“Don’t try to tell me my job, laddie,” Dr. Glendenning growled. “It’s being done.”
“And dental records?”
“We can certainly get impressions,” said Glendenning, “but you can hardly check his chart against every bloody dentist in the country.”
“There’s a chance he may have been local,” said Banks, “so we’ll start with the Eastvale area.”
“Aye, well, that’s your job.” Glendenning glanced at the clock and turned back to the body. “There’s still a lot to be done here,” he said, “and I’m afraid I can’t promise you I’ll get to the second victim tonight. I might even miss my dinner engagement as it is.”
Wendy Gauge removed the inner organs en bloc and placed them on the dissecting table.
“Well,” said Banks, looking at Hamilton and Annie, “whether our victim was hit on the head, whether his brains blew out through his skull, or whether he had a bad heart and died of low-level carbon monoxide inhalation, we know from the evidence so far that someone set the fire, so we’re looking at murder. The best thing we can do now is try to find out just who the hell he was.” Banks glanced again at the loathsome hulk on the table, the charred and leathery skin, the exposed intestines and dribbles of reddish-pink blood. “And,” he added, “let’s hope we’re not dealing with a serial arsonist. I wouldn’t want to be attending any more of these postmortems if I could help it.”
“Isn’t this intimate?” said Maria Phillips, settling into her chair at a dimpled copper-topped table in a quiet corner of the Queen’s Arms. “Go on, then, I’ll be a devil and have a Campari and soda, please.”
Banks hadn’t asked her if she wanted a drink yet, but that didn’t seem to bother Maria as she set her faux fur coat on the chair next to her, patted her bottle-blond curls, then reached into her handbag for her compact and lipstick, with which she busied herself while Banks went to the bar. He had given her a ring at the community center that afternoon and discovered she was working late, which suited him fine. He was glad to be in a friendly pub after the ordeal of the postmortem and wanted nothing more than to be surrounded by ordinary, living people and to flush the taste of death by fire out of his system with a stiff drink or two.
“Evening, Cyril,” he said to the landlord. “Pint of bitter and a large Laphroaig for me and a Campari and soda for the lady, please.”
Cyril raised his eyebrows.
“Don’t ask,” Banks said.
“You know me. The soul of discretion.” Cyril started pulling the beer. “Wouldn’t have said she was your type, though.”
Banks gave him a look.
“Nasty fire down Molesby way.”
“Tell me about it,” said Banks.
“You involved already?”
“From the start. It’s been a long day.”
Cyril looked at the scratch on Banks’s cheek. “You look as if you’ve been in the wars, too,” he said.
Banks put his hand up and touched the scratch. “It’s nothing. Just a disagreement with a sharp twig.”
“Pull the other one,” said Cyril.
“It’s true,” said Banks.
“But you can’t talk about the case, I know.”
“Nothing much to say, even if I could. We don’t know anything yet except two people died. Cheers.” Banks paid and carried the drinks back to the table, where Maria sat expectantly, perfectly manicured hands resting on the table in front of her, scarlet nails as long as a cat’s claws. She was an unfashionably buxom and curvaceous woman in her early thirties, and she would look far more attractive, Banks had always thought, if she got rid of all the war paint and dressed for comfort rather than effect. And the perfume. Especially the perfume. It rolled over him in heavy, acrid waves and soured his beer. He took a sip of Laphroaig and felt it burn pleasantly all the way down. He didn’t usually drink shorts in the Queen’s Arms, but this evening was an exception justified by a particularly nasty postmortem and Maria Phillips both within the space of a couple of hours.
Maria made it clear that she noticed the scratch on Banks’s cheek, but that she wasn’t going to ask about it, not yet. “How’s Sandra doing?” she asked instead. “We do so miss her at the center. Such energy and devotion.”
Banks shrugged. “She’s fine, far as I know.”
“And the baby? It must be very strange for her, becoming a mother all over again. And at her age.”
“We don’t talk much these days,” said Banks. He did know, though, through his daughter Tracy, that Sandra had given birth to a healthy seven-pound girl on the third of December, not much more than a month ago, and that she had named her Sinéad, not after the bald pop singer, but after Sean’s mother. Well, good luck to her. With a name like that, she’d need it. As far as he knew, via Tracy, both mother and daughter were doing fine. The whole business churned his guts and changed everything, especially the way he related to his past, their shared life together. In a strange way, it was almost as if none of their twenty-plus years together had happened, that it had all been a dream or some sort of previous existence. He didn’t know this woman, this child. It even made him feel different about Tracy and his son, Brian. He didn’t know exactly why, how, or in what way, but it did. And how did they feel about their new half sister?
“Of course not,” Maria said. “How insensitive of me. It must be very painful for you. Someone you spent so many years with, the mother of your children, and now she’s had a baby with another man.”
“About this artist, Tom?” Banks said.
Maria waved a finger at him. “Clever, clever. Trying to change the subject. Well, I can’t say I blame you.”
“This is the subject. At least it’s the one I intended to talk about when I asked you for a drink.”
“And here’s silly old me thinking you just wanted to talk.”
“I do. About Tom.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Have you ever encountered or heard of a local artist whose first name is Tom?”
Maria put her hand to the gold necklace around her throat. “Is this what you’re like when you interrogate suspects?” she said. “You must terrify them.”
Banks managed a weak smile. He hadn’t been lying when he told Cyril it had been a long day, and it was getting longer. Every minute spent with Maria felt like an hour. “It’s not an interrogation, Maria,” he said, “but I am tired, I don’t want to play games, and I really do need any information you might have.” He felt like adding that he had just seen the charred remains of a corpse, watched Dr. Glendenning peel away the blackened flesh and pull out the shiny organs, but that would only make things worse. Patience. That was what he needed. And plenty of it. Problem was, where could he get it?
Maria pouted, or pretended to pout, for a moment, then said, “Is that all you know about him? That his name was Tom?”
“So far, yes.”
“What did he look like?”
Banks paused, again recalling the ruined face, melted eyes, exposed jawbone and neck cartilage. “We only have a vague description,” he said, “but he was fairly short, thick-set, with long greasy brown hair. And he didn’t shave very often.”
Maria laughed. “Sounds like every artist I’ve ever met. You’d think someone capable of creating a thing of beauty might take a little more pride in his appearance, wouldn’t you?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Banks. “It must be nice to be able to wear what you want, not to have to put a suit on and worry about shaving every morning when you go to work.”
Maria looked at him, her blue eyes twinkling. “I don’t suppose you’d have to wear anything at all, would you, if it was really warm?”
“I suppose not,” said Banks, gulping more Laphroaig, followed by a deep draft of beer. “But does that description ring any bells?”