Playing With Fire

Chapter 5

Danny Boy Corcoran lived in a small flat off South Market Street, on the fringes of the student area. He had once been a business student at Eastvale College, but he had discovered a more lucrative career in selling drugs and dropped out before finishing his diploma. His flat had been under surveillance all night, and Danny and his girlfriend hadn’t arrived home until eight in the morning, so Banks and Annie had the advantage. Banks felt surprisingly well rested after his early night, and even Annie looked and sounded more cheerful than she had in days. The cold still lingered, Banks could tell, by her red nose and the occasional sneeze, but it was on the wane.

Danny Boy, on the other hand, looked like crap. He had clearly just gone to bed and was wearing only a red sweatshirt with a Montego Bay logo and Y-fronts, his scrawny hairy legs sticking out below. Danny was a wannabe bad-boy Jamaican drug dealer, but unfortunately for him, in reality he had been born to white middle-class parents in Blandford Forum. His dreadlocked hair stuck out in all directions, and his bloodless face seemed paler than a vampire’s in a time of famine. “Can we come in, Danny?” Banks asked, as they showed their warrant cards.

“Why? Whaddya want?”

“I’ll tell you if you let us come in.”

Danny’s lanky frame still blocked the doorway. “Gorrawarrant?”

“We don’t need one. We just want to talk.”

A figure appeared behind Danny, framed by his outstretched arm and the doorpost, similarly thin, and pale enough to make her flesh-toned bra and panties look like a suntan. Banks could see she had goose bumps on her arms. And needle marks. “Danny, who is it? Tell them to go away and come back to bed.”

“Fuck off, Nadia,” Danny said without turning around. “It’s business.”

Nadia made a face at his back, turned and shambled away.

“Look, I don’t know what you’ve come here disturbing my rest for,” he said. “I’ve not done anything wrong.”

“Spare us the poor, wronged-youth act, Danny. You spent last night peddling your wares in the pubs on York Road and South Market Street, then you ended up at a party on the East Side Estate.”

Danny first looked puzzled, then affronted. “You’ve been watching me?”

“Someone else has. I wouldn’t waste my time. Listen, Danny, how about if I tell you we’re not drugs squad and this isn’t about drugs? Not really. We don’t have to search the flat, but we can if you like.”

“Look, you told me…”

“I told you what, Danny?”

“Never mind.”

“I’ve never spoken to you before in my life,” Banks said, gently easing Danny’s arm out of the way and walking into the flat. The living room was a mess, with clothes and CD cases strewn around the place, but at least it was clean and didn’t smell of smoke, or worse. There was a big poster of Bob Marley smoking a spliff on one wall, probably the closest Danny Boy had ever got to Jamaica, and a few sad-looking potted plants on the windowsill, none of them marijuana.

“Just a few questions, Danny, that’s all.”

“I’ve always cooperated with you in the past, haven’t I?”

“Like I said, I’ve never clapped eyes on you before in my life, but I’m sure your conduct has been exemplary,” Banks said. “Let’s keep it that way. Perhaps you might answer one or two little questions? Mind if we sit down?”

Danny looked suspicious, as well he might, and nodded toward two winged armchairs. He scratched his head. “You’re not going to trick me, you know,” he said. “I wasn’t born yesterday.”

“No,” said Annie, making herself comfortable. “You were born on the ninth of August, 1982. We know that. We know plenty about you, Danny.”

Danny was still standing, hopping from foot to foot. “Look,” he said, “it’s cold. Can I put the fire on and get dressed?”

“Course you can,” said Banks. “It is a bit nippy in here.”

Danny turned on the gas fire and headed to the bedroom to get dressed. Banks followed him. “What you doing?” Danny asked.

“Just routine,” said Banks. “We’ve sort of developed a habit of not letting suspects out of our sight.”

“Suspect? You said this wasn’t about drugs.”

“Get dressed, Danny.”

Nadia lay in bed in the half-dark with the sheets and blanket pulled right up to her chin. “What’s going on, Danny?” she asked in a whiny voice. “Come back to bed. Please.”

“Go to sleep, Nadia. This won’t take long.” Danny pulled on a pair of jeans.

“What were you wearing on Thursday night?” Banks asked.

