Playing with Fire (21 page)

“I've told you I never heard of any Gardiner. I'm an antiquarian bookseller. I occasionally deal in works of art. That's my only connection with Thomas McMahon. But I have no knowledge whatsoever of anyone called Gardiner.”

Banks paused for a moment, whispered something in Hatchley's ear, mostly for effect, then turned back to Whitaker. “The way things look right now, Leslie,” he said, “I think it's time to move on to the next stage.”

“Next stage? What do you mean?”

“Well, this is just a preliminary interview, you understand. Just to get the lie of the land, so to speak. I'm not satisfied with what I've heard. Not satisfied at all. So now we take it a step further. We go over your finances, your car, your clothes, your business dealings, your life, with a fine-tooth comb, and if we find any of the evidence we're looking for, we haul you back in.”

Whitaker swallowed. “You can't do that,” he said, without much conviction.

Banks stood up. “Yes, we can,” he said. “And we will. Detective Sergeant Hatchley will take down those names now.”

 

On Monday afternoon, results started trickling in from the lab. First of all, Andrew Hurst's clothes were clean, as ex
pected, and so were Danny Boy Corcoran's and Patrick Aspern's. None of this surprised Banks; apart from Hurst, who had washed his clothes, they had all been outsiders in the first place.

Banks would like to think that Aspern was involved somehow, but he very much doubted the good doctor had set the fires. Even so, he reminded himself that Patrick Aspern didn't have a decent alibi for either fire, and that he could have gone to see Tina on the day of the boat fires, then returned later. Perhaps she had threatened to tell the world what he'd done to her. He could have started the fire on McMahon's boat to draw the inquiry away from Tina. As yet, nobody had had any luck trying to locate Paul Ryder, Christine Aspern's birth father. Banks didn't imagine he was important to the case, as he had never even known his daughter, but at least he ought to know what had happened to her.

But there were other matters to consider. Banks would have liked to know why Andrew Hurst had washed his clothes in the middle of the night, for a start. As things stood, it just didn't make sense. DC Kevin Templeton was checking into Hurst's background, along with everyone else's, so maybe he would turn up something.

Then there were the Turner, the money, and the possible criminal activities of McMahon and Gardiner. Well, perhaps a closer look at Leslie Whitaker's business dealings would help turn up something there.

Banks sat in his office and browsed through reports and actions, a CD of Soile Isokoski singing Richard Strauss's orchestral songs playing in the background. Just when he was about to wander out for a coffee break, his phone rang. It was the front desk. Someone to see the man in charge of the fires on the boats. Someone called Lenny Knox.

Puzzled, Banks asked the duty officer to have him escorted upstairs, and he appeared at Banks's door, a burly, pockmarked, red-faced fellow, a couple of minutes later.

“Sit down,” Banks said.

Knox sat. The chair creaked under his weight.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Knox?” Banks asked, leaning back and linking his hands behind his head.

“I'm worried about Mark, Mark Siddons,” said Knox, traces of a Liverpool accent in his voice.

“Maybe you'd better start at the beginning.”

Knox sighed. “Mark's a good kid. A pal of mine. He's a good grafter, too. Doesn't mind getting his hands dirty. We were doing a job together at the college—you know about that?”

Banks nodded. He knew about Mark's job.

“Anyway,” Knox went on, “when you let him out of jail, the poor kid had nowhere to go, and he'd just lost his girlfriend, so I invited him home with me.”

“That was a kind gesture,” Banks said.

Knox looked at him and sighed. “It was meant to be. Backfired, though, didn't it?”

“How?”

“You've got to understand, Sal's a good girl, really, but she's…well, she doesn't like to feel put-upon. Likes to think she's part of things, decisions and suchlike. And she likes things planned out, doesn't like surprises.”

“Sounds reasonable.”

“Anyway, it was my fault. I brought Mark home with me, told him he could stay without even consulting her. She hit the roof. Mark must have heard us arguing in the kitchen, and the next thing I knew he'd legged it. I yelled after him but he didn't pay it any mind.”

Banks reached for his notepad. “When did this happen?” he asked.

“Saturday evening.”

“What time?”

“About half past seven.”

