Playing With Fire

Chapter 16

“Mark,” said Banks, “we must stop meeting like this.”

Mark Siddons grunted and sat down.

“How are you feeling?” Banks asked.

“I’m all right. A bit tired. And my head feels like it’s stuffed full of wet cotton wool.”

“Must be the tranquilizer the doctor gave you last night. Are you ready to talk?” Banks and Bridges had already agreed that Banks would do most of the questioning, as he had interviewed Mark before and knew the terrain.

“If you like. Can I have some water first?”

Banks asked the constable waiting outside the door, who brought in a jug and three glasses. Mark filled his, but Bridges took nothing and Banks stuck with coffee.

“Are you going to charge me?” Mark asked.

“What with?”

“Breaking and entering.”

Banks looked at DI Bridges. “That depends,” Bridges said.

“What on?”

“On how cooperative you are.”

“Look, Mark,” Banks said, “we know it was you who put out the fire and you who rang the police and the fire brigade and waited with Mrs. Aspern until they arrived. All that will work in your favor. You’re not being charged with anything just at the moment, but you’d better tell us exactly what went on. Okay?”

“Can I have a smoke?”

Smoking wasn’t allowed in the police station anymore, but Bridges took out a packet of Silk Cut and offered Mark one. He also lit one himself. Banks felt no craving at all, just a slight wave of nausea when he smelled the smoke. Mostly, he was trying to put what he had just heard from Dirty Dick Burgess out of his mind. And its implications for Annie. For the time being, at any rate. He had got the London address of Keane and his wife, Helen, and checked train times from Leeds. After he’d finished with Mark, he’d head straight down to London on an early-afternoon train and talk to her, get things sorted. But until then, he had Mark Siddons and Frances Aspern to occupy his mind.

“There is one question I’d like answered before we start,” Bridges asked.

“What?” said Mark.

“The burglar alarm. How did you disable it?”

Mark told them about the scheme Tina had come up with, and how he had memorized the code.

“All right,” said Bridges, looking over at Banks. “Your turn.”

“What time did you get to the Asperns’ house?” Banks asked.

“I don’t know. It was late, though. After closing time. I came out of the pub and put it off for a while, just walking around, then I went there.”

“Put what off?”

“I don’t know. All I know is that I was going the wrong way, and it didn’t make sense anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“Scarborough and all that. That was why all those things happened. The bloke in the car. Those plainclothes cops on the seafront. Because I was going the wrong way. It was Adel I had to go to, not Scarborough. I couldn’t get on with my life until I’d faced them.”

“What happened with the bloke in the car?” Banks asked.

“Nothing,” said Mark. “He… you know, he tried to proposition me. I said, like, no way, and he just stopped the car and made me get out.”

Banks didn’t believe him. There was the matter of the mysterious two hundred pounds, for a start, but he let it go. Either Mark had capitulated and earned the money with his body, or he had stolen it. Either way, no accusations had been made against anyone, as far as he knew, so best let it lie. “What were you going to do in Adel?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I didn’t have a plan.”

“So what did you do?”

“I had a bit too much to drink in that big pub on the main road, to get my bottle up, I suppose. Anyway, like I said, I just got into the house. They were in bed. I walked around a bit, wondering what the hell I was going to do now I was there. I mean, was I supposed to go upstairs and strangle the bastard, or what? I found a bottle of something, brandy, I think, and I took a few swigs of that, just sitting in the kitchen in the dark, thinking. Or trying to. I didn’t even hear him coming.”

“What happened next?”

“I don’t know. I felt this sharp pain on the side of my head and everything went black.”

“And when you came round?”

Mark paused and stubbed out his cigarette. He looked over at DI Bridges, who sighed and pushed the packet toward him. Mark fidgeted with the packet but didn’t open it immediately. “I was in the surgery, wasn’t I? All the lights were on, and he was there, standing over me with that evil fucking smile on his face.”

“Patrick Aspern?”

“Who else?”

“What was he doing?”

