Playing with Fire (6 page)

“What about her parents? We'll need to contact them. Someone will have to identify the body.”

Mark glanced sharply at Banks. “I'll do it,” he said.

“It needs to be a relative. Next of kin.”

“I said I'll do it.” Mark folded his arms.

“Mark, we'll find out one way or another. You're not doing anybody any favors here.”

“She wouldn't want those bastards anywhere near her,” he said.

“Why not?”

“You know.”

“Was she abused?”

He nodded. “Him. Her stepfather. He used to do it to her regularly, and her mother did nothing. Too frightened of losing the miserable bastard. I swear I'll kill him if I ever see him again. I mean it.”

“You won't see him, Mark. And you don't want to go talking about killing anyone. Even in grief. Now, where do they live?”

“Adel.”

“La-di-da,” said Banks. Adel was a wealthy north Leeds suburb with a fine Norman church and a lot of green.

Mark noticed Banks's surprise. “He's a doctor,” he said.

“Tina's stepfather?”

“Uh-huh. That's how she first got addicted. She used to nick morphine from his surgery when he'd…you know. It helped her get over the shame and the pain. He must have known about it, but he didn't say anything.”

“Did he know where she lived, on the boat?”

“He knew.”

“Did he ever visit you there?”

“Yes. To try to take Tina back. I wouldn't let him.”

Mark probably weighed no more than eight or nine stone, but he looked wiry and strong. People like him often made deceptively tough scrappers, Banks knew, because he'd been like that himself at Mark's age. He was still on the wiry side, despite all the beer and junk food. A matter of metabolism, he supposed. Jim Hatchley, on the other hand, seemed to show every pint he supped right in his gut.

“So Tina's father knew about you?”

“Yes.”

“When was the last time he paid you a visit?”

“About a week ago.”

“You sure he didn't come yesterday?”

“I don't know. I was at work. On the building site. Tina didn't say anything.”

“Would she have?”

“Maybe. But she was…you know…a bit out of it.”

A little chat with Tina's stepfather was definitely on the cards. “What's his name?” Banks asked.

“Aspern,” Mark spat out. “Patrick Aspern.”

“You might as well give me his address.”

Mark gave it to him.

“And stay away,” Banks warned him.

Mark looked sullen, but he said nothing.

“Is there anything else you can tell me about Tom on the next boat? What did he look like?”

“Ordinary, really. Short bloke, barrel-chested. He had long fingers, though. You couldn't help but notice them. He didn't shave very often, but he didn't really have a beard. Didn't wash his hair much, either.”

“What color was it?”

“Brown. Sort of long and greasy.”

Maybe the victim wasn't Tom after all. Banks remembered the tufts of red hair that had somehow escaped the flames and made a note to talk to Geoff Hamilton about the discrepancy.

“Did he have any visitors?”

“Just a couple, as far as I know.”

“At the same time?”

“No. Separate. I saw one of them two or three times, the other only once.”

“What did he look like, the one you saw a few times?”

“Hard to say, really. It was always after dark.”

“Try.”

“Well, the only glimpse I got of him was when Tom opened his door and some light came out. He was thin, tallish, maybe six foot or more. A bit stooped.”

“See his face?”

“Not really. I only saw him in the shadows.”

“What about his hair?”

“Short. And dark, I think. Or that could have just been the light.”

“Clothes?”

“Can't say, really. Maybe jeans and trainers.”

“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

“Dunno. I don't think so. There was one thing, though.”

“What's that?”

“He carried one of those big cases. You know, like art students have.”

“An artist's briefcase?”

“I suppose that's what you'd call it.”

So if Tom was an artist, Banks thought, then this was probably his dealer or agent. Worth looking into. “When did you last see him?” he asked.

“Yesterday.”

“Yesterday when?”

“Just after dark. I hadn't been home from work long.”

“How long did he stay?”

“I don't know. I went back inside before he left. I was having a smoke and Tina doesn't like me smoking indoors. It was cold.”

“So he could have still been there after you left for the pub?”

“He could've been, I suppose. I didn't hear him leave. We did have the music on, though.”

“What about the other visitor?”

