Playing with Fire (38 page)

“Tell me about it,” said Annie, thinking of her father. She had grown up surrounded by beards and endless arguments on Im
pressionism versus Cubism, Van Gogh versus Gauguin and the like. While Ray seemed reasonably well equipped to handle the real world, he could lose himself in his work for days on end and forget about petty irritations like bills and housecleaning.

“Anyway, that's all I've got to say, for better or worse. I'll get them packed and have them couriered back up to you. They're worthless, but I suppose you might still need them as evidence?”

“Thanks,” said Annie.

“How are things up there?”

“Fine, I suppose.”

“Closing in for the kill?”

“Maybe,” Annie said. “Whitaker—you know, the bloke who supplied McMahon with the paper—he's disappeared.”

“As in been killed?”

“No. As in legged it.”

“Oh, I see. Best of luck then.”

“Thanks.”

“What's wrong? You sound a bit glum.”

“Oh, it's nothing. I had a bit of a barney with Alan, DCI Banks, this morning. It's left rather a bad taste in my mouth.”

“What about?”

“Nothing. That's it. Just me being oversensitive. I wish the two of you could get on better.”

“Why, what's he said about me?”

“Nothing. It's just…I don't know, Phil. It's me. Don't pay any attention.”

“Did he say anything about me?”

“No. He just asked about you, that's all. See what I mean about being oversensitive?”

“I shouldn't worry about it, then,” said Phil. “I've got nothing against him. I've only met the man the once, and you were there.”

“Like I said, Phil, it's just me. Where are you? Will you be up tonight?”

“Afraid not. I'm still down in London. I'll try to make it tomorrow or the next day, all right?”

“Okay. See you later, then.”

“See you.”

Annie put the phone down and looked at the piles of actions and statements on her desk. Well, at least it would keep her from thinking about Banks. And about Phil.

But before she could even pick up her pen, DC Templeton dashed into the squad room. “We've got him,” he said. “We've got Whitaker. He's downstairs.”

 

“Well, Leslie,” said Banks. “It's quite a merry dance you've led us, isn't it?”

“I had no idea you'd been looking for me,” said Whitaker. “How could I?”

They were in the same interview room as last time, only today Whitaker was already wearing the disposable red overalls. He hadn't been charged, but he had been arrested and read his rights, and the tape recorders were running. The duty solicitor, Gareth Bowen, sat beside him. Banks could still sense some tension between Annie and himself, but he knew that they were both professional enough to do their jobs, especially now they seemed close to the end. If they could break Whitaker, it would be drinks all around in the Queen's Arms, and there was a good chance Banks would get to see Michelle this weekend.

“Where were you?” Banks asked.

“I needed to get away. I went to visit a friend in Newcastle.”

“Rather an opportune time to go away, wasn't it?”

“As I said, I had no idea you would want to talk to me again.”

“Oh, I think you did, Leslie,” said Banks. “In fact, I'm sure you did.”

“Why don't you tell us about it?” Annie said. “You'll feel better if you do.”

Whitaker curled his lip. “Tell you about what?”

“About Thomas McMahon. Tommy. And about Roland Gardiner. Rolo. How long have you known them?”

“I don't know what you're talking about. I've already told you I saw Thomas McMahon in the shop from time to time, but I don't know the other person you're talking about.”

Banks sighed. “All right, we'll do it the hard way.”

“Lay a finger on me and I'll sue you.” Whitaker looked over to Bowen, who just rolled his eyes.

“What I meant,” said Banks, “is that I'm tired, DI Cabbot's tired, and I'm sure you and Mr. Bowen are tired, too. But we'll stay here as long as it takes to get the truth.” He glanced at Bowen. “With all requisite meal breaks and rest periods, as required by the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, of course.”

“I don't have to tell you anything,” said Whitaker.

“No, you don't,” Banks agreed. “In fact, if you remember that bit in the caution about later relying in court on something you
didn't
say when we first asked you, you'll understand exactly what it means not to have to tell us anything. But let me lay my cards on the table, Leslie. At the moment, you're our main suspect in the murders of Thomas McMahon and Roland Gardiner.”

