Playing with Fire (20 page)

“Bloody hell,” he said, “I'd better ring Annie.”

 

“I don't think your boss likes me very much,” Phil Keane said to Annie that evening. They were at her place and were just finishing a light evening meal of pasta primavera, neither being terribly hungry after their big lunch.

Annie poured them each another glass of Sainsbury's Montepulciano D'Abruzzo. “What makes you say that?” she asked.

“Oh, I don't know. Just a feeling. Do you think he might be jealous?”

Annie felt herself blush. She hadn't told Phil about her and Banks. “Why would he be?”

“Maybe he's got designs on you himself?”

“Don't be silly.” Annie drank some wine rather too quickly and it went down the wrong way. Along with her cold, that set her coughing. Phil brought her a glass of water and watched her concernedly as she took a few seconds to get it under control.

“Okay?” he said.

“Fine. Look, Alan and I, we…well…”

Phil looked at her, interested.

“Do I have to spell it out?”

“Of course not,” Phil said. “And I'm sorry for bringing it up. You could have told me sooner, though. It's not as if I expected you to have lived the life of a nun, you know.”

“You didn't?”

“Well,
I
certainly haven't. The life of a monk, I mean.”

“You haven't?”

“No.”

“Anyway, it was a while ago.”

“It just surprises me, that's all.”

“Why?”

“I don't know,” Phil said. “I suppose because he doesn't seem your type.”

“What
is
my type?”

“I don't know. He just…what's he like?”

“What do you mean?”

“What did you like about him?”

“Alan? Well, he's fun to be with. Most of the time, at any rate. He loves music, likes single malt whiskey, has tolerable taste in films, apart from an unfortunate fondness for action adventure stuff—you know, James Bond, Arnold Schwarzenegger and dreadful macho stuff like that. Which is odd because he's not really a macho kind of bloke. I mean
he's sensitive, kind, compassionate, and he's got a good sense of humor.”

“Did you live together?”

Annie laughed. “No. I stayed in my little hovel at the center of the Harkside labyrinth, as he used to put it, and he's got a lovely little cottage near Gratly. He's a bit of a loner, actually, so it suits him quite well.”

“What went wrong?”

“I don't know. It just didn't work out. Too much baggage. Alan's recently divorced, and his family's still on his mind a lot. It just didn't work out. Oh, we work well together. That's not a problem. Except…”

“What?”

“Well, you know. Sometimes you can't help but be aware of your history. It can make things difficult. But it's manageable. And he's a good boss. Gives me a lot of freedom. Respects my opinions.”

“About those fires?”

“About anything.”

“And what are your opinions?”

“I don't have any yet. Early days.”

“You're not comfortable talking about your work with me, I can see. I'm sorry.”

Annie reached out and squeezed his arm. “Oh, it's all right,” she said. “To tell the truth, I was just getting used to having no one to talk to outside the station. I do have to exercise some discretion, but it's not as if I've signed the Official Secrets Act or anything. Anyway, as I said, I don't have any theories yet. Not enough evidence. All we know is that they seem to be the work of an arsonist. Which is hardly a bloody secret.” She wasn't going to tell Phil about the Turner and the money that Banks had phoned her about just yet, not until she had talked to Banks about possibly getting Phil involved as a consultant.

“Not even the tiniest suspicion?”

“I could hardly tell you if I suspected someone, could I?”

“Then you
have
signed the Official Secrets Act?”

Annie laughed and topped up her glass. She felt a little tipsy, but it had been a long weekend, and she was still fighting off the remnants of her cold. “It's like doctors and patients,” she said.

“Until your suspect is arrested?”

“Ah, then the rules change, yes. Look, you haven't told me how long you're staying up north this time.”

“I don't know,” said Phil. “It's fairly quiet at the office, but something could come up and I might get called back.”

“A suspicious Sickert, perhaps? Or a dodgy Degas?”

Phil laughed. “Something like that. Look, do you fancy a weekend in New York?”

“New York!” Annie had never been to America. She and Phil had been to Paris in September, and she'd had a hard time getting him to let her pay her own way. She didn't think she could afford New York, and she didn't want him to pay.

“Yes. Next weekend. Business, mostly, I'm afraid. I've a few gallery owners and dealers to meet with. But we could take in a Broadway show, dinner later.”

“I'm not sure I'd be able to get away next weekend.”

“The case?”

