Playing With Fire

Banks arrived at the fire station, put away his CD player and went inside. Two of the firefighters on shift were working on equipment maintenance, another was doing paperwork, and two were playing table te

Banks tapped on Geoff Hamilton’s office door and entered. Hamilton ran his hand across his hair and bade Banks sit down. Certificates hung on the wall, and an old-fashioned fireman’s helmet rested on top of the filing cabinet. Hamilton’s desk was tidy except for the papers he was working on.

“Report to the coroner,” he said, noticing Banks looking at the papers. “What can I do for you?”

“Anything new?”

“Nothing yet.”

“Look, Geoff,” said Banks, “I know you don’t like to commit yourself, but off-the-record, I’d just like to get some sense of motive, whether you think we’re dealing with a serial arsonist here, if we can expect more of this sort of thing. Or might there be some other reason for what’s happening around here?”

Banks noticed a hint of a smile pass over Hamilton’s taciturn features. “And what would your guess be? Off-the-record.”

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m here.”

“You’ve uncovered no links between the victims yet?”

“We’re working on it.”

Hamilton rubbed his eyes. They had dark bags under them, Banks noticed. “What if you don’t find any?”

“Then perhaps we’re dealing with someone who just likes to start fires, and he’s choosing relatively easy targets. Someone with a grudge against down-and-outs.” Andrew Hurst came to Banks’s mind, partly because of the way he seemed to disapprove of the narrow-boat squatters. “But I’m not sure if that’s the case.”

“Why not?” asked Hamilton.

“According to the toxicology results, both Roland Gardiner and Thomas McMahon were dosed with Rohypnol before the fires started.”

“The glasses we found at the scene?”

“Most likely they contained alcohol, into which the drug had been introduced.”

“And the girl?”

“We’re pretty sure that Christine Aspern was high on heroin. Anyway, leaving Tina out of it for the moment, it looks as if both male victims admitted the killer to their homes and probably accepted a drink from him. If he didn’t want to get rid of them for a reason, then he was doing it just for fun. What can you tell me about motivation in cases like this?”

“Fancy a coffee?”

“Wouldn’t mind,” said Banks. He followed Hamilton into the large, well-appointed kitchen, a white-tiled room complete with oven, fridge, microwave and automatic coffeemaker. A cook came in on weekdays and made the firefighters a meal, and the rest of the time they brought their own food or took it in turns to cook.

Hamilton poured the coffees into two large white mugs, adding a heap of sugar to his own, then they went back to his office and sat down. The coffee tasted good to Banks, dark and strong.

“As you know,” Hamilton began, “there are plenty of motives for arson. Probably the most common is sheer spite, or revenge.”

Banks knew this. About ninety percent of the arson cases he had been involved in during his career – including the very worst, the one that haunted him whenever the thought of fire raised its ugly head – arose out of one human being’s disproportionate malice and rage directed toward another.

“These can vary between simple domestic disputes, such as a lover’s quarrel, and problems in the workplace, or racial or religious confrontations.”

“Is there any kind of profile involved in these sort of fires that compares to ours?”

“Well,” said Hamilton, “they can be set by any age group, they’re usually set at night, and they generally involve available combustibles or flammable liquids. Three out of three isn’t bad.”

“Aren’t most fires set at night?”

“Not necessarily, but more often than not, yes.”

“So what other possibilities do we have?”

“There’s always the simple profit motive. You know, insurance frauds, eliminating the competition, that sort of thing. That’s probably the next most common motive. But these weren’t commercial fires.”

“Not the caravan, certainly. It belonged to Gardiner. But I suppose the boats were commercial properties, to some extent,” Banks said. “We’ve traced the owner and I’ll be talking to him tomorrow. Even so, I can see someone burning empty boats for the insurance, but not deliberately drugging Thomas McMahon and setting fire to him in order to do so.”

“Lives are often lost in commercial fires,” Hamilton argued. “Often by accident – the arsonist didn’t know there was anyone in the building – but sometimes deliberately. A nosy night watchman, say.”

“Point taken,” said Banks. “And we’ll try to keep an open mind. What about pyromania as a motive?”

“Well, first of all you should bear in mind that pyromaniacs are extremely rare, and they’re usually between fifteen and twenty.”

“Mark Siddons is twenty-one,” Banks said.

“I wouldn’t rule him out, then. Anyway, they generally use whatever combustible comes to hand. I mean, they don’t plan their fires. And there’s no particular pattern in the kind of places they burn, or even where they strike. They’re impulsive and often act for some sort of sexual gratification. The main problem here is that I can’t see a pyromaniac doping or knocking someone out before starting a fire. They’re usually loners and shun social company. Contrary to rumor, they don’t usually stay at the scene, either. They’ll be long gone by the time the fire brigade arrives. It’s starting the fire gives them their thrill, not watching firefighters put it out.”

“Any chance it was a woman?”

“There are female pyromaniacs,” Hamilton said. “But they’re even rarer. Oddly enough, they usually set their fires in daylight. They also set them fairly close to their own homes, often don’t use accelerant, and they generally start small fires.”

“I suppose we men like to start bigger ones?” said Banks.

“It would seem so.” Hamilton sipped some coffee. “You know, I don’t like to say it, but all these profiles are pretty much… well, I won’t say a load of bollocks, they have been of some use to us on occasion, but they’re pretty vague when you get right down to it.”

“Under twenty-five, loner, bed wetter, harsh family background, absent father, domineering mother, not too bright, problems at school, problems at work, can’t handle relationships.”

“Exactly what I mean. Fits any sociopath you’d care to point out. From all that, you’d think we’d be able to spot them before they strike.”

“Oh, we can,” said Banks. “We just can’t do anything about it until they commit a crime. Anyway, I’m inclined to dismiss the pyromaniac in this case. I mean, from what you’ve seen, would you call these fires impulsive?”

“No. But there are also vanity fires, you know,” Hamilton went on. “Someone wants to draw attention to himself through an act of heroism. Those are the sort of blokes who stick around and watch, or even help out.”

“There weren’t any heroes here, except the firefighters. Andrew Hurst hung around for a while, but he didn’t get close enough to be a hero.”

“What about the boy you found at the scene of the first fire?”

“Mark Siddons?”

“Yes.”

“He hung around because his girlfriend was on one of the boats. His alibi held and his clothing and hands checked out clean. He also didn’t have anywhere nearby he could have gone and cleaned up or changed. All his belongings, including his clothes, perished in the fire. I don’t know, Geoff. I’m inclined to believe his story. Even so, he could have acted out of anger, I suppose, and covered his traces somehow. I just can’t see the girl, Mandy, giving him an alibi if he wasn’t, in fact, there. A