Playing with Fire (24 page)

“I know what Tuinal is, Stefan. It's a form of barbiturate.”

“Yes. It's not prescribed very often these days.”

“We know who Gardiner's doctor is. We can make inquiries. He's the one who had more to drink, too?”

“Yes. Just thought you'd like to know.”

“Interesting,” said Banks. “I wonder why?”

“Search me. One more thing,” said Stefan as Banks walked toward the door.

Banks paused and turned. “Yes?”

“The tire tracks are consistent in all their dimensions with those of a Jeep Cherokee, and if you ever find a suspect, he was wearing Nike trainers with a very distinctive pattern of crisscross abrasions on the right heel.”

As Banks left the office, he had a mental image of McMahon in his cabin and Gardiner in his caravan, each welcoming an old friend, chatting, making plans for whatever it was that was going to make their fortunes, drinking to it, then after a while starting to feel drowsy, finding it hard to move. At which point their faceless killer splashes turpentine or petrol about the place, drops a match and leaves. Couldn't be easier.

Or crueler.

“I
'm Clive,” said the driver.

“Mark.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mark.”

“Likewise. And thanks for the lift.”

“My pleasure.” Clive turned and flashed Mark a quick smile. “I'd stop awhile so we could admire the view when we get to the top, but I'm afraid we wouldn't see much today.”

They were climbing the winding road up Sutton Bank now, the Audi moving easily despite the one on five and one on four gradients. The higher they got, the mistier it became, as if they were ascending into the very clouds themselves. Mark's ears started to feel funny. He was enjoying the warm, plush interior of the car.

Sutton Bank forms the western edge of the North York Moors, and when you get high up, you can look back over your shoulder and see all the way from the Vale of York to the Dales. Only on a clear day, of course.

When they finally crested the top after about a mile or so, Mark managed a quick look behind and saw nothing but vague shapes through a gray veil. Ahead was mostly rough moorland, similarly mist-shrouded. It was an eerie landscape, and the occasional sheep that materialized out of thin
air only made it seem eerier. Sheep gave Mark the creeps. He didn't know why, but they did.

“What do you do, Mark?” Clive asked.

“I'm looking for work.”

“What sort of work?”

“Restoration. Old buildings. Churches and stuff.”

“That's interesting. Where do you live?”

“Eastvale,” Mark said. It was the first thing that came to his mind.

“Lovely town,” said Clive. “Have you got a girlfriend?”

Mark said nothing, thought of Tina, the way she had looked at him from the TV screen. He felt his heart shrivel in his chest.

Clive turned and flashed him another quick smile. Mark didn't like the way he did that. He didn't know why, just a feeling.

“A handsome, strong lad like you surely must have a pretty girlfriend?” Clive went on. He patted Mark's knee, and Mark stiffened instinctively.

“It's all right, you know,” Clive said. “You can be frank with me. I'm a doctor. Look, I know you young people today. You're always at it, aren't you? I do hope you practice safe sex, Mark.”

Mark said nothing. He was thinking of another doctor, Patrick Aspern, and how he'd like to smash the bastard's face in. He was aware of Clive chuntering on beside him, but he wasn't really paying much attention. He just hoped they'd get to Scarborough soon. The sea.

“…very important to be circumcised, you know,” Clive went on. “I know it's not always fashionable, but it's much more hygienic. There are plenty of germs around that part of your body, you know, Mark. Your penis. And smegma. It's nasty stuff. Circumcision is much better all around.”

“What?”

“Weren't you listening?” Clive glanced over at Mark. “I'm
talking about circumcision. It doesn't have to be painful, you know. Look, I've got some cream in the boot that will numb all feeling, like the dentist gives you, only it's not an injection. If you like, we could pull over into a lay-by and I can do it for you right now.”

His hand slid over into Mark's lap, groping for his penis. Mark lashed out with his left fist and caught Clive a hard blow on the side of his head. Clive gasped and the car started to snake along the road. Mark hit him again, this time connecting with soft tissue near his nose and drawing blood. Then he did it again and thought he felt a tooth crack.

Clive barely had control of the wheel now. He was trying to talk, pleading, calling Mark a maniac, blood dribbling with the saliva from his mouth. But Mark couldn't stop. He wasn't even looking to see if there were any cars coming the other way; he just kept on pummeling at Clive, seeing Crazy Nick and Patrick Aspern and everyone who had ever hurt him.

