Playing With Fire

Chapter 7

Jennings Field lay on the eastern outskirts of Eastvale, beyond the East Side Estate and the railway lines, where the landscape flattened out toward the fertile vale that lay between the Yorkshire Dales and the North York Moors. It was a clear, cold night; the day’s light mist had completely dissipated. The stars shone icily bright, and lights twinkled from distant villages, where the good citizens would all be sitting nice and warm in front of their tellies watching Des Lynam. A half-moon dripped its milky light on the far woods, silvering the bare lattices of the treetops.

The call had disturbed Banks partway through Goldfinger – the bit where the laser is slowly creeping up toward Bond’s privates – takeout chicken fried rice and his second can of lager. He stood with his hands in his pockets breathing out plumes of air and watched Annie get out of her car and sign in with the uniformed officer at the perimeter. A couple of reporters shouted questions at her, but she ignored them. One of them whistled as she ducked under the police tape, and Annie froze for just a moment, then carried on walking. She was nicely dressed, Banks noticed when she got in range of the lights the fire department had erected, and was she wearing a bit more makeup than usual? Out with her new boyfriend, then? Well, it was Saturday night, after all.

She caught him looking and blushed. “What?”

“Nothing,” Banks said. “You look nice.”

Annie rolled her eyes. “So what have we got?”

The remains of a caravan, the sole dwelling in the field, parked at the far end, just under the shelter of a couple of beech trees, still smoldered, and an acrid stink of burned rubber and plastic wafted their way. There was nothing left of the roof and sides; only a skeleton of soot-blackened metal struts remained, and the innards lay open to the elements. Water from the fire hoses dripped to the ground and puddled.

“Anyone inside?” Annie asked.

“We’ve got one body,” Banks told her. “And luckily this time we think we know who it is.”

Annie blew on her bare hands. She was wearing simple black court shoes, tan tights and a long black coat, elegant rather than practical, Banks noticed. Going-out-for-a-meal clothes. Her feet must be cold.

Banks pointed to a man talking to DC Winsome Jackman over by the group of parked cars and two gleaming red fire appliances. “That’s Jack Mellor. He’s a regular at the Fox and Hounds, about half a mile down the road, in the nearest village, and he reported the fire. He’s still pretty shaken. He says he saw the flames as he was walking his dog down the road at about nine o’clock for a couple of pints and a chat with his mates as usual.” Banks pointed away from the village lights. “He lives in Ash Cottage, about two hundred yards in that direction. Says the chap who lived in the caravan was another Fox and Hounds regular. Quiet bloke, by all accounts. Harmless. Name of Roland Gardiner.”

“He lived alone in the caravan?”

“Yes. Been there at least a couple of years now, according to our Mr. Mellor. There’s no car in evidence. Not even any wheels on the caravan. See the way it’s propped up on blocks? Anyway, this field’s common land, despite its name. Nobody knows who the hell Jennings was. I’m sure the local council’s been trying to squeeze Gardiner out, just like British Waterways was trying to get rid of the barge squatters, but for better or for worse… this was Gardiner’s home.”

“What the hell’s going on?” Annie said. “Is someone trying to set fire to all the eyesores and down-and-outs in the area?”

“It certainly looks that way, doesn’t it?” said Banks. “But let’s not jump to conclusions. We’ve no evidence yet that there’s any connection between the fires. And they weren’t down-and-outs, despite their living conditions. Don’t forget that Thomas McMahon was an artist who managed to make a living painting local landscapes for the tourist trade. I think he chose to live the way he did. Even Mark Siddons works at the Eastvale College building site. None of the victims were really spongers or bums.”

“The girl was a junkie, though.”

“Well,” said Banks, watching Geoff Hamilton guide the SOCO in packaging debris from the caravan, “there might be any number of reasons for that.” He was thinking, as Mark had been thinking earlier that evening, about Dr. Patrick Aspern, with whom he was far from finished. “Besides, in my book, that makes her ill, not criminal.”

