Playing with Fire (25 page)

“He was in the vicinity of Jennings Field at the right time,” Banks admitted, “but there's no trace of a motive. Don't worry, though, we'll keep him on our list of suspects. I'm hoping to have another chat with him soon, when we find him.”

“You let him go missing?”

“We had no reason to keep him locked up. He had an altercation with a friend and hoofed it. We'll find him. Okay?”

Hamilton put up his hands in mock surrender. “All right. All right.”

Banks smiled. “So what's left as far as motive is concerned?”

“Well, there are fires started to conceal a crime.”

“Which is also a distinct possibility here,” Banks said. “Fire destroys evidence. Maybe not as much as the criminal thinks, but often it's enough.”

“Evidence of what, though?” Hamilton asked.

“That's what we don't know yet. It looks as if Thomas McMahon might have been involved in art forgery, and Gardiner was fired for fiddling the company he worked for, but that's all we've got so far. We're still digging. First we need to know if there was any connection between the victims. If there was, and if we find it, that might lead us to some enemy they had in common.”

“Sounds fair enough. I'm just hoping to hell there aren't any more fires.”

“Me, too,” said Banks.

“There is one ray of hope,” said Hamilton.

“What's that?”

“The use of petrol as an accelerant might be a godsend.”

“How come?”

“Well, you know that different brands of petrol contain
different additives, so you can tell, say, Esso from Texaco from Shell through spectral analysis?”

“I've heard about that,” said Banks. “But it won't do us a lot of good in this case. Millions of people use Esso, Shell or Texaco.”

“Yes, but it doesn't stop there,” Hamilton went on. “When the petrol is pumped into a station's underground tank, then more contaminants are added unique to that tank.”

“Are you telling me we can discover what
garage
the petrol came from through spectral analysis of the debris at the scene?”

“Not only that,” said Hamilton, “but when you put the petrol in your fuel tank, another unique blend is created. By checking all local petrol stations and sampling each tank, we can actually determine which station the petrol came from and link it to the scene, or to a specific car's fuel tank.”

“You're not serious?”

“I always take my work seriously, double-oh-seven.”

Hamilton didn't crack a smile, so it took Banks a moment to catch on. A Bond reference. Geoff Hamilton clearly had hidden depths.

“But in order to find a possible match,” Banks said, “we'd have to sample every underground tank in every petrol station in the area?”

“That's right. It helps if you have other information that helps you narrow down the search field.”

“Not yet, we don't, but it's something to think about,” Banks said. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure,” said Hamilton. He glanced at his watch. “And believe it or not, I'm going home now. My wife's beginning to wonder whether we're still married.”

“I remember the feeling,” said Banks, who planned on spending the evening at home catching up with the Sunday
papers, maybe with a dram or two of Laphroaig. After meeting Maria Phillips in the Queen's Arms at half six, of course.

Later, just after nine, there was a modern version of
Great Expectations
on BBC, starring Gwyneth Paltrow. Banks liked the original Dickens novel, and he liked Gwyneth Paltrow, the way she sort of lit up the screen when she walked on.

Besides, he found watching television—
anything
on television—a great way of sorting out his thoughts and coming up with new hypotheses. The TV seemed to numb a part of his mind and leave the rest free to wander and make wild connections without too many inhibitions. At least that was the way it felt to him, and it had worked before.

 

Mark waited by the roadside for five minutes until he was certain Clive was gone, then he opened the wallet. It contained two hundred and fifty pounds in cash, all in nice crisp twenties and tens, fresh from the Cashpoint, along with credit cards, photos of a smiling woman and three blond children—Clive's family, no doubt—and a number of receipts for petrol and meals. Nowhere did it say that Clive was a doctor, and Mark guessed he was probably just a traveling salesman. And a pervert. Worried that the police would be after him after the incident, though, he thought of striking out across open country and avoiding the roads. But there was no way, he realized, that Clive was going to report what had happened. Even if he said Mark just attacked him in order to rob him, Mark could make enough noise to cause problems. And maybe others would come forward. Clive must know this; Mark doubted he was the first victim. And there was that smiling woman with the three blond children to consider. No, he thought, he was safe for the moment.