“But I told you, I was in Harrogate, at a dinner party. Surely you must have checked?”

“We checked.”

“And?”

“Everyone we talked to corroborates your statement. You were there.”

Whitaker folded his arms. “I told you so.”

“I wouldn't look so smug if I were you, Leslie,” Banks went on. “We now have evidence to suggest that a timing device was used in Roland Gardiner's caravan.”

“A timing device?”

“Yes. A candle. Crude but effective. It allowed the arsonist to prepare the fire scene but leave before the blaze started. A good couple of hours before. Easily. Wouldn't you agree, DI Cabbot?”

“Yes,” said Annie, turning the pages of Stefan Nowak's report. “Easily.”

“But do you have any evidence specifically to connect Mr. Whitaker to the scene?” Bowen asked. “All you're saying is that
anyone
could have set that fire.”

“Have you ever heard of a man called William Masefield?” Banks asked Whitaker.

“No. Never.”

“All right. We'll leave that for the moment. Did you or did you not supply period paper to Thomas McMahon?”

“He bought books and prints from me. It's my business. It's what I sell.”

“But did you sell them to him for the purpose of forging works of art?”

“Chief Inspector Banks,” Bowen cut in. “Mr. Whitaker can hardly be held responsible for what a client did
after
a purchase, or even know what he intended to do.”

“Perhaps in this case, he can,” said Banks. “If money was involved.”

Whitaker looked sheepish.

“Leslie?” Banks went on. “What's it to be?”

“I told you,” Whitaker repeated. “I sold him what he wanted. It's what you do when you're in business.”

“You own a Jeep Cherokee, am I right?” said Banks.

“You know I do. Your men have been taking it apart since we last spoke.”

“And,” Bowen added, “might I say that they have come up with nothing to connect my client's car with either crime scene.”

“Not yet,” said Banks.

“In fact,” Bowen went on, “I understand that a Jeep Cherokee
has
been connected with the Thomas McMahon fire, and that it was rented to this mysterious, and late, Mr. William Masefield by a garage outside York. Are you now saying that my client is this Mr. Masefield?”

“I'm saying that it might be the case that your client has taken Mr. Masefield's identity,” Banks went on.

“Have you any proof of this?” Bowen asked.

“The investigation is ongoing.”

“In other words, you haven't?”

“This is ridiculous,” said Whitaker. “I've already got a Jeep Cherokee. Why would I rent one?”

“To avoid exactly the kind of situation you're in,” said Banks.

“But I'm in it anyway, aren't I?”

“There are several counts against you. First, you're a minor art dealer and one of the victims was a forger you supplied with paper. Secondly, you drive a Jeep Cherokee and such a car, or one very much like it, was spotted at the scene of the Thomas McMahon fire.”

“But you've already found—” Bowen started.

Banks cut him off. “That doesn't mean Mr. Whitaker's Jeep was
never
there.” He went on. “Add to this that you have no alibi for either murder, and that you lied to us in your previous interview, I'd say it adds up to a pretty strong case against you.”

“Circumstantial,” said Bowen. “You've no proof my client had ever heard of, let alone knew, Roland Gardiner; the car in the lay-by spotted near the scene has been identified; the accelerant used did not come from Mr. Whitaker's fuel tank; and there's no connection between Mr. Whitaker and the man whose credit card was used to rent the car. I'd say that adds up to nothing.”

“Except,” said Annie Cabbot, “that Mr. Whitaker's business has been reporting a loss for two years in a row now, yet he has recently made several rather expensive purchases. For cash.” Annie opened a file folder. “To wit, a thirty-two-inch widescreen television and a home theater system, a state-of-the-art Dell desktop computer system, and he's had his house repainted and added a new conservatory. Do you deny these purchases?”

Whitaker looked at Annie. “I…er…no.”

“Where did you get the money?”

“I won it. The horses.”

“You don't bet on the horses.”

“How do you know?”

“Do you think we overlook the bookies when we're investigating someone's financial status, Leslie?” Annie said. “Do you really think we're
that
stupid?”