“You know what I mean,” Annie said. “And you also know that I agree with you. All I’m suggesting is that a junkie loses a certain… strength of will, that someone who needs something so much will do whatever it takes to get it, sponging being the least of it.”

“Point taken,” said Banks.

The local constable, PC Locke, came over to them. “Mr. Mellor wants to know if he can go to the Fox and Hounds,” he said. “Says the dog’s freezing its balls off – if you’ll pardon my language, ma’am – and he needs a pick-me-up.”

“I can understand that,” said Banks. “Look, this isn’t exactly kosher,” he went on, taking Locke aside and lowering his voice. “Strictly speaking, we have to consider Mellor a suspect, but why don’t you accompany him to the Fox and Hounds and wait for us? We’ve got to talk to him somewhere, and it might as well be there. At least I suppose it’ll be warm.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And keep a sharp eye on his alcohol intake. He’s allowed one, a small one, for the shock, but no more. I don’t want him pissed when we get there to question him, okay?”

“Understood, sir.”

“And one more thing.”

“Sir?”

Banks gestured over to the road, where the phalanx of media people jostled for space and pointed cameras. “Avoid them. Mum’s the word.”

“I think I can manage that, sir. We’ll go the back way.”

PC Locke walked over to Mellor and they headed toward the back lane, the dog on its leash trotting along beside them, and before they had got very far, they vanished over a stile into the darkness. Banks hoped that no bright spark of a reporter decided to go and check out the local pub. They’d get there eventually, he knew, but they wouldn’t leave the scene yet, not while there was still some action.

“Are you sure that was wise?” Annie asked.

“Probably not, but I don’t think Mellor started the fire. Let’s have a look at the damage.”

They walked closer to the burned-out caravan. In the bright artificial light, it was easy to spot the pooling at the center of the floor, one sign of accelerant use, and Banks fancied he could even smell a whiff of petrol on the air. Geoff Hamilton’s electronic “sniffer” had already detected something and confirmed that some sort of accelerant had been used. The damage to the caravan was far worse than that to the boats. It was also such a small scene, and the remains of the floor were so unstable, that Hamilton and DS Stefan Nowak were trying to do the best they could by working their ways in from the outside edges, not trampling on the flimsy caravan floor at all. Peter Darby was videotaping their progress, occasionally swapping his camcorder for his trusty Pentax and taking a flurry of stills.

At the center of it all, by the pooling that marked the seat of the blaze, lay a blackened body, this one on its side, curled in the familiar pugilistic pose. It had been hard to spot at first among the charred furniture and fixtures, but once you managed to separate it from its context, you couldn’t miss it. Hamilton said that the warped and cracked object beside the body was a glass. There had been a glass lying beside Tom McMahon’s body too, Banks remembered, wondering if it was relevant. He noticed Annie give a little shiver, and he didn’t think it was caused by the cold.

Hamilton and Stefan Nowak came walking toward them.

“Anything?” Banks asked.

“Pooling, traces of accelerant,” said Hamilton.

“Same as before?”

“Looks like it.”

“Anything to connect the two?”

Hamilton shifted from foot to foot. “Well,” he said, “apart from the fact that we’ve had two suspicious fires in out-of-the-way places in two days, when we’re usually only unlucky enough to get two a year, I’d say no.”

It was an important point. Banks needed to know whether they were now running two separate arson investigations or just one. “How long would it take for a caravan that size to be reduced to that state?” he asked.

“Half an hour or so. Whatever caused it, it was hot and fast.”

“What about the accelerant used?”

“This one smells like petrol to me – you can smell it yourself – though I’d rather wait for the chromatograph results and the spectral analysis, just to be certain.”

“The previous victim, or one of them, was an artist,” Banks mused aloud. “So it was reasonable to assume that he’d have turpentine somewhere around. We don’t know what Mr. Gardiner was yet, but the killer clearly brought his own accelerant this time. Maybe he knew both victims, knew that McMahon would have turpentine handy to start the fire, but also knew that he had to bring his own to Gardiner’s caravan. But why bring petrol instead of turps?”