“Which direction did he go?”

“Toward the railway tracks.”

Banks tapped his pencil on his pad. Jennings Field lay a short distance east of town, beyond the tracks. For a number of reasons, Banks hadn't considered Mark to be a strong candidate for the boat fires, but this put a different complexion on things. Mark could easily have made it to the field by the time the fire started. But why? Was he a pyromaniac? Was there something that triggered him? Anger? Rejection? He had been angry at Tina, too, before he left for Mandy's flat on Thursday night. But the alibi…the timing…the clothes…it just didn't make sense. Still, the important thing now was to find him and bring him in.

“Did Mark say anything to you about the fires?”

“Like what?”

“Anything at all.”

“No. Only that he was cut up about Tina.”

“He didn't voice any suspicions, any ideas about what happened?”

“Not to me, no. Look,” said Knox, going on to echo Banks's own fears, “I'm not the sort to go blabbing to the police, which is why I didn't come straight here, but I'm worried about Mark. I thought he might have got in touch, but he hasn't, and there's no one else to report him missing. Like I said, at bottom of it all he's a good kid. Not like some you see around these days. And he's had it tough. He doesn't have any money, and he's got nowhere to go. You can bet he'll be sleeping rough. I know it's not exactly brass-monkey weather right now, but it's still bloody cold to be sleeping out in the open. And things can change pretty quickly up here.”

“Too true,” said Banks. And if Mark himself wasn't responsible for the boat fires, there was a good chance that whoever was wanted him out of the way. So he was out in the cold, possibly being hunted. Definitely not an ideal state of affairs. “Is there anything else?”

“No,” said Lenny. “But perhaps you can find him, tell him
I'm sorry. Poor Sal was beside herself when she knew he'd heard her. Tell him he can come back to ours anytime he likes, she says now. I told you she was a good lass. It was just the shock, that's all, and her not being asked.”

“What was Mark wearing?”

“A ratty old suede coat, fleece-lined, and jeans rolled up at the bottoms. Looked like hand-me-downs.”

Banks smiled at the description of the clothes he'd given Mark: his own cast-offs. “We'll put out a bulletin for him.”

“Don't frighten him, will you?” said Lenny. “I don't know what he'd do if he felt cornered. He's in a right state.”

“We'll do our best, Mr. Knox,” said Banks. “The important thing is to find him. I don't suppose you have a photograph?”

“Me? No. Didn't you take one when you had him in?”

“We don't do that as a matter of routine, Mr. Knox. We need a reason, and permission. In Mark's case, it simply wasn't necessary.”

Knox stood up. “Right, then,” he said. “You'll let me know?”

“Give me your telephone number. I'll see to it personally.”

Knox gave him the number. “Thanks,” he said.

When Knox had left, Banks walked over to his window. The CD had come to the
Four Last Songs
now, Banks's favorites. He remembered an occasion some years ago, before everything went wrong, when he had arrived home very late after attending the scene of a teenage girl's murder in an Eastvale cemetery. He had sat up smoking, drinking Laphroaig and listening to the
Four Last Songs,
Gundula Janowitz's version that time, and his daughter, Tracy, had woken up and come down to see what was wrong. They had talked briefly—Banks deliberately not telling her about the murder—then they had shared mugs of cocoa as they cuddled up on the sofa and listened to the Strauss songs. It was a moment forever etched in his memory, all the more so be
cause it could never be repeated. Tracy was gone now, grown up, living her own life. Sandra was gone, too. And Brian.

The day was still gray but fairly warm outside. Lucky for Mark. There were plenty of people crossing the market square, shopping along Market Street and York Road. The church facade was covered in scaffolding, like an exoskeleton, and the weather was good enough for the restorers to get up there and work away at the ancient stonework and lead roofing. He thought of Mark, who had said he wanted to do church restoration work. Banks knew Neville Lauder, the stonemason in charge of the project, from the Queen's Arms. Maybe he could put in a word. He had to maintain his objectivity, though. Much as he thought Lenny was right in his assessment of Mark, and much as Banks liked the kid, felt sorry for him, there was still a chance that Mark Siddons was a killer.

“Got a minute, sir?”

