Playing With Fire

Chapter 17

After a good night’s sleep and a morning spent catching up with the previous day’s developments – especially Elaine Hough’s statement and the candle wax found in Roland Gardiner’s caravan – Banks asked Annie if she fancied a cup of tea and a toasted tea cake at the Golden Grill, just across from the station. He needed to build a few bridges if they were to continue working together.

He’d been struggling with the dilemma that Helen Keane posed all the way home on the train from London the previous evening, and all that morning, and he still hadn’t come to any firm decision. Maybe he’d probe Annie a bit, find out how she really felt about Phil. It wasn’t fair to charge right in, he realized, and tell her outright. Especially as Keane’s marriage was definitely the unusual kind. On the other hand, he was concerned about her feelings, and he didn’t want her getting in too deep with Keane before she found out he was married. Still, he could only imagine how his news would be received, especially as their relationship was hardly on firm ground at the moment.

The bell over the door pinged as they entered. The place was half empty and they had their pick of tables. Banks immediately headed for the most isolated. As soon as they were settled with a pot of tea and tea cakes, Banks stirred his tea, though there was nothing added to it, and said, “Look, Annie, I’d just like to say that I’m sorry. I was out of line the other day. About bringing Phil in. Of course it made sense. I was just…”

“Jealous?”

“Not in the real sense of the word, no. It just feels awkward, that’s all.”

“He thinks you don’t like him.”

“Can’t say I have an opinion one way or another. I’ve only met him a couple of times.”

“Oh, come on, Alan.”

“Really. He seems fine. But when it comes down to it, how much do you know about him?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean about his background, his past, his family. Has he ever been married, for example?”

“Not that he’s mentioned to me. And I don’t think he has. That’s one of the refreshing things about him.”

The remark stung Banks, as he thought it was intended to. His failed marriage and the baggage thereof had been a constant bone of contention in his relationship with Annie. The wise thing to do would be to move on, not to retaliate with what he had learned from Dirty Dick Burgess. He teetered on the brink for a moment, then asked, “Anything new this morning?”

“Not a lot,” said Annie. “Winsome’s been looking into William Masefield’s background and come up with one piece of interesting information: He attended Leeds University, and he was there at the same time as McMahon and Gardiner were enrolled at the Poly. From 1978 to 1981. There’s no evidence that they knew one another, however, and Elaine Hough says she’d never heard of him.”

“Pity,” said Banks. “Still, it does give us a tenuous link. Wasn’t Giles Moore at the university?”

“That’s another thing. I checked with the university this morning, and they say there’s no record of him ever being there.”

“Interesting,” said Banks. “Maybe he didn’t get accepted, felt he needed to impress people.”

“Even so,” said Annie. “It’s a pretty odd thing to do, isn’t it?”

“He sounds like an odd person altogether,” Banks agreed. “Which gives us all the more reason to be interested in him. He’s got to be somewhere. He can’t just have vanished into thin air.”

“We’re looking,” said Annie. “The only problem is that we’re running out of places to look. As far as we can tell so far, there aren’t any Moores living in mansions near King’s Lynn. We haven’t actually asked Maggie Thatcher or the Duke of Devonshire whether they knew a Giles Moore yet, but it may come to that.”

Banks laughed. “So he’s a liar, then?”

“So it would seem.”

“What we need to do,” Banks said, “is have the Hough woman look at a photograph of Whitaker. I know it was a long time ago, but she may still recognize something about him.” And a photo of Phil Keane, too, if he could get his hands on one, Banks added to himself. “I seem to remember there was a framed photo on the desk in the bookshop. As he’s missing, and people have been dying, I suppose it’s reasonable for us to enter the premises, wouldn’t you say? I mean, he could be lying dead in the back room soaked in petrol, with a six-hour candle slowly burning down beside him, for all we know.”

“Good idea,” said Annie. “I’ll get on to it. What’s going to happen with the Aspern woman?”

“Frances?” Banks shook his head. “I don’t know. From what Mark Siddons told us, she might have a damn good case for pleading provocation.”

“What about diminished responsibility?”

