“Yes,” said Annie, already turning over the implications in her mind. “It tells us that whoever set the second fire needed time, most likely time to arrange for an alibi. And which of our suspects seems to have a watertight alibi?”
Stefan thought for a moment, then answered. “Leslie Whitaker?”
“Exactly.”
“But what about the petrol?”
“He must have been bright enough to siphon some from someone else’s car. Maybe he knew there was a chance we’d be able to trace it. Don’t you see, Stefan? It makes sense. Whitaker said he went out for an eight-o’clock dinner in Harrogate with nine other booksellers. They all vouched for him. We already know that he supplied Thomas McMahon with the special paper he needed to produce his forgeries. They were in it together. He practically admitted as much. One reason we almost ruled Whitaker out was that he’s got an alibi for the Jennings Field fire, but not the one on the barges.”
“But this timing device puts paid to his alibi?”
“Yes,” said Annie. “If he was in Harrogate for that dinner at eight o’clock, then he must have left Eastvale, or Lyndgarth, where he lives, at about seven. But surely it would have been possible for him to use a two-or three-inch candle and gain a couple of hours or more burn time before the accelerant ignited?”
“Easily, assuming it all went according to plan.”
“This time it did,” said Annie. “We’ll have him in, Stefan. And then we’ll have him.”
After the interview with Frances Aspern, Banks picked up a coffee in the canteen and remembered that he had intended to ring Dirty Dick Burgess. He found an empty office and took out his mobile.
“At last,” said Dirty Dick. “I’ve been leaving messages for you in Eastvale all bloody morning.”
“Bit of a crisis up here,” said Banks, giving a brief explanation of his night and morning. “Anyway, what have you got?”
“Not much, I’m afraid. Business aboveboard. Solo operation. No partner. No employees. Philip Keane is a well-respected and popular member of the art community. Judgment valued, pals with all the movers and shakers, dealers, collectors, gallery owners, that sort of thing. Not exactly Anthony Blunt, but you get the picture.”
“Blunt?” said Banks. “Why mention him? Wasn’t he a spy, along with Philby, Burgess and MacLean? The fourth man?”
“Yes,” said Burgess, “but he was also surveyor of the Queen’s Pictures and director of the Courtauld Institute.”
“Of course,” said Banks. “Yes, I remember. Interesting. A master of the art of deception. Anything else?”
“Nothing. Philip Keane has lived a completely blameless life. At least for the past four years.”
“Four years? And before that?”
“There’s the glitch. Before that, there’s nothing. Nada. Zilch. Bupkis.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that he appeared fully formed on the scene four years ago, like Athena from the head of Zeus. And if you’re thinking of teasing me about classical analogies, Banksy, don’t. I got a first in classics at Oxford.”
“Bollocks,” said Banks. “Go on, though. You’ve got me interested.”
“Like I said, there’s nothing else to tell. The trail stops there. It’s as if Keane didn’t exist until four years ago.”
“He must have been born, for a start.”
“Oh, well, if you’d like me to send a team down to Saint Catherine’s House… Or perhaps I should go myself? Shouldn’t take long. Let me see, unusual name that, Philip Keane. I suppose you’ve got the details of his date and place of birth?”
“All right,” said Banks. “I get the point. Give it a rest. Maybe Keane studied and worked in museums and galleries abroad. Maybe that’s where he was before.”
“Maybe he did, and we can certainly check that, too, given time and resources. How official do you want this to be?”
Banks thought for a moment. He didn’t want it to be official at all just yet. Not unless he got something more concrete to go on. On a whim, he asked, “Can you check if anyone called Philip Keane was connected in any way with a fire four years ago, and if he was ever associated with someone called William Masefield?”
“Fire? Where?”
“I don’t know,” said Banks, explaining about William Masefield’s stolen identity. “It’s a long shot. But if it is him, it could be an MO. He might have done it before.”
“So you want me to keep digging?”
“If you can. But still discreetly. This case is confusing enough already. It just keeps shifting in the wind. It’d be nice to get some good solid information for a change.”
“I do have one practical suggestion to make,” offered Burgess.
“Oh, and what’s that?”
“You could talk to his wife.”
Chapter 16
“Mark,” said Banks, “we must stop meeting like this.”
Mark Siddons grunted and sat down.
“How are you feeling?” Banks asked.
“I’m all right. A bit tired. And my head feels like it’s stuffed full of wet cotton wool.”
“Must be the tranquilizer the doctor gave you last night. Are you ready to talk?” Banks and Bridges had already agreed that Banks would do most of the questioning, as he had interviewed Mark before and knew the terrain.
“If you like. Can I have some water first?”
Banks asked the constable waiting outside the door, who brought in a jug and three glasses. Mark filled his, but Bridges took nothing and Banks stuck with coffee.
“Are you going to charge me?” Mark asked.
“What with?”
“Breaking and entering.”
Banks looked at DI Bridges. “That depends,” Bridges said.
“What on?”
“On how cooperative you are.”
“Look, Mark,” Banks said, “we know it was you who put out the fire and you who rang the police and the fire brigade and waited with Mrs. Aspern until they arrived. All that will work in your favor. You’re not being charged with anything just at the moment, but you’d better tell us exactly what went on. Okay?”
“Can I have a smoke?”
Smoking wasn’t allowed in the police station anymore, but Bridges took out a packet of Silk Cut and offered Mark one. He also lit one himself. Banks felt no craving at all, just a slight wave of nausea when he smelled the smoke. Mostly, he was trying to put what he had just heard from Dirty Dick Burgess out of his mind. And its implications for Annie. For the time being, at any rate. He had got the London address of Keane and his wife, Helen, and checked train times from Leeds. After he’d finished with Mark, he’d head straight down to London on an early-afternoon train and talk to her, get things sorted. But until then, he had Mark Siddons and Frances Aspern to occupy his mind.
“There is one question I’d like answered before we start,” Bridges asked.
“What?” said Mark.
“The burglar alarm. How did you disable it?”
Mark told them about the scheme Tina had come up with, and how he had memorized the code.
“All right,” said Bridges, looking over at Banks. “Your turn.”
“What time did you get to the Asperns’ house?” Banks asked.
“I don’t know. It was late, though. After closing time. I came out of the pub and put it off for a while, just walking around, then I went there.”
“Put what off?”
“I don’t know. All I know is that I was going the wrong way, and it didn’t make sense anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“Scarborough and all that. That was why all those things happened. The bloke in the car. Those plainclothes cops on the seafront. Because I was going the wrong way. It was Adel I had to go to, not Scarborough. I couldn’t get on with my life until I’d faced them.”