Playing With Fire

Chapter 12

On the train to London, Banks fretted about what Maria Phillips had told him the previous evening, and what to do about it. He couldn’t even relax and enjoy his John Mayall CD for worrying, and he certainly couldn’t concentrate on the Eric Ambler thriller he’d brought along.

There was no denying that Maria had told him Phil Keane was deep in conversation with Thomas McMahon, as if they already knew each other, and Keane had said he didn’t know the artist. It could be a simple, honest mistake in identity – after all, it was a few months ago – but Banks didn’t think so.

Maybe Keane, like anybody else, wanted to avoid any connection with a police investigation. It was a natural response, after all. Don’t get involved. Leave me out of it. Leslie Whitaker had done the same thing, and Banks was convinced that he was in a lot deeper than he admitted.

But Phil Keane was involved. As a consultant, and as Annie’s lover. Which meant he was supposed to be on their side, didn’t it? The last thing Banks could do was talk to Annie about it. She would immediately turn on him for trying to come between her and Phil out of personal jealousy, making their last little set-to seem like a preliminary round.

Shortly after Grantham, Banks had an idea. He made a call on his mobile to an old colleague on the Met, someone who might be able to help. After that, he had a bit more success putting the matter out of his mind and listening to Blues from Laurel Canyon.

King’s Cross was the usual melee. Banks headed straight for the taxi rank and joined the queue. Within a few minutes he was on his way to Sir Laurence West’s office in the City. The journey was slow, like most road journeys in London, and the mild weather seemed to have brought more people out onto the streets. Couriers on bicycles weaved in and out of the traffic with total disregard for safety – theirs or anybody else’s – and pedestrians wandered across the streets no matter where, or what color, the traffic lights were. Many were wearing only their suits or Windcheaters and jeans.

There aren’t many skyscrapers in the City, but Sir Laurence’s offices were on the twelfth floor of one of them and offered a splendid view south over the river to Southwark, or would have done had the day not been so overcast.

When Banks finally made it past the security, receptionists, secretaries, office managers and personal assistants, he was beginning to wish he’d sent someone else instead. He didn’t cope well with bureaucracy and soon found himself losing patience. When he was finally ushered into the inner sanctum he was ready to give Sir Laurence a hard time.

The office was about as big as the entire upper floor of Western Area Headquarters, and most of it was uncluttered open space. Thick carpets with intricate eastern designs covered most of the floor area, the rest being shiny hardwood, and a big teak desk sat at the center, a sleek laptop computer the only object on its surface. In one corner a black leather-upholstered three-piece suite was arranged around a low, glass-topped table, a cocktail cabinet nearby. There was a faint whiff of old cigar smoke in the air.

The man himself was tall and portly, bald-headed and bushy-eyebrowed, with more than a passing resemblance to Robert Morley, probably in his early seventies, but well preserved. He was wearing a slate gray suit, white shirt and striped tie, no doubt representing some old school, exclusive club or regiment. He came forward with a genial smile on his face and shook hands, gesturing for Banks to sit in one of the armchairs.

“Drink?” he offered.

“No, thank you,” said Banks.

“Hope you don’t mind if I do.”

“Not at all.”

West poured himself some amber fluid from a cut-glass decanter and added a splash of soda. Banks got a whiff of brandy.

“I know it’s a bit early,” said West, “but I always make it a point to have a drink before lunch. Just the one, you understand. It helps sharpen the appetite.”

Banks, who might have time to grab a burger at the nearest McDonald’s, if he was lucky, nodded. “I’ll have a Coke, if you’ve got any,” he said.

“Of course.” West opened what looked like a filing cabinet. It was a small fridge. He took out a can of Coke, poured it into a crystal tumbler and handed it to Banks, who thanked him and took a sip.

“Now, what can I do for you?” said West, sitting opposite Banks. He didn’t have to explain that he was a busy man; it was evident from his body language. “The young man on the telephone didn’t tell me very much. I do hope those wretched British Waterways people haven’t been bothering you. They’ve been on at me for years, but I’m afraid I’ve rather ignored them.”

Anyone else’s boats would probably have been towed away long ago, Banks reflected. Wealth and power do have their privileges. Slowly, he explained about the fires and the deaths.

“Oh, dear,” said West. “I hope you won’t be holding me legally responsible for their condition?”

“That’s not my department,” said Banks. “All I’m interested in is who set the fire, and why.”

“Then I’m afraid I can’t help. You say there were squatters living on the boats? Perhaps they started the fire?”

“That’s highly unlikely, given that two of them died.”

“I wish I could help.”

“How did you come to be the owner of the boats?”

West swirled his drink in his glass. “They were my father’s,” he said. “I suppose I inherited them.”

“But you had no interest in his business?”

