Playing With Fire

“Yes,” said Karen. “Three times it was the Jeep, and twice we had to substitute a Ford Explorer.”

“Did that cause a problem with the customer?”

“Not that I remember. He just wanted the same type of vehicle.”

“Did you deal with this customer yourself?”

“Not every time.”

“I did, twice,” said Nick. “And Sylvia did once.”

“First off,” said A

Karen went to the filing cabinet by her desk, flipped through the folders for a few seconds and pulled one out. Then she reeled off a string of dates in September, October, November and December, ending with the previous weekend.

“When did he take it out?” A

“Thursday morning.”

“And when did he return it?”

“Saturday morning.”

So he had the Cherokee before the narrow-boats fire, but he took it back before the Roland Gardiner fire. A

“Ever any problems when he brought it back?”

“No. It was always in excellent condition.”

“Did he return it full or empty?”

“Empty. It costs a bit more, but it saves the customer having to search for a garage himself.”

“You fill the cars here?”

“Yes. Of course.”

That was a piece of luck, A

“What’s the customer’s name?”

“Masefield. William Masefield.”

“What did he look like?”

“Ordinary, really.”

“Let’s see if we can improve on that, shall we?” said A

“Any closed-circuit TV here?” A

“Only out back, where the cars are,” said Karen. “And it’s only turned on at night, when no one’s here. Otherwise we’d be changing the tapes every five minutes.”

Too bad, A

“No,” said Karen.

“How did he pay?”

“Credit card.”

“Can you give me the details?”

Karen quickly made a photocopy of William Masefield’s file and passed it to A

“Did he have any sort of accent at all?” she asked.

“Just ordinary,” said Karen.

“What do you mean? What’s ordinary? Yorkshire? Birmingham?”

“Sort of no accent, really. But nice. Educated.”

A

Stefan poked his head around the door and A

“Any luck?” she asked.

“It looks like the same vehicle,” he said. “The measurements are the same, as are the tires, and there’s some distinctive cross-hatching on the casts we took from the lay-by that appear to match this specific Jeep Cherokee. Mike’s still working on it, and we’ll be taking soil and gravel samples, but I thought I’d give you the breaking news.”

“That’s great,” A

“There’s only one problem,” Stefan said.

“Oh?”

“It’s been thoroughly cleaned, inside and out.”

A

“Shit,” said A

“Most likely not,” Stefan agreed. “Though we can certainly take it in and try. We might pick up a print or a hair the cleaners missed.”

“Wait a minute,” said Karen. “What do you mean, ‘take it in’? Take it where?”

“To the police garage,” A

“But you can’t take the Jeep. It’s booked.”

“Mr. Masefield again?”

“No. But they’re good customers. Regular.”

“It’s evidence,” said A

“But the captain will-”

“Don’t worry, Karen,” said A

“Commander Burgess? Well, bugger me!”

“Watch it with the vile language, Banks. And why such surprise?”

“The last time I saw you, you were a detective superintendent in National Criminal Intelligence. I thought they’d put you out to pasture for good.”

“Things change. I’m resilient, me.”

Not only that, Banks remembered, but “Dirty Dick” Burgess had been sent somewhere he could do little harm because he was accused of dragging his feet over a sensitive race-related investigation. The two had known each other for many years, and their relationship had changed significantly over the course of time. At first they had been like chalk and cheese: Burgess brash, right-wing, racist, sexist, cutting corners to get results; Banks trying his damnedest to remain a liberal humanist in a heartbreaking job, in demoralizing times. Now Banks cut more corners and Burgess toed the line more closely. They both came from a working-class background, and both had worked their way up the hard way, through the streets. Burgess was the son of an East End barrow boy. He had thrived in the Thatcher years, lain low during John Major’s reign, and now he was thriving again in the Blair era. It just went to show what Banks had always believed; there wasn’t much difference between Thatcher and Blair except for gender, and sometimes he wasn’t too sure about that.

They were about the same age, too, and had managed to find a certain amount of common ground over the years. It was fragile ground, though, thin ice over a quagmire. Banks had phoned Burgess from the train, with an idea in mind, and Burgess had suggested that Banks buy him lunch. Thus they stood at the bar of a crowded pub near the Old Bailey, washing down the curry of the day with flat lager and rubbing elbows with barristers, clients and clerks. At least Burgess hadn’t changed in one respect; he still drank like a fish and smoked Tom Thumb cigars.

What had changed most, though, was his appearance. Gone were the silver pony tail and the scuffed leather jacket; in their place a shaved head and a dark blue suit, white shirt and paisley tie. Shiny shoes. Burgess had also put on a few pounds, and his complexion was pink, the nose a little redder and more bulbous. The world-weary, seen-it-all look in his eyes had been replaced by one of mild surprise and curiosity.