“What makes you think he did?” Bridges asked. “What’s going on here? DI Blackstone said Dr. Aspern was involved in a case you’re working on, but that’s about all I know. Do you think this might be related?”
“The personnel’s the same,” said Banks, then he explained about the other fires and Mark’s problems with Patrick Aspern. Mark said nothing. He seemed to be lost in his own world, still trembling.
“So what happened?” Banks asked.
“We’re still not clear yet,” Blackstone said. “But the fire’s not the main problem.” He looked at Mark. “And the leading firefighter told me the front door was already open when they got here. Do you want a look at the scene?”
Banks nodded. Blackstone glanced at Bridges. It was a courtesy to seek his permission because they were on his patch. “It’s okay,” Bridges said. “Looks like we’ll be working together on this one, anyway. I’ll take the lad here down to the station.”
“Why are you arresting me?” Mark asked. “I haven’t done anything.”
“Where else would you go at this hour?” Banks asked.
Mark just shrugged.
Bridges looked over at Banks. “Breaking and entering?”
“That’ll do for starters. And see if you can get a doctor to have a look at him, would you? We’ll talk to him tomorrow.”
“Okay,” said Bridges. “Be careful in there. The doc’s been and gone, but the photographer’s not finished yet, I think, and the SOCOs haven’t done their stuff. Can’t seem to get the idle buggers out of bed.”
“It’s pretty grim,” Blackstone said as he and Banks walked down the plush-carpeted hall to the back of the house.
Banks remembered the scene on the boats and in Gardiner’s caravan. He didn’t imagine it could be much worse than either of those. And it certainly couldn’t be worse than what he had witnessed in that tall, narrow terraced house all those years ago.
“There’s just one connecting door through from the main house,” Blackstone said, turning the handle. “And there’s a separate entrance from the outside into a small waiting room for the patients. They’re mostly private, and I expect they pay a little bit extra for the olde worlde charm. I’ll bet the doctor paid house calls, too.”
There wasn’t much olde worlde charm in evidence when Blackstone opened the door to Aspern’s surgery, but whatever damage had been done there hadn’t been done by fire. Even with the slight charring and spray of foam from the extinguisher, it was plain to see that the walls and floor were covered in blood, and that the blood came from the body of Patrick Aspern, well beyond the help of any doctor now, spread-eagled on the floor, the entire front of his body ripped open in a glistening tapestry of tissue, organ, sinew and bone.
Banks glanced at Blackstone, who was looking distinctly peaky. “Shotgun?” he said. “Close range? Both barrels?”
“Exactly. Gary’s bagged it and tagged it.”
“Jesus Christ,” Banks said under his breath. In such a small room, the impact must have been tremendous. Even now he could still smell the powder mingled with burned rubber, surgical spirit and blood. Banks could only imagine the deafening noise and the spray of arterial blood, the gobbets of flesh blown clean off the bone, leaving dark slimy trails on the walls. Even the eye chart was splattered with blood, and so was the hypodermic syringe on the floor by the chair.
“Who did it?” Banks asked.
“Looks like the wife,” said Blackstone. “But she’s not talking yet.”
“Frances?” Banks said. “Where is she?”
“Station.”
“And the boy was in the room, too? Mark?”
“Yes.”
“What does he have to say for himself?”
“Nothing. You saw for yourself. I think he’s still in shock. We’ll have to wait awhile before we get anything out of him.”
Banks kept silent for a few moments, looking around the room. A shambles, in the original meaning of the word. He noticed several strands of cord on the floor by the doctor’s chair. “What’s that?” he asked.
“We think the boy must have been tied to the chair.”
“Why?”
“Don’t know yet. But Mrs. Aspern must have cut him free.”
“And the fire?”
“Hardly got started before the kid turned the extinguisher on it. As you can see.”
He pointed to a burned patch on the carpet, which had spread as far as the cubbyhole used to store patient files and singed the crisp white sheets on the examination table.
“Who set it?”
“Again, it looks like the wife.”
Frances Aspern. Well, maybe she had reached a snapping point, Banks thought. If what he suspected had been going on, and if she had known, then he could only guess at the power of the emotions she had suppressed, or how warped and dangerous they had become under the pressure of the years. But something must have happened to make her snap. A trigger of some sort. Maybe they would get something out of her or Mark later.
The outside door opened, letting in a draft of icy night air. “Sorry, lads,” said the photographer, tapping his Pentax. “I finished the video, then I had to go back to the car for this.”
The young photographer didn’t seem at all fazed by the scene of carnage in front of him. Banks had seen the same lack of reaction before. He knew that photographers often managed to distance themselves through their lenses. To them, the scene was only another photo, an image, a composition, not real human blood and guts spilled there. It was their way of coping.
Banks wondered what his way of coping was and realized he didn’t really have one. He looked upon these scenes as exactly what they were – outbursts of anger, hate, greed, lust or passion, which left one human being mangled and split open, the fragile bag of blood burst, and he didn’t have any way of distancing himself. But still he slept at night, still he didn’t faint or puke his guts up over someone’s shoes. What did that say about him? Oh, he remembered them all, of course, all the victims, young and old, and sometimes his sleep was disturbed by dreams, or he couldn’t get to sleep for the images that assaulted his mind, but still he lived with it. What did that make him?
“Alan?”
Banks turned to see Ken Blackstone frowning at him.
“All right?”
“Fine, thanks.”
“My sofa?”
“Why not,” said Banks, with a sigh. “It’s a bloody long way home, and I’m knackered. Got any decent whiskey?”
“I think I could rustle up a dram or two of Bell’s.”
“That’ll do nicely,” said Banks. “Let’s leave it to DI Bridges and go. We’ll sort this mess out tomorrow.”
Annie was in the office early, despite a mild hangover and a mostly sleepless night. Phil had picked up the Turners and set off for London after dropping her at the front doors of Western Area Headquarters. She made a pot of strong coffee in the squad room and settled down to some much neglected paperwork. She was just starting to enjoy the relative early-morning peace and quiet when the place started springing to life. DC Rickerd was first in, followed by Winsome. Then Kevin Templeton and the others came and went, attending to the varied tasks and minutiae of a major investigation. Annie felt embarrassed to be wearing the same clothes she’d gone to dinner in the previous evening, but nobody noticed, or at least nobody said anything. Banks wasn’t there, anyway. She could only imagine the kind of look she’d get from him. Sometimes she felt as if he could smell the sex on her, no matter how long she had showered.
It wasn’t long after nine when an excited DC Templeton came up to her waving a sheet of paper. “I’ve got it!” he said. “I’ve got it.”
“Alleluia,” said Annie. “What have you got?”
