Playing with Fire (10 page)

“Please.”

“All right. But I'm afraid you'll have to drink this one by yourself. I've got a long drive home.”

Maria looked disappointed. “Oh, well, in that case I won't bother…But I thought…”

“What?”

“Well, I don't live that far away. Maybe you'd like to come for a nightcap, or just a coffee or something?” She wrinkled her nose. “It might perk you up a bit.”

“Thanks for asking,” Banks said, hurriedly finishing his beer. “But perking up's the last thing I need right now. I really do have to get some sleep.”

“Never mind, then. Some other time.” Maria gathered her things together and stood up to put on her coat. “I'll ring you in the morning,” she said, and made a hasty exit.

Oh, shit, thought Banks, embarrassed by the looks he was getting from others in the pub. Surely he had never given Maria Phillips any reason to think he wanted more from her than information about the artist? He had only seen her two or three times since Sandra had left, and on those occasions they had simply bumped into each other on the street, or he had visited the community center for one reason or another and had seen her there. They had done nothing but exchange small talk. Still, she had always been a strange one, he remembered, always superficially flirtatious, even when he was married to Sandra. He had thought it was just her way of relating and had never taken her seriously. And maybe that's all it was, even now. He picked up his overcoat and briefcase. At least she was going to ring him with the information he wanted in the morning, information that might take him a bit closer to the mystery that was Tom.

 

Annie drove her aching bones home after the postmortem, on Banks's advice. There was nothing more to be done tonight, he had told her, so best get some rest. That was exactly what she intended to do, she thought, as she locked the door of her small Harkside cottage behind her, the cottage that seemed to be at the center of a labyrinth of narrow winding streets, as Banks had once pointed out. She would have a glass of Chilean cabernet and a long hot bath, then take a couple of
nighttime cold-relief capsules and hope for a peaceful night's sleep. Maybe she'd feel better in the morning.

There was one message waiting for her on her answering machine, and she was absurdly pleased to hear that it was from Phil. He would definitely be coming up to Swainsdale tomorrow and would be staying a few days at his cottage in Fortford. Would Annie care to have dinner with him one evening over the weekend, perhaps, or even early next week, if she wasn't too busy?

Well, she would, but she didn't know if she could commit herself right now, what with a big new case on the go and this damn cold dragging on. Still, being a DI gave her some perks, even if it did mean no overtime, and her evenings should be free, barring the necessity to head out somewhere overnight. If she felt well enough, there was no reason why she shouldn't tentatively agree to dinner tomorrow.

Annie dropped her keys on the table, poured herself a glass of wine and picked up the telephone.

 

When Banks arrived home after his drink with Maria Phillips, he also found one message waiting for him. It was from Michelle Hart, whom he realized he had forgotten to call. She just wanted to tell him that she wouldn't be able to see him this weekend as they were all working overtime on a missing-child case. Banks could well understand that. Missing children were the worst, every policeman's nightmare. It was while Michelle was looking into the disappearance of Banks's childhood friend, Graham Marshall, whose bones had been discovered the previous summer, over thirty-five years since he had disappeared, that they had met.

Even though he couldn't get away either, he still felt disappointed. This sort of thing was happening more and more often lately, so much so that they felt and acted like strangers for the first few hours every time they did meet. It was no way
to sustain a relationship. First the distance, the long winter drives in fog, driving rain or hail; then the Job, the unpredictable hours. Sometimes he wondered if it was possible for a copper to have anything but the most superficial and undemanding of relationships.

He had also wondered more than once over the past few months where things were going with Michelle. They met up when they could, usually managed to have a good time, and the sex was great. But she always seemed to hold a part of herself back. Most people did, Banks realized, including himself, but with Michelle it was different, as if she were carrying around some great weight she couldn't, or wouldn't, share, and in a way it made their relationship feel superficial.

With Annie, Banks had developed a deeper relationship. That was the problem, what had made Annie run: the intimacy, and Banks's residual feelings for Sandra. And the kids, of course. The idea of Banks's two children seemed to scare Annie to death. Michelle never talked about children. Banks wondered if she had been deeply wounded by her past in some way. Annie had been raped, and they had talked about that, got it out in the open, but with Michelle…she just wouldn't open up.

