Authors: Peter Robinson
Playing with Fire (3 page)
“Smell anything?” Hamilton asked.
Amid the mingled odors of ash and rubber, Banks thought he could smell something familiar. “Turps,” he said.
Hamilton took a small gadget from his accessory bag, bent and pointed a tube at the floor. “It's a hydrocarbon detector, technically known as a sniffer,” he explained. “It should tell us whether accelerant has been used and⦔ He flicked a switch. “Indeed it has.”
Hamilton instructed Terry Bradford to use his trowel and shovel two or three liters of debris into a doubled nylon bag and seal it tight. “For the gas chromatograph,” he said, sending Bradford to other parts of the room to do the same thing. “It looks as if it's multi-seated,” he explained. “If you look at the pattern of burning closely, you can see more than one fire occurred in this room, linked by those deeply charred narrow channels, or streamers, as they're called.”
Banks knew that a multi-seated fire was an indication of arson, but he also knew he wouldn't get Hamilton to admit it yet. Peter Darby handed him the camcorder and clicked away with his Pentax. “Hasn't the water the firefighters used got rid of any traces of accelerant?” Darby asked.
“Contrary to what you might imagine,” said Hamilton, “water cools and slows the process down. It actually preserves traces of accelerant. Believe me, if any was used, and the sniffer indicates that it was, then it'll be present in these bits of carpet and floorboards.”
Terry Bradford bent to remove some debris and uncovered the mostly blackened human shape that lay twisted on its stomach on the floor. It was impossible to tell whether it was a man or a woman at first, but Banks assumed it was most likely the man known to Mark only as Tom. Though he looked quite short in stature, Banks knew that fires did strange and unpredictable things to the human body. A few tufts of reddish hair still clung to the cracked skull, and in some places the fire had burned away all the flesh, leaving the bone exposed. It was
still possible to make out patches of a blue denim shirt on the victim's back, and he was clearly wearing jeans. Banks felt slightly sick behind his particle mask. “That's odd,” said Hamilton, stooping to look at the body more closely.
“What?” said Banks.
“People usually fall on their backs when they're overcome by flames or smoke inhalation,” Hamilton explained. “That's why you often see the knees and fists raised in the âpugilistic' attitude. It's caused by the contraction of the muscles in the sudden heat of the blaze. Look, you can see the pooling where the accelerant trickled into the cracks of the floor around the body. Probably under it, too. The charring's much deeper around there and there's far more general destruction.”
“Tell me something,” said Banks. “Would he have had time to escape if he'd been conscious and alert when the fire started?”
“Hard to say,” said Hamilton. “He's on his stomach, and his head is pointing toward the source of the fire. If he'd been trying to escape, he'd most likely have been running or crawling
away,
toward the exit.”
“But
could
he have got out, if he'd seen it coming?”
“We know a part of the ceiling fell on him. Maybe that happened before he could escape. Maybe he was drugged, or drunk. Who knows? You'll not get me speculating on this. I'm afraid you'll have to wait till the postmortem and toxicology screens for answers to your questions.”
“Any signs of a container or igniter?”
“There are plenty of possible containers,” said Hamilton, “but not one with ACCELERANT written in capital letters on it. They'll all have to be tested. Odds are he used a match as an igniter, and sadly there won't be anything left of that by now.”
“Deliberate, then?”
“I'm not committing myself yet, but I don't like the looks of it. It's hard to predict what happens with fires. Maybe he
was drunk and spilled some accelerant on his clothes and set fire to himself and panicked. People do, you know. I've seen it before. And smoke inhalation can cause disorientation and confusion. Sometimes it looks as if people have run into the flames rather than away from them. Let's just call it
doubtful
origin for now, okay?”
Banks looked at the blackened figure. “If the doctor can tell us anything from what's left of him.”
“You'd be surprised,” said Hamilton. “Rarely is a body so badly damaged by fire that a good pathologist can't get something out of it. You'll be having Dr. Glendenning, I imagine?”
Banks nodded.
“One of the best.” Hamilton instructed Terry Bradford to take more samples, then they moved toward the bow of the barge, to the point where it almost touched its neighbor's stern. They waited while Peter Darby changed the film in his camera and the cassette in his camcorder.
“Look at this,” Hamilton said, pointing to a clearly discernible strip of deeply charred wood that started in the living quarters, near the main seat, and continued to the bow, then over to the stern and living quarters of the other boat. “Another streamer,” he said. “A line of accelerant to spread a fire from one place to another. In this case, from one
barge
to another.”
“So whoever did this wanted to burn
both
barges?”
“It looks like it.” Hamilton frowned. “But it's not very much. Just one narrow streamer. It's likeâ¦I don't knowâ¦a flick of the wrist. Not enough. An afterthought.”
“What are you getting at?”
