A few framed photographs graced the mantelpiece, mostly Wyman and his wife and kids, and the children’s school photos, but Banks noticed one in which a slightly younger Wyman stood next to an older A L L T H E C O L O R S O F D A R K N E S S
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man in a uniform outside a train station, the man’s arm draped over his shoulders. “Who’s that?” he asked.
Wyman saw where he was looking. “Me and my brother,” he said.
“Rick was in the army.”
“Where is he now?”
“He’s dead,” said Wyman. “Killed in a helicopter accident on maneuvers in 2002.”
“Where did it happen?”
“Afghanistan.”
“Were you very close?”
Wyman glanced at Banks. “He was my big brother. What do you think?”
Banks hadn’t been at all close to his big brother, not until it was too late, but he understood. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“Well,” said Wyman, “that’s what you sign up for when you join the bloody army, isn’t it?”
Mrs. Wyman finished clearing the dishes away and sat at the table.
She was an attractive brunette with a button nose, in her late thirties, a little careworn, but she obviously worked at keeping her figure and preserving her smooth complexion. “You don’t mind me being here, do you?” she asked.
“Not at all,” said Banks. “Did you know Mark Hardcastle?”
“I met him a few times,” she said, “but I wouldn’t say I knew him.
Still, it’s terrible, what’s happened.”
“Yes,” Banks agreed, turning back to her husband. “I understand you were in London with Mark just last week?”
“Yes,” said Wyman. “Brief ly.”
“Do you visit there often?”
“Whenever I can get away. Theater and film are my passions, so London’s the place to soak it all up. The bookshops, too, of course.”
“Mrs. Wyman?”
She smiled indulgently at her husband, as if rather pleased that he had a childish enthusiasm to fire him. “I’m more at home with a good book,” she said. “A Jane Austen or Elizabeth Gaskell. I’m afraid the dazzle of the footlights and the smell of greasepaint are a bit rich for my sensibilities.”
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“Carol’s a bit of a philistine,” said Wyman, “though she’s not lacking in education.” He had a noticeable Yorkshire accent, but he didn’t use many Yorkshire idioms or contractions in his speech. Banks thought that was probably because he’d been to university and spent plenty of time away.
“Do you teach, Mrs. Wyman?” Banks asked.
“Good Lord, no. I don’t think I could handle any more adolescent angst,” she said. “And the little ones would be too wild for me. I’m a part-time receptionist at the medical center. Would you like me to make some tea?”
Everyone thought that sounded like a good idea. Seeming pleased to have something to do, Mrs. Wyman went through to the kitchen.
“Were many of these London trips made with Mark Hardcastle?”
Banks asked Wyman.
“Good Lord, no! This was the first. And I wasn’t really with him.”
“Can you explain?”
“Of course. Ask away.”
“When did you go down?”
“Wednesday morning. I took the twelve-thirty train from York. It arrived at about a quarter to three. On time, for once.”
“Was Mark with you?”
“No. He drove down by himself.”
“Why was that? I mean, why didn’t you travel together?”
“I like the train. We were leaving at different times. Besides, I assume Mark had other things he wanted to do, perhaps other places to go. He needed to be mobile, and I didn’t want to be dependent on him. I’m quite happy traveling by tube and bus when I’m in London.
In fact, I rather enjoy it. I can get some reading done, or just watch the world go by. I don’t even mind when they’re late. I get even more reading done then.”
“You should be doing adverts for National Express,” Banks said.
Wyman laughed. “Oh, I wouldn’t go that far. But the thought of driving down the M1 in a car . . . well, frankly, it terrifies me. All those lorries. And driving in London . . . Then there’s the congestion charges.”
Banks didn’t enjoy driving in London much himself, though he had A L L T H E C O L O R S O F D A R K N E S S
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got more used to it since he started seeing Sophia. Sometimes he took the train for a change, and she occasionally did the same when she came up north, though she had a little Ford Focus runaround and drove up now and then. “And the purpose of the trip was?”
“The German Expressionist Cinema retrospective at the National Film Theatre.”
“For both of you?”
“Well, we were both interested in it, certainly, but as I said, Mark may have had other things to do. He didn’t say. We didn’t spend that much time together.”
“Can you tell me what you actually did do together?”
“Yes, of course. We met for a bite to eat at Zizzi’s on Charlotte Street that first evening, about six o’clock, before the showing. It was a pleasant evening, and we managed to get a table on the pavement out front.”
“What did you have to eat?” If Wyman was puzzled by the question, he didn’t show it.
“Pizza.”
“Who paid?”
“We went Dutch.”
“Do you still have your receipt?”
Wyman frowned. “It might be in my wallet somewhere. I can check, if you like?”
“Later will do,” said Banks. “And after dinner?”
“We went to see the films. The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari and a very rare showing of Dmitri Buchowkhi’s Othello, a German expressionist version of Shakespeare. It’s very interesting, but ultimately not among the best. You see, I’m directing—“
“Yes, we know about that,” said Banks. “What about afterward?”
