Playing With Fire

“So someone stole his identity?”

“Looks that way,” Annie said. “And whoever did it simply had Masefield’s post redirected.”

“Where to?”

“A post office box in central Birmingham.”

“I see,” said Banks. “And the credit card company had no way of knowing about this?”

Annie shook her head. “All they cared about was that the bills were paid on time. It’s a common-enough form of identity fraud.”

“He used a bank account in Masefield’s name?”

“Yes. And he paid all his bills from Masefield’s bank account over the Internet, so no signed checks. There’ll be a trail, but these things are complicated.”

“We’ll get computers on it,” said Banks. “Why did no one in the post office spot what was going on?”

“Why should they?” said Annie. “Whoever arranged for the redirected post went to a busy central office, presented the right sort of identification and signed the forms. Whoever it was must have resembled Masefield enough and been able to forge his signature. Easy. And all aboveboard, as far as the post office was concerned. I mean, they’re careful, they have their precautions, but the whole thing’s pretty routine. Most clerks probably don’t even examine the documentation closely.”

“Are we certain it’s the same car?”

“Well,” said Annie, “the tire impressions are identical to those found on the lay-by near the boats. The SOCOs also managed to find a few soil and gravel samples, and they’ve gone to the lab for further analysis.”

“Good.”

“But there is one small problem.”

“Oh?”

“The petrol in the Cherokee’s tank matches the petrol from the garage – it’s Texaco, by the way – but not the petrol used to start the Gardiner fire. That’s Esso.”

“Interesting,” said Banks. “Maybe he used his own car, for some reason?”

“I suppose that’s possible,” Annie agreed.

“Anyway, whatever the explanation, forensics can tie the Jeep Cherokee that this ‘Masefield’rented to the scene of the boat fires, right?”

“Yes.”

“Thank heaven for small mercies. We’re still in business, then.”

Jenna, the young girl who worked in the kitchen, brought their food. Winsome was the only one who ate with a vengeance. Banks glanced at her. “I hope you didn’t run up your expenses too high in the hotel restaurant last night,” he said.

“No, sir,” said Winsome. “We ate at McDonald’s.”

Banks looked at Annie. “It’s true,” she said. “And you can imagine what delights they had for a vegetarian like me. I told you we were busy. All we had time for before bed was a couple of drinks in the hotel bar.”

“And those two good-looking businessmen bought us the second round, didn’t they, Guv?” Winsome added.

“Yes,” said Annie. “Connor and Marcus. So you needn’t worry about our expenses, skinflint.” She picked at her salad.

“It’s ACC McLaughlin gets his underpants in a knot over things like that,” Banks said. “Not me. Did you find out anything else about Masefield while you were down there?”

Annie and Winsome exchanged glances and Annie said, “A few things. We asked around about him – neighbors, coworkers at the university – but nobody seemed to know very much.”

“And the fire?”

“Chip pan. There was no accelerant and no reason to treat it as suspicious at the time. The only thing even remotely interesting was that one of the other lecturers at the university where Masefield worked said he’d recently lost some money in a bad investment. I also got the impression that he was in a bit of trouble at the university over his drinking, that he might have stood to lose his job. But you know what academics are like when it comes to giving out information.”

“A bit like us,” Banks said.

“Anyway, there was a lot of alcohol in his system. The general assumption in the fire investigator’s office was that he’d passed out and left the chip pan on. It happens often enough, especially with alcoholics and drug addicts. You come home pissed or high, put the frying pan on, pop another couple of pills or take another stiff drink, and the next thing you know…”

“No traces of Rohypnol or Tuinal?”

“No. Just alcohol.”

“So it could have been an accident?”

“Yes.”

“And someone, a colleague, friend, whatever, could have taken advantage of Masefield’s demise and stolen his identity?”

“Or helped him along a bit. I mean, nobody saw anyone, but that doesn’t mean whoever did it didn’t leave Masefield passed out on the sofa with the chip pan on full heat.”

“True,” Banks agreed. “Did anyone have any ideas at all about exactly who might have taken Masefield’s identity?”

“Unfortunately not,” said Annie. “Nobody knew who he hung around with, if anyone. Apparently, he wasn’t the gregarious type. If he did have any friends, he kept them a secret from his colleagues and neighbors.”

“What about this bad investment? Who did he make it with? Was he swindled?”

“Don’t know, sir,” said Winsome. “That was all his colleague could tell us.”

Banks sighed. He knew they could get a forensic accountant to look into Masefield’s finances and a computer expert to track down the Internet banking records, but that would all take time. There would no doubt be all kinds of false trails and blind alleys. As it stood right now, they still didn’t have very much to go on. The first big lead, the rented Jeep Cherokee, had led them to a dead end. Or so it seemed at the moment.

“How did ‘Masefield’ get to Kirk’s garage?” Banks asked.

“I assume he took a bus,” said Annie. “They run in a constant loop from Askham Bar to the city center.”

“So he traveled to York by train?”

“Or by bus.”

“What if he didn’t?” Winsome said.

“Didn’t what?” Banks asked.

“Take a train or a bus, sir. Maybe he’s local. What if he drove to the garage? I mean, if he only wanted to use a rental car so that his own car wasn’t spotted by the canal, or by Jennings Field, for whatever reason, then he probably has a car of his own, too.”

“Well,” said Annie, “there are plenty of residential streets around there where he could leave a car for a few days without attracting too much attention.”

“Except he might have got unlucky,” Winsome said.

“The Son of Sam,” Banks said.

Winsome smiled. “Yes, sir.”

“A parking ticket?” Annie said. “Isn’t that how the Son of Sam got caught?”

“Yes,” said Winsome. “It’s possible, isn’t it, Guv?”

“It would certainly be a lucky break for us,” Annie said.

“It’ll probably take a day or two,” Banks said, “but it’s worth checking. Can you get the numbers of all cars ticketed in the area on the dates in question and feed them into HOLMES, see if anything comes up?”

“Can do,” said Winsome. “We don’t exactly have a lot of number plates to cross-reference on this one, but I’ll see what I can do. There might be something on the CCTV cameras, too. They’re all over the place these days.”

“Good,” said Banks. “Definitely worth checking.” He finished his chicken and left the chips, then drank some beer and leaned back in his chair. “This still doesn’t let Whitaker off the hook,” he said. “Even though it seems now that it wasn’t his Jeep Cherokee at the scene of the boat fires.”

“We’ll check the petrol in his car against the accelerant used at the Gardiner scene. That might tell us