Playing with Fire (30 page)

It was hard to think with his brain so numb, but there was something very wrong with the picture he was seeing. What did he think he was trying to achieve? Did he have any control over his life at all? He'd run away from Lenny's more because of echoes of his past than anything else, but had it all happened because he'd been trying to force himself in the wrong direction in the first place?

He had been thinking about putting his life back together. Getting back to work on the building site. Living with Lenny and Sal. Making things normal again. But could they ever be normal again? When he thought about it, he really didn't think so. And what on earth did he think he was up to, running off to Scarborough? It was the same thing, when you got right down to it. A new start. A job. A place to live. The normal life.

But with Tina gone, nothing could ever be normal again. He felt that as he sat there in the Swainsdale Centre staring into space.

And all the things he had been aiming for, trying to do—the job, Lenny's, Scarborough—they weren't
meant
to be. That was clear now. They weren't meant to be because there was somewhere he had to go before he could get his own life sorted. Something he had to do. For Tina.

 

In the Queen's Arms that lunchtime, Banks, Annie and Winsome managed to bag a corner table near the window. As
usual, one or two heads turned at the sight of Winsome, but Banks could tell she was used to it. She had a model's carriage and managed to handle all the attention with mild amusement and disdain.

“Lunch is on me,” Banks said.

Annie raised her eyebrows. “Last of the big spenders.” She looked at Winsome, who smiled, but Banks sensed less humor in the remark than Winsome had. Annie was still pissed off with him over Phil, even though she'd got her way in the end.

Banks wasn't very hungry, but he ordered chicken in a basket anyway, while Annie went for a salad and Winsome for a beefburger and chips. That settled, drinks in front of them, they got down to business, and Annie first told Banks about the visit to “Captain” Kirk's garage and the trail leading to the mysterious William Masefield in Studley.

“And there's no doubt this Masefield is dead?” Banks asked, after he'd digested what she had told him.

Annie glanced at Winsome. “None at all,” she said. “We checked with the pathologist who conducted the postmortem. Getting hold of him was one of the reasons it took us so long down there. We had to stay over. He couldn't see us until early this morning. Anyway, Masefield had no living relatives, so DNA was useless, but he was identified by dental records.”

“So someone stole his identity?”

“Looks that way,” Annie said. “And whoever did it simply had Masefield's post redirected.”

“Where to?”

“A post office box in central Birmingham.”

“I see,” said Banks. “And the credit card company had no way of knowing about this?”

Annie shook her head. “All they cared about was that the bills were paid on time. It's a common-enough form of identity fraud.”

“He used a bank account in Masefield's name?”

“Yes. And he paid all his bills from Masefield's bank account over the Internet, so no signed checks. There'll be a trail, but these things are complicated.”

“We'll get computers on it,” said Banks. “Why did no one in the post office spot what was going on?”

“Why should they?” said Annie. “Whoever arranged for the redirected post went to a busy central office, presented the right sort of identification and signed the forms. Whoever it was must have resembled Masefield enough and been able to forge his signature. Easy. And all aboveboard, as far as the post office was concerned. I mean, they're careful, they have their precautions, but the whole thing's pretty routine. Most clerks probably don't even examine the documentation closely.”

“Are we certain it's the same car?”

“Well,” said Annie, “the tire impressions are identical to those found on the lay-by near the boats. The SOCOs also managed to find a few soil and gravel samples, and they've gone to the lab for further analysis.”

“Good.”

“But there is one small problem.”

“Oh?”

“The petrol in the Cherokee's tank matches the petrol from the garage—it's Texaco, by the way—but
not
the petrol used to start the Gardiner fire. That's Esso.”

“Interesting,” said Banks. “Maybe he used his own car, for some reason?”

“I suppose that's possible,” Annie agreed.

“Anyway, whatever the explanation, forensics can tie the Jeep Cherokee that this ‘Masefield'rented to the scene of the boat fires, right?”

“Yes.”

“Thank heaven for small mercies. We're still in business, then.”