“I don't know. But if someone had
really
wanted to make sure of destroying the second boat and anyone on itâand I'm not saying that's what happenedâthen he could have done a more thorough job.”
“Maybe he didn't have time?” said Banks.
“Possible.”
“Or he ran out of accelerant.”
“Again, it's a possible explanation,” said Hamilton. “Or maybe he simply wanted to confuse the issue. Either way, it cost another life.”
The body on the second barge lay wrapped in a charred sleeping bag. Despite some blistering on her face, Banks could see that it was the body of a young girl. Her expression was peaceful enough, and if she had died of smoke inhalation, she would never have felt the fire scorching her cheeks and burning her sleeping bag. She had a metal stud just below her lower lip, and Banks imagined that would have heated up in the fire too, explaining the more deeply burned skin radiating in a circle around it. He hoped she hadn't felt that, either. One charred arm lay outside the sleeping bag beside what looked like the remains of a portable CD player.
“The body should be fairly well preserved inside the sleeping bag,” Hamilton said. “They're usually made of flame-resistant material. And look at those blisters on the face.”
“What do they mean?” Banks asked.
“Blistering is usually a sign that the victim was alive when the fire started.” Making sure that Peter Darby had already videotaped and photographed the entire scene, Hamilton bent and picked up two objects from the floor beside her.
“What are they?” Banks asked.
“Can't say for certain,” he said, “but I think one's a syringe and the other's a spoon.” He handed them to Terry Bradford, who put them into evidence bags, taking a cork from his accessory bag first, and sticking it over the needle's point. “The fire's sure to have sterilized it,” he said, “but you can't be too careful handling needles.”
Hamilton bent and scraped something from the floor beside the sleeping bag and Bradford put it in another bag. “Looks like she was using a candle,” Hamilton said. “Proba
bly to heat up whatever it was she injected. If I wasn't so certain the fire started on the other barge, I'd say that it could have been a possible cause. I've seen it more than once, a junkie nodding off and a candle starting a fire. Or it could even have been used as a crude timing device.”
“But that's not what happened here?”
“No. The seats of the fire are definitely next door. It'd be just too much of a coincidence if the two fires started simultaneously from separate causes. And this one caused so much less damage.”
Banks felt a headache coming on. He glanced at the young girl's body again, nipped the bridge of his nose above the mask between his thumb and index finger until his eyes prickled with tears, then he looked away, into the fog, just in time to see Dr. Burns, the police surgeon, walking toward the barges with his black bag.
A
ndrew Hurst lived in a small, nondescript lockkeeper's cottage beside the canal, about a mile east of the dead-end branch where the fire had occurred. The house was high and narrow, built of red brick with a slate roof, and a satellite dish was attached high up, where the walls met the roof. It was still early in the morning, but Hurst was already up and about. In his early forties, tall and skinny, with thinning, dry brown hair, he was wearing jeans and a red zippered sweatshirt.
“Ah, I've been expecting you,” he said when Banks and Annie showed their warrant cards, his pale gray eyes lingering on Annie for just a beat too long. “It'll be about that fire.”
“That's right,” said Banks. “Mind if we come in?”
“No, not at all. Your timing is immaculate. I've just finished my breakfast.” He stood aside and let Banks and Annie pass. “First on the left. Let me take your coats.”
They gave him their overcoats and walked into a room lined with wooden shelves. On the shelves were hundreds, perhaps thousands, of long-playing records, 45-rpm singles and EPs, all in neat rows. Banks exchanged a glance with Annie before they sat in the armchairs to which Hurst gestured.
“Impressive, aren't they?” Hurst said, smiling. “I've been collecting sixties vinyl since I was twelve years old. It's my great passion. Along with canals and their history, of course.”
“Of course,” said Banks, still overwhelmed by the immense collection. On any other occasion he would have been down on his hands and knees scanning the titles.
“And I'll bet I can lay my hands on any one I want. I know where they all are. Kathy Kirby, Matt Monro, Vince Hill, Helen Shapiro, Joe Brown, Vicki Carr. Try me. Go on, try me.”
Christ, thought Banks, an anorak. Just what they needed. “Mr. Hurst,” he said, “I'd be more than happy to test your system, and to explore your record collection, but do you think we could talk about the fire first? Two people died on those barges.”
Hurst looked disappointed, like a child denied a new toy, and went on tentatively, not sure if he still held his audience. “They're not filed alphabetically, but by date of release, you see. That's my secret.”
“Mr. Hurst,” Annie echoed Banks. “Please. Later. We've got some important questions for you.”
He looked at her, hurt and sulky, but seemed at last to grasp the situation. He ran his hand over his head. “Yes, I know. Pardon me for jabbering on. Must be the shock. I always jabber when I'm nervous. I'm really sorry about what happened. How didâ¦?”
“We don't know the cause of the fire yet,” said Banks, “but we're definitely treating it as suspicious.”
