Playing With Fire

Chapter 11

“I’m Clive,” said the driver.

“Mark.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mark.”

“Likewise. And thanks for the lift.”

“My pleasure.” Clive turned and flashed Mark a quick smile. “I’d stop awhile so we could admire the view when we get to the top, but I’m afraid we wouldn’t see much today.”

They were climbing the winding road up Sutton Bank now, the Audi moving easily despite the one on five and one on four gradients. The higher they got, the mistier it became, as if they were ascending into the very clouds themselves. Mark’s ears started to feel funny. He was enjoying the warm, plush interior of the car.

Sutton Bank forms the western edge of the North York Moors, and when you get high up, you can look back over your shoulder and see all the way from the Vale of York to the Dales. Only on a clear day, of course.

When they finally crested the top after about a mile or so, Mark managed a quick look behind and saw nothing but vague shapes through a gray veil. Ahead was mostly rough moorland, similarly mist-shrouded. It was an eerie landscape, and the occasional sheep that materialized out of thin air only made it seem eerier. Sheep gave Mark the creeps. He didn’t know why, but they did.

“What do you do, Mark?” Clive asked.

“I’m looking for work.”

“What sort of work?”

“Restoration. Old buildings. Churches and stuff.”

“That’s interesting. Where do you live?”

“Eastvale,” Mark said. It was the first thing that came to his mind.

“Lovely town,” said Clive. “Have you got a girlfriend?”

Mark said nothing, thought of Tina, the way she had looked at him from the TV screen. He felt his heart shrivel in his chest.

Clive turned and flashed him another quick smile. Mark didn’t like the way he did that. He didn’t know why, just a feeling.

“A handsome, strong lad like you surely must have a pretty girlfriend?” Clive went on. He patted Mark’s knee, and Mark stiffened instinctively.

“It’s all right, you know,” Clive said. “You can be frank with me. I’m a doctor. Look, I know you young people today. You’re always at it, aren’t you? I do hope you practice safe sex, Mark.”

Mark said nothing. He was thinking of another doctor, Patrick Aspern, and how he’d like to smash the bastard’s face in. He was aware of Clive chuntering on beside him, but he wasn’t really paying much attention. He just hoped they’d get to Scarborough soon. The sea.

“…very important to be circumcised, you know,” Clive went on. “I know it’s not always fashionable, but it’s much more hygienic. There are plenty of germs around that part of your body, you know, Mark. Your penis. And smegma. It’s nasty stuff. Circumcision is much better all around.”

“What?”

“Weren’t you listening?” Clive glanced over at Mark. “I’m talking about circumcision. It doesn’t have to be painful, you know. Look, I’ve got some cream in the boot that will numb all feeling, like the dentist gives you, only it’s not an injection. If you like, we could pull over into a lay-by and I can do it for you right now.”

His hand slid over into Mark’s lap, groping for his penis. Mark lashed out with his left fist and caught Clive a hard blow on the side of his head. Clive gasped and the car started to snake along the road. Mark hit him again, this time connecting with soft tissue near his nose and drawing blood. Then he did it again and thought he felt a tooth crack.

Clive barely had control of the wheel now. He was trying to talk, pleading, calling Mark a maniac, blood dribbling with the saliva from his mouth. But Mark couldn’t stop. He wasn’t even looking to see if there were any cars coming the other way; he just kept on pummeling at Clive, seeing Crazy Nick and Patrick Aspern and everyone who had ever hurt him.

Finally, they came to a sharp bend, and Clive had to slow down. He barely managed to change down in time, and as he gave all his attention to keeping control of the wheel, Mark slipped his hand into Clive’s inside pocket, grabbed his wallet, then opened the passenger door and leaped out, rolling on the wet grass by the side of the road. A little dazed, he sat up ready to run, but he was just in time to watch Clive reach over and pull the door shut, then speed off into the mist. When the sound of the car’s engine had faded, Mark was left with nothing but the occasional baaing of a distant sheep to break the silence in the gathering dark.

Banks was pleased to find the mercury pushing nine or ten as he walked down Market Street toward the main Eastvale Fire Station, where Geoff Hamilton had his office. January had been quite a month for ups and downs in temperature. He unbuttoned his overcoat, but he still felt a little too warm. The whiskey-soaked strains of Cesaria Evora came from the headphones of his portable CD player.