“Thursday? Dunno. Why?”

“I’d like to see.”

“Whatever it was, it’ll likely still be in the laundry basket over there. Nadia takes care of all that shit.” He glared over at Nadia. “When she can be bothered.”

“Oh, Danny…”

The laundry basket was only half full. “Got a plastic bag, Danny?” Banks asked. “A bit bigger than the ones you use for the stuff you sell.”

“Very funny.” Danny reached into the wardrobe and found a bin liner. “This do?”

“Nicely.” Banks filled it with the clothes from the laundry basket, then followed Danny back into the living room, which was warming up a treat now.

When they had all sat down, Banks asked, “Did you hear about the boat fire just south of town?”

“I might have heard something in the pub last night. Why?”

“Two people died in that fire,” said Annie.

“That’s a tragedy, but it’s nothing to do with me.”

“You think not?” Annie took a folder from her briefcase and opened it on her knees. “We have a statement here from a young lad called Mark Siddons to the effect that you supplied him with heroin for his girlfriend, Tina Aspern. What do you have to say about that, Danny?”

Danny looked mystified. “Look, you know I do people little favors like that once in a while. Like I do for you. You know I’m not some big-time drug dealer. I don’t understand this. What’s going on? You say you’re not drugs squad. You said this wasn’t about drugs.”

“It isn’t, Danny,” Banks explained. “Not exactly. I think I know what you’ve been trying to say. You’re not sure about us, about DI Cabbot and me, so you’re being very shy about it, but you’ve got a nice little deal going with the drugs squad, haven’t you? In exchange for information about the big guys from time to time, they leave you alone. You’ve got protection. You’re immune. It’s a dangerous game, Danny. Those big guys always seem to find out where the leak is in the end, and they’re not forgiving types. But that’s your business. I’m sure you know the risks already. Thing is, you’re not immune from me and DI Cabbot here. We’ve got nothing to do with the drugs squad. We’re Major Crimes. What we’re concerned about is the fire. It’s murder we’re investigating, Danny. That’s why we want your clothes. Arson, not drugs. Unless there’s a connection?”

“That fire was nothing to do with me. I wasn’t even near the place. Nadia and me was down in Leeds till yesterday evening.”

“Picking up more smack to sell this weekend?”

Danny scratched one of his underarms. “Seeing some friends.”

“Getting the itch, are you?” Banks asked.

“You don’t think I use that shit myself, do you?”

“Look,” Annie said, “did you supply Mark Siddons with heroin for his girlfriend Tina Aspern?”

“I don’t know who it was, do I? Wait a minute.” He looked from one to the other. “There was nothing wrong with that shit. Nobody overdosed on that stuff. It was well cut.”

“So you did?”

“Where’s this going?”

Annie looked at Banks and raised her eyebrows. Banks took over. “It’s serious, Danny,” he said. “You see, Tina Aspern was one of the people who died in that boat fire.”

“I didn’t know that. I mean, I hardly even knew her. Poor kid.”

“But if you supplied the heroin, Danny… You see, if she hadn’t been under the influence, she might have survived.”

“You’re not sticking me with that. No way.” He folded his arms.

“It’s a matter of culpability, Danny,” said Banks, stretching the truth and the law quite a bit. “See, if you sold her that stuff and it resulted in her death, even indirectly, then you’re responsible. You don’t think we’d bring you in just for selling a bag here and there, do you? This is serious business, Danny. Serious jail time.”

“That’s a load of bollocks and you know it,” said Danny. “You must think I’m stupid, or something. I didn’t make her shoot the stuff. I didn’t even sell it to her. It was him who bought it from me, the boyfriend. He probably stuck the needle in her, too. How does that make me guilty of anything?”

“It’s the law.”

“Yeah, well, we’ll wait to hear what my brief has to say about that, won’t we?” He picked up a mobile phone from the coffee table. Before he could dial a number, Banks slapped it out of his hand and it bounced on the hardwood floor into the corner by the stereo.

“Hey, if you’ve broken that…” Danny started to rise from his chair but Banks leaned forward, put his hand on the boy’s chest and pushed him back. “I haven’t finished yet.”

