Playing With Fire

Chapter 10

Banks grabbed his leather jacket, left by the back door and slipped behind the wheel of his 1997 Renault, thinking it was about time he had a new car, maybe something a bit sportier, if he could afford it. Nothing too flashy, and definitely not red. Racing green, perhaps. A convertible wasn’t much use in Yorkshire, but maybe a sports car would do. His midlife crisis car, though he didn’t particularly feel as if he were going through a crisis. Sometimes he felt as if his life was on hold indefinitely, but that was hardly a crisis. The only thing he knew for certain was that he was getting older; there was no doubt about that.

A snippet of interesting information about Andrew Hurst had just come to his attention. Annie was showing Roland Gardiner’s Turners to Phil Keane, Detective Superintendent Gristhorpe having easily agreed to the consultation, so Banks decided to head out to the canal by himself.

He slipped in an old Van Morrison CD to dispel the January blues – not entirely convinced that they were caused by the weather – and drove off listening to “Jackie Wilson Said.” It was just over a mile to the edge of town, past the new-look college, and another couple of miles of mostly open countryside to the canal. The road wound by fields of cows and sheep, drystone walls on either side, an occasional wooded area and stiles with signposts pointing the direction for ramblers. Not that it was rambling weather. You’d soon catch a chill and probably get bogged down in the mud before you got too far in open country. To his right, he could see the far-off bulk of the hills, like the swell before the wave frozen in a gray ocean.

The landscape flattened out toward the canal, which was why the channel had been dug there, of course, and Banks soon found the lane that ran down to the side of the lockkeeper’s cottage. He parked by the towpath and turned off Van just as he was getting going on “Listen to the Lion.”

It seemed an age before Hurst answered the doorbell, and when he did he looked surprised to find Banks standing there.

“You again,” he said.

“Afraid so,” said Banks. “You weren’t expecting me?”

Hurst avoided his eyes. “I told you everything I know.”

“You must think we’re stupid. Can I come in?”

“You will anyway.” Hurst opened the door and moved aside. The hallway was quite low, and he had to stoop a little as he stood there. Banks walked into the same room they had been in before, the one with Hurst’s extensive record collection. Helen Shapiro was singing “Lipstick on Your Collar.” Hurst turned off the record as soon as he followed Banks into the room, as if it were some sort of private experience or ritual he didn’t want to share.

He was fastidious in his movements. He lifted the needle off gently, then stopped the turntable, removed the disc and slipped it lovingly inside its inner sleeve. It was an LP called Tops With Me, Banks noticed, and on the cover of the outer sleeve was a picture of the smiling singer herself. Banks had forgotten all about Helen Shapiro. Not that he had been much of a fan to start with, not enough to know about her LPs, at any rate, but he did remember buying an ex-jukebox copy of “Walkin’ Back to Happiness” at a market stall in Cathedral Square, Peterborough, when he was about ten, before the covered market opened. It was one of those 45s with the middle missing, so you had to buy a plastic thingamajig and fix it in before you could play it.

Banks perched on the edge of an armchair. He didn’t take his leather jacket off because the house was cold, the elements of the electric fire dark. Hurst was wearing a thick gray, woolly polo-neck sweater. Banks wondered if he was too poor to pay the electricity bills.

“You should have told us you had a criminal record,” Banks said. “You could have saved us a lot of trouble. We find out things like that pretty quickly, and it looks a lot worse for you.”

“I didn’t go to jail. Besides, it wasn’t-”

“I don’t want to hear your excuses,” Banks said. “And I know you didn’t go to jail. You got a suspended sentence and probation. You were lucky. The judge took pity on you.”

“I can’t see what it has to do with present events.”

“Can’t you? I think you can,” said Banks. “You were charged with conspiracy to torch a warehouse. The only reason you got such a soft sentence was because the person who co-opted you was your boss, and he was the one who actually lit the match. But you helped him, you gave him a false alibi, and you lied for him throughout the subsequent investigation.”

“It was my job! He was my boss. What else was I supposed to do?”