“No. He lived to be ninety-six years old, Mr. Banks. He died just two years ago, though he had been uncommunicative for some time. I know he was in the haulage business, but believe it or not, I didn’t even know about those two boats until the Waterways people got in touch with me, after his death. I know I should have delegated, put someone on it, had something done, but I had more important things on my mind at the time. I didn’t imagine they’d be doing any harm just sitting there.”

“There was no reason you wanted to keep them?”

“Good Lord, no.”

“Or sell them?”

“I suppose I might have got around to that eventually.”

“Were they insured?”

“I imagine so. My father was a thorough man before his illness.”

“But you don’t know for how much?”

“I have no idea. I suppose the executor of his estate would know.”

“Do you know of anybody who might have had a reason to set fire to them?”

“No. Surely you’re not suggesting some sort of insurance fraud?”

“I’m not suggesting anything,” said Banks. It was a patently absurd idea, anyway. West probably made a few billion a year, and the insurance on the boats wasn’t likely to amount to more than twenty or thirty thousand. Still, stranger things had happened. The rich don’t get richer by missing opportunities to make even more money. Or West might simply have got someone to torch them to get them off his hands.

“It’s funny,” said West, “but now you bring it up, I actually did receive an offer to buy one of the boats a few months ago. My secretary brought it to my attention, but I’m afraid I didn’t take the offer very seriously.”

“I thought you didn’t need the money.”

West laughed. “My dear man, that’s no reason to let oneself be taken for a fool.”

“How long ago was it?” Banks asked.

“Oh, not long. October, perhaps.”

“Do you think you could find the letter?”

West called in his secretary, a buxom woman in a no-nonsense pinstriped skirt and matching jacket, who disappeared for a few moments and returned with a buff folder.

“How did the letter come to you?” Banks asked the secretary before she scurried off.

“It was forwarded through British Waterways,” she said. She looked at Sir Laurence for guidance. He nodded, and she passed the folder to Banks. It contained just one sheet of paper, a letter dated the sixth of October. It was brief and to the point.

Someone wanted to buy the southernmost narrow boat – Tom’s boat – moored on the dead-end branch off the Eastvale Canal, near Molesby. He was willing to pay ten thousand pounds – such a low sum, he explained, because the boat needed a lot of work – and that someone was Thomas McMahon himself.

Mark could smell and hear the sea as he made his way down the hill to the sands from Scarborough bus station just after eleven o’clock on Tuesday morning. After a breakfast of fried eggs, bacon, sausage, mushrooms and grilled tomatoes, he had paid his bill in Helmsley and wandered toward the bus stops in the square. There he had caught the half-past-nine bus and stared out of the window at the bleak, misty moorland landscape to the north, until the bus headed down from the moors near Pickering.

His plan, inasmuch as he had one, was to find a job as soon as possible. The money he had stolen from Clive would enable him to get a roof over his head and food in his belly for a while, at least. But he would need something more dependable in the long term. If there was going to be a long term.

Mark didn’t know why, but he felt both apprehension and numbness at the same time. A part of him was numb because he had lost Tina, yet another part of him was afraid of what lay around the next corner, who might be lying in wait for him. There was still the guilt, too. If only he’d been on the boat with Tina instead of with that slut Mandy. Anger raged inside him somewhere, unfocused yet growing stronger. He might have killed Clive, he realized, if they hadn’t slowed at the bend and he’d been sharp enough to seize his opportunity to grab the money and get away. He remembered what the policeman had said, about the fire not being an accident. That meant someone had killed Tina, whether she was the intended victim or not. The only person he could think of who had a reason to kill Tina was Patrick Aspern, and when Mark thought of Aspern, he felt his rage surge up again.

A cold wind blew off the North Sea, pushing inland a mass of cloud the color of dirty dishwater. There was no blue to be seen anywhere on the horizon, no rays of sunshine lancing through to make diamonds dance on the water; the whole world was wrapped in a gray shroud.

Down on the prom, all the amusements were closed for the winter, the cafés and fish and chip shops shut up, Jimmy Corrigan’s, the Parade Snack Bar, the sands deserted except for a man in a hooded overcoat walking his dog, hunched forward against the wind. The tide was high and waves like molten metal crashed on the beach, churning the brown sand. One or two other people were walking along the prom, old couples, a young family. Probably people who lived in town, Mark thought. After all, Scarborough was a big place, and the people who lived there had to go on even when the tourist season was over.

A solitary gray Vectra was parked across the street, outside the Ghost Train, with two men in it drinking tea and eating Kit Kats. They both glanced toward Mark, and he kept his face averted. He couldn’t tell whether he recognized them or not, but there was no sense in falling right into their hands. Maybe two people had set fire to the boats, not just one, and these could be the ones. Hands in his pockets, he strolled on beside the harbor, where the nets were stacked and the fishing boats were all moored for the winter.

