Playing With Fire

Chapter 2

Andrew Hurst lived in a small, nondescript lockkeeper’s cottage beside the canal, about a mile east of the dead-end branch where the fire had occurred. The house was high and narrow, built of red brick with a slate roof, and a satellite dish was attached high up, where the walls met the roof. It was still early in the morning, but Hurst was already up and about. In his early forties, tall and skinny, with thinning, dry brown hair, he was wearing jeans and a red zippered sweatshirt.

“Ah, I’ve been expecting you,” he said when Banks and Annie showed their warrant cards, his pale gray eyes lingering on Annie for just a beat too long. “It’ll be about that fire.”

“That’s right,” said Banks. “Mind if we come in?”

“No, not at all. Your timing is immaculate. I’ve just finished my breakfast.” He stood aside and let Banks and Annie pass. “First on the left. Let me take your coats.”

They gave him their overcoats and walked into a room lined with wooden shelves. On the shelves were hundreds, perhaps thousands, of long-playing records, 45-rpm singles and EPs, all in neat rows. Banks exchanged a glance with Annie before they sat in the armchairs to which Hurst gestured.

“Impressive, aren’t they?” Hurst said, smiling. “I’ve been collecting sixties vinyl since I was twelve years old. It’s my great passion. Along with canals and their history, of course.”

“Of course,” said Banks, still overwhelmed by the immense collection. On any other occasion he would have been down on his hands and knees scanning the titles.

“And I’ll bet I can lay my hands on any one I want. I know where they all are. Kathy Kirby, Matt Monro, Vince Hill, Helen Shapiro, Joe Brown, Vicki Carr. Try me. Go on, try me.”

Christ, thought Banks, an anorak. Just what they needed. “Mr. Hurst,” he said, “I’d be more than happy to test your system, and to explore your record collection, but do you think we could talk about the fire first? Two people died on those barges.”

Hurst looked disappointed, like a child denied a new toy, and went on tentatively, not sure if he still held his audience. “They’re not filed alphabetically, but by date of release, you see. That’s my secret.”

“Mr. Hurst,” Annie echoed Banks. “Please. Later. We’ve got some important questions for you.”

He looked at her, hurt and sulky, but seemed at last to grasp the situation. He ran his hand over his head. “Yes, I know. Pardon me for jabbering on. Must be the shock. I always jabber when I’m nervous. I’m really sorry about what happened. How did…?”

“We don’t know the cause of the fire yet,” said Banks, “but we’re definitely treating it as suspicious.” Doubtful was Geoff Hamilton’s word. He knew as well as Banks that the fire hadn’t started on its own. “Do you know the area well?” he asked.

Hurst nodded. “I think of this as my stretch of the canal, as my responsibility.”

“Including the dead-end branch?”

“Yes.”

“What can you tell me about the people who lived on the barges?”

Hurst lifted up his black-rimmed glasses and rubbed his right eye. “Strictly speaking, they’re not barges, you know.”

“Oh?”

“No, they’re narrow boats. Barges are wider and can’t cruise on this canal.”

“I see,” said Banks. “But I’d still like to know what you can tell me about the squatters.”

“Not much, really. The girl was nice enough. Pale, thin young thing, didn’t look well at all, but she had a sweet smile and she always said hello. Quite pretty, too. When I saw her, of course. Which wasn’t often.”

That would be Tina, Banks thought, remembering the blistered body in the charred sleeping bag, the blackened arm into which she had injected her last fix. “And her boyfriend, Mark?”

“Is that his name? Always seemed a bit furtive to me. As if he’d been up to something, or was about to get up to something.”

In Banks’s experience, a lot of kids Mark’s age and younger had that look about them. “What about the fellow on the other boat?” he asked.

“Ah, the artist.”

Banks glanced at Annie, who raised her eyebrows. “How do you know he was an artist?”

“Shortly after he moved there, he installed a skylight and gave the exterior of his boat a lick of paint, and I thought maybe he’d actually rented or bought the boat and was intending to fix it up, so I paid him a courtesy visit.”

“What happened?”

“I didn’t get beyond the door. He clearly didn’t appreciate my coming to see him. Not very courteous at all.”

“But he told you he was an artist?”

“No, of course not. I said I didn’t get past the door, but I could see past it, couldn’t I?”

“So what did you see?”

“Well, artist’s equipment, of course. Easel, tubes of paint, palettes, pencils, charcoal sticks, old rags, stacks of canvas and paper, a lot of books. The place was a bloody mess, quite frankly, and it stank to high heaven.”

“What of?”

“I don’t know. Turpentine. Paint. Glue. Maybe he was a glue-sniffer? Have you thought of that?”

“I hadn’t until now, but thank you very much for the idea. How long had he been living there?”

“About six months. Since summer.”

“Ever see him before that?”

“Once or twice. He used to wander up and down the towpath with a sketchbook.”

A local, perhaps, Banks thought, which might make it easier to find out something about him. Banks’s ex-wife Sandra used to work at the Eastvale Community Centre art gallery, and he still had a contact there. The idea of meeting up with Maria Phillips again had about as much appeal as a dinner date with Cilla Black, but she would probably be able to help. There wasn’t much Maria didn’t know about the local art scene, including the gossip. There was also Leslie Whitaker, who owned Eastvale’s only antiquarian bookshop, and who was a minor art dealer.

“What else can you tell us about him?” he asked Hurst.