“I’d leave that one to the experts. She needs psychiatric help, no doubt about it. She’s not clinically insane – at least not in my layman’s opinion – but she’s confused and disturbed. I think she just couldn’t accept that her husband was sexually abusing his own daughter the same way he’d sexually abused her. It was easier in her mind to embrace the lie they’d lived right from the start – from when he first got her pregnant – that this fictitious American, Paul Ryder, was the father, and that Patrick was Tina’s stepfather. Maybe sometimes she actually believed it. It’s a thin line.”

“It certainly is,” Annie agreed. “I suppose this knocks both her and her husband off the list of suspects?”

“Yes,” said Banks.

“And how seriously are we taking Andrew Hurst and Mark Siddons?”

“Not very. Hurst’s weird. I mean, if it turns out that the art forgery angle’s a blind alley and the fires were set by some nutter who just likes to set fires, then I’d look closely at him again. But he’s got no connection with McMahon, Gardiner and the rest. Neither does Mark Siddons, except that he happened to be a neighbor of McMahon’s. Mark has his problems, but I don’t think arson is one of them. Besides, he has a good alibi. You said so yourself.”

“I could talk to Mandy Patterson again. Go in a bit harder.”

“No,” said Banks. “What could she possibly gain by giving Mark Siddons an alibi for murder? If Mark had wanted rid of Tina, there were far easier and more reliable ways of doing it than fixing himself up with a dodgy alibi and setting fire to Thomas McMahon’s boat.”

“Which brings us back to Leslie Whitaker,” said Annie.

“What’s his educational background?”

“He attended Strathclyde University from 1980 to 1983. Unfortunately, there’s no evidence that links him to either Gardiner or Masefield, but we’re still looking. And the way he’s taken off certainly makes him seem more suspicious. That and some of his recent financial idiosyncrasies. According to the auditor, his business books are a bit of a mess, to say the least.”

“I suppose if he was involved in some sort of scam with McMahon, he had to hide the profits somehow. Tell me your thoughts, Annie.”

“McMahon was known to be a good imitator, and he gained access to period materials through Whitaker’s bookshop, and no doubt from other sources. Maybe Whitaker, Moore, or whoever set it up, enlisted his old buddies to help him in a forgery scam and they fell out?”

“Okay,” said Banks. “That makes sense up to a point. But what parts did Gardiner and Masefield play?”

“Masefield provided the identity for the killer to remain anonymous in his dealings with McMahon,” said Annie. “Whenever they met, he hired a Jeep Cherokee in Masefield’s name, no doubt so we wouldn’t be able to trace him. Remember, when Masefield died, or was killed, our man had his post redirected to a post office box, used his bank accounts, paid his bills. Assumed his identity.”

“What about Gardiner?”

“I don’t know yet. But he must have played some part in it all. Don’t forget the Turners and the money we found in his safe. They can’t be just coincidence.”

“No. I haven’t forgotten them. But none of this gets us any closer to who that person actually is,” said Banks. “Even if it is Giles bloody Moore, he’s not going by that name now, and that name probably won’t lead us to him. He’s slippery. We’re dealing with a chameleon, Annie. A damn clever one, too. Did you find out anything else about Moore? Anything at all that might help us?”

“No,” said Annie. “Not yet. It’s a lot of legwork. And legwork takes time, and more legs than we’ve got right now.”

“I can talk to Red Ron about manpower.”

“Thanks,” said Annie. “I could do with a couple more good researchers, at least. But for the moment, my money’s still on Leslie Whitaker. Just because we haven’t been able to find a past connection between him and Gardiner doesn’t mean one doesn’t exist, or even that we need one. I mean, maybe McMahon himself is the link. Maybe Whitaker put the idea to McMahon and McMahon recruited Gardiner.”

“Maybe,” said Banks. “We’ll have to ask him when we find him.” He finished his tea and let the silence stretch a moment before asking, “How are you and Phil getting along, by the way?”

“Fine,” Annie said. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason. Where is he, anyway? I haven’t seen him for a couple of days.”

“He’s down in London dealing with the Turners. You know that. Why the sudden interest?”

“Nothing. Just wondering, that’s all.”

Annie looked him in the eye. “Phil’s right, isn’t he? What I said earlier. You denied it at the time, but you didn’t like him right from the start, did you? I mean, you never really gave him a chance, did you?”

