Playing with Fire (5 page)

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 ciga
rettes. 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 mu
sic. 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 watch
ing 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.”