“Now, you wait-”

“No. You wait a minute, Danny. Hear me out. What happened? Did Mark and Tina rip you off, or did you figure they had more money stashed away on the boat and you’d go over there and help yourself while they were on the nod? You weren’t to know Mark wasn’t a user.”

“I never-”

“Did you go down there last night while Tina was stoned and steal the money? Did the man from the next boat see you? Did you get into a scuffle and knock him out? What made you think of the fire, Danny? Was it the bottle of turpentine just sitting there, so inviting? It was very clever of you, by the way, leading us to think the other bloke was the victim. Very clever.”

Danny just sat there shaking his head, jaw open.

“Or maybe it was one of the big guys who found out about your deal with the drugs squad? Was that it? A warning to you, Danny? ‘You’ll be next’?”

Banks knew he was winging it, just throwing out the line and hoping for a bite, and the farther he went, the more he could see that he wasn’t going to get one. Danny Boy Corcoran hadn’t been near the boats; he hadn’t killed Tina Aspern or Thomas McMahon. All he’d done was what he usually did, sell a few quids’ worth of low-grade smack to weekend thrill-seekers and, in this case, the boyfriend of a more serious addict. But there was still a chance that he might know something.

“What kind of car do you drive?” Banks asked.

“Red Mondeo. Why?”

“Ever heard of an artist called Thomas McMahon? He lived on the next boat.”

“I’ve never been down there. I don’t like water.”

“You didn’t sell McMahon heroin, too?”

“No way.”

“How did Mark and Tina find you in the first place?”

“It’s not difficult, if you want what they wanted. Word of mouth usually works just fine. Anyway, as it happens, there’s this mate in Leeds, said they’re all right.”

That was what Mark had told him, Banks remembered. “What’s his name?”

“Come off it!”

“His name,” Annie said. “If you don’t tell us, Mark Siddons will. His girlfriend’s been killed, remember?”

Danny looked from Annie to Banks, then down at the floor. “Benjamin Scott,” he whispered. “And don’t tell him I told you. He can be a nasty piece of work, can Benjy.” Danny clutched his stomach. “My guts hurt. Are you nearly finished?”

“Address?” Annie asked.

Danny gave her an address in Gipton. Banks would phone DI Ken Blackstone at Millgarth in Leeds and ask him to check out Mr. Benjamin Scott.

“One more thing, Danny,” Banks said as they stood up to leave.

“What?”

“As of now, you’re out of business.”

“What do you mean?”

“You heard.”

“You can’t-”

“I can do what I want, Danny. And I will. Let me put it simply: I don’t like drug dealers. You’ll be watched. Not by me, and not by the drugs squad, but by people I trust. And if anyone sees you dealing smack again you’ll be pulled in before your feet can touch the ground. Got it?”

“I don’t-”

“And if that doesn’t work, pretty soon Benjy and his friends will find out you’ve been two-timing them with the drugs squad. Is that clear enough?”

Danny paled.

“Is it?” Banks pressed.

Danny swallowed and nodded.

At that moment, Nadia walked in again and stood over Danny, rubbing her pale thin arms. “Danny,” she said, “please hurry up. I need something. I need it bad.”

Danny rolled his eyes. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Banks and Annie left with their bag of laundry.

Mark signed for his belongings: money, penknife, keys and the portable CD player he’d stuck in his pocket with an old David Bowie CD in it, the only CD he had left now. He liked Bowie; the man never stood still long enough for anyone to pigeonhole him; he was always changing, moving on. Ziggy Stardust. The Thin White Duke. Maybe Mark would be like that now. When Tina was around, there had been someone worth working for, worth settling down with. But now… what was the point in going on without her?

“What about my clothes?” he asked.

“Not back from the lab yet,” said the custody officer.

“But they’ve done the tests. They’ve proved I didn’t set the fire. It’s cold out there. I’ll need my jacket.”

“It’s the weekend. These things take time. Try coming back next week. In the meantime…” Withobvious disapproval, the officer brought out a carrier bag from under the desk and handed it over to Mark. “DCI Banks said to give you this.” He gestured with his thumb. “You can change in there.”