“Filling a syringe with morphine. He had me tied to the chair so I couldn’t move my arms, and he’d shoved some sort of cotton-wool gag in my mouth so I couldn’t scream out.”

“How do you know it was morphine?”

“He told me. That was all part of the fun for him. He wanted me to know what was going to happen to me, to be scared thinking about it for as long as he could draw it out.”

“What else did he say?”

“He said he was soon going to inject me with a fatal dose of morphine, that it was more than a piece of scum like me deserved, because it was quick and merciful, and if he had his way he’d make me suffer for much longer.” Mark glanced at Banks. “He was enjoying himself, you know. The power. Enjoying every minute of it.”

“I believe you, Mark.”

“He said the thought of me in bed with his daughter disgusted him, that she was a no-good ungrateful slut who deserved to die for betraying him like that, and now I was going to die, too.”

“He referred to Tina as his daughter?”

“Yes.”

“Did he say anything about being responsible for her death?”

“He didn’t say he killed her, if that’s what you mean.”

“Did he mention his wife?”

“No.”

“All right. Go on.”

“He said nobody would shed any tears about a piece of junkie filth like me being found dead of an overdose in a back alley somewhere, which is exactly where he was going to dump me.”

“What happened next?”

Mark lit his second cigarette and looked away. His voice became quieter. “I could see her standing behind him, in the doorway. Just standing there. Watching. Listening. He didn’t know she was there, but I could see her.”

“Mrs. Aspern?”

“Yes. At least, I guessed that’s who it was.”

“You’d never seen her before?”

“No, never.”

“Not around the boat or anything? She’d never come to visit Tina?”

“No. I’m not even sure she knew where the boat was.”

“Carry on.”

Mark swallowed, took a sip of water and went on. “He said… hestarted talking about the things he did to her, to Tina, you know, and how much she loved it when he touched her and put himself inside her and all the things she did to him. He was making me crazy, but I couldn’t break free. I couldn’t yell out and make him stop. And I could see her behind him all the time, her face just going paler and paler. It was sickening, what he said. I mean, I know Tina told me he’d abused her, but she… I mean, the details. He had to go into every little detail. She never told me all that… all that stuff he said, what he did. I wanted to shut my ears, but you can’t, can you? And all the time he was doing it, he had this strange sort of distant smile on his face, and he was fiddling with the syringe, giving a little squirt, like they do on television.”

“What did Mrs. Aspern do?”

“The next thing I knew, she was holding the shotgun – he’d left it in the doorway – and she told him to leave me alone, that I hadn’t done anything.”

“What did he say to that?”

“He turned to her and he laughed. He just laughed.”

“Is that when she fired?”

“No. He started telling her to put the gun down, the way you’d talk to a child, said that she hadn’t the courage to pull the trigger, just like she hadn’t had the courage to stand up for her daughter, that she was weak and cowardly. Then he started moving toward her with his hands out, like he expected her to hand him the gun. Then it just exploded.”

“She fired?”

“It was deafening. My ears are still ringing, but I was tied up, so there was no way I could have covered them up.” He shook his head and rubbed his face with his hands. “It was… I was covered in stuff, blood and stuff… I don’t know… It was just like he’d burst open, you know, a bagful of blood, like those water balloons you burst, and it went all over the place, all over me. The smell was awful. I closed my eyes, but I couldn’t close my nose any more than I could my ears. Gunpowder. And his insides. Shit and stuff. I had bits of him all over me. Slimy bits.” Mark shuddered and finished his water. He refilled his glass with a shaking hand.

“What happened next, Mark?”

Mark took a deep drag on his cigarette. “She cut me free with some scissors or something and just told me to leave.”

“She didn’t say anything else?”