“Don’t ask me to solve your moral dilemmas for you. In any situation, there are a number of possible choices. You made the wrong one. You lost your job, anyway, and all you gained was a criminal record. When the insurance company got suspicious and called the police in, the company went bankrupt. Since then you’ve had a couple of short-term jobs, but mostly you’ve been on the dole.” Banks looked around. “Lucky you’d paid off most of your mortgage. Was that with the cash your boss gave you for helping with the arson?”

Hurst said nothing. Banks assumed he was right.

“Was that where you got your taste for fire?”

“I don’t have any taste for fire. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The narrow boats, Andrew. The narrow boats.”

Hurst shot to his feet. “You can’t blame that on me.” He stabbed his chest with his thumb. “I was the one who called the fire brigade, remember?”

“When it was way too late. You’ve been seen skulking around in the woods, probably spying on Tina Aspern. You have no alibi. You washed your clothes before we could get a chance to test them. Come on, Andrew, how would it look to you? Why did you do it? Was it for the thrill?”

Hurst sat down again, deflated. “I didn’t do it,” he said. “Honest, I didn’t. Look, I know it looks bad, but I’m telling you the truth. I was here by myself all evening watching videos. It’s what I do most evenings. Or sit and read a book. I hardly have an active social life, and I don’t have a job. What else am I supposed to do?”

“Do you feel inadequate, Andrew? Is that what it’s all about? Do the anger and rage just build up in you until they get so strong that you just have to go out and burn something?”

“That’s ridiculous. You’re making out that I’m some sort of pyromaniac or something.”

“Aren’t you?”

“No. Of course I’m not. That other fire, which I didn’t start, by the way, was purely a business thing. Nobody got hurt. Nobody got any weird gratification in setting it. It was just a way of dealing with a financial problem.”

“Maybe this one was, too.”

“Oh? Now you’re changing your approach, are you? Now I’m not a drooling pyromaniac but a cold, practical businessman dealing with a problem.” He folded his arms. “And what problem might that have been?”

“Maybe Tina Aspern was your problem.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Perhaps she was going to tell on you. You used to spy on her, didn’t you?”

“No.”

“Where were you on Saturday evening?”

“Saturday? Same place as usual. Here.”

“Watching another war video?”

“Force Ten from Navarone, as a matter of fact. Very underrated film.”

“Andrew, get this clear: I don’t care about your fucking film reviews. All I care about is that three people are dead and that you might be responsible. Ever heard of a man called Gardiner? Roland Gardiner?”

“No.”

“Leslie Whitaker?”

“No.”

“What kind of car do you drive?”

“I don’t. I can’t afford to run a car, and I don’t need one.”

That would have made it very difficult for Hurst to have got to Jennings Field and back on Saturday night, Banks realized, but there were buses. “In all your nosing about the area,” he asked, “have you ever seen a car of any kind parked in the lay-by closest to the boats?”

“A few times. Yes.”

“What kind of car?”

“Different ones. Picnickers in summer, mostly.”

“And more recently?”

“Only once or twice.”

“What make, do you remember?”

“A van of some kind. You know, a Jeep Cherokee, Land Cruiser, or a Range Rover, that sort of thing. I’m not very well up on the latest models.”

“But it was definitely that kind of vehicle?”

“Yes.”

“Color?”

“Dark. Blue or black.”

“Ever see the driver?”

“No.”

“Okay. Let’s get back to the fires. Why did you hang around the boats so much? Was it the girl?”

Hurst looked away, scanning the rows of his LP collection, lips moving as if he were silently reading the names off the covers to himself. Banks’s mobile rang. He excused himself and walked outside to answer. It was DC Templeton calling from headquarters. “Sir, we’ve identified the owner of the boats.”

“Good work,” said Banks.

“It’s some bigwig in the City. Name’s Sir Laurence West. Merchant banker.”

“Can’t say I’ve heard of him,” said Banks, “but then I don’t exactly move in those kinds of circles.”

“Anyway,” Templeton went on, “I’ve already been on the phone to him, and he’s agreed to grant an audience at his office tomorrow, but you’ll need to make an appointment.”

“Good of him.”

“Yes,” said Templeton. “I think he also believed he was being magnanimous about it.”