He tried to light a cigarette, but the wind was too strong, and after three matches he gave up. He’d have one later in a warm pub. It felt good to be near the sea. He didn’t know why, but the sight of the water stretching out as far as the eye could see, until it met the sky way in the distance, evoked a feeling of awe in him: the way it was always changing, the surface swelling and dipping, the scudding whitecaps and huge breakers. It put you in your place, put things in perspective. He could watch it forever.

He imagined sailors years ago, in wooden ships with canvas sails bellied out, tossing on seas like this, no land in sight, and thought that was what he would have liked to have been if he’d lived then. A sailor on a whaling ship. Not throwing the harpoons, because he didn’t particularly like the idea of killing whales, but maybe at the wheel, steering the rudder, discovering new worlds. Maybe even now he could join the Merchant Navy, if they’d have him, and spend the rest of his days at sea. The ships were more modern, he knew, but they’d still be at the mercy of the waves.

Out of his peripheral vision, he noticed the Vectra start moving just behind him, to his left. He walked past the empty funfair and onto Marine Drive. The car didn’t overtake him, but kept up a slow, steady pace, about twenty yards behind him. Were they following him? Mark risked a glance back and thought he saw one of them talking into a mobile phone.

Mark felt exposed, out in the open. Marine Drive curved around the base of Castle Hill, with nothing but the steep rocky slope on one side and the cold North Sea on the other. Nowhere to run. The wind howled in his ears and the waves crashed high over the seawall and the metal railings, and Mark was soaked in no time.

The Vectra remained twenty yards behind him, crawling along, no matter how much he altered his pace. A few other souls were braving the weather, all dressed in waterproof gear. Out in the distance, the dark shape of a ship bobbed on the water. Mark wondered what it was doing there, what it felt like, who was on it. Were they in danger? He couldn’t see any danger signals flashing, any flares, or SOS lights. Weathering the storm. Just like him.

The car was still following him, no doubt about it. Mark picked up his pace, nearly running now, and it surged forward, pulling over onto his side of the road just a few feet in front of him, blocking the pavement.

Mark turned and ran the other way, back toward town, ignoring the doors slamming and the shouts behind him. He couldn’t hear what they were saying anyway because of the wind and the crashing waves. He ran back toward the prom. If he could get into the maze of narrow streets behind the amusements, he might have a chance of losing them, whoever they were.

He hadn’t got very far when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He shook it off and kept going, but it was no use. Within seconds, his legs went from under him and he fell onto the hard surface, smashing his cheek against the stone. He felt a knee between his shoulders and his arm twisted up his back. The pain was excruciating, and he thought he screamed out, then he lay still. He could hear them talking but still couldn’t grasp what they were saying, what they wanted. Mark could taste blood and salt on his lips and his tongue as they hauled him to his feet and back to the car. He cried out, but nobody came to help. One final, magnificent wave smashed against the seawall and drenched them all from head to toe before they got him inside the Vectra.

The garage was a mere stone’s throw from the Askham Bar Park and Ride, off the outer ring road just west of York city center. Owner’s name, Charlie Kirk. Handy place for a car rental agency, Annie thought. You could arrive at the train station and take the bus out, then you never had to worry about the murderous city center traffic, or the parking.

As it had done so many times before, legwork had paid off once again, and it looked as if this was the place where the killer might have rented his Jeep Cherokee. At least, the same person had rented the same vehicle on several occasions since the previous summer, including the past weekend. They had got lucky because not many local outfits had Cherokees for hire, but Charlie Kirk did. Now Annie was about to question the owner, with Stefan and his impressions expert in tow. They went off to the car park around the back with the mechanic while Annie went to talk to the clerical staff.

The small office was overheated and stuffy. Three people worked there, one up front, to deal with customers, and the other two, a young girl and an older man, farther back. The office was full of the usual stuff – computers, filing cabinets, phones and fax machines – and the walls were covered with posters of cars.

Annie slipped her overcoat off, laying it on a chair, and offered her warrant card to the woman at the front desk.

“I’ve been expecting you,” the woman said, standing up to shake hands. “I’m Karen Talbot, office manager.”

Annie put Karen Talbot at about thirty. She had blond highlights, glossy red lipstick and eyes so blue they had to be contact lenses, and she was wearing a black silk blouse, showing plenty of cleavage, and a short, tight red skirt. The effect was lost on Annie, but she imagined it wasn’t on most of the male customers.

Karen sat down again, pulling her skirt as far over her thighs as it would go, which wasn’t far.

“Is the owner around?” Annie asked.

“The captain isn’t in today. This isn’t his only outpost, you know. Quite the empire builder, our captain is.”

“Captain?”

“Kirk. Captain Kirk. Our little joke. Only when he’s not here, of course.”

“I see,” said Annie. “We’ll talk to him later, then. Maybe you can help me for now?” She sat down opposite Karen.

Karen patted her hair. “I’ll do my best. As a matter of fact, the captain wouldn’t be able to tell you much, anyway. It’s not as if he actually works here, if you know what I mean.”