“No. Just to leave. Then she took that stuff they put on you before they stick the needle in. You know what I mean. He had it on his desk, though I don’t think he was going to use it on me.” Mark gave a harsh laugh. “I mean, what would it matter if I got an infection when he was going to kill me anyway? I was backing out of the room, and she was pouring the stuff on the floor. You could smell that, too, some sort of surgical spirit, along with everything else. I was feeling pretty sick by then. Anyway, I saw a small fire extinguisher in the hall and I took it. She’d already started the fire by the time I got back, but it wasn’t a very big one. Just a small patch where she’d poured the spirits. It was easy to put out.”

“What was Mrs. Aspern doing while you put the fire out?”

“Nothing. She didn’t even try to stop me, if that’s what you mean. To be honest, she looked as if she’d had it, like she’d given up and didn’t care anymore. When I was sure it was out, I took her into the other room and she went with me, quiet as a lamb, like she was in a trance or something. I rang nine-nine-nine.”

Banks and Bridges said nothing for a while as Mark smoked and the tape recorder ran on. Finally, Banks asked, “Is there anything else?”

“No,” said Mark.

Bridges turned off the tapes.

“What are you going to do now?” Banks asked Mark.

“Are you charging me?”

Banks looked at Bridges, who shook his head. “I don’t think the CPS would find much of a case there,” he said. “You’re free to go. But you’re an important witness, and the CPS will want to talk to you, as well as Mrs. Aspern’s lawyers. Whatever you do, you need to stay close, stay available, make sure we know where you are.”

Mark nodded. “I know. I’ve still got some money left. I suppose I can buy myself some new clothes and find a place to stay for a while.”

“Why don’t you come back to Eastvale? Give my contact on the restoration project a call? He’s always looking for keen apprentices.”

“Dunno. I might do. To be honest, right now, I just want a bit of space, some peace and quiet. I want to try and get all these horrible pictures out of my head.”

Good luck, thought Banks, who hadn’t succeeded in getting the nightmare images out of his own head after years of trying.

Leslie Whitaker seemed to have done a runner. His shop was closed, and he wasn’t at his Lyndgarth home. Cursing herself for not keeping a closer eye on him, Annie set the wheels in motion to track him down.

They had at least been lucky with Friends Reunited, Annie thought, pulling up outside the small detached house with Winsome late that afternoon. Elaine Hough lived on the outskirts of Harrogate, where she worked as an executive chef in one of the spa’s best restaurants. Elaine wasn’t the only one to reply to Winsome’s request, saying she remembered both Thomas McMahon and Roland Gardiner – two others out of the 115 alumni registered at the Friends Reunited Web site had also responded quickly and said they remembered the two – but she was by far the most easily accessible of the three – one being in Eastbourne and the other in Aberdeen – and she also said that Gardiner and McMahon had been good friends of hers.

Elaine Hough seemed a no-nonsense sort of woman with a brisk manner and short black hair streaked with gray. If she ate what she cooked, she didn’t show it on her tall, lean frame.

“Come in,” she said. Annie and Winsome followed her through to the sparsely decorated living room, all exposed beams and stone and heavy oak furniture.

“Nice,” Annie said. But if truth be told, it wasn’t her favorite style of interior decoration.

“I’m glad you like it. It’s more a reflection of my husband’s taste, really. I spend most of the time in my little den when I’m at home.”

“Not in the kitchen?”

Elaine laughed. “Well, it’s true, I still do love cooking, and I don’t get much of a chance to do any at the restaurant anymore. It’s the old, old story, isn’t it? You work your way up in an area you love, and then you find you’re so successful you spend all your time running the business side, and you don’t have time to do what you love best anymore.” She laughed. “But I can’t complain. And I don’t. I know how lucky I am. Would you like tea or coffee or something?”

“Coffee would be nice,” said Annie. Winsome nodded in agreement.

“Come through to the kitchen, then. We can talk there.”

They followed her into a modern kitchen with stainless steel oven and fridge, copper pots and pans hanging from a rail over the central granite-topped island, and a wood-block of expensive-looking chef’s knives. Annie had sometimes thought that she would like such a well-stocked and attractive kitchen herself, but her cooking skills extended about as far as vegetarian pasta and ordering an Indian take-away, so most of the fancy equipment would be wasted on her.

