Peter Robinson - Playing With Fire

“Nothing. Hardly ever saw him after that. Must have been in his cabin painting away. Lost in his own world, that one. Or on drugs. But you’d expect that from an artist, wouldn’t you? I don’t know what kind of rubbish he painted. In my opinion, just about all modern-”

Banks noticed Annie roll her eyes and sniffle before turning the page in her notebook. “We know his first name was Tom,” Banks said, “but do you know his surname?”

Hurst was clearly not pleased at being interrupted in his critical assessment of modern art. “No,” he said.

“Do you happen to know who owns the boats?”

“No idea,” said Hurst. “But someone should have fixed them up. They weren’t completely beyond repair, you know. It’s a crying shame, leaving them like that.”

“So why didn’t the owner do something?”

“Short of money, I should imagine.”

“Then he could have sold them,” said Banks. “There must be money in canal boats these days. They’re very popular with the holiday crowd.”

“Even so,” said Hurst, “whoever bought them would have had to go to a great deal of extra expense to make them appeal to tourists. They were horse-drawn boats, you see, and there’s not much call for them these days. He’d have had to install engines, central heating, electricity, running water. Costly business. Tourists might enjoy boating along the canals, but they like to do it in comfort.”

“Let’s get back to Tom, the artist,” said Banks. “Did you ever see any of his work?”

“Like I said, it’s all rubbish, isn’t it, this modern art? Damien Hirst and all that crap. I mean, take that Turner Prize-”

“Even so,” Annie interjected, “some people are willing to pay a fortune for rubbish. Did you actually see any of his paintings? It might help us find out who he was, if we can get some sense of the sort of thing he produced.”

“Well, there’s no accounting for taste, is there? But no, I didn’t actually see any of them. The easel was empty when I paid my visit. Maybe he was some sort of eccentric. The tortured genius. Maybe he kept a fortune under his mattress and someone killed him for it?”

“What makes you think he was killed?” Banks asked.

“I don’t. I was just tossing out ideas, that’s all.”

“The area looks pretty inaccessible to me,” Banks said. “What would be the best approach?”

“From the towpath,” Hurst said. “But the nearest bridge is east of here, so anyone who came that way would have had to pass the cottage.”

“Did you see anyone that night? Anyone on the towpath heading toward the branch?”

“No, but I was watching television. I could easily have missed it if someone walked by.”

“What would be the next-best approach?”

Hurst frowned for a moment as he thought. “Well,” he said finally, “short of swimming across the canal, which no one in his right mind would want to do, especially at this time of year, I’d say from the lane through the woods directly to the west. There’s a lay-by, if my memory serves me well. And it’s only about a hundred yards from there to the boats, whereas it’s nearly half a mile up to where the lane meets the B-road at the top.”

The fire engines had parked where the lane turned sharply right to follow the canal, Banks remembered, and he and Annie had parked behind them. He hoped they hadn’t obliterated any evidence that might still be there. He would ask DS Stefan Nowak and the SOCOs to examine that particular area thoroughly. “Ever see any strangers hanging around?” he asked.

“In summer, plenty, but it’s generally quiet this time of year.”

“What about around the branch? Any strangers there?”

“I live a mile away. I don’t spy on them. I sometimes saw them when I cycled by on the towpath, that’s all.”

“But you saw the fire?”

“Could hardly miss it, could I?”

“How not?”

Hurst stood up. “Follow me.” He looked at Annie and smiled. “I apologize for the mess in advance. It’s one of the advantages of the bachelor life, not having to keep everything neat and tidy.”

Annie blew her nose. Banks was hardly surprised to hear that Hurst was a bachelor. “Except your record collection,” he said.

Hurst turned and looked at Banks as if he were mad. “But that’s different, isn’t it?”

Banks and Annie exchanged glances and followed him up the narrow creaky stairs into a room on the left. He was right about the mess. Piles of clothes waiting to be washed, a tottering stack of books by the side of the unmade bed, many of them about the history of canals, but with a few cheap paperback blockbusters mixed in, Banks noticed, Tom Clancy, Frederick Forsyth, Ken Follett. The smell of unwashed socks and stale sweat permeated the air. Annie was lucky she was stuffed up with a cold, Banks thought.

But Hurst was right. From his bedroom window, you could see clearly along the canal side, west, in the direction of the dead-end branch. It was impossible to see very far now, because of the fog, but last night had been clear until early morning. Hurst wouldn’t have been able to see the branch itself because of the trees, but Banks had no doubt at all that it would have been impossible for him to miss the flames as he went to draw the curtains at bedtime.

“What were you wearing?” Banks asked.

“Wearing?”

“Yes. Your clothes. When you cycled out to the fire.”

“Oh, I see. Jeans, shirt and a thick woolly jumper. And an anorak.”

“Are those the jeans you’re wearing now?”

“No. I changed.”

“Where are they?”

“My clothes?”

“Yes, Mr. Hurst. We’ll need them for testing.”

“But surely you can’t think…?”

“The clothes?”

“I had to wash them,” said Hurst. “They smelled so bad, with the smoke and all.”

Banks looked again at the pile of laundry waiting to be washed, then he looked back at Hurst. “You’re telling me you’ve already washed the clothes you were wearing last night?”

“Well, yes… When I got home. I know it might seem a bit strange, but how was I to know you’d want them for testing?”

“What about your anorak?”

“That, too.”

“You washed your anorak?”

Hurst swallowed. “The label said it was machine washable.”

Banks sighed. Traces of accelerant might well survive the firefighters’ hoses, but they used only cold water. He doubted that anything would survive washing powder and hot water. “We’ll take them anyway,” he said. “What about your shoes? I suppose you put them in the washing machine as well?”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“Let’s be thankful for small mercies, then,” Banks said as they set off downstairs. “What time do you usually go to bed?”

“Whenever I want. Another advantage of the bachelor life. Last night, I happened to be watching a rather good film.”

“What was it?”

“Ah, the old police trick to see if I’m lying, is it? Well, I don’t have an alibi, it’s true. I was by myself all evening. All day, in fact. But I did watch A Bridge Too Far on Sky Cinema. War films are another passion of mine.”

Hurst led them into the tiny kitchen, which smelled vaguely of sour milk. The anorak lay over the back of a chair, still a little damp, and the rest of his clothes were in the dryer. Hurst dug out a carrier bag and Banks bundled the lot inside, along with the shoes from a mat in the hallway.

“What time did the film finish?” he asked, as they returned to the living room.

“One o’clock. Or five past one, or something. They never seem to end quite on the hour, do they?”

“So when you looked out of your bedroom window around one o’clock-”