“Nothing. Hardly ever saw him after that. Must have been in his cabin painting away. Lost in his own world, that one. Or on drugs. But you’d expect that from an artist, wouldn’t you? I don’t know what kind of rubbish he painted. In my opinion, just about all modern-”

Banks noticed Annie roll her eyes and sniffle before turning the page in her notebook. “We know his first name was Tom,” Banks said, “but do you know his surname?”

Hurst was clearly not pleased at being interrupted in his critical assessment of modern art. “No,” he said.

“Do you happen to know who owns the boats?”

“No idea,” said Hurst. “But someone should have fixed them up. They weren’t completely beyond repair, you know. It’s a crying shame, leaving them like that.”

“So why didn’t the owner do something?”

“Short of money, I should imagine.”

“Then he could have sold them,” said Banks. “There must be money in canal boats these days. They’re very popular with the holiday crowd.”

“Even so,” said Hurst, “whoever bought them would have had to go to a great deal of extra expense to make them appeal to tourists. They were horse-drawn boats, you see, and there’s not much call for them these days. He’d have had to install engines, central heating, electricity, running water. Costly business. Tourists might enjoy boating along the canals, but they like to do it in comfort.”

“Let’s get back to Tom, the artist,” said Banks. “Did you ever see any of his work?”

“Like I said, it’s all rubbish, isn’t it, this modern art? Damien Hirst and all that crap. I mean, take that Turner Prize-”

“Even so,” Annie interjected, “some people are willing to pay a fortune for rubbish. Did you actually see any of his paintings? It might help us find out who he was, if we can get some sense of the sort of thing he produced.”

“Well, there’s no accounting for taste, is there? But no, I didn’t actually see any of them. The easel was empty when I paid my visit. Maybe he was some sort of eccentric. The tortured genius. Maybe he kept a fortune under his mattress and someone killed him for it?”

“What makes you think he was killed?” Banks asked.

“I don’t. I was just tossing out ideas, that’s all.”

“The area looks pretty inaccessible to me,” Banks said. “What would be the best approach?”

“From the towpath,” Hurst said. “But the nearest bridge is east of here, so anyone who came that way would have had to pass the cottage.”

“Did you see anyone that night? Anyone on the towpath heading toward the branch?”

“No, but I was watching television. I could easily have missed it if someone walked by.”

“What would be the next-best approach?”

Hurst frowned for a moment as he thought. “Well,” he said finally, “short of swimming across the canal, which no one in his right mind would want to do, especially at this time of year, I’d say from the lane through the woods directly to the west. There’s a lay-by, if my memory serves me well. And it’s only about a hundred yards from there to the boats, whereas it’s nearly half a mile up to where the lane meets the B-road at the top.”

The fire engines had parked where the lane turned sharply right to follow the canal, Banks remembered, and he and Annie had parked behind them. He hoped they hadn’t obliterated any evidence that might still be there. He would ask DS Stefan Nowak and the SOCOs to examine that particular area thoroughly. “Ever see any strangers hanging around?” he asked.

“In summer, plenty, but it’s generally quiet this time of year.”

“What about around the branch? Any strangers there?”

“I live a mile away. I don’t spy on them. I sometimes saw them when I cycled by on the towpath, that’s all.”

“But you saw the fire?”

“Could hardly miss it, could I?”

“How not?”

Hurst stood up. “Follow me.” He looked at Annie and smiled. “I apologize for the mess in advance. It’s one of the advantages of the bachelor life, not having to keep everything neat and tidy.”

Annie blew her nose. Banks was hardly surprised to hear that Hurst was a bachelor. “Except your record collection,” he said.

Hurst turned and looked at Banks as if he were mad. “But that’s different, isn’t it?”

Banks and Annie exchanged glances and followed him up the narrow creaky stairs into a room on the left. He was right about the mess. Piles of clothes waiting to be washed, a tottering stack of books by the side of the unmade bed, many of them about the history of canals, but with a few cheap paperback blockbusters mixed in, Banks noticed, Tom Clancy, Frederick Forsyth, Ken Follett. The smell of unwashed socks and stale sweat permeated the air. Annie was lucky she was stuffed up with a cold, Banks thought.

But Hurst was right. From his bedroom window, you could see clearly along the canal side, west, in the direction of the dead-end branch. It was impossible to see very far now, because of the fog, but last night had been clear until early morning. Hurst wouldn’t have been able to see the branch itself because of the trees, but Banks had no doubt at all that it would have been impossible for him to miss the flames as he went to draw the curtains at bedtime.

“What were you wearing?” Banks asked.

“Wearing?”

“Yes. Your clothes. When you cycled out to the fire.”

“Oh, I see. Jeans, shirt and a thick woolly jumper. And an anorak.”

“Are those the jeans you’re wearing now?”

“No. I changed.”

“Where are they?”

“My clothes?”

“Yes, Mr. Hurst. We’ll need them for testing.”

“But surely you can’t think…?”

“The clothes?”

“I had to wash them,” said Hurst. “They smelled so bad, with the smoke and all.”

Banks looked again at the pile of laundry waiting to be washed, then he looked back at Hurst. “You’re telling me you’ve already washed the clothes you were wearing last night?”

“Well, yes… When I got home. I know it might seem a bit strange, but how was I to know you’d want them for testing?”

“What about your anorak?”

“That, too.”

“You washed your anorak?”

Hurst swallowed. “The label said it was machine washable.”

Banks sighed. Traces of accelerant might well survive the firefighters’ hoses, but they used only cold water. He doubted that anything would survive washing powder and hot water. “We’ll take them anyway,” he said. “What about your shoes? I suppose you put them in the washing machine as well?”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“Let’s be thankful for small mercies, then,” Banks said as they set off downstairs. “What time do you usually go to bed?”