Mark went into the room they used for fingerprinting and photographing suspects and took off his red overalls. Banks’s jeans fitted him okay around the waist, but they were a bit long, so he rolled up the bottoms. The sleeves of the old three-quarter-length suede overcoat with the worn fleece lining were also too long, and it was hardly top of the line as far as youth fashion was concerned. Still, it looked warm enough, and it was decent of the copper to remember his promise, Mark thought.

This was all he had now, what he was wearing, borrowed as it was, and what had been in his pockets. He didn’t even have any cigarettes left, and given how expensive they were, he probably shouldn’t go spending what little money he had left on them. So this was it, then. Oh, there was stuff back at home, of course, if Crazy Nick hadn’t destroyed it all. Old clothes, toys, some CDs. But he’d never be going back there. Certainly not now his mum had died of lung cancer, as his Auntie Grace had told him, and there was only Crazy Nick left.

At last he walked through the front doors of the police station to freedom, though it was a freedom blighted by loss and uncertainty. To be honest, Mark wouldn’t have complained if they’d locked him up for a bit longer. He’d been warm and well-fed in the nick, and no one had mistreated him. Outside, in the gray Tina-less world, who knew what lay ahead?

A couple of passersby edged around him and looked down their noses, as if they knew exactly where he’d just come from. Well, sod them, he thought, taking a deep breath of cool air. Sod them all.

The copper, Banks, had just come out of the Golden Griddle and was walking across Market Street toward him. “Mark,” he said. “How do they fit?”

“All right,” said Mark. “They’ll do for now. I mean, thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Just a quick word.”

“What?”

“It might be nothing,” Banks said, “but I’ve been thinking about the fire, the way it was spread to your boat.”

“And?”

“Well, I don’t want to alarm you, but it might have been a sort of shot across the bows, so to speak, a warning shot.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe whoever did it didn’t know whether you could identify him or not. Maybe he didn’t even know Tina was there, but he was just sending you a message.”

“What message?”

“Not to say anything, or else.”

“But I don’t know anything.”

“Are you sure, Mark? Are you certain you didn’t get a better look at Tom’s visitors?”

“No. I told you the truth.”

“All right,” said Banks. “I believe you. Like I said, I don’t want to alarm you, but if he thinks you know who he is, you could be in danger. Go carefully. Keep your eyes open.”

“I can take care of myself,” said Mark.

“Good,” said Banks. “I’m glad to hear it. Just watch your back, that’s all.” He gave Mark a card. “And here’s my number if you think of anything. Mobile, too.”

Mark took the card and Banks disappeared inside the police station.

It was market day and the canvas-covered stalls were all set up in the cobbled square, chock-a-block with cheap clothes, car accessories, washing-up liquid, batteries, the cheese van, the butcher, the greengrocer, crockery, cutlery, toys, used books and videos. The older cloth-capped, waxed-jacketed punters milled around with the younger leather-and denim crowd, fingering the goods while barkers shouted out the virtues of their unbreakable tableware or infallible electric bottle openers.

There was nothing Mark wanted at the market, so he set off down the street, hands thrust deep in his pockets, head down, thinking about what Banks had just told him. He’d never realized that he might be in danger. Now, though, he looked at everyone with a keener eye, though he didn’t really know whom he was looking for. Still, if what Banks had said was right, and if the killer did believe that Mark might have seen him, then he’d better watch himself.

Mark felt something in one of the pockets of Banks’s suede overcoat. He pulled it out. A packet of Silk Cut, with two left, and a disposable lighter. What a piece of luck. Mark lit up. At least he had a fag, old and dry as it tasted.

He went through the other pockets to see if Banks had left any money, but all he found was a couple of old parking stubs and a note with “Schoenberg – Gurrelieder – del Mar/Sinopoli” written on it, which meant bugger all to him. Mark had always admitted he wasn’t much when it came to the brains department. He was a hard worker, good with his hands, and he’d tackle anything within reason, but when it came to brains and spelling, leave him out of it. The copper must be a brainy fellow if he’d written that, Mark thought. It didn’t even look like English. Maybe it was somewhere he went on his holidays. Mark had never been abroad, but he’d probably do that one day, too, he thought. Somewhere really weird like Mongolia. Ulan Bator. He’d seen it on a map in the squat and liked the sound of it. Ulan Bator. See, he wasn’t so stupid after all.