“Probably had some on hand,” said Hamilton. “Most people do, if they’ve got a car. It’d be easy enough to siphon a little off. And safer than going to a shop to buy turpentine. Someone might have remembered him.”

“Good point,” said Banks. “What about the victim?”

“What about him?”

“Well, he didn’t just lie there and let himself burn to death, did he?”

“How the hell would I know what he did?”

“Speculate. Use your imagination.”

Hamilton snorted. “That’s not my job. I’ll wait for the test results and the postmortem, thank you very much.”

Banks sighed. “Okay,” he said. “If the victim had been conscious, and capable, might he have been able to escape this fire?”

“He might have been,” Hamilton conceded. “Unless he was overcome by smoke or fumes. They can disorient a person very quickly.”

“Whoever set the fire had to have been inside the caravan at the time, hadn’t he?”

“It looks that way from the pattern of pooling. If he’d poured it through the window or tossed it through the door, for example, you’d see evidence of that in the trail, and in the charring.”

“And there isn’t any?”

“Not that I can see.”

“And whoever set the fire got out?”

“Well, there’s only one body.”

“What about access, escape route?”

“There’s a lane runs by the back, behind the trees and the wall.”

“Okay,” said Banks. He turned from Hamilton and looked at the charred, smoking caravan again. There wasn’t much more they could do at the scene. Best leave it to Stefan and his team, see what they could turn up, if anything.

Banks turned to Annie. “Let’s go and talk to Mr. Mellor,” he said. “I could do with a bloody stiff drink.”

Annie looked at her watch. “It’s after closing time,” she said.

Banks smiled. “Well, I think being a copper ought to have some advantages, don’t you?”

Mark ran fast, away from the fire, until he was exhausted, and then slowed to walking speed. All the time his mind was filled with echoes and rage. The voices of Lenny and Sal became those of his mother and Crazy Nick as they argued about him drunkenly downstairs, getting louder and louder until they ended in blows and screams. Get rid of him! Get rid of him! Get rid of him! He should have been drowned at birth!

Mark put his hands over his ears as he ran, but it didn’t do any good. The voices went on, from inside. Always in the bloody way. Can’t you do something about him? He remembered the nights spent locked in the dank, spidery cellar alone, with no light, no warmth, no human company. And he remembered the time when he was sixteen and got brave enough to fight back, how he had smacked Crazy Nick right in the mouth and how both of them were too stunned to do anything when they saw the blood start to flow.

You little fucker! Look what you did.

Mark knew right there and then that he was fighting for his life, so he laid into Crazy Nick with all he’d got, punching and kicking until Nick was on the floor gargling blood, and Mark’s mother was beating on his back with her hard little fists. He smashed a chair over Crazy Nick’s head and that was it, the last night he spent at home, the night he ran, with his mother’s screams of revenge and hatred burning in his ears. Just as he was running now.

He stopped for breath and looked around, realized he didn’t have a clue where he was. He had headed east from Lenny’s, he knew that much, beyond the town limits, so he was out in the country now. If he looked behind him, he could see the lights of Eastvale, even hear a distant train going by. He wished he had enough money to take a train somewhere. Or a plane. That would be even better. Ulan Bator. But then he realized he didn’t even have a passport, so he was stuck here. Stuck here forever. But not in Eastvale. He was never going back there. Not if he could help it.

He was on a dark country road with trees and drystone walls on either side. The flames were well behind him now, and he thought he could hear the sirens of fire engines. Good luck to them. They didn’t do Tina much good. He thought of her fragile, pretty face, her slight form. Tina hadn’t had a chance. Tears stained Mark’s face as he felt the waves of guilt tearing him apart for the hundredth time. If only he hadn’t gone chasing after Mandy; if only, if only, if only…

Dark winter fields stretched away from him on both sides of the road, bare branches clawing like talons at the starlit sky, and now and then he could make out the lonely glow of a distant farmhouse or the clustered lights of a small village. For a moment, Banks’s words of warning came back to him, that he might be in danger, that he might be the next victim, and he felt a tremor of fear. Shadows moved and rustling sounds came from behind him. But it was only the wind in the trees. Why would anybody want to kill him? He didn’t know anything. But Tina hadn’t known anything, either.

