Playing with Fire (35 page)

Stefan thought for a moment, then answered. “Leslie Whitaker?”

“Exactly.”

“But what about the petrol?”

“He must have been bright enough to siphon some from someone else's car. Maybe he knew there was a chance we'd be able to trace it. Don't you see, Stefan? It makes sense. Whitaker said he went out for an eight-o'clock dinner in Harrogate with nine other booksellers. They all vouched for him. We already know that he supplied Thomas McMahon with the special paper he needed to produce his forgeries. They were in it together. He practically admitted as much. One reason we almost ruled Whitaker out was that he's got an alibi for the Jennings Field fire, but not the one on the barges.”

“But this timing device puts paid to his alibi?”

“Yes,” said Annie. “If he was in Harrogate for that dinner at eight o'clock, then he must have left Eastvale, or Lyndgarth, where he lives, at about seven. But surely it would have been possible for him to use a two-or three-inch candle and gain a couple of hours or more burn time before the accelerant ignited?”

“Easily, assuming it all went according to plan.”

“This time it did,” said Annie. “We'll have him in, Stefan. And then we'll have him.”

 

After the interview with Frances Aspern, Banks picked up a coffee in the canteen and remembered that he had intended to ring Dirty Dick Burgess. He found an empty office and took out his mobile.

“At last,” said Dirty Dick. “I've been leaving messages for you in Eastvale all bloody morning.”

“Bit of a crisis up here,” said Banks, giving a brief explana
tion of his night and morning. “Anyway, what have you got?”

“Not much, I'm afraid. Business aboveboard. Solo operation. No partner. No employees. Philip Keane is a well-respected and popular member of the art community. Judgment valued, pals with all the movers and shakers, dealers, collectors, gallery owners, that sort of thing. Not exactly Anthony Blunt, but you get the picture.”

“Blunt?” said Banks. “Why mention him? Wasn't he a spy, along with Philby, Burgess and MacLean? The fourth man?”

“Yes,” said Burgess, “but he was also surveyor of the Queen's Pictures and director of the Courtauld Institute.”

“Of course,” said Banks. “Yes, I remember. Interesting. A master of the art of deception. Anything else?”

“Nothing. Philip Keane has lived a completely blameless life. At least for the past four years.”

“Four years? And before that?”

“There's the glitch. Before that, there's nothing. Nada. Zilch. Bupkis.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that he appeared fully formed on the scene four years ago, like Athena from the head of Zeus. And if you're thinking of teasing me about classical analogies, Banksy, don't. I got a first in classics at Oxford.”

“Bollocks,” said Banks. “Go on, though. You've got me interested.”

“Like I said, there's nothing else to tell. The trail stops there. It's as if Keane didn't exist until four years ago.”

“He must have been born, for a start.”

“Oh, well, if you'd like me to send a team down to Saint Catherine's House…Or perhaps I should go myself? Shouldn't take long. Let me see, unusual name that, Philip Keane. I suppose you've got the details of his date and place of birth?”

“All right,” said Banks. “I get the point. Give it a rest. Maybe Keane studied and worked in museums and galleries
abroad. Maybe that's where he was before.”

“Maybe he did, and we can certainly check that, too, given time and resources. How official do you want this to be?”

Banks thought for a moment. He didn't want it to be official at all just yet. Not unless he got something more concrete to go on. On a whim, he asked, “Can you check if anyone called Philip Keane was connected in any way with a fire four years ago, and if he was ever associated with someone called William Masefield?”

“Fire? Where?”

“I don't know,” said Banks, explaining about William Masefield's stolen identity. “It's a long shot. But if it
is
him, it could be an MO. He might have done it before.”

“So you want me to keep digging?”

“If you can. But still discreetly. This case is confusing enough already. It just keeps shifting in the wind. It'd be nice to get some good solid information for a change.”

“I do have one practical suggestion to make,” offered Burgess.

“Oh, and what's that?”

“You could talk to his wife.”