Banks sorted through his post, pleased to see that his copies of
Gramophone
and
Mojo
had both arrived, and poured a wee dram of ten-year-old cask-strength Laphroaig, which DS Hatchley had bought him at a duty-free shop. Talk about a drink with teeth; it bit deep into your tongue, throat and gut and didn't let go. The aroma alone was enough to make you feel pissed.

Banks thought about Michelle again. Was he attracted only to wounded women? he wondered. Did he see himself as some sort of healer, a Travis McGee figure, remembering the books he'd read with prurient interest as an adolescent, along with James Bond, the Saint, Sexton Blake and Modesty Blaise. Just a few days on the
Busted Flush
with old Travis
and you'll be right as rain. Well, if he did see himself that way, he wasn't making a very good job of it, was he? And you didn't get to his age, or Michelle's, without taking a hefty emotional, even physical, knock or two along the way. Especially if you happened to be a copper. Banks laughed at himself, tilted his head back and tipped his glass.

He phoned back, but Michelle was out, so he left a message of regret on her answering machine. Maybe next weekend, he said, though he doubted either of their cases would have wound down by then.

At least he had had one bit of good news when he called back at the station after his little chat with Maria Phillips: their body was
definitely
Thomas McMahon. There was only one dentist in the village of Molesby, the nearest settlement to the narrow boats, and DC Templeton had had the good sense to check there first with the dental impression. Thomas McMahon had been there for a filling less than a week before.

Sometimes it was that easy.

It was cold in the cottage, and Banks considered lighting a peat fire. Then he decided it wasn't worth it; he was sure he wouldn't be able to stay awake long enough to enjoy it. Besides, after today, there was something about the idea of even the most innocent domestic fire that frightened him. He checked the smoke detectors to see if they were both still working. They were. Then he turned on two bars of the electric fire and poured himself another drink.

He thought of watching a movie on DVD. He had recently bought a player and it had revitalized his interest in movies. He was starting to collect them the way he did CDs. In the end he decided that it was too late; he knew he would fall asleep on the sofa halfway through. Instead he put on Cassandra Wilson's
Belly of the Sun
CD and browsed through the
Gramophone
reviews. God, what a deep, rich sensuous voice Cassandra had, he thought, like melting chocolate as she worked each syllable for all she could get, stretched them
out until you thought they'd break, dropped on them from high or crept up underneath them and licked and chewed them out of shape.

The whiskey tasted good, sharp, peaty and a little bit medicinal, and he wished he could go outside and stand by Gratly Falls and look down the daleside to the lights of Helmthorpe the way he did when the weather was good, but it was too cold. Oh, certainly it was mild enough for January, but after dark a chill came to the air that defied even the properties of a fine single malt whiskey to warm the cockles of one's heart. A wind had sprung up, too, and he felt as if he were marooned in his little cottage, straining against its ropes to stay on the ground.

As he put the magazine aside and settled back with his feet up, only a dim table light on, Cassandra singing Dylan's “Shelter from the Storm,” his mind drifted over the day's events, as it often did at times like this. He wasn't so much thinking as just riffing, improvising on a theme, the way a jazz player did, or the way Elgar had written his
Enigma
variations.

Enigma was a good place to start. Everything about today's events seemed infused by that very quality. Elusive, inchoate, equivocal. On the one hand, it appeared as if Thomas McMahon had been the intended victim, but there were no signs of external injury other than the fire damage, and they knew nothing about any possible motive. On the other hand, Mark Siddons had had a row with his drug-addict girlfriend Tina and stormed off, but his alibi held tight, and the physical evidence exonerated him.

Tina, or Mark, had also bought drugs from Danny Boy Corcoran, and wherever drugs are concerned you have to look closely at everyone involved. Then there was Tina's stepfather, Dr. Patrick Aspern. Banks hadn't particularly liked him, but that didn't mean much in itself. He had disliked innocent people before. But if what Mark said about
Aspern and his stepdaughter was true, that was enough to give the doctor a strong motive. And both Aspern and his wife had been evasive, to say the least, when it came to alibis. On the other hand, perhaps something in Mark's own background had made him only too eager to believe Tina's story without question. That background might well be worth looking into, Banks thought, making a mental note to put DS Hatchley on it in the morning.