Doubtful
was Geoff Hamilton's word. He knew as well as Banks that the fire hadn't started on its own. “Do you know the area well?” he asked.
Hurst nodded. “I think of this as
my
stretch of the canal, as my responsibility.”
“Including the dead-end branch?”
“Yes.”
“What can you tell me about the people who lived on the barges?”
Hurst lifted up his black-rimmed glasses and rubbed his right eye. “Strictly speaking, they're not barges, you know.”
“Oh?”
“No, they're narrow boats. Barges are wider and can't cruise on this canal.”
“I see,” said Banks. “But I'd still like to know what you can tell me about the squatters.”
“Not much, really. The girl was nice enough. Pale, thin young thing, didn't look well at all, but she had a sweet smile and she always said hello. Quite pretty, too. When I saw her, of course. Which wasn't often.”
That would be Tina, Banks thought, remembering the blistered body in the charred sleeping bag, the blackened arm into which she had injected her last fix. “And her boyfriend, Mark?”
“Is that his name? Always seemed a bit furtive to me. As if he'd been up to something, or was about to get up to something.”
In Banks's experience, a lot of kids Mark's age and younger had that look about them. “What about the fellow on the other boat?” he asked.
“Ah, the artist.”
Banks glanced at Annie, who raised her eyebrows. “How do you know he was an artist?”
“Shortly after he moved there, he installed a skylight and gave the exterior of his boat a lick of paint, and I thought maybe he'd actually rented or bought the boat and was intending to fix it up, so I paid him a courtesy visit.”
“What happened?”
“I didn't get beyond the door. He clearly didn't appreciate my coming to see him. Not very courteous at all.”
“But he told you he was an artist?”
“No, of course not. I said I didn't get past the door, but I could
see
past it, couldn't I?”
“So what did you see?”
“Well, artist's equipment, of course. Easel, tubes of paint, palettes, pencils, charcoal sticks, old rags, stacks of canvas and paper, a lot of books. The place was a bloody mess, quite frankly, and it stank to high heaven.”
“What of?”
“I don't know. Turpentine. Paint. Glue. Maybe he was a glue-sniffer? Have you thought of that?”
“I hadn't until now, but thank you very much for the idea. How long had he been living there?”
“About six months. Since summer.”
“Ever see him before that?”
“Once or twice. He used to wander up and down the towpath with a sketchbook.”
A local, perhaps, Banks thought, which might make it easier to find out something about him. Banks's ex-wife Sandra used to work at the Eastvale Community Centre art gallery, and he still had a contact there. The idea of meeting up with Maria Phillips again had about as much appeal as a dinner date with Cilla Black, but she would probably be able to help. There wasn't much Maria didn't know about the local art scene, including the gossip. There was also Leslie Whitaker, who owned Eastvale's only antiquarian bookshop, and who was a minor art dealer.
“What else can you tell us about him?” he asked Hurst.
“Nothing. Hardly ever saw him after that. Must have been in his cabin painting away. Lost in his own world, that one. Or on drugs. But you'd expect that from an artist, wouldn't you? I don't know what kind of rubbish he painted. In my opinion, just about all modernâ”
Banks noticed Annie roll her eyes and sniffle before turning the page in her notebook. “We know his first name was Tom,” Banks said, “but do you know his surname?”
Hurst was clearly not pleased at being interrupted in his critical assessment of modern art. “No,” he said.
“Do you happen to know who owns the boats?”
“No idea,” said Hurst. “But someone should have fixed them up. They weren't completely beyond repair, you know. It's a crying shame, leaving them like that.”
“So why didn't the owner do something?”
“Short of money, I should imagine.”
“Then he could have sold them,” said Banks. “There must be money in canal boats these days. They're very popular with the holiday crowd.”
“Even so,” said Hurst, “whoever bought them would have had to go to a great deal of extra expense to make them appeal to tourists. They were horse-drawn boats, you see, and there's not much call for them these days. He'd have had to install engines, central heating, electricity, running water. Costly business. Tourists might enjoy boating along the canals, but they like to do it in comfort.”
“Let's get back to Tom, the artist,” said Banks. “Did you ever see any of his work?”
“Like I said, it's all rubbish, isn't it, this modern art? Damien Hirst and all that crap. I mean, take that Turner Prizeâ”
“Even so,” Annie interjected, “some people are willing to pay a fortune for rubbish. Did you actually
see
any of his paintings? It might help us find out who he was, if we can get some sense of the sort of thing he produced.”
“Well, there's no accounting for taste, is there? But no, I didn't actually see any of them. The easel was empty when I paid my visit. Maybe he was some sort of eccentric. The tortured genius. Maybe he kept a fortune under his mattress and someone killed him for it?”
“What makes you think he was killed?” Banks asked.