Wyman looked a little sulky at being denied his directorial brag-ging rights. “We had a quick drink in the bar, then we went our separate ways.”
“You weren’t staying in the same hotel?”
“No. Mark’s partner owns a small f lat in Bloomsbury. I should imagine he was staying there.”
“But he didn’t say so?”
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“Not specifically, no. But why pay London prices when you’ve got somewhere you can stay for free?”
“Why indeed?” Banks agreed. “And what about you?”
“I stayed at my usual bed-and-breakfast near Victoria Station.
Cheap and cheerful. It’s not the most spacious room on the face of the earth, but it does all right for me.”
“Do you have the address?” Banks asked.
Wyman seemed puzzled by the question, but gave Banks an address on Warwick Street.
“You mentioned Mark’s partner,” Annie said. “Did you know Laurence Silbert well?”
“Not well. We met a couple of times. They came to dinner once.
They reciprocated, and we went to their house. The usual.”
“When was this?” Annie asked.
“A couple of months ago.”
“Did Mr. Hardcastle appear to be living there at the time?” Banks asked.
“More or less,” said Wyman. “He practically moved in the day they met. Well, wouldn’t you? Bloody big house on the hill.”
“You think it was the grandeur that attracted him?” Banks said.
“No, I don’t really mean that. Just being facetious. But Mark certainly appreciated the finer things in life. He was one of those working-class lads who’ve gone up in the world, done right well for themselves. You know, more your Château Margaux and raw-milk Camembert than your pint of bitter and a packet of cheese-and-onion crisps. They were a well-matched couple, despite their difference in background.”
; Mrs. Wyman came back in with the tea at this point, and the inevitable plate of biscuits. They all helped themselves from the tray.
Banks thanked her and resumed the questioning. “What about the next day, Thursday?”
“What about it?”
“Did you see Mark?”
“No. He said he had to go home. I was staying until Saturday, as you know. I wanted to fit in a few exhibitions, too, while I was down there. Tate Modern. The National Portrait Gallery. And some book-A L L T H E C O L O R S O F D A R K N E S S
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shopping. There were also a couple more films and lectures I attended at the NFT. Backstairs. Nosferatu. I can give you the details if you like.”
“Ticket stubs?”
“Yes, probably.” He frowned. “Look, you’re questioning me as if I’m a suspect or something. I thought—”
“We just want to get the details clear,” said Banks. “As yet there aren’t any suspects.” Or anything to suspect, he might have added.
“So you stayed in London until when?”
Wyman paused. “Yesterday. I checked out of my B-and-B about lunchtime, had a pub lunch, did a bit of book-shopping and went to the National Gallery, then I caught the five o’clock train back to York last night. Got home about . . .” He glanced toward his wife.
“I picked him up at the station around quarter past seven,” she said.
Banks turned back to Wyman. “And you’re sure you didn’t see Mark Hardcastle after he left the bar on Wednesday evening?”
“That’s right.”
“Was he driving?”
“No. We took the tube from Goodge Street after dinner.”
“To Waterloo?”
“Yes.”
“And going back?”
“Actually, I walked along the embankment path and over West-minster Bridge. It was a lovely evening. The view across the river was absolutely stunning. Houses of Parliament all lit up. I’m not especially patriotic, or even political, but the sight always stirs me, brings a lump to my throat.”
“And Mark?”
“I assume he caught the tube.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
“Back to Goodge Street, I suppose. He could easily walk to Bloomsbury from there.”
“So that’s where he went?”
“That would be my guess. I didn’t go with him, so obviously I can’t say for certain.”
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“What time was this?”
“About half ten, quarter to eleven.”
“Where had he left his car?”
“No idea. Outside the f lat, I suppose, or in the garage, if he had one.”
“What did you talk about over your drinks?”
“The films we saw, ideas for sets and costumes.”
“What kind of state of mind would you say he was in?”
“He was fine,” said Wyman. “Same as usual. That’s why I can’t understand—”
“Not depressed at all?” Annie asked.
“No.”
“Bad tempered, edgy?”
“No.”
Banks picked up the questioning again. “Only, we’ve been given to understand that he’d been a bit moody and irritable over the past couple of weeks or so. Did you notice any signs of that?”
“Maybe whatever it was, he’d got over it? Maybe the trip to London did him good?”
“Perhaps,” said Banks. “But let’s not forget that the day after he got back to Eastvale he went out and hanged himself in Hindswell Woods.
We’re trying to find out what might be behind that, if there was any direct cause, or if it was simply a buildup of depression.”
“I’m sorry I can’t help you,” said Wyman. “I didn’t know he was depressed. If he was, he hid it well.”
“Did you get any sense that he and Laurence might have had some sort of falling-out?”
“He didn’t talk much about Laurence on the trip. He rarely did, unless I asked after him. Hardly, anyway. Mark was almost pathologi-cally secretive about his private life. Not about the fact that he was gay or anything, he was very up front about that, just about who he was sharing his life with. I think he’d had relationships before that had gone bad, and he might have been a bit superstitious about it. You know, like if you talk about liking something or someone too much, it’s bound to go wrong.”