“I see. Okay then, Kev, thanks. I’ll go down there myself tomorrow morning, seeing as he’s so important.” Besides, thought Banks, it would be nice to get away, if just for a day. He’d take the train, if the trains happened to be running. It was actually faster and far less hassle than driving to London, and train journeys could be relaxing if you had a good book to read and some CDs to listen to. “Make an appointment for one o’clock, would you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any first impressions?”

“Only that this is all a terrible intrusion into his valuable time, and he needed reminding he even owned the boats.”

“Okay,” said Banks. “I don’t suppose we can expect much from him, then, but it’s got to be done.”

“And, sir?”

“Yes.”

“A woman called.”

“Which woman?”

“Maria Phillips, from the art gallery. Wants to talk to you again. Says she’ll be in the Queen’s Arms at half six. I think maybe she fancies you, sir.”

“I’ll deal with her. Anything else?”

“DS Nowak wants to see you as soon as you can make it.”

“Where is he?”

“Here, in his office.”

“Right. Tell him to hang on. I’ll be back in half an hour.”

“Will do, sir.”

Banks hung up and went back to Andrew Hurst, who was in the same chair, chewing on a fingernail. There was no point pursuing the peeping angle. If Hurst had been trying to get a peek at Tina naked, then he wasn’t going to admit it. And even if he did, what could Banks do about it? It wasn’t as if Tina were still around to press charges. But if she’d noticed and had threatened to tell on him…? No, there was scant enough evidence to link Hurst with the first fire, and none at all with the second. Besides, the fire had definitely been set on McMahon’s boat. Why risk tackling a grown, fit man when you could set fire to a junkie on the nod?

Banks thought Hurst was weird, and probably a peeper, but he was quickly coming to the realization that there was nothing he could do about it. The only obvious motive he might have had was revenge at McMahon’s treating him so badly when he paid his neighborly visit, but that didn’t seem a strong enough motive for murder unless Hurst had more than just one screw loose. Still, there were enough questions about him that needed answers to keep him on the list.

“Why did you wash your clothes, Andrew?” Banks asked. “Including the anorak. You must admit that looks suspicious.”

Hurst looked at him. “I know it does. It’s just…” He shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe I wasn’t thinking straight. I mean, yes, of course I knew you’d find out I’d been arrested in connection with a fire. I don’t think you’re stupid. I just thought maybe that by the time you did find out about me you’d have caught whoever did it, so you wouldn’t need to look at me as a suspect. I’d been close enough to the fire for my clothes to pick up traces. They stank of smoke and turpentine. I’ve heard how good your forensic tests are these days. I didn’t want to spend a night at the police station.”

“You smelled turpentine?”

“Yes. It was in the air.”

“You didn’t tell us at the time.”

“I didn’t want to get involved.”

If Banks had a penny for every time he’d heard that from a member of the public, he would be a rich man. He stood up. “You’re bloody lucky you don’t get to spend a night in the nick,” he said, “for wasting police time.” He tossed Hurst a card. “Don’t go on any holidays just yet, and if you think of anything else that might help us, give me a ring.”

Hurst nodded gloomily and put the card on the table.

“You can get back to your Helen Shapiro now,” Banks said, and left.

Annie was always amazed when she stepped inside Phil’s cottage at how spick-and-span everything was. It wasn’t as if all the men she had ever known were slobs – Banks’s place was generally quite neat except for the CD cases strewn around the coffee table, usually next to an empty whiskey tumbler and an overflowing ashtray, when he used to smoke – but Phil’s cottage had an almost military sparkle to it, along with the scent of pine air freshener. Still, it wasn’t his main home and he didn’t spend all that much time there. She wondered what his London flat looked like. Chelsea, he’d said. Maybe soon they’d have a weekend in London. Expensive as it was, it would be a hell of a lot more affordable than NewYork, especially if she didn’t have to stop in a hotel.

“What a pleasure to see you,” said Phil, closing the door behind her.

“It’s not exactly a social call,” said Annie, smiling to soften the words. “I need your help.” She was still angry at Banks, but Phil didn’t need to know about their exchange.

Phil raised his eyebrows. “Me? A consultation? Official?”

“Approved by the superintendent, no less,” said Annie.

“But what can I possibly do to help you?”