“Whenever I want. Another advantage of the bachelor life. Last night, I happened to be watching a rather good film.”

“What was it?”

“Ah, the old police trick to see if I’m lying, is it? Well, I don’t have an alibi, it’s true. I was by myself all evening. All day, in fact. But I did watch A Bridge Too Far on Sky Cinema. War films are another passion of mine.”

Hurst led them into the tiny kitchen, which smelled vaguely of sour milk. The anorak lay over the back of a chair, still a little damp, and the rest of his clothes were in the dryer. Hurst dug out a carrier bag and Banks bundled the lot inside, along with the shoes from a mat in the hallway.

“What time did the film finish?” he asked, as they returned to the living room.

“One o’clock. Or five past one, or something. They never seem to end quite on the hour, do they?”

“So when you looked out of your bedroom window around one o’clock-”

“It would have been perhaps one-fifteen by the time I’d locked up and done my ablutions.”

Ablutions. Banks hadn’t heard that word in years. “Okay,” he went on. “At one-fifteen, when you looked out of your bedroom window, what did you see?”

“Why, flames, of course.”

“And you knew where they were coming from?”

“Immediately. Those wooden boats are death traps. The wood above the water line’s as dry as tinder.”

“So you knew exactly what was happening?”

“Yes, of course.”

“What did you do?”

“I got on my bike and rode down the towpath.”

“How long did it take?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t timing myself.”

“Roughly? Five minutes? Ten minutes?”

“Well, I’m not that fast a cyclist. It’s not as if I was going in for the Tour de France or something.”

“Say ten minutes, then?”

“If you like.”

“What did you do next?”

“I rang the fire brigade, of course.”

“From where?”

He tapped his pocket. “My mobile. I always carry it with me. Just in case… well, the Waterways people like to know what’s going on.”

“Do you work for British Waterways?”

“Not technically. I mean, I’m not officially employed by them. I just try to be of use. If those narrow boats hadn’t been in such sorry shape, and if they hadn’t been moored in such an out-of-the-way place, I’m sure BW would have done something about them by now.”

“What time did you make the call?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Would it surprise you to know that your call was logged at one thirty-one A.M.?”

“If you say so.”

“I do. That’s fifteen minutes after you first saw the flames and cycled to the boats.”

Hurst blinked. “Yes.”

“And what did you do after you rang them?”

“I waited for them to come.”

“You didn’t try to do anything in the meantime?”

“Like what?”

“See if there was anyone still on the boats.”

“Do you think I’m insane? Even the firefighters couldn’t risk boarding either of the boats until they’d sprayed water on them, and they were wearing protective clothing.”

“And it was too late by then.”

“What do you mean?”

“Everybody was dead.”

“Yes… well, I tried to tell them how dangerous it was, living there. I suspect one of them must have had a dodgy heater of some sort, too, as well as the turpentine. I know it’s been a mild winter, but still… It is January.”

“Mr. Hurst,” Annie asked, “what were you thinking when you saw the fire’s glow above the tree line and got on your bike?”

Hurst looked at her, a puzzled expression on his face. “That I had to find out what was happening, of course.”

“But you said you already knew at once what was happening.”

“I had to be certain, though, didn’t I? I couldn’t just go off half-cocked.”

“What else did you think might have been causing the orange glow?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking logically. I just knew that I had to get down there.”

“Yet you didn’t do anything when you did get down there.”

“It was too late already. I told you. There was nothing I could do.” Hurst sat forward, chin jutting aggressively. He looked at Banks. “Look, I don’t know what she’s getting at here, but I-”

“It’s simple, really,” said Banks. “DI Cabbot is puzzled why you decided to cycle a mile – slowly – down to the canal branch, when you already knew the boats were on fire and that the wood they were made of was so dry they’d go up in no time. I’m puzzled, too. And I’m also wondering why you didn’t just do what any normal person would have done and call the bloody fire brigade straight away. From here.”

“Now there’s no need to get stroppy. I wasn’t thinking clearly. Like I said, you don’t when… when something like that… The shock. Maybe you’re right. Looking back, maybe I should have phoned first. But…” He shook his head slowly.

“I was waiting for you to say you hurried down there to see if there was anything you could do,” Banks said. “To see if you could help in any way.”

Hurst just stared at him, lower jaw hanging, and adjusted his glasses.

“But you didn’t say that,” Banks went on. “You didn’t even lie.”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know, Andrew. You tell me. All I can think of is that you wanted those narrow boats and the people who lived on them gone, that you didn’t call the fire brigade the minute you knew they were on fire, and that as soon as you got home you put your clothes in the washing machine. Perhaps nobody can fault you for not jumping on board a burning boat, but the fifteen minutes it took you to cycle down the towpath and make the call could have made all the difference in the world. And I’m wondering if you were aware of that at the time, too.” Banks looked at Annie, and they stood up, Banks grabbing the bag of clothes. “Don’t get up,” he said to Hurst. “We’ll see ourselves out. And don’t wander too far from home. We’ll be wanting to talk to you again soon.”

Banks wasn’t the only one who saw his weekend fast slipping away. As Annie pulled up outside the Victorian terraced house on Blackmore Street, in south Eastvale, blew her raw nose and squinted at the numbers, she realized that the fire on the barges, or narrow boats, as Andrew Hurst had insisted they were called, was probably going to keep her well occupied for the next few days. She had been hoping that Phil Keane, the man she had been seeing for the past few months – when work and business allowed, which wasn’t all that often – would be coming up from London for the weekend. Phil had inherited a cottage in Fortford from his grandparents, though he had grown up down south, and he liked to spend time there no matter what the season. If Phil didn’t make it, Annie had planned to spend her free time getting over her cold.