As he walked past the end of the street where he used to live with Sandra, Tracy and Brian, Banks couldn’t resist the temptation to walk up to the old house and see how much it had changed. He stood by the low garden wall and looked at the front window. It hadn’t changed. Not much. The curtains were closed, but he could see the flickering light of a television set in the living room. The most surprising thing was the “For Sale” sign on the lawn. So the new owners were selling already. Maybe it wasn’t a happy home. But how many innocuous-looking houses on innocent streets ever were? Inner-city slums and tower blocks hadn’t cornered the market in human misery yet.

Banks arrived at the fire station, put away his CD player and went inside. Two of the firefighters on shift were working on equipment maintenance, another was doing paperwork, and two were playing table tennis.

Banks tapped on Geoff Hamilton’s office door and entered. Hamilton ran his hand across his hair and bade Banks sit down. Certificates hung on the wall, and an old-fashioned fireman’s helmet rested on top of the filing cabinet. Hamilton’s desk was tidy except for the papers he was working on.

“Report to the coroner,” he said, noticing Banks looking at the papers. “What can I do for you?”

“Anything new?”

“Nothing yet.”

“Look, Geoff,” said Banks, “I know you don’t like to commit yourself, but off-the-record, I’d just like to get some sense of motive, whether you think we’re dealing with a serial arsonist here, if we can expect more of this sort of thing. Or might there be some other reason for what’s happening around here?”

Banks noticed a hint of a smile pass over Hamilton’s taciturn features. “And what would your guess be? Off-the-record.”

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m here.”

“You’ve uncovered no links between the victims yet?”

“We’re working on it.”

Hamilton rubbed his eyes. They had dark bags under them, Banks noticed. “What if you don’t find any?”

“Then perhaps we’re dealing with someone who just likes to start fires, and he’s choosing relatively easy targets. Someone with a grudge against down-and-outs.” Andrew Hurst came to Banks’s mind, partly because of the way he seemed to disapprove of the narrow-boat squatters. “But I’m not sure if that’s the case.”

“Why not?” asked Hamilton.

“According to the toxicology results, both Roland Gardiner and Thomas McMahon were dosed with Rohypnol before the fires started.”

“The glasses we found at the scene?”

“Most likely they contained alcohol, into which the drug had been introduced.”

“And the girl?”

“We’re pretty sure that Christine Aspern was high on heroin. Anyway, leaving Tina out of it for the moment, it looks as if both male victims admitted the killer to their homes and probably accepted a drink from him. If he didn’t want to get rid of them for a reason, then he was doing it just for fun. What can you tell me about motivation in cases like this?”

“Fancy a coffee?”

“Wouldn’t mind,” said Banks. He followed Hamilton into the large, well-appointed kitchen, a white-tiled room complete with oven, fridge, microwave and automatic coffeemaker. A cook came in on weekdays and made the firefighters a meal, and the rest of the time they brought their own food or took it in turns to cook.

Hamilton poured the coffees into two large white mugs, adding a heap of sugar to his own, then they went back to his office and sat down. The coffee tasted good to Banks, dark and strong.

“As you know,” Hamilton began, “there are plenty of motives for arson. Probably the most common is sheer spite, or revenge.”

Banks knew this. About ninety percent of the arson cases he had been involved in during his career – including the very worst, the one that haunted him whenever the thought of fire raised its ugly head – arose out of one human being’s disproportionate malice and rage directed toward another.

“These can vary between simple domestic disputes, such as a lover’s quarrel, and problems in the workplace, or racial or religious confrontations.”

“Is there any kind of profile involved in these sort of fires that compares to ours?”

“Well,” said Hamilton, “they can be set by any age group, they’re usually set at night, and they generally involve available combustibles or flammable liquids. Three out of three isn’t bad.”

“Aren’t most fires set at night?”

“Not necessarily, but more often than not, yes.”

“So what other possibilities do we have?”

“There’s always the simple profit motive. You know, insurance frauds, eliminating the competition, that sort of thing. That’s probably the next most common motive. But these weren’t commercial fires.”

“Not the caravan, certainly. It belonged to Gardiner. But I suppose the boats were commercial properties, to some extent,” Banks said. “We’ve traced the owner and I’ll be talking to him tomorrow. Even so, I can see someone burning empty boats for the insurance, but not deliberately drugging Thomas McMahon and setting fire to him in order to do so.”

“Lives are often lost in commercial fires,” Hamilton argued. “Often by accident – the arsonist didn’t know there was anyone in the building – but sometimes deliberately. A nosy night watchman, say.”