“It was a gift. A friend gave it to me.”

“Which friend?”

“He wants to remain anonymous. A tax thing. You understand.”

Banks was shaking his head, and even Gareth Bowen looked anxious.

“Where did you get the money, Leslie?” Annie repeated.

“You don't have to answer,” said Bowen.

“Right,” said Banks, standing up. “I've had enough of this. Interview terminated at six thirty-five
P.M
. I'm going home and the suspect is going back to his cell.”

“You can't—-”

Bowen touched Whitaker's sleeve. “Yes, they can, Leslie,” he said. “For twenty-four hours. But don't worry. I'll be working for you.”

Whitaker glared at the solicitor. “Well,” he said, “you've no idea how bloody confident that makes me feel.”

 

Annie munched on a salad sandwich Winsome had brought her from the bakery across Market Street and started reading through the statements again. Andrew Hurst. Mark Siddons. Jack Mellor. Leslie Whitaker. Elaine Hough. There had to be something there to link Whitaker more closely to the killings, but if there was, she was damned if she could find it. It didn't help that she was having trouble concentrating, partly because she still couldn't stop herself wondering what Banks was up to, and partly because of something else, something she couldn't quite put her finger on. It would come, she knew, if she let her mind drift.

Phil had suggested that McMahon and Gardiner were involved in some art forgery scam, an ill-advised and illtimed attempt to come up with a Turner watercolor that had been lost for over a century. Annie agreed. But if that was the case, her question remained: Who killed them, and why? Leslie Whitaker still seemed the most logical culprit, despite the Jeep Cherokee rented under William Masefield's name. Perhaps that was a red herring, another issue entirely?

Annie ruled out the Siddons-Aspern angle, as she had done almost from the start, despite her mistrust of the boy. Tina's death was an unfortunate but irrelevant distraction; she had died because she was at the wrong place at the wrong time and in the wrong state of mind. In other words, she wasn't the intended victim. Thomas McMahon was. And in Gardiner's case, there was no question. He lived alone, and in isolation. The two knew each other from their time at Leeds Polytechnic, and they had also once been close to a mysterious character named Giles Moore, who had misled all his friends about being a university student.

Why? What possible reason could he have had, unless lying was an essential part of his character? If it was, it could easily be put to criminal purposes. This Giles Moore had claimed to be studying art history, and according to Elaine
Hough, had seemed to know plenty about the subject, whether he learned it at university or not. Was this, then, the person who had assumed William Masefield's identity when hiring cars for meetings with McMahon? Meetings about their scam. Because she was certain it was he, not McMahon or Gardiner, who was the brains behind it. And was this person Whitaker?

But again the question remained: Why had Moore-Masefield-Whitaker, or whoever he was, killed the goose that laid the golden eggs—McMahon? Unless…. unless, she thought, the Turners weren't part of his master plan, and he believed they would ruin everything and expose him. Phil had said that any forger worth his salt goes for lower-level stuff, artists who fetch a decent price but don't draw too much attention to themselves, like Turner or Van Gogh. And Phil should know. He was in the business. An expert. Dead artists were a better bet, too, especially if they'd been dead so long that nobody living had known them, because the provenance was easier to forge. So who was it?

Winsome walked by with a handful of papers she had been keying into HOLMES.

“Anything?” Annie asked.

“My fingertips are bleeding,” said Winsome. “I don't know if that counts as anything.” She dropped the papers on Annie's desk. “The list of parking tickets from the Askham Bar area. You'd think with all those vehicle numbers something would jump out, wouldn't you?”

“Son of Sam?”

“Like that, yes.”

“Fancy a drink?”

Winsome grinned. “You're talking my language.”

Annie glanced over the list of car numbers that had been given parking tickets in the area around Kirk's Garage, where “William Masefield” had rented his Jeep Cherokee and she saw one that immediately jumped out at her. It
couldn't be right, she thought. It wasn't possible. She looked again. Maybe she'd remembered the numbers wrong. But she knew she hadn't. She never did.