Playing With Fire

Christine Aspern’s body had been in far better shape than Tom McMahon’s. In fact, the skin that had been covered by the sleeping bag was not charred, but pale and waxy, like that of most corpses. It was only her face and hands, where she had suffered second-degree burns, that had been at all blackened or blistered by the fire. The blisters were also a sign, Dr. Glende

Dr. Glende

As in the case of McMahon, Glende

There was always the chance that Da

It was late Saturday afternoon and the duty constables were bringing in a couple of drunken Eastvale United supporters when Banks got to the station. Eastvale was hardly a premier-division team, but that didn’t stop some fans from acting as if they were at a Leeds versus Manchester United match. Banks edged around the wobbly group and headed upstairs to the relative peace of his office, grabbing the handful of completed actions from his pigeonhole on the way. He slipped off his raincoat, kicked the heater to get it started and turned on his radio to a Radio 3 special about Bud Powell on Jazz Line Up.

As he listened to “A Night in Tunisia,” he flipped through the actions and found only one of immediate interest.

According to her ex-employer Sam Prescott, Heather Burnett, the girl from the art supplies shop who had left Thomas McMahon for Jake Harley, had later left Harley himself for an American installation specialist called Nate Ulrich, and they now lived in Palo Alto, California. Well, it had been a long shot in the first place, Banks thought.

Because it was the weekend, things were slow. Banks didn’t expect any preliminary forensic results, including analysis of clothing samples and toxicology, until early Tuesday. He still needed to know who had owned the boats, but as yet DC Templeton hadn’t got very far with his inquiries. There was a good chance he might have to wait until Monday or later to find someone who knew, maybe someone from British Waterways.

Then there was the car to consider, the dark blue Jeep Cherokee, or Range Rover, whatever it was, that had been seen parked in the lay-by nearest the boats. It was probably a waste of time, as there would be so many of them to check out, but Banks issued the actions anyway. He also ordered a survey of all the car-rental agencies in the area. There was a good chance that if someone was out to break the law, he might not want to use his own car when visiting McMahon in case he was spotted. Also, if he knew the roads in the immediate area of the boats, he would know that a Jeep was a much better option than an ordinary car, especially in winter.

Banks had no sooner issued the action than his phone rang.

“Alan, it’s Ken.” DI Ken Blackstone, phoning from Leeds. “We sent a couple of lads over to interview that dealer you mentioned, Benjamin Scott.”

“That was quick. Must be a slow day down there.”

“United’s away this week. Anyway, we leaned on him a bit – seems there were small amounts of suspicious substances in his flat – and he’s got a watertight alibi. He was in Paris with his girlfriend when the fire started.”

“How the other half lives. You’re sure?”

“She verified it, and they showed us used tickets, credit card receipts, gave us the number of the hotel. Want me to phone?”

“No, it’s all right, Ken. It was only a vague possibility. Look, do you happen to know anything about a bloke called Aspern, a Dr. Patrick Aspern?”

“I can’t say I do, not off the top of my head. Why?”

“He’s the dead girl’s stepfather, and her boyfriend’s made a rather serious accusation. There might be something in it. Think you could check around, see if there’s anything on him?”

“Can do.”

“And there’s no need to be too discreet about your inquiries.”

“Understood. Where’s he live?”

“Adel.”

“That’ll be Weetwood station. I know a DI there. I’ll get back to you after the weekend. It’s been a while. How’s things?”

“Not bad,” said Banks.

“Sandra?”

“A distant memory.”

“She’s had the baby?”

“She’s had the baby. Sinéad. Nice of you to ask, Ken. Mother and child are doing fine.”

“Sorry, I didn’t know it was still such a touchy point. Any chance you’ll be down in my neck of the woods again soon?”

“Depends on how the case goes. And what you dig up on Aspern, of course.”

“Well, if you’ve got time, give me a bell. We can go out for a curry and a piss-up. My sofa’s yours anytime. You know that.”

“Thanks, Ken. I’ll likely take you up on that soon. Talk to you later.”

“Bye.”

Banks tapped his ballpoint on the desk. He didn’t really expect anything to come of inquiries into Patrick Aspern. If Mark’s accusation was to be believed, whatever went on was a family matter, in more ways than one, and they might never be able to find any evidence. Frances Aspern knew something, Banks was certain, but she didn’t seem very likely to talk. Whatever the reason, her relationship with Aspern was important to her; she needed him enough to sacrifice her daughter to him, if, indeed, that was what had happened.

Banks did, however, want Aspern to know that the local police were on his case, which was why he had told Ken Blackstone not to worry about discretion. It would be interesting to see how the good doctor reacted to that. He glanced at his watch. Time to get a few more actions issued, have a chat with A

Le

They’d done a fair day’s work when Le