Playing with Fire (11 page)

Mark went into the room they used for fingerprinting and photographing suspects and took off his red overalls. Banks's jeans fitted him okay around the waist, but they were a bit long, so he rolled up the bottoms. The sleeves of the old three-quarter-length suede overcoat with the worn fleece lining were also too long, and it was hardly top of the line as far as youth fashion was concerned. Still, it looked warm enough, and it was decent of the copper to remember his promise, Mark thought.

This was all he had now, what he was wearing, borrowed as it was, and what had been in his pockets. He didn't even have any cigarettes left, and given how expensive they were, he probably shouldn't go spending what little money he had left on them. So this was it, then. Oh, there was stuff back at home, of course, if Crazy Nick hadn't destroyed it all. Old clothes, toys, some CDs. But he'd never be going back there. Certainly not now his mum had died of lung cancer, as his Auntie Grace had told him, and there was only Crazy Nick left.

At last he walked through the front doors of the police station to freedom, though it was a freedom blighted by loss and uncertainty. To be honest, Mark wouldn't have complained if they'd locked him up for a bit longer. He'd been warm and well-fed in the nick, and no one had mistreated him. Outside, in the gray Tina-less world, who knew what lay ahead?

A couple of passersby edged around him and looked down their noses, as if they knew exactly where he'd just come from. Well, sod them, he thought, taking a deep breath of cool air. Sod them all.

The copper, Banks, had just come out of the Golden Griddle and was walking across Market Street toward him. “Mark,” he said. “How do they fit?”

“All right,” said Mark. “They'll do for now. I mean, thanks.”

“You're welcome. Just a quick word.”

“What?”

“It might be nothing,” Banks said, “but I've been thinking about the fire, the way it was spread to your boat.”

“And?”

“Well, I don't want to alarm you, but it might have been a sort of shot across the bows, so to speak, a warning shot.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe whoever did it didn't know whether you could identify him or not. Maybe he didn't even know Tina was there, but he was just sending you a message.”

“What message?”

“Not to say anything, or else.”

“But I don't know anything.”

“Are you sure, Mark? Are you certain you didn't get a better look at Tom's visitors?”

“No. I told you the truth.”

“All right,” said Banks. “I believe you. Like I said, I don't want to alarm you, but if he thinks you know who he is, you could be in danger. Go carefully. Keep your eyes open.”

“I can take care of myself,” said Mark.

“Good,” said Banks. “I'm glad to hear it. Just watch your back, that's all.” He gave Mark a card. “And here's my number if you think of anything. Mobile, too.”

Mark took the card and Banks disappeared inside the police station.

It was market day and the canvas-covered stalls were all set up in the cobbled square, chock-a-block with cheap clothes, car accessories, washing-up liquid, batteries, the cheese van, the butcher, the greengrocer, crockery, cutlery,
toys, used books and videos. The older cloth-capped, waxed-jacketed punters milled around with the younger leather-and denim crowd, fingering the goods while barkers shouted out the virtues of their unbreakable tableware or infallible electric bottle openers.

There was nothing Mark wanted at the market, so he set off down the street, hands thrust deep in his pockets, head down, thinking about what Banks had just told him. He'd never realized that
he
might be in danger. Now, though, he looked at everyone with a keener eye, though he didn't really know whom he was looking for. Still, if what Banks had said was right, and if the killer did believe that Mark might have seen him, then he'd better watch himself.

Mark felt something in one of the pockets of Banks's suede overcoat. He pulled it out. A packet of Silk Cut, with two left, and a disposable lighter. What a piece of luck. Mark lit up. At least he had a fag, old and dry as it tasted.

He went through the other pockets to see if Banks had left any money, but all he found was a couple of old parking stubs and a note with “Schoenberg—Gurrelieder—del Mar/Sinopoli” written on it, which meant bugger all to him. Mark had always admitted he wasn't much when it came to the brains department. He was a hard worker, good with his hands, and he'd tackle anything within reason, but when it came to brains and spelling, leave him out of it. The copper must be a brainy fellow if he'd written that, Mark thought. It didn't even look like English. Maybe it was somewhere he went on his holidays. Mark had never been abroad, but he'd probably do that one day, too, he thought. Somewhere really weird like Mongolia. Ulan Bator. He'd seen it on a map in the squat and liked the sound of it.
Ulan Bator
. See, he wasn't so stupid after all.