Mark didn’t know where he was going; all he could do was keep walking. If he kept going on, eventually he’d end up at the seaside. Maybe he’d live there. It was easy enough to get a job at the seaside, no questions asked, with all those tourists to take care of. Drake from the squat had told him that. Drake had lived in Blackpool and worked at the Pleasure Beach on one of the rides. Made a fucking pile, he said, and pulled plenty of talent, too. But not in January. Blackpool was a cold and lonely place in January. Still, maybe there’d be some building work. There was always building. And there was the sea. Mark loved the sea.

Running had warmed him up, but now, as he slowed his pace, he realized he was cold, cold as the night he’d watched the fire on the boats. Was it only the other day? It seemed like years ago. Tina had only been dead for two days. And was the rest of his lifetime without her going to be as miserable as it was now? Maybe he should just do away with himself. That would serve them all right, wouldn’t it? His mother – bless her miserable little soul and may she rot in hell – Crazy Nick, Lenny, Sal, the police, the lot of them. That’s what he’d do; he’d top himself. Join Tina. Even save the bloke who’d killed her from having to kill him, too. But he knew he didn’t really have the guts to do it. Besides, no matter what the religious people said, Mark didn’t believe in reunions beyond the grave.

He pulled the fleece-lined coat tight around him, tightened up the collar around his neck. Wearing a copper’s clothes. That was one for the books. It would serve them all right if he did die, though, wouldn’t it? He wasn’t even sure anymore whether he cared or not, whether it wasn’t such a good idea after all. Everything inside was going numb, like his feet, and he realized he didn’t even need to do anything painful to die. It would be easy. All he had to do was find an out-of-the-way spot – plenty of them around here – and lie down in the cold. They said it was just like falling asleep. You got cold, then numb, so you couldn’t feel it, then you went into a coma and died. Especially as he was halfway there already. He saw a stile and the silhouette of a ruined barn in the next field, a little moonlight shining through the empty windows. That would do, he thought, at least for the night. That would do just fine. And if he died there… well, that would serve the bastards right, wouldn’t it?

It was well after official closing time when Banks and Annie joined Jack Mellor at the table nearest the fireplace in the Fox and Hounds, but the landlord was not in any hurry to lock up as long as the police were drinking there.

Banks dismissed PC Locke, who had been baby-sitting Mellor since his initial questioning at the scene, and ordered three double brandies, breaking any number of laws and police rules in doing so. He didn’t give a damn. It was bloody freezing out there and he needed something to warm him up. Annie seemed glad of the fire, too, and sat as close as she could. She didn’t seem to mind the brandy, either, judging by the way she knocked back her first sip. Only Mellor, the dog sleeping curled on the floor by his side, let his glass sit without touching it, but he’d had one already, and his moon-shaped face was looking a little less pale than it had at the scene. The landlord tossed a couple more logs on the fire. They crackled and spat, throwing out enough heat for Banks to take off his overcoat. Annie crossed her legs and took her notebook out, giving Banks a look when she caught him glancing at the gold chain on her ankle.

“Can you start by telling us exactly what happened tonight?” Banks asked.

Mellor stared into the flames. “It’s still quite a shock,” he said. “Seeing something like that… even from a distance… someone you know.”

Thank God he hadn’t seen the body close up, Banks thought. “I’m sure it is,” he said. “Take your time.”

Mellor nodded. His cheeks wobbled. “I was walking Sandy here as usual. We always drop by the Fox for a couple of jars of an evening, ever since my wife died.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” said Banks.

“Well, these things happen.” Mellor reached forward and took a sip of brandy. “Anyway, as I said, it was habit. Creatures of routine. Boring sort of life, I suppose.”

“And tonight?”