“I can't really say. It was just the once, maybe two, three weeks ago. It was dark that time, too.”

“Can you remember anything at all about him?”

“Only that he was shorter than the other bloke, and a bit fatter. I mean, not really fat, but not skinny, if you know what I mean.”

“Did you see his face?”

“Only when Tom opened the door. I can tell you his nose was a bit big. And hooked, like an eagle. But I only saw it from the side.”

“Did you ever see any cars parked in the lay-by through the woods?”

“Once or twice.”

“What cars?”

“I remember seeing one of those jeep things. Dark blue.”

“Jeep Cherokee? Range Rover?”

“I don't know. Just a dark blue jeep. Or black.”

“Anything else?”

“No.”

“But you never saw anyone getting in or out of it?”

“No.”

“Was it there yesterday, when the man came?”

“I didn't see it, but I didn't look. I mean, it was dark, I'd have had to have been walking that way. I'd seen it there before when he visited, though. The tall bloke.”

“Can you remember anything else that happened before you went out yesterday?” Banks asked.

“That sad bastard from the lockkeeper's cottage was round again on his bike.”

“Andrew Hurst? What was he doing here?”

“Same as always. Spying. He thinks I can't see him in the woods, but I can see him all right.”

Just like we saw you, Banks thought. “Who is he spying on?”

“Dunno. If you ask me, though, he's after seeing Tina without her clothes on.”

“Why do you say that?”

“The way he ogles her whenever he's around. He just looks like a perv to me, that's all, and he's always lurking, spying. Why else would he do that?”

Good question, Banks thought. And it was interesting that Andrew Hurst had specifically mentioned that he
didn't
spy on the people on the boats. He also hadn't told Banks and Annie about his earlier visit during their conversation that morning. Banks would have to have another chat with the self-styled lockkeeper.

“What's going to happen to Tina now?” Mark asked.

Banks didn't want to go into the gory details of the postmortem, so he just said, “We'll be hanging on to her until we've got this sorted.”

“And after? I mean, there'll be a funeral, won't there?”

“Of course,” said Banks. “Don't worry. Nobody's going to abandon her.”

“Only once we were talking, like you do, and she said when she died she wanted ‘Stolen Car' played at her funeral. Beth Orton. It was her favorite. She wanted to be a singer.”

“I'm sure that can be arranged. But that's a while off yet. What are you going to do in the meantime?”

“Find somewhere to live, I suppose.”

“The social will help out. With your clothes and money and accommodation and all. Talking about that, have you got any money?”

“I've got about ten quid in my wallet. There was some money we'd saved on the boat, a couple of hundred. But that's gone now, along with everything else. I'm not a sponger. I've got a job. I'm not afraid of hard work.”

Banks remembered what Annie had told him about her interview with Mandy Patterson, about Mark's dreams. “Someone said you wanted to be a stonemason, do church-restoration work. Is that right?”

Mark looked away, embarrassed. “Well, I don't have the qualifications, but I'd like to have a go. I just like old churches, that's all. I'm not religious or anything, so I don't know why. I just do. They're beautiful buildings.”

“What about clothes?”

“The clothes you took are all I've got,” he said. “Everything else went up with the boat.”

“We're about the same size,” said Banks. “I can let you have some old jeans and stuff till you get yourself sorted.”

“Thanks,” said Mark, looking down at the red low-cost suspect overalls he had been issued with. “Anything would be better than this.”

“Can you go home for a while? To your parents?”

Mark gave a sharp shake of his head. Again, Banks knew better than to pursue the subject, no matter how curious he was to know what made Mark react in such a frightened manner at the mention of his parents. Same as Tina, most likely. There was too much of it about, and most of it still didn't get reported.

“What about mates? Someone from the building site, perhaps?”

“I suppose there's Lenny.”

“Do you know his address?”

“No, but he's in the George most lunchtimes. Besides, the people at the site know him.”

“Do you think he'd be willing to put you up for a couple of nights until you find a flat, get on your feet again?”

“Maybe. Look, don't worry about me,” Mark said. “I'll be all right. I'm used to taking care of myself. Can I go back to my cell now? I didn't sleep, and I'm dog-tired.”