He put the headphones over his ears and turned on the CD player as he made his way among the Saturday-morning shoppers on South Market Street. Bowie came on singing
“Five Years,” one of Mark's favorites. It was nice to have real music again, better than that fucking drunk singing “Your Cheatin' Heart.” Even so, he felt numb and aimless, as if the music were coming down a long tube from far away. Everything had seemed like that since he knew Tina was dead. He was going through the motions, but really he wasn't going anywhere.

After walking for about half an hour, Mark arrived at the construction site. The outside of the new gym complex was mostly completed, but there was a lot to be done inside—laying the floors, drywalling, fixtures and fittings, plumbing, electrics, painting—and it could all be done in winter, even if the weather was bad. The door was open and Mark went in. Things weren't going full-tilt because it was a Saturday, but a lot of blokes worked weekends—Saturdays, at any rate, to get their jobs done by the deadline.

Inside, the place had the smell of newness about it. Not paint, because that hadn't been applied yet, but just a melange of various things, from new-cut wood to the slightly damp cardboard boxes that things came in, to the sawdust that scattered the floors. Mark used to like the smell, the way he liked the smell of cut stone, but he couldn't say why, only that it sparked something instinctive in him, something beyond words, beyond brains. There was a music to all the activity, too, a unity. Not David Bowie's music, but hammers, drills and electric saws. To some it was noise, but to Mark it used to have pattern and meaning, the pattern and meaning of something being made. A symphony. It made him feel the same way as the music of the sea, which formed the background of some of his only happy childhood memories. He thought he must have been there when he was very young with his mother, before the drinking, before Crazy Nick. He thought it was Scarborough, had a vague memory of the castle on the hill, the waves crashing over the promenade. But he couldn't remember for certain. None of it mattered now, anyway.

Lenny Knox was a subcontractor, a big, burly Liverpudlian with a face like red sandpaper, who usually worked every day God sent until the job was done. Sure enough, he was having a smoke by what were to be the showers and locker rooms when Mark came over. Vinnie Daly, one of his other workmates, put down his spanner when he saw Mark.

“Where you been, mate?” Lenny asked. “We was worried sick when we heard about the fire, weren't we, Vinnie? They wouldn't say on the news who got hurt, like. You all right?”

“I'm all right,” said Mark. “Police took me in, didn't they? Kept me overnight.”

“The bastards.”

“It wasn't so bad.”

“What about your young lass?”

Mark looked down at the unfinished floor. “She's dead, Lenny.”

“Oh, no,” said Lenny, touching Mark on the shoulder. “Poor wee devil. I'm sorry, son, really I am. She were a nice lass.”

Mark looked at him, holding back the tears. “I wasn't there, Lenny. I wasn't there for her.”

“It's not your fault, what happened. Look, if you need somewhere to kip, you know, for a couple of days, like, I'm sure my Sal won't mind.”

“You sure, Lenny? 'Cos I've got nowhere else to go right now.”

“Yeah, it's okay. Look, you don't want to be here today. Take yourself off, if you like, and come round to ours later.”

“No. I want to work. What else would I do? Where would I go? Besides, it'll take my mind off things for a while at least. And I need the money.” The last was certainly true, but whether work would take his mind off his problems, Mark didn't know. How could anything stop him from thinking about Tina?

Lenny looked down at him. “Of course,” he said. “Of course. Right. Look, why don't you pick up those showerheads over there and come with me.”

 

Late Saturday morning, after warning Mark Siddons and setting a slowly recovering DS Hatchley the task of digging into the boy's background, Banks headed for Adel again. Maria Phillips, true to her word, had left him the catalog and the names of three local artists whose openings Thomas McMahon had attended in Eastvale over the past five years. Unfortunately, there was no photograph of McMahon in the catalog. Apparently, people were not particularly interested in what artists looked like unless they painted self-portraits.