“Yes. And there's the money…”

“Oh, don't worry about that. It's a business trip. On the company.”

“Both of us?”

“Of course. You'd be my security adviser.”

Annie laughed and carried their empty dishes over to the kitchen sink. “It sounds wonderful, but…”

“Tell me you'll at least think about it.”

“I'll think about it.” Annie sensed Phil behind her before she felt his hands on her hips and his lips nuzzle the hollow between her neck and shoulder. She wriggled and he circled
his arms around, holding her to him tightly enough so she could feel his erection pressing at the base of her spine. She couldn't help but experience a moment of fear and panic as she felt his hardness against her. Images of the rape of three years ago flashed through her mind and set her nerves on edge. But she had learned to control the emotions and, if not to enjoy sex as fully as she might, at least not to run away from it.

“Leave those dishes for now,” Phil said, loosening his grip.

Annie turned to face him, surprised to feel the panic dissipating so quickly, the warmth spreading like wetness between her legs, her knees weak. It hadn't been like this with Alan, she thought, then felt ashamed for making the comparison. Phil put his arms around her and she smiled up at him. “Okay,” she said. “Stay the night?”

“I don't have my toothbrush.”

Annie laughed and buried her face in the soft cotton of his shirt. “Oh, I think I've got an unused one in the bathroom,” she said.

“In that case…” Phil said. He let his arms fall by his side, then Annie took him by the hand and led him toward the stairs.

A
nnie looked pleased with herself on Monday morning, and Banks guessed it wasn't entirely to do with her job. She sat down opposite him in his office and crossed her legs. She was wearing tight black jeans and a red shirt made of some silky sort of material, which seemed to whisper when she moved. Her hair looked tousled, and her cold seemed to be on the wane. There was a glow about her that Banks wasn't sure he liked.

“Anyway,” she said, “I talked to Roland Gardiner's ex-employer and it seems as if Roland was playing a minor variation on the long firm fraud.”

“Was he, indeed?” A long firm fraud involves setting up a fraudulent company—easy enough to do these days with computer software—and acquiring goods or services without paying. A true long firm fraud takes a long time to get going—hence its name—and requires a bit of capital. You first have to pay your bills promptly to gain the trust of the companies you purchase from. “How did he manage that?” Banks asked. “I thought you told me his ex-wife said he never had a penny to spare.”

“He didn't. That was the beauty of it. He bought from himself.”

“What do you mean?”

“From the company he worked for. Office products. Good market. Easy to get rid of. Gave himself a nice line of credit and took it from there. He didn't need to establish trust over a long period.”

“He can't have made much,” Banks said.

“He didn't. I think that's what bothered his ex-wife, too. I get the impression that if he'd made a bit more money she wouldn't have minded too much where he got it from.”

“What happened when his boss found out?”

“Offered the honorable way out. Pay back and resign. No police. Seems he was well liked enough around the office.”

“So where does this get us?” Banks asked, talking to himself as much as to Annie.

“Well,” Annie answered. “We've got a dead art forger, and now it seems as if the second victim was a different kind of fraudster. And he had a Turner watercolor and about fifteen hundred quid in a fire-resistant safe. It seems like too much of a coincidence to me. Whatever it was, they must have been in it together.”

“Sounds logical,” said Banks. “But what? And what's the link between them? How did they know one another?”

“I can't answer those questions yet,” said Annie. “Not enough information. But if there's a link, we'll find it. What interests me right now is who else was involved.”

“The third man?”

“Yes. Someone killed them.”

“Unless they fell out and Gardiner killed McMahon.”

“Still doesn't explain who killed Gardiner.”

“His ex? Her new husband?”

“Possible,” said Annie.

“But unlikely?”

“In my opinion. What about Leslie Whitaker?”

“He's another possibility,” said Banks. “I'm not entirely
convinced that he didn't know exactly what McMahon was up to. I think we should have another crack at him, anyway. Let's have him in, this time.”

“Good idea.” Annie paused. “Alan, about this Turner…?”

“Yes?”

“I was just wondering, before we do anything else, you know, if we should perhaps bring Phil in, let him have a look at it? After all, it is his line of expertise.”

“I think we'd be better going through correct channels,” said Banks, feeling about as stiff and formal as he sounded.

“That's not like you,” Annie said. “Besides, it could take ages. Phil might be able to tell us something useful right away.”

“Don't forget there's Ken Blackstone,” said Banks. “He's got a strong background in art forgery.”