“I told you, I’ve got nothing against him,” Banks said. But if truth be told, he had a very uneasy feeling about Phil Keane, like an itch he couldn’t quite scratch, and though he wouldn’t tell Annie this, he was going to keep on digging into the man’s background until he was satisfied one way or another. “I don’t want to start another argument, Annie,” Banks said. “I just asked you how you two were getting along.”

“Yes, but it’s not as simple as that, is it? It never is with you. I can tell from your tone of voice. There’s always another agenda. What is it? What do you know? What are you getting at?”

Banks spread his hands. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Is it jealousy? Is that what it is, Alan? Because, honestly, if it’s that, if that’s what it is, I’ll just get a fucking transfer out of here.”

Banks didn’t remember ever hearing Annie swear before, and it shocked him. “Look,” he said, “it’s not jealousy. Okay? I just don’t want to see you get hurt, that’s all.”

“Why should I get hurt? And who do you think you are? My big brother? I can take care of myself, thank you very much.”

And with that, Annie tossed her serviette on the remains of her toasted tea cake and strode out of the café. Was it Banks’s imagination, or did the bell ping just that little more loudly when she left?

Annie spent the rest of the day avoiding Banks. It wasn’t difficult; she had plenty more paperwork to hide behind, and she took Winsome along to Whitaker’s shop, which they entered through the backdoor, leaving no sign that they had been there, and borrowed the photograph. A quick trip to Harrogate didn’t provide the conclusive answers she had hoped for. It was over twenty years ago, after all, said Elaine Hough, and Whitaker’s chin and eyes were wrong. Even so, that didn’t let Whitaker off the hook for the fires as far as Annie was concerned.

Had she overreacted to Banks in the Golden Grill? She didn’t know. There had just been something about the way he kept on bringing up the subject of Phil that irritated her. Perhaps she should have let it go; after all, that would have been easy enough. But if she was going to carry on seeing Phil and working with Banks, then something would have to change, and it wasn’t going to be Annie.

Banks clearly had something on his mind, and she wished she knew what it was. Had he been investigating Phil behind her back? Had he found out something? If so, what? Annie dismissed her fears as absurd. If Banks had found any dirt on Phil, he would have made sure she was the first to know. Otherwise, what was the point? Except to hurt her. Lash out because of his jealousy.

But the suspicion and anxiety persisted throughout the day and made it hard for her to concentrate. Late in the afternoon, by which time Annie already knew she was going to be working late into the evening, the phone rang.

“Annie, it’s Phil here.”

“Well, hello. It’s nice to hear from you, stranger.”

“I just thought I’d let you know that the consensus of opinion is that the Turner sketches and watercolor are forgeries.”

If Annie was a bit disappointed that Phil was calling her on business, she tried not to let it show in her voice.

“Oh. Why’s that?” she asked.

“It’s nothing specific. Just a number of things adding up, or not adding up. Some of the scientific tests indicated the paper used was slightly later than the dates of the sketches. Then there’s the style. Little details. I told you Turner was hard to fake. When you add to that the lack of provenance, the loose sketches and the coincidence of these pieces turning up so quickly after the major find, then…”

“What about fingerprints? In the paint, I mean.”

“There were none. So no help there.”

“Would there have been if the painting were genuine?”

“Not necessarily.”

“Okay, Phil. Thanks,” said Annie. “Does this cast doubt on the other watercolor?”

“Not at all. We’ve got some provenance there, and the same tests didn’t turn out negative. I think that one was a genuine find. It must have given someone the idea of forging the other missing piece.”

“McMahon?”

“I’ve no idea who did it, but if you found it at the site of the caravan fire, and you’ve managed to link the two victims, yes, I’d say you’re probably on the right track. They must have hatched some harebrained get-rich-quick scheme. It’s quite possible to be a fine artist and pretty useless at almost everything else.”

“Tell me about it,” said Annie, thinking of her father. She had grown up surrounded by beards and endless arguments on Impressionism versus Cubism, Van Gogh versus Gauguin and the like. While Ray seemed reasonably well equipped to handle the real world, he could lose himself in his work for days on end and forget about petty irritations like bills and housecleaning.

“Anyway, that’s all I’ve got to say, for better or worse. I’ll get them packed and have them couriered back up to you. They’re worthless, but I suppose you might still need them as evidence?”

“Thanks,” said Annie.

“How are things up there?”

“Fine, I suppose.”

“Closing in for the kill?”