“I saw the fire through the trees. I think Sandy must have smelled it first because he was acting strange.” He leaned over and stroked the dog’s glossy ruff. Banks could see from the light ginger fur how he had got his name. Sandy stirred, opening one brown eye and cocking an ear, then drifted off again. “Anyway, we hurried over there, but… I could see immediately there was nothing I could do.”

“What time was this?”

“I usually set off at nine, pretty much on the dot, and it’s about ten minutes from home, so…”

“Ten past nine, then?”

“About that, yes.”

Banks knew that the emergency call had been logged in at 9:13 P.M. “Where did you call from?”

“Phone box down the road. It’s only a short distance. I hurried as best I could, but…” He patted his stomach. “I’m afraid I’m not built for speed.”

Banks had seen the phone box and estimated that Mellor’s timing was pretty much accurate.

“I don’t have a mobile phone,” he explained. “No need for one, really. No one to call and no one who’d want to ring me.”

That didn’t stop most people owning a mobile, Banks thought, remembering the sad, pointless conversations he’d overheard during the last few years: “It’s me. I’m on the train. We’re just leaving the station now. It’s raining up here.” And so on, and so on.

“I take it you were by yourself at home?”

“Yes. I live alone now, apart from Sandy, of course.”

“What did you do after you’d rung the fire brigade?”

“I just waited.”

“Where?”

“By the gate.”

“You didn’t approach the caravan?”

Mellor sniffed and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I knew there was nothing I could do by then,” he said. “Just watch it burn. I felt so useless. The firemen were very fast getting here.”

“It’s all right, Mr. Mellor,” Banks assured him. “Nobody could have done anything by then.” Geoff Hamilton had said the fire would have taken less than half an hour to do the damage it did, and it was well under way by the time Mellor saw it. That would mean that it had probably been set between about eight forty-five and nine o’clock. “Did you see anyone in the area?” he asked.

“Nobody.”

“Nobody passed you on the road?”

“No. I didn’t see a soul. Never do at that time of night.”

“Any cars?”

“One or two. We get a fair bit of traffic, especially on a Saturday night. It’s the main road between Eastvale and Thirsk.”

“Remember anything about them?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Anything suspicious or unusual happen?”

“No.”

Banks took a sip of fiery brandy. His knees were getting hot from the fire, and he noticed Annie’s shins turning red under her tights. “All right, Mr. Mellor,” he went on. “What can you tell us about the victim?”

“Roland? Not much. He was rather a reserved sort of man.”

“But you drank with him regularly?”

“Well, neither of us is a big drinker. We’d pass the time of evening over a couple of halves, maybe.”

“How often?”

“Two or three times a week. Though sometimes I didn’t see him for days.”

“Did he ever say where he was on those occasions?”

“No.”

“But the two of you must have talked quite a bit?”

“Oh, yes. Current events. Politics. Sports. That sort of thing. Roland was very well informed.”

“Did he ever tell you anything about himself?”

“A little, I suppose. It’s…”

“Mr. Mellor,” Banks said, sensing some sort of generic regard for the confidences of a dead friend, “it looks very much as if Mr. Gardiner is dead. And anything you tell us would be in the strictest confidence, of course.”

“What do you mean, it looks as if Roland is dead? Is he or isn’t he?”

“There was a body found inside the caravan,” Banks said carefully. “It’s dead. Unfortunately, we haven’t been able to identify it yet, so we’re being cautious. Can you think of anyone else who might have been in the caravan?”

Mellor shook his head. “No. Roland valued his privacy, and he lived alone, like me.”

“Then we’re assuming it’s him, just between you and me, but we can’t make any official statement until there’s been a positive identification. Right now, anything you can tell us will be a great help. What did he look like?”

“Nothing to write home about, really. I suppose he was about five foot seven or eight, a little overweight.” He patted his belly. “Not quite as much as me, though. Receding hair, a touch of gray here and there. Hooked nose. Not really big, but hooked. Pale blue eyes.”

Mark Siddons had seen a man with a hooked nose visiting Tom McMahon’s boat on one occasion, Banks remembered. “How old was he?”