Banks wanted another crack at Dr. Patrick Aspern, without his wife present this time, if possible, and with the gloves off. Aspern wasn't off his suspect list yet, not by a long chalk.

As Banks drove, he listened to Bob Dylan singing about being in Mississippi for a day too long and thought he knew the feeling. Not so much being in Yorkshire too long—he was still happy there—but staying with something or someone until long after you should have left, let go, when it all falls to pieces and the real damage gets done.

He pulled up outside the Tudor-style house, and this time Patrick Aspern himself answered the door, casually dressed in gray trousers, white shirt and a mauve V-neck sweater. He looked as if he was dressed for a round of golf, and he probably was. Banks suspected there would be no surgery on weekends.

“My wife's lying down,” said Dr. Aspern, clearly surprised to see Banks back so soon. “This has all been a great shock to her, you know, especially seeing Christine, the state the body was in. If only she'd listened to me, at least she might have been spared that.”

“A shock to you, too, I should imagine?” said Banks. “I mean, Christine's death.”

“Yes, of course. But we men realize we have to get on with our jobs, don't we? Can't afford to dwell on our emotions the way women do. Anyway, I can't imagine how I can help you, but do come in.”

Banks followed him into the same room he had been in the previous day. The clock ticking on the mantelpiece was the only sound.

“Have you found anything out yet?” Aspern asked.

“Not much, I'm afraid,” said Banks. “We do know that the man on the other boat was an artist called Thomas McMahon, and that he was most likely the intended victim. Have you ever met him or heard of him?”

“McMahon? Can't say as I have.”

“I'd like to talk to you about Mark Siddons a bit more,” Banks said.

Aspern's expression darkened. “If anyone's responsible for what happened to Christine, it's him,” he said. “I've been thinking about it. If he'd been with her, as he should have been, she'd be alive today. He knew she was ill, for crying out loud, knew she needed taking care of.”

“I thought you didn't like the idea of their being together?”

“That's not the point. If he was supposed to be with her, he should have been there. He knew she wasn't capable of looking after herself properly. Where was he, anyway?”

Banks was damned if he was going to tell Patrick Aspern that Mark had been in bed with Mandy Patterson at the time of the fire. “His alibi's been checked,” was all he said. “I take it your surgery is attached to the house?”

Aspern looked surprised by the abrupt change of subject. “Yes. Actually, it was two houses knocked into one. I know it's rather old-fashioned, but people around here like it. It's so much more civilized than some anonymous clinic. That's one of the reasons we bought the houses in the first place.”

“Pretty expensive proposition.”

“Not that it's any of your business, but Fran's father helped us out.”

“I see. Very nice of him. Anyway, what I'm getting at is that Christine
could
have had access to drugs here, couldn't she? They were in the house, after all.”

Aspern crossed his legs and tugged at the crease of his trousers. “As I told you last time, I keep everything in my surgery under lock and key. The surgery itself is also securely locked when I'm not there.”

“Yes, but presumably the keys are somewhere around?”

“On my key chain. In my pocket.”

“So they're always with you?”

“Well, almost always. I mean…not when I'm asleep or in the bath…”

“So Christine could have got access, for example, while you were asleep, or out somewhere?”

“I'd have my keys with me if I was out.”

“But there is a possibility, isn't there? She could even have had copies made.”

“I suppose there's the possibility. But it didn't happen.”

“Did you ever notice any drugs missing from your surgery? Specifically morphine?”

“No. And, believe me, I would have noticed.”

“Didn't you ever notice anything unusual about Christine's behavior while she was living at home?”

“No, not particularly. She seemed tired, listless, spent a lot of time alone, in bed. You know teenagers. They seem to need sixteen hours' sleep a day. To be honest, I didn't even see that much of her.”

“But you're a
doctor
. You're trained to spot signs other people might miss.”