He put the headphones over his ears and turned on the CD player as he made his way among the Saturday-morning shoppers on South Market Street. Bowie came on singing “Five Years,” one of Mark’s favorites. It was nice to have real music again, better than that fucking drunk singing “Your Cheatin’ Heart.” Even so, he felt numb and aimless, as if the music were coming down a long tube from far away. Everything had seemed like that since he knew Tina was dead. He was going through the motions, but really he wasn’t going anywhere.

After walking for about half an hour, Mark arrived at the construction site. The outside of the new gym complex was mostly completed, but there was a lot to be done inside – laying the floors, drywalling, fixtures and fittings, plumbing, electrics, painting – and it could all be done in winter, even if the weather was bad. The door was open and Mark went in. Things weren’t going full-tilt because it was a Saturday, but a lot of blokes worked weekends – Saturdays, at any rate, to get their jobs done by the deadline.

Inside, the place had the smell of newness about it. Not paint, because that hadn’t been applied yet, but just a melange of various things, from new-cut wood to the slightly damp cardboard boxes that things came in, to the sawdust that scattered the floors. Mark used to like the smell, the way he liked the smell of cut stone, but he couldn’t say why, only that it sparked something instinctive in him, something beyond words, beyond brains. There was a music to all the activity, too, a unity. Not David Bowie’s music, but hammers, drills and electric saws. To some it was noise, but to Mark it used to have pattern and meaning, the pattern and meaning of something being made. A symphony. It made him feel the same way as the music of the sea, which formed the background of some of his only happy childhood memories. He thought he must have been there when he was very young with his mother, before the drinking, before Crazy Nick. He thought it was Scarborough, had a vague memory of the castle on the hill, the waves crashing over the promenade. But he couldn’t remember for certain. None of it mattered now, anyway.

Lenny Knox was a subcontractor, a big, burly Liverpudlian with a face like red sandpaper, who usually worked every day God sent until the job was done. Sure enough, he was having a smoke by what were to be the showers and locker rooms when Mark came over. Vinnie Daly, one of his other workmates, put down his spanner when he saw Mark.

“Where you been, mate?” Lenny asked. “We was worried sick when we heard about the fire, weren’t we, Vinnie? They wouldn’t say on the news who got hurt, like. You all right?”

“I’m all right,” said Mark. “Police took me in, didn’t they? Kept me overnight.”

“The bastards.”

“It wasn’t so bad.”

“What about your young lass?”

Mark looked down at the unfinished floor. “She’s dead, Lenny.”

“Oh, no,” said Lenny, touching Mark on the shoulder. “Poor wee devil. I’m sorry, son, really I am. She were a nice lass.”

Mark looked at him, holding back the tears. “I wasn’t there, Lenny. I wasn’t there for her.”

“It’s not your fault, what happened. Look, if you need somewhere to kip, you know, for a couple of days, like, I’m sure my Sal won’t mind.”

“You sure, Lenny? ’Cos I’ve got nowhere else to go right now.”

“Yeah, it’s okay. Look, you don’t want to be here today. Take yourself off, if you like, and come round to ours later.”

“No. I want to work. What else would I do? Where would I go? Besides, it’ll take my mind off things for a while at least. And I need the money.” The last was certainly true, but whether work would take his mind off his problems, Mark didn’t know. How could anything stop him from thinking about Tina?

Lenny looked down at him. “Of course,” he said. “Of course. Right. Look, why don’t you pick up those showerheads over there and come with me.”

Late Saturday morning, after warning Mark Siddons and setting a slowly recovering DS Hatchley the task of digging into the boy’s background, Banks headed for Adel again. Maria Phillips, true to her word, had left him the catalog and the names of three local artists whose openings Thomas McMahon had attended in Eastvale over the past five years. Unfortunately, there was no photograph of McMahon in the catalog. Apparently, people were not particularly interested in what artists looked like unless they painted self-portraits.

Banks wanted another crack at Dr. Patrick Aspern, without his wife present this time, if possible, and with the gloves off. Aspern wasn’t off his suspect list yet, not by a long chalk.

As Banks drove, he listened to Bob Dylan singing about being in Mississippi for a day too long and thought he knew the feeling. Not so much being in Yorkshire too long – he was still happy there – but staying with something or someone until long after you should have left, let go, when it all falls to pieces and the real damage gets done.

