Playing With Fire

“At last,” said Dirty Dick. “I’ve been leaving messages for you in Eastvale all bloody morning.”

“Bit of a crisis up here,” said Banks, giving a brief explanation of his night and morning. “Anyway, what have you got?”

“Not much, I’m afraid. Business aboveboard. Solo operation. No partner. No employees. Philip Keane is a well-respected and popular member of the art community. Judgment valued, pals with all the movers and shakers, dealers, collectors, gallery owners, that sort of thing. Not exactly Anthony Blunt, but you get the picture.”

“Blunt?” said Banks. “Why mention him? Wasn’t he a spy, along with Philby, Burgess and MacLean? The fourth man?”

“Yes,” said Burgess, “but he was also surveyor of the Queen’s Pictures and director of the Courtauld Institute.”

“Of course,” said Banks. “Yes, I remember. Interesting. A master of the art of deception. Anything else?”

“Nothing. Philip Keane has lived a completely blameless life. At least for the past four years.”

“Four years? And before that?”

“There’s the glitch. Before that, there’s nothing. Nada. Zilch. Bupkis.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that he appeared fully formed on the scene four years ago, like Athena from the head of Zeus. And if you’re thinking of teasing me about classical analogies, Banksy, don’t. I got a first in classics at Oxford.”

“Bollocks,” said Banks. “Go on, though. You’ve got me interested.”

“Like I said, there’s nothing else to tell. The trail stops there. It’s as if Keane didn’t exist until four years ago.”

“He must have been born, for a start.”

“Oh, well, if you’d like me to send a team down to Saint Catherine’s House… Or perhaps I should go myself? Shouldn’t take long. Let me see, unusual name that, Philip Keane. I suppose you’ve got the details of his date and place of birth?”

“All right,” said Banks. “I get the point. Give it a rest. Maybe Keane studied and worked in museums and galleries abroad. Maybe that’s where he was before.”

“Maybe he did, and we can certainly check that, too, given time and resources. How official do you want this to be?”

Banks thought for a moment. He didn’t want it to be official at all just yet. Not unless he got something more concrete to go on. On a whim, he asked, “Can you check if anyone called Philip Keane was co

“Fire? Where?”

“I don’t know,” said Banks, explaining about William Masefield’s stolen identity. “It’s a long shot. But if it is him, it could be an MO. He might have done it before.”

“So you want me to keep digging?”

“If you can. But still discreetly. This case is confusing enough already. It just keeps shifting in the wind. It’d be nice to get some good solid information for a change.”

“I do have one practical suggestion to make,” offered Burgess.

“Oh, and what’s that?”

“You could talk to his wife.”

Chapter 16

“Mark,” said Banks, “we must stop meeting like this.”

Mark Siddons grunted and sat down.

“How are you feeling?” Banks asked.

“I’m all right. A bit tired. And my head feels like it’s stuffed full of wet cotton wool.”

“Must be the tranquilizer the doctor gave you last night. Are you ready to talk?” Banks and Bridges had already agreed that Banks would do most of the questioning, as he had interviewed Mark before and knew the terrain.

“If you like. Can I have some water first?”

Banks asked the constable waiting outside the door, who brought in a jug and three glasses. Mark filled his, but Bridges took nothing and Banks stuck with coffee.

“Are you going to charge me?” Mark asked.

“What with?”

“Breaking and entering.”

Banks looked at DI Bridges. “That depends,” Bridges said.

“What on?”

“On how cooperative you are.”

“Look, Mark,” Banks said, “we know it was you who put out the fire and you who rang the police and the fire brigade and waited with Mrs. Aspern until they arrived. All that will work in your favor. You’re not being charged with anything just at the moment, but you’d better tell us exactly what went on. Okay?”

“Can I have a smoke?”

Smoking wasn’t allowed in the police station anymore, but Bridges took out a packet of Silk Cut and offered Mark one. He also lit one himself. Banks felt no craving at all, just a slight wave of nausea when he smelled the smoke. Mostly, he was trying to put what he had just heard from Dirty Dick Burgess out of his mind. And its implications for A

“There is one question I’d like answered before we start,” Bridges asked.

“What?” said Mark.

“The burglar alarm. How did you disable it?”

Mark told them about the scheme Tina had come up with, and how he had memorized the code.

“All right,” said Bridges, looking over at Banks. “Your turn.”

“What time did you get to the Asperns’ house?” Banks asked.

“I don’t know. It was late, though. After closing time. I came out of the pub and put it off for a while, just walking around, then I went there.”

“Put what off?”

“I don’t know. All I know is that I was going the wrong way, and it didn’t make sense anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“Scarborough and all that. That was why all those things happened. The bloke in the car. Those plainclothes cops on the seafront. Because I was going the wrong way. It was Adel I had to go to, not Scarborough. I couldn’t get on with my life until I’d faced them.”

“What happened with the bloke in the car?” Banks asked.

“Nothing,” said Mark. “He… you know, he tried to proposition me. I said, like, no way, and he just stopped the car and made me get out.”

Banks didn’t believe him. There was the matter of the mysterious two hundred pounds, for a start, but he let it go. Either Mark had capitulated and earned the money with his body, or he had stolen it. Either way, no accusations had been made against anyone, as far as he knew, so best let it lie. “What were you going to do in Adel?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I didn’t have a plan.”

“So what did you do?”

“I had a bit too much to drink in that big pub on the main road, to get my bottle up, I suppose. Anyway, like I said, I just got into the house. They were in bed. I walked around a bit, wondering what the hell I was going to do now I was there. I mean, was I supposed to go upstairs and strangle the bastard, or what? I found a bottle of something, brandy, I think, and I took a few swigs of that, just sitting in the kitchen in the dark, thinking. Or trying to. I didn’t even hear him coming.”

“What happened next?”

“I don’t know. I felt this sharp pain on the side of my head and everything went black.”

“And when you came round?”

Mark paused and stubbed out his cigarette. He looked over at DI Bridges, who sighed and pushed the packet toward him. Mark fidgeted with the packet but didn’t open it immediately. “I was in the surgery, wasn’t I? All the lights were on, and he was there, standing over me with that evil fucking smile on his face.”

“Patrick Aspern?”

“Who else?”

“What was he doing?”

“Filling a syringe with morphine. He had me tied to the chair so I couldn’t move my arms, and he’d shoved some sort of cotton-wool gag in my mouth so I couldn’t scream out.”

“How do you know it was morphine?”

“He told me. That was all part of the fun for him. He wanted me to know what was going to happen to me, to be scared thinking about it for as long as he could draw it out.”