“Early-to-mid-forties, I’d say.”

“Go on.”

“That’s about it, really. Dressed casually most of the time. At least, I never saw him in a suit. Just jeans and a cotton shirt. Soft spoken. Polite. Didn’t laugh much.”

“Did he have any living relatives?”

“Not that I know of. He never talked about his family. I think his parents are dead, and he never mentioned any brothers or sisters.”

“Was he married?”

“Well, you see, that’s just it, that’s the problem,” said Mellor. “Roland was divorced. About two years ago, just around the time he came to Jennings Field.”

“What happened?”

“He lost his job, and his wife walked out on him. Another man. All he had left were the caravan and the car, the way he told me, and he drove around until he found somewhere he could stay, and he’s been there ever since.”

“How did he survive?”

“He was on the social.”

“Was he from around these parts?”

“Yes. Not broad-spoken, though, but as if he’d traveled a bit. You know, spent time down south or abroad.”

“What happened to the car?”

“Roland just left it there, where he’d parked his caravan. He said he’d no use for it. He’d given up on life. He didn’t want to go anywhere. In the end it just fell apart.”

“How long ago?”

“Maybe a year or so.”

“Where is it now?”

“Hauled away for scrap metal and spare parts.”

“Do you know what Mr. Gardiner did for a living?”

“Yes. He worked for a small office supplies company.”

“What happened?”

“Competition got too big and too fierce. They couldn’t afford the kind of discounts and delivery the big boys were offering, so they started cutting costs. Roland was quite bitter about it.”

“Do you know where he lived when he was with his wife?”

“They lived in Eastvale, down on that new Daleside Estate. I’m sorry, but he never told me the actual address.”

“I know it,” said Banks. The Daleside Estate was a mix of council and private housing built on the site of the old Gallows View Fields on the western edge of town. There had been a short debate in council over the name of the place, some suggesting they stick with Gallows View for historical purposes, others arguing that it would put off potential buyers. In the end, progress won out, and it became officially “Daleside,” but most Eastvalers still called it the Gallows View Estate. It was the area where Banks had worked on his first case in Eastvale, although he felt no sentimental attachment. The old row of cottages and the corner shop had all been demolished now to make way for the newer houses.

“Is she still there?”

“He never said otherwise. I assume she stayed on in the house.”

Annie made a note. The ex-wife wouldn’t be hard to find, Banks thought.

“How did he feel about his wife?” Banks asked.

“I got the impression that he’d had a hard time supporting her taste for exotic holidays abroad and creature comforts as much as anything else. Then, when he loses his job, she chucks him and walks out. Talk about kicking a bloke while he’s down.”

“Yes, I suppose I’d feel pretty bitter about that myself,” said Banks. It certainly gave Gardiner a good motive for killing his wife, but that was not what had happened.

Annie looked at Banks. His situation wasn’t quite the same, but he knew – and he knew that Annie knew – that it was close enough to all intents and purposes. Maybe the only real difference was that Banks hadn’t pushed so hard at his career only for Sandra’s sake – Lord knows her tastes were pretty modest – but more for his own needs. Still, she had left him – out of the blue, it had seemed at the time – and he had almost lost his job and his sanity, and now she was living with Sean and Sinéad in London. Banks certainly understood bitterness and betrayal.

“Did she ever visit him at the caravan?” Banks asked.

“Not that I know of. He never said.”

“Were they actually divorced, or just separated?” Banks was wondering whether the ex-Mrs. Gardiner needed her husband permanently out of the way for some reason.

“He said divorced. In fact, I saw him the day he told me the decree came through and he got quite maudlin at first, then angry. He had a bit too much to drink that night, I remember.”

There went one theory. “Did he ever have any visitors at all?”

“He never spoke of any, and I can’t see the caravan from my cottage. I do remember seeing someone leaving the place once while I was walking down the lane, but that’s all.”

“When was this?”

“Few months ago. Summer.”

“A man or a woman?”

“A man.”

“What did he look like?”

