Playing With Fire

She thought it might be drugs.”

Banks laughed. “That would have been our very own DC Winsome Jackman with Dr. Aspern’s clothing for testing. Which came out negative, as expected, by the way.”

“Well, at least he’s been getting wind there’s something going on,” Blackstone said. “Already put a complaint in to Weetwood about harassment, and he gave one of his neighbors a right chewing out after he saw her talking to one of our men.”

“Good,” said Banks. “Let’s hope it keeps him off balance.”

“Have you thought, Alan, that maybe he hasn’t actually done anything?”

“There’s something there. Trust me.”

“Instinct?”

“Call it what you will: body language, unspoken communication, but there’s something there. The girl was screwed up, and why should she lie to Mark?”

“Junkies lie habitually. You know that as well as I do. And maybe the boyfriend has his own reasons for believing her.”

“I’ve thought of that. We did a background check on him, and it’s true he had it rough at home. I still think there’s something going on, though. And if I get any proof, I’ll have the bastard.”

“The fires?”

“Possible. But I don’t think so. He did something to Tina, though. I’m certain of it.”

“Well, best of luck, mate. Want me to keep trying?”

“No, it’s okay. Thanks, Ken.”

“Cheers. And don’t forget, if you’re down in my neck of the woods, that sofa’s always there for you.”

“I won’t forget.”

Banks stood at his window after the phone call thinking and looking out at the people in raincoats down in the market square. He was certain that Dr. Patrick Aspern had sexually abused his stepdaughter, and that his wife knew about it. But he had no proof. Nor did he seem to have much hope of getting any now that Tina was dead. Her death was convenient for Aspern, but Banks was almost certain he hadn’t started the fire on the boats. That had something to do with Thomas McMahon, he was convinced of it. Tina was incidental, maybe an unwanted witness. Which made the killer an especially nasty piece of work.

Thoughts of McMahon brought Banks back to Phil Keane and his little lie. He would have to contrive to have a chat with Phil without Annie around. He knew exactly how she would behave if she thought he was trying to dig up some dirt on her precious Phil. And maybe she would be right; maybe Maria Phillips’s version was exaggerated or even untrue. But until he knew for certain one way or another, he would distance himself from Phil and Annie, do a bit of discreet digging and wait to hear from Dirty Dick.

It felt good to be wearing his own clothes again, Mark thought, as he headed out of Western Area Headquarters for the second time in a week. The old leather jacket felt like a second skin. And it was good to be free again. His face and body still ached from the beating the Scarborough cops had given him, for “resisting arrest,” but, just as he had suspected, Clive hadn’t reported the hitchhiking incident, and the police had no reason to keep him in custody.

And he still had over two hundred quid in his pocket.

Mark crossed the market square, anonymous among the crowd of shoppers and the occasional out-of-season tourist. He hadn’t a clue where to go, but he knew he wasn’t going back to Lenny’s, no matter what he’d told Banks. That had been a mistake in the first place. Lenny was a decent bloke, but he had enough on his plate without bringing Mark home. Sure, maybe they did both feel all guilty right now after upsetting him, but that would soon wear off. He knew he wouldn’t be able to bear Sal’s silent resentment of his presence. And when he thought about it, he realized that, if it wasn’t Clive, then it must have been Lenny who’d set the cops on him. He wouldn’t have expected that from him, but there it was. Did Lenny believe he’d started the fires, too? No matter, he wouldn’t be seeing Lenny or his bitch of a wife again.

Across the square, he turned left for a short way on York Road and went into the Swainsdale Centre. When he was at Eastvale Comprehensive and wanted to put off going home after school, he had often hung around the center with his mates, not doing anything, just loitering and smoking, sometimes looking in Dixon’s windows at the fancy computers and stereos he couldn’t afford. Well, there had been an occasional bit of shoplifting, he remembered, but that was as bad as the gang got. Sometimes, too, he had spent the day there instead of going to school at all.

The center wasn’t very busy; it never was on a Wednesday morning. Just a few young women pushing prams, and kids skiving off school, the way Mark had done. On the upper level, at the top of the escalator opposite HMV, was a food court, and Mark bought himself a Big Mac, fries and a Coke and sat at one of the Formica-topped tables to eat. There was something about a shopping center that numbed your brain, Mark thought. Something to do with the weird lighting and the barely audible music. Maybe it hypnotized you into buying things. Well, there was nothing Mark wanted, except maybe a new CD. He’d grown tired of Ziggy Stardust over the past few days, and it was the only one he had left. Maybe he’d get something by Beth Orton in memory of Tina. He’d probably need new batteries soon, so he might as well pick some up in Dixon’s.

As he sat there munching on his Big Mac, lulled by the bland ambience of the Swainsdale Centre, watching the people who seemed to float around him as insubstantial as ghosts or shadows to the faint, pale music of an orchestral version of “Eleanor Rigby,” Mark mulled over the past few days. The fire had occurred on Thursday night, and it was now the following Wednesday. Had it really only been such a short time since Tina had died and Mark had had his adventures on the road? He’d also been assaulted by a queer, been in and out of jail twice, beaten up by the police and spent the most luxurious evening of his life in a B and B in Helmsley. And there was still a chance that someone out there was after him, wanted him dead.

It was hard to think with his brain so numb, but there was something very wrong with the picture he was seeing. What did he think he was trying to achieve? Did he have any control over his life at all? He’d run away from Lenny’s more because of echoes of his past than anything else, but had it all happened because he’d been trying to force himself in the wrong direction in the first place?

He had been thinking about putting his life back together. Getting back to work on the building site. Living with Lenny and Sal. Making things normal again. But could they ever be normal again? When he thought about it, he really didn’t think so. And what on earth did he think he was up to, running off to Scarborough? It was the same thing, when you got right down to it. A new start. A job. A place to live. The normal life.

But with Tina gone, nothing could ever be normal again. He felt that as he sat there in the Swainsdale Centre staring into space.

And all the things he had been aiming for, trying to do – the job, Lenny’s, Scarborough – they weren’t meant to be. That was clear now. They weren’t meant to be because there was somewhere he had to go before he could get his own life sorted. Something he had to do. For Tina.

In the Queen’s Arms that lunchtime, Banks, Annie and Winsome managed to bag a corner table near the window. As usual, one or two heads turned at the sight of Winsome, but Banks could tell she was used to it. She had a model’s carriage and managed to handle all the attention with mild amusement and disdain.

“Lunch is on me,” Banks said.

Annie raised her eyebrows. “Last of the big spenders.” She looked at Winsome, who smiled, but Banks sensed less humor in the remark than Winsome had. Annie was still pissed off with him over Phil, even though she’d got her way in the end.

Banks wasn’t very hungry, but he ordered chicken in a basket anyway, while Annie went for a salad and Winsome for a beefburger and chips. That settled, drinks in front of them, they got down to business, and Annie first told Banks about the visit to “Captain” Kirk’s garage and the trail leading to the mysterious William Masefield in Studley.

“And there’s no doubt this Masefield is dead?” Banks asked, after he’d digested what she had told him.

Annie glanced at Winsome. “None at all,” she said. “We checked with the pathologist who conducted the postmortem. Getting hold of him was one of the reasons it took us so long down there. We had to stay over. He couldn’t see us until early this morning. Anyway, Masefield had no living relatives, so DNA was useless, but he was identified by dental records.”