Playing With Fire

Chapter 9

Annie looked pleased with herself on Monday morning, and Banks guessed it wasn’t entirely to do with her job. She sat down opposite him in his office and crossed her legs. She was wearing tight black jeans and a red shirt made of some silky sort of material, which seemed to whisper when she moved. Her hair looked tousled, and her cold seemed to be on the wane. There was a glow about her that Banks wasn’t sure he liked.

“Anyway,” she said, “I talked to Roland Gardiner’s ex-employer and it seems as if Roland was playing a minor variation on the long firm fraud.”

“Was he, indeed?” A long firm fraud involves setting up a fraudulent company – easy enough to do these days with computer software – and acquiring goods or services without paying. A true long firm fraud takes a long time to get going – hence its name – and requires a bit of capital. You first have to pay your bills promptly to gain the trust of the companies you purchase from. “How did he manage that?” Banks asked. “I thought you told me his ex-wife said he never had a penny to spare.”

“He didn’t. That was the beauty of it. He bought from himself.”

“What do you mean?”

“From the company he worked for. Office products. Good market. Easy to get rid of. Gave himself a nice line of credit and took it from there. He didn’t need to establish trust over a long period.”

“He can’t have made much,” Banks said.

“He didn’t. I think that’s what bothered his ex-wife, too. I get the impression that if he’d made a bit more money she wouldn’t have minded too much where he got it from.”

“What happened when his boss found out?”

“Offered the honorable way out. Pay back and resign. No police. Seems he was well liked enough around the office.”

“So where does this get us?” Banks asked, talking to himself as much as to Annie.

“Well,” Annie answered. “We’ve got a dead art forger, and now it seems as if the second victim was a different kind of fraudster. And he had a Turner watercolor and about fifteen hundred quid in a fire-resistant safe. It seems like too much of a coincidence to me. Whatever it was, they must have been in it together.”

“Sounds logical,” said Banks. “But what? And what’s the link between them? How did they know one another?”

“I can’t answer those questions yet,” said Annie. “Not enough information. But if there’s a link, we’ll find it. What interests me right now is who else was involved.”

“The third man?”

“Yes. Someone killed them.”

“Unless they fell out and Gardiner killed McMahon.”

“Still doesn’t explain who killed Gardiner.”

“His ex? Her new husband?”

“Possible,” said Annie.

“But unlikely?”

“In my opinion. What about Leslie Whitaker?”

“He’s another possibility,” said Banks. “I’m not entirely convinced that he didn’t know exactly what McMahon was up to. I think we should have another crack at him, anyway. Let’s have him in, this time.”

“Good idea.” Annie paused. “Alan, about this Turner…?”

“Yes?”

“I was just wondering, before we do anything else, you know, if we should perhaps bring Phil in, let him have a look at it? After all, it is his line of expertise.”

“I think we’d be better going through correct channels,” said Banks, feeling about as stiff and formal as he sounded.

“That’s not like you,” Annie said. “Besides, it could take ages. Phil might be able to tell us something useful right away.”

“Don’t forget there’s Ken Blackstone,” said Banks. “He’s got a strong background in art forgery.”

“But he’s West Yorkshire,” Annie argued. “And that was ages ago. Phil knows the business, and he’s here right now.”

“I gathered that,” said Banks.

Annie’s mouth tightened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Only that I think we should go through official channels.”

“Oh, for crying out loud, we use consultants all the bloody time. What about that psychologist? The redhead who fancies you?”

Banks felt himself flush, partly with anger and partly with embarrassment. “You mean Dr. Fuller? She’s a professional psychologist, a trained criminal profiler.”

“Whatever. Phil’s a trained art authenticator.”

“We don’t know what Phil is. You’ve hardly known him five minutes.”

“You know what your problem is?” Annie said, running her hand through her hair. “You’re bloody jealous, that’s what it is. You’re playing dog in the manger. What you can’t have, nobody else should get either, right?”

“He can have you as much and as often as he wants, for all I care,” said Banks, “but I won’t compromise this investigation because of your private life.”

“Oh, pull the carrot out of your arse, Alan. Can you hear yourself? Do you have any idea what you sound like?”

Banks felt as if he’d taken a wrong turn and the brick wall was looming dead ahead. “Look…” he began, but Annie cut in, after a deep breath.

“All I’m saying is let him have a look at the Turners, that’s all,” she said, softening her tone. “If you’re worried he’s going to run off with them, you can chain them to your wrist.”

“Don’t be absurd. I’m not worried about anything of the kind.”

“Then what is your objection? What can it possibly be?”

“He’s an unknown quantity.” Banks felt that his objections were inadequate, and he knew he was well on the defensive, partly because he also knew he was acting irrationally, out of jealousy, and he didn’t know how to get out of the situation without admitting it.

“I know him,” Annie said. “And I can vouch for him. He knows his business, Alan. He’s no dilettante.”