He pulled up outside the Tudor-style house, and this time Patrick Aspern himself answered the door, casually dressed in gray trousers, white shirt and a mauve V-neck sweater. He looked as if he was dressed for a round of golf, and he probably was. Banks suspected there would be no surgery on weekends.

“My wife’s lying down,” said Dr. Aspern, clearly surprised to see Banks back so soon. “This has all been a great shock to her, you know, especially seeing Christine, the state the body was in. If only she’d listened to me, at least she might have been spared that.”

“A shock to you, too, I should imagine?” said Banks. “I mean, Christine’s death.”

“Yes, of course. But we men realize we have to get on with our jobs, don’t we? Can’t afford to dwell on our emotions the way women do. Anyway, I can’t imagine how I can help you, but do come in.”

Banks followed him into the same room he had been in the previous day. The clock ticking on the mantelpiece was the only sound.

“Have you found anything out yet?” Aspern asked.

“Not much, I’m afraid,” said Banks. “We do know that the man on the other boat was an artist called Thomas McMahon, and that he was most likely the intended victim. Have you ever met him or heard of him?”

“McMahon? Can’t say as I have.”

“I’d like to talk to you about Mark Siddons a bit more,” Banks said.

Aspern’s expression darkened. “If anyone’s responsible for what happened to Christine, it’s him,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about it. If he’d been with her, as he should have been, she’d be alive today. He knew she was ill, for crying out loud, knew she needed taking care of.”

“I thought you didn’t like the idea of their being together?”

“That’s not the point. If he was supposed to be with her, he should have been there. He knew she wasn’t capable of looking after herself properly. Where was he, anyway?”

Banks was damned if he was going to tell Patrick Aspern that Mark had been in bed with Mandy Patterson at the time of the fire. “His alibi’s been checked,” was all he said. “I take it your surgery is attached to the house?”

Aspern looked surprised by the abrupt change of subject. “Yes. Actually, it was two houses knocked into one. I know it’s rather old-fashioned, but people around here like it. It’s so much more civilized than some anonymous clinic. That’s one of the reasons we bought the houses in the first place.”

“Pretty expensive proposition.”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but Fran’s father helped us out.”

“I see. Very nice of him. Anyway, what I’m getting at is that Christine could have had access to drugs here, couldn’t she? They were in the house, after all.”

Aspern crossed his legs and tugged at the crease of his trousers. “As I told you last time, I keep everything in my surgery under lock and key. The surgery itself is also securely locked when I’m not there.”

“Yes, but presumably the keys are somewhere around?”

“On my key chain. In my pocket.”

“So they’re always with you?”

“Well, almost always. I mean… not when I’m asleep or in the bath…”

“So Christine could have got access, for example, while you were asleep, or out somewhere?”

“I’d have my keys with me if I was out.”

“But there is a possibility, isn’t there? She could even have had copies made.”

“I suppose there’s the possibility. But it didn’t happen.”

“Did you ever notice any drugs missing from your surgery? Specifically morphine?”

“No. And, believe me, I would have noticed.”

“Didn’t you ever notice anything unusual about Christine’s behavior while she was living at home?”

“No, not particularly. She seemed tired, listless, spent a lot of time alone, in bed. You know teenagers. They seem to need sixteen hours’ sleep a day. To be honest, I didn’t even see that much of her.”

“But you’re a doctor. You’re trained to spot signs other people might miss.”

Aspern gave a grim smile. “We’re not infallible, you know, despite what some people think.”

“So you had no idea that Christine was taking drugs?”

“None at all. Like I said, she was a teenager. Teenagers are surly and uncommunicative, whether they’re on drugs or not.”

“What about her eyes? Didn’t you notice dilated pupils?”

“I might have done, but I wouldn’t necessarily jump to the conclusion that my stepdaughter is a drug addict. Would you?”