“I don't. I was just tossing out ideas, that's all.”
“The area looks pretty inaccessible to me,” Banks said. “What would be the best approach?”
“From the towpath,” Hurst said. “But the nearest bridge is east of here, so anyone who came that way would have had to pass the cottage.”
“Did you see anyone that night? Anyone on the towpath heading toward the branch?”
“No, but I was watching television. I could easily have missed it if someone walked by.”
“What would be the next-best approach?”
Hurst frowned for a moment as he thought. “Well,” he said finally, “short of swimming across the canal, which no one in his right mind would want to do, especially at this time of year, I'd say from the lane through the woods directly to the west. There's a lay-by, if my memory serves me well. And it's only about a hundred yards from there to the boats, whereas it's nearly half a mile up to where the lane meets the B-road at the top.”
The fire engines had parked where the lane turned sharply right to follow the canal, Banks remembered, and he and Annie had parked behind them. He hoped they hadn't obliterated any evidence that might still be there. He would ask DS Stefan Nowak and the SOCOs to examine that particular area thoroughly. “Ever see any strangers hanging around?” he asked.
“In summer, plenty, but it's generally quiet this time of year.”
“What about around the branch? Any strangers there?”
“I live a mile away. I don't spy on them. I sometimes saw them when I cycled by on the towpath, that's all.”
“But you saw the fire?”
“Could hardly miss it, could I?”
“How not?”
Hurst stood up. “Follow me.” He looked at Annie and smiled. “I apologize for the mess in advance. It's one of the advantages of the bachelor life, not having to keep everything neat and tidy.”
Annie blew her nose. Banks was hardly surprised to hear that Hurst was a bachelor. “Except your record collection,” he said.
Hurst turned and looked at Banks as if he were mad. “But that's
different,
isn't it?”
Banks and Annie exchanged glances and followed him up
the narrow creaky stairs into a room on the left. He was right about the mess. Piles of clothes waiting to be washed, a tottering stack of books by the side of the unmade bed, many of them about the history of canals, but with a few cheap paperback blockbusters mixed in, Banks noticed, Tom Clancy, Frederick Forsyth, Ken Follett. The smell of unwashed socks and stale sweat permeated the air. Annie was lucky she was stuffed up with a cold, Banks thought.
But Hurst was right. From his bedroom window, you could see clearly along the canal side, west, in the direction of the dead-end branch. It was impossible to see very far now, because of the fog, but last night had been clear until early morning. Hurst wouldn't have been able to see the branch itself because of the trees, but Banks had no doubt at all that it would have been impossible for him to miss the flames as he went to draw the curtains at bedtime.
“What were you wearing?” Banks asked.
“Wearing?”
“Yes. Your clothes. When you cycled out to the fire.”
“Oh, I see. Jeans, shirt and a thick woolly jumper. And an anorak.”
“Are those the jeans you're wearing now?”
“No. I changed.”
“Where are they?”
“My clothes?”
“Yes, Mr. Hurst. We'll need them for testing.”
“But surely you can't thinkâ¦?”
“The clothes?”
“I had to wash them,” said Hurst. “They smelled so bad, with the smoke and all.”
Banks looked again at the pile of laundry waiting to be washed, then he looked back at Hurst. “You're telling me you've already washed the clothes you were wearing last night?”
“Well, yesâ¦When I got home. I know it might seem a bit
strange, but how was I to know you'd want them for testing?”
“What about your anorak?”
“That, too.”
“You
washed
your anorak?”
Hurst swallowed. “The label said it was machine washable.”
Banks sighed. Traces of accelerant might well survive the firefighters' hoses, but they used only cold water. He doubted that anything would survive washing powder and hot water. “We'll take them anyway,” he said. “What about your shoes? I suppose you put them in the washing machine as well?”
“Don't be absurd.”
“Let's be thankful for small mercies, then,” Banks said as they set off downstairs. “What time do you usually go to bed?”
“Whenever I want. Another advantage of the bachelor life. Last night, I happened to be watching a rather good film.”
“What was it?”
“Ah, the old police trick to see if I'm lying, is it? Well, I don't have an alibi, it's true. I was by myself all evening. All day, in fact. But I did watch
A Bridge Too Far
on Sky Cinema. War films are another passion of mine.”
Hurst led them into the tiny kitchen, which smelled vaguely of sour milk. The anorak lay over the back of a chair, still a little damp, and the rest of his clothes were in the dryer. Hurst dug out a carrier bag and Banks bundled the lot inside, along with the shoes from a mat in the hallway.
“What time did the film finish?” he asked, as they returned to the living room.
“One o'clock. Or five past one, or something. They never seem to end quite on the hour, do they?”
“So when you looked out of your bedroom window around one o'clockâ”
“It would have been perhaps one-fifteen by the time I'd locked up and done my ablutions.”