“Maybe,” Annie said. “Whitaker – you know, the bloke who supplied McMahon with the paper – he’s disappeared.”

“As in been killed?”

“No. As in legged it.”

“Oh, I see. Best of luck then.”

“Thanks.”

“What’s wrong? You sound a bit glum.”

“Oh, it’s nothing. I had a bit of a barney with Alan, DCI Banks, this morning. It’s left rather a bad taste in my mouth.”

“What about?”

“Nothing. That’s it. Just me being oversensitive. I wish the two of you could get on better.”

“Why, what’s he said about me?”

“Nothing. It’s just… I don’t know, Phil. It’s me. Don’t pay any attention.”

“Did he say anything about me?”

“No. He just asked about you, that’s all. See what I mean about being oversensitive?”

“I shouldn’t worry about it, then,” said Phil. “I’ve got nothing against him. I’ve only met the man the once, and you were there.”

“Like I said, Phil, it’s just me. Where are you? Will you be up tonight?”

“Afraid not. I’m still down in London. I’ll try to make it tomorrow or the next day, all right?”

“Okay. See you later, then.”

“See you.”

Annie put the phone down and looked at the piles of actions and statements on her desk. Well, at least it would keep her from thinking about Banks. And about Phil.

But before she could even pick up her pen, DC Templeton dashed into the squad room. “We’ve got him,” he said. “We’ve got Whitaker. He’s downstairs.”

“Well, Leslie,” said Banks. “It’s quite a merry dance you’ve led us, isn’t it?”

“I had no idea you’d been looking for me,” said Whitaker. “How could I?”

They were in the same interview room as last time, only today Whitaker was already wearing the disposable red overalls. He hadn’t been charged, but he had been arrested and read his rights, and the tape recorders were running. The duty solicitor, Gareth Bowen, sat beside him. Banks could still sense some tension between Annie and himself, but he knew that they were both professional enough to do their jobs, especially now they seemed close to the end. If they could break Whitaker, it would be drinks all around in the Queen’s Arms, and there was a good chance Banks would get to see Michelle this weekend.

“Where were you?” Banks asked.

“I needed to get away. I went to visit a friend in Newcastle.”

“Rather an opportune time to go away, wasn’t it?”

“As I said, I had no idea you would want to talk to me again.”

“Oh, I think you did, Leslie,” said Banks. “In fact, I’m sure you did.”

“Why don’t you tell us about it?” Annie said. “You’ll feel better if you do.”

Whitaker curled his lip. “Tell you about what?”

“About Thomas McMahon. Tommy. And about Roland Gardiner. Rolo. How long have you known them?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve already told you I saw Thomas McMahon in the shop from time to time, but I don’t know the other person you’re talking about.”

Banks sighed. “All right, we’ll do it the hard way.”

“Lay a finger on me and I’ll sue you.” Whitaker looked over to Bowen, who just rolled his eyes.

“What I meant,” said Banks, “is that I’m tired, DI Cabbot’s tired, and I’m sure you and Mr. Bowen are tired, too. But we’ll stay here as long as it takes to get the truth.” He glanced at Bowen. “With all requisite meal breaks and rest periods, as required by the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, of course.”

“I don’t have to tell you anything,” said Whitaker.

“No, you don’t,” Banks agreed. “In fact, if you remember that bit in the caution about later relying in court on something you didn’t say when we first asked you, you’ll understand exactly what it means not to have to tell us anything. But let me lay my cards on the table, Leslie. At the moment, you’re our main suspect in the murders of Thomas McMahon and Roland Gardiner.”

“But I told you, I was in Harrogate, at a dinner party. Surely you must have checked?”

“We checked.”

“And?”

“Everyone we talked to corroborates your statement. You were there.”

Whitaker folded his arms. “I told you so.”

“I wouldn’t look so smug if I were you, Leslie,” Banks went on. “We now have evidence to suggest that a timing device was used in Roland Gardiner’s caravan.”

“A timing device?”

“Yes. A candle. Crude but effective. It allowed the arsonist to prepare the fire scene but leave before the blaze started. A good couple of hours before. Easily. Wouldn’t you agree, DI Cabbot?”

“Yes,” said Annie, turning the pages of Stefan Nowak’s report. “Easily.”

“But do you have any evidence specifically to connect Mr. Whitaker to the scene?” Bowen asked. “All you’re saying is that anyone could have set that fire.”