Jenna, the young girl who worked in the kitchen, brought their food. Winsome was the only one who ate with a vengeance. Banks glanced at her. “I hope you didn't run up your expenses too high in the hotel restaurant last night,” he said.

“No, sir,” said Winsome. “We ate at McDonald's.”

Banks looked at Annie. “It's true,” she said. “And you can imagine what delights they had for a vegetarian like me. I told you we were busy. All we had time for before bed was a couple of drinks in the hotel bar.”

“And those two good-looking businessmen bought us the second round, didn't they, Guv?” Winsome added.

“Yes,” said Annie. “Connor and Marcus. So you needn't worry about our expenses, skinflint.” She picked at her salad.

“It's ACC McLaughlin gets his underpants in a knot over things like that,” Banks said. “Not me. Did you find out anything else about Masefield while you were down there?”

Annie and Winsome exchanged glances and Annie said, “A few things. We asked around about him—neighbors, coworkers at the university—but nobody seemed to know very much.”

“And the fire?”

“Chip pan. There was no accelerant and no reason to treat it as suspicious at the time. The only thing even remotely interesting was that one of the other lecturers at the university where Masefield worked said he'd recently lost some money in a bad investment. I also got the impression that he was in a bit of trouble at the university over his drinking, that he might have stood to lose his job. But you know what academics are like when it comes to giving out information.”

“A bit like us,” Banks said.

“Anyway, there was a lot of alcohol in his system. The general assumption in the fire investigator's office was that he'd passed out and left the chip pan on. It happens often enough, especially with alcoholics and drug addicts. You
come home pissed or high, put the frying pan on, pop another couple of pills or take another stiff drink, and the next thing you know…”

“No traces of Rohypnol or Tuinal?”

“No. Just alcohol.”

“So it could have been an accident?”

“Yes.”

“And someone, a colleague, friend, whatever, could have taken advantage of Masefield's demise and stolen his identity?”

“Or helped him along a bit. I mean, nobody saw anyone, but that doesn't mean whoever did it didn't leave Masefield passed out on the sofa with the chip pan on full heat.”

“True,” Banks agreed. “Did anyone have any ideas at all about exactly who might have taken Masefield's identity?”

“Unfortunately not,” said Annie. “Nobody knew who he hung around with, if anyone. Apparently, he wasn't the gregarious type. If he did have any friends, he kept them a secret from his colleagues and neighbors.”

“What about this bad investment? Who did he make it with? Was he swindled?”

“Don't know, sir,” said Winsome. “That was all his colleague could tell us.”

Banks sighed. He knew they could get a forensic accountant to look into Masefield's finances and a computer expert to track down the Internet banking records, but that would all take time. There would no doubt be all kinds of false trails and blind alleys. As it stood right now, they still didn't have very much to go on. The first big lead, the rented Jeep Cherokee, had led them to a dead end. Or so it seemed at the moment.

“How did ‘Masefield' get to Kirk's garage?” Banks asked.

“I assume he took a bus,” said Annie. “They run in a constant loop from Askham Bar to the city center.”

“So he traveled to York by train?”

“Or by bus.”

“What if he didn't?” Winsome said.

“Didn't what?” Banks asked.

“Take a train or a bus, sir. Maybe he's local. What if he
drove
to the garage? I mean, if he only wanted to use a rental car so that his own car wasn't spotted by the canal, or by Jennings Field, for whatever reason, then he probably has a car of his own, too.”

“Well,” said Annie, “there are plenty of residential streets around there where he could leave a car for a few days without attracting too much attention.”

“Except he might have got unlucky,” Winsome said.

“The Son of Sam,” Banks said.

Winsome smiled. “Yes, sir.”

“A parking ticket?” Annie said. “Isn't that how the Son of Sam got caught?”

“Yes,” said Winsome. “It's possible, isn't it, Guv?”

“It would certainly be a lucky break for us,” Annie said.

