Playing With Fire

for killing his wife, but that was not what had happened.

Annie looked at Banks. His situation wasn’t quite the same, but he knew – and he knew that Annie knew – that it was close enough to all intents and purposes. Maybe the only real difference was that Banks hadn’t pushed so hard at his career only for Sandra’s sake – Lord knows her tastes were pretty modest – but more for his own needs. Still, she had left him – out of the blue, it had seemed at the time – and he had almost lost his job and his sanity, and now she was living with Sean and Sinead in London. Banks certainly understood bitterness and betrayal.

“Did she ever visit him at the caravan?” Banks asked.

“Not that I know of. He never said.”

“Were they actually divorced, or just separated?” Banks was wondering whether the ex-Mrs. Gardiner needed her husband permanently out of the way for some reason.

“He said divorced. In fact, I saw him the day he told me the decree came through and he got quite maudlin at first, then angry. He had a bit too much to drink that night, I remember.”

There went one theory. “Did he ever have any visitors at all?”

“He never spoke of any, and I can’t see the caravan from my cottage. I do remember seeing someone leaving the place once while I was walking down the lane, but that’s all.”

“When was this?”

“Few months ago. Summer.”

“A man or a woman?”

“A man.”

“What did he look like?”

“Too far away to see, and he was walking away from me.”

“Tall or short, black or white?”

Mellor raised his eyebrows. “White. And maybe a bit taller than you. Not a big man, though. Carried himself well.”

“But you didn’t see what he looked like.”

“No, I’m only going on the way he walked. It can tell you more than you think, you know, sometimes, the way a man walks. They do say when you’re in the cities to walk as if you know where you’re going, no-nonsense and all, and you’re less likely to get mugged. That sort of walk.”

“Which direction did he take?”

“Toward the car park off the lane, behind the caravan. It’s quite handy, really. There’s some waterfalls across Jennings Field. Not more than a trickle, really, but you know what tourists are like. So the council cleared a small car park. Pay and display.”

It was the area of easiest access to the caravan. The SOCOs had taped it off and would be searching come daylight. “Did you see him drive away?”

“I’m afraid not. The exit’s on the lane behind the field, behind Roland’s caravan. It’s hidden by the trees and a wall. I must admit, though, I was a little curious, as I hadn’t seen or heard of a visitor to Roland’s place before.”

“Did you ever see a dark-colored Jeep in the area?”

“No. Sorry.”

“Thanks anyway,” Banks said. “Did you ask Mr. Gardiner about his visitor?”

“Yes, but he just tapped the side of his nose. Said it was an old friend. You know,” Mellor said, swirling the remains of the brandy in his glass, “when I first got to know Roland, I worried about him a lot.”

“Why is that?”

“He seemed prey to fits of depression. Sometimes he wouldn’t leave the caravan for days, not even to come here. When he did come and you asked him if he was all right, he’d shrug it off and say something about taking the ‘black dog’ for a walk.”

Black dog. Winston Churchill’s term for the depression that hounded him all his life. “Do you think he might have been suicidal?”

Mellor thought for a moment. “There were times,” he said. “Yes. I worried he might do himself harm.”

Fire wasn’t a common method of suicide, Banks knew. The last case he’d come across was of a man chaining himself to the steering wheel of his car, pouring petrol all around and setting it alight. He’d left the windows closed, though, and there wasn’t enough oxygen in the interior of the car for a fire to take hold, so when the brief flames had consumed it all, the man died of asphyxiation, with hardly a mark on him. Still, Banks had to consider every possibility. “Do you think he might have done this himself?” he asked Mellor.

“Start the fire? Good Lord, no. Roland wouldn’t do anything irresponsible like that. Someone else might have got hurt. One of the firemen, for example. And it would certainly be a painful way to go. No. He had some strong pills from the doctor, he told me once. Sleeping pills. I don’t know what they were called. Apparently he had terrible trouble sleeping. Nightmares and so on. If he was going to go, that was the way he would have done it.”

Black dog. Nightmares. Roland Gardiner certainly sounded like a troubled man. Was it all down to him losing his job and his wife leaving him, or were there other reasons?

“Besides,” Mellor went on, “things had been looking up for him recently.”

Banks glanced at Annie. “Oh?”

“Yes. He seemed a lot more cheerful, a lot more optimistic.”

“Did he say why?”

“Just that he’d met an old friend.”

“What old friend?”

“He didn’t elaborate on it. Like I said, Roland was a secretive sort of chap.”

“The same old friend who visited him at the caravan?”

“Might have been. It was about the same time.”

“Last summer?”

“Yes.”

“When was the last time you saw Roland?”

Mellor thought for a moment. “Last Wednesday, I think it was. He lent me a book.”

“What book was that?”

“Just a history book. We were both interested in Victorian England.”

Banks stood up. “Thanks very much, Mr. Mellor. You’ve been a great help. Need a ride home?”

“Thank you. Normally I’d walk, but it’s late, cold, and I’ve had a bit of a shock. You’ve got room for Sandy, too?”

“Of course. No trouble.”

Annie’s car was still back at Jennings Field, so they all crammed into Banks’s Renault, Sandy curling up beside Mellor on the backseat, and headed toward Ash Cottage, the heater on full. In a few minutes the interior of the car was warm and Banks found himself feeling sleepy from the brandy. He knew he wasn’t over the limit, just tired. They dropped off Mellor and Sandy, and Banks handed over his card. “In case you remember anything else.” Then Banks drove Annie back to the field. They sat a moment in his car, the engine running and heater still on, watching the activity around the burned-out caravan. Things were definitely on the wane, but Stefan was still there, as were Geoff Hamilton and a group of firefighters. Both appliances had gone.

“Christ, I hate fires,” said Banks.

“Why? Have you ever been in one?”

“No, but I have nightmares about it.” He massaged his temples. “Once, way back when I was on the Met, I got called to an arson scene. Terraced house in Hammersmith. Some sort of arranged marriage gone wrong and the offended family pours petrol through the letter box of the other lot.” He paused. “Nine people died in that fire. Nine people. Most of the time you couldn’t tell the bodies from the debris, except for one bloke who still had a boiling red blister on his skull. And the smell… Jesus. But you know what stuck in my mind most?”

“Tell me,” said Annie.

“It was this little girl. She looked as if she was kneeling by her bed with her hands clasped, saying her prayers. Burned to a crisp, but still there, stuck forever in that same position. Praying.” Banks shook his head.

Annie touched his arm gently.

“Anyway,” Banks went on, shaking off the memory. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know what to think, really. I’ve got to admit it seems to be stretching coincidence to have two similar