“Have you ever heard of a man called William Masefield?” Banks asked Whitaker.

“No. Never.”

“All right. We’ll leave that for the moment. Did you or did you not supply period paper to Thomas McMahon?”

“He bought books and prints from me. It’s my business. It’s what I sell.”

“But did you sell them to him for the purpose of forging works of art?”

“Chief Inspector Banks,” Bowen cut in. “Mr. Whitaker can hardly be held responsible for what a client did after a purchase, or even know what he intended to do.”

“Perhaps in this case, he can,” said Banks. “If money was involved.”

Whitaker looked sheepish.

“Leslie?” Banks went on. “What’s it to be?”

“I told you,” Whitaker repeated. “I sold him what he wanted. It’s what you do when you’re in business.”

“You own a Jeep Cherokee, am I right?” said Banks.

“You know I do. Your men have been taking it apart since we last spoke.”

“And,” Bowen added, “might I say that they have come up with nothing to connect my client’s car with either crime scene.”

“Not yet,” said Banks.

“In fact,” Bowen went on, “I understand that a Jeep Cherokee has been connected with the Thomas McMahon fire, and that it was rented to this mysterious, and late, Mr. William Masefield by a garage outside York. Are you now saying that my client is this Mr. Masefield?”

“I’m saying that it might be the case that your client has taken Mr. Masefield’s identity,” Banks went on.

“Have you any proof of this?” Bowen asked.

“The investigation is ongoing.”

“In other words, you haven’t?”

“This is ridiculous,” said Whitaker. “I’ve already got a Jeep Cherokee. Why would I rent one?”

“To avoid exactly the kind of situation you’re in,” said Banks.

“But I’m in it anyway, aren’t I?”

“There are several counts against you. First, you’re a minor art dealer and one of the victims was a forger you supplied with paper. Secondly, you drive a Jeep Cherokee and such a car, or one very much like it, was spotted at the scene of the Thomas McMahon fire.”

“But you’ve already found-” Bowen started.

Banks cut him off. “That doesn’t mean Mr. Whitaker’s Jeep was never there.” He went on. “Add to this that you have no alibi for either murder, and that you lied to us in your previous interview, I’d say it adds up to a pretty strong case against you.”

“Circumstantial,” said Bowen. “You’ve no proof my client had ever heard of, let alone knew, Roland Gardiner; the car in the lay-by spotted near the scene has been identified; the accelerant used did not come from Mr. Whitaker’s fuel tank; and there’s no connection between Mr. Whitaker and the man whose credit card was used to rent the car. I’d say that adds up to nothing.”

“Except,” said Annie Cabbot, “that Mr. Whitaker’s business has been reporting a loss for two years in a row now, yet he has recently made several rather expensive purchases. For cash.” Annie opened a file folder. “To wit, a thirty-two-inch widescreen television and a home theater system, a state-of-the-art Dell desktop computer system, and he’s had his house repainted and added a new conservatory. Do you deny these purchases?”

Whitaker looked at Annie. “I… er… no.”

“Where did you get the money?”

“I won it. The horses.”

“You don’t bet on the horses.”

“How do you know?”

“Do you think we overlook the bookies when we’re investigating someone’s financial status, Leslie?” Annie said. “Do you really think we’re that stupid?”

“It was a gift. A friend gave it to me.”

“Which friend?”

“He wants to remain anonymous. A tax thing. You understand.”

Banks was shaking his head, and even Gareth Bowen looked anxious.

“Where did you get the money, Leslie?” Annie repeated.

“You don’t have to answer,” said Bowen.

“Right,” said Banks, standing up. “I’ve had enough of this. Interview terminated at six thirty-five P.M. I’m going home and the suspect is going back to his cell.”

“You can’t – -”

Bowen touched Whitaker’s sleeve. “Yes, they can, Leslie,” he said. “For twenty-four hours. But don’t worry. I’ll be working for you.”

Whitaker glared at the solicitor. “Well,” he said, “you’ve no idea how bloody confident that makes me feel.”