Elaine put the kettle on, and while it boiled, she ground coffee beans and dropped them in a cafetière. The aroma was delicious. All her movements were economical and deft, Annie noticed, betraying her occupation and her training. Even something as simple as making coffee got her full attention. She probably even knew how to chop up a string of onions quickly, and without crying, too.

They sat on stools around the island while the coffee brewed and Annie went through her mental list of questions.

“You said you knew both Thomas McMahon and Roland Gardiner at Leeds Poly?” she started.

“Yes.”

“Did you know them together, or separately?”

“Both, actually. Look, I was in the School of Cookery – surprise, surprise – but four evenings a week I worked behind the bar in the student pub. My parents weren’t well off and my grant wasn’t exactly huge. At least we still got grants back then, not loans, like today. Anyway, that’s where I first met Tommy and Rolo. That’s what we called them back then. I was so sorry to read about what happened, but I couldn’t see how it could be at all relevant to me until your e-mail. Otherwise, I’d have come forward sooner.”

“That’s all right,” said Annie. “How were you to know what we were looking for? Anyway, we’re here now.”

“Yes.” Elaine poured the coffee. Winsome asked for milk and sugar while Annie and Elaine took theirs black. “Actually,” she said, “I went out with Rolo a few times. Just casual, like. Nothing too heavy.”

“What was he like?”

“Rolo? Well, I heard he was living alone in a caravan when he died – very sad – but back then he seemed ambitious, bright, ready to take on the world. I remember we all used to get into a lot of arguments because Rolo was a Thatcherite and the rest of us were wishy-washy liberals.” She laughed. “But he was fun, and intelligent. What can I say? We got along fine.”

“Even after you split up?”

“We remained friends. It wasn’t a serious relationship. You know what it’s like when you’re a student. You experiment, go out with different people.”

“Did you go out with Thomas McMahon, too?”

“Tommy? No. Not that he wasn’t attractive, or that he had any shortage of admirers. We just… I don’t know, we just didn’t hit it off on that level. Besides,” she added, “you may have noticed I’m a bit taller than the average woman, and Tommy was short. Not that I’ve got anything against short men, you understand, but it’s always been, well… just that little bit awkward. Even Rolo was only just about the same height as me.”

“I understand what you mean,” said Winsome, looking up from her notebook and smiling.

“Yes, I’ll bet you do,” Elaine said.

Annie sipped her coffee. It was still hot enough to burn her tongue, but it tasted as wonderful as the ground beans had smelled. “So Tommy and Rolo were good friends?” she went on.

“Yes. They met in the pub, liked the same music, and even though he was studying business, Rolo was no slouch when it came to the arts. I think he liked hanging around with the artsy crowd. He said more than once that most of his fellow business students were boring. I remember, he used to write. Stories, poetry… His poems were quite good. What he showed me, anyway. Not your usual adolescent rubbish. Thoughtful. Some of them even rhymed. And he was well-read.”

“So they weren’t such odd bedfellows?”

“No, not at all.”

“Did you ever know anyone back then by the name of Masefield? William Masefield?”

“No. I can’t say I did. Why?”

“Doesn’t matter. What about a Leslie Whitaker?”

“Can’t say that rings a bell, either.”

“Was there anyone else?”

“What do you mean?”

“Was it just the two of them hung out together, or were they part of a larger group?”

“Oh, I see what you mean. Well, there used to be quite a few of them sat in the back corner. Mostly art students, and a few guests from outside. But it was the three of them stuck together most of all.”

“Three of them?”

“Yes. Rolo, Tommy and Giles.”

“Who was Giles?”

Elaine smiled and, to Annie’s eyes, even seemed to blush a little at the memory. “Giles was my boyfriend. My real boyfriend. For the second year, at any rate.”

“And he was a friend of Tommy’s and Rolo’s?”

“Yes. Thick as thieves, they were.”

“This Giles, what college was he attached to?”