“So it’s you who deals with the public?”

“Mostly, yes.” Karen glanced behind at the other two. “But we take it in turns. That’s Nick and Sylvia.”

Annie said hello. Nick returned her greeting with a broad salesman’s smile and Sylvia smiled shyly at her. Annie wondered how Nick, who must be well the wrong side of forty, felt working for a young upstart like Karen. She also found herself rather uncharitably wondering how Karen had got the job and what her relationship with the owner was. But such thoughts had little to do with the business on hand, so she pushed them aside and got down to business.

“We’ve been told that you’ve rented out a dark blue Jeep Cherokee, or a similar vehicle, to the same person on five different occasions since last summer. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” said Karen. “Three times it was the Jeep, and twice we had to substitute a Ford Explorer.”

“Did that cause a problem with the customer?”

“Not that I remember. He just wanted the same type of vehicle.”

“Did you deal with this customer yourself?”

“Not every time.”

“I did, twice,” said Nick. “And Sylvia did once.”

“First off,” said Annie, “what were the dates?”

Karen went to the filing cabinet by her desk, flipped through the folders for a few seconds and pulled one out. Then she reeled off a string of dates in September, October, November and December, ending with the previous weekend.

“When did he take it out?” Annie asked.

“Thursday morning.”

“And when did he return it?”

“Saturday morning.”

So he had the Cherokee before the narrow-boats fire, but he took it back before the Roland Gardiner fire. Annie wondered why he would do that.

“Ever any problems when he brought it back?”

“No. It was always in excellent condition.”

“Did he return it full or empty?”

“Empty. It costs a bit more, but it saves the customer having to search for a garage himself.”

“You fill the cars here?”

“Yes. Of course.”

That was a piece of luck, Annie thought. They could take samples from the garage’s tank and from the Cherokee’s. Banks had told her that forensics could identify the tank from which the petrol used in the Gardiner fire came. Whoever had rented the Cherokee would most likely not have needed to refill the tank anywhere else. If they came up with a match, that was solid evidence to use in court.

“What’s the customer’s name?”

“Masefield. William Masefield.”

“What did he look like?”

“Ordinary, really.”

“Let’s see if we can improve on that, shall we?” said Annie with a sigh. She hated trying to get descriptions out of people. Most witnesses, in her experience, were neither observant nor good at expressing themselves in words. This time proved no exception. After about ten minutes, the best the three of them could come up with was that he was a little above medium height, generally in good shape though perhaps just a tad overweight, a little stooped, gold-rimmed glasses, graying hair and casual clothes – jeans, blue Windcheater. Nick thought he’d been wearing white trainers on at least one occasion, but didn’t know if they were Nike or not. At least Annie ought to be grateful there were no glaring contradictions about height or hair color. It could have been the person Mark Siddons had described visiting Thomas McMahon, but it could have been a thousand other people, too.

“Any closed-circuit TV here?” Annie asked.

“Only out back, where the cars are,” said Karen. “And it’s only turned on at night, when no one’s here. Otherwise we’d be changing the tapes every five minutes.”

Too bad, Annie thought. But it was worth a try. “Was there anything else you remember about him?” Annie asked.

“No,” said Karen.

“How did he pay?”

“Credit card.”

“Can you give me the details?”

Karen quickly made a photocopy of William Masefield’s file and passed it to Annie. The address, she noticed, was Studley, a Midlands village in Warwickshire, not far from Redditch.

“Did he have any sort of accent at all?” she asked.

“Just ordinary,” said Karen.

“What do you mean? What’s ordinary? Yorkshire? Birmingham?”

“Sort of no accent, really. But nice. Educated.”

Annie understood what she meant. They used to call it “Received Pronunciation,” and it was what all the radio and television presenters spoke before regional and ethnic accents came into fashion. RP was generally regarded as posh and related to public schools, Oxford and Cambridge, and southeastern England, the Home Counties. Most accents tell you where a person comes from; RP only told you social status.

Stefan poked his head around the door and Annie noticed Karen immediately start to preen.

“Any luck?” she asked.

“It looks like the same vehicle,” he said. “The measurements are the same, as are the tires, and there’s some distinctive cross-hatching on the casts we took from the lay-by that appear to match this specific Jeep Cherokee. Mike’s still working on it, and we’ll be taking soil and gravel samples, but I thought I’d give you the breaking news.”

“That’s great,” Annie said, tapping the sheet of paper in front of her. “William Masefield. We’ve got his details here. We’ve got him.” In her mind, she could see them swooping in and making an arrest even before Banks got back from London, unrealistic as that was. Still, she felt jubilant. She could even see a possibility of that weekend in New York with Phil. If she could afford it, because she would insist on paying her own way.

“There’s only one problem,” Stefan said.

“Oh?”

“It’s been thoroughly cleaned, inside and out.”