“Too far away to see, and he was walking away from me.”

“Tall or short, black or white?”

Mellor raised his eyebrows. “White. And maybe a bit taller than you. Not a big man, though. Carried himself well.”

“But you didn’t see what he looked like.”

“No, I’m only going on the way he walked. It can tell you more than you think, you know, sometimes, the way a man walks. They do say when you’re in the cities to walk as if you know where you’re going, no-nonsense and all, and you’re less likely to get mugged. That sort of walk.”

“Which direction did he take?”

“Toward the car park off the lane, behind the caravan. It’s quite handy, really. There’s some waterfalls across Jennings Field. Not more than a trickle, really, but you know what tourists are like. So the council cleared a small car park. Pay and display.”

It was the area of easiest access to the caravan. The SOCOs had taped it off and would be searching come daylight. “Did you see him drive away?”

“I’m afraid not. The exit’s on the lane behind the field, behind Roland’s caravan. It’s hidden by the trees and a wall. I must admit, though, I was a little curious, as I hadn’t seen or heard of a visitor to Roland’s place before.”

“Did you ever see a dark-colored Jeep in the area?”

“No. Sorry.”

“Thanks anyway,” Banks said. “Did you ask Mr. Gardiner about his visitor?”

“Yes, but he just tapped the side of his nose. Said it was an old friend. You know,” Mellor said, swirling the remains of the brandy in his glass, “when I first got to know Roland, I worried about him a lot.”

“Why is that?”

“He seemed prey to fits of depression. Sometimes he wouldn’t leave the caravan for days, not even to come here. When he did come and you asked him if he was all right, he’d shrug it off and say something about taking the ‘black dog’ for a walk.”

Black dog. Winston Churchill’s term for the depression that hounded him all his life. “Do you think he might have been suicidal?”

Mellor thought for a moment. “There were times,” he said. “Yes. I worried he might do himself harm.”

Fire wasn’t a common method of suicide, Banks knew. The last case he’d come across was of a man chaining himself to the steering wheel of his car, pouring petrol all around and setting it alight. He’d left the windows closed, though, and there wasn’t enough oxygen in the interior of the car for a fire to take hold, so when the brief flames had consumed it all, the man died of asphyxiation, with hardly a mark on him. Still, Banks had to consider every possibility. “Do you think he might have done this himself?” he asked Mellor.

“Start the fire? Good Lord, no. Roland wouldn’t do anything irresponsible like that. Someone else might have got hurt. One of the firemen, for example. And it would certainly be a painful way to go. No. He had some strong pills from the doctor, he told me once. Sleeping pills. I don’t know what they were called. Apparently he had terrible trouble sleeping. Nightmares and so on. If he was going to go, that was the way he would have done it.”

Black dog. Nightmares. Roland Gardiner certainly sounded like a troubled man. Was it all down to him losing his job and his wife leaving him, or were there other reasons?

“Besides,” Mellor went on, “things had been looking up for him recently.”

Banks glanced at Annie. “Oh?”

“Yes. He seemed a lot more cheerful, a lot more optimistic.”

“Did he say why?”

“Just that he’d met an old friend.”

“What old friend?”

“He didn’t elaborate on it. Like I said, Roland was a secretive sort of chap.”

“The same old friend who visited him at the caravan?”

“Might have been. It was about the same time.”

“Last summer?”

“Yes.”

“When was the last time you saw Roland?”

Mellor thought for a moment. “Last Wednesday, I think it was. He lent me a book.”

“What book was that?”

“Just a history book. We were both interested in Victorian England.”

Banks stood up. “Thanks very much, Mr. Mellor. You’ve been a great help. Need a ride home?”

“Thank you. Normally I’d walk, but it’s late, cold, and I’ve had a bit of a shock. You’ve got room for Sandy, too?”

“Of course. No trouble.”