It was getting dark and he still had a long way to go. The moors became even eerier as the light faded and mist settled
in patches. He knew he'd get lost if he headed for open country, probably die of exposure. Mark thought he could hear a dreadful howling in the distance. Weren't there ghostly hounds on the moors? Or werewolves? He thought about that film again, the one where the American tourist got bitten by a wolf on the moors and turned into a werewolf, and realized he had seen it when he was back with his mum and Crazy Nick, not at the squat. Or seen some of it. When Crazy Nick saw Mark was enjoying the film, he declared it was rubbish and switched to boxing. After that, Mark pretty much lost interest in television. There was no point, as he never got to watch anything he wanted anyway. He shivered and started to walk toward the nearest village, Helmsley, which he didn't think was very far.

When he got to the village, the lights in the houses and pubs were all on. It looked like a twee, tourist sort of place from what Mark could make out as he walked down the main street. He checked for Clive's car in the main car park and by the roadside, but thankfully couldn't see it. He laughed at himself, not sure why he was so paranoid. Clive had taken off like a bat out of hell and he wouldn't stop until he got to Scarborough. Mark had scared the shit out of him. Mark looked around to see that no one was watching, then he stopped and dropped Clive's wallet, minus the cash, down a grate.

There was a newsagent's shop still open at the corner, and Mark went in and bought a packet of cigarettes, twenty Benson & Hedges, seeing he was so flush, and a copy of the evening paper, just to see if there was any news about the fires. He was hungry and the cafés were all closed, the way they always seemed to be at teatime, so he ducked into a friendly-looking pub. He went first to the toilet, where he was able at least to clean up his hands and face and brush some of the muck off the suede overcoat. It was badly stained from his fall on the wet grass, though, and there was nothing he could
do about that. Other than the overcoat, which he took off and carried over his arm so no one could see the stains, he reckoned he didn't look so bad.

Nobody paid him much attention as he sipped his pint of Guinness and ate the ham-and-cheese sandwich, which was all he was able to get there in the evening. The newspaper didn't tell him anything he didn't already know. The second fire was a caravan, and another man had been killed. Nobody would come right out and say it, but Mark could tell they thought it was deliberate, and that it had something to do with the fire on the boats.

It was half past six. The pub was warm and the log fire crackling in the hearth made him feel drowsy. He didn't want to move, didn't want to go anywhere. He lit his first cigarette in ages and inhaled the acrid smoke deep into his lungs. Heaven.

But what to do next? He knew he was about fourteen miles from the nearest railway station, back in Thirsk, but thought maybe he could get a bus from Helmsley to Scarborough. He'd have to find somewhere to stay when he got there, though, and that could be a problem if it was late and dark, especially as he was alone and without luggage or transport. He didn't want to draw attention to himself, even though he was almost a hundred percent certain Clive wouldn't report him to the police. He also had the killer to worry about, he realized. Somehow or other, he might have found out where Mark was, where he was going. He would have to be careful.

Then he saw the notice behind the bar: “B and B.” The landlord had been friendly enough when he served Mark, even apologizing for the lack of hot meals, so Mark walked over to the bar and asked if there were any rooms vacant.

The landlord smiled. “It's not often we're full up at this time of year,” he said. “I suppose it'll be a single you're wanting?”

“Yes,” said Mark.

“I think we might be able to accommodate you. Rachel.”

The woman helping behind the bar came over.

“Show this young lad the single, would you? Number six.”

Rachel, a pretty young woman with fair hair and a peaches-and-cream complexion, blushed and said, “Of course, Mr. Ridley.” She turned to Mark. “Come on.”

Mark followed her up the narrow creaking staircase. At the top she opened a heavy door. The room looked magnificent to Mark, and he realized he must have been standing on the threshold with his mouth open. Rachel was expecting him to look around and say something.

“How much is it?” he managed to ask.

