Peter Robinson - Playing With Fire

“And?”

“It doesn’t match.”

“Shit,” said Annie.

“We do have the Nike trainer impression, though. That’s pretty distinctive. If he hasn’t ditched them, we can match them when we find a suspect.”

“Was that the good news or the bad news?”

Stefan smiled. “It might be nothing, but one of our lads found traces of candle wax puddled near the point of origin in Roland Gardiner’s caravan.”

“You mean he’d been having a romantic evening?”

“No,” said Stefan, “that’s not what comes to mind. Not my mind, anyway. Call me a cynic, but I see it in a different light altogether.”

“Joke,” said Annie. “Never mind. Wasn’t there also a candle beside the girl who died on the boat?”

“Yes,” said Stefan, “but that’s different. The fire didn’t originate on the boat, and it was pretty clear she’d used the candle to prepare the heroin she’d injected. Also, the boyfriend said in his statement that he made sure the candle was out before he left.”

“Mark Siddons? I can’t understand why everybody is so quick to believe anything he says. He could easily have been lying.”

“No, this is something else.”

“I think I know what you’re getting at,” said Annie.

“Yes. It looks as if it was used as some sort of primitive time-delay ignition device. It’s not unusual in arson cases.”

“So the killer makes sure Gardiner’s fast asleep, pours out the petrol, then lights the candle and leaves?”

“And an hour, or two hours later, the candle burns down, meets the petrol, and puff! Up it goes.”

“Can you estimate how long?”

“If we can discover exactly what make and length of candle it was, and if we assume it hadn’t been used previously, was still whole, then yes. But don’t hold your breath. We don’t have a lot to go on.”

“An estimate?”

“Well, an ordinary household candle is seven-eighths of an inch in diameter, and it burns one inch every fifty-seven minutes in a draft-free environment.”

“The caravan could hardly have been a draft-free environment, could it?”

“Agreed,” said Stefan. “But there was hardly any wind that night. Anyway, let’s say you’ve got a six-inch candle, that gives you nearly six hours of burn time before ignition, all factors being equal.”

“How could the killer rely on Gardiner’s remaining unconscious for that long?”

“He couldn’t. Look, Annie, it could have been just a candle stub. Half an inch, an inch. Half an hour, or an hour at the most.”

“Or it could have been two hours, or three?”

“Afraid so. It could even have been one of those fancy thick candles, which would burn much more slowly. We’re doing what tests we can on the wax, but as I said, don’t get your hopes up.”

“What about Thomas McMahon’s barge? Anything there?”

“No signs of candle wax. It looks as if that fire was set directly.”

“But not the Gardiner fire?”

“No.”

“Isn’t using a candle like that unreliable?”

“Extremely. Very crude and unpredictable. Not to mention dangerous. Any number of things can, and do, go wrong. You could accidentally ignite the accelerant when you’re lighting the candle, for example. Or you light it and leave and a draft blows it out. Or it topples over and sets the accelerant off sooner than you’d hoped. It’s amateur, but it can also be very effective, if it works. I’m sorry it’s not very much to go on,” Stefan apologized, “but it does tell us one thing, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Annie, already turning over the implications in her mind. “It tells us that whoever set the second fire needed time, most likely time to arrange for an alibi. And which of our suspects seems to have a watertight alibi?”

Stefan thought for a moment, then answered. “Leslie Whitaker?”

“Exactly.”

“But what about the petrol?”

“He must have been bright enough to siphon some from someone else’s car. Maybe he knew there was a chance we’d be able to trace it. Don’t you see, Stefan? It makes sense. Whitaker said he went out for an eight-o’clock dinner in Harrogate with nine other booksellers. They all vouched for him. We already know that he supplied Thomas McMahon with the special paper he needed to produce his forgeries. They were in it together. He practically admitted as much. One reason we almost ruled Whitaker out was that he’s got an alibi for the Jennings Field fire, but not the one on the barges.”

“But this timing device puts paid to his alibi?”

“Yes,” said Annie. “If he was in Harrogate for that dinner at eight o’clock, then he must have left Eastvale, or Lyndgarth, where he lives, at about seven. But surely it would have been possible for him to use a two-or three-inch candle and gain a couple of hours or more burn time before the accelerant ignited?”

“Easily, assuming it all went according to plan.”

“This time it did,” said Annie. “We’ll have him in, Stefan. And then we’ll have him.”

After the interview with Frances Aspern, Banks picked up a coffee in the canteen and remembered that he had intended to ring Dirty Dick Burgess. He found an empty office and took out his mobile.

“At last,” said Dirty Dick. “I’ve been leaving messages for you in Eastvale all bloody morning.”

“Bit of a crisis up here,” said Banks, giving a brief explanation of his night and morning. “Anyway, what have you got?”

“Not much, I’m afraid. Business aboveboard. Solo operation. No partner. No employees. Philip Keane is a well-respected and popular member of the art community. Judgment valued, pals with all the movers and shakers, dealers, collectors, gallery owners, that sort of thing. Not exactly Anthony Blunt, but you get the picture.”

“Blunt?” said Banks. “Why mention him? Wasn’t he a spy, along with Philby, Burgess and MacLean? The fourth man?”

“Yes,” said Burgess, “but he was also surveyor of the Queen’s Pictures and director of the Courtauld Institute.”

“Of course,” said Banks. “Yes, I remember. Interesting. A master of the art of deception. Anything else?”

“Nothing. Philip Keane has lived a completely blameless life. At least for the past four years.”

“Four years? And before that?”

“There’s the glitch. Before that, there’s nothing. Nada. Zilch. Bupkis.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that he appeared fully formed on the scene four years ago, like Athena from the head of Zeus. And if you’re thinking of teasing me about classical analogies, Banksy, don’t. I got a first in classics at Oxford.”

“Bollocks,” said Banks. “Go on, though. You’ve got me interested.”

“Like I said, there’s nothing else to tell. The trail stops there. It’s as if Keane didn’t exist until four years ago.”

“He must have been born, for a start.”

“Oh, well, if you’d like me to send a team down to Saint Catherine’s House… Or perhaps I should go myself? Shouldn’t take long. Let me see, unusual name that, Philip Keane. I suppose you’ve got the details of his date and place of birth?”

“All right,” said Banks. “I get the point. Give it a rest. Maybe Keane studied and worked in museums and galleries abroad. Maybe that’s where he was before.”

“Maybe he did, and we can certainly check that, too, given time and resources. How official do you want this to be?”

Banks thought for a moment. He didn’t want it to be official at all just yet. Not unless he got something more concrete to go on. On a whim, he asked, “Can you check if anyone called Philip Keane was connected in any way with a fire four years ago, and if he was ever associated with someone called William Masefield?”