“Point taken,” said Banks. “And we’ll try to keep an open mind. What about pyromania as a motive?”

“Well, first of all you should bear in mind that pyromaniacs are extremely rare, and they’re usually between fifteen and twenty.”

“Mark Siddons is twenty-one,” Banks said.

“I wouldn’t rule him out, then. Anyway, they generally use whatever combustible comes to hand. I mean, they don’t plan their fires. And there’s no particular pattern in the kind of places they burn, or even where they strike. They’re impulsive and often act for some sort of sexual gratification. The main problem here is that I can’t see a pyromaniac doping or knocking someone out before starting a fire. They’re usually loners and shun social company. Contrary to rumor, they don’t usually stay at the scene, either. They’ll be long gone by the time the fire brigade arrives. It’s starting the fire gives them their thrill, not watching firefighters put it out.”

“Any chance it was a woman?”

“There are female pyromaniacs,” Hamilton said. “But they’re even rarer. Oddly enough, they usually set their fires in daylight. They also set them fairly close to their own homes, often don’t use accelerant, and they generally start small fires.”

“I suppose we men like to start bigger ones?” said Banks.

“It would seem so.” Hamilton sipped some coffee. “You know, I don’t like to say it, but all these profiles are pretty much… well, I won’t say a load of bollocks, they have been of some use to us on occasion, but they’re pretty vague when you get right down to it.”

“Under twenty-five, loner, bed wetter, harsh family background, absent father, domineering mother, not too bright, problems at school, problems at work, can’t handle relationships.”

“Exactly what I mean. Fits any sociopath you’d care to point out. From all that, you’d think we’d be able to spot them before they strike.”

“Oh, we can,” said Banks. “We just can’t do anything about it until they commit a crime. Anyway, I’m inclined to dismiss the pyromaniac in this case. I mean, from what you’ve seen, would you call these fires impulsive?”

“No. But there are also vanity fires, you know,” Hamilton went on. “Someone wants to draw attention to himself through an act of heroism. Those are the sort of blokes who stick around and watch, or even help out.”

“There weren’t any heroes here, except the firefighters. Andrew Hurst hung around for a while, but he didn’t get close enough to be a hero.”

“What about the boy you found at the scene of the first fire?”

“Mark Siddons?”

“Yes.”

“He hung around because his girlfriend was on one of the boats. His alibi held and his clothing and hands checked out clean. He also didn’t have anywhere nearby he could have gone and cleaned up or changed. All his belongings, including his clothes, perished in the fire. I don’t know, Geoff. I’m inclined to believe his story. Even so, he could have acted out of anger, I suppose, and covered his traces somehow. I just can’t see the girl, Mandy, giving him an alibi if he wasn’t, in fact, there. Annie said she had a tough enough time getting her to admit to having Mark in her bed in the first place. Didn’t want to be known as ‘that kind of a girl.’ We could talk to her again. I don’t suppose you found any trace of a timing device?”

“Not yet. But we’re still sifting through the debris. Is it possible that the boy drugged McMahon, if that is indeed what happened, but someone else set the fire?”

“Possible,” said Banks, “but highly unlikely, wouldn’t you say? Don’t forget, someone drugged Gardiner, too.”

“Could that also have been the boy?”

“He was in the vicinity of Jennings Field at the right time,” Banks admitted, “but there’s no trace of a motive. Don’t worry, though, we’ll keep him on our list of suspects. I’m hoping to have another chat with him soon, when we find him.”

“You let him go missing?”

“We had no reason to keep him locked up. He had an altercation with a friend and hoofed it. We’ll find him. Okay?”

Hamilton put up his hands in mock surrender. “All right. All right.”

Banks smiled. “So what’s left as far as motive is concerned?”

“Well, there are fires started to conceal a crime.”

“Which is also a distinct possibility here,” Banks said. “Fire destroys evidence. Maybe not as much as the criminal thinks, but often it’s enough.”

“Evidence of what, though?” Hamilton asked.

“That’s what we don’t know yet. It looks as if Thomas McMahon might have been involved in art forgery, and Gardiner was fired for fiddling the company he worked for, but that’s all we’ve got so far. We’re still digging. First we need to know if there was any connection between the victims. If there was, and if we find it, that might lead us to some enemy they had in common.”

“Sounds fair enough. I’m just hoping to hell there aren’t any more fires.”