“I don’t mean to be indiscreet here,” said Banks, “but did Mark A L L T H E C O L O R S O F D A R K N E S S
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ever make a pass at you or show any undue interest in you? Anything other than companionship and shared interests, that is?”
“Good Lord, no! Mark was a colleague and a friend. He knew I was married, heterosexual. He always respected that.”
“Did you socialize often?”
“Not very often, no. We’d go for a drink now and then, mostly to discuss some theatrical matter.”
“Was he a jealous person?”
“Well, I got the impression once or twice that he felt a bit insecure.”
“In what way?”
“I think he had a jealous nature—this is just an impression, mind you—and I reckon he sometimes felt that Laurence was a bit out of his class, kept thinking the bubble would burst. I mean, a Barnsley miner’s son and a wealthy sophisticate like Laurence Silbert. Go figure, as the Yanks say. His mother started the Viva chain, you know. Quite the celebrity. You have to admit it’s a bit of an odd pairing. I can understand where he was coming from. I’m from pretty humble origins myself. You never forget.”
“Are you from Barnsley, too?”
“No. Pontefract, for my sins.”
“Was Mark jealous about anyone in particular?”
“No, he didn’t mention any names. He just got anxious if Laurence was away or something. Which happened quite often.”
“I understand that Mr. Silbert was in Amsterdam while you were in London?”
“Yes. Mark did mention that.”
“Did he say why?”
“No. Business, I assumed.”
“What was his business?”
“Retired civil servant. He’d worked for the foreign office, traveled all over the place. Maybe it was some sort of reunion or something?
Embassy staff. Or is it consulate? I never did know the difference between them. All I know is that Laurence was in Amsterdam and Mark was a bit worried about the nightlife there, you know, the Red Light district and all that. Amsterdam does have a bit of a reputation. Anything goes, and all that.”
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“Indeed,” said Banks. “So Mark was anxious?”
“I didn’t mean it like that. It was just part of his nature to worry. He even joked about it. I told him he could always go to Soho or Hampstead Heath if he wanted a bit of fun himself.”
“How did he react to that?” Annie asked.
“He just smiled and said those days were over.”
“So nothing out of the ordinary happened on this trip you and Mark Hardcastle made to London?” Banks said.
“No. Everything happened exactly as I said it did.”
“Had you noticed anything unusual about Mark’s behavior over the past while?”
“Nothing at all.”
“Mrs. Wyman?”
“No,” she said. “Not that I noticed. I mean, I haven’t seen him for a few weeks.”
“Had you and Mark done anything like this before?” Annie asked Wyman.
“Like what?”
“You know. A few days away together.”
Wyman leaned forward. “Look, I don’t know what you’re insinuating, but it wasn’t like that. There was nothing untoward between me and Mark Hardcastle. And we didn’t go away for ‘a few days together.’
We traveled separately to London and back, and as far as I know he was only there for one night. Christ, all we did was share a meal and go to the pictures.”
“I was only wondering if y
ou’d done it before,” Annie said.
“Well, no. I told you. This was the fist time.”
“And absolutely nothing occurred that night that could have set in motion the events of the next two days?” Banks asked.
“No. Not that I know of. Not while I was around. Who knows what he got up to after he left me.”
“Got up to?” said Banks.
“It’s just a figure of speech. Bloomsbury isn’t far from Soho, is it, and there are plenty of gay clubs there, if you like that sort of thing.
Maybe he met a friend? Maybe he and Laurence had an arrangement and did their own thing when they were apart? I don’t know. All I’m A L L T H E C O L O R S O F D A R K N E S S
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saying is that I’ve no idea where he went after he left me, straight to the f lat or somewhere else.”
“I thought you said he told you those days were behind him?”
Annie said. “Was Mark in the habit of being unfaithful to Laurence Silbert?”
“I’ve no idea. Like I said, he didn’t confide in me about his love life.
But remember, Laurence was in Amsterdam. If you want my honest opinion, no, I don’t think Mark was the type for a bit of hanky-panky on Hampstead Heath, cottaging, or whatever they call it. Or in the back room of a Soho club, for that matter. That’s why I could joke about it easily. But what do I know? It’s not a world I belong to.”
“I don’t suppose it’s much different from anyone else’s,” said Banks,
“when you get right down to it.”
“I suppose not,” Wyman agreed. “But the point remains that I don’t know what he did, what he liked to do, or with whom.”
“Is there anything else you can tell us?” Banks asked.
“Not that I can think of,” said Wyman.
His wife shook her head. Banks had been watching Carol Wyman’s face from time to time throughout the interview, checking for telltale signs of concern, or the knowledge that her husband might be lying when the matter of Hardcastle and Wyman being away together came up, but she hadn’t shown anything other than polite interest and vague amusement. She obviously had no fears on that score and was liberal enough in her outlook not to mind too much if her husband met up with a gay friend in London. There was nothing more to be learned from Derek Wyman right now, Banks thought, so he gave Annie the sign to leave.
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