Annie munched on a salad sandwich Winsome had brought her from the bakery across Market Street and started reading through the statements again. Andrew Hurst. Mark Siddons. Jack Mellor. Leslie Whitaker. Elaine Hough. There had to be something there to link Whitaker more closely to the killings, but if there was, she was damned if she could find it. It didn’t help that she was having trouble concentrating, partly because she still couldn’t stop herself wondering what Banks was up to, and partly because of something else, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. It would come, she knew, if she let her mind drift.

Phil had suggested that McMahon and Gardiner were involved in some art forgery scam, an ill-advised and illtimed attempt to come up with a Turner watercolor that had been lost for over a century. Annie agreed. But if that was the case, her question remained: Who killed them, and why? Leslie Whitaker still seemed the most logical culprit, despite the Jeep Cherokee rented under William Masefield’s name. Perhaps that was a red herring, another issue entirely?

Annie ruled out the Siddons-Aspern angle, as she had done almost from the start, despite her mistrust of the boy. Tina’s death was an unfortunate but irrelevant distraction; she had died because she was at the wrong place at the wrong time and in the wrong state of mind. In other words, she wasn’t the intended victim. Thomas McMahon was. And in Gardiner’s case, there was no question. He lived alone, and in isolation. The two knew each other from their time at Leeds Polytechnic, and they had also once been close to a mysterious character named Giles Moore, who had misled all his friends about being a university student.

Why? What possible reason could he have had, unless lying was an essential part of his character? If it was, it could easily be put to criminal purposes. This Giles Moore had claimed to be studying art history, and according to Elaine Hough, had seemed to know plenty about the subject, whether he learned it at university or not. Was this, then, the person who had assumed William Masefield’s identity when hiring cars for meetings with McMahon? Meetings about their scam. Because she was certain it was he, not McMahon or Gardiner, who was the brains behind it. And was this person Whitaker?

But again the question remained: Why had Moore-Masefield-Whitaker, or whoever he was, killed the goose that laid the golden eggs – McMahon? Unless… unless, she thought, the Turners weren’t part of his master plan, and he believed they would ruin everything and expose him. Phil had said that any forger worth his salt goes for lower-level stuff, artists who fetch a decent price but don’t draw too much attention to themselves, like Turner or Van Gogh. And Phil should know. He was in the business. An expert. Dead artists were a better bet, too, especially if they’d been dead so long that nobody living had known them, because the provenance was easier to forge. So who was it?

Winsome walked by with a handful of papers she had been keying into HOLMES.

“Anything?” Annie asked.

“My fingertips are bleeding,” said Winsome. “I don’t know if that counts as anything.” She dropped the papers on Annie’s desk. “The list of parking tickets from the Askham Bar area. You’d think with all those vehicle numbers something would jump out, wouldn’t you?”

“Son of Sam?”

“Like that, yes.”

“Fancy a drink?”

Winsome grinned. “You’re talking my language.”

Annie glanced over the list of car numbers that had been given parking tickets in the area around Kirk’s Garage, where “William Masefield” had rented his Jeep Cherokee and she saw one that immediately jumped out at her. It couldn’t be right, she thought. It wasn’t possible. She looked again. Maybe she’d remembered the numbers wrong. But she knew she hadn’t. She never did.

Banks felt irritable when he got back to his cottage that evening. It was because of his argument with Annie, he knew. He didn’t think he’d been too heavy-handed, so maybe she had simply overreacted. Love can make you feel that way sometimes. Was Annie in love with Keane? The thought didn’t make Banks feel any better, so he poured himself a generous Laphroaig, cask strength, and put some Schubert string quartets on the CD player. Should he have told her about Helen? Probably not. What he should do, he realized, was talk to Keane again and suggest he tell Annie himself. After all, if it was such an open marriage, what had he got to hide? Annie wouldn’t like it, would no doubt promptly end the relationship, but that was Keane’s problem, not his.

He was trying to decide whether to get back to his Eric Ambler or watch a European cup match on TV when someone knocked on his door. Too late for traveling salesmen, not that there were many around these days, and a friend would most likely have rung first. Puzzled, he put his glass aside and answered it.

Banks was surprised, and more than a little put out, to see Phil Keane standing there, a smile on his face, a bottle clutched in his hand. He’d wanted to talk to Keane again, but not in his own home, and not now, when he was in need of solitude and relaxation, and the healing balm of Schubert. Still, sometimes you just had to take what you were offered when you were offered it.

“May I come in?” Keane asked.