Annie’s car was still back at Jennings Field, so they all crammed into Banks’s Renault, Sandy curling up beside Mellor on the backseat, and headed toward Ash Cottage, the heater on full. In a few minutes the interior of the car was warm and Banks found himself feeling sleepy from the brandy. He knew he wasn’t over the limit, just tired. They dropped off Mellor and Sandy, and Banks handed over his card. “In case you remember anything else.” Then Banks drove Annie back to the field. They sat a moment in his car, the engine running and heater still on, watching the activity around the burned-out caravan. Things were definitely on the wane, but Stefan was still there, as were Geoff Hamilton and a group of firefighters. Both appliances had gone.

“Christ, I hate fires,” said Banks.

“Why? Have you ever been in one?”

“No, but I have nightmares about it.” He massaged his temples. “Once, way back when I was on the Met, I got called to an arson scene. Terraced house in Hammersmith. Some sort of arranged marriage gone wrong and the offended family pours petrol through the letter box of the other lot.” He paused. “Nine people died in that fire. Nine people. Most of the time you couldn’t tell the bodies from the debris, except for one bloke who still had a boiling red blister on his skull. And the smell… Jesus. But you know what stuck in my mind most?”

“Tell me,” said Annie.

“It was this little girl. She looked as if she was kneeling by her bed with her hands clasped, saying her prayers. Burned to a crisp, but still there, stuck forever in that same position. Praying.” Banks shook his head.

Annie touched his arm gently.

“Anyway,” Banks went on, shaking off the memory. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know what to think, really. I’ve got to admit it seems to be stretching coincidence to have two similar fires so close together. But where’s the link?”

“That’s what we have to find out,” said Banks. “Unless we’re dealing with a pyromaniac, a serial arsonist who likes starting fires in out-of-the-way places, then there is a connection between the victims, and the sooner we find it, the better. We’ll get Kevin Templeton on it. He’s good at ferreting out background. I’m going back to the station.”

“I’ll follow you.”

“Okay. It’s late, but I want to set a few things in motion while they’re fresh in mind. For a start, I want to know about Mark Siddons’s and Andrew Hurst’s alibis for tonight. And Leslie Whitaker’s. I’m not at all certain about him yet. Then we’ll have to track down Gardiner’s ex-wife. And let’s not forget Dr. Patrick Aspern, Tina’s stepfather.”

“Surely you can’t think he had anything to do with all this?”

“I don’t know, Annie. Serious allegations were made, at least as far as his conduct toward his stepdaughter is concerned. And neither he nor his wife have solid alibis for the boat fires. He’s not off my list yet. I think I’ll send Winsome down to talk to him in the morning, ask him for an alibi. That should be interesting.”

Annie sighed. “If you think it’s necessary. It’s your neck.”

“And I want to put a rush on toxicology, too. These people didn’t just lie down and let themselves be burned.”

“Alan?”

“Yes?”

“I was talking to a friend of mine earlier, a chap called Philip Keane. He operates a private art authentication company, the one that was involved in the Turner find up here last July. I think he might be able to help, at least as far as the art angle is concerned. I’m sure he’d be happy to have a chat with you.”

Banks looked at her. He knew she was seeing someone, but not his name. Was he the one? Was this why she had dressed up specially tonight and put a little extra makeup on? The timing was right, and he knew she’d helped the local gallery out with security for the brief period the Turner was housed there. “Did he know McMahon?”

“No, nothing like that. It’s just something that crossed my mind earlier, and Phil might have some ideas, that’s all.”

“All right,” said Banks. “Tell him to come to the station tomorrow.”

“Oh, come on, Alan. He’s a friend, not a suspect. How about the Queen’s Arms? Lunch?”

“If we’ve got time. Tomorrow might be a busy day.”

“If we’ve got time.”

“Okay,” said Banks.

Annie opened the door, and when she moved, Banks caught a whiff of her Body Shop grapefruit scent, even over the fire smells and the smoke from the pub that lingered in her hair and on her clothes. Annie stepped over to her own car. Banks slipped Tom Waits’s Alice in the CD player and headed back through the dark lanes to the station listening to the croaking voice sing about shipwrecks, ice and dead flowers.