Andrew Hurst was another problem. Hurst haunted the canal side, he had lied about his activities, he had washed his clothes, and he had no alibi. But what motive did he have? Perhaps he didn't need one. He had first approached the scene, then he had rung the fire brigade. Maybe he was an arsonist who just liked to start fires, a pyromaniac. From what Banks knew of the basic psychology of pyromaniacs, many of them liked not only to report, hang around and watch their own handiwork, but they liked to take part in the firefighting operation, too, and help the police. Banks would see just how helpful Andrew Hurst wanted to be.

Banks thought about another Laphroaig as the CD came to an end, but decided against it. Instead, he took himself off to bed.

D
anny Boy Corcoran lived in a small flat off South Market Street, on the fringes of the student area. He had once been a business student at Eastvale College, but he had discovered a more lucrative career in selling drugs and dropped out before finishing his diploma. His flat had been under surveillance all night, and Danny and his girlfriend hadn't arrived home until eight in the morning, so Banks and Annie had the advantage. Banks felt surprisingly well rested after his early night, and even Annie looked and sounded more cheerful than she had in days. The cold still lingered, Banks could tell, by her red nose and the occasional sneeze, but it was on the wane.

Danny Boy, on the other hand, looked like crap. He had clearly just gone to bed and was wearing only a red sweatshirt with a Montego Bay logo and Y-fronts, his scrawny hairy legs sticking out below. Danny was a wannabe bad-boy Jamaican drug dealer, but unfortunately for him, in reality he had been born to white middle-class parents in Blandford Forum. His dreadlocked hair stuck out in all directions, and his bloodless face seemed paler than a vampire's in a time of famine. “Can we come in, Danny?” Banks asked, as they showed their warrant cards.

“Why? Whaddya want?”

“I'll tell you if you let us come in.”

Danny's lanky frame still blocked the doorway. “Gorrawarrant?”

“We don't need one. We just want to talk.”

A figure appeared behind Danny, framed by his outstretched arm and the doorpost, similarly thin, and pale enough to make her flesh-toned bra and panties look like a suntan. Banks could see she had goose bumps on her arms. And needle marks. “Danny, who is it? Tell them to go away and come back to bed.”

“Fuck off, Nadia,” Danny said without turning around. “It's business.”

Nadia made a face at his back, turned and shambled away.

“Look, I don't know what you've come here disturbing my rest for,” he said. “I've not done anything wrong.”

“Spare us the poor, wronged-youth act, Danny. You spent last night peddling your wares in the pubs on York Road and South Market Street, then you ended up at a party on the East Side Estate.”

Danny first looked puzzled, then affronted. “You've been
watching
me?”

“Someone else has. I wouldn't waste my time. Listen, Danny, how about if I tell you we're not drugs squad and this isn't about drugs? Not really. We don't
have
to search the flat, but we can if you like.”

“Look, you told me…”

“I told you what, Danny?”

“Never mind.”

“I've never spoken to you before in my life,” Banks said, gently easing Danny's arm out of the way and walking into the flat. The living room was a mess, with clothes and CD cases strewn around the place, but at least it was clean and didn't smell of smoke, or worse. There was a big poster of Bob Marley smoking a spliff on one wall, probably the closest Danny Boy had ever got to Jamaica, and a few sad-
looking potted plants on the windowsill, none of them marijuana.

“Just a few questions, Danny, that's all.”

“I've always cooperated with you in the past, haven't I?”

“Like I said, I've never clapped eyes on you before in my life, but I'm sure your conduct has been exemplary,” Banks said. “Let's keep it that way. Perhaps you might answer one or two little questions? Mind if we sit down?”

Danny looked suspicious, as well he might, and nodded toward two winged armchairs. He scratched his head. “You're not going to trick me, you know,” he said. “I wasn't born yesterday.”

“No,” said Annie, making herself comfortable. “You were born on the ninth of August, 1982. We know that. We know plenty about you, Danny.”

Danny was still standing, hopping from foot to foot. “Look,” he said, “it's cold. Can I put the fire on and get dressed?”

“Course you can,” said Banks. “It
is
a bit nippy in here.”

Danny turned on the gas fire and headed to the bedroom to get dressed. Banks followed him. “What you doing?” Danny asked.

“Just routine,” said Banks. “We've sort of developed a habit of not letting suspects out of our sight.”