Annie looked at Karen, who shrugged. “We always get the returns cleaned up as promptly as we can,” she said.

“Shit,” said Annie. “No forensics.”

“Most likely not,” Stefan agreed. “Though we can certainly take it in and try. We might pick up a print or a hair the cleaners missed.”

“Wait a minute,” said Karen. “What do you mean, ‘take it in’? Take it where?”

“To the police garage,” Annie said.

“But you can’t take the Jeep. It’s booked.”

“Mr. Masefield again?”

“No. But they’re good customers. Regular.”

“It’s evidence,” said Annie. She turned to Stefan. “Tell Mike to take it to the police garage, but to make sure he gets that petrol sample first, along with a sample from the underground tank here.”

“But the captain will-”

“Don’t worry, Karen,” said Annie, picking up a pad from the desk. “We’ll give you a receipt. And you can always rent them the Explorer instead. I’m sure they’ll understand.”

“Commander Burgess? Well, bugger me!”

“Watch it with the vile language, Banks. And why such surprise?”

“The last time I saw you, you were a detective superintendent in National Criminal Intelligence. I thought they’d put you out to pasture for good.”

“Things change. I’m resilient, me.”

Not only that, Banks remembered, but “Dirty Dick” Burgess had been sent somewhere he could do little harm because he was accused of dragging his feet over a sensitive race-related investigation. The two had known each other for many years, and their relationship had changed significantly over the course of time. At first they had been like chalk and cheese: Burgess brash, right-wing, racist, sexist, cutting corners to get results; Banks trying his damnedest to remain a liberal humanist in a heartbreaking job, in demoralizing times. Now Banks cut more corners and Burgess toed the line more closely. They both came from a working-class background, and both had worked their way up the hard way, through the streets. Burgess was the son of an East End barrow boy. He had thrived in the Thatcher years, lain low during John Major’s reign, and now he was thriving again in the Blair era. It just went to show what Banks had always believed; there wasn’t much difference between Thatcher and Blair except for gender, and sometimes he wasn’t too sure about that.

They were about the same age, too, and had managed to find a certain amount of common ground over the years. It was fragile ground, though, thin ice over a quagmire. Banks had phoned Burgess from the train, with an idea in mind, and Burgess had suggested that Banks buy him lunch. Thus they stood at the bar of a crowded pub near the Old Bailey, washing down the curry of the day with flat lager and rubbing elbows with barristers, clients and clerks. At least Burgess hadn’t changed in one respect; he still drank like a fish and smoked Tom Thumb cigars.

What had changed most, though, was his appearance. Gone were the silver pony tail and the scuffed leather jacket; in their place a shaved head and a dark blue suit, white shirt and paisley tie. Shiny shoes. Burgess had also put on a few pounds, and his complexion was pink, the nose a little redder and more bulbous. The world-weary, seen-it-all look in his eyes had been replaced by one of mild surprise and curiosity.

“I can see you’re doing all right for yourself,” Banks said, pushing his plate away. He’d only eaten half of the curry, which wasn’t very good. The sign read lamb, but he suspected it was mutton. And the spicing was so bland as to be immaterial.

“Can’t complain. Can’t complain. My old oppos at Special Branch didn’t forget me, after all. I managed to pull off one or two coups that pleased a number of people in high places. I tell you, Banksy, this post-nine-eleven world is full of opportunities for a man of my talents.”

“On whose side?”

“Ha, ha. Very funny.”

“So where are you now? Back in Special Branch?”

Burgess put his finger to his lips. “Can’t say. If I did, I’d have to kill you. Top secret. Hush hush. Actually, we’re so new we haven’t even got our acronym sorted yet. Anyway, what brings you down here? You were all mysterious on the phone.” He offered Banks a Tom Thumb. Banks refused. Burgess’s eyes narrowed. “What is it, Banksy? Have you stopped smoking? I haven’t seen you light one up yet. That’s not like you. You’ve quit, haven’t you?”

“Six months now.”

“Feel any better?”

“No.”

Burgess laughed. “How’s that lovely wife of yours? Ex, I should say.”

“She’s fine,” said Banks. “Remarried now.”

“And you?”

“Enjoying the bachelor life. Look, there was something I wanted to ask you. In complete confidence, of course.”

“Of course. Why come to me otherwise?”

One thing Banks did know about Burgess was that he could be trusted to keep quiet and be as discreet as necessary. He had a network of informers and information-gatherers second to none, no matter who, or what, it was you wanted to know about. That was why Banks had rung him.

“It’s rather delicate,” said Banks.

“What’s happened? Your girlfriend’s chucked you and you want me to look into her new boyfriend’s background, find some dirt on him?”

It was astonishingly close to home, but Banks knew Burgess was only casting stones in the dark to see if he could hit anything. His scattershot approach often worked wonders, but Banks was a little wiser to it than he used to be, and less inclined to react. He was still in awe of Burgess’s uncanny ability to hit the right nerve, though.