Finally, they came to a sharp bend, and Clive had to slow down. He barely managed to change down in time, and as he gave all his attention to keeping control of the wheel, Mark slipped his hand into Clive's inside pocket, grabbed his wallet, then opened the passenger door and leaped out, rolling on the wet grass by the side of the road. A little dazed, he sat up ready to run, but he was just in time to watch Clive reach over and pull the door shut, then speed off into the mist. When the sound of the car's engine had faded, Mark was left with nothing but the occasional baaing of a distant sheep to break the silence in the gathering dark.

 

Banks was pleased to find the mercury pushing nine or ten as he walked down Market Street toward the main Eastvale Fire Station, where Geoff Hamilton had his office. January had been quite a month for ups and downs in temperature. He unbuttoned his overcoat, but he still felt a little too warm. The
whiskey-soaked strains of Cesaria Evora came from the headphones of his portable CD player.

As he walked past the end of the street where he used to live with Sandra, Tracy and Brian, Banks couldn't resist the temptation to walk up to the old house and see how much it had changed. He stood by the low garden wall and looked at the front window. It hadn't changed. Not much. The curtains were closed, but he could see the flickering light of a television set in the living room. The most surprising thing was the “For Sale” sign on the lawn. So the new owners were selling already. Maybe it wasn't a happy home. But how many innocuous-looking houses on innocent streets ever were? Inner-city slums and tower blocks hadn't cornered the market in human misery yet.

Banks arrived at the fire station, put away his CD player and went inside. Two of the firefighters on shift were working on equipment maintenance, another was doing paperwork, and two were playing table tennis.

Banks tapped on Geoff Hamilton's office door and entered. Hamilton ran his hand across his hair and bade Banks sit down. Certificates hung on the wall, and an old-fashioned fireman's helmet rested on top of the filing cabinet. Hamilton's desk was tidy except for the papers he was working on.

“Report to the coroner,” he said, noticing Banks looking at the papers. “What can I do for you?”

“Anything new?”

“Nothing yet.”

“Look, Geoff,” said Banks, “I know you don't like to commit yourself, but off-the-record, I'd just like to get some sense of motive, whether you think we're dealing with a serial arsonist here, if we can expect more of this sort of thing. Or might there be some other reason for what's happening around here?”

Banks noticed a hint of a smile pass over Hamilton's taci
turn features. “And what would your guess be? Off-the-record.”

“I don't know. That's why I'm here.”

“You've uncovered no links between the victims yet?”

“We're working on it.”

Hamilton rubbed his eyes. They had dark bags under them, Banks noticed. “What if you don't find any?”

“Then perhaps we're dealing with someone who just likes to start fires, and he's choosing relatively easy targets. Someone with a grudge against down-and-outs.” Andrew Hurst came to Banks's mind, partly because of the way he seemed to disapprove of the narrow-boat squatters. “But I'm not sure if that's the case.”

“Why not?” asked Hamilton.

“According to the toxicology results, both Roland Gardiner and Thomas McMahon were dosed with Rohypnol before the fires started.”

“The glasses we found at the scene?”

“Most likely they contained alcohol, into which the drug had been introduced.”

“And the girl?”

“We're pretty sure that Christine Aspern was high on heroin. Anyway, leaving Tina out of it for the moment, it looks as if both male victims admitted the killer to their homes and probably accepted a drink from him. If he didn't want to get rid of them for a reason, then he was doing it just for fun. What can you tell me about motivation in cases like this?”

“Fancy a coffee?”

“Wouldn't mind,” said Banks. He followed Hamilton into the large, well-appointed kitchen, a white-tiled room complete with oven, fridge, microwave and automatic coffeemaker. A cook came in on weekdays and made the firefighters a meal, and the rest of the time they brought their own food or took it in turns to cook.

Hamilton poured the coffees into two large white mugs, adding a heap of sugar to his own, then they went back to his office and sat down. The coffee tasted good to Banks, dark and strong.

“As you know,” Hamilton began, “there are plenty of motives for arson. Probably the most common is sheer spite, or revenge.”

Banks knew this. About ninety percent of the arson cases he had been involved in during his career—including the very worst, the one that haunted him whenever the thought of fire raised its ugly head—arose out of one human being's disproportionate malice and rage directed toward another.