Annie got out of the car and looked around. Most of the houses in the area were occupied by students at the College of Further Education. The area had been tarted up a lot since Annie had started working in Eastvale. What had once been a stretch of marshy wasteground between the last straggling rows of houses and the squat college buildings was now a park named after an obscure African revolutionary, complete with flower beds that rivaled Harrogate’s in spring. A number of cafés and a couple of fancy restaurants had sprung up there over the past few years, too. Students weren’t as poor as they used to be, Annie guessed, especially the foreign students. Many of the old houses had been renovated, and the flats and bed-sits were quite comfortable. Like the rest of Eastvale, the college had grown, and its board knew they had to work to attract new students.

This morning, though, in the clinging January fog, the area took on a creepy, surreal air, the tall houses looking like a Gothic effect in a horror film, rising out of the mist with their steeply pointed slate roofs and elaborate gables. Through the bare trees across the park Annie could see the lonely illuminated red sign of the Blue Moon Café and Bakery offering cheap breakfasts. For a moment, she considered going in and ordering fried eggs, mushrooms and beans on toast – skipping the sausage and bacon because she was a vegetarian – but she decided against it. She’d grab something more healthy later, back in the town center. Besides, she thought, looking up at the looming house, she had an alibi to check.

She walked up the steps and peered at the names on the intercom box. Mandy Patterson. That was the person she wanted. She pressed the bell. It seemed to take forever, but eventually a sleepy voice answered. “Yes? Who is it?”

Annie introduced herself.

“Police?” Mandy sounded alarmed. “Why? What is it? What do you want?”

Annie was used to that reaction from members of the public who either felt guilty about some driving or parking offense or didn’t want to get involved. “I just want to talk to you, that’s all,” she said in as convincing a friendly voice as she could manage. “It’s about Mark.”

“First landing, flat three, on your left.”

Annie heard the door release click and pushed it open. Inside, the place was far less gloomy than out. The thick-piled stair carpets looked new, the hallway was clean and well kept, the interior well lit. Better than the student digs of her days, Annie thought, even though those days had been only about fifteen years ago.

Annie climbed the steep stairs and knocked on the door to flat three. Fit as she was, she was glad Mandy didn’t live all the way at the top. The damn cold was sapping her energy, making her feel dizzy when she exerted herself. She couldn’t meditate, either. All she experienced when she sat in the lotus position and tried to concentrate on the breath coming and going as it passed the point between her eyebrows was either a stuffed-up nose or a thick, phlegmy sniffle.

The girl who opened the door looked as if she had just been woken up, which was probably the case. She rubbed her eyes and squinted at Annie. “So you’re the police?” she said, looking at Annie’s army greatcoat, long scarf and high boots.

“Afraid so.”

Annie followed her into the room. Perhaps because Mandy had heard over the intercom that Annie was female, or perhaps because seminudity didn’t concern her, she hadn’t bothered putting anything on other than a long white T-shirt with a George and Dragon logo on the front. Annie thought it was too cold for such scanty clothing, but she could soon feel that the bed-sit was centrally heated. Another change from her own student days, when she had braved a dash from the piled blankets to the gas fire and hoped to hell her five pee from last night hadn’t run out. She took off her overcoat and found that she was warm enough without it.

“You woke me up, you know,” Mandy said over her shoulder.

“Sorry about that,” Annie said. “Part of the job.” The messed-up sheets on the mattress under the window testified to what Mandy said.

“Cup of tea? I’m having one myself. Can’t think in the morning without a cup of tea.”

“Fine,” said Annie. “If you’re brewing up anyway.” Mandy had a posh accent, she noticed. What had she been doing with Mark, then? Slumming it? A bit of rough?

The kitchenette was separated from the rest of the bed-sit by a thin green curtain, which Mandy left open as she filled the electric kettle. Annie sat in one of the two small armchairs, which were arranged around an old fireplace filled by a vase full of dried purple-and-yellow flowers and peacock feathers. There was a poster of Van Gogh’s Sunflowers on the wall, and the radio was playing quietly in the background. Annie recognized an old Pet Shop Boys number, “Always on My Mind.” That had been a hit back during her own student days in Exeter. She had liked the Pet Shop Boys.

A vivid memory of Rick Stenson, her boyfriend at the time, came to her as the music played. A handsome, fair-haired media studies student, he had always put her down for her musical tastes, being into Joy Division, Elvis Costello, Dire Straits and Tracy Chapman. He thought he was a cut above the Pet Shop Boys, Enya and Fleetwood Mac fans. He even used to go on about the original Fleetwood Mac, when Peter Green played with them. What had she seen in him? Annie wondered now. He’d been nothing but a bloody arrogant snob, and he hadn’t been an awful lot of good in bed, either, showing some slight flair for the obvious and no imagination whatsoever beyond. Ah, the mistakes of one’s youth.

Mandy came in with the tea and sat in the other armchair, legs curled up, the hem of her T-shirt barely covering the tops of her slim, smooth thighs. Curly brown hair, messy from sleep, framed a heart-shaped face with thin lips, a small nose and loam-brown eyes. She had beautiful Brooke Shields eyebrows, Annie thought with envy, her own being definitely on the thin and skimpy side.

“What did you do last night?” Annie asked.

“Do? What do you mean? Why do you want to know?”