Annie got him to fill out the necessary paperwork, then she unzipped her briefcase and laid out the Turner sketches and the watercolor, now safe inside their labeled and numbered plastic evidence covers.

“Well, well,” said Phil. “These are a surprise. Where did you find them?”

“In a fire-resistant safe in that caravan that burned down over the weekend. It belonged to a man by the name of Roland Gardiner.”

“The fire you had to leave dinner for?”

“That’s right.”

Phil leaned over and studied the drawings closely. Annie could see the concentration furrow his brow. When he had finished, he turned back to Annie. “Anything else found with them?”

“Only some money. No more drawings, if that’s what you mean.”

“No documents, letters, auction catalogs, nothing like that?”

“No.”

“Pity.” Phil took a large magnifying glass from a box on the bookshelf and went back to the sketches, studying them more closely. “It certainly looks like authentic period paper,” he said. “I might get a better sense if I could touch it, too, though.”

“Sorry,” Annie said. “It’s still to be tested for fingerprints.”

“Whose fingerprints would you expect to find?”

“You never know. We might find the victim’s. And Thomas McMahon’s, if there’s a link between them.”

“You think McMahon forged these?”

“I don’t know. That’s partly why I came to you.”

“But how would you know it was this McMahon’s finger-prints? I mean, I assume if he’d been badly burned – both of them, in fact – then their hands…”

“Well, that’s true,” said Annie. “Unless either of them has a criminal record for some reason…” Then she remembered the book Jack Mellor said Gardiner had lent him. There was a good chance his fingerprints would be on that. Or perhaps even on some object from where he used to live with his wife, on the Daleside Estate. Thomas McMahon might be more difficult, but she was sure that if they looked they’d find his fingerprints somewhere. Whitaker’s shop, for example. “We have to try,” she said.

“How do you get fingerprints from paper? I mean, if they’re not immediately visible through a magnifying glass.”

“I leave it to the boffins,” said Annie. “I think they usually use a chemical called ninhydrin, or something similar, but it’s not my area of expertise.”

“Isn’t that a destructive process? Couldn’t it damage the works? If these are genuine Turners…”

“I’m sure that’s something they’ll take into consideration. They can probably use some sort of light source – laser or ultraviolet. I really don’t know, Phil. The technology keeps changing. It’s hard to keep up with. But don’t worry, our fingerprint expert knows what he’s doing. The last thing he’d want to do is to damage a work of art, especially if it’s a genuine one.”

“That’s good,” said Phil. “Then I assume you brought these to me because you want me to tell you if they’re fake or real?”

“That would be a great help,” said Annie. “In fact, anything at all you can tell us about them would be a help.”

“It’s not as easy as all that, you know, especially when they’re covered in plastic. I mean, I can give an opinion off-the-cuff, mostly based on the style, but there are tests, other experts to be consulted, that sort of thing. And the provenance, of course. That would go a long way toward establishing whether it’s genuine or not.”

“I understand,” said Annie. “Off-the-cuff will do fine for now.”

“Well, they’re similar to other Turner sketches in the large sketchbook and pocketbook he used on his 1816 Yorkshire tour, so it might also be possible to do a bit of comparison work with some bona fide originals. Later, of course, when you’ve finished with them.”

“Was it unusual to do more than one sketch of the same sort of thing?”

“Not at all. Turner did dozens of sketches like this for the Richmondshire series. Three sketchbooks full. But that’s the interesting thing: He usually worked in the books, not on loose sheets.”

“So that’s one mark against authenticity?”

Phil smiled at her. “It signals caution, that’s all,” he said. “But genuine or not,” he went on, “this is certainly a beautiful watercolor. Look at that mist swirling around Ingleborough summit. You can almost see it moving. And there’s not a soul around, see? It’s very early in the morning, just after dawn. You can tell by the quality of the light. Turner was always very keen on reproducing time-of-day and weather conditions. And do you see that peacock in the right foreground? Marvelous detail.”

Annie had looked at plenty of paintings in her time, many with her father’s guidance, and was even a passable landscape artist herself, in what little spare time she had, but she lacked the training both in technique and in history and found she always learned something from Phil’s point of view. It was one of the things she liked about him, his knowledge of and passion for art.

“May I ask exactly what makes you think it’s a forgery?” he asked.

