Playing With Fire

“But you didn’t see what he looked like.”

“No, I’m only going on the way he walked. It can tell you more than you think, you know, sometimes, the way a man walks. They do say when you’re in the cities to walk as if you know where you’re going, no-nonsense and all, and you’re less likely to get mugged. That sort of walk.”

“Which direction did he take?”

“Toward the car park off the lane, behind the caravan. It’s quite handy, really. There’s some waterfalls across Je

It was the area of easiest access to the caravan. The SOCOs had taped it off and would be searching come daylight. “Did you see him drive away?”

“I’m afraid not. The exit’s on the lane behind the field, behind Roland’s caravan. It’s hidden by the trees and a wall. I must admit, though, I was a little curious, as I hadn’t seen or heard of a visitor to Roland’s place before.”

“Did you ever see a dark-colored Jeep in the area?”

“No. Sorry.”

“Thanks anyway,” Banks said. “Did you ask Mr. Gardiner about his visitor?”

“Yes, but he just tapped the side of his nose. Said it was an old friend. You know,” Mellor said, swirling the remains of the brandy in his glass, “when I first got to know Roland, I worried about him a lot.”

“Why is that?”

“He seemed prey to fits of depression. Sometimes he wouldn’t leave the caravan for days, not even to come here. When he did come and you asked him if he was all right, he’d shrug it off and say something about taking the ‘black dog’ for a walk.”

Black dog. Winston Churchill’s term for the depression that hounded him all his life. “Do you think he might have been suicidal?”

Mellor thought for a moment. “There were times,” he said. “Yes. I worried he might do himself harm.”

Fire wasn’t a common method of suicide, Banks knew. The last case he’d come across was of a man chaining himself to the steering wheel of his car, pouring petrol all around and setting it alight. He’d left the windows closed, though, and there wasn’t enough oxygen in the interior of the car for a fire to take hold, so when the brief flames had consumed it all, the man died of asphyxiation, with hardly a mark on him. Still, Banks had to consider every possibility. “Do you think he might have done this himself?” he asked Mellor.

“Start the fire? Good Lord, no. Roland wouldn’t do anything irresponsible like that. Someone else might have got hurt. One of the firemen, for example. And it would certainly be a painful way to go. No. He had some strong pills from the doctor, he told me once. Sleeping pills. I don’t know what they were called. Apparently he had terrible trouble sleeping. Nightmares and so on. If he was going to go, that was the way he would have done it.”

Black dog. Nightmares. Roland Gardiner certainly sounded like a troubled man. Was it all down to him losing his job and his wife leaving him, or were there other reasons?

“Besides,” Mellor went on, “things had been looking up for him recently.”

Banks glanced at A

“Yes. He seemed a lot more cheerful, a lot more optimistic.”

“Did he say why?”

“Just that he’d met an old friend.”

“What old friend?”

“He didn’t elaborate on it. Like I said, Roland was a secretive sort of chap.”

“The same old friend who visited him at the caravan?”

“Might have been. It was about the same time.”

“Last summer?”

“Yes.”

“When was the last time you saw Roland?”

Mellor thought for a moment. “Last Wednesday, I think it was. He lent me a book.”

“What book was that?”

“Just a history book. We were both interested in Victorian England.”

Banks stood up. “Thanks very much, Mr. Mellor. You’ve been a great help. Need a ride home?”

“Thank you. Normally I’d walk, but it’s late, cold, and I’ve had a bit of a shock. You’ve got room for Sandy, too?”

“Of course. No trouble.”

A

“Christ, I hate fires,” said Banks.

“Why? Have you ever been in one?”

“No, but I have nightmares about it.” He massaged his temples. “Once, way back when I was on the Met, I got called to an arson scene. Terraced house in Hammersmith. Some sort of arranged marriage gone wrong and the offended family pours petrol through the letter box of the other lot.” He paused. “Nine people died in that fire. Nine people. Most of the time you couldn’t tell the bodies from the debris, except for one bloke who still had a boiling red blister on his skull. And the smell… Jesus. But you know what stuck in my mind most?”

“Tell me,” said A

“It was this little girl. She looked as if she was kneeling by her bed with her hands clasped, saying her prayers. Burned to a crisp, but still there, stuck forever in that same position. Praying.” Banks shook his head.

A

“Anyway,” Banks went on, shaking off the memory. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know what to think, really. I’ve got to admit it seems to be stretching coincidence to have two similar fires so close together. But where’s the link?”

“That’s what we have to find out,” said Banks. “Unless we’re dealing with a pyromaniac, a serial arsonist who likes starting fires in out-of-the-way places, then there is a co

“I’ll follow you.”

“Okay. It’s late, but I want to set a few things in motion while they’re fresh in mind. For a start, I want to know about Mark Siddons’s and Andrew Hurst’s alibis for tonight. And Leslie Whitaker’s. I’m not at all certain about him yet. Then we’ll have to track down Gardiner’s ex-wife. And let’s not forget Dr. Patrick Aspern, Tina’s stepfather.”

“Surely you can’t think he had anything to do with all this?”

“I don’t know, A

A

“And I want to put a rush on toxicology, too. These people didn’t just lie down and let themselves be burned.”

“Alan?”

“Yes?”

“I was talking to a friend of mine earlier, a chap called Philip Keane. He operates a private art authentication company, the one that was involved in the Turner find up here last July. I think he might be able to help, at least as far as the art angle is concerned. I’m sure he’d be happy to have a chat with you.”

Banks looked at her. He knew she was seeing someone, but not his name. Was he the one? Was this why she had dressed up specially tonight and put a little extra makeup on? The timing was right, and he knew she’d helped the local gallery out with security for the brief period the Turner was housed there. “Did he know McMahon?”