“He wasn’t. Giles went to the uni, Leeds University.”

“To study what?”

“Art history.”

That was interesting, Annie thought. “He wasn’t a painter or a sculptor?”

“No.” Elaine laughed. “He said he had no talent for it, but he loved it. The same with music. He liked to listen – classical mostly, but he did often come to see bands with us – although he couldn’t play an instrument.”

“How did he know Rolo and Tommy?”

“I don’t know. They probably got talking in one of those pubs on Woodhouse Lane near the campus. The three of them just came as a package.”

“And you say you went out with Giles?”

“For a year, yes. My second year.”

“Serious?”

Elaine looked down into her coffee cup. “Yes, I suppose so. For me. At least, that was what I thought at the time. Young love. It’s all so long ago. It feels strange to be thinking back after all this time, all that’s happened since.”

“What happened to Giles?”

“He vanished.”

“Vanished?”

“Just like that. I don’t mean he was abducted or anything. At least I don’t think he was. He just disappeared as quickly as he’d arrived on the scene.”

“Had he finished his degree?”

“No, that was the funny thing. It was only the end of his second year. He never came back.”

“What did you do?”

“I tried to find out about him from the department, but they wouldn’t tell me anything, of course.”

“Did you have a row or something?”

“No. Honestly. He just… One day he was there, and everything was fine, but the next day he was gone. Maybe not quite like that. I mean, we were all away for the holidays, but he just didn’t come back. Not a trace. It was sad… I mean, I don’t know if you’ve ever experienced this, but he was one of those people who leaves a big hole in your life when he goes.” She laughed. “Listen to me. Aren’t I being silly? Anyway, I suppose what I’m saying is that I was a little bit in love with him.”

“Can you tell me anything more about him?”

“Not really. He was a bit of a dark horse. That’s probably one of the other things that was so exciting about him. The mysterious quality. But he was great fun to be around. And generous. He always seemed to have plenty of money.”

“Do you know where he got it from?”

“His parents were wealthy. His father had something to do with defense work, government contracts. Knew Maggie Thatcher personally, apparently. If you ask me, I think he was an arms dealer. Come to think of it, Giles was a lot closer to Rolo in his political ideas than any of the rest of us. And his mother was related to the Duke of Devonshire. Only distantly, mind. Anyway, they had a big old family mansion house outside King’s Lynn.”

“Did you ever go there?”

“No. Not inside, at any rate. Giles drove me past it once, perhaps because I nagged him about it so much. But we didn’t go in. He said his parents were away in Italy and the place was locked up. Very Brideshead Revisited.”

“He didn’t have a key?”

“Apparently not. They had to give him money, he said – it was some sort of inheritance or trust fund, and it belonged to him – but they didn’t actually get on. They weren’t on speaking terms.”

“Did you ever try to get in touch with them after he’d disappeared?”

“No. After a while I just gave up and got on with life. You know what it’s like when you’re young. A broken heart feels like it’ll never mend for at least a couple of weeks. You pull out all your sad, romantic records and indulge in a bit of tearful melancholy for a while, maybe go out, get rat-arsed and fuck a stranger, then you move on. Pardon my language.”

“I remember. Neil Trethowan.”

“Sorry?”

“The one who first broke my heart. Neil Trethowan was his name.”

“Yes. Well, Giles… It was so long ago, but now you’ve got me talking about it, it seems just like yesterday. Some of it, anyway.”

“Did you ever see him or hear from him again?”

“No.”

“Do you know ifTommy and Rolo kept in touch with him?”

“If they did, they didn’t tell me. We all lost touch when we graduated, of course, as you do, though we had every good intention.”

“What was his last name?”

“Moore. Giles Moore.”

With the name and some of the details Elaine had given them, they would be able to dig a little deeper into the background of this enigmatic Giles Moore, Annie thought, perhaps even locate him. Of course, he might have had nothing to do with recent events, but at least he sounded a promising start. They were looking for someone who was linked with both Thomas McMahon and Roland Gardiner when they were at Leeds Polytechnic, and it looked as if they’d found that someone.