Banks thought for a moment. He knew he had to give in gracefully, knew that he’d brushed against dangerous ground indeed during their little exchange. Much as he didn’t like the idea of bringing Annie’s boyfriend into the investigation, it was certainly true that Phil Keane might be able to help them with the art forgery angle, had in fact helped them already in elaborating on the possible reasons why McMahon had bought useless old books and prints from Whitaker. Besides, he was objecting because he was jealous, and that was unprofessional.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll put it to Detective Superintendent Gristhorpe. I can’t be fairer than that.”

“You’ll put it to him? Are you sure you won’t put it to him the way you’ve just put it to me?”

“Annie, this stops now. Okay? I said I’ll put it to him. Take it or leave it.”

Annie glared at Banks, then she snatched up her files. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll take it. You put it to him.”

“Look, what’s all this about?” said Leslie Whitaker, clearly uncomfortable to find himself on the receiving end of a police interrogation. “You’ve kept me waiting over an hour. I’ve got a business to run.”

“Sorry about that, Mr. Whitaker,” said Banks, arranging his folders neatly on the desk in front of him. They were in interview room two, which was hardly any different from interview rooms one and three, except that it let in even less light from the high, grille-covered window. Banks had brought DS Hatchley in to assist. Annie was digging up more background on Roland Gardiner, then she would be going to see Phil Keane with the Turners. Besides, she and Banks were barely speaking, and that was not conducive to the teamwork required for a successful interview.

“Can you get on with it, then?” said Whitaker, tapping his left hand against the desk. His foot was jumping, too, Banks noticed. Nervous, then. Something to hide? Or just angry?

Banks glanced at Hatchley, who raised his eyebrows. “Get on with it?” Hatchley repeated. “It’s not often we get someone telling us to get on with it, is it, sir?”

“That’s true,” said Banks. “Still, we’ll do as you say, Mr. Whitaker, and get on with it. If you’ve nothing to hide, and if you’re truthful with us, you’ll be opening up that shop again in no time.”

Whitaker leaned back in the chair. He was wearing a beige jacket over a dark blue polo-neck sweater. Banks tried to match him with the description he had of McMahon’s visitor from Mark Siddons, but all he could conclude was that the description was vague enough to fit Whitaker and a hundred or more others.

“When we talked to you the other day,” Banks said, “you told us that you sold books and prints on occasion to Thomas McMahon.”

“Yes. I did. So what?”

“Do you know why he wanted them?”

“I already told you, I had no idea.”

“I think you do, Mr. Whitaker.”

Whitaker’s eyes narrowed. “Oh?”

“Yes,” said Banks. “Want to know what I think? I think you deliberately sought out certain books and prints for Thomas McMahon, at his request.”

Whitaker folded his arms. “Why would I do that?”

“You’re an art dealer, aren’t you?”

“In a small way, yes, I suppose so. More of a local agent, really.”

“And you probably know a bit about forgery.”

“Now, hang on a minute. What are you suggesting?”

Banks repeated the lecture he’d first heard from Phil Keane about the re-use of old endpapers and prints. Whitaker listened, making a very bad job of pretending he hadn’t a clue what Banks was talking about.

“I still don’t see what any of this has to do with me,” he said, when Banks had finished.

“Oh, come off it,” said Hatchley. “You were in it together. You and McMahon. You supplied him with the right sort of materials, he turned out the forgeries, you sold them, and then you split the profits. Only he got greedy, threatened to expose you.”

“That’s ridiculous. I did no such thing.”

“Well, you must admit,” said Banks, “that it all looks a bit dodgy from where I’m sitting.”

“I can’t help it if you have a suspicious nature. It must be your job.”

Banks smiled. “The job. Yes, it does tend to make one a little less ready to accept the sort of bollocks you’ve been dishing out so far. Why don’t you just admit it, Leslie? You had something going with McMahon.”

Whitaker faltered a moment, but kept quiet.

“Maybe you didn’t kill him,” Banks went on. “But you know something. You knew why he wanted those books and prints, and I’ll bet he paid above the odds for them. Your cut, nicely bypassing the taxman. What was Roland Gardiner’s role?”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“Come off it, Leslie. Roland Gardiner. He died in a caravan fire in Jennings Field on Saturday night.”

“And you think I…?”

“That’s what I’m asking. Because if you didn’t kill him, and if you didn’t kill McMahon, then maybe you’re next.”

Whitaker turned pale. “You can’t mean that. Why would you say that?”

“Stands to reason,” said Hatchley. “These things happen when thieves fall out.”

“I am not a thief.”

“Just a figure of speech,” Hatchley went on. “See, if you weren’t the ringleader, as you swear you weren’t, then you were just one of the underlings, and two of them are dead. See what I mean? Stands to reason.”