“Would you just let me ask the questions?” Annie didn’t know why she was becoming testy with Mandy, but she was; she could feel the irritation building at the girl’s voice, the thighs, the eyebrows. She took out a paper handkerchief and blew her nose. The room felt hot now; she could feel the sweat prickling under her arms. Or maybe it was a fever that came with her cold.

Mandy sulked and sipped some tea, then she said, “Okay. Ask away.”

“Was Mark here with you?”

“Mark? Of course not. That’s ridiculous. What’s he supposed to have done? If he said-”

“You do know him, don’t you?”

Mandy toyed with a strand of hair, straightening and curling. “If you mean Mark Siddons, yes, of course I know him. He comes by the pub sometimes when he’s working on the building site.”

“Which building site?”

“Over the park. They’re putting up a new sports center for the college.”

“And are you friendly with Mark?”

“Sort of.”

Annie leaned forward. “Mandy, this could be important. Was Mark here with you last night?”

“What kind of girl do you think I am?”

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Annie said, feeling her head spin with the fever and the irritation. “This is supposed to be a simple job. I ask you the questions and you give me honest answers. I’m not here to judge you. I don’t care what kind of girl you are. I don’t care if you just fancied a bit of rough and Mark-”

Mandy reddened. “It wasn’t like that!”

“Then tell me what it was like.”

“What’s this all about? What has Mark done?”

Annie didn’t want to give Mandy any reason for prevarication, and she knew that every piece of information altered the equation. “You answer my questions first,” she said, “then I’ll tell you why I’m asking them.”

“That’s not fair.”

“It’s the only deal you’ll get. Take it or leave it.”

Mandy glared at her, then settled down to playing with her curls again. She let the silence stretch before answering. “Mark came to the pub a few times, at lunchtime, like I said. It was the holiday period, so I was working extra shifts. I liked him. He wasn’t a bit of rough.” She gave Annie a harsh glance. “Maybe he seemed like that on the surface, but underneath, he’s… well, he’s a nice bloke, and you don’t get to meet many of those.”

So cynical so young, Annie thought, but Mandy had a point. Annie thought of Banks. He was a nice bloke, but she had split up with him. Maybe she should have hung on to him instead. He had another girlfriend now, she knew, even though he didn’t like to talk about her. Annie was surprised at the flash of jealousy she felt whenever she knew he was going away for the weekend. Was she younger than Annie? Prettier? Better in bed? Or just less difficult? Well, she had her reasons for doing what she did, she told herself, so let it be.

“He’d flirt a bit and we’d chat,” Mandy went on. “You know what it’s like.”

“What about last night?”

“He came to the pub late. He seemed a bit upset.”

“Why?”

“He didn’t say. He just seemed depressed, like he had a lot on his mind.”

“What time was this?”

“About a quarter to eleven. Nearly closing time. He only had the one pint.”

“Then what?”

“I invited him back here for a coffee.”

“So he was here?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you lie to me?”

“Because I didn’t want you to think I was a tramp or a slag or anything. It wasn’t like that at all. I only asked him up for a coffee because I felt sorry for him.”

“What happened?” Annie asked.

“We talked, mostly.”

“Mostly?”

Mandy looked down, examining her thumbnail. “Well, you know… One thing led to another. Look, I don’t have to spell it out, do I?”

“What did you talk about?”

“Life.”

“That’s a big subject. Can you narrow it down a bit for me?”

“You know, relationships, hopes for the future, that sort of thing. We’d never really talked like that before.” She frowned. “Nothing’s happened to him, has it? Please tell me he’s all right.”

“He’s fine,” said Annie. “Did he tell you about Tina?”

“Tina? Who’s that?”

“Never mind,” said Annie. “What did he talk about?”

“Does he have a girlfriend? He never told me. The two-timing bastard.”

“Mandy, can you remember what he talked about?”

It took Mandy a few moments to control her anger and answer. “The boat. Living on the boat. How he was only working on a building site, but he wanted to get into masonry and church-restoration work. He told me he had a sister on drugs, and he wanted to help her. That sort of thing. Like I said, relationships, dreams. Wait a minute! Was that Tina? His sister?”

“I don’t know,” said Annie. “Did he say anything about someone called Tom?”

“Tom? No. Who’s that?”

“A neighbor. An artist who lived on the boat next to Mark’s.”

Mandy shook her head. Her curls bounced. “No,” she said. “He never mentioned any Tom. Apart from saying how he liked it there, and how peaceful it was, he just complained about some interfering old anorak who kept trying to get him to move.”

That would be Andrew Hurst, Annie thought, smiling to herself at the description. “What time did he leave here?”

“I don’t know. Late. I was half asleep. I hardly noticed him go.”

“How late?” Annie persisted. “One o’clock? Two o’clock?”

“Oh, no. Later than that. I mean we really did talk for hours, until two at least. It was only after that…”

“What?”

“You know. Anyway, he seemed edgy later, said he couldn’t sleep. I told him to go because I needed my sleep for work.”

“So it was after two?”

“Yes. Maybe around three.”

“Okay,” said Annie, standing to leave.

“Your turn now,” said Mandy, at the door.

“What?”

“You were going to tell me why you’re asking these questions.”

“Oh,” said Annie. “That. You can read all about it in the papers,” she said, and headed down the stairs. Then she added over her shoulder, “Or if you can’t wait, just turn up your radio.”

It was late morning by the time Banks had put in motion the complex machinery of a murder investigation. There was a team to set up, actions to be assigned, and they would need a mobile unit parked down by the canal. Banks had already arranged for a dozen constables to search the immediate area around the narrow boats, including the handiest point of access and the woods where Mark had been hiding. If they found anything, they would tape it off for the SOCOs. Unfortunately, the closest house to the boats was Andrew Hurst’s, and the village of Molesby lay half a mile south of that, across the canal, in a hollow, so he didn’t expect much from house-to-house inquiries in the village. They still had to be carried out, though. Someone might have seen or heard something.

