Playing With Fire

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. Glende

Banks knew he was being premature in treating the incident as a double murder before Geoff Hamilton or Dr. Glende

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 ru

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 ru

“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 i

Banks knew of Da