“Me, too,” said Banks.

“There is one ray of hope,” said Hamilton.

“What’s that?”

“The use of petrol as an accelerant might be a godsend.”

“How come?”

“Well, you know that different brands of petrol contain different additives, so you can tell, say, Esso from Texaco from Shell through spectral analysis?”

“I’ve heard about that,” said Banks. “But it won’t do us a lot of good in this case. Millions of people use Esso, Shell or Texaco.”

“Yes, but it doesn’t stop there,” Hamilton went on. “When the petrol is pumped into a station’s underground tank, then more contaminants are added unique to that tank.”

“Are you telling me we can discover what garage the petrol came from through spectral analysis of the debris at the scene?”

“Not only that,” said Hamilton, “but when you put the petrol in your fuel tank, another unique blend is created. By checking all local petrol stations and sampling each tank, we can actually determine which station the petrol came from and link it to the scene, or to a specific car’s fuel tank.”

“You’re not serious?”

“I always take my work seriously, double-oh-seven.”

Hamilton didn’t crack a smile, so it took Banks a moment to catch on. A Bond reference. Geoff Hamilton clearly had hidden depths.

“But in order to find a possible match,” Banks said, “we’d have to sample every underground tank in every petrol station in the area?”

“That’s right. It helps if you have other information that helps you narrow down the search field.”

“Not yet, we don’t, but it’s something to think about,” Banks said. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure,” said Hamilton. He glanced at his watch. “And believe it or not, I’m going home now. My wife’s beginning to wonder whether we’re still married.”

“I remember the feeling,” said Banks, who planned on spending the evening at home catching up with the Sunday papers, maybe with a dram or two of Laphroaig. After meeting Maria Phillips in the Queen’s Arms at half six, of course.

Later, just after nine, there was a modern version of Great Expectations on BBC, starring Gwyneth Paltrow. Banks liked the original Dickens novel, and he liked Gwyneth Paltrow, the way she sort of lit up the screen when she walked on.

Besides, he found watching television – anything on television – a great way of sorting out his thoughts and coming up with new hypotheses. The TV seemed to numb a part of his mind and leave the rest free to wander and make wild connections without too many inhibitions. At least that was the way it felt to him, and it had worked before.

Mark waited by the roadside for five minutes until he was certain Clive was gone, then he opened the wallet. It contained two hundred and fifty pounds in cash, all in nice crisp twenties and tens, fresh from the Cashpoint, along with credit cards, photos of a smiling woman and three blond children – Clive’s family, no doubt – and a number of receipts for petrol and meals. Nowhere did it say that Clive was a doctor, and Mark guessed he was probably just a traveling salesman. And a pervert. Worried that the police would be after him after the incident, though, he thought of striking out across open country and avoiding the roads. But there was no way, he realized, that Clive was going to report what had happened. Even if he said Mark just attacked him in order to rob him, Mark could make enough noise to cause problems. And maybe others would come forward. Clive must know this; Mark doubted he was the first victim. And there was that smiling woman with the three blond children to consider. No, he thought, he was safe for the moment.

It was getting dark and he still had a long way to go. The moors became even eerier as the light faded and mist settled in patches. He knew he’d get lost if he headed for open country, probably die of exposure. Mark thought he could hear a dreadful howling in the distance. Weren’t there ghostly hounds on the moors? Or werewolves? He thought about that film again, the one where the American tourist got bitten by a wolf on the moors and turned into a werewolf, and realized he had seen it when he was back with his mum and Crazy Nick, not at the squat. Or seen some of it. When Crazy Nick saw Mark was enjoying the film, he declared it was rubbish and switched to boxing. After that, Mark pretty much lost interest in television. There was no point, as he never got to watch anything he wanted anyway. He shivered and started to walk toward the nearest village, Helmsley, which he didn’t think was very far.

When he got to the village, the lights in the houses and pubs were all on. It looked like a twee, tourist sort of place from what Mark could make out as he walked down the main street. He checked for Clive’s car in the main car park and by the roadside, but thankfully couldn’t see it. He laughed at himself, not sure why he was so paranoid. Clive had taken off like a bat out of hell and he wouldn’t stop until he got to Scarborough. Mark had scared the shit out of him. Mark looked around to see that no one was watching, then he stopped and dropped Clive’s wallet, minus the cash, down a grate.