“M
ark,” said Banks, “we must stop meeting like this.”

Mark Siddons grunted and sat down.

“How are you feeling?” Banks asked.

“I'm all right. A bit tired. And my head feels like it's stuffed full of wet cotton wool.”

“Must be the tranquilizer the doctor gave you last night. Are you ready to talk?” Banks and Bridges had already agreed that Banks would do most of the questioning, as he had interviewed Mark before and knew the terrain.

“If you like. Can I have some water first?”

Banks asked the constable waiting outside the door, who brought in a jug and three glasses. Mark filled his, but Bridges took nothing and Banks stuck with coffee.

“Are you going to charge me?” Mark asked.

“What with?”

“Breaking and entering.”

Banks looked at DI Bridges. “That depends,” Bridges said.

“What on?”

“On how cooperative you are.”

“Look, Mark,” Banks said, “we know it was you who put out the fire and you who rang the police and the fire brigade and waited with Mrs. Aspern until they arrived. All that will work in your favor. You're not being charged with anything
just at the moment, but you'd better tell us exactly what went on. Okay?”

“Can I have a smoke?”

Smoking wasn't allowed in the police station anymore, but Bridges took out a packet of Silk Cut and offered Mark one. He also lit one himself. Banks felt no craving at all, just a slight wave of nausea when he smelled the smoke. Mostly, he was trying to put what he had just heard from Dirty Dick Burgess out of his mind. And its implications for Annie. For the time being, at any rate. He had got the London address of Keane and his wife, Helen, and checked train times from Leeds. After he'd finished with Mark, he'd head straight down to London on an early-afternoon train and talk to her, get things sorted. But until then, he had Mark Siddons and Frances Aspern to occupy his mind.

“There is one question I'd like answered before we start,” Bridges asked.

“What?” said Mark.

“The burglar alarm. How did you disable it?”

Mark told them about the scheme Tina had come up with, and how he had memorized the code.

“All right,” said Bridges, looking over at Banks. “Your turn.”

“What time did you get to the Asperns' house?” Banks asked.

“I don't know. It was late, though. After closing time. I came out of the pub and put it off for a while, just walking around, then I went there.”

“Put what off?”

“I don't know. All I know is that I was going the wrong way, and it didn't make sense anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“Scarborough and all that. That was why all those things happened. The bloke in the car. Those plainclothes cops on the seafront. Because I was going the wrong way. It was Adel
I had to go to, not Scarborough. I couldn't get on with my life until I'd faced them.”

“What happened with the bloke in the car?” Banks asked.

“Nothing,” said Mark. “He…you know, he tried to proposition me. I said, like, no way, and he just stopped the car and made me get out.”

Banks didn't believe him. There was the matter of the mysterious two hundred pounds, for a start, but he let it go. Either Mark had capitulated and earned the money with his body, or he had stolen it. Either way, no accusations had been made against anyone, as far as he knew, so best let it lie. “What were you going to do in Adel?” he asked.

“I don't know. I didn't have a plan.”

“So what
did
you do?”

“I had a bit too much to drink in that big pub on the main road, to get my bottle up, I suppose. Anyway, like I said, I just got into the house. They were in bed. I walked around a bit, wondering what the hell I was going to do now I was there. I mean, was I supposed to go upstairs and strangle the bastard, or what? I found a bottle of something, brandy, I think, and I took a few swigs of that, just sitting in the kitchen in the dark, thinking. Or trying to. I didn't even hear him coming.”

“What happened next?”

“I don't know. I felt this sharp pain on the side of my head and everything went black.”

“And when you came round?”

Mark paused and stubbed out his cigarette. He looked over at DI Bridges, who sighed and pushed the packet toward him. Mark fidgeted with the packet but didn't open it immediately. “I was in the surgery, wasn't I? All the lights were on, and
he
was there, standing over me with that evil fucking smile on his face.”

“Patrick Aspern?”

“Who else?”

“What was he doing?”