“Do you have any photographs?” Annie asked.

“No. They disappeared after one of my many moves.”

“Pity,” said Annie. “This might sound like a strange question, but was there ever any connection between Giles or the rest of you and a fire?”

Elaine frowned. “A fire? No, not that I remember. I mean, I’m sure there were fires in the city, but none of them concerned us. Surely you can’t think Giles had anything to do with what happened to Tommy and Rolo? Not after all this time.”

“I’m not saying he did,” said Annie. “But don’t you think it’s a big coincidence that two men living about ten miles from one another, both killed in suspicious fires only days apart, happened to be at Leeds Polytechnic at the same time? I do. Not only that, but since we’ve talked to you, we now also know that they were close friends over twenty years ago. And then there’s this mysterious third: Giles Moore.”

“But Giles wouldn’t hurt anyone. Why would he do that?”

“Is there anything else you can tell us about him that might help us find him?”

“No,” said Elaine. Annie could sense her closing down. She didn’t like the idea of her old lover being in the frame for a double murder. Annie didn’t blame her; she wouldn’t feel too good about it, either.

“What did he look like?”

“He was very good-looking. A bit taller than me, slim. Wavy hair, a bit long. Chestnut. But that was years ago.”

“How old was he at the time?”

“Twenty-one, a couple of years older than the rest of us.”

“Any distinguishing marks?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like birthmarks, scars, that sort of thing.”

“No,” said Elaine. “His skin was smooth, without a blemish.” She blushed at the memory. “Apart from an appendectomy scar.”

“Any regional accent?”

“No. A bit posh, maybe, but not too much. Educated, upper-class. Just like you’d expect, coming from the background he did.”

“Smoker? Drinker?”

“He smoked. We all did back then. I mean, it’s not as if we didn’t know what it did to you – it was 1980, after all – but we were young, we felt invulnerable. I stopped ten years ago. As for the drinking, we all did.”

“To excess?”

“Giles? Not really, no.”

“Was there anyone else on the scene you think we might be able to locate and talk to?”

“It was so long ago. I’ve lost touch with all of them. Can’t even remember most of their names. You do lose touch, don’t you? Move away, get married, have kids or concentrate on your career.”

Annie realized that even though she was younger than Elaine, and not so distant from her past, she didn’t know a soul she went to school or university with, hadn’t kept in touch at all. Still, given the police life, the frequent relocations, the unreasonable hours, it was hardly surprising. Apart from Phil, the only friends she had were colleagues from work, the only social life an occasional drink with Banks or someone else in the Queen’s Arms. “Do you have any ideas who might have done this to Tommy and Rolo?”

“Me? Good Lord, no. I just don’t believe Giles had anything to do with it.”

Annie gestured to Winsome, who put away her notebook. She hoped Elaine was right, though perhaps a part of her also hoped that they could track down this Giles Moore and prove that he was the one who did it. At least then the case would be solved and a murderer would be off the streets. In the meantime, it was time to see if any progress had been made on tracking down Leslie Whitaker.

As Banks walked out of the underground station on to Holland Park Avenue, he was grateful for yet another mild evening after the previous night’s cold snap, and thankful that he had been in Leeds when he got Burgess’s message. He was also lucky that both the trains and the tube were running on time that day. As a result, it was a little over two and a half hours since his train had pulled out of Leeds City Station, and now he was heading for Helen Keane’s flat – the one she shared with her art researcher husband, Phil (now short for “philanderer” in Banks’s mind) Keane – in one of the residential streets across the main road, overlooking the park itself. Maybe it wasn’t Mayfair or Belgravia, but you didn’t live around here if you couldn’t afford the high rents.

