Playing with Fire Read Free

prayer of thanks that none of them had perished. The smell of damp ash was starting to predominate, and steam drifted from the ruined barges, mingling with the earlymorning mist.
    As soon as Geoff Hamilton arrived, Banks would accompany him in his investigation of the scene, just as he had done on that previous occasion. The fire service had no statutory powers to investigate the cause of a fire, so Hamilton was used to working closely with the police and their scene-of-crime officers. It was his job to produce a report for the coroner. There had been no one hurt in the warehouse fire, but this was different. Banks didn’t relish the sight of burned bodies; he had seen enough of them before, enough to make fire one of the things he feared and respected more than anything. If he had to choose a floater over a fire victim, he’d probably choose the bloated misshapen bulk of the former rather than the charred and flaking remains of the latter. But it was a tough choice. Fire or water?
    And there was another reason to feel miserable. It was nowearly on Friday morning, and Banks could see his planned weekend with Michelle Hart quickly slipping away. If, indeed, the fire had been deliberately set, and if two people had been killed, then it would mean canceled leave and overtime all around. He’d have to ring Michelle. At least she would understand. She was used to the vagaries of the police life, being a DI with the Cambridgeshire Constabulary, still living and working in Peterborough despite the controversial outcome of the case she and Banks had worked on there the previous summer.
    PC Smythe came back with a vacuum flask and four plastic cups. It was instant coffee, and weak at that, but at least it was still hot, and the steam that rose when Smythe poured it helped dispel some of the dawn’s chill. Banks took a silver hip flask from his pocket—a birthday present from his father—and offered it around. Only he and Annie indulged. The flask was full of Laphroaig, and although Banks knew what a terrible waste of fine single malt it was to tip it into a plastic cup of watery Nescafé, the occasion seemed to demand it. As it happened, the wee nip improved the coffee enough to make the sacrifice worthwhile.
    â€œTake the cuffs off him, would you?” Banks asked Smythe.
    â€œBut sir…”
    â€œJust do it. He’s not going anywhere, are you, Mark?”
    Mark said nothing. After Smythe had removed the handcuffs, Mark rubbed his wrists and clasped both hands around the cup of coffee, as if its warmth were sustaining him.
    â€œHow old are you, Mark?” Banks asked.
    â€œTwenty-one.” Mark pulled a dented packet of Embassy Regal out of his pocket and lit one with a disposable lighter, sucking the smoke in deeply. Seeing him do that made Banks realize they would have to have the boy’s hands and clothing checked for any signs of accelerant as soon as possible. Such traces didn’t last forever.
    â€œNow, look, Mark,” said Banks, “what you have to realizefirst of all is that you’re the closest we have to a suspect for this fire. You were hanging about the scene like a textbook arsonist. You’re going to have to give us some explanation of what you’re doing here, and why you ran when we approached you. You can either do it here and now, without the handcuffs, or you can do it in a formal interview at Eastvale nick and spend the night in a cell. Your choice.”
    â€œAt least a cell would be warm,” Mark said. “I’ve nowhere else to go.”
    â€œWhere do you live?”
    Mark paused for a moment, tears in his eyes, then pointed a shaking hand toward the northernmost barge. “There,” he said.
    Banks looked at the smoking remains. “You lived on that barge?”
    Mark nodded, then whispered something Banks couldn’t catch.
    â€œWhat?” Banks asked, remembering that the firefighters had found a body on that barge.