Playing with Fire (36 page)

Elaine put the kettle on, and while it boiled, she ground coffee beans and dropped them in a cafetière. The aroma was delicious. All her movements were economical and deft, Annie noticed, betraying her occupation and her training. Even something as simple as making coffee got her full attention. She probably even knew how to chop up a string of onions quickly, and without crying, too.

They sat on stools around the island while the coffee brewed and Annie went through her mental list of questions.

“You said you knew both Thomas McMahon
and
Roland Gardiner at Leeds Poly?” she started.

“Yes.”

“Did you know them together, or separately?”

“Both, actually. Look, I was in the School of Cookery—surprise, surprise—but four evenings a week I worked behind the bar in the student pub. My parents weren't well off and my grant wasn't exactly huge. At least we still got grants back then, not loans, like today. Anyway, that's where I first met Tommy and Rolo. That's what we called them back then. I was so sorry to read about what happened, but I couldn't see how it could be at all relevant to me until your e-mail. Otherwise, I'd have come forward sooner.”

“That's all right,” said Annie. “How were you to know what we were looking for? Anyway, we're here now.”

“Yes.” Elaine poured the coffee. Winsome asked for milk
and sugar while Annie and Elaine took theirs black. “Actually,” she said, “I went out with Rolo a few times. Just casual, like. Nothing too heavy.”

“What was he like?”

“Rolo? Well, I heard he was living alone in a caravan when he died—very sad—but back then he seemed ambitious, bright, ready to take on the world. I remember we all used to get into a lot of arguments because Rolo was a Thatcherite and the rest of us were wishy-washy liberals.” She laughed. “But he was fun, and intelligent. What can I say? We got along fine.”

“Even after you split up?”

“We remained friends. It wasn't a serious relationship. You know what it's like when you're a student. You experiment, go out with different people.”

“Did you go out with Thomas McMahon, too?”

“Tommy? No. Not that he wasn't attractive, or that he had any shortage of admirers. We just…I don't know, we just didn't hit it off on that level. Besides,” she added, “you may have noticed I'm a bit taller than the average woman, and Tommy was short. Not that I've got anything against short men, you understand, but it's always been, well…just that little bit awkward. Even Rolo was only just about the same height as me.”

“I understand what you mean,” said Winsome, looking up from her notebook and smiling.

“Yes, I'll bet you do,” Elaine said.

Annie sipped her coffee. It was still hot enough to burn her tongue, but it tasted as wonderful as the ground beans had smelled. “So Tommy and Rolo were good friends?” she went on.

“Yes. They met in the pub, liked the same music, and even though he was studying business, Rolo was no slouch when it came to the arts. I think he liked hanging around with the artsy crowd. He said more than once that most of his fellow business students were boring. I remember, he
used to write. Stories, poetry…His poems were quite good. What he showed me, anyway. Not your usual adolescent rubbish. Thoughtful. Some of them even rhymed. And he was well-read.”

“So they weren't such odd bedfellows?”

“No, not at all.”

“Did you ever know anyone back then by the name of Masefield? William Masefield?”

“No. I can't say I did. Why?”

“Doesn't matter. What about a Leslie Whitaker?”

“Can't say that rings a bell, either.”

“Was there anyone else?”

“What do you mean?”

“Was it just the two of them hung out together, or were they part of a larger group?”

“Oh, I see what you mean. Well, there used to be quite a few of them sat in the back corner. Mostly art students, and a few guests from outside. But it was the three of them stuck together most of all.”

“Three of them?”

“Yes. Rolo, Tommy and Giles.”

“Who was Giles?”

Elaine smiled and, to Annie's eyes, even seemed to blush a little at the memory. “Giles was my boyfriend. My real boyfriend. For the second year, at any rate.”

“And he was a friend of Tommy's and Rolo's?”

“Yes. Thick as thieves, they were.”

“This Giles, what college was he attached to?”

“He wasn't. Giles went to the uni, Leeds University.”

“To study what?”

“Art history.”