“But he's West Yorkshire,” Annie argued. “And that was ages ago. Phil knows the business, and he's here right now.”

“I gathered that,” said Banks.

Annie's mouth tightened. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Only that I think we should go through official channels.”

“Oh, for crying out loud, we use consultants all the bloody time. What about that psychologist? The redhead who fancies you?”

Banks felt himself flush, partly with anger and partly with embarrassment. “You mean Dr. Fuller? She's a professional psychologist, a trained criminal profiler.”

“Whatever. Phil's a trained art authenticator.”

“We don't know
what
Phil is. You've hardly known him five minutes.”

“You know what your problem is?” Annie said, running her hand through her hair. “You're bloody jealous, that's what it is. You're playing dog in the manger. What you can't have, nobody else should get either, right?”

“He can have you as much and as often as he wants, for all I care,” said Banks, “but I won't compromise this investigation because of your private life.”

“Oh, pull the carrot out of your arse, Alan. Can you hear yourself? Do you have any idea what you sound like?”

Banks felt as if he'd taken a wrong turn and the brick wall was looming dead ahead. “Look…” he began, but Annie cut in, after a deep breath.

“All I'm saying is let him have a look at the Turners, that's all,” she said, softening her tone. “If you're worried he's going to run off with them, you can chain them to your wrist.”

“Don't be absurd. I'm not worried about anything of the kind.”

“Then what is your objection? What can it possibly be?”

“He's an unknown quantity.” Banks felt that his objections were inadequate, and he knew he was well on the defensive, partly because he also knew he was acting irrationally, out of jealousy, and he didn't know how to get out of the situation without admitting it.

“I know him,” Annie said. “And I can vouch for him. He knows his business, Alan. He's no dilettante.”

Banks thought for a moment. He knew he had to give in gracefully, knew that he'd brushed against dangerous ground indeed during their little exchange. Much as he didn't like the idea of bringing Annie's boyfriend into the investigation, it was certainly true that Phil Keane might be able to help them with the art forgery angle, had in fact helped them already in elaborating on the possible reasons why McMahon had bought useless old books and prints from Whitaker. Besides, he
was
objecting because he was jealous, and that was unprofessional.

“All right,” he said. “I'll put it to Detective Superintendent Gristhorpe. I can't be fairer than that.”

“
You'll
put it to him? Are you sure you won't put it to him the way you've just put it to me?”

“Annie, this stops now. Okay? I said I'll put it to him. Take it or leave it.”

Annie glared at Banks, then she snatched up her files. “Fine,” she said. “I'll take it. You put it to him.”

 

“Look, what's all this about?” said Leslie Whitaker, clearly uncomfortable to find himself on the receiving end of a police interrogation. “You've kept me waiting over an hour. I've got a business to run.”

“Sorry about that, Mr. Whitaker,” said Banks, arranging his folders neatly on the desk in front of him. They were in interview room two, which was hardly any different from interview rooms one and three, except that it let in even less light from the high, grille-covered window. Banks had brought DS Hatchley in to assist. Annie was digging up more background on Roland Gardiner, then she would be going to see Phil Keane with the Turners. Besides, she and Banks were barely speaking, and that was not conducive to the teamwork required for a successful interview.

“Can you get on with it, then?” said Whitaker, tapping his left hand against the desk. His foot was jumping, too, Banks noticed. Nervous, then. Something to hide? Or just angry?

Banks glanced at Hatchley, who raised his eyebrows.
“Get on with it?”
Hatchley repeated. “It's not often we get someone telling us to get on with it, is it, sir?”

“That's true,” said Banks. “Still, we'll do as you say, Mr. Whitaker, and get on with it. If you've nothing to hide, and if you're truthful with us, you'll be opening up that shop again in no time.”

Whitaker leaned back in the chair. He was wearing a beige jacket over a dark blue polo-neck sweater. Banks tried to match him with the description he had of McMahon's visitor from Mark Siddons, but all he could conclude was that the
description was vague enough to fit Whitaker and a hundred or more others.

“When we talked to you the other day,” Banks said, “you told us that you sold books and prints on occasion to Thomas McMahon.”

“Yes. I did. So what?”

“Do you know why he wanted them?”

“I already told you, I had no idea.”

“I think you do, Mr. Whitaker.”

Whitaker's eyes narrowed. “Oh?”

