“What do you do, Mark?” Clive asked.
“I’m looking for work.”
“What sort of work?”
“Restoration. Old buildings. Churches and stuff.”
“That’s interesting. Where do you live?”
“Eastvale,” Mark said. It was the first thing that came to his mind.
“Lovely town,” said Clive. “Have you got a girlfriend?”
Mark said nothing, thought of Tina, the way she had looked at him from the TV screen. He felt his heart shrivel in his chest.
Clive turned and flashed him another quick smile. Mark didn’t like the way he did that. He didn’t know why, just a feeling.
“A handsome, strong lad like you surely must have a pretty girlfriend?” Clive went on. He patted Mark’s knee, and Mark stiffened instinctively.
“It’s all right, you know,” Clive said. “You can be frank with me. I’m a doctor. Look, I know you young people today. You’re always at it, aren’t you? I do hope you practice safe sex, Mark.”
Mark said nothing. He was thinking of another doctor, Patrick Aspern, and how he’d like to smash the bastard’s face in. He was aware of Clive chuntering on beside him, but he wasn’t really paying much attention. He just hoped they’d get to Scarborough soon. The sea.
“…very important to be circumcised, you know,” Clive went on. “I know it’s not always fashionable, but it’s much more hygienic. There are plenty of germs around that part of your body, you know, Mark. Your penis. And smegma. It’s nasty stuff. Circumcision is much better all around.”
“What?”
“Weren’t you listening?” Clive glanced over at Mark. “I’m talking about circumcision. It doesn’t have to be painful, you know. Look, I’ve got some cream in the boot that will numb all feeling, like the dentist gives you, only it’s not an injection. If you like, we could pull over into a lay-by and I can do it for you right now.”
His hand slid over into Mark’s lap, groping for his penis. Mark lashed out with his left fist and caught Clive a hard blow on the side of his head. Clive gasped and the car started to snake along the road. Mark hit him again, this time connecting with soft tissue near his nose and drawing blood. Then he did it again and thought he felt a tooth crack.
Clive barely had control of the wheel now. He was trying to talk, pleading, calling Mark a maniac, blood dribbling with the saliva from his mouth. But Mark couldn’t stop. He wasn’t even looking to see if there were any cars coming the other way; he just kept on pummeling at Clive, seeing Crazy Nick and Patrick Aspern and everyone who had ever hurt him.
Finally, they came to a sharp bend, and Clive had to slow down. He barely managed to change down in time, and as he gave all his attention to keeping control of the wheel, Mark slipped his hand into Clive’s inside pocket, grabbed his wallet, then opened the passenger door and leaped out, rolling on the wet grass by the side of the road. A little dazed, he sat up ready to run, but he was just in time to watch Clive reach over and pull the door shut, then speed off into the mist. When the sound of the car’s engine had faded, Mark was left with nothing but the occasional baaing of a distant sheep to break the silence in the gathering dark.
Banks was pleased to find the mercury pushing nine or ten as he walked down Market Street toward the main Eastvale Fire Station, where Geoff Hamilton had his office. January had been quite a month for ups and downs in temperature. He unbuttoned his overcoat, but he still felt a little too warm. The whiskey-soaked strains of Cesaria Evora came from the headphones of his portable CD player.
As he walked past the end of the street where he used to live with Sandra, Tracy and Brian, Banks couldn’t resist the temptation to walk up to the old house and see how much it had changed. He stood by the low garden wall and looked at the front window. It hadn’t changed. Not much. The curtains were closed, but he could see the flickering light of a television set in the living room. The most surprising thing was the “For Sale” sign on the lawn. So the new owners were selling already. Maybe it wasn’t a happy home. But how many innocuous-looking houses on innocent streets ever were? Inner-city slums and tower blocks hadn’t cornered the market in human misery yet.
Banks arrived at the fire station, put away his CD player and went inside. Two of the firefighters on shift were working on equipment maintenance, another was doing paperwork, and two were playing table tennis.
Banks tapped on Geoff Hamilton’s office door and entered. Hamilton ran his hand across his hair and bade Banks sit down. Certificates hung on the wall, and an old-fashioned fireman’s helmet rested on top of the filing cabinet. Hamilton’s desk was tidy except for the papers he was working on.
“Report to the coroner,” he said, noticing Banks looking at the papers. “What can I do for you?”
“Anything new?”
“Nothing yet.”
“Look, Geoff,” said Banks, “I know you don’t like to commit yourself, but off-the-record, I’d just like to get some sense of motive, whether you think we’re dealing with a serial arsonist here, if we can expect more of this sort of thing. Or might there be some other reason for what’s happening around here?”
Banks noticed a hint of a smile pass over Hamilton’s taciturn features. “And what would your guess be? Off-the-record.”
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m here.”
“You’ve uncovered no links between the victims yet?”
“We’re working on it.”
Hamilton rubbed his eyes. They had dark bags under them, Banks noticed. “What if you don’t find any?”
“Then perhaps we’re dealing with someone who just likes to start fires, and he’s choosing relatively easy targets. Someone with a grudge against down-and-outs.” Andrew Hurst came to Banks’s mind, partly because of the way he seemed to disapprove of the narrow-boat squatters. “But I’m not sure if that’s the case.”
“Why not?” asked Hamilton.
“According to the toxicology results, both Roland Gardiner and Thomas McMahon were dosed with Rohypnol before the fires started.”
“The glasses we found at the scene?”
“Most likely they contained alcohol, into which the drug had been introduced.”
“And the girl?”
“We’re pretty sure that Christine Aspern was high on heroin. Anyway, leaving Tina out of it for the moment, it looks as if both male victims admitted the killer to their homes and probably accepted a drink from him. If he didn’t want to get rid of them for a reason, then he was doing it just for fun. What can you tell me about motivation in cases like this?”
“Fancy a coffee?”
“Wouldn’t mind,” said Banks. He followed Hamilton into the large, well-appointed kitchen, a white-tiled room complete with oven, fridge, microwave and automatic coffeemaker. A cook came in on weekdays and made the firefighters a meal, and the rest of the time they brought their own food or took it in turns to cook.
Hamilton poured the coffees into two large white mugs, adding a heap of sugar to his own, then they went back to his office and sat down. The coffee tasted good to Banks, dark and strong.
“As you know,” Hamilton began, “there are plenty of motives for arson. Probably the most common is sheer spite, or revenge.”
Banks knew this. About ninety percent of the arson cases he had been involved in during his career – including the very worst, the one that haunted him whenever the thought of fire raised its ugly head – arose out of one human being’s disproportionate malice and rage directed toward another.
“These can vary between simple domestic disputes, such as a lover’s quarrel, and problems in the workplace, or racial or religious confrontations.”
“Is there any kind of profile involved in these sort of fires that compares to ours?”
“Well,” said Hamilton, “they can be set by any age group, they’re usually set at night, and they generally involve available combustibles or flammable liquids. Three out of three isn’t bad.”