“It’s probably nothing,” he said, “but I’d like a background check on a bloke called Philip Keane.”

“Can you be a bit more specific?” Burgess said, thumbing through a soft black leather-covered notebook for a clean page. It wasn’t standard issue, Banks noticed. Must be his private notebook. “I mean, unless he’s related to that hothead who plays for Man U.”

“Not as far as I know. Pretty cultured bloke. Oxford or Cambridge. One of the two. Works as an art researcher, checking pedigrees and provenance, mostly for private collectors, but does some work for the Tate and the National. As far as I know, it’s his own business. I don’t know if he has any employees or partners.”

“Where’s the office?”

“Belgravia.” Banks gave him the address he’d got from the business card Maria Phillips gave him.

“Company name?”

“ArtSearch Limited.”

“Anything else that might help?”

“Not really. He’s in his early forties. Also owns a cottage in Fortford, North Yorkshire. Well-dressed, good-looking sort of bloke-”

“He has stolen your girlfriend, hasn’t he, Banksy?”

“It’s nothing like that.”

“That pretty young DS you were bonking. What’s her name?”

“If you mean Annie Cabbot, she’s a DI now and-”

“Annie Cabbot, that’s the one.” Burgess grinned, not a pleasant sight, least of all for the glimpse it gave of his smoke-stained, crooked teeth. He shook his head. “Tut tut tut, Banksy. Will you never learn?”

“Look,” said Banks, trying hard not to let Burgess’s prodding and teasing exasperate him. “The bloke lied to me about something that might be important in a murder investigation. I want to know why.”

“Why don’t you ask him?”

“I’ll do that. In the meantime, I want to find out as much about him as I can.”

“You mean you want me to find out as much about him as I can.”

“Okay. Will you do it?”

“You want me to find some dirt on him?”

“If there is any, I’m sure you’ll find it. If not… I just want the truth.”

“Don’t we all? And you don’t want Annie Cabbot to know about these discreet inquiries, I take it?”

“I don’t want anybody to know. Look, maybe the lie’s important and maybe it’s not. What you find out, or don’t, might help me to decide. It’s a serious case.”

“The Eastvale Canal fires?”

“You know about them?”

“Like to keep my finger on the pulse. And another thing: you paid a visit to Sir Laurence West this morning.”

Banks smiled. “I don’t suppose I should be surprised you know that already.”

Burgess winked. “The walls have ears,” he said. “Go carefully, Banksy. Sir Laurence has some very powerful connections.”

“He told me what I wanted to know. I don’t think I have a problem with him.”

“Make sure you don’t. These are difficult times. The world’s going to hell in a handbasket. You don’t know who you can trust.”

“You always seem to land on your feet.”

“I’m a Weeble, me. Remember those when you were a kid? You could knock them down as many times as you wanted but they always rolled back to their feet.”

“I remember,” said Banks.

“Anyway, how’s about another couple of pints? Unless you have to run.”

Banks glanced at his watch. There was somewhere he wanted to go, but he didn’t have to run. “Fine with me,” he said.

“My shout this time.”

Winsome was driving the unmarked police car down the M42, weaving in and out of the lanes of lorries with natural ease, windscreen wipers flapping like crazy to get rid of all the filthy spray. Annie, no mean driver herself, was surprised she didn’t feel in the least bit nervous, considering the speed they were going and the narrow spaces Winsome seemed able to maneuver them in and out of.

“Where the hell did you learn to drive like this?” Annie asked.

Winsome flashed her a grin. “Dunno, ma’am,” she said. “Back home, I suppose. I mean, I started when I was twelve, and I guess I just took to it. Some of those mountain roads…”

“But there aren’t any motorways in Jamaica, are there?”

“You never been there, ma’am?”

“No.”

“Well, there aren’t. Not really. Not what you’d call motorways. But you can go pretty fast sometimes, and you get a lot of traffic in Montego Bay.”

“What about Kingston?”

“Dunno,” said Winsome. “Never been there. Mostly I learned driving here, though, on the job. I took a course.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Look, Winsome…”

“What, ma’am?”

“About this ‘ma’am’ business. It makes me feel like an old woman. Do you think you could call me something else?”

Winsome laughed. “What do you recommend?”

“Up to you, really.”

“Boss?”

“No. Don’t like that.”

“Chief.”

“No.”

“How about Guv?”

Annie thought for a moment. Banks didn’t like “Guv,” she knew. He said it sounded too much like television. But Annie didn’t mind that. And she liked the sound of it. “Okay,” she said. “ ‘Guv’ will do fine.”

“Right you are, Guv. What do you think?”

“About William Masefield?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not sure,” said Annie. “It can’t be as easy as this, surely?”

“Sometimes it is. Easy, I mean.”