“Yes,” said Banks. “Want to know what I think? I think you deliberately sought out certain books and prints for Thomas McMahon, at his request.”

Whitaker folded his arms. “Why would I do that?”

“You're an art dealer, aren't you?”

“In a small way, yes, I suppose so. More of a local agent, really.”

“And you probably know a bit about forgery.”

“Now, hang on a minute. What are you suggesting?”

Banks repeated the lecture he'd first heard from Phil Keane about the re-use of old endpapers and prints. Whitaker listened, making a very bad job of pretending he hadn't a clue what Banks was talking about.

“I still don't see what any of this has to do with me,” he said, when Banks had finished.

“Oh, come off it,” said Hatchley. “You were in it together. You and McMahon. You supplied him with the right sort of materials, he turned out the forgeries, you sold them, and then you split the profits. Only he got greedy, threatened to expose you.”

“That's ridiculous. I did no such thing.”

“Well, you must admit,” said Banks, “that it all looks a bit dodgy from where I'm sitting.”

“I can't help it if you have a suspicious nature. It must be your job.”

Banks smiled. “The job. Yes, it does tend to make one a little less ready to accept the sort of bollocks you've been dishing out so far. Why don't you just admit it, Leslie? You had something going with McMahon.”

Whitaker faltered a moment, but kept quiet.

“Maybe you didn't kill him,” Banks went on. “But you know something. You knew why he wanted those books and prints, and I'll bet he paid
above
the odds for them. Your cut, nicely bypassing the taxman. What was Roland Gardiner's role?”

“I don't know who you're talking about.”

“Come off it, Leslie. Roland Gardiner. He died in a caravan fire in Jennings Field on Saturday night.”

“And you think I…?”

“That's what I'm asking. Because if you didn't kill him, and if you didn't kill McMahon, then maybe you're next.”

Whitaker turned pale. “You can't mean that. Why would you say that?”

“Stands to reason,” said Hatchley. “These things happen when thieves fall out.”

“I am
not
a thief.”

“Just a figure of speech,” Hatchley went on. “See, if you weren't the ringleader, as you swear you weren't, then you were just one of the underlings, and two of them are dead. See what I mean? Stands to reason.”

“No,” said Whitaker, regaining his composure. “It doesn't stand to reason at all. Your whole premise is rubbish, absolute rubbish. I've done nothing.”

“Except supply Thomas McMahon with the paper necessary for his forgeries,” said Banks.

“I didn't know what he was doing with the damn stuff.”

“We think you did.”

Whitaker folded his arms again. “Well, that's your problem.”

“No. It's yours. What kind of car do you drive?”

“A Jeep. Why?”

“What kind of Jeep?”

“A Cherokee. Four-wheel drive. I live out Lyndgarth way. The roads can be bad.”

A Jeep Cherokee was close enough to a Range Rover or any other kind of four-wheel drive station wagon for Banks, especially when the cars had only been spotted through the woods by people who had little knowledge of the various shapes and forms the vehicles took. “Color?”

“Black.”

Again, close enough to dark blue. “Where were you last Thursday evening?”

“At home.”

“Where's that?”

“Lyndgarth, as I said.”

“Alone?”

“Yes. I'm recently divorced, if you must know.”

“Not much of an alibi, is it?” Hatchley cut in.

Whitaker looked at him. “I wasn't aware I'd be needing one.”

“That's what they all say.”

“Now, look—”

“All right, Mr. Whitaker,” said Banks, “you can argue with my sergeant later. We've got more important matters to cover right now. Where were you on Saturday evening?”

“Saturday? I…”

“Yes?”

Whitaker thought for a moment, then he looked at Banks, triumphant. “I was at a dinner in Harrogate. Yorkshire booksellers. We get together every month, about ten of us. They'll all vouch for me.”

“What time did you arrive?”

“Eight o'clock.”

Banks felt his hopes wane. If Whitaker really was with nine other people at eight o'clock Saturday, and the fire started around eight forty-five, it seemed to let him off. Espe
cially as it took at least an hour to drive from Lyndgarth to Harrogate. But watertight alibis, in Banks's experience, were made to be broken.

“We will check, you know.”

“Go ahead,” said Whitaker. “Do you want their names? The others?”

“You can give them to Detective Sergeant Hatchley later.”

“I don't see that we have anything more to talk about, do you?”

“Plenty,” said Banks. “I still want to know what role Gardiner played in all this, and why he had to die, too.”