Banks stood aside. Keane thrust the bottle toward him. “A little present,” he said. “I heard you like a good single malt.”

Banks looked at the label. Glenlivet. Not one of his favorites. “Thanks,” he said, gesturing toward his glass. “I’ll stick with this for now, if you don’t mind.” No matter how paranoid it seemed, he felt oddly disinclined to drink anything this man offered him until he knew once and for all that he was who and what he claimed to be. “Would you like some?” he asked. “It’s an Islay, cask strength.”

Keane took off his coat and laid it over the back of a chair, then he sat down in the armchair opposite Banks’s sofa. “No, thanks,” he said. “I don’t like the peaty stuff, and cask strength is way too strong for me. I’m driving, after all.” He tapped the bottle he’d brought. “I’ll have a nip of this, though, if that’s all right?”

“Fine with me.” Banks brought a glass, topping up his own with Laphroaig while he was in the kitchen, and bringing the bottle with him. If he was going to have a heart-to-heart with Keane, he might need it.

“You know,” said Keane, sipping the Glenlivet and relaxing into the armchair, “when it comes right down to it, we’re a lot alike, you and me.”

“How do you get that?” Banks asked.

Keane looked around the room, blue walls and a ceiling the color of ripe Brie, dimly lit by a shaded table lamp. “We both have a taste for the good things in life,” he said. “Fine whiskey, Schubert, the English countryside. I wonder how you manage it all on a policeman’s salary?”

“I do without the bad things in life.”

Keane smiled. “I see. Very good. Anyway, however you work it, we have a lot in common. Beautiful women, too.”

“I assume you mean Annie? Or Helen?”

“Annie told me about you and her. I didn’t know I was poaching.”

“You weren’t.”

“But you’re not happy about it. I can see that. Are you going to tell her?”

“About Helen?”

“Yes. She told me about your little visit yesterday.”

“Charming woman,” Banks said.

“Are you?”

“Don’t you think it would be better coming from you?”

“So you haven’t told Annie yet?”

“No. I haven’t told her anything. I’ve been trying to decide. Maybe you can help me.”

“How?”

“Convince me you’re not a lying, cheating bastard.”

Keane laughed. “Well, I am a bastard, quite literally. I admit to that.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Look,” Keane went on, “the relationship Helen and I have is more like that of friends. We’re of use to one another. She doesn’t mind if I have other women. Surely she told you that?”

“But you are married.”

“Yes. We had to get married. I mean, she was an illegal immigrant. They’d have sent her back to Kosovo. I did it for her sake.”

“That’s big of you. You don’t love her?”

“Love? What’s that?”

“If you don’t know, I can’t explain it to you.”

“It’s not something I’ve ever experienced,” Keane said, studying the whiskey in his glass. “All my life I’ve had to live by my wits, sink or swim. I haven’t had time for love. Sure you won’t have a drop of this?” He proffered the bottle.

Banks shook his head. He realized his glass was empty and poured a little more Laphroaig. He was already feeling its effects, he noticed when he moved, and decided to make this one his last, and to drink it slowly. “Anyway,” he went on, “it’s not a matter of whether Helen minds if you have other women or not; it’s how Annie feels.”

“Still her champion, are you? Her knight in shining armor?”

“Her friend.” Banks felt as if he was slurring his words a bit now, but he hadn’t drunk much more since he’d poured the third glass. There was also an irritating buzzing in his ears, and he was starting to feel really tired. He shook it off. Fatigue.

Keane’s mobile played a tune.

“Aren’t you going to answer it?” Banks asked.

“Probably work. Whoever it is, they can leave a message. Look, Alan, if it makes you feel any better, I’ll explain the situation to Annie,” said Keane. “She’s broad-minded. I’m sure she’ll understand.”

“I wouldn’t be too certain of that.”

“Oh, why? Know something I don’t?”

“I know Annie, and deep down she’s a lot more traditional than you think. If she’s got strong feelings for you, she’s not going to play second fiddle to your wife, no matter how convenient the marriage, or how Platonic the relationship.”

“Well, we’ll just have to see, won’t we?”

“When?”

“The next time I see her. I promise. How’s the case going?”