“Not in my experience. If he’s got any brains at all, he must have known we’d track him through the rental and the credit card eventually.”

“Maybe he’s not so bright as you think.” Winsome dodged in and out of a convoy of about six articulated juggernauts with Spanish number plates, and Annie looked at the map. “We’re nearly there. Get over in the left lane.”

Winsome flashed her signal and edged over.

“You want Junction three. The A-435. Here it is.”

Winsome took the exit and slowed down quickly. Annie turned to a more detailed map of the area she had bought before the journey and found the street in Studley. Winsome drove more sedately now, and there was little traffic on the road. They turned down a hill, then right into a network of streets, Annie looking for the address they had got from the garage.

Finally, Winsome pulled up in front of where the house should have been. The ones around were all detached. Not large, but comfortable enough, with bay windows and garages. The only problem was that where number eleven was supposed to be there was nothing but an empty lot.

They got out of the car, puzzled, and looked at the empty space.

“Help you, love?” said a voice behind them in a slightly nasal Midlands accent.

Annie turned and saw the woman had come out of the house across the street, a gray cardigan wrapped around her shoulders. “Maybe you can,” she said, flashing her warrant card and introducing Winsome. “We’re looking for a Mr. William Masefield.”

“Ah, Mr. Masefield,” the woman said. “I’m afraid you’re a bit late, love. And so’s he. He’s dead.”

“When?”

“Last August.”

“What did he die of? What happened to the house?”

“Burned down.”

“There was a fire?”

“Yes. Whole place went up. Lucky it didn’t take the rest of the street.”

Annie’s mind raced. “Did you see it? The fire?”

“No. Gerald and me were in Spain. Go every summer. When we got back it was all over. Just a ruin.”

“What caused it?”

“I don’t know all the details, love. You’ll have to ask the firemen.”

“Did Mr. Masefield live alone?”

“Yes. He was a bachelor.”

“Did he have any visitors?”

“Not that I saw. Bit of a dark horse. Reclusive.”

“What did he look like?”

“About six foot, maybe a bit more. Stooped from bending over all those textbooks at university, I wouldn’t be surprised. Going a bit gray.”

“What university?”

“He was a lecturer at Warwick.”

“What subject?”

“Physics, I think. Or chemistry. Some sort of science, anyway.”

“How old was he?”

“Hard to say, really. Early-to-mid-forties, at a guess. Look, why do you want to know all this?”

“Just a case we’re working on up north,” said Annie. “Thanks, anyway. You’ve been a great help.”

The woman stood there for a moment, until she seemed to realize she’d been dismissed, then she turned, sniffed, and walked back to her house.

“Well,” said Annie, looking at Winsome. “I think we’d better get cracking and ask a few questions while we’re down here, don’t you?”

“Yes, Guv,” said Winsome.

Banks wondered what the hell he was doing sitting on a park bench in Camden Town on a gray January afternoon. Nothing but a small triangle of grass, a few scrappy trees, swings and a roundabout and a couple of damp green benches. On the face of it, he was trying to pluck up the courage to visit Sandra, whose house he could see through the bare branches across the street. But why he wanted to see her was beyond him. Yes, Maria Phillips had told him that Sandra had talked to Thomas McMahon often, but it was unlikely she would be able to tell him anything useful about the dead artist. Banks hadn’t seen Sandra in over a year, not since she told him she wanted a divorce, in a café not far from the spot where he was sitting. So why now? Was it the baby? Morbid curiosity? And why was it so hard to pluck up the courage?

He stood up and walked toward the gates. This was stupid, he told himself; he might as well head for King’s Cross and catch the next train home. He could even phone Michelle. Maybe they could manage a bit more than a quick kiss through the train window. It would be easy to get off at Peter-borough if she happened to have the evening free. There was nothing for him here.

Just as he turned the corner toward the tube station, he saw a woman walking toward him, pushing a pram. It was Sandra, no doubt about it. She was still wearing the same artsy granny glasses and short, layered haircut as the last time he saw her, blond hair and black eyebrows. She also wore a long beige raincoat and had a black wool scarf wrapped around her neck.

When she saw him, she stopped. “Alan. What…?”

“I just wanted a word,” said Banks, surprised the words came out so easily, with his heart stuck in his throat the way it was.

“I’ve just been to the shops,” Sandra said. Then she leaned forward and adjusted the blanket in the pram. Banks was still facing her and couldn’t see inside. She looked up at him again, her expression unreadable, except he sensed some sort of protection, something primal, unconscious, in the way she tended to the child. It was almost, Banks felt, as if he were perceived as a threat, as if he were the enemy. He felt like saying, “There’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s only me,” but he didn’t. Instead, Sandra spoke. Glancing over at the park, she said, “Walk?”