Banks didn’t know what to expect when he pressed the buzzer. For obvious reasons, he hadn’t rung ahead, so he didn’t even know if Keane himself would be there. He hoped not, but it didn’t really matter. He needed to know what the hell was going on. It wasn’t just a question of Annie’s feelings being hurt, but of someone being not exactly the sort of person he presented himself as. It probably meant nothing, but coming hot on the heels of the lie about not knowing McMahon, Banks wanted some answers.

A cautious voice came over the intercom. “Yes?”

Banks introduced himself and said he wanted to speak to Helen Keane. Naturally, she was suspicious and nervous – people always are when the police come to call – but he managed to convince her that it was information he wanted, nothing more. She agreed to let him in but said she would keep her chain on until she had seen his identification. Fair enough, Banks thought, climbing the plushly carpeted stairs. Foyers, halls and stairs said a lot about the quality, and cost, of the place you were visiting, Banks always thought, the way bath towels and toilet paper said a lot about the hotel you were staying in.

As promised, she kept the chain on while she examined his warrant card, then she let him in.

The flat was an interior designer’s paradise, all sharp angles and reflective surfaces, colors named after rare plants and southwest American states. There was no clutter. The stereo was state-of-the-art, brushed steel, hanging on the wall next to the large plasma wide-screen TV, and if the Keanes owned any books or CDs, they were stored elsewhere or hidden well out of sight. A couple of artfully placed art and design magazines were the only reading materials in plain view. At the far end of the high-ceilinged room stood a narrow black chair with a fan-shaped back. When he looked more closely, Banks couldn’t be sure whether it was a chair or a work of art. At any rate, he wouldn’t want to try sitting on it.

The woman who came with the flat was every bit as much of an expensive package and a designer’s wet dream – beautiful, chic, petite, dark-haired, thirty at most, with intense blue eyes and a pale, flawless complexion. She was wearing ivory silk combats, high-heeled sandals and a delicate lace top that didn’t quite obscure her skimpy black bra.

She bade Banks sit on the modular sofa and sat opposite, on a matching armchair, the color of which Banks couldn’t name. Pink, or coral, came closest, but even they were a long way off.

“It’s all right, Mrs. Keane,” said Banks. “There’s no need to be nervous. As far as I know, nobody’s done anything criminal. I’d just like a bit of background information, if you don’t mind.”

“About what?”

“Your husband.”

She seemed to relax a bit at that. “Philip? What about him? I’m afraid I don’t know where he is right now.”

Banks noticed a trace of an accent. It sounded vaguely Eastern European to his untrained ear. “How long have you been married?” he asked.

“Three years now.”

“How did you meet?”

“At a club.”

“Where?”

“In the West End. I was working there. It was a gambling club. A casino. Philip used to come there to play cards. We talked once… he asked me to dinner… you know…”

“Where are you from?” Banks asked.

“Where from?”

“Yes. Your accent.”

“Ah. Kosovo,” she said. “But everything is legal.”

“Because of the marriage?”

“Yes. I have a British passport now. Everything is legal. Philip did that for me.”

“But when you met?”

She smiled. “You know… I was Jelena Pavelich then, just another poor refugee from a war-torn country trying to make a simple living.” She gestured around the room. “Now I am Helen Keane.”

“It’s a nice flat,” Banks said.

“Thank you. I designed it myself.”

“Is that what you did? In Kosovo?”

“No. I studied at university there. Languages. To be a translator. Then the fighting came. My parents were killed. I had to leave.”

“How did you escape?”

“People helped me. It was a long journey. One I want to forget. I saw many terrible things. I had to do many bad things. But you said you wanted to know about Philip?”

“Yes,” said Banks. “Do you know what he was doing before you met?”

“He said he was working abroad. In galleries and museums, in Italy, Spain, Russia, America. Philip is very clever. He has traveled all over the world.”

“Yes, I know that,” said Banks.

Helen’s eyes narrowed as she studied him. “Has he taken your girlfriend? Is that why you want to ask me about him?”

Banks felt himself blush. “Why do you say that?”

She smiled the way women do when they think they’ve gained the upper edge, put their finger on your weakness. “Because Philip is a very attractive man, no?”