Banks went to his office. His left cheek still stung from where the twigs had cut him as he’d chased Mark through the woods, and his clothes and hair all smelled of damp ash. His chest felt tight, as if he’d smoked a whole packet of cigarettes. There was nothing he wanted more than to go home, take a long shower and have a nap before getting back to work, but he couldn’t. The pressure was on now.

Geoff Hamilton was still at the fire scene and had already put a rush on forensics to find out what accelerant had been used. The gas chromatograph ought to provide speedy results. Dr. Glendenning, the Home Office pathologist, would conduct the postmortems later that afternoon, starting with Tom, the artist, as it was his boat where the fire had started.

Banks knew he was being premature in treating the incident as a double murder before Geoff Hamilton or Dr. Glendenning gave him the supporting evidence necessary for such a decision, but he had seen enough on the boats. It was important to act quickly. The first twenty-four hours after a major crime are of vital significance, and trails quickly go cold after that. He would take the heat from Assistant Chief Constable McLaughlin later, if he turned out to be wrong and to have wasted valuable budget funds, but Area Commander Kathleen Finlay and Detective Superintendent Gristhorpe had agreed with him on the necessity of an early start, so things were in motion. Banks was senior investigating officer and Annie his deputy.

There was one more thing that Banks had to do before he could even think of lunch. He rang down to the custody officer and asked him to send up Mark – whose full name, it turned out, was Mark David Siddons – to his office, not to an interview room. Mark’s hands had checked out negative for accelerants. His clothes were at the lab waiting in line for the gas chromatograph, and would take a bit longer. He wasn’t out of the running yet, not by a long chalk.

While he waited, Banks found a chamber music concert on Radio 3. He didn’t recognize the piece that was playing, but it sounded appropriately soothing in the background. He didn’t imagine that Mark would be a fan of classical music, but that didn’t matter. Mark wouldn’t be listening to the music. Banks remembered an article he’d read recently about playing classical music in underground stations to discourage mobs of youths from gathering and attacking people. Apparently it drove the yobs away. Maybe they should blare Bach and Mozart out of city center loudspeakers, especially around closing time.

Banks glanced at his Dalesman calendar. January’s picture was of a snow-covered hillside in Swaledale dotted with black-faced sheep.

Finally, a constable knocked on the door and Mark walked over the threshold.

“Sit down,” Banks said.

Mark looked around the room apprehensively and perched at the edge of a chair. “What’s going on?” he asked. “You know something, don’t you? It’s about Tina.”

“I’m sorry, Mark,” Banks said.

The loud wail that rang out of Mark’s small body took Banks by surprise. As did the violence with which he picked up his chair and threw it at the door, then stood there, chest heaving, racked with sobs.

The door opened, and the constable poked his head around it. Banks gestured for him to leave. For a long time, Mark just stood there, his back to Banks, head down, fists clenched, body heaving. Banks let him be. The music played softly in the background, and now Banks thought he recognized the adagio of one of Beethoven’s late string quartets. Finally, Mark wiped his arms across his face, picked up the chair and sat down again, staring at his knees. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

“It’s all right,” said Banks.

“It’s just… I suppose I knew. All along I knew, soon as I saw it, she couldn’t have got away.”

“It didn’t look as if she suffered, if that’s any help.”

Mark ran the back of his hand under his running nose. Banks passed him the box of tissues that had been languishing on his desk since his December cold had cleared up.

“Well, at least she won’t suffer anymore,” Mark said, sniffling. He looked up at Banks. “Are you sure she didn’t? I’ve heard terrible things about fires.”

“The way it looked,” said Banks, “is that she probably died in her sleep of smoke inhalation before she even knew there was a fire.” He hoped he was right. “Look, Mark, we’ve still got a long way to go. If there’s anything else you can tell me, do it now.”

Mark shot him a glance. “There’s nothing else,” he said. “I was telling you the truth about where I was. I only wish to God I hadn’t been.”

“So you were gone from ten-thirty to four in the morning?”

“About that, yes. Look, surely the tests-”

“I need to hear it from you.” Banks felt sorry for the kid, but procedures had to be followed. “We’re looking at murder here,” he said, “two murders, and I need a lot more information from you.”

“Someone murdered Tina? Why would anyone want to do that?” Mark’s eyes filled with tears again.

“She probably wasn’t the intended victim, but it amounts to the same thing, yes.”

“Tom?”

“It looks that way. But there’s something else, another criminal matter.”

Mark wiped his eyes. “What?”

“Are you a user, Mark?”

“What?”

“A drug addict, a junkie.”

“I know what it means.”

“Are you?”

“No.”

“Was Tina?”

“Tina was…”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Look, Mark, we found a syringe beside her, on the boat. I’m not looking to bust you for anything, but you’ve got to tell me. It could be important.”

Mark looked down at his shoes.

“Mark,” Banks repeated.

Finally, Mark gave a long sigh and said, “She wasn’t an addict. She could take it or leave it.”

“But mostly she took it?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Whatever. Heroin, if it was around. Morphine. Methadone. Demerol. Valium. Downers. Anything to make her oblivious. Not uppers. She said those only made her too alert, and alertness made her paranoid. And she stayed away from pot, acid and E. They made her see things she didn’t want to see. You have to understand. She was just so helpless. She couldn’t take care of herself. I should have stayed with her. She was so scared.”