“These can vary between simple domestic disputes, such as a lover's quarrel, and problems in the workplace, or racial or religious confrontations.”

“Is there any kind of profile involved in these sort of fires that compares to ours?”

“Well,” said Hamilton, “they can be set by any age group, they're usually set at night, and they generally involve available combustibles or flammable liquids. Three out of three isn't bad.”

“Aren't most fires set at night?”

“Not necessarily, but more often than not, yes.”

“So what other possibilities do we have?”

“There's always the simple profit motive. You know, insurance frauds, eliminating the competition, that sort of thing. That's probably the next most common motive. But these weren't commercial fires.”

“Not the caravan, certainly. It belonged to Gardiner. But I suppose the boats were commercial properties, to some extent,” Banks said. “We've traced the owner and I'll be talking to him tomorrow. Even so, I can see someone burning empty boats for the insurance, but not deliberately drugging Thomas McMahon and setting fire to him in order to do so.”

“Lives are often lost in commercial fires,” Hamilton ar
gued. “Often by accident—the arsonist didn't know there was anyone in the building—but sometimes deliberately. A nosy night watchman, say.”

“Point taken,” said Banks. “And we'll try to keep an open mind. What about pyromania as a motive?”

“Well, first of all you should bear in mind that pyromaniacs are extremely rare, and they're usually between fifteen and twenty.”

“Mark Siddons is twenty-one,” Banks said.

“I wouldn't rule him out, then. Anyway, they generally use whatever combustible comes to hand. I mean, they don't plan their fires. And there's no particular pattern in the kind of places they burn, or even where they strike. They're impulsive and often act for some sort of sexual gratification. The main problem here is that I can't see a pyromaniac doping or knocking someone out
before
starting a fire. They're usually loners and shun social company. Contrary to rumor, they don't usually stay at the scene, either. They'll be long gone by the time the fire brigade arrives. It's starting the fire gives them their thrill, not watching firefighters put it out.”

“Any chance it was a woman?”

“There
are
female pyromaniacs,” Hamilton said. “But they're even rarer. Oddly enough, they usually set their fires in daylight. They also set them fairly close to their own homes, often don't use accelerant, and they generally start small fires.”

“I suppose we men like to start bigger ones?” said Banks.

“It would seem so.” Hamilton sipped some coffee. “You know, I don't like to say it, but all these profiles are pretty much…well, I won't say a load of bollocks, they have been of some use to us on occasion, but they're pretty vague when you get right down to it.”

“Under twenty-five, loner, bed wetter, harsh family background, absent father, domineering mother, not too bright,
problems at school, problems at work, can't handle relationships.”

“Exactly what I mean. Fits any sociopath you'd care to point out. From all that, you'd think we'd be able to spot them
before
they strike.”

“Oh, we can,” said Banks. “We just can't do anything about it until they commit a crime. Anyway, I'm inclined to dismiss the pyromaniac in this case. I mean, from what you've seen, would you call these fires impulsive?”

“No. But there are also vanity fires, you know,” Hamilton went on. “Someone wants to draw attention to himself through an act of heroism. Those are the sort of blokes who stick around and watch, or even help out.”

“There weren't any heroes here, except the firefighters. Andrew Hurst hung around for a while, but he didn't get close enough to be a hero.”

“What about the boy you found at the scene of the first fire?”

“Mark Siddons?”

“Yes.”

“He hung around because his girlfriend was on one of the boats. His alibi held and his clothing and hands checked out clean. He also didn't have anywhere nearby he could have gone and cleaned up or changed. All his belongings, including his clothes, perished in the fire. I don't know, Geoff. I'm inclined to believe his story. Even so, he could have acted out of anger, I suppose, and covered his traces somehow. I just can't see the girl, Mandy, giving him an alibi if he wasn't, in fact, there. Annie said she had a tough enough time getting her to admit to having Mark in her bed in the first place. Didn't want to be known as ‘that kind of a girl.' We could talk to her again. I don't suppose you found any trace of a timing device?”

“Not yet. But we're still sifting through the debris. Is it possible that the boy drugged McMahon, if that is indeed what happened, but someone else set the fire?”

“Possible,” said Banks, “but highly unlikely, wouldn't you say? Don't forget, someone drugged Gardiner, too.”

“Could that also have been the boy?”