“I suppose so,” said Banks. “But what makes you think he would have another woman? Has he been unfaithful before?”

She laughed. It was a deep, hoarse, almost crude kind of laugh, not at all the sort of sound he would have expected from such an exquisitely petite woman, but more like the way you’d laugh at a dirty joke in a smoky pub. Banks liked it. It made her seem more human to him, less of an ethereal beauty. “Philip always has other women,” she said.

“And it doesn’t bother you?”

She made a little moue, then answered, “Ours is not that kind of marriage. We do what we want.”

“Why stay together, then?”

“Because we like one another. We are friends. And because, well…”

“Go on.”

She looked around the flat and ran her hand over her lace top, all the way down over the rise and fall of her small breasts. “I like nice things. Do you not think I’m pretty?”

“Very.”

“I think for Philip I am a business asset also, no? He likes to be seen with his pretty young wife on his arm. All his friends and colleagues envy him. They all want to go to bed with me. I can tell by the way they look at me.”

“And Philip enjoys that?”

“Yes. We go to openings and dinners and galas together. All sorts of official functions with many important people. And all of them look at me the same way. Young men. Old men. Some wives. It is good to be married when you have a business, yes?”

Banks agreed that it was. For some reason, marriage gave the semblance of both conservatism and stability that people require from a business. Potential clients were much more inclined to be suspicious of a bachelor of Phil’s or Banks’s age than they were of a married man. And the fact that his wife was a mysterious Eastern European beauty would certainly do no harm in the circles he moved in. If anything, it might make him seem a little more daring than most. Not too much, but just enough of a risk-taker to be worth running with.

Yes, if Phil Keane wanted everyone to think he was a traditional, solid and dependable sort of fellow, he could do a lot worse than step out with Helen on his arm. And for her part, she had already indicated that she loved the trappings of wealth, the opulent lifestyle. Perhaps she had lovers, too? It seemed to be an open sort of marriage, according to what she had said, so no doubt she had plenty of freedom. Banks felt a little uncomfortable now as his eyes strayed to the outline of her skimpy bra under the lace top, and the exposed black strap against her pale shoulder. He found himself wondering just how much Phil Keane’s lifestyle cost him, and whether ArtSearch made enough to support it.

“Did your husband ever mention a man called Thomas McMahon, an artist he knew?”

“No.”

“You never met anyone called Thomas McMahon?”

“No.”

“What about William Masefield?”

“No.”

“Leslie Whitaker?”

“I haven’t heard the name. But Philip never talks about his friends. If he’s not here, then I have no idea where he is or what he’s doing.”

“Does he have many close friends?”

“Close friends? I don’t think so. Mostly it is work.”

“You mean colleagues he’s met through work, in the art field?”

“Yes.”

“Does he have any partners, anyone he works closely with?”

“No. He says he doesn’t trust other people. They only mess things up. If he wants to do something, he does it himself.”

“Does Philip ever take you to the family cottage in Fortford?”

“What family cottage?”

“Apparently it belonged to his grandparents. In Yorkshire. He inherited it.”

“I know nothing about any grandparents. All Philip told me about his family is that his father was a diplomat and they were always moving from one country to another when he was young. Where did you hear about these grandparents? Who told you?”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Banks. “Did you ever meet his parents?”

“They’re dead. They were killed in a plane crash ten years ago, before we met.”

“And he never said anything about owning property in Yorkshire?”

“Never. Whenever we go away we go to California or the Bahamas. But never to Yorkshire.” She hugged herself and gave a little shiver. “It is cold there, no?”

“Sometimes,” Banks said.

“I love the sun.”

“Helen,” said Banks, mostly out of exasperation, “do you know anything about your husband?”

She laughed again, that deep, throaty sound, then spread her hands as if to display her body. “I know he likes the good things in life,” she said, without a hint of false modesty.

Banks realized there was nothing more to be learned from her, so he said his good-byes and made a speedy exit, more confused than when he had first arrived.