“
Suspect?
You said this wasn't about drugs.”

“Get dressed, Danny.”

Nadia lay in bed in the half-dark with the sheets and blanket pulled right up to her chin. “What's going on, Danny?” she asked in a whiny voice. “Come back to bed. Please.”

“Go to sleep, Nadia. This won't take long.” Danny pulled on a pair of jeans.

“What were you wearing on Thursday night?” Banks asked.

“Thursday? Dunno. Why?”

“I'd like to see.”

“Whatever it was, it'll likely still be in the laundry basket over there. Nadia takes care of all that shit.” He glared over at Nadia. “When she can be bothered.”

“Oh, Danny…”

The laundry basket was only half full. “Got a plastic bag, Danny?” Banks asked. “A bit bigger than the ones you use for the stuff you sell.”

“Very funny.” Danny reached into the wardrobe and found a bin liner. “This do?”

“Nicely.” Banks filled it with the clothes from the laundry basket, then followed Danny back into the living room, which was warming up a treat now.

When they had all sat down, Banks asked, “Did you hear about the boat fire just south of town?”

“I might have heard something in the pub last night. Why?”

“Two people died in that fire,” said Annie.

“That's a tragedy, but it's nothing to do with me.”

“You think not?” Annie took a folder from her briefcase and opened it on her knees. “We have a statement here from a young lad called Mark Siddons to the effect that you supplied him with heroin for his girlfriend, Tina Aspern. What do you have to say about that, Danny?”

Danny looked mystified. “Look, you
know
I do people little favors like that once in a while. Like I do for you. You know I'm not some big-time drug dealer. I don't understand this. What's going on? You say you're not drugs squad. You said this wasn't about drugs.”

“It isn't, Danny,” Banks explained. “Not exactly. I think I know what you've been trying to say. You're not sure about us, about DI Cabbot and me, so you're being very shy about it, but you've got a nice little deal going with the drugs squad, haven't you? In exchange for information about the big guys from time to time, they leave you alone. You've got protection. You're immune. It's a dangerous game, Danny. Those big guys always seem to find out where the leak is in the end,
and they're not forgiving types. But that's your business. I'm sure you know the risks already. Thing is, you're not immune from me and DI Cabbot here. We've got nothing to do with the drugs squad. We're Major Crimes. What we're concerned about is the fire. It's murder we're investigating, Danny. That's why we want your clothes. Arson, not drugs. Unless there's a connection?”

“That fire was nothing to do with me. I wasn't even near the place. Nadia and me was down in Leeds till yesterday evening.”

“Picking up more smack to sell this weekend?”

Danny scratched one of his underarms. “Seeing some friends.”

“Getting the itch, are you?” Banks asked.

“You don't think I use that shit myself, do you?”

“Look,” Annie said, “did you supply Mark Siddons with heroin for his girlfriend Tina Aspern?”

“I don't know who it was, do I? Wait a minute.” He looked from one to the other. “There was nothing wrong with that shit. Nobody overdosed on that stuff. It was well cut.”

“So you did?”

“Where's this going?”

Annie looked at Banks and raised her eyebrows. Banks took over. “It's serious, Danny,” he said. “You see, Tina Aspern was one of the people who died in that boat fire.”

“I didn't know that. I mean, I hardly even knew her. Poor kid.”

“But if you supplied the heroin, Danny…You see, if she hadn't been under the influence, she might have survived.”

“You're not sticking me with that. No way.” He folded his arms.

“It's a matter of culpability, Danny,” said Banks, stretching the truth and the law quite a bit. “See, if you sold her that stuff and it resulted in her death, even indirectly, then you're responsible. You don't think we'd bring you in just for selling
a bag here and there, do you? This is serious business, Danny. Serious jail time.”

“That's a load of bollocks and you know it,” said Danny. “You must think I'm stupid, or something. I didn't make her shoot the stuff. I didn't even sell it to her. It was him who bought it from me, the boyfriend. He probably stuck the needle in her, too. How does that make me guilty of anything?”

“It's the law.”

“Yeah, well, we'll wait to hear what my brief has to say about that, won't we?” He picked up a mobile phone from the coffee table. Before he could dial a number, Banks slapped it out of his hand and it bounced on the hardwood floor into the corner by the stereo.

