Peter Robinson - Playing With Fire

“What did Mrs. Aspern do?”

“The next thing I knew, she was holding the shotgun – he’d left it in the doorway – and she told him to leave me alone, that I hadn’t done anything.”

“What did he say to that?”

“He turned to her and he laughed. He just laughed.”

“Is that when she fired?”

“No. He started telling her to put the gun down, the way you’d talk to a child, said that she hadn’t the courage to pull the trigger, just like she hadn’t had the courage to stand up for her daughter, that she was weak and cowardly. Then he started moving toward her with his hands out, like he expected her to hand him the gun. Then it just exploded.”

“She fired?”

“It was deafening. My ears are still ringing, but I was tied up, so there was no way I could have covered them up.” He shook his head and rubbed his face with his hands. “It was… I was covered in stuff, blood and stuff… I don’t know… It was just like he’d burst open, you know, a bagful of blood, like those water balloons you burst, and it went all over the place, all over me. The smell was awful. I closed my eyes, but I couldn’t close my nose any more than I could my ears. Gunpowder. And his insides. Shit and stuff. I had bits of him all over me. Slimy bits.” Mark shuddered and finished his water. He refilled his glass with a shaking hand.

“What happened next, Mark?”

Mark took a deep drag on his cigarette. “She cut me free with some scissors or something and just told me to leave.”

“She didn’t say anything else?”

“No. Just to leave. Then she took that stuff they put on you before they stick the needle in. You know what I mean. He had it on his desk, though I don’t think he was going to use it on me.” Mark gave a harsh laugh. “I mean, what would it matter if I got an infection when he was going to kill me anyway? I was backing out of the room, and she was pouring the stuff on the floor. You could smell that, too, some sort of surgical spirit, along with everything else. I was feeling pretty sick by then. Anyway, I saw a small fire extinguisher in the hall and I took it. She’d already started the fire by the time I got back, but it wasn’t a very big one. Just a small patch where she’d poured the spirits. It was easy to put out.”

“What was Mrs. Aspern doing while you put the fire out?”

“Nothing. She didn’t even try to stop me, if that’s what you mean. To be honest, she looked as if she’d had it, like she’d given up and didn’t care anymore. When I was sure it was out, I took her into the other room and she went with me, quiet as a lamb, like she was in a trance or something. I rang nine-nine-nine.”

Banks and Bridges said nothing for a while as Mark smoked and the tape recorder ran on. Finally, Banks asked, “Is there anything else?”

“No,” said Mark.

Bridges turned off the tapes.

“What are you going to do now?” Banks asked Mark.

“Are you charging me?”

Banks looked at Bridges, who shook his head. “I don’t think the CPS would find much of a case there,” he said. “You’re free to go. But you’re an important witness, and the CPS will want to talk to you, as well as Mrs. Aspern’s lawyers. Whatever you do, you need to stay close, stay available, make sure we know where you are.”

Mark nodded. “I know. I’ve still got some money left. I suppose I can buy myself some new clothes and find a place to stay for a while.”

“Why don’t you come back to Eastvale? Give my contact on the restoration project a call? He’s always looking for keen apprentices.”

“Dunno. I might do. To be honest, right now, I just want a bit of space, some peace and quiet. I want to try and get all these horrible pictures out of my head.”

Good luck, thought Banks, who hadn’t succeeded in getting the nightmare images out of his own head after years of trying.

Leslie Whitaker seemed to have done a runner. His shop was closed, and he wasn’t at his Lyndgarth home. Cursing herself for not keeping a closer eye on him, Annie set the wheels in motion to track him down.

They had at least been lucky with Friends Reunited, Annie thought, pulling up outside the small detached house with Winsome late that afternoon. Elaine Hough lived on the outskirts of Harrogate, where she worked as an executive chef in one of the spa’s best restaurants. Elaine wasn’t the only one to reply to Winsome’s request, saying she remembered both Thomas McMahon and Roland Gardiner – two others out of the 115 alumni registered at the Friends Reunited Web site had also responded quickly and said they remembered the two – but she was by far the most easily accessible of the three – one being in Eastbourne and the other in Aberdeen – and she also said that Gardiner and McMahon had been good friends of hers.

Elaine Hough seemed a no-nonsense sort of woman with a brisk manner and short black hair streaked with gray. If she ate what she cooked, she didn’t show it on her tall, lean frame.

“Come in,” she said. Annie and Winsome followed her through to the sparsely decorated living room, all exposed beams and stone and heavy oak furniture.

“Nice,” Annie said. But if truth be told, it wasn’t her favorite style of interior decoration.

“I’m glad you like it. It’s more a reflection of my husband’s taste, really. I spend most of the time in my little den when I’m at home.”

“Not in the kitchen?”

Elaine laughed. “Well, it’s true, I still do love cooking, and I don’t get much of a chance to do any at the restaurant anymore. It’s the old, old story, isn’t it? You work your way up in an area you love, and then you find you’re so successful you spend all your time running the business side, and you don’t have time to do what you love best anymore.” She laughed. “But I can’t complain. And I don’t. I know how lucky I am. Would you like tea or coffee or something?”

“Coffee would be nice,” said Annie. Winsome nodded in agreement.

“Come through to the kitchen, then. We can talk there.”

They followed her into a modern kitchen with stainless steel oven and fridge, copper pots and pans hanging from a rail over the central granite-topped island, and a wood-block of expensive-looking chef’s knives. Annie had sometimes thought that she would like such a well-stocked and attractive kitchen herself, but her cooking skills extended about as far as vegetarian pasta and ordering an Indian take-away, so most of the fancy equipment would be wasted on her.

Elaine put the kettle on, and while it boiled, she ground coffee beans and dropped them in a cafetière. The aroma was delicious. All her movements were economical and deft, Annie noticed, betraying her occupation and her training. Even something as simple as making coffee got her full attention. She probably even knew how to chop up a string of onions quickly, and without crying, too.

They sat on stools around the island while the coffee brewed and Annie went through her mental list of questions.

“You said you knew both Thomas McMahon and Roland Gardiner at Leeds Poly?” she started.

“Yes.”

“Did you know them together, or separately?”

“Both, actually. Look, I was in the School of Cookery – surprise, surprise – but four evenings a week I worked behind the bar in the student pub. My parents weren’t well off and my grant wasn’t exactly huge. At least we still got grants back then, not loans, like today. Anyway, that’s where I first met Tommy and Rolo. That’s what we called them back then. I was so sorry to read about what happened, but I couldn’t see how it could be at all relevant to me until your e-mail. Otherwise, I’d have come forward sooner.”

“That’s all right,” said Annie. “How were you to know what we were looking for? Anyway, we’re here now.”