There was a newsagent’s shop still open at the corner, and Mark went in and bought a packet of cigarettes, twenty Benson amp; Hedges, seeing he was so flush, and a copy of the evening paper, just to see if there was any news about the fires. He was hungry and the cafés were all closed, the way they always seemed to be at teatime, so he ducked into a friendly-looking pub. He went first to the toilet, where he was able at least to clean up his hands and face and brush some of the muck off the suede overcoat. It was badly stained from his fall on the wet grass, though, and there was nothing he could do about that. Other than the overcoat, which he took off and carried over his arm so no one could see the stains, he reckoned he didn’t look so bad.

Nobody paid him much attention as he sipped his pint of Guinness and ate the ham-and-cheese sandwich, which was all he was able to get there in the evening. The newspaper didn’t tell him anything he didn’t already know. The second fire was a caravan, and another man had been killed. Nobody would come right out and say it, but Mark could tell they thought it was deliberate, and that it had something to do with the fire on the boats.

It was half past six. The pub was warm and the log fire crackling in the hearth made him feel drowsy. He didn’t want to move, didn’t want to go anywhere. He lit his first cigarette in ages and inhaled the acrid smoke deep into his lungs. Heaven.

But what to do next? He knew he was about fourteen miles from the nearest railway station, back in Thirsk, but thought maybe he could get a bus from Helmsley to Scarborough. He’d have to find somewhere to stay when he got there, though, and that could be a problem if it was late and dark, especially as he was alone and without luggage or transport. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself, even though he was almost a hundred percent certain Clive wouldn’t report him to the police. He also had the killer to worry about, he realized. Somehow or other, he might have found out where Mark was, where he was going. He would have to be careful.

Then he saw the notice behind the bar: “B and B.” The landlord had been friendly enough when he served Mark, even apologizing for the lack of hot meals, so Mark walked over to the bar and asked if there were any rooms vacant.

The landlord smiled. “It’s not often we’re full up at this time of year,” he said. “I suppose it’ll be a single you’re wanting?”

“Yes,” said Mark.

“I think we might be able to accommodate you. Rachel.”

The woman helping behind the bar came over.

“Show this young lad the single, would you? Number six.”

Rachel, a pretty young woman with fair hair and a peaches-and-cream complexion, blushed and said, “Of course, Mr. Ridley.” She turned to Mark. “Come on.”

Mark followed her up the narrow creaking staircase. At the top she opened a heavy door. The room looked magnificent to Mark, and he realized he must have been standing on the threshold with his mouth open. Rachel was expecting him to look around and say something.

“How much is it?” he managed to ask.

“Twenty-eight pounds, bed and breakfast,” she said. “Breakfast’s downstairs, between eight and nine o’clock. Well, do you want it?”

“Yes,” said Mark, reaching in his pocket for the money.

“Tomorrow, silly,” Rachel said. “You pay when you leave.”

“Oh. Right,” Mark said, amazed that someone would trust him not to run off without paying.

Rachel handed him the key and explained about the various locks and how he had to make sure he was in before they closed up the pub. He didn’t even think he was going out, so that was no problem.

“Where’s your rucksack?” she asked.

“Don’t have one,” he said.

She looked at him as if she thought he was daft, then shrugged and left, shutting the door behind her.

It was the nicest room Mark had ever been in in his entire life. It wasn’t very big, but that was all right; he didn’t need much space. The wallpaper was a cheerful flower pattern and the air smelled of lemons and herbs. It had a solid bed and a dresser and drawers for clothes and stuff. There were also a television and facilities for making tea and coffee. But best of all, there was a bathroom/toilet.

It had been difficult managing without running water on the boat. Once a week they went to the public baths in Eastvale, next to the swimming pool, but most days they did the best they could. Mark had found a bucket and a nice big enamel bowl in a junk shop, and usually he would walk half a mile west along the canal bank to the taps installed by the tourist board for the boaters, campers and walkers and get fresh water there, which he would carry back and heat on the stove. It was a hassle, but it was better than being dirty.

But now he had a bath to himself, and soap and shampoo and towels, too. First he turned on the television. It didn’t matter what was on; he just wanted the sound for company. Then he started running a hot bath and made himself a cup of tea. When everything was ready he took his tea into the bathroom, climbed in the tub and lit a cigarette. It was wonderful. He could hear Emmerdale on the television through the half-open door as he lay back and luxuriated in the steamy warmth. This must be what it was like to be normal, he thought. He only wished Tina could be here with him. He knew it wouldn’t all seem so special to her because she’d grown up with all these luxuries, but she would have loved it nonetheless.

