“Maybe this one was, too.”
“Oh? Now you’re changing your approach, are you? Now I’m not a drooling pyromaniac but a cold, practical businessman dealing with a problem.” He folded his arms. “And what problem might that have been?”
“Maybe Tina Aspern was your problem.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Perhaps she was going to tell on you. You used to spy on her, didn’t you?”
“No.”
“Where were you on Saturday evening?”
“Saturday? Same place as usual. Here.”
“Watching another war video?”
“Force Ten from Navarone, as a matter of fact. Very underrated film.”
“Andrew, get this clear: I don’t care about your fucking film reviews. All I care about is that three people are dead and that you might be responsible. Ever heard of a man called Gardiner? Roland Gardiner?”
“No.”
“Leslie Whitaker?”
“No.”
“What kind of car do you drive?”
“I don’t. I can’t afford to run a car, and I don’t need one.”
That would have made it very difficult for Hurst to have got to Jennings Field and back on Saturday night, Banks realized, but there were buses. “In all your nosing about the area,” he asked, “have you ever seen a car of any kind parked in the lay-by closest to the boats?”
“A few times. Yes.”
“What kind of car?”
“Different ones. Picnickers in summer, mostly.”
“And more recently?”
“Only once or twice.”
“What make, do you remember?”
“A van of some kind. You know, a Jeep Cherokee, Land Cruiser, or a Range Rover, that sort of thing. I’m not very well up on the latest models.”
“But it was definitely that kind of vehicle?”
“Yes.”
“Color?”
“Dark. Blue or black.”
“Ever see the driver?”
“No.”
“Okay. Let’s get back to the fires. Why did you hang around the boats so much? Was it the girl?”
Hurst looked away, scanning the rows of his LP collection, lips moving as if he were silently reading the names off the covers to himself. Banks’s mobile rang. He excused himself and walked outside to answer. It was DC Templeton calling from headquarters. “Sir, we’ve identified the owner of the boats.”
“Good work,” said Banks.
“It’s some bigwig in the City. Name’s Sir Laurence West. Merchant banker.”
“Can’t say I’ve heard of him,” said Banks, “but then I don’t exactly move in those kinds of circles.”
“Anyway,” Templeton went on, “I’ve already been on the phone to him, and he’s agreed to grant an audience at his office tomorrow, but you’ll need to make an appointment.”
“Good of him.”
“Yes,” said Templeton. “I think he also believed he was being magnanimous about it.”
“I see. Okay then, Kev, thanks. I’ll go down there myself tomorrow morning, seeing as he’s so important.” Besides, thought Banks, it would be nice to get away, if just for a day. He’d take the train, if the trains happened to be running. It was actually faster and far less hassle than driving to London, and train journeys could be relaxing if you had a good book to read and some CDs to listen to. “Make an appointment for one o’clock, would you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any first impressions?”
“Only that this is all a terrible intrusion into his valuable time, and he needed reminding he even owned the boats.”
“Okay,” said Banks. “I don’t suppose we can expect much from him, then, but it’s got to be done.”
“And, sir?”
“Yes.”
“A woman called.”
“Which woman?”
“Maria Phillips, from the art gallery. Wants to talk to you again. Says she’ll be in the Queen’s Arms at half six. I think maybe she fancies you, sir.”
“I’ll deal with her. Anything else?”
“DS Nowak wants to see you as soon as you can make it.”
“Where is he?”
“Here, in his office.”
“Right. Tell him to hang on. I’ll be back in half an hour.”
“Will do, sir.”
Banks hung up and went back to Andrew Hurst, who was in the same chair, chewing on a fingernail. There was no point pursuing the peeping angle. If Hurst had been trying to get a peek at Tina naked, then he wasn’t going to admit it. And even if he did, what could Banks do about it? It wasn’t as if Tina were still around to press charges. But if she’d noticed and had threatened to tell on him…? No, there was scant enough evidence to link Hurst with the first fire, and none at all with the second. Besides, the fire had definitely been set on McMahon’s boat. Why risk tackling a grown, fit man when you could set fire to a junkie on the nod?
Banks thought Hurst was weird, and probably a peeper, but he was quickly coming to the realization that there was nothing he could do about it. The only obvious motive he might have had was revenge at McMahon’s treating him so badly when he paid his neighborly visit, but that didn’t seem a strong enough motive for murder unless Hurst had more than just one screw loose. Still, there were enough questions about him that needed answers to keep him on the list.
“Why did you wash your clothes, Andrew?” Banks asked. “Including the anorak. You must admit that looks suspicious.”
Hurst looked at him. “I know it does. It’s just…” He shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe I wasn’t thinking straight. I mean, yes, of course I knew you’d find out I’d been arrested in connection with a fire. I don’t think you’re stupid. I just thought maybe that by the time you did find out about me you’d have caught whoever did it, so you wouldn’t need to look at me as a suspect. I’d been close enough to the fire for my clothes to pick up traces. They stank of smoke and turpentine. I’ve heard how good your forensic tests are these days. I didn’t want to spend a night at the police station.”
“You smelled turpentine?”
“Yes. It was in the air.”
“You didn’t tell us at the time.”
“I didn’t want to get involved.”
If Banks had a penny for every time he’d heard that from a member of the public, he would be a rich man. He stood up. “You’re bloody lucky you don’t get to spend a night in the nick,” he said, “for wasting police time.” He tossed Hurst a card. “Don’t go on any holidays just yet, and if you think of anything else that might help us, give me a ring.”
Hurst nodded gloomily and put the card on the table.
“You can get back to your Helen Shapiro now,” Banks said, and left.
Annie was always amazed when she stepped inside Phil’s cottage at how spick-and-span everything was. It wasn’t as if all the men she had ever known were slobs – Banks’s place was generally quite neat except for the CD cases strewn around the coffee table, usually next to an empty whiskey tumbler and an overflowing ashtray, when he used to smoke – but Phil’s cottage had an almost military sparkle to it, along with the scent of pine air freshener. Still, it wasn’t his main home and he didn’t spend all that much time there. She wondered what his London flat looked like. Chelsea, he’d said. Maybe soon they’d have a weekend in London. Expensive as it was, it would be a hell of a lot more affordable than NewYork, especially if she didn’t have to stop in a hotel.
“What a pleasure to see you,” said Phil, closing the door behind her.
“It’s not exactly a social call,” said Annie, smiling to soften the words. “I need your help.” She was still angry at Banks, but Phil didn’t need to know about their exchange.
Phil raised his eyebrows. “Me? A consultation? Official?”
“Approved by the superintendent, no less,” said Annie.
“But what can I possibly do to help you?”
Annie got him to fill out the necessary paperwork, then she unzipped her briefcase and laid out the Turner sketches and the watercolor, now safe inside their labeled and numbered plastic evidence covers.