Banks glanced at his watch. “It's lunchtime. I hear they do a decent burger and chips.”

Mark stood up. The two of them walked downstairs, where Banks handed Mark over to one of the constables on duty, who would escort him down to the basement custody facilities. Then Banks walked out into the market square and headed for the Queen's Arms. He fancied a beef burger and chips, too, but he'd have to miss out on his usual lunchtime pint. He was going to Adel to talk to Tina's parents, and he didn't want the smell of beer on his breath when he spoke to Dr. Patrick Aspern.

A
fter stopping off at home for a quick shower and a change of clothes, Banks headed down to Adel early that afternoon, listening to the same Beethoven string quartet that had been playing on the radio during his talk with Mark: number 12 in E flat.

The fog had thinned to a mere gauze, except in patches, so it wasn't a difficult drive, and the temperature was heading toward double figures. One or two hardy souls were out playing on the golf course near Harrogate, dressed in sweaters and jeans.

Banks turned off the Leeds ring road onto Otley Road and stopped by the imposing gates of Lawnswood Crematorium to consult his map. A little farther along the main road, he turned right and drove into the affluent community of winding streets that was Adel.

He soon found the large detached corner house, which also doubled as the doctor's surgery. This wasn't going to be an easy job, Banks reflected as he got out of his car. Mark's allegations against Patrick Aspern might be groundless, and Banks was there to tell the parents that their daughter was dead and ask them to identify the body, not to interrogate the stepfather over sexual abuse. That might come later, though, Banks knew, so he would have to be
alert for anything out of the ordinary in Aspern's reactions to his questions.

Banks took a deep breath and pushed the doorbell. The woman who answered looked younger than he expected. About Annie's age, early thirties, with short layered blond hair, pale, flawless skin and a nervous, elfin look about her. “Mrs. Aspern?” he asked.

The woman nodded, looking puzzled, and put her hand to her cheek.

“It's about your daughter, Tina. I'm a policeman. May I come in for a moment?”

“Christine?” Mrs. Aspern fingered the loose neck of her cable-knit sweater. “She doesn't live here anymore. What is it?”

“If I might come in, please?”

She stood aside and Banks stepped onto the highly polished hardwood floor. “First on the right,” said Mrs. Aspern.

He followed her direction and found himself in a small sitting room with a dark blue three-piece suite and cream walls. A couple of framed paintings hung there, one over the decorative, but functional, stone fireplace, and the other on the opposite wall. Both were landscapes in simple black frames.

“Is your husband home?” Banks asked.

“Patrick? He's taking afternoon surgery.”

“Can you fetch him for me, please?”

“Fetch him?” She looked alarmed. “But…the patients.”

“I want to talk to you both together. It's important,” Banks said.

Shaking her head, Mrs. Aspern left the room. Banks took the opportunity to stand up and examine the two paintings more closely. Both were watercolors painted in misty morning light, by the looks of them. One showed the church of St. John the Baptist, just down the street, which Banks happened to have visited once with his ex-wife Sandra during his early
days in Yorkshire. He knew it was the oldest Norman church in Leeds, built around the middle of the twelfth century. Sandra had taken some striking photographs. A plain building, it was most famous for the elaborate stone carvings on the porch and chancel arch, at which the painting merely hinted.

The other painting was a woodland scene, which Banks assumed to be Adel Woods, again with that wispy, fey early-morning light about it, making the glade look like the magical forest of
A Midsummer Night's Dream
. The signature “Keith Peverell” was clear enough on both. No connection to “Tom” there, not that he had expected any.

Mrs. Aspern returned some minutes later, along with her clearly perturbed husband. “Look,” he said, before any introductions had been made. “I can't just leave my patients in the lurch like this. Can't you come back at five o'clock?”

“I'm afraid not,” said Banks, offering his warrant card.

Aspern scrutinized it, and a small, unpleasant smile tugged at the corners of his lips. He glanced at his wife. “Why didn't you say, darling? A detective chief inspector, no less,” he said. “Well, it must be important if they sent the organ grinder. Please, sit down.”

Banks sat. Now that Aspern was pleased he'd been sent someone he thought commensurate with his social standing, though probably a chief constable would have been preferable, the patients were quickly forgotten. Things were likely to go a bit more easily. If Banks let them.