He wished he could stay there forever, with the hot water enveloping him, the steam rising and the comforting voices on the television, but he knew he couldn’t. Tomorrow he would have to find a way to get to Scarborough and get a job. Clive’s money wouldn’t last forever, especially if he had to pay so much for a room every night. But maybe he’d find somewhere cheaper in Scarborough. A little flat, even. And then he’d start putting his life back together.

Banks certainly felt as if he needed a drink when half past six came around, but left to his own devices he would have chosen other company than Maria Phillips. Still, he thought, pushing open the pub’s door, duty calls, and she was harmless enough if you kept your distance.

The Queen’s Arms was busy with the after-work crowd, most of whom seemed to prefer standing elbow to elbow at the bar. Banks was the first to arrive, so he managed to get Cyril’s attention, bought himself a pint of bitter and settled by the window to read the paper.

Maria came dashing in ten minutes late, breathless and full of apologies. Someone hadn’t turned up for an evening shift and she’d had to deal with it. Banks offered to get her a drink.

“You dear man,” she said, unbuttoning her coat and unwinding her scarf. “I’ll have the usual.”

When he came back with her Campari and soda, she was composed, smoking a Silk Cut. A momentary pang of desire – for a cigarette, not for Maria – leaped through Banks’s veins like an electric current, then passed as quickly as it came, leaving him feeling vaguely uneasy and fidgety.

“Cheers,” Maria said, clinking glasses.

“Slainte,” said Banks. “So what is it you want to see me about?”

Her eyes sparkled with mischievous humor. “It’s all business with you, isn’t it?”

“It’s been a long day.”

“And I don’t suppose there’s a dear devoted woman waiting for you at home, ready to massage your neck and shoulders and run a nice warm bath for you, is there?”

“Afraid not,” Banks said, thinking there was only Gwyneth Paltrow in Great Expectations and a tumbler of Laphroaig. But Gwyneth wouldn’t be massaging him or running him a hot bath. “There’s not even a faithful dog to fetch my slippers. Policing doesn’t lend itself to pet-owning, especially when you live alone.”

“Wives, either,” Maria said.

“Well, I’d never claim to have owned a woman.”

She slapped him playfully on the forearm. “Silly. You know what I mean. Your job. It must make relationships difficult.”

Damn near impossible, thought Banks, realizing he hadn’t even talked to Michelle in a day or two. He wondered how her missing child case was going. Better than his triple murder, he hoped. His train would pass through Peterborough on his way to London. Maybe she could come to the station and he could lean out of the window and kiss her like a scene in an old black-and-white film. All that would be missing would be the atmospheric steam from the engine. “Well,” he said, “you should probably talk to Sandra about that.”

“I would, except she seems to have deserted all her old friends.”

“She’s burned a few bridges, all right,” said Banks. “So, Maria, what is it?”

“Nothing, really. It’s just that after our little tête-à-tête the other day, well, you know how you start thinking back, trying to remember things?”

“Yes,” said Banks. “That’s why I usually give anyone I question my phone number. They often remember something later.”

“You didn’t give me your phone number.”

“Maria! Stop doing your Miss Moneypenny imitation. You’re just down the street.”

“Just down the street. Story of my life. Ah, well.” Maria laughed. “Oh, don’t look so exasperated. I’m only teasing.”

“You were talking about remembering something.”

“So stern. Yes, like I said, I got to thinking, trying to play the scene in my mind’s eye, so to speak.”

“Which scene would this be?”

“The Turner reception, of course. There were quite a lot of people there, including that pretty young policewoman I’ve seen you with on occasion.”

“Annie was involved in the security. As you well know.”

“I’m surprised you two haven’t…” Then she looked at Banks and opened her eyes wider. “Well, maybe you have. None of my business, anyway.”

“That’s right,” said Banks. “The reception.”

“I’m getting to that. I was trying to picture Thomas McMahon, what he was doing, who he was talking to. That sort of thing.”

“And?”

“Well, he wasn’t talking to anyone most of the time, but I did see him chat with Mr. Whitaker from the bookshop.”

