Playing With Fire

“I just waited.”

“Where?”

“By the gate.”

“You didn’t approach the caravan?”

Mellor sniffed and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I knew there was nothing I could do by then,” he said. “Just watch it burn. I felt so useless. The firemen were very fast getting here.”

“It’s all right, Mr. Mellor,” Banks assured him. “Nobody could have done anything by then.” Geoff Hamilton had said the fire would have taken less than half an hour to do the damage it did, and it was well under way by the time Mellor saw it. That would mean that it had probably been set between about eight forty-five and nine o’clock. “Did you see anyone in the area?” he asked.

“Nobody.”

“Nobody passed you on the road?”

“No. I didn’t see a soul. Never do at that time of night.”

“Any cars?”

“One or two. We get a fair bit of traffic, especially on a Saturday night. It’s the main road between Eastvale and Thirsk.”

“Remember anything about them?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Anything suspicious or unusual happen?”

“No.”

Banks took a sip of fiery brandy. His knees were getting hot from the fire, and he noticed A

“Roland? Not much. He was rather a reserved sort of man.”

“But you drank with him regularly?”

“Well, neither of us is a big drinker. We’d pass the time of evening over a couple of halves, maybe.”

“How often?”

“Two or three times a week. Though sometimes I didn’t see him for days.”

“Did he ever say where he was on those occasions?”

“No.”

“But the two of you must have talked quite a bit?”

“Oh, yes. Current events. Politics. Sports. That sort of thing. Roland was very well informed.”

“Did he ever tell you anything about himself?”

“A little, I suppose. It’s…”

“Mr. Mellor,” Banks said, sensing some sort of generic regard for the confidences of a dead friend, “it looks very much as if Mr. Gardiner is dead. And anything you tell us would be in the strictest confidence, of course.”

“What do you mean, it looks as if Roland is dead? Is he or isn’t he?”

“There was a body found inside the caravan,” Banks said carefully. “It’s dead. Unfortunately, we haven’t been able to identify it yet, so we’re being cautious. Can you think of anyone else who might have been in the caravan?”

Mellor shook his head. “No. Roland valued his privacy, and he lived alone, like me.”

“Then we’re assuming it’s him, just between you and me, but we can’t make any official statement until there’s been a positive identification. Right now, anything you can tell us will be a great help. What did he look like?”

“Nothing to write home about, really. I suppose he was about five foot seven or eight, a little overweight.” He patted his belly. “Not quite as much as me, though. Receding hair, a touch of gray here and there. Hooked nose. Not really big, but hooked. Pale blue eyes.”

Mark Siddons had seen a man with a hooked nose visiting Tom McMahon’s boat on one occasion, Banks remembered. “How old was he?”

“Early-to-mid-forties, I’d say.”

“Go on.”

“That’s about it, really. Dressed casually most of the time. At least, I never saw him in a suit. Just jeans and a cotton shirt. Soft spoken. Polite. Didn’t laugh much.”

“Did he have any living relatives?”

“Not that I know of. He never talked about his family. I think his parents are dead, and he never mentioned any brothers or sisters.”

“Was he married?”

“Well, you see, that’s just it, that’s the problem,” said Mellor. “Roland was divorced. About two years ago, just around the time he came to Je

“What happened?”

“He lost his job, and his wife walked out on him. Another man. All he had left were the caravan and the car, the way he told me, and he drove around until he found somewhere he could stay, and he’s been there ever since.”

“How did he survive?”

“He was on the social.”

“Was he from around these parts?”

“Yes. Not broad-spoken, though, but as if he’d traveled a bit. You know, spent time down south or abroad.”

“What happened to the car?”

“Roland just left it there, where he’d parked his caravan. He said he’d no use for it. He’d given up on life. He didn’t want to go anywhere. In the end it just fell apart.”

“How long ago?”

“Maybe a year or so.”

“Where is it now?”

“Hauled away for scrap metal and spare parts.”

“Do you know what Mr. Gardiner did for a living?”

“Yes. He worked for a small office supplies company.”

“What happened?”

“Competition got too big and too fierce. They couldn’t afford the kind of discounts and delivery the big boys were offering, so they started cutting costs. Roland was quite bitter about it.”

“Do you know where he lived when he was with his wife?”

“They lived in Eastvale, down on that new Daleside Estate. I’m sorry, but he never told me the actual address.”

“I know it,” said Banks. The Daleside Estate was a mix of council and private housing built on the site of the old Gallows View Fields on the western edge of town. There had been a short debate in council over the name of the place, some suggesting they stick with Gallows View for historical purposes, others arguing that it would put off potential buyers. In the end, progress won out, and it became officially “Daleside,” but most Eastvalers still called it the Gallows View Estate. It was the area where Banks had worked on his first case in Eastvale, although he felt no sentimental attachment. The old row of cottages and the corner shop had all been demolished now to make way for the newer houses.

“Is she still there?”

“He never said otherwise. I assume she stayed on in the house.”

A

“How did he feel about his wife?” Banks asked.

“I got the impression that he’d had a hard time supporting her taste for exotic holidays abroad and creature comforts as much as anything else. Then, when he loses his job, she chucks him and walks out. Talk about kicking a bloke while he’s down.”

“Yes, I suppose I’d feel pretty bitter about that myself,” said Banks. It certainly gave Gardiner a good motive for killing his wife, but that was not what had happened.

A

“Did she ever visit him at the caravan?” Banks asked.

“Not that I know of. He never said.”

“Were they actually divorced, or just separated?” Banks was wondering whether the ex-Mrs. Gardiner needed her husband permanently out of the way for some reason.

“He said divorced. In fact, I saw him the day he told me the decree came through and he got quite maudlin at first, then angry. He had a bit too much to drink that night, I remember.”

There went one theory. “Did he ever have any visitors at all?”

“He never spoke of any, and I can’t see the caravan from my cottage. I do remember seeing someone leaving the place once while I was walking down the lane, but that’s all.”

“When was this?”

“Few months ago. Summer.”

“A man or a woman?”

“A man.”

“What did he look like?”

“Too far away to see, and he was walking away from me.”

“Tall or short, black or white?”

Mellor raised his eyebrows. “White. And maybe a bit taller than you. Not a big man, though. Carried himself well.”