The whiskey tasted good, sharp, peaty and a little bit medicinal, and he wished he could go outside and stand by Gratly Falls and look down the daleside to the lights of Helmthorpe the way he did when the weather was good, but it was too cold. Oh, certainly it was mild enough for January, but after dark a chill came to the air that defied even the properties of a fine single malt whiskey to warm the cockles of one’s heart. A wind had sprung up, too, and he felt as if he were marooned in his little cottage, straining against its ropes to stay on the ground.
As he put the magazine aside and settled back with his feet up, only a dim table light on, Cassandra singing Dylan’s “Shelter from the Storm,” his mind drifted over the day’s events, as it often did at times like this. He wasn’t so much thinking as just riffing, improvising on a theme, the way a jazz player did, or the way Elgar had written his Enigma variations.
Enigma was a good place to start. Everything about today’s events seemed infused by that very quality. Elusive, inchoate, equivocal. On the one hand, it appeared as if Thomas McMahon had been the intended victim, but there were no signs of external injury other than the fire damage, and they knew nothing about any possible motive. On the other hand, Mark Siddons had had a row with his drug-addict girlfriend Tina and stormed off, but his alibi held tight, and the physical evidence exonerated him.
Tina, or Mark, had also bought drugs from Danny Boy Corcoran, and wherever drugs are concerned you have to look closely at everyone involved. Then there was Tina’s stepfather, Dr. Patrick Aspern. Banks hadn’t particularly liked him, but that didn’t mean much in itself. He had disliked innocent people before. But if what Mark said about Aspern and his stepdaughter was true, that was enough to give the doctor a strong motive. And both Aspern and his wife had been evasive, to say the least, when it came to alibis. On the other hand, perhaps something in Mark’s own background had made him only too eager to believe Tina’s story without question. That background might well be worth looking into, Banks thought, making a mental note to put DS Hatchley on it in the morning.
Andrew Hurst was another problem. Hurst haunted the canal side, he had lied about his activities, he had washed his clothes, and he had no alibi. But what motive did he have? Perhaps he didn’t need one. He had first approached the scene, then he had rung the fire brigade. Maybe he was an arsonist who just liked to start fires, a pyromaniac. From what Banks knew of the basic psychology of pyromaniacs, many of them liked not only to report, hang around and watch their own handiwork, but they liked to take part in the firefighting operation, too, and help the police. Banks would see just how helpful Andrew Hurst wanted to be.
Banks thought about another Laphroaig as the CD came to an end, but decided against it. Instead, he took himself off to bed.
Chapter 5
Danny Boy Corcoran lived in a small flat off South Market Street, on the fringes of the student area. He had once been a business student at Eastvale College, but he had discovered a more lucrative career in selling drugs and dropped out before finishing his diploma. His flat had been under surveillance all night, and Danny and his girlfriend hadn’t arrived home until eight in the morning, so Banks and Annie had the advantage. Banks felt surprisingly well rested after his early night, and even Annie looked and sounded more cheerful than she had in days. The cold still lingered, Banks could tell, by her red nose and the occasional sneeze, but it was on the wane.
Danny Boy, on the other hand, looked like crap. He had clearly just gone to bed and was wearing only a red sweatshirt with a Montego Bay logo and Y-fronts, his scrawny hairy legs sticking out below. Danny was a wannabe bad-boy Jamaican drug dealer, but unfortunately for him, in reality he had been born to white middle-class parents in Blandford Forum. His dreadlocked hair stuck out in all directions, and his bloodless face seemed paler than a vampire’s in a time of famine. “Can we come in, Danny?” Banks asked, as they showed their warrant cards.
“Why? Whaddya want?”
“I’ll tell you if you let us come in.”
Danny’s lanky frame still blocked the doorway. “Gorrawarrant?”
“We don’t need one. We just want to talk.”
A figure appeared behind Danny, framed by his outstretched arm and the doorpost, similarly thin, and pale enough to make her flesh-toned bra and panties look like a suntan. Banks could see she had goose bumps on her arms. And needle marks. “Danny, who is it? Tell them to go away and come back to bed.”
“Fuck off, Nadia,” Danny said without turning around. “It’s business.”
Nadia made a face at his back, turned and shambled away.
“Look, I don’t know what you’ve come here disturbing my rest for,” he said. “I’ve not done anything wrong.”
“Spare us the poor, wronged-youth act, Danny. You spent last night peddling your wares in the pubs on York Road and South Market Street, then you ended up at a party on the East Side Estate.”
Danny first looked puzzled, then affronted. “You’ve been watching me?”
“Someone else has. I wouldn’t waste my time. Listen, Danny, how about if I tell you we’re not drugs squad and this isn’t about drugs? Not really. We don’t have to search the flat, but we can if you like.”
“Look, you told me…”
“I told you what, Danny?”
“Never mind.”
“I’ve never spoken to you before in my life,” Banks said, gently easing Danny’s arm out of the way and walking into the flat. The living room was a mess, with clothes and CD cases strewn around the place, but at least it was clean and didn’t smell of smoke, or worse. There was a big poster of Bob Marley smoking a spliff on one wall, probably the closest Danny Boy had ever got to Jamaica, and a few sad-looking potted plants on the windowsill, none of them marijuana.
“Just a few questions, Danny, that’s all.”
“I’ve always cooperated with you in the past, haven’t I?”
“Like I said, I’ve never clapped eyes on you before in my life, but I’m sure your conduct has been exemplary,” Banks said. “Let’s keep it that way. Perhaps you might answer one or two little questions? Mind if we sit down?”
Danny looked suspicious, as well he might, and nodded toward two winged armchairs. He scratched his head. “You’re not going to trick me, you know,” he said. “I wasn’t born yesterday.”
“No,” said Annie, making herself comfortable. “You were born on the ninth of August, 1982. We know that. We know plenty about you, Danny.”
Danny was still standing, hopping from foot to foot. “Look,” he said, “it’s cold. Can I put the fire on and get dressed?”
“Course you can,” said Banks. “It is a bit nippy in here.”
Danny turned on the gas fire and headed to the bedroom to get dressed. Banks followed him. “What you doing?” Danny asked.
“Just routine,” said Banks. “We’ve sort of developed a habit of not letting suspects out of our sight.”
“Suspect? You said this wasn’t about drugs.”
“Get dressed, Danny.”
Nadia lay in bed in the half-dark with the sheets and blanket pulled right up to her chin. “What’s going on, Danny?” she asked in a whiny voice. “Come back to bed. Please.”
“Go to sleep, Nadia. This won’t take long.” Danny pulled on a pair of jeans.