“Filling a syringe with morphine. He had me tied to the chair so I couldn't move my arms, and he'd shoved some sort of cotton-wool gag in my mouth so I couldn't scream out.”

“How do you know it was morphine?”

“He told me. That was all part of the fun for him. He wanted me to know what was going to happen to me, to be scared thinking about it for as long as he could draw it out.”

“What else did he say?”

“He said he was soon going to inject me with a fatal dose of morphine, that it was more than a piece of scum like me deserved, because it was quick and merciful, and if he had his way he'd make me suffer for much longer.” Mark glanced at Banks. “He was enjoying himself, you know. The power. Enjoying every minute of it.”

“I believe you, Mark.”

“He said the thought of me in bed with his daughter disgusted him, that she was a no-good ungrateful slut who deserved to die for betraying him like that, and now I was going to die, too.”

“He referred to Tina as his daughter?”

“Yes.”

“Did he say anything about being responsible for her death?”

“He didn't say he killed her, if that's what you mean.”

“Did he mention his wife?”

“No.”

“All right. Go on.”

“He said nobody would shed any tears about a piece of junkie filth like me being found dead of an overdose in a back alley somewhere, which is exactly where he was going to dump me.”

“What happened next?”

Mark lit his second cigarette and looked away. His voice became quieter. “I could see her standing behind him, in the
doorway. Just standing there. Watching. Listening. He didn't know she was there, but I could see her.”

“Mrs. Aspern?”

“Yes. At least, I guessed that's who it was.”

“You'd never seen her before?”

“No, never.”

“Not around the boat or anything? She'd never come to visit Tina?”

“No. I'm not even sure she knew where the boat was.”

“Carry on.”

Mark swallowed, took a sip of water and went on. “He said…hestarted talking about the things he did to her, to Tina, you know, and how much she loved it when he touched her and put himself inside her and all the things she did to him. He was making me crazy, but I couldn't break free. I couldn't yell out and make him stop. And I could see her behind him all the time, her face just going paler and paler. It was sickening, what he said. I mean, I know Tina told me he'd abused her, but she…I mean, the details. He had to go into every little detail. She never told me all that…all that stuff he said, what he did. I wanted to shut my ears, but you can't, can you? And all the time he was doing it, he had this strange sort of distant smile on his face, and he was fiddling with the syringe, giving a little squirt, like they do on television.”

“What did Mrs. Aspern do?”

“The next thing I knew, she was holding the shotgun—he'd left it in the doorway—and she told him to leave me alone, that I hadn't done anything.”

“What did he say to that?”

“He turned to her and he laughed. He just laughed.”

“Is that when she fired?”

“No. He started telling her to put the gun down, the way you'd talk to a child, said that she hadn't the courage to pull the trigger, just like she hadn't had the courage to stand up for her daughter, that she was weak and cowardly. Then he
started moving toward her with his hands out, like he expected her to hand him the gun. Then it just exploded.”

“She fired?”

“It was deafening. My ears are still ringing, but I was tied up, so there was no way I could have covered them up.” He shook his head and rubbed his face with his hands. “It was…I was covered in stuff, blood and stuff…I don't know…It was just like he'd burst open, you know, a bagful of blood, like those water balloons you burst, and it went all over the place, all over me. The smell was awful. I closed my eyes, but I couldn't close my nose any more than I could my ears. Gunpowder. And his insides. Shit and stuff. I had bits of him all over me. Slimy bits.” Mark shuddered and finished his water. He refilled his glass with a shaking hand.

“What happened next, Mark?”

Mark took a deep drag on his cigarette. “She cut me free with some scissors or something and just told me to leave.”

“She didn't say anything else?”

