Free Playing with Fire by Peter Robinson Page A

it’s bad news,” he said, as Dr. and Mrs. Aspern faced him from the sofa. Mrs. Aspern was chewing on a fingernail already, looking as if she was expecting the worst. “It’s about your daughter, Tina.”
    â€œWe always called her Christine. Please.”
    â€œOut with it, man,” Aspern prodded. “Has there been an accident?”
    â€œNot quite,” Banks said. “Christine’s dead. I’m sorry, there’s no easier way to say it. And we’ll need one or both of you to come and identify the body.”
    They sat in silence, not looking at each other, not even touching. Finally, Aspern found his voice. “Dead? How? What happened?”
    â€œThere was a fire. You knew she was living on a canal boat just outside Eastvale?”
    â€œYes. Another foolish idea of hers.” At last, Aspern looked at his wife. Tears were running from her eyes as if she’d been peeling an onion, but she made no sound. Her husband got up and fetched her a box of tissues. “Here you are, dear,” he said, putting them down on her knees. She didn’t even look at them, just kept staring ahead into whatever abyss she was seeing, the tears dripping off the edges of her jaw onto her skirt, making little stains where they landed on the pale green material.
    â€œI appreciate your coming yourself to tell us,” said Aspern. “You can see my wife’s upset. It’s been quite a shock. Is that all?”
    â€œI’m afraid not, sir,” Banks said. “The fire was of doubtful origin. I have some questions I need to ask you as soon as possible. Now, in fact.”
    â€œIt’s all right, Patrick,” Mrs. Aspern said, coming back from a great distance. “Let the man do his job.”
    A little flustered by her command of the situation, or so itseemed to Banks, Aspern settled back onto the sofa. “If you’re sure…” he said.
    â€œI’m sure.” She looked at Banks. “Please tell us what happened.”
    â€œChristine was living with a boy, a young man, rather, called Mark Siddons, on an abandoned narrow boat.”
    â€œSiddons,” said Aspern, lip twisting. “We know all about him. Did he do this? Was he responsible?”
    â€œWe have no evidence that Mark Siddons had anything to do with the fire,” said Banks.
    â€œWhere was he? Did he survive?”
    â€œHe was out at the time of the fire,” Banks said. “And he’s unharmed. I gather there was no love lost between you?”
    â€œHe turned our daughter against us,” said Aspern. “Took her away from home and stopped her from seeing us. It’s as if he took control of her mind like one of those religious cults you read about.”
    â€œThat’s not what he told me,” Banks said, careful now he knew he was walking on heavily mined land. “And it’s not the impression I got of him.”
    â€œWell, you wouldn’t expect him to admit it, would you? I can only imagine the lies he told you.”
    â€œWhat lies?”
    â€œNever you mind. I’m just warning you, that’s all. The boy’s no good. Don’t believe a word he says.”
    â€œI’ll bear that in mind,” said Banks. “How old was Christine?”
    â€œSeventeen,” said Aspern.
    â€œAnd how old was she when she left home?”
    â€œShe was sixteen,” Mrs. Aspern answered. “She went the day after her sixteenth birthday. As if she just couldn’t wait to get away.”
    â€œDid either of you know that Christine was a drug user?”
    â€œIt doesn’t surprise me,” said Aspern. “The crowd she was hanging around with. What was it? Pot? Ecstasy?”
    â€œApparently she preferred drugs that brought her oblivion rather than awareness,” Banks said softly, watching Patrick Aspern’s face closely for any signs of a reaction. All it showed was puzzlement. “It was heroin,”