“No,” said Whitaker, regaining his composure. “It doesn’t stand to reason at all. Your whole premise is rubbish, absolute rubbish. I’ve done nothing.”

“Except supply Thomas McMahon with the paper necessary for his forgeries,” said Banks.

“I didn’t know what he was doing with the damn stuff.”

“We think you did.”

Whitaker folded his arms again. “Well, that’s your problem.”

“No. It’s yours. What kind of car do you drive?”

“A Jeep. Why?”

“What kind of Jeep?”

“A Cherokee. Four-wheel drive. I live out Lyndgarth way. The roads can be bad.”

A Jeep Cherokee was close enough to a Range Rover or any other kind of four-wheel drive station wagon for Banks, especially when the cars had only been spotted through the woods by people who had little knowledge of the various shapes and forms the vehicles took. “Color?”

“Black.”

Again, close enough to dark blue. “Where were you last Thursday evening?”

“At home.”

“Where’s that?”

“Lyndgarth, as I said.”

“Alone?”

“Yes. I’m recently divorced, if you must know.”

“Not much of an alibi, is it?” Hatchley cut in.

Whitaker looked at him. “I wasn’t aware I’d be needing one.”

“That’s what they all say.”

“Now, look-”

“All right, Mr. Whitaker,” said Banks, “you can argue with my sergeant later. We’ve got more important matters to cover right now. Where were you on Saturday evening?”

“Saturday? I…”

“Yes?”

Whitaker thought for a moment, then he looked at Banks, triumphant. “I was at a dinner in Harrogate. Yorkshire booksellers. We get together every month, about ten of us. They’ll all vouch for me.”

“What time did you arrive?”

“Eight o’clock.”

Banks felt his hopes wane. If Whitaker really was with nine other people at eight o’clock Saturday, and the fire started around eight forty-five, it seemed to let him off. Especially as it took at least an hour to drive from Lyndgarth to Harrogate. But watertight alibis, in Banks’s experience, were made to be broken.

“We will check, you know.”

“Go ahead,” said Whitaker. “Do you want their names? The others?”

“You can give them to Detective Sergeant Hatchley later.”

“I don’t see that we have anything more to talk about, do you?”

“Plenty,” said Banks. “I still want to know what role Gardiner played in all this, and why he had to die, too.”

“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 expected, 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 because 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.

“Okay, Jim,” Banks said. “Thanks very much.”

“Cheers,” said Hatchley. “My pleasure.”

By Monday afternoon, Mark was close to Sutton Bank, and starving. He was glad he had gone back into the pub for his lunch the previous day after the shock of seeing Tina’s image on the TV screen. The landlord had given him a dirty look, but other than that, his abrupt departure and return hardly raised an eyebrow. That evening he had eaten fish and chips and kipped down in another old barn. He had got up earlier on Monday morning, with only enough money for a chocolate bar left in his pocket. After walking a few miles, he realized he wasn’t trying to do the coast-to-coast walk, that was for anoraks, so he might as well at least try to get a lift.

Just outside Northallerton, a man towing a horse box gave him a lift to Thirsk. All the way he had been aware of the horse shifting nervously behind him, and he thought he could smell manure. The driver hadn’t said much, just dropped him off in the High Street, and now he was on the Scarborough Road hoping for another kind soul to stop for him.

It was a gray afternoon, the clouds so low and the air so moist it was almost, but not quite, raining. “Mizzling,” they called it in Yorkshire, describing that bone-chilling combination of mist and drizzle. There wasn’t much traffic, and most of the cars and vans that passed just whizzed by without even slowing down. If he got to Scarborough, Mark knew, there was a good chance he’d be able to pick up some casual laboring work. It didn’t matter what – ditch-digging, demolition, construction – he could turn his hand to almost anything as long as it didn’t involve being educated. School had hardly been more than a mild distraction throughout his childhood and adolescence.

A police patrol car cruised by and seemed to slow down a bit just ahead of him. Mark tensed. He knew the coppers weren’t going to give him a lift. Most likely beat the shit out of him and leave him lying bleeding in a field. He must have been imagining things, though, because the car carried on and disappeared into the distance.

Mark trudged on, hardly bothering to stick out his thumb. He must have walked a couple of miles, the steep edge of Sutton Bank looming before him, when he heard a car coming and remembered to stick out his thumb. The car slowed to a halt about ten yards in front of him. It was quite a posh one, he noticed, an Audi, and shiny, as if it had just been cleaned. It would make a nice change from the horse box. For a moment, Mark worried that it might be the killer, but how could anyone know where he was?

The driver leaned over and opened the passenger window. He was a middle-aged bloke, Mark saw, wearing a camel overcoat and leather driving gloves. Mark didn’t recognize him.

“Where you going?” he asked.

“Scarborough,” said Mark.

“Hop in.”

He seemed a pleasant enough bloke. Mark hopped in.