Peter Robinson: Playing With Fire

“So he didn’t have time to get back there and pick them up,” said Banks. “Which means maybe he doesn’t have a passport – not one he can use, at any rate.”

“Which means he may well be still in the country.”

Banks looked at the notebook. “What’s that?” he asked.

“Roland Gardiner’s journal. It looks as if he started keeping it when Keane first came to visit, and it stops on the evening of his death. It’s quite touching, really. Elaine Hough told us Gardiner fancied himself as a bit of a writer when he was at the Poly.”

“Does it tell us anything?”

“Not really,” Annie said. “It’s more of a personal, poetic record than anything else. Gardiner was taken in by the excitement and romance Keane offered. It does help explain why they had to die, though. It was mostly McMahon’s fault. Not only did he get greedy, he also intended to try to pass off the Turner as genuine. According to Gardiner, he was embittered. He wanted revenge on the art world for failing to recognize his great talent, and he thought the best way to get it was to put one over on them. A big one.”

“And Keane?”

“Ever the pragmatist,” said Annie. “McMahon tried to blackmail him into helping authenticate the Turner. Said if he didn’t he’d pass on the names of all the fakes he’d channeled through Keane to the press, the police, the galleries, the dealers. It would have ruined Keane, and he’d probably have ended up in jail. McMahon could have claimed that all he did was paint them, not try to pass them off as genuine. Keane obviously realized what trouble McMahon could cause him, so the artist became more of a liability than an asset. And Gardiner was a loose end.”

“Why did Keane hang on to the notebook? Why not burn it?”

“Vanity,” said Annie. “It never names him, but it’s all about him.”

“What was Gardiner’s role?”

“Forger of provenance, letters, old catalogs, bills of sale. That sort of thing. Go-between for nonexistent owners, dealers and auction houses. McMahon could dash off the paintings, but that’s as far as his contribution went.”

“As we thought,” said Banks.

“Yes.” Annie paused. “We’ve also talked to Keane’s wife, who was less than useful, and we’ve been having a close look at his business. It was clever,” Annie went on. “Very clever. He chose lesser-known artists. Eighteenth-century English landscape painters. Dutch minimalists. Minor Impressionists. And McMahon churned them out in quantity. Sketches. Small watercolors. Nothing big enough to draw too much attention to itself. Ten thousand quid here, fifty thousand there, twenty, five. It all adds up to a tidy sum.”

“Christ,” said Banks. “Keane told us all this, you know. He told us everything we needed to know. He was toying with us. We just weren’t listening.”

Annie said nothing.

“Anything more from Whitaker?”

“I’ve talked to him again. He admitted supplying the paper and canvas for a small cut, most likely from McMahon’s take. He knows nothing about the real magnitude of what was going on, knew nothing about Keane, but he did know why McMahon wanted the materials and what he did with them. He also confirmed what Gardiner wrote, that McMahon was bitter and bragged about ‘showing them all.’ ”

“Are we charging Whitaker?”

“What with? Being an arsehole?”

Banks managed a weak smile, but Annie could tell it hurt. “Have you seen or heard anything of Mark Siddons?” he asked.

“No,” said Annie. “We’ve no unfinished business with him, have we?”

“No,” said Banks. “I was just wondering, that’s all.” He glanced toward the window again, and Annie could see he was looking at the scaffolding around the church tower.

Annie tapped the notebook again. “It really is odd,” she said, “the way Gardiner seemed to look up to Keane, hero-worship him, as if their scam was all that made life bearable, and when it was over…” She dropped the notebook on the bedsheet. “Well, you can read it for yourself.”

“Keane made him feel special?” Banks suggested.

“Yes. He made him feel special.” Annie leaned forward. “Look, Alan…”

Banks touched her hand. “Later,” he said.

Then the door opened and Michelle Hart popped her head in. “Not interrupting anything, am I?”

Banks looked over at her. “Well,” he said, “you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

Annie left the room.

He’ll be coming for me soon. Today, tomorrow, or the next day. I can feel his dark mind reaching out to me. It doesn’t matter. I’m tired now. I’m the cancer patient who lives longer than the doctors have given him, the sad father who outlives all his children, the condemned man who receives a stay of execution. But now it’s time. Soon he will come.

In my weak and foolish moments, I dream we go away together, start anew, embark on another escapade, but in the cold, dark reality of my caravan, I know he likes to travel light, and I know he doesn’t like loose ends. I don’t think he enjoys killing. Yes, there is a coldness at the core of his being, and I doubt that he’s overly troubled by conscience. But I don’t think he actually enjoys it. My murder will be dispassionate, calculated, a necessary end.

The irony is, of course, that I would never betray him. I’m not like Tommy, the fool, who let his greed and his pride ruin everything. Why did he have to spoil it all? These past few months have been a great adventure, full of camaraderie, romance and the thrill of the game, but Tommy had to let his ego ruin it for everyone. So we weren’t getting enough money. I could have lived with that easily, so long as he still came to visit me in the caravan and we had our long talks into the night with the rain tapping against my flimsy roof.

I can hear him coming up the rickety steps. Now he’s knocking at my door. When I open it, he will be standing there with a smile on his face and a bottle in his hand. Quick. I must stop now. Another drink, another pill, Beethoven’s Pastorale . We have come full circle.

First of all, I would like to give special thanks to Fire Investigation Officer Terry Calpin and to the firefighters of Pontefract Station, White Watch: Sub Officer Peter Lavine, Leading Firefighter Barry Collinson, and Firefighters Gary Dixon, Andy Rees, Richard Beaumont, Dave Newsome and Arran Huskins. Thanks for your time, and an extra thank-you to Gary for setting it all up. Also for their professional help, I would like to thank Detective Inspector Claire Stevens of the Thames Valley Police and Commander Philip Gormley of the Metropolitan Police. As usual, any technical mistakes are entirely my own and are usually made for the benefit of the story.

Thanks also to those who read and commented on the manuscript: Dominick Abel, Dinah Forbes, Trish Grader, Sheila Halladay, Maria Rejt and Sarah Turner. Your help is invaluable when I can’t see the woods for the trees.

Peter Robinson grew up in Yorkshire, England, and has lived in North America for twenty-five years. His previous Inspector Banks novels include In a Dry Season – which was nominated for the Edgar®, won the Anthony Award, and was named a New York Times Notable Book – and the international bestsellers Aftermath and Close to Home . You can visit his website at www.inspectorbanks.com.