“You should have told us you had a criminal record,” Banks said. “You could have saved us a lot of trouble. We find out things like that pretty quickly, and it looks a lot worse for you.”
“I didn’t go to jail. Besides, it wasn’t-”
“I don’t want to hear your excuses,” Banks said. “And I know you didn’t go to jail. You got a suspended sentence and probation. You were lucky. The judge took pity on you.”
“I can’t see what it has to do with present events.”
“Can’t you? I think you can,” said Banks. “You were charged with conspiracy to torch a warehouse. The only reason you got such a soft sentence was because the person who co-opted you was your boss, and he was the one who actually lit the match. But you helped him, you gave him a false alibi, and you lied for him throughout the subsequent investigation.”
“It was my job! He was my boss. What else was I supposed to do?”
“Don’t ask me to solve your moral dilemmas for you. In any situation, there are a number of possible choices. You made the wrong one. You lost your job, anyway, and all you gained was a criminal record. When the insurance company got suspicious and called the police in, the company went bankrupt. Since then you’ve had a couple of short-term jobs, but mostly you’ve been on the dole.” Banks looked around. “Lucky you’d paid off most of your mortgage. Was that with the cash your boss gave you for helping with the arson?”
Hurst said nothing. Banks assumed he was right.
“Was that where you got your taste for fire?”
“I don’t have any taste for fire. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The narrow boats, Andrew. The narrow boats.”
Hurst shot to his feet. “You can’t blame that on me.” He stabbed his chest with his thumb. “I was the one who called the fire brigade, remember?”
“When it was way too late. You’ve been seen skulking around in the woods, probably spying on Tina Aspern. You have no alibi. You washed your clothes before we could get a chance to test them. Come on, Andrew, how would it look to you? Why did you do it? Was it for the thrill?”
Hurst sat down again, deflated. “I didn’t do it,” he said. “Honest, I didn’t. Look, I know it
“Do you feel inadequate, Andrew? Is that what it’s all about? Do the anger and rage just build up in you until they get so strong that you just have to go out and burn something?”
“That’s ridiculous. You’re making out that I’m some sort of pyromaniac or something.”
“Aren’t you?”
“No. Of course I’m not. That other fire, which I
“Maybe this one was, too.”
“Oh? Now you’re changing your approach, are you? Now I’m not a drooling pyromaniac but a cold, practical businessman dealing with a problem.” He folded his arms. “And what problem might that have been?”
“Maybe Tina Aspern was your problem.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Perhaps she was going to tell on you. You used to spy on her, didn’t you?”
“No.”
“Where were you on Saturday evening?”
“Saturday? Same place as usual. Here.”
“Watching another war video?”
“
“Andrew, get this clear: I don’t care about your fucking film reviews. All I care about is that three people are dead and that you might be responsible. Ever heard of a man called Gardiner? Roland Gardiner?”
“No.”
“Leslie Whitaker?”
“No.”
“What kind of car do you drive?”
“I don’t. I can’t afford to run a car, and I don’t need one.”
That would have made it very difficult for Hurst to have got to Jennings Field and back on Saturday night, Banks realized, but there were buses. “In all your nosing about the area,” he asked, “have you ever seen a car of any kind parked in the lay-by closest to the boats?”
“A few times. Yes.”
“What kind of car?”
“Different ones. Picnickers in summer, mostly.”
“And more recently?”
“Only once or twice.”
“What make, do you remember?”
“A van of some kind. You know, a Jeep Cherokee, Land Cruiser, or a Range Rover, that sort of thing. I’m not very well up on the latest models.”
“But it was definitely that kind of vehicle?”
“Yes.”
“Color?”
“Dark. Blue or black.”
“Ever see the driver?”
“No.”
“Okay. Let’s get back to the fires. Why did you hang around the boats so much? Was it the girl?”
Hurst looked away, scanning the rows of his LP collection, lips moving as if he were silently reading the names off the covers to himself. Banks’s mobile rang. He excused himself and walked outside to answer. It was DC Templeton calling from headquarters. “Sir, we’ve identified the owner of the boats.”
“Good work,” said Banks.
“It’s some bigwig in the City. Name’s Sir Laurence West. Merchant banker.”
“Can’t say I’ve heard of him,” said Banks, “but then I don’t exactly move in those kinds of circles.”
“Anyway,” Templeton went on, “I’ve already been on the phone to him, and he’s agreed to grant an audience at his office tomorrow, but you’ll need to make an appointment.”
“Good of him.”
“Yes,” said Templeton. “I think he also believed he was being magnanimous about it.”
“I see. Okay then, Kev, thanks. I’ll go down there myself tomorrow morning, seeing as he’s so important.” Besides, thought Banks, it would be nice to get away, if just for a day. He’d take the train, if the trains happened to be running. It was actually faster and far less hassle than driving to London, and train journeys could be relaxing if you had a good book to read and some CDs to listen to. “Make an appointment for one o’clock, would you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any first impressions?”
“Only that this is all a terrible intrusion into his valuable time, and he needed reminding he even owned the boats.”
“Okay,” said Banks. “I don’t suppose we can expect much from him, then, but it’s got to be done.”
“And, sir?”
“Yes.”
“A woman called.”
“Which woman?”
“Maria Phillips, from the art gallery. Wants to talk to you again. Says she’ll be in the Queen’s Arms at half six. I think maybe she fancies you, sir.”
“I’ll deal with her. Anything else?”
“DS Nowak wants to see you as soon as you can make it.”
