Playing With Fire

“He didn’t have a key?”

“Apparently not. They had to give him money, he said – it was some sort of inheritance or trust fund, and it belonged to him – but they didn’t actually get on. They weren’t on speaking terms.”

“Did you ever try to get in touch with them after he’d disappeared?”

“No. After a while I just gave up and got on with life. You know what it’s like when you’re young. A broken heart feels like it’ll never mend for at least a couple of weeks. You pull out all your sad, romantic records and indulge in a bit of tearful melancholy for a while, maybe go out, get rat-arsed and fuck a stranger, then you move on. Pardon my language.”

“I remember. Neil Trethowan.”

“Sorry?”

“The one who first broke my heart. Neil Trethowan was his name.”

“Yes. Well, Giles… It was so long ago, but now you’ve got me talking about it, it seems just like yesterday. Some of it, anyway.”

“Did you ever see him or hear from him again?”

“No.”

“Do you know ifTommy and Rolo kept in touch with him?”

“If they did, they didn’t tell me. We all lost touch when we graduated, of course, as you do, though we had every good intention.”

“What was his last name?”

“Moore. Giles Moore.”

With the name and some of the details Elaine had given them, they would be able to dig a little deeper into the background of this enigmatic Giles Moore, A

“Do you have any photographs?” A

“No. They disappeared after one of my many moves.”

“Pity,” said A

Elaine frowned. “A fire? No, not that I remember. I mean, I’m sure there were fires in the city, but none of them concerned us. Surely you can’t think Giles had anything to do with what happened to Tommy and Rolo? Not after all this time.”

“I’m not saying he did,” said A

“But Giles wouldn’t hurt anyone. Why would he do that?”

“Is there anything else you can tell us about him that might help us find him?”

“No,” said Elaine. A

“What did he look like?”

“He was very good-looking. A bit taller than me, slim. Wavy hair, a bit long. Chestnut. But that was years ago.”

“How old was he at the time?”

“Twenty-one, a couple of years older than the rest of us.”

“Any distinguishing marks?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like birthmarks, scars, that sort of thing.”

“No,” said Elaine. “His skin was smooth, without a blemish.” She blushed at the memory. “Apart from an appendectomy scar.”

“Any regional accent?”

“No. A bit posh, maybe, but not too much. Educated, upper-class. Just like you’d expect, coming from the background he did.”

“Smoker? Drinker?”

“He smoked. We all did back then. I mean, it’s not as if we didn’t know what it did to you – it was 1980, after all – but we were young, we felt invulnerable. I stopped ten years ago. As for the drinking, we all did.”

“To excess?”

“Giles? Not really, no.”

“Was there anyone else on the scene you think we might be able to locate and talk to?”

“It was so long ago. I’ve lost touch with all of them. Can’t even remember most of their names. You do lose touch, don’t you? Move away, get married, have kids or concentrate on your career.”

A

“Me? Good Lord, no. I just don’t believe Giles had anything to do with it.”

A

As Banks walked out of the underground station on to Holland Park Avenue, he was grateful for yet another mild evening after the previous night’s cold snap, and thankful that he had been in Leeds when he got Burgess’s message. He was also lucky that both the trains and the tube were ru

Banks didn’t know what to expect when he pressed the buzzer. For obvious reasons, he hadn’t rung ahead, so he didn’t even know if Keane himself would be there. He hoped not, but it didn’t really matter. He needed to know what the hell was going on. It wasn’t just a question of A

A cautious voice came over the intercom. “Yes?”

Banks introduced himself and said he wanted to speak to Helen Keane. Naturally, she was suspicious and nervous – people always are when the police come to call – but he managed to convince her that it was information he wanted, nothing more. She agreed to let him in but said she would keep her chain on until she had seen his identification. Fair enough, Banks thought, climbing the plushly carpeted stairs. Foyers, halls and stairs said a lot about the quality, and cost, of the place you were visiting, Banks always thought, the way bath towels and toilet paper said a lot about the hotel you were staying in.

As promised, she kept the chain on while she examined his warrant card, then she let him in.

The flat was an interior designer’s paradise, all sharp angles and reflective surfaces, colors named after rare plants and southwest American states. There was no clutter. The stereo was state-of-the-art, brushed steel, hanging on the wall next to the large plasma wide-screen TV, and if the Keanes owned any books or CDs, they were stored elsewhere or hidden well out of sight. A couple of artfully placed art and design magazines were the only reading materials in plain view. At the far end of the high-ceilinged room stood a narrow black chair with a fan-shaped back. When he looked more closely, Banks couldn’t be sure whether it was a chair or a work of art. At any rate, he wouldn’t want to try sitting on it.