Playing With Fire

“Was he unconscious?” Banks asked.

“Very likely.”

“So that blow to the head might have been administered prior to the starting of the fire? It might have caused the unconsciousness?”

“Hold your horses.” Dr. Glende

“So he could have been already dead?”

Glende

“And is there any?” Banks asked.

“A little. Right now, we need to dig deeper.” Glende

“Needs to be around you,” said Banks.

Glende

Banks remembered the day he found his old chief constable, Jimmy Riddle, dead in his garage from carbon monoxide poisoning. Suicide. His face had been cherry-red. “How much carbon monoxide does it take to cause death?” he asked.

“Anything over forty percent is likely to cause impaired judgment, unconsciousness and death, but it depends on the person’s state of health. The generally accepted fatal level is fifty percent. All right, Wendy, you can go on now.”

“Yes, Doctor.” Wendy Gauge pulled up the chest flap and took a bone cutter to the rib cage, which she cracked open to expose the i

At that moment, the door opened and Billings appeared from the lab. The scene of carnage being played out on the stainless-steel postmortem table didn’t faze him, but he was clearly terrified of Dr. Glende

Glende

“The short one will do for now.”

“He has a CO level of twenty-eight percent,” Glende

“But not death?”

“Not unless he had some serious respiratory or heart disease. Which we’d know about if we had his medical history. In general terms, though, no, it’s not enough to cause death. And given the levels of soot and particulate matter in the airways, I’d say he was alive, but most likely unconscious, when the fire started, in which case the cause is probably asphyxia caused by smoke inhalation. And don’t forget, there are plenty of other nasty gases released during fires, including ammonia and cyanide. A full analysis will take more time.”

“What about tox screening?”

“Don’t try to tell me my job, laddie,” Dr. Glende

“And dental records?”

“We can certainly get impressions,” said Glende

“There’s a chance he may have been local,” said Banks, “so we’ll start with the Eastvale area.”

“Aye, well, that’s your job.” Glende

Wendy Gauge removed the i

“Well,” said Banks, looking at Hamilton and A

“Isn’t this intimate?” said Maria Phillips, settling into her chair at a dimpled copper-topped table in a quiet corner of the Queen’s Arms. “Go on, then, I’ll be a devil and have a Campari and soda, please.”

Banks hadn’t asked her if she wanted a drink yet, but that didn’t seem to bother Maria as she set her faux fur coat on the chair next to her, patted her bottle-blond curls, then reached into her handbag for her compact and lipstick, with which she busied herself while Banks went to the bar. He had given her a ring at the community center that afternoon and discovered she was working late, which suited him fine. He was glad to be in a friendly pub after the ordeal of the postmortem and wanted nothing more than to be surrounded by ordinary, living people and to flush the taste of death by fire out of his system with a stiff drink or two.

“Evening, Cyril,” he said to the landlord. “Pint of bitter and a large Laphroaig for me and a Campari and soda for the lady, please.”

Cyril raised his eyebrows.

“Don’t ask,” Banks said.

“You know me. The soul of discretion.” Cyril started pulling the beer. “Wouldn’t have said she was your type, though.”

Banks gave him a look.

“Nasty fire down Molesby way.”

“Tell me about it,” said Banks.

“You involved already?”

“From the start. It’s been a long day.”

Cyril looked at the scratch on Banks’s cheek. “You look as if you’ve been in the wars, too,” he said.

Banks put his hand up and touched the scratch. “It’s nothing. Just a disagreement with a sharp twig.”

“Pull the other one,” said Cyril.

“It’s true,” said Banks.

“But you can’t talk about the case, I know.”

“Nothing much to say, even if I could. We don’t know anything yet except two people died. Cheers.” Banks paid and carried the drinks back to the table, where Maria sat expectantly, perfectly manicured hands resting on the table in front of her, scarlet nails as long as a cat’s claws. She was an unfashionably buxom and curvaceous woman in her early thirties, and she would look far more attractive, Banks had always thought, if she got rid of all the war paint and dressed for comfort rather than effect. And the perfume. Especially the perfume. It rolled over him in heavy, acrid waves and soured his beer. He took a sip of Laphroaig and felt it burn pleasantly all the way down. He didn’t usually drink shorts in the Queen’s Arms, but this evening was an exception justified by a particularly nasty postmortem and Maria Phillips both within the space of a couple of hours.

Maria made it clear that she noticed the scratch on Banks’s cheek, but that she wasn’t going to ask about it, not yet. “How’s Sandra doing?” she asked instead. “We do so miss her at the center. Such energy and devotion.”

Banks shrugged. “She’s fine, far as I know.”

“And the baby? It must be very strange for her, becoming a mother all over again. And at her age.”