Aspern was a good fifteen years or so older than his wife, Banks guessed. Around fifty, with thinning sandy hair, he was handsome in a sharp-angled way, though Banks was put off by the cynical look in his eyes and the lips perpetually on the verge of that nasty little superior smile. He had the slim, athletic figure of a man who plays tennis and golf and goes to the gym regularly. Being a doctor, of course, he'd know all about the benefits of exercise, though Banks knew more than
one or two doctors, the Home Office pathologist Dr. Glendenning among them, who smoked and drank and didn't give a damn about fitness.

“I'm afraid it's bad news,” he said, as Dr. and Mrs. Aspern faced him from the sofa. Mrs. Aspern was chewing on a fingernail already, looking as if she was expecting the worst. “It's about your daughter, Tina.”

“We always called her Christine. Please.”

“Out with it, man,” Aspern prodded. “Has there been an accident?”

“Not quite,” Banks said. “Christine's dead. I'm sorry, there's no easier way to say it. And we'll need one or both of you to come and identify the body.”

They sat in silence, not looking at each other, not even touching. Finally, Aspern found his voice. “Dead? How? What happened?”

“There was a fire. You knew she was living on a canal boat just outside Eastvale?”

“Yes. Another foolish idea of hers.” At last, Aspern looked at his wife. Tears were running from her eyes as if she'd been peeling an onion, but she made no sound. Her husband got up and fetched her a box of tissues. “Here you are, dear,” he said, putting them down on her knees. She didn't even look at them, just kept staring ahead into whatever abyss she was seeing, the tears dripping off the edges of her jaw onto her skirt, making little stains where they landed on the pale green material.

“I appreciate your coming yourself to tell us,” said Aspern. “You can see my wife's upset. It's been quite a shock. Is that all?”

“I'm afraid not, sir,” Banks said. “The fire was of doubtful origin. I have some questions I need to ask you as soon as possible. Now, in fact.”

“It's all right, Patrick,” Mrs. Aspern said, coming back from a great distance. “Let the man do his job.”

A little flustered by her command of the situation, or so it
seemed to Banks, Aspern settled back onto the sofa. “If you're sure…” he said.

“I'm sure.” She looked at Banks. “Please tell us what happened.”

“Christine was living with a boy, a young man, rather, called Mark Siddons, on an abandoned narrow boat.”

“Siddons,” said Aspern, lip twisting. “We know all about him. Did he do this? Was he responsible?”

“We have no evidence that Mark Siddons had anything to do with the fire,” said Banks.

“Where was he? Did he survive?”

“He was out at the time of the fire,” Banks said. “And he's unharmed. I gather there was no love lost between you?”

“He turned our daughter against us,” said Aspern. “Took her away from home and stopped her from seeing us. It's as if he took control of her mind like one of those religious cults you read about.”

“That's not what he told me,” Banks said, careful now he knew he was walking on heavily mined land. “And it's not the impression I got of him.”

“Well, you wouldn't expect him to admit it, would you? I can only imagine the lies he told you.”

“What lies?”

“Never you mind. I'm just warning you, that's all. The boy's no good. Don't believe a word he says.”

“I'll bear that in mind,” said Banks. “How old was Christine?”

“Seventeen,” said Aspern.

“And how old was she when she left home?”

“She was sixteen,” Mrs. Aspern answered. “She went the day after her sixteenth birthday. As if she just couldn't wait to get away.”

“Did either of you know that Christine was a drug user?”

“It doesn't surprise me,” said Aspern. “The crowd she was hanging around with. What was it? Pot? Ecstasy?”

“Apparently she preferred drugs that brought her oblivion rather than awareness,” Banks said softly, watching Patrick Aspern's face closely for any signs of a reaction. All it showed was puzzlement. “It was heroin,” Banks continued. “Other narcotics, if she couldn't get that, but mostly heroin.”

“Oh, dear God,” said Mrs. Aspern. “What have we done?”

Banks turned to her. “What do you mean?”

“Fran,” her husband said. “We can't blame ourselves for this. We gave her every opportunity. Every advantage.”