Banks wasn’t willing to talk about the case to Keane, even though he had assisted as a consultant on the art forgery side. He just shrugged. It felt as if he were hoisting the weight of the world on his shoulders. He took another sip of whiskey – the glass was heavy, too – and when he put it down on the arm of the sofa he felt himself sliding sideways, so he was lying on his side, and he couldn’t raise himself to a sitting position again. He heard his own telephone ringing in the distance but couldn’t for the life of him drag himself off the sofa to answer it.

“What about this identity parade you mentioned?” Keane said, his voice now sounding far away. “I’ve been looking forward to it.”

Banks couldn’t speak.

“It was very clever of you,” Keane said. “You thought your witness would identify me, not Whitaker, didn’t you?”

Banks still couldn’t make his tongue move.

“What’s the problem?” Keane asked. “A bit too much to drink?”

“Go now,” Banks managed to say, though it probably sounded more like a grunt.

“I don’t think so,” said Keane. “You’re just starting to feel the effects. See if you can stand up now. Just try it.”

Banks tried. He couldn’t move more than an inch or two. Too heavy.

“Eventually, you’ll go to sleep,” Keane said, his voice an echoing monotone now, like a hypnotist’s. “And when you wake in the morning, you won’t remember a thing. At least you wouldn’t remember a thing if you were to wake up in the morning. But you won’t be doing that. I’m really surprised you don’t have more security in this place, you being a policeman and all. It was child’s play to get in through the kitchen window just after dark and add a little flunitrazepam to your cask-strength malt. Plenty of strong taste to cover up any residual bitterness in the drug, too. Perfect. They call it the ‘date rape’ drug, you know, but don’t worry, I’m not going to rape you.”

“What’s wrong, Guv?” Winsome asked, leaning over her.

“This number.” Annie pointed. “I know it. It’s Phil’s BMW.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes. I don’t know why. I just remember these things. There’s no mistake. He got a parking ticket two streets away from Kirk’s Garage on the seventeenth of September.”

Winsome checked with her file. “That’s one of the times Masefield rented the Jeep Cherokee,” she said. “Look, it doesn’t make sense. Maybe the bloke who wrote the ticket made a mistake?”

“Maybe,” said Annie, as the thing that had been bothering her rose to the surface of her mind. Banks had said during their argument that morning that he had met Phil a couple of times, but later Phil had said he only met Banks once. The three of them had met the previous weekend, several days ago, but Banks had also said he hadn’t seen Phil for a couple of days. Why was that? Had he been to see him since? And if so, what was it about? What were they keeping from her?

It might be nothing. An easy mistake to make. But now this. The BMW number. And it was true that Phil had only come onto the scene last summer, when both Roland Gardiner and Thomas McMahon had told people their fortunes were on the rise. Annie had only met him herself at the Turner reception, and he had phoned her a month or so later, determined not to take no for an answer.

Annie didn’t like the direction in which her thoughts were turning, but even as she fought against the growing realization, she found herself remembering the night she was called away from her dinner at The Angel with Phil to the Jennings Field fire. Of course the accelerant didn’t match the petrol from the Jeep Cherokee’s fuel tank. Phil had been in his own car that evening, the BMW. He could hardly turn up for dinner in the rented Cherokee the police were all looking for, and he wouldn’t have had time both to return it and to get cleaned up. Worth the risk for the alibi. Annie herself. A perfect alibi. And a source of information on the shape the investigation was taking. The horse’s mouth. Horse’s arse, more likely.

“There could be a simple explanation,” Winsome suggested. “It was well before the murders, too. Maybe it’s just coincidence?”

“I know that,” said Annie, remembering that it was also around the time he had phoned and asked her out for the first time. “But we have to find out.”

Her hand was shaking, but she dialed Phil’s mobile number.

No answer. Just the voice mail.

She phoned Banks at home.

No answer. After a few rings she was patched through to the answering service. She didn’t leave a message. She tried his mobile, too, but it was turned off.

That was odd. Banks had said he was going straight home. Of course, he could have gone somewhere else, or maybe he just wasn’t answering the telephone. There were any number of explanations. But when Banks was on a case, especially one that seemed so near to its conclusion, he was always on call one way or another. She had never, in all the time they had worked together, been unable to get ahold of him at any hour of the day or night.

Annie felt confused and uneasy. She couldn’t just sit there. This had to be settled one way or the other, and it had to be settled now.

“Winsome,” she said. “Fancy a drive out in the country?”