Playing With Fire

But there were other matters to consider. Banks would have liked to know why Andrew Hurst had washed his clothes in the middle of the night, for a start. As things stood, it just didn’t make sense. DC Kevin Templeton was checking into Hurst’s background, along with everyone else’s, so maybe he would turn up something.

Then there were the Turner, the money, and the possible criminal activities of McMahon and Gardiner. Well, perhaps a closer look at Leslie Whitaker’s business dealings would help turn up something there.

Banks sat in his office and browsed through reports and actions, a CD of Soile Isokoski singing Richard Strauss’s orchestral songs playing in the background. Just when he was about to wander out for a coffee break, his phone rang. It was the front desk. Someone to see the man in charge of the fires on the boats. Someone called Le

Puzzled, Banks asked the duty officer to have him escorted upstairs, and he appeared at Banks’s door, a burly, pockmarked, red-faced fellow, a couple of minutes later.

“Sit down,” Banks said.

Knox sat. The chair creaked under his weight.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Knox?” Banks asked, leaning back and linking his hands behind his head.

“I’m worried about Mark, Mark Siddons,” said Knox, traces of a Liverpool accent in his voice.

“Maybe you’d better start at the begi

Knox sighed. “Mark’s a good kid. A pal of mine. He’s a good grafter, too. Doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty. We were doing a job together at the college – you know about that?”

Banks nodded. He knew about Mark’s job.

“Anyway,” Knox went on, “when you let him out of jail, the poor kid had nowhere to go, and he’d just lost his girlfriend, so I invited him home with me.”

“That was a kind gesture,” Banks said.

Knox looked at him and sighed. “It was meant to be. Backfired, though, didn’t it?”

“How?”

“You’ve got to understand, Sal’s a good girl, really, but she’s… well, she doesn’t like to feel put-upon. Likes to think she’s part of things, decisions and suchlike. And she likes things pla

“Sounds reasonable.”

“Anyway, it was my fault. I brought Mark home with me, told him he could stay without even consulting her. She hit the roof. Mark must have heard us arguing in the kitchen, and the next thing I knew he’d legged it. I yelled after him but he didn’t pay it any mind.”

Banks reached for his notepad. “When did this happen?” he asked.

“Saturday evening.”

“What time?”

“About half past seven.”

“Which direction did he go?”

“Toward the railway tracks.”

Banks tapped his pencil on his pad. Je

“Did Mark say anything to you about the fires?”

“Like what?”

“Anything at all.”

“No. Only that he was cut up about Tina.”

“He didn’t voice any suspicions, any ideas about what happened?”

“Not to me, no. Look,” said Knox, going on to echo Banks’s own fears, “I’m not the sort to go blabbing to the police, which is why I didn’t come straight here, but I’m worried about Mark. I thought he might have got in touch, but he hasn’t, and there’s no one else to report him missing. Like I said, at bottom of it all he’s a good kid. Not like some you see around these days. And he’s had it tough. He doesn’t have any money, and he’s got nowhere to go. You can bet he’ll be sleeping rough. I know it’s not exactly brass-monkey weather right now, but it’s still bloody cold to be sleeping out in the open. And things can change pretty quickly up here.”

“Too true,” said Banks. And if Mark himself wasn’t responsible for the boat fires, there was a good chance that whoever was wanted him out of the way. So he was out in the cold, possibly being hunted. Definitely not an ideal state of affairs. “Is there anything else?”

“No,” said Le

“What was Mark wearing?”

“A ratty old suede coat, fleece-lined, and jeans rolled up at the bottoms. Looked like hand-me-downs.”

Banks smiled at the description of the clothes he’d given Mark: his own cast-offs. “We’ll put out a bulletin for him.”

“Don’t frighten him, will you?” said Le

“We’ll do our best, Mr. Knox,” said Banks. “The important thing is to find him. I don’t suppose you have a photograph?”

“Me? No. Didn’t you take one when you had him in?”

“We don’t do that as a matter of routine, Mr. Knox. We need a reason, and permission. In Mark’s case, it simply wasn’t necessary.”

Knox stood up. “Right, then,” he said. “You’ll let me know?”

“Give me your telephone number. I’ll see to it personally.”

Knox gave him the number. “Thanks,” he said.

When Knox had left, Banks walked over to his window. The CD had come to the Four Last Songs now, Banks’s favorites. He remembered an occasion some years ago, before everything went wrong, when he had arrived home very late after attending the scene of a teenage girl’s murder in an Eastvale cemetery. He had sat up smoking, drinking Laphroaig and listening to the Four Last Songs, Gundula Janowitz’s version that time, and his daughter, Tracy, had woken up and come down to see what was wrong. They had talked briefly – Banks deliberately not telling her about the murder – then they had shared mugs of cocoa as they cuddled up on the sofa and listened to the Strauss songs. It was a moment forever etched in his memory, all the more so because it could never be repeated. Tracy was gone now, grown up, living her own life. Sandra was gone, too. And Brian.

The day was still gray but fairly warm outside. Lucky for Mark. There were plenty of people crossing the market square, shopping along Market Street and York Road. The church facade was covered in scaffolding, like an exoskeleton, and the weather was good enough for the restorers to get up there and work away at the ancient stonework and lead roofing. He thought of Mark, who had said he wanted to do church restoration work. Banks knew Neville Lauder, the stonemason in charge of the project, from the Queen’s Arms. Maybe he could put in a word. He had to maintain his objectivity, though. Much as he thought Le

“Got a minute, sir?”

Banks looked up. DS Hatchley. “Come in, Jim,” he said. “How you doing?”

“Not too badly, thanks.” Jim Hatchley sat down and ran his hand over his untidy straw-colored hair. He still looked tired, Banks thought, with bags under his eyes and puffy, blotchy skin. Still, not only was he just recovering from a nasty bout of flu, but his youngest was teething. Having babies would do that to you. Would Sandra lose sleep? he wondered. She had looked good when he last saw her, but that could change when little Sinéad started teething.

“What is it?” Banks asked. “Anything on Whitaker’s alibi?”

“Checks out so far,” Hatchley said. “But it’s early days yet. Anyway, that other job you asked me to do. Mark David Siddons.”