Playing With Fire

“Yes. To try to take Tina back. I wouldn’t let him.”

Mark probably weighed no more than eight or nine stone, but he looked wiry and strong. People like him often made deceptively tough scrappers, Banks knew, because he’d been like that himself at Mark’s age. He was still on the wiry side, despite all the beer and junk food. A matter of metabolism, he supposed. Jim Hatchley, on the other hand, seemed to show every pint he supped right in his gut.

“So Tina’s father knew about you?”

“Yes.”

“When was the last time he paid you a visit?”

“About a week ago.”

“You sure he didn’t come yesterday?”

“I don’t know. I was at work. On the building site. Tina didn’t say anything.”

“Would she have?”

“Maybe. But she was… you know… a bit out of it.”

A little chat with Tina’s stepfather was definitely on the cards. “What’s his name?” Banks asked.

“Aspern,” Mark spat out. “Patrick Aspern.”

“You might as well give me his address.”

Mark gave it to him.

“And stay away,” Banks warned him.

Mark looked sullen, but he said nothing.

“Is there anything else you can tell me about Tom on the next boat? What did he look like?”

“Ordinary, really. Short bloke, barrel-chested. He had long fingers, though. You couldn’t help but notice them. He didn’t shave very often, but he didn’t really have a beard. Didn’t wash his hair much, either.”

“What color was it?”

“Brown. Sort of long and greasy.”

Maybe the victim wasn’t Tom after all. Banks remembered the tufts of red hair that had somehow escaped the flames and made a note to talk to Geoff Hamilton about the discrepancy.

“Did he have any visitors?”

“Just a couple, as far as I know.”

“At the same time?”

“No. Separate. I saw one of them two or three times, the other only once.”

“What did he look like, the one you saw a few times?”

“Hard to say, really. It was always after dark.”

“Try.”

“Well, the only glimpse I got of him was when Tom opened his door and some light came out. He was thin, tallish, maybe six foot or more. A bit stooped.”

“See his face?”

“Not really. I only saw him in the shadows.”

“What about his hair?”

“Short. And dark, I think. Or that could have just been the light.”

“Clothes?”

“Can’t say, really. Maybe jeans and trainers.”

“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

“Dunno. I don’t think so. There was one thing, though.”

“What’s that?”

“He carried one of those big cases. You know, like art students have.”

“An artist’s briefcase?”

“I suppose that’s what you’d call it.”

So if Tom was an artist, Banks thought, then this was probably his dealer or agent. Worth looking into. “When did you last see him?” he asked.

“Yesterday.”

“Yesterday when?”

“Just after dark. I hadn’t been home from work long.”

“How long did he stay?”

“I don’t know. I went back inside before he left. I was having a smoke and Tina doesn’t like me smoking indoors. It was cold.”

“So he could have still been there after you left for the pub?”

“He could’ve been, I suppose. I didn’t hear him leave. We did have the music on, though.”

“What about the other visitor?”

“I can’t really say. It was just the once, maybe two, three weeks ago. It was dark that time, too.”

“Can you remember anything at all about him?”

“Only that he was shorter than the other bloke, and a bit fatter. I mean, not really fat, but not skinny, if you know what I mean.”

“Did you see his face?”

“Only when Tom opened the door. I can tell you his nose was a bit big. And hooked, like an eagle. But I only saw it from the side.”

“Did you ever see any cars parked in the lay-by through the woods?”

“Once or twice.”

“What cars?”

“I remember seeing one of those jeep things. Dark blue.”

“Jeep Cherokee? Range Rover?”

“I don’t know. Just a dark blue jeep. Or black.”

“Anything else?”

“No.”

“But you never saw anyone getting in or out of it?”

“No.”

“Was it there yesterday, when the man came?”

“I didn’t see it, but I didn’t look. I mean, it was dark, I’d have had to have been walking that way. I’d seen it there before when he visited, though. The tall bloke.”

“Can you remember anything else that happened before you went out yesterday?” Banks asked.

“That sad bastard from the lockkeeper’s cottage was round again on his bike.”

“Andrew Hurst? What was he doing here?”

“Same as always. Spying. He thinks I can’t see him in the woods, but I can see him all right.”

Just like we saw you, Banks thought. “Who is he spying on?”

“Dunno. If you ask me, though, he’s after seeing Tina without her clothes on.”

“Why do you say that?”

“The way he ogles her whenever he’s around. He just looks like a perv to me, that’s all, and he’s always lurking, spying. Why else would he do that?”

Good question, Banks thought. And it was interesting that Andrew Hurst had specifically mentioned that he didn’t spy on the people on the boats. He also hadn’t told Banks and Annie about his earlier visit during their conversation that morning. Banks would have to have another chat with the self-styled lockkeeper.

“What’s going to happen to Tina now?” Mark asked.

Banks didn’t want to go into the gory details of the postmortem, so he just said, “We’ll be hanging on to her until we’ve got this sorted.”

“And after? I mean, there’ll be a funeral, won’t there?”

“Of course,” said Banks. “Don’t worry. Nobody’s going to abandon her.”

“Only once we were talking, like you do, and she said when she died she wanted ‘Stolen Car’ played at her funeral. Beth Orton. It was her favorite. She wanted to be a singer.”

“I’m sure that can be arranged. But that’s a while off yet. What are you going to do in the meantime?”