I don’t know what he was wearing that night.”

Annie gave Banks a hard look. “We don’t have any evidence against Patrick Aspern at all,” she said. “I think you’re going off on some sort of personal crusade against the man.”

“So all of a sudden you’re SIO on this case, are you?” Banks shot back.

Annie’s mouth closed to a tight, white line. Winsome looked away, embarrassed. Banks wondered if Annie had told her all about the row they’d had over Phil Keane’s involvement in the case. Maybe after a couple of drinks in the hotel bar last night.

He immediately regretted his sarcastic remark, but it was too late to take it back. Instead, he bade Annie and Winsome a curt good-bye and left the pub.

One thing Banks hadn’t told Annie was that he was intending to stop off at Phil Keane’s cottage on his way to Leeds. Well, it wasn’t exactly on his way, but he thought it was worth the diversion.

Puddles from yesterday’s rain spread out from the gutters and sent up sheets of spray as Banks drove just a little too fast into Fortford. Still annoyed with himself for his outburst over lunch, he parked on the cobbles in front of the shops by the village green and headed toward the cottage. Maybe Annie was right and he was on some sort of personal crusade against Patrick Aspern. But so what? Someone had to bring the arrogant bastard down.

Across the street, on top of a grassy mound, stood the excavated ruins of a Roman fort. What a bitter, lonely and dangerous outpost it must have been back in Emperor Domitian’s time, Banks thought. Wild country all around and enemies everywhere.