“Hey, if you've broken that…” Danny started to rise from his chair but Banks leaned forward, put his hand on the boy's chest and pushed him back. “I haven't finished yet.”

“Now, you wait—”

“No.
You
wait a minute, Danny. Hear me out. What happened? Did Mark and Tina rip you off, or did you figure they had more money stashed away on the boat and you'd go over there and help yourself while they were on the nod? You weren't to know Mark wasn't a user.”

“I never—”

“Did you go down there last night while Tina was stoned and steal the money? Did the man from the next boat see you? Did you get into a scuffle and knock him out? What made you think of the fire, Danny? Was it the bottle of turpentine just sitting there, so inviting? It was very clever of you, by the way, leading us to think the other bloke was the victim. Very clever.”

Danny just sat there shaking his head, jaw open.

“Or maybe it was one of the big guys who found out about your deal with the drugs squad? Was that it? A warning to you, Danny? ‘You'll be next'?”

Banks knew he was winging it, just throwing out the line
and hoping for a bite, and the farther he went, the more he could see that he wasn't going to get one. Danny Boy Corcoran hadn't been near the boats; he hadn't killed Tina Aspern or Thomas McMahon. All he'd done was what he usually did, sell a few quids' worth of low-grade smack to weekend thrill-seekers and, in this case, the boyfriend of a more serious addict. But there was still a chance that he might know
something
.

“What kind of car do you drive?” Banks asked.

“Red Mondeo. Why?”

“Ever heard of an artist called Thomas McMahon? He lived on the next boat.”

“I've never been down there. I don't like water.”

“You didn't sell McMahon heroin, too?”

“No way.”

“How did Mark and Tina find you in the first place?”

“It's not difficult, if you want what they wanted. Word of mouth usually works just fine. Anyway, as it happens, there's this mate in Leeds, said they're all right.”

That was what Mark had told him, Banks remembered. “What's his name?”

“Come off it!”

“His name,” Annie said. “If you don't tell us, Mark Siddons will. His girlfriend's been killed, remember?”

Danny looked from Annie to Banks, then down at the floor. “Benjamin Scott,” he whispered. “And don't tell him I told you. He can be a nasty piece of work, can Benjy.” Danny clutched his stomach. “My guts hurt. Are you nearly finished?”

“Address?” Annie asked.

Danny gave her an address in Gipton. Banks would phone DI Ken Blackstone at Millgarth in Leeds and ask him to check out Mr. Benjamin Scott.

“One more thing, Danny,” Banks said as they stood up to leave.

“What?”

“As of now, you're out of business.”

“What do you mean?”

“You heard.”

“You can't—”

“I can do what I want, Danny. And I will. Let me put it simply: I don't like drug dealers. You'll be watched. Not by me, and not by the drugs squad, but by people I trust. And if anyone sees you dealing smack again you'll be pulled in before your feet can touch the ground. Got it?”

“I don't—”

“And if that doesn't work, pretty soon Benjy and his friends will find out you've been two-timing them with the drugs squad. Is
that
clear enough?”

Danny paled.

“Is it?” Banks pressed.

Danny swallowed and nodded.

At that moment, Nadia walked in again and stood over Danny, rubbing her pale thin arms. “Danny,” she said, “please hurry up. I need something. I need it bad.”

Danny rolled his eyes. “Oh, for fuck's sake.”

Banks and Annie left with their bag of laundry.

 

Mark signed for his belongings: money, penknife, keys and the portable CD player he'd stuck in his pocket with an old David Bowie CD in it, the only CD he had left now. He liked Bowie; the man never stood still long enough for anyone to pigeonhole him; he was always changing, moving on.
Ziggy Stardust. The Thin White Duke
. Maybe Mark would be like that now. When Tina was around, there had been someone worth working for, worth settling down with. But now…what was the point in going on without her?

“What about my clothes?” he asked.

“Not back from the lab yet,” said the custody officer.

“But they've done the tests. They've proved I didn't set the fire. It's cold out there. I'll need my jacket.”

“It's the weekend. These things take time. Try coming back next week. In the meantime…” Withobvious disapproval, the officer brought out a carrier bag from under the desk and handed it over to Mark. “DCI Banks said to give you this.” He gestured with his thumb. “You can change in there.”