Playing With Fire

“So let’s do it.”

Stefan had already got his hands on a small crowbar – from the police garage, he told Banks – and he proceeded to wedge it in the lock area and exert pressure. Nothing happened. He looked up at Banks. “Any safecrackers down in the cells?”

“I wish,” said Banks. “Keep at it. Fire-resistant or not, the fire must have weakened the lock a bit, at least.”

Stefan kept at it. Still nothing happened. “I think we might have to dynamite it,” he said.

Banks laughed. “Let me have a go.”

Stefan handed him the crowbar and Banks shifted it to the side opposite the lock, where the deep-seated hinges were. It was hard to see exactly what he was doing because of the fire damage, but he thought he had succeeded in inserting the sharp flat end of the crowbar between the body of the safe and the hinged door. Gently at first, he worked the crowbar up and down and managed to get it in another few millimeters. Finally, the first hinge cracked and it was only a matter of time before he broke the second one, too.

“Fireproof, but not Banks-proof,” he said, pulling open the door. He reached into the dark interior. “Looks like something’s there.”

“What is it?” Stefan asked.

Banks pulled out the safe’s contents, wrapped in black plastic bin liner, and placed them on the lab bench. Both men looked down in astonishment. On the table in front of them lay some rolled-up tubes of paper and three bundles of twenty-pound notes, fastened with rubber bands, probably five hundred quid or more in each of them. Banks unfolded the tubes and saw a number of sketches of a castle, and a finished watercolor painting, about eleven by sixteen, of a view along a valley from the castle terrace.

“That’s Hornby Castle,” said Stefan.

“How do you know?”

He glanced sideways at Banks. “I’ve been there. I do a lot of walking. It’s near Kirkby Lonsdale. And this” – he pointed to the watercolor – “is the view from the castle. That’s Ingleborough, one of the Three Peaks. I’ve walked them.”

The Three Peaks walk was a popular one, but it had always seemed just that little bit too eccentric for Banks. Not to mention exhausting. You had to walk more than twenty miles in twelve hours, climbing three bloody great hills – Pen-y-Ghent, Whernside and Ingleborough – as often as not in the pouring rain.

Banks looked at the sketches and the watercolor again. They looked old. There was no signature, but it was obvious enough, even to Banks’s untrained eye, that he was looking at the work of J.M.W. Turner, or a close facsimile.

“Bloody hell,” he said, “I’d better ring A

“I don’t think your boss likes me very much,” Phil Keane said to A

A

“Oh, I don’t know. Just a feeling. Do you think he might be jealous?”

A

“Maybe he’s got designs on you himself?”

“Don’t be silly.” A

“Okay?” he said.

“Fine. Look, Alan and I, we… well…”

Phil looked at her, interested.

“Do I have to spell it out?”

“Of course not,” Phil said. “And I’m sorry for bringing it up. You could have told me sooner, though. It’s not as if I expected you to have lived the life of a nun, you know.”

“You didn’t?”

“Well, I certainly haven’t. The life of a monk, I mean.”

“You haven’t?”

“No.”

“Anyway, it was a while ago.”

“It just surprises me, that’s all.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” Phil said. “I suppose because he doesn’t seem your type.”

“What is my type?”

“I don’t know. He just… what’s he like?”

“What do you mean?”

“What did you like about him?”

“Alan? Well, he’s fun to be with. Most of the time, at any rate. He loves music, likes single malt whiskey, has tolerable taste in films, apart from an unfortunate fondness for action adventure stuff – you know, James Bond, Arnold Schwarzenegger and dreadful macho stuff like that. Which is odd because he’s not really a macho kind of bloke. I mean he’s sensitive, kind, compassionate, and he’s got a good sense of humor.”

“Did you live together?”

A

“What went wrong?”

“I don’t know. It just didn’t work out. Too much baggage. Alan’s recently divorced, and his family’s still on his mind a lot. It just didn’t work out. Oh, we work well together. That’s not a problem. Except…”

“What?”

“Well, you know. Sometimes you can’t help but be aware of your history. It can make things difficult. But it’s manageable. And he’s a good boss. Gives me a lot of freedom. Respects my opinions.”

“About those fires?”

“About anything.”

“And what are your opinions?”

“I don’t have any yet. Early days.”

“You’re not comfortable talking about your work with me, I can see. I’m sorry.”

A

“Not even the tiniest suspicion?”

“I could hardly tell you if I suspected someone, could I?”

“Then you have signed the Official Secrets Act?”

A

“Until your suspect is arrested?”

“Ah, then the rules change, yes. Look, you haven’t told me how long you’re staying up north this time.”

“I don’t know,” said Phil. “It’s fairly quiet at the office, but something could come up and I might get called back.”

“A suspicious Sickert, perhaps? Or a dodgy Degas?”

Phil laughed. “Something like that. Look, do you fancy a weekend in New York?”

“New York!” A

“Yes. Next weekend. Business, mostly, I’m afraid. I’ve a few gallery owners and dealers to meet with. But we could take in a Broadway show, di

“I’m not sure I’d be able to get away next weekend.”

“The case?”

“Yes. And there’s the money…”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. It’s a business trip. On the company.”

“Both of us?”

“Of course. You’d be my security adviser.”

A

“Tell me you’ll at least think about it.”

“I’ll think about it.” A