That was interesting, Annie thought. “He wasn't a painter or a sculptor?”

“No.” Elaine laughed. “He said he had no talent for it, but he loved it. The same with music. He liked to listen—classi
cal mostly, but he did often come to see bands with us—although he couldn't play an instrument.”

“How did he know Rolo and Tommy?”

“I don't know. They probably got talking in one of those pubs on Woodhouse Lane near the campus. The three of them just came as a package.”

“And you say you went out with Giles?”

“For a year, yes. My second year.”

“Serious?”

Elaine looked down into her coffee cup. “Yes, I suppose so. For me. At least, that was what I thought at the time. Young love. It's all so long ago. It feels strange to be thinking back after all this time, all that's happened since.”

“What happened to Giles?”

“He vanished.”

“Vanished?”

“Just like that. I don't mean he was abducted or anything. At least I don't think he was. He just disappeared as quickly as he'd arrived on the scene.”

“Had he finished his degree?”

“No, that was the funny thing. It was only the end of his second year. He never came back.”

“What did you do?”

“I tried to find out about him from the department, but they wouldn't tell me anything, of course.”

“Did you have a row or something?”

“No. Honestly. He just…One day he was there, and everything was fine, but the next day he was gone. Maybe not quite like that. I mean, we were all away for the holidays, but he just didn't come back. Not a trace. It was sad…I mean, I don't know if you've ever experienced this, but he was one of those people who leaves a big hole in your life when he goes.” She laughed. “Listen to me. Aren't I being silly? Anyway, I suppose what I'm saying is that I was a little bit in love with him.”

“Can you tell me anything more about him?”

“Not really. He was a bit of a dark horse. That's probably one of the other things that was so exciting about him. The mysterious quality. But he was great fun to be around. And generous. He always seemed to have plenty of money.”

“Do you know where he got it from?”

“His parents were wealthy. His father had something to do with defense work, government contracts. Knew Maggie Thatcher personally, apparently. If you ask me, I think he was an arms dealer. Come to think of it, Giles was a lot closer to Rolo in his political ideas than any of the rest of us. And his mother was related to the Duke of Devonshire. Only distantly, mind. Anyway, they had a big old family mansion house outside King's Lynn.”

“Did you ever go there?”

“No. Not inside, at any rate. Giles drove me past it once, perhaps because I nagged him about it so much. But we didn't go in. He said his parents were away in Italy and the place was locked up. Very
Brideshead Revisited
.”

“He didn't have a key?”

“Apparently not. They had to give him money, he said—it was some sort of inheritance or trust fund, and it belonged to him—but they didn't actually get on. They weren't on speaking terms.”

“Did you ever try to get in touch with them after he'd disappeared?”

“No. After a while I just gave up and got on with life. You know what it's like when you're young. A broken heart feels like it'll never mend for at least a couple of weeks. You pull out all your sad, romantic records and indulge in a bit of tearful melancholy for a while, maybe go out, get rat-arsed and fuck a stranger, then you move on. Pardon my language.”

“I remember. Neil Trethowan.”

“Sorry?”

“The one who first broke my heart. Neil Trethowan was his name.”

“Yes. Well, Giles…It was so long ago, but now you've got me talking about it, it seems just like yesterday. Some of it, anyway.”

“Did you ever see him or hear from him again?”

“No.”

“Do you know ifTommy and Rolo kept in touch with him?”

“If they did, they didn't tell me. We all lost touch when we graduated, of course, as you do, though we had every good intention.”

“What was his last name?”

“Moore. Giles Moore.”

With the name and some of the details Elaine had given them, they would be able to dig a little deeper into the background of this enigmatic Giles Moore, Annie thought, perhaps even locate him. Of course, he might have had nothing to do with recent events, but at least he sounded a promising start. They were looking for someone who was linked with both Thomas McMahon and Roland Gardiner when they were at Leeds Polytechnic, and it looked as if they'd found that someone.

“Do you have any photographs?” Annie asked.