“It'll probably take a day or two,” Banks said, “but it's worth checking. Can you get the numbers of all cars ticketed in the area on the dates in question and feed them into HOLMES, see if anything comes up?”

“Can do,” said Winsome. “We don't exactly have a lot of number plates to cross-reference on this one, but I'll see what I can do. There might be something on the CCTV cameras, too. They're all over the place these days.”

“Good,” said Banks. “Definitely worth checking.” He finished his chicken and left the chips, then drank some beer and leaned back in his chair. “This still doesn't let Whitaker off the hook,” he said. “Even though it seems now that it wasn't his Jeep Cherokee at the scene of the boat fires.”

“We'll check the petrol in his car against the accelerant used at the Gardiner scene. That might tell us something. And if we can dig out any connection, however remote, between Whitaker and Masefield…”

“Maybe,” said Banks. “Anything new on those Turners?” he asked Annie, as casually as he could manage.

Her tone hardened. Pure professional. “Phil couldn't say at first glance for certain whether they were forged or genuine,” she said. “Not without a more comprehensive examination. But he did say they
looked
genuine, the style and the paper, that sort of thing.”

“Which means they could be very good forgeries?”

“Yes,” Annie agreed.

“I've heard that McMahon was a good copyist,” Banks said. “Apparently he didn't have much original talent, but he did have a gift for reproducing the work of others.”

“Where did you find this out?” Annie asked.

“From someone who knew him,” Banks said.

“What next?”

“I'm going to Leeds.”

“What for?”

“I want to visit Tina's grandparents. I rang them earlier, and they agreed to talk to me. They might be able to tell me something about Tina's relationship with Patrick Aspern.”

“Surely you don't think they
knew
what was going on, and that even if they did they'll tell you?”

“Give me some credit. I'm not that stupid, Annie. I just want to sound out their feelings, that's all.”

Annie shrugged.

“What?” said Banks.

“Nothing.”

“Come on. Out with it.”

“It's just that I'm not sure the girl has anything to do with all this.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Aspern's clothes came out clean, didn't they?”

“Yes,” said Banks. “That's the problem. So did everybody else's.”

“To be honest, Guv,” Winsome said, “he could have given
me any old clothes. I don't know what he was wearing that night.”

Annie gave Banks a hard look. “We don't have any evidence against Patrick Aspern at all,” she said. “I think you're going off on some sort of personal crusade against the man.”

“So all of a sudden you're SIO on this case, are you?” Banks shot back.

Annie's mouth closed to a tight, white line. Winsome looked away, embarrassed. Banks wondered if Annie had told her all about the row they'd had over Phil Keane's involvement in the case. Maybe after a couple of drinks in the hotel bar last night.

He immediately regretted his sarcastic remark, but it was too late to take it back. Instead, he bade Annie and Winsome a curt good-bye and left the pub.

 

One thing Banks hadn't told Annie was that he was intending to stop off at Phil Keane's cottage on his way to Leeds. Well, it wasn't exactly on his way, but he thought it was worth the diversion.

Puddles from yesterday's rain spread out from the gutters and sent up sheets of spray as Banks drove just a little too fast into Fortford. Still annoyed with himself for his outburst over lunch, he parked on the cobbles in front of the shops by the village green and headed toward the cottage. Maybe Annie was right and he
was
on some sort of personal crusade against Patrick Aspern. But so what? Someone had to bring the arrogant bastard down.

Across the street, on top of a grassy mound, stood the excavated ruins of a Roman fort. What a bitter, lonely and dangerous outpost it must have been back in Emperor Domitian's time, Banks thought. Wild country all around and enemies everywhere.

It was another mild day, vague haze in the air, and per
haps a hint of more rain to come. Banks had no idea whether Keane would be at home or not, but it was worth a try. The silver BMW parked in the narrow drive beside the cottage was a good sign. It was 51 registration, Banks noticed, which meant that it had been registered with the Driver and Vehicle Licensing Agency—the DVLA—between September 2001 and February 2002. A pretty recent model, then, and not inexpensive. How much exactly did an art researcher make?