That made sense. Whitaker had told Banks that McMahon bought old books from him. For the endpapers, Phil Keane had suggested, perhaps to make forgeries of period sketches. And Banks was still keeping an open mind as to whether Whitaker was involved in some sort of forgery scam with McMahon and Gardiner, especially after Stefan Nowak had confirmed that the car parked in the lay-by on the night of McMahon’s murder had been a Jeep Cherokee, the same model Whitaker owned. Thanks to Geoff Hamilton’s expert knowledge, they could now check Whitaker’s fuel tank against the accelerant used in the Gardiner blaze.

“What was Thomas McMahon doing?”

“Well, his wineglass was rarely empty, I can say that.”

“But he wasn’t drunk?”

“No. Maybe a little bit tipsy. But not so’s you’d notice that much. I seem to remember he was the kind of chap who could hold his liquor, as they say in the movies. But that’s not what I wanted to tell you.”

“What is it, then?”

“Just that at one point he was talking to someone who might be able to tell you more about him than I can.”

“Who?”

“That art researcher from London. Well-heeled, yummy-looking fellow. Do you know who I mean?”

Banks felt the hackles rise on the back of his neck. Annie’s “friend” Phil. Philip Keane. “Yes,” he said. “I know him. Why do you say well-heeled?”

Maria rolled her eyes. “Honestly, you men. His suit, dearie. You can’t get a suit like that off the peg in Marks and Sparks. That was a made-for-measure job, bespoke, tailor. Beautifully made, too. Best-quality material. Nice bit of schmatter. At a guess I’d say Savile Row.”

“How do you know?”

She winked. “I’ve got hidden depths.”

Banks imagined an art researcher probably made a fair income, and if Phil Keane wanted to spend it on Savile Row suits, good for him. “Go on,” Banks said. “What were they talking about?”

“I don’t know that, do I? I was some distance away doing my hostess routine, seeing that everyone’s glass was full. It was just something I noticed, that’s all, perhaps because most of the time McMahon wasn’t talking to anyone.”

“How long were they talking?”

“I don’t know that, either. My attention was diverted. Next thing I knew, McMahon was studying one of the paintings on the wall and Mr. Art Researcher was chatting up Shirley Cameron.”

“Which painting?”

“I can’t remember. Just one of the ones we had on display in the reception room. Nothing fancy. Local, most likely.”

“Did you get any sense of what their conversation was about?”

“Not really.”

“I mean, were they arguing?”

“No.”

“Exchanging pleasantries?”

“No.”

“Intimate?”

“Not in that sort of way.”

“An animated, passionate discussion?”

“No. More casual than that.”

“Just passing the time of day, then?”

“Well, yes, except…”

“Except what?”

“When I was playing it back in my mind last night… I don’t know if I’m imagining things, you know, embroidering on what I actually saw, but I could swear they were talking as if they knew one another.”

“Not as if they’d just met?”

“No, that’s it. You can tell, can’t you, when there’s a history? Even if you don’t hear a word?”

“Sometimes,” Banks said. “Body language can actually tell you quite a lot.”

“Body language,” Maria repeated. “Yes… Anyway…” She reached into her handbag. “He gave me his business card and I dug it out of the files, if that’s any use.”

Banks looked at the card. Some ornate sort of typeface, black and red. It gave Phil Keane’s company name as Art-Search Ltd., along with an address in Belgravia. “Can I keep this?” Banks asked.

“Of course. It’s no use to me, is it?”

Banks thanked her.

“Well, that’s it, then.” Maria spread her hands. “I’ve told you all I know. I have nothing left up my sleeve to keep you here with.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Banks, suddenly feeling magnanimous toward Maria, and not in any great hurry to go home. After all, it was not yet seven o’clock and the film didn’t start till nine. “What about the pleasure of your company?”

Maria looked puzzled. “You don’t have to dash off somewhere?”

“No. Not yet, at any rate. As you pointed out, there’s no wife waiting to massage my shoulders and neck and run a hot bath. How about another drink?”

Maria narrowed her eyes and looked at him suspiciously. “Are you sure?”

“Of course.”

Maria blushed, then slid her empty glass toward him. “I’ll have another Campari and soda then, please.”

She actually seemed quite shy when he took the lead, Banks thought, as he made his way to the bar. As he stood there waiting for Cyril to pull his pint, he wondered about what he’d just heard. It didn’t mean anything, necessarily, even if Maria’s intuition was right, but why hadn’t Phil told him? Why had he lied about knowing McMahon? And how could Banks go about checking into it without damaging his already fragile relationship with Annie?