Banks had heard this before on so many occasions that it slipped in one ear and out the other. Nobody had a clue what their kids really needed—and how could they, for teenagers are hardly the most communicative species on earth—but so many parents assumed that the advantages of wealth or status were enough in themselves. Even Banks's own parents, working-class as they were, thought he had let them down by joining the police force instead of pursuing a career in business. But wealth and status rarely were enough, in Banks's experience, though he knew that most kids from wealthy families went on to do quite well for themselves. Others, like Tina, and like Emily Riddle and Luke Armitage, cases he had dealt with in the recent past, fell by the wayside.

“Apparently,” Banks went on, cutting through the husband-wife tension he was sensing, “Christine used to steal morphine from your surgery.”

Aspern reddened. “That's a lie! Did Siddons tell you that? Any narcotics in my surgery are safely under lock and key, in absolute compliance with the law. If you don't believe it, come and have a look for yourself right now. I'll show you. Come on.”

“That won't be necessary,” said Banks. “This isn't about Christine's drug supplies. We know she got her last score from a dealer in Eastvale.”

“It's just a damn shame you can't put these people away
before
they do the damage,” said Aspern.

“That would assume we know who the criminals are going to be before they commit their crimes,” said Banks, thinking of the film
Minority Report,
which he had seen with Michelle a few weeks ago.

“If you ask me, it's pretty bloody obvious in most cases,” said Aspern. “Even if this Siddons didn't start the fire, you can be damn sure he did
something
. He's got criminal written all over him, that one.”

More than once Banks, like his colleagues, had acted on the premise that if the person they had in custody hadn't committed the particular crime he was charged with, it didn't matter, because the police
knew
he had committed other crimes, and had no evidence to charge him with them. In police logic, the crime they were convicted for, the one they didn't commit, made up for all the crimes they had committed and got away with. It was easier in the old days, of course, before the Police and Criminal Evidence Act gave the criminals more rights than the police, and the Crown Prosecution Service wouldn't touch anything with less than a hundred-percent possibility of conviction, but it still happened, if you could get away with it. “We'd have to overhaul the legal system,” he said, “if we wanted to put people who haven't done anything away without a trial. But let's get back to the matter in hand. Did you know of anyone who'd want to hurt Christine, Mrs. Aspern?”

“We didn't know her…the friends she made after she left,” she answered. “But I can't imagine anyone would want to harm her, no.”

“Dr. Aspern?”

“Me, neither.”

“There was an artist on the adjacent boat. All we know is that his name was Tom. Do you know anything about him?”

“Never heard of him,” said Patrick Aspern.

“What about Andrew Hurst? He lives nearby.”

“I never saw anyone.”

“When did you last visit the boat?” Banks asked him.

“Last week. Thursday, I believe.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why?” Aspern said. “She's my stepdaughter. I was concerned. I wanted to persuade her to come home.”

“Did you ever see the neighbor on one of your visits?”

“Look, you're making it sound as if I was a regular visitor. I only went up there a couple of times to try to persuade Christine to come home, and that…thug she was with threatened me.”

“With what?”

“Violence, of course. I mean, I'm not a coward or a weakling or anything, but I wouldn't put it past someone like him to have a knife, or even a gun.”

“You didn't go there yesterday?”

“Of course not.”

“What kind of car do you drive?”

“A Jaguar XJ8.”

“Did you ever visit the boat, Mrs. Aspern?” Banks asked.

Before Frances Aspern could answer, her husband jumped in. “I went by myself,” he said. “Frances has a nervous disposition. Confrontations upset her. Besides, she couldn't bear to see how Christine was living.”

“Is this true, Mrs. Aspern?” Banks asked.

Frances Aspern nodded.

“Look,” said Dr. Aspern, “you can see we're upset over the news. Can't you just go away and leave us in peace for a while, to grieve?”

“I'm afraid you'll have to save that for later,” said Banks. “When I've finished here, I'd like one or both of you to follow me up to Eastvale and identify the body.”

Mrs. Aspern touched her chalklike cheek. “You said it was a fire.”

“Yes,” said Banks. “I'm sorry. There is some disfiguration. Not much, but some.”