Banks looked up. DS Hatchley. “Come in, Jim,” he said. “How you doing?”

“Not too badly, thanks.” Jim Hatchley sat down and ran his hand over his untidy straw-colored hair. He still looked tired, Banks thought, with bags under his eyes and puffy, blotchy skin. Still, not only was he just recovering from a nasty bout of flu, but his youngest was teething. Having babies would do that to you. Would Sandra lose sleep? he wondered. She had looked good when he last saw her, but that could change when little Sinéad started teething.

“What is it?” Banks asked. “Anything on Whitaker's alibi?”

“Checks out so far,” Hatchley said. “But it's early days yet. Anyway, that other job you asked me to do. Mark David Siddons.”

“Yes?”

Hatchley shook his head. “Poor bastard,” he said.

“What can you tell me?”

“His mother's Sharon Siddons, a right slag if ever there was one. I thought the name rang a bell. They lived on the East Side Estate, where else? She died a year ago. Lung cancer.”

“Father?”

“Dunno,” said Hatchley. “Sharon was an alcoholic as well as a slag. Started young. She worked as a prossie for a while, till she got pregnant at seventeen. After that there was a long line of men in her life. Most of them losers, and none of them lasting very long. Last one was a charmer by the name of Nicholas Papadopoulos. Perhaps you've heard of him?”

“Crazy Nick?”

“One and the same.”

Banks had indeed heard of Crazy Nick. You couldn't be a copper in Eastvale for five minutes without hearing of him. Disturbing the peace, breaking and entering, assault, GBH, drunk and disorderly. You name it, and if it took no brains, Crazy Nick had done it. Stopping just short of murder. The last time he'd been arrested it had taken four strapping PCs to hold him down and bring him in. He never stopped swearing and struggling the whole time, and once he was in the cell he drove the custody section insane with his nonstop stream of curses and banging.

“Isn't he a guest of Her Majesty at the moment?”

“Indeed he is,” said Hatchley. “Strangeways. And he won't be out for quite a while. Whacked a night watchman with a hammer during a warehouse break-in and fractured his skull.”

“How long was he with the Siddons woman?”

“Until she started to show the cancer symptoms,” said Hatchley. “Then he was off like a shot. Died alone, and in agony, poor cow.”

“Was he around when Mark ran off?”

“Yes. Probably the reason. Believe it or not, Mark gave him a bloody good hiding. Enough to put him in hospital for a couple of days, at any rate. Broken nose. Couple of ribs.
Twenty stitches in his scalp. Concussion. Took him by surprise. Went crazy on him, according to the neighbors. Even his mother couldn't drag him off.”

“Good for him,” Banks said. “And Nick didn't take his revenge? That's not like him.”

“Couldn't find the kid, then he got caught for that warehouse job.”

“But Mark's got no form, himself?”

“No. We've had him in on sus for a couple of house-breakings, and he once got caught shoplifting in HMV. Charges dropped. That's all.”

“Anything important we
haven't
got him for?”

“No. At least I can't find any rumors.”

And if anyone could, Banks knew, it was probably Hatchley, with his long list of snitches and a pair of eyes in practically every pub in Eastvale. “So he's basically a clean kid?” he said.

“Looks that way,” Hatchley agreed. “He attended Eastvale Comprehensive, but was truant as often as not. Didn't get into much trouble there, apart from a bit of a shoving match with one teacher, but he didn't exactly shine academically, either. Good at games, though. Want me to keep on digging?”

“Anything to do with fires come up in connection with him?”

“Not that I can find.”

“He didn't try to set fire to the school, or to the house after he beat up Crazy Nick?”

“Just ran off. Never went back.”

“Sensible,” said Banks. Given the sort of background Mark had endured, both with his mother and her earlier men friends, and with Crazy Nick Papadopoulos, it was no surprise that he was willing to believe Tina's tale of woe without question. It didn't mean she wasn't telling the truth, however, and Banks had certainly sensed
something
wrong in the Aspern household. There was another thing, too; from what
Hatchley had told Banks, Mark certainly had a violent temper, no matter how justifiable his uprising against Crazy Nick had been. The lad needed watching.