Playing With Fire

bus coming home from town, a copy of the Fresh Cream album and the latest Melody Maker tucked under his arm. Looking out at the yellow halos of the streetlights and the hazy neon signs, he had lit a cigarette and it had tasted magnificent, by far the best cigarette he had ever smoked. He could taste it now, and he automatically reached in his pocket. Of course, there were no cigarettes in his pocket. He looked across King Street at the light in the newsagent’s window, bleary in the late-afternoon mist, strongly tempted to dash over and buy a packet. Just ten. He’d smoke only the ten and then no more. But he got a grip on himself, turned his collar up and trudged up the hill to the station.

Christine Aspern’s body had been in far better shape than Tom McMahon’s. In fact, the skin that had been covered by the sleeping bag was not charred, but pale and waxy, like that of most corpses. It was only her face and hands, where she had suffered second-degree burns, that had been at all blackened or blistered by the fire. The blisters were also a sign, Dr. Glendenning said, that the victim was probably alive when the fire began, though a small amount of blistering can occur after death. Given the other evidence, though, he would surmise that the blistering in Tina’s case was postmortem.

Dr. Glendenning had approached the autopsy with his usual concern for detail and confirmed that, pending toxicology results that probably wouldn’t be in until Monday afternoon at the earliest, this being the weekend, she had died, like Thomas McMahon, of asphyxiation due to smoke inhalation, and most likely not from a heroin overdose.

As in the case of McMahon, Glendenning had also found thermal injury to the mouth and nose but not lower down, in the tracheal area. He had found only trace amounts of soot below the larynx, indicating that Christine was most likely unconscious when the fire started.

There was always the chance that Danny Boy’s heroin had been unusually pure and that she had died of an overdose before or during the fire, but Banks was willing to bet she was probably just on the nod. Mark had already told him that she had injected herself that evening. She wouldn’t have been the first junkie to lie there in the cocoon of safety and emptiness she had created for herself while the flames consumed her flesh. Either way, there was no evidence of foul play other than the starting of the fire itself, and going by the splash patterns and accelerant tests Geoff Hamilton had carried out, the arsonist had probably not even set foot on Mark and Christine’s boat.

It was late Saturday afternoon and the duty constables were bringing in a couple of drunken Eastvale United supporters when Banks got to the station. Eastvale was hardly a premier-division team, but that didn’t stop some fans from acting as if they were at a Leeds versus Manchester United match. Banks edged around the wobbly group and headed upstairs to the relative peace of his office, grabbing the handful of completed actions from his pigeonhole on the way. He slipped off his raincoat, kicked the heater to get it started and turned on his radio to a Radio 3 special about Bud Powell on Jazz Line Up.

As he listened to “A Night in Tunisia,” he flipped through the actions and found only one of immediate interest.

According to her ex-employer Sam Prescott, Heather Burnett, the girl from the art supplies shop who had left Thomas McMahon for Jake Harley, had later left Harley himself for an American installation specialist called Nate Ulrich, and they now lived in Palo Alto, California. Well, it had been a long shot in the first place, Banks thought.

Because it was the weekend, things were slow. Banks didn’t expect any preliminary forensic results, including analysis of clothing samples and toxicology, until early Tuesday. He still needed to know who had owned the boats, but as yet DC Templeton hadn’t got very far with his inquiries. There was a good chance he might have to wait until Monday or later to find someone who knew, maybe someone from British Waterways.

Then there was the car to consider, the dark blue Jeep Cherokee, or Range Rover, whatever it was, that had been seen parked in the lay-by nearest the boats. It was probably a waste of time, as there would be so many of them to check out, but Banks issued the actions anyway. He also ordered a survey of all the car-rental agencies in the area. There was a good chance that if someone was out to break the law, he might not want to use his own car when visiting McMahon in case he was spotted. Also, if he knew the roads in the immediate area of the boats, he would know that a Jeep was a much better option than an ordinary car, especially in winter.

Banks had no sooner issued the action than his phone rang.

“Alan, it’s Ken.” DI Ken Blackstone, phoning from Leeds. “We sent a couple of lads over to interview that dealer you mentioned, Benjamin Scott.”

“That was quick. Must be a slow day down there.”

“United’s away this week. Anyway, we leaned on him a bit – seems there were small amounts of suspicious substances in his flat – and he’s got a watertight alibi. He was in Paris with his girlfriend when the fire started.”

“How the other half lives. You’re sure?”

“She verified it, and they showed us used tickets, credit card receipts, gave us the number of the hotel. Want me to phone?”

“No, it’s all right, Ken. It was only a vague possibility. Look, do you happen to know anything about a bloke called Aspern, a Dr. Patrick Aspern?”

“I can’t say I do, not off the top of my head. Why?”

“He’s the dead girl’s stepfather, and her boyfriend’s made a rather serious accusation. There might be something in it. Think you could check around, see if there’s anything on him?”

“Can do.”

“And there’s no need to be too discreet about your inquiries.”

“Understood. Where’s he live?”

“Adel.”

“That’ll be Weetwood station. I know a DI there. I’ll get back to you after the weekend. It’s been a while. How’s things?”

“Not bad,” said Banks.

“Sandra?”

“A distant memory.”

“She’s had the baby?”

“She’s had the baby. Sinead. Nice of you to ask, Ken. Mother and child are doing fine.”

“Sorry, I didn’t know it was still such a touchy point. Any chance you’ll be down in my neck of the woods again soon?”

“Depends on how the case goes. And what you dig up on Aspern, of course.”

“Well, if you’ve got time, give me a bell. We can go out for a curry and a piss-up. My sofa’s yours anytime. You know that.”

“Thanks, Ken. I’ll likely take you up on that soon. Talk to you later.”

“Bye.”

Banks tapped his ballpoint on the desk. He didn’t really expect anything to come of inquiries into Patrick Aspern. If Mark’s accusation was to be believed, whatever went on was a family matter, in more ways than one, and they might never be able to find any evidence. Frances Aspern knew something, Banks was certain, but she didn’t seem very likely to talk. Whatever the reason, her relationship with Aspern was important to her; she needed him enough to sacrifice her daughter to him, if, indeed, that was what had happened.

Banks did, however, want Aspern to know that the local police were on his case, which was why he had told Ken Blackstone not to worry about discretion. It would be interesting to see how the good doctor reacted to that. He glanced at his watch. Time to get a few more actions issued, have a chat with Annie about progress so far, then go home. And what would he do there? Well, it wasn’t always Laphroaig and La Cenerentola for Banks. He did, at times, give in to his baser instincts, and tonight he felt like an evening alone with a Chinese take-away, a James Bond DVD – Sean Connery, of course – and a few cans of lager. Ah, the lush life.

Lenny Knox and his wife, Sally, lived on Eastvale’s notorious East Side Estate, a living testament to the fact that it wasn’t only big cities that had problem areas. But like all the big city estates, the East Side Estate also had its share of decent people just trying to make the best of a bad situation, and Lenny was one of them. He was a founding member of the local neighborhood watch, keeping an eye out for drug deals and vandalism. He’d had his own problems when he was a teenager, Mark knew from their conversations, but a short prison sentence in his