Banks wondered. What would he think if he noticed those signs in Tracy or Brian? As a policeman, he had certainly been trained to look for them. But if he challenged either of his children and the explanation was innocent, such a challenge could cause irreparable damage to their relationship. They’d never trust him again. On the other hand, if he were right… Fortunately, he had never been put to the test. Brian played in a rock band, so he was probably the one with the best access to drugs. Banks didn’t doubt that his son had tried marijuana, perhaps even Ecstasy. Banks could live with that. Maybe Brian had also taken the odd upper on the road to stay awake. But nothing stronger, surely? Not heroin. And Tracy? No, she was far too sensible and conventional, wasn’t she?

“Didn’t you ever notice needle marks on her arms?” Banks paused. “Or in other places, perhaps?”

Aspern stared at him. His expression was hard to read: cold but quizzical. “That’s a strange question,” he said finally. “If I had, then I would have known what was going on. I said I didn’t know, ergo I can’t have noticed anything.”

“I suppose she must have worn long-sleeved tops,” Banks said.

Aspern got up, walked over and leaned on the mantelpiece by the watercolor of AdelWoods. He looked as if he were posing for a photograph. “Indeed she must have,” he said. “Look, I understand you have your job to do and all that, and I think I’ve been more than patient with you. But I’ve just lost my stepdaughter, and I’m beginning to get a very suspicious feeling about this conversation. If this artist on the other boat was the intended victim, why are you asking so many questions about Christine? She was merely an innocent bystander.”

“Oh, nothing’s obvious yet,” Banks said. “It’s still early days. Believe me, we’re gathering as much information as we can about Thomas McMahon, but we have to follow every lead we have and avoid jumping to conclusions. I said it looked as if Christine wasn’t the intended victim, but criminals can be very clever at misdirecting investigations, especially if they’ve had a chance to think out and plan their crimes ahead of time.”

“You think that’s how this happened? It was planned?”

“It’s beginning to look that way to me.”

“I still don’t understand why you’re questioning me this way. You can’t think I had anything to do with it, surely?”

“Where were you on Thursday night?”

Aspern laughed. “I don’t believe this.”

“Humor me.”

“I was here, of course. With my wife. Just like I told you the last time you asked.”

“Nobody else? No dinner guests?”

“No. We ate by ourselves, then we watched television. It was a quiet evening at home.”

“What time did you go to bed?”

“Eleven o’clock, as usual.”

“You always go to bed at eleven o’clock?”

“Weeknights, yes. We sometimes stay up a bit later at weekends, or we may go to the opera, dine with friends. Believe it or not, my job can be rather tiring, and I do need my wits about me.”

“Of course. Wouldn’t want the hand that holds the needle to be shaking, would we?” Banks was wondering how he could get around to Mark’s accusation that Aspern had sexually abused Christine. If there was an easy way, he couldn’t think of it. He decided to jump right in. “Mark Siddons had something else to say about Christine,” he said.

“Oh?”

“He said that one of the reasons she left home was that you were sexually abusing her.”

At least Aspern didn’t act outraged, Banks noticed. He seemed to take the accusation calmly and consider it. “And you believe him?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then why mention it, especially at a time like this? Can’t you see how upsetting an accusation like that can be to a grieving relative, however groundless?”

Banks stood up and looked Aspern in the eye. “Dr. Aspern, this is a murder investigation. We might not know exactly who the intended victim was, or victims were, but we do know that two people died. One of them was your stepdaughter. Now, I’m very sorry for your loss, but as you said earlier, we men have to get on with our jobs, don’t we? That’s what I’m doing. And anything that I think might be relevant to the investigation, I ask questions about. That’s not unreasonable, is it?”

“Put that way,” Aspern said, “I suppose not.”

“So will you answer my question?”

“It’s hardly worth dignifying with a denial.”

Banks looked into his eyes. “Try anyway.”

“Very well. The accusation is absurd. I never touched my stepdaughter. Will that do?”

He was lying, Banks knew it. In that instant, he knew that Tina and Mark Siddons had been telling the truth. But who would believe him? And how could it be proved? What could he do about it?

So intent was he on registering his awareness of Patrick Aspern’s body language and facial signals that he didn’t notice the figure in the doorway until she spoke.

“What is it?” Frances Aspern asked, her face still soft and puffy from sleep. “What’s going on?”

They both turned to face her. Patrick Aspern looked at his wife and said, “It’s nothing, darling. Just a few more questions, that’s all.”

The look that passed between them said more than enough.