“Well, I’m certainly no expert,” Annie said. “It’s just the circumstances of its discovery. In the first place, it seems a bit of a coincidence that this should turn up so soon after the other Turner, don’t you think? And what would Roland Gardiner – the victim in the caravan – be doing owning a Turner watercolor, several sketches and about fifteen hundred pounds in cash? When you consider what we talked about yesterday, about McMahon’s buying up old eighteenth-and nineteenth-century books for the endpapers from Leslie Whitaker, then… I don’t know. Perhaps we’re trying to make a connection where none exists, but you have to admit, it’s a bit of a strong coincidence when you put it all together. Two murders in two days – three, if you count the girl – an artist buying old paper, these Turners, the money.”

“You think this Whitaker character might have something to do with it?”

“It’s possible,” said Annie.

“Did they know one another, Roland Gardiner and the artist?”

“We don’t know. Not yet. But we’re trying to link them. I just wanted to get your take on whether we were dealing with the real thing here, the watercolor in particular.”

“Well, it looks genuine enough to me on first examination. If not, then it’s a damn good forgery. To be absolutely certain, though, I’d have to hang on to it for a while, perhaps show it to some colleagues, conduct a few tests. Fingerprints examination, as we did with the other one. Radiography, ultraviolet. Infrared photography. Computer image processing. Pigment analysis, that sort of thing. I’d also try to track down its provenance, if any exists. And I can’t do that, can I?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Annie. “Not yet, at any rate. As I said, there are fingerprints to be considered. And it may be evidence.”

“Evidence of what?”

“I don’t know.” She grinned at him. “That’s just the way the job is sometimes.”

Phil smiled back. “Mine, too. I suppose you could say we’re both detectives, in a way.”

“That’s one way of looking at it. Anyway, as soon as we’re done with it, I’ll ask you to look into its authenticity a bit further, if you’d still be willing to help.”

“Of course. I’ve signed the Official Secrets Act, haven’t I? Look, how rude of me. I never offered you any refreshments. It must have been the excitement of seeing the Turners. Tea, coffee, something stronger?”

“I can’t,” said Annie, carefully putting the papers back in her briefcase. “Too much on right now.”

“Not even a tea break?”

Annie laughed. “Sometimes I don’t even get dinner, as you know quite well.” She leaned forward and kissed him quickly on the lips. He tried to make it into more, but she slipped free. “No. Really. I have to go.”

He spread his hands. “Okay. I know when I’m beaten. See you tonight?”

“I’ll give you a ring,” Annie said, and hurried out to her car before she changed her mind about the tea, and whatever else was on offer.

“And be careful with your briefcase,” he called after her.

It was DS Stefan Nowak’s job to coordinate between the crime scene, the lab and the SIO, making sure that nothing was missed and priorities were dealt with as quickly as possible. He wasn’t a forensic scientist by training, though he did have a degree in chemistry and had completed the requisite courses. As a result, he’d picked up a fair bit of scientific knowledge over his three years on the job, along with the ability to present it in layman’s terms. Which was just as well. The best Banks had ever done at chemistry and physics was a grade-five pass in each at O-Level.

Though Stefan himself was elegant and always well-groomed, his office was a mess, with papers, plastic bags of exhibits and half-full mugs of coffee all over the place. Banks hardly dared move once he had sat down for fear the resulting vibration or disturbance of the air would bring a stack of reports, or beakers full of God knew what, toppling down.

“I trust you’ve got some positive results?” Banks said as he eased himself onto the chair. Nothing fell.

“Depends on how you look at them,” Stefan said, the Polish accent barely audible in his cultured voice. “I’ve been over at the lab most of the afternoon, and we’ve finally got something on toxicology. I think you’ll find it interesting.”

“Do tell,” said Banks.

“Luckily, in all three cases there was still enough fluid present in the bodies for tox analysis. McMahon, the artist, was the worst, but even there Dr. Glendenning found blood in the organs and traces of urine in the bladder. Unfortunately, the vitreous fluid in the eyes had evaporated in all victims.”

“Go on,” Banks urged him, not wishing to dwell on the evaporation of vitreous fluid.