“Twenty-eight pounds, bed and breakfast,” she said. “Breakfast's downstairs, between eight and nine o'clock. Well, do you want it?”

“Yes,” said Mark, reaching in his pocket for the money.

“Tomorrow, silly,” Rachel said. “You pay when you leave.”

“Oh. Right,” Mark said, amazed that someone would trust him not to run off without paying.

Rachel handed him the key and explained about the various locks and how he had to make sure he was in before they closed up the pub. He didn't even think he was going out, so that was no problem.

“Where's your rucksack?” she asked.

“Don't have one,” he said.

She looked at him as if she thought he was daft, then shrugged and left, shutting the door behind her.

It was the nicest room Mark had ever been in in his entire life. It wasn't very big, but that was all right; he didn't need much space. The wallpaper was a cheerful flower pattern and the air smelled of lemons and herbs. It had a solid bed and a dresser and drawers for clothes and stuff. There were also a television and facilities for making tea and coffee. But best of all, there was a bathroom/toilet.

It had been difficult managing without running water on
the boat. Once a week they went to the public baths in Eastvale, next to the swimming pool, but most days they did the best they could. Mark had found a bucket and a nice big enamel bowl in a junk shop, and usually he would walk half a mile west along the canal bank to the taps installed by the tourist board for the boaters, campers and walkers and get fresh water there, which he would carry back and heat on the stove. It was a hassle, but it was better than being dirty.

But now he had a bath to himself, and soap and shampoo and towels, too. First he turned on the television. It didn't matter what was on; he just wanted the sound for company. Then he started running a hot bath and made himself a cup of tea. When everything was ready he took his tea into the bathroom, climbed in the tub and lit a cigarette. It was wonderful. He could hear
Emmerdale
on the television through the half-open door as he lay back and luxuriated in the steamy warmth. This must be what it was like to be normal, he thought. He only wished Tina could be here with him. He knew it wouldn't all seem so special to her because she'd grown up with all these luxuries, but she would have loved it nonetheless.

He wished he could stay there forever, with the hot water enveloping him, the steam rising and the comforting voices on the television, but he knew he couldn't. Tomorrow he would have to find a way to get to Scarborough and get a job. Clive's money wouldn't last forever, especially if he had to pay so much for a room every night. But maybe he'd find somewhere cheaper in Scarborough. A little flat, even. And then he'd start putting his life back together.

 

Banks certainly felt as if he needed a drink when half past six came around, but left to his own devices he would have chosen other company than Maria Phillips. Still, he thought, pushing open the pub's door, duty calls, and she was harmless enough if you kept your distance.

The Queen's Arms was busy with the after-work crowd, most of whom seemed to prefer standing elbow to elbow at the bar. Banks was the first to arrive, so he managed to get Cyril's attention, bought himself a pint of bitter and settled by the window to read the paper.

Maria came dashing in ten minutes late, breathless and full of apologies. Someone hadn't turned up for an evening shift and she'd had to deal with it. Banks offered to get her a drink.

“You dear man,” she said, unbuttoning her coat and unwinding her scarf. “I'll have the usual.”

When he came back with her Campari and soda, she was composed, smoking a Silk Cut. A momentary pang of desire—for a cigarette, not for Maria—leaped through Banks's veins like an electric current, then passed as quickly as it came, leaving him feeling vaguely uneasy and fidgety.

“Cheers,” Maria said, clinking glasses.

“
Slainte,
” said Banks. “So what is it you want to see me about?”

Her eyes sparkled with mischievous humor. “It's all business with you, isn't it?”

“It's been a long day.”

“And I don't suppose there's a dear devoted woman waiting for you at home, ready to massage your neck and shoulders and run a nice warm bath for you, is there?”

“Afraid not,” Banks said, thinking there was only Gwyneth Paltrow in
Great Expectations
and a tumbler of Laphroaig. But Gwyneth wouldn't be massaging him or running him a hot bath. “There's not even a faithful dog to fetch my slippers. Policing doesn't lend itself to pet-owning, especially when you live alone.”