Playing With Fire

“I’ll be at Le

“I take it you’re not pressing charges?”

“What?”

“Police brutality.”

Mark fingered his bruises and gri

“There’s a constable outside,” said Banks. “He’ll take you back down to the custody suite and get you sorted.”

“Thanks.”

“And, Mark?”

“Yes?”

“When you were arrested you had over two hundred pounds in your pocket, but when you first left here you only had about ten. Where did you get the rest?”

“Found it,” said Mark, and nipped out of the door quickly.

There was more to it than that, Banks was convinced, but it didn’t concern him now. No doubt there had been a problem with someone who had given him a lift, and Mark had probably nicked his wallet in the scuffle. That the theft hadn’t been reported made Banks lean in favor of Mark’s garbled explanation that he’d been assaulted by the man, who needed police attention like he needed a hole in the head. Call the two hundred “damages,” then, and have done with it.

He watched the restorers at work for a few moments, thinking about the kind of life Mark had been living at home, in the squat and on the boat, and what the future might hold for him. It had to be better than the past. His phone rang.

“Alan, it’s Ken Blackstone.”

“Good to hear from you. Any news on the doctor?”

“Nothing you’d be interested in hearing, I’m afraid. Clean bill of health, even down to the scrupulously up-to-date shotgun certificate.”

“He’s got a shotgun?”

“Likes to shoot small winged creatures with like-minded people.”

“It takes all sorts. No rumors, gossip?”

“No. Seems he’s a capable doctor. Not much of a bedside ma

“What’s that?” Banks asked.

“One of the neighbors saw a black woman coming out of his house carrying a plastic bag on Monday morning. She thought it might be drugs.”

Banks laughed. “That would have been our very own DC Winsome Jackman with Dr. Aspern’s clothing for testing. Which came out negative, as expected, by the way.”

“Well, at least he’s been getting wind there’s something going on,” Blackstone said. “Already put a complaint in to Weetwood about harassment, and he gave one of his neighbors a right chewing out after he saw her talking to one of our men.”

“Good,” said Banks. “Let’s hope it keeps him off balance.”

“Have you thought, Alan, that maybe he hasn’t actually done anything?”

“There’s something there. Trust me.”

“Instinct?”

“Call it what you will: body language, unspoken communication, but there’s something there. The girl was screwed up, and why should she lie to Mark?”

“Junkies lie habitually. You know that as well as I do. And maybe the boyfriend has his own reasons for believing her.”

“I’ve thought of that. We did a background check on him, and it’s true he had it rough at home. I still think there’s something going on, though. And if I get any proof, I’ll have the bastard.”

“The fires?”

“Possible. But I don’t think so. He did something to Tina, though. I’m certain of it.”

“Well, best of luck, mate. Want me to keep trying?”

“No, it’s okay. Thanks, Ken.”

“Cheers. And don’t forget, if you’re down in my neck of the woods, that sofa’s always there for you.”

“I won’t forget.”

Banks stood at his window after the phone call thinking and looking out at the people in raincoats down in the market square. He was certain that Dr. Patrick Aspern had sexually abused his stepdaughter, and that his wife knew about it. But he had no proof. Nor did he seem to have much hope of getting any now that Tina was dead. Her death was convenient for Aspern, but Banks was almost certain he hadn’t started the fire on the boats. That had something to do with Thomas McMahon, he was convinced of it. Tina was incidental, maybe an unwanted witness. Which made the killer an especially nasty piece of work.

Thoughts of McMahon brought Banks back to Phil Keane and his little lie. He would have to contrive to have a chat with Phil without A

It felt good to be wearing his own clothes again, Mark thought, as he headed out of Western Area Headquarters for the second time in a week. The old leather jacket felt like a second skin. And it was good to be free again. His face and body still ached from the beating the Scarborough cops had given him, for “resisting arrest,” but, just as he had suspected, Clive hadn’t reported the hitchhiking incident, and the police had no reason to keep him in custody.

And he still had over two hundred quid in his pocket.

Mark crossed the market square, anonymous among the crowd of shoppers and the occasional out-of-season tourist. He hadn’t a clue where to go, but he knew he wasn’t going back to Le

Across the square, he turned left for a short way on York Road and went into the Swainsdale Centre. When he was at Eastvale Comprehensive and wanted to put off going home after school, he had often hung around the center with his mates, not doing anything, just loitering and smoking, sometimes looking in Dixon’s windows at the fancy computers and stereos he couldn’t afford. Well, there had been an occasional bit of shoplifting, he remembered, but that was as bad as the gang got. Sometimes, too, he had spent the day there instead of going to school at all.

The center wasn’t very busy; it never was on a Wednesday morning. Just a few young women pushing prams, and kids skiving off school, the way Mark had done. On the upper level, at the top of the escalator opposite HMV, was a food court, and Mark bought himself a Big Mac, fries and a Coke and sat at one of the Formica-topped tables to eat. There was something about a shopping center that numbed your brain, Mark thought. Something to do with the weird lighting and the barely audible music. Maybe it hypnotized you into buying things. Well, there was nothing Mark wanted, except maybe a new CD. He’d grown tired of Ziggy Stardust over the past few days, and it was the only one he had left. Maybe he’d get something by Beth Orton in memory of Tina. He’d probably need new batteries soon, so he might as well pick some up in Dixon’s.

As he sat there munching on his Big Mac, lulled by the bland ambience of the Swainsdale Centre, watching the people who seemed to float around him as insubstantial as ghosts or shadows to the faint, pale music of an orchestral version of “Eleanor Rigby,” Mark mulled over the past few days. The fire had occurred on Thursday night, and it was now the following Wednesday. Had it really only been such a short time since Tina had died and Mark had had his adventures on the road? He’d also been assaulted by a queer, been in and out of jail twice, beaten up by the police and spent the most luxurious evening of his life in a B and B in Helmsley. And there was still a chance that someone out there was after him, wanted him dead.