“What was she scared of?”

“Everything. Life. The dark. Men. She’s had a hard life, has Tina. That’s why she… it was her escape.”

“Did Tina have any drugs when you left?”

“She had some heroin. She was just fixing up.” Mark started to cry again. Banks noticed his hands had curled into tight fists as he talked. He had tattoos on his fingers. They didn’t read LOVE and HATE like Robert Mitchum’s in The Night of the Hunter, but TINA on the left and MARK on the right.

“Where did she get the heroin?”

“Dealer in Eastvale.”

“His name, Mark?”

Mark hesitated. Banks could tell he was troubled by the idea of informing on someone, even a drug dealer, and the inner struggle was plain in his features. Finally, his feelings for Tina won out. “Danny,” he said. “Danny Corcoran.”

Banks knew of Danny “Boy” Corcoran. He was strictly a small-time street dealer, and the drugs squad had been watching him for weeks, hoping he might lead them to a large supplier. He hadn’t done yet.

“How did you know about Danny Corcoran?”

“A contact in Leeds, someone from the squat where we used to live.”

“How long had Tina been using?”

“Since before I met her.”

“When was that?”

“About six months ago.”

“How did you meet?”

“At the squat in Leeds.”

“How did you end up on the boat?”

“We didn’t like the squat. There were some really ugly characters living there, and one of the bastards kept putting his hands on her. We got into a fight. And the place was always dirty. Nobody bothered cleaning up after themselves. Think what you like of Tina and me, but we’re decent people, and we don’t like living in filth. Anyway, the boat needed a lot of work, but we made it nice.”

“How did you find the boat?”

“I knew about it. I’d seen them before. I used to go for walks on the towpath and sometimes I’d stop and wonder what it would be like, living on the water like that.”

“When was that?”

“A year or so back.”

“So you’re from around here? From Eastvale?”

Mark gave a quick shake of his head. Banks didn’t pursue the matter. “Carry on,” he said.

“We just wanted to be together, by ourselves, without anyone to rip us off or fuck up our lives. I was trying to get Tina off drugs. I loved her. I don’t care if you believe me or not. I did. I looked out for her. She needed me, and I let her down.”

“What about her parents? We’ll need to contact them. Someone will have to identify the body.”

Mark glanced sharply at Banks. “I’ll do it,” he said.

“It needs to be a relative. Next of kin.”

“I said I’ll do it.” Mark folded his arms.

“Mark, we’ll find out one way or another. You’re not doing anybody any favors here.”

“She wouldn’t want those bastards anywhere near her,” he said.

“Why not?”

“You know.”

“Was she abused?”

He nodded. “Him. Her stepfather. He used to do it to her regularly, and her mother did nothing. Too frightened of losing the miserable bastard. I swear I’ll kill him if I ever see him again. I mean it.”

“You won’t see him, Mark. And you don’t want to go talking about killing anyone. Even in grief. Now, where do they live?”

“Adel.”

“La-di-da,” said Banks. Adel was a wealthy north Leeds suburb with a fine Norman church and a lot of green.

Mark noticed Banks’s surprise. “He’s a doctor,” he said.

“Tina’s stepfather?”

“Uh-huh. That’s how she first got addicted. She used to nick morphine from his surgery when he’d… you know. It helped her get over the shame and the pain. He must have known about it, but he didn’t say anything.”

“Did he know where she lived, on the boat?”

“He knew.”

“Did he ever visit you there?”

“Yes. To try to take Tina back. I wouldn’t let him.”

Mark probably weighed no more than eight or nine stone, but he looked wiry and strong. People like him often made deceptively tough scrappers, Banks knew, because he’d been like that himself at Mark’s age. He was still on the wiry side, despite all the beer and junk food. A matter of metabolism, he supposed. Jim Hatchley, on the other hand, seemed to show every pint he supped right in his gut.

“So Tina’s father knew about you?”

“Yes.”

“When was the last time he paid you a visit?”

“About a week ago.”

“You sure he didn’t come yesterday?”

“I don’t know. I was at work. On the building site. Tina didn’t say anything.”

“Would she have?”

“Maybe. But she was… you know… a bit out of it.”

A little chat with Tina’s stepfather was definitely on the cards. “What’s his name?” Banks asked.

“Aspern,” Mark spat out. “Patrick Aspern.”

“You might as well give me his address.”

Mark gave it to him.

“And stay away,” Banks warned him.

Mark looked sullen, but he said nothing.

“Is there anything else you can tell me about Tom on the next boat? What did he look like?”

“Ordinary, really. Short bloke, barrel-chested. He had long fingers, though. You couldn’t help but notice them. He didn’t shave very often, but he didn’t really have a beard. Didn’t wash his hair much, either.”

“What color was it?”

“Brown. Sort of long and greasy.”

Maybe the victim wasn’t Tom after all. Banks remembered the tufts of red hair that had somehow escaped the flames and made a note to talk to Geoff Hamilton about the discrepancy.

“Did he have any visitors?”

“Just a couple, as far as I know.”

“At the same time?”

“No. Separate. I saw one of them two or three times, the other only once.”

“What did he look like, the one you saw a few times?”

“Hard to say, really. It was always after dark.”

“Try.”

“Well, the only glimpse I got of him was when Tom opened his door and some light came out. He was thin, tallish, maybe six foot or more. A bit stooped.”

“See his face?”

“Not really. I only saw him in the shadows.”

“What about his hair?”

“Short. And dark, I think. Or that could have just been the light.”

“Clothes?”