“No. They disappeared after one of my many moves.”

“Pity,” said Annie. “This might sound like a strange question, but was there ever any connection between Giles or the rest of you and a fire?”

Elaine frowned. “A fire? No, not that I remember. I mean, I'm sure there were fires in the city, but none of them concerned us. Surely you can't think Giles had anything to do with what happened to Tommy and Rolo? Not after all this time.”

“I'm not saying he did,” said Annie. “But don't you think it's a big coincidence that two men living about ten miles from one another, both killed in suspicious fires only days apart, happened to be at Leeds Polytechnic at the same time? I do. Not only that, but since we've talked to you, we now
also know that they were close friends over twenty years ago. And then there's this mysterious third: Giles Moore.”

“But Giles wouldn't hurt anyone. Why would he do that?”

“Is there anything else you can tell us about him that might help us find him?”

“No,” said Elaine. Annie could sense her closing down. She didn't like the idea of her old lover being in the frame for a double murder. Annie didn't blame her; she wouldn't feel too good about it, either.

“What did he look like?”

“He was very good-looking. A bit taller than me, slim. Wavy hair, a bit long. Chestnut. But that was years ago.”

“How old was he at the time?”

“Twenty-one, a couple of years older than the rest of us.”

“Any distinguishing marks?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like birthmarks, scars, that sort of thing.”

“No,” said Elaine. “His skin was smooth, without a blemish.” She blushed at the memory. “Apart from an appendectomy scar.”

“Any regional accent?”

“No. A bit posh, maybe, but not too much. Educated, upper-class. Just like you'd expect, coming from the background he did.”

“Smoker? Drinker?”

“He smoked. We all did back then. I mean, it's not as if we didn't know what it did to you—it was 1980, after all—but we were young, we felt invulnerable. I stopped ten years ago. As for the drinking, we all did.”

“To excess?”

“Giles? Not really, no.”

“Was there anyone else on the scene you think we might be able to locate and talk to?”

“It was so long ago. I've lost touch with all of them. Can't even remember most of their names. You do lose touch, don't
you? Move away, get married, have kids or concentrate on your career.”

Annie realized that even though she was younger than Elaine, and not so distant from her past, she didn't know a soul she went to school or university with, hadn't kept in touch at all. Still, given the police life, the frequent relocations, the unreasonable hours, it was hardly surprising. Apart from Phil, the only friends she had were colleagues from work, the only social life an occasional drink with Banks or someone else in the Queen's Arms. “Do you have any ideas who might have done this to Tommy and Rolo?”

“Me? Good Lord, no. I just don't believe Giles had anything to do with it.”

Annie gestured to Winsome, who put away her notebook. She hoped Elaine was right, though perhaps a part of her also hoped that they could track down this Giles Moore and prove that he
was
the one who did it. At least then the case would be solved and a murderer would be off the streets. In the meantime, it was time to see if any progress had been made on tracking down Leslie Whitaker.

 

As Banks walked out of the underground station on to Holland Park Avenue, he was grateful for yet another mild evening after the previous night's cold snap, and thankful that he had been in Leeds when he got Burgess's message. He was also lucky that both the trains and the tube were running on time that day. As a result, it was a little over two and a half hours since his train had pulled out of Leeds City Station, and now he was heading for Helen Keane's flat—the one she shared with her art researcher husband, Phil (now short for “philanderer” in Banks's mind) Keane—in one of the residential streets across the main road, overlooking the park itself. Maybe it wasn't Mayfair or Belgravia, but you didn't live around here if you couldn't afford the high rents.

Banks didn't know what to expect when he pressed the buzzer. For obvious reasons, he hadn't rung ahead, so he didn't even know if Keane himself would be there. He hoped not, but it didn't really matter. He needed to know what the hell was going on. It wasn't just a question of Annie's feelings being hurt, but of someone being not exactly the sort of person he presented himself as. It probably meant nothing, but coming hot on the heels of the lie about not knowing McMahon, Banks wanted some answers.