Peter Robinson - Playing With Fire

“It’s not something I’ve ever experienced,” Keane said, studying the whiskey in his glass. “All my life I’ve had to live by my wits, sink or swim. I haven’t had time for love. Sure you won’t have a drop of this?” He proffered the bottle.

Banks shook his head. He realized his glass was empty and poured a little more Laphroaig. He was already feeling its effects, he noticed when he moved, and decided to make this one his last, and to drink it slowly. “Anyway,” he went on, “it’s not a matter of whether Helen minds if you have other women or not; it’s how Annie feels.”

“Still her champion, are you? Her knight in shining armor?”

“Her friend.” Banks felt as if he was slurring his words a bit now, but he hadn’t drunk much more since he’d poured the third glass. There was also an irritating buzzing in his ears, and he was starting to feel really tired. He shook it off. Fatigue.

Keane’s mobile played a tune.

“Aren’t you going to answer it?” Banks asked.

“Probably work. Whoever it is, they can leave a message. Look, Alan, if it makes you feel any better, I’ll explain the situation to Annie,” said Keane. “She’s broad-minded. I’m sure she’ll understand.”

“I wouldn’t be too certain of that.”

“Oh, why? Know something I don’t?”

“I know Annie, and deep down she’s a lot more traditional than you think. If she’s got strong feelings for you, she’s not going to play second fiddle to your wife, no matter how convenient the marriage, or how Platonic the relationship.”

“Well, we’ll just have to see, won’t we?”

“When?”

“The next time I see her. I promise. How’s the case going?”

Banks wasn’t willing to talk about the case to Keane, even though he had assisted as a consultant on the art forgery side. He just shrugged. It felt as if he were hoisting the weight of the world on his shoulders. He took another sip of whiskey – the glass was heavy, too – and when he put it down on the arm of the sofa he felt himself sliding sideways, so he was lying on his side, and he couldn’t raise himself to a sitting position again. He heard his own telephone ringing in the distance but couldn’t for the life of him drag himself off the sofa to answer it.

“What about this identity parade you mentioned?” Keane said, his voice now sounding far away. “I’ve been looking forward to it.”

Banks couldn’t speak.

“It was very clever of you,” Keane said. “You thought your witness would identify me, not Whitaker, didn’t you?”

Banks still couldn’t make his tongue move.

“What’s the problem?” Keane asked. “A bit too much to drink?”

“Go now,” Banks managed to say, though it probably sounded more like a grunt.

“I don’t think so,” said Keane. “You’re just starting to feel the effects. See if you can stand up now. Just try it.”

Banks tried. He couldn’t move more than an inch or two. Too heavy.

“Eventually, you’ll go to sleep,” Keane said, his voice an echoing monotone now, like a hypnotist’s. “And when you wake in the morning, you won’t remember a thing. At least you wouldn’t remember a thing if you were to wake up in the morning. But you won’t be doing that. I’m really surprised you don’t have more security in this place, you being a policeman and all. It was child’s play to get in through the kitchen window just after dark and add a little flunitrazepam to your cask-strength malt. Plenty of strong taste to cover up any residual bitterness in the drug, too. Perfect. They call it the ‘date rape’ drug, you know, but don’t worry, I’m not going to rape you.”

“What’s wrong, Guv?” Winsome asked, leaning over her.

“This number.” Annie pointed. “I know it. It’s Phil’s BMW.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes. I don’t know why. I just remember these things. There’s no mistake. He got a parking ticket two streets away from Kirk’s Garage on the seventeenth of September.”

Winsome checked with her file. “That’s one of the times Masefield rented the Jeep Cherokee,” she said. “Look, it doesn’t make sense. Maybe the bloke who wrote the ticket made a mistake?”

“Maybe,” said Annie, as the thing that had been bothering her rose to the surface of her mind. Banks had said during their argument that morning that he had met Phil a couple of times, but later Phil had said he only met Banks once . The three of them had met the previous weekend, several days ago, but Banks had also said he hadn’t seen Phil for a couple of days. Why was that? Had he been to see him since? And if so, what was it about? What were they keeping from her?

It might be nothing. An easy mistake to make. But now this. The BMW number. And it was true that Phil had only come onto the scene last summer, when both Roland Gardiner and Thomas McMahon had told people their fortunes were on the rise. Annie had only met him herself at the Turner reception, and he had phoned her a month or so later, determined not to take no for an answer.

Annie didn’t like the direction in which her thoughts were turning, but even as she fought against the growing realization, she found herself remembering the night she was called away from her dinner at The Angel with Phil to the Jennings Field fire. Of course the accelerant didn’t match the petrol from the Jeep Cherokee’s fuel tank. Phil had been in his own car that evening, the BMW. He could hardly turn up for dinner in the rented Cherokee the police were all looking for, and he wouldn’t have had time both to return it and to get cleaned up. Worth the risk for the alibi. Annie herself. A perfect alibi. And a source of information on the shape the investigation was taking. The horse’s mouth. Horse’s arse, more likely.

“There could be a simple explanation,” Winsome suggested. “It was well before the murders, too. Maybe it’s just coincidence?”

“I know that,” said Annie, remembering that it was also around the time he had phoned and asked her out for the first time. “But we have to find out.”

Her hand was shaking, but she dialed Phil’s mobile number.

No answer. Just the voice mail.

She phoned Banks at home.

No answer. After a few rings she was patched through to the answering service. She didn’t leave a message. She tried his mobile, too, but it was turned off.

That was odd. Banks had said he was going straight home. Of course, he could have gone somewhere else, or maybe he just wasn’t answering the telephone. There were any number of explanations. But when Banks was on a case, especially one that seemed so near to its conclusion, he was always on call one way or another. She had never, in all the time they had worked together, been unable to get ahold of him at any hour of the day or night.

Annie felt confused and uneasy. She couldn’t just sit there. This had to be settled one way or the other, and it had to be settled now .

“Winsome,” she said. “Fancy a drive out in the country?”

It was a struggle just to cling to consciousness, Banks found. But the longer he stayed awake, the better his chances of staying alive. He could hardly move; his body felt like lead. He knew that he had to conserve whatever strength he had, if he had any, because when Keane set the fire, as he was certain to do, he was going to leave, and Banks might have just one slight opportunity to get out alive. If he was still conscious. If he could move. Neither McMahon nor Gardiner had got out alive, and the thought sapped his confidence, but he had to cling to what little hope he could dredge up.

“I’m doing this,” Keane said, “because you’re really the only one who suspects me. Annie doesn’t. And she won’t. I know you haven’t shared your suspicions with her or anybody else. I’d have been able to tell from the tone of her voice. I’m not an official suspect. And I’m pretty certain I’ve covered my tracks well enough that with you out of the way, I’m in the clear.”