“Can’t say, really. Maybe jeans and trainers.”

“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

“Dunno. I don’t think so. There was one thing, though.”

“What’s that?”

“He carried one of those big cases. You know, like art students have.”

“An artist’s briefcase?”

“I suppose that’s what you’d call it.”

So if Tom was an artist, Banks thought, then this was probably his dealer or agent. Worth looking into. “When did you last see him?” he asked.

“Yesterday.”

“Yesterday when?”

“Just after dark. I hadn’t been home from work long.”

“How long did he stay?”

“I don’t know. I went back inside before he left. I was having a smoke and Tina doesn’t like me smoking indoors. It was cold.”

“So he could have still been there after you left for the pub?”

“He could’ve been, I suppose. I didn’t hear him leave. We did have the music on, though.”

“What about the other visitor?”

“I can’t really say. It was just the once, maybe two, three weeks ago. It was dark that time, too.”

“Can you remember anything at all about him?”

“Only that he was shorter than the other bloke, and a bit fatter. I mean, not really fat, but not skinny, if you know what I mean.”

“Did you see his face?”

“Only when Tom opened the door. I can tell you his nose was a bit big. And hooked, like an eagle. But I only saw it from the side.”

“Did you ever see any cars parked in the lay-by through the woods?”

“Once or twice.”

“What cars?”

“I remember seeing one of those jeep things. Dark blue.”

“Jeep Cherokee? Range Rover?”

“I don’t know. Just a dark blue jeep. Or black.”

“Anything else?”

“No.”

“But you never saw anyone getting in or out of it?”

“No.”

“Was it there yesterday, when the man came?”

“I didn’t see it, but I didn’t look. I mean, it was dark, I’d have had to have been walking that way. I’d seen it there before when he visited, though. The tall bloke.”

“Can you remember anything else that happened before you went out yesterday?” Banks asked.

“That sad bastard from the lockkeeper’s cottage was round again on his bike.”

“Andrew Hurst? What was he doing here?”

“Same as always. Spying. He thinks I can’t see him in the woods, but I can see him all right.”

Just like we saw you, Banks thought. “Who is he spying on?”

“Dunno. If you ask me, though, he’s after seeing Tina without her clothes on.”

“Why do you say that?”

“The way he ogles her whenever he’s around. He just looks like a perv to me, that’s all, and he’s always lurking, spying. Why else would he do that?”

Good question, Banks thought. And it was interesting that Andrew Hurst had specifically mentioned that he didn’t spy on the people on the boats. He also hadn’t told Banks and Annie about his earlier visit during their conversation that morning. Banks would have to have another chat with the self-styled lockkeeper.

“What’s going to happen to Tina now?” Mark asked.

Banks didn’t want to go into the gory details of the postmortem, so he just said, “We’ll be hanging on to her until we’ve got this sorted.”

“And after? I mean, there’ll be a funeral, won’t there?”

“Of course,” said Banks. “Don’t worry. Nobody’s going to abandon her.”

“Only once we were talking, like you do, and she said when she died she wanted ‘Stolen Car’ played at her funeral. Beth Orton. It was her favorite. She wanted to be a singer.”

“I’m sure that can be arranged. But that’s a while off yet. What are you going to do in the meantime?”

“Find somewhere to live, I suppose.”

“The social will help out. With your clothes and money and accommodation and all. Talking about that, have you got any money?”

“I’ve got about ten quid in my wallet. There was some money we’d saved on the boat, a couple of hundred. But that’s gone now, along with everything else. I’m not a sponger. I’ve got a job. I’m not afraid of hard work.”

Banks remembered what Annie had told him about her interview with Mandy Patterson, about Mark’s dreams. “Someone said you wanted to be a stonemason, do church-restoration work. Is that right?”

Mark looked away, embarrassed. “Well, I don’t have the qualifications, but I’d like to have a go. I just like old churches, that’s all. I’m not religious or anything, so I don’t know why. I just do. They’re beautiful buildings.”

“What about clothes?”

“The clothes you took are all I’ve got,” he said. “Everything else went up with the boat.”

“We’re about the same size,” said Banks. “I can let you have some old jeans and stuff till you get yourself sorted.”

“Thanks,” said Mark, looking down at the red low-cost suspect overalls he had been issued with. “Anything would be better than this.”

“Can you go home for a while? To your parents?”

Mark gave a sharp shake of his head. Again, Banks knew better than to pursue the subject, no matter how curious he was to know what made Mark react in such a frightened manner at the mention of his parents. Same as Tina, most likely. There was too much of it about, and most of it still didn’t get reported.

“What about mates? Someone from the building site, perhaps?”

“I suppose there’s Lenny.”

“Do you know his address?”

“No, but he’s in the George most lunchtimes. Besides, the people at the site know him.”

“Do you think he’d be willing to put you up for a couple of nights until you find a flat, get on your feet again?”

“Maybe. Look, don’t worry about me,” Mark said. “I’ll be all right. I’m used to taking care of myself. Can I go back to my cell now? I didn’t sleep, and I’m dog-tired.”

Banks glanced at his watch. “It’s lunchtime. I hear they do a decent burger and chips.”

Mark stood up. The two of them walked downstairs, where Banks handed Mark over to one of the constables on duty, who would escort him down to the basement custody facilities. Then Banks walked out into the market square and headed for the Queen’s Arms. He fancied a beef burger and chips, too, but he’d have to miss out on his usual lunchtime pint. He was going to Adel to talk to Tina’s parents, and he didn’t want the smell of beer on his breath when he spoke to Dr. Patrick Aspern.