“No. Just to leave. Then she took that stuff they put on you before they stick the needle in. You know what I mean. He had it on his desk, though I don't think he was going to use it on me.” Mark gave a harsh laugh. “I mean, what would it matter if I got an infection when he was going to kill me anyway? I was backing out of the room, and she was pouring the stuff on the floor. You could smell that, too, some sort of surgical spirit, along with everything else. I was feeling pretty sick by then. Anyway, I saw a small fire extinguisher in the hall and I took it. She'd already started the fire by the time I got back, but it wasn't a very big one. Just a small patch where she'd poured the spirits. It was easy to put out.”

“What was Mrs. Aspern doing while you put the fire out?”

“Nothing. She didn't even try to stop me, if that's what you mean. To be honest, she looked as if she'd had it, like she'd given up and didn't care anymore. When I was sure it was out, I took her into the other room and she went with me,
quiet as a lamb, like she was in a trance or something. I rang nine-nine-nine.”

Banks and Bridges said nothing for a while as Mark smoked and the tape recorder ran on. Finally, Banks asked, “Is there anything else?”

“No,” said Mark.

Bridges turned off the tapes.

“What are you going to do now?” Banks asked Mark.

“Are you charging me?”

Banks looked at Bridges, who shook his head. “I don't think the CPS would find much of a case there,” he said. “You're free to go. But you're an important witness, and the CPS will want to talk to you, as well as Mrs. Aspern's lawyers. Whatever you do, you need to stay close, stay available, make sure we know where you are.”

Mark nodded. “I know. I've still got some money left. I suppose I can buy myself some new clothes and find a place to stay for a while.”

“Why don't you come back to Eastvale? Give my contact on the restoration project a call? He's always looking for keen apprentices.”

“Dunno. I might do. To be honest, right now, I just want a bit of space, some peace and quiet. I want to try and get all these horrible pictures out of my head.”

Good luck, thought Banks, who hadn't succeeded in getting the nightmare images out of his own head after years of trying.

 

Leslie Whitaker seemed to have done a runner. His shop was closed, and he wasn't at his Lyndgarth home. Cursing herself for not keeping a closer eye on him, Annie set the wheels in motion to track him down.

They had at least been lucky with Friends Reunited, Annie thought, pulling up outside the small detached house with
Winsome late that afternoon. Elaine Hough lived on the outskirts of Harrogate, where she worked as an executive chef in one of the spa's best restaurants. Elaine wasn't the only one to reply to Winsome's request, saying she remembered both Thomas McMahon and Roland Gardiner—two others out of the 115 alumni registered at the Friends Reunited Web site had also responded quickly and said they remembered the two—but she was by far the most easily accessible of the three—one being in Eastbourne and the other in Aberdeen—and she also said that Gardiner and McMahon had been good friends of hers.

Elaine Hough seemed a no-nonsense sort of woman with a brisk manner and short black hair streaked with gray. If she ate what she cooked, she didn't show it on her tall, lean frame.

“Come in,” she said. Annie and Winsome followed her through to the sparsely decorated living room, all exposed beams and stone and heavy oak furniture.

“Nice,” Annie said. But if truth be told, it wasn't her favorite style of interior decoration.

“I'm glad you like it. It's more a reflection of my husband's taste, really. I spend most of the time in my little den when I'm at home.”

“Not in the kitchen?”

Elaine laughed. “Well, it's true, I still
do
love cooking, and I don't get much of a chance to do any at the restaurant anymore. It's the old, old story, isn't it? You work your way up in an area you love, and then you find you're so successful you spend all your time running the business side, and you don't have time to do what you love best anymore.” She laughed. “But I can't complain. And I don't. I know how lucky I am. Would you like tea or coffee or something?”

“Coffee would be nice,” said Annie. Winsome nodded in agreement.

“Come through to the kitchen, then. We can talk there.”

They followed her into a modern kitchen with stainless steel oven and fridge, copper pots and pans hanging from a rail over the central granite-topped island, and a wood-block of expensive-looking chef's knives. Annie had sometimes thought that she would like such a well-stocked and attractive kitchen herself, but her cooking skills extended about as far as vegetarian pasta and ordering an Indian take-away, so most of the fancy equipment would be wasted on her.