“Let’s take the girl first,” Stefan said. “Christine Aspern. Because she was a known heroin addict we could be more specific in our search. As you probably know, heroin metabolizes into morphine once injected into the bloodstream, and it bonds to the body’s carbohydrates. Only a small amount of morphine is secreted unchanged into the urine. Sometimes none at all.”

“So you can’t tell whether she injected heroin or morphine?”

“I didn’t say that. Only that heroin becomes morphine once it’s in the blood. Besides, heroin’s a morphine derivative, made through a reaction with acetyl chloride or acetic anhydride. Anyway, spectral analysis indicated traces of heroin. The presence of other substances, such as quinine, bears out the result.”

Banks knew that quinine was often used to pad heroin for sale on the streets. “It’s what we expected,” he said. “How much?”

“The stuff was around thirty percent pure, which is pretty much the norm these days. And there wasn’t enough to cause death. At least, the lab results make that seem unlikely.”

“So the fire killed her one way or another?”

“Asphyxia did. Yes.”

“What about the other two?”

“Ah, there it gets a little more interesting,” Stefan said. He leaned forward and a pile of books teetered dangerously. “Alcohol was present in the urine in both cases, though none was present in the girl’s system.”

“How much?”

“Not a lot in McMahon’s case, maybe between one and two drinks.”

“Not enough to make him pass out, then?”

“Unlikely.”

“And Gardiner?”

“About twice as much. But there’s more.”

“I hoped there would be. Go on.”

“During general screening, spectral analysis also discovered the presence of flunitrazepam in the systems of Thomas McMahon and Roland Gardiner. Comparisons indicate it’s the same drug in both cases.”

“Flunitrazepam?” said Banks, remembering one of the drugs circulars he’d read in the past few months. “Isn’t that Rohypnol?”

“Rohypnol is one form of it, yes. The ‘date rape’ drug. Recently upgraded from Class C to Class A. It’s a form of benzodiazepine, a tranquilizer about ten times stronger than Valium. It causes muscle relaxation, drowsiness, unconsciousness and amnesia, among other things. It also impairs basic motor skills and lowers the blood pressure. It’s often used to spike drinks because it’s colorless, odorless and tasteless and it dissolves in alcohol. At least it used to. The problem is that since 1998, La Roche, the chief manufacturer, has added a component that makes any drink you add it to turn bright blue. The drug itself also dissolves more slowly and forms small chunks.”

“Which makes it a lot harder to sneak into people’s drinks.”

“Yes. Even dark drinks will turn cloudy. Anyway, if that were the case, one or both victims might have noticed.”

“Which means?”

“Which means it’s either counterfeit, bootleg Rohypnol, or another member of the benzodiazepine family. Remember, this test took a bit more time because they had to do a general tox screen. They’re still working on it to pin down specifics, but I thought you’d like some sort of advance notice of what you’re dealing with.”

“Thanks, Stefan,” said Banks. “Much appreciated. How long does it take to act?”

“Twenty minutes to half an hour.”

“Any idea what quantities they were given?”

“Certainly enough to be effective. One odd thing.”

“Yes?”

“Gardiner, the caravan victim, also had a significant amount of Tuinal in his system. Tuinal’s-”

“I know what Tuinal is, Stefan. It’s a form of barbiturate.”

“Yes. It’s not prescribed very often these days.”

“We know who Gardiner’s doctor is. We can make inquiries. He’s the one who had more to drink, too?”

“Yes. Just thought you’d like to know.”

“Interesting,” said Banks. “I wonder why?”

“Search me. One more thing,” said Stefan as Banks walked toward the door.

Banks paused and turned. “Yes?”

“The tire tracks are consistent in all their dimensions with those of a Jeep Cherokee, and if you ever find a suspect, he was wearing Nike trainers with a very distinctive pattern of crisscross abrasions on the right heel.”

As Banks left the office, he had a mental image of McMahon in his cabin and Gardiner in his caravan, each welcoming an old friend, chatting, making plans for whatever it was that was going to make their fortunes, drinking to it, then after a while starting to feel drowsy, finding it hard to move. At which point their faceless killer splashes turpentine or petrol about the place, drops a match and leaves. Couldn’t be easier.

Or crueler.