“Fine,” said Banks. He stepped aside as she started walking again and fell in beside her. They paused to check the traffic carefully before crossing the road, and Banks sneaked his first glance at baby Sinéad. He almost breathed a sigh of relief to discover that she looked pretty much the same as any other month-old child did: like Winston Churchill. Sandra caught him looking, and he noticed her redden before she pushed the pram forward across the street.

“What is it?” she asked.

“What?”

“You wanted to talk to me.”

“Oh, yes. It’s nothing, really. Just a case I’m working on. Remember an artist called Thomas McMahon?”

“Tom? Yes, of course. Why?”

“He’s dead.”

“Dead?”

“Yes, killed in a fire. He was squatting on a barge down on the canal.”

“I take it he was murdered, or you wouldn’t be here?”

“Looks that way,” said Banks.

“Poor Tom. He was harmless. He wouldn’t hurt a soul.”

“Well, someone hurt him.”

“A fire, you said?”

“Yes. Arson. He was unconscious at the time. He wouldn’t have… you know.”

Sandra nodded. Her small, pale nose was a little red at the tip, he noticed, as if she had a cold. “I haven’t seen him in five years or more,” she said. “I don’t know how I can help you.”

“I don’t know, either,” said Banks, sticking his hands in his overcoat pockets. “I’m sorry. Perhaps I shouldn’t have come.”

They came to a bench and Sandra sat, wheeling the pram close and locking the brake with her foot. Banks sat beside her. He craved a cigarette. It wasn’t a sharp, fast, overwhelming urge as he usually felt, but a simple, deep, gnawing need. He tried to ignore it.

“You smell of beer,” Sandra said.

“I’m not pissed.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

Banks paused. He’d had a couple of pints with Burgess, true enough. But that was all. And he certainly wasn’t going to mention Dirty Dick to Sandra. Red rag to a bull. “Maria Phillips was asking after you,” he said.

Sandra shot him an amused glance. “Between trying to get her hands down the front of your trousers.”

“How did you guess?”

“She never was a subtle one, was Maria.”

“She’s rather sweet, really.”

Sandra rolled her eyes. “To each his own.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Banks rushed on. “I think she’s just very insecure underneath it all.”

“Oh, please.”

“She said you spent a lot of time with Tom.”

“And you think she was hinting at an affair?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“It’s obvious in your tone. For your information, not that it matters anymore, but I didn’t have any affairs while we were together. Not one.”

Sinéad stirred and made a gurgling sound. Sandra leaned forward and did something with the blanket again, then she put her hand to the side of the baby’s face, stroked it and smiled, murmuring nonsense words. It was a gesture Banks remembered her making with both Brian and Tracy when they were very young, and it cut him to the quick. He had forgotten all about it, and there it was, a simple maternal gesture with the power to hurt him so. What the hell was going on? he wondered, breath tight in his chest. This baby was nothing to do with him. If anything, it was an insult to the relationship he thought he had with Sandra. It wasn’t even a particularly beautiful baby. So why did he feel so excluded, so alone? Why did he care?

“So what can you tell me about McMahon?” Banks asked.

“Tom had a lively mind, wandering hands and low self-esteem,” Sandra said.

“Why the low self-esteem?”

“I don’t know. Some people are just like that, aren’t they?” She rocked the pram gently as she spoke. “Even when he was moderately successful, getting the odd exhibition and managing to sell a painting or two – and I don’t mean just the tourist stuff – he still couldn’t seem to believe in himself. You know, he once told me he felt more himself imitating other artists than he did doing his own work.”

“Oh,” said Banks. “Who did he imitate?”

“Just about anyone.” Sandra laughed. “He once dashed off a Picasso sketch for me. It took him about five seconds. I don’t know if you could have got it by a team of experts but it would have fooled me. Why are you so interested?”

“What about Turner?”

“What about him?”

“Do you think McMahon could have forged Turner sketches and watercolors?”

Sandra swept her hand over her hair. “Do I think he had the talent for it? Yes. Did I ever see him imitate or even hear him mention Turner? No.”

“Just a thought,” said Banks. “Some have turned up.”

“Is this connected with his death?”

“It could be,” said Banks.

Sandra shivered and adjusted her scarf.

“Is there anything else?” Banks asked.

“Not that I can think of.”

“You didn’t know his circle of friends?”

“Didn’t know he had one. I only saw him at the gallery. Sometimes we’d have a coffee there together. That’s all.” Sinéad gurgled again and Sandra leaned over.

“She’s a lovely child,” Banks said.

Sandra didn’t look at him. “Yes.”

“Well behaved.”

“Yes.” Sandra glanced over at her house. “Look, I’d better go,” she said. “It’s nearly Sinéad’s feeding time and…” She held her hand out. “I think it’s starting to rain.”

Banks nodded. “Good-bye, then.”

Sandra stood up. “Good bye,” she said. “And take care of yourself, Alan.”

Banks watched her push the pram down the path as it started to drizzle. She didn’t look back.