“Bingo. It’s a memory stick.”
“Won’t it fit in that camera?”
“No. It’s for Sony digital cameras.”
“Isn’t there an adaptor?”
“No. Not for the camera. I mean, technically I suppose someone could probably do it, but you just wouldn’t. You’d buy the right kind of memory. You can get card readers, and a lot of computers will accept different kinds of cards—Hardcastle’s laptop there does, by the way—but you can’t put a Sony memory stick in a Canon Sure Shot camera.”
“Maybe it was just meant for the computer, not the camera? You said most computers have card readers.”
“Possibly,” Annie said. “But I still think that’s unlikely. Mostly people buy those cheaper USB smart drives when they want portable computer memory. These little thingies are made for cameras.”
“So the question is, what’s it doing here?”
“Exactly,” said Annie. “And where did it come from? Silbert didn’t have a Sony, either. He’s just got an old Olympic. I saw it in his study.”
“Interesting,” said Banks, eyeing the small, wafer-thin stick.
“Should we check it out?”
“Fingerprints?”
“Damn.” Banks went to the landing and called one of the SOCOs, who came up, examined and dusted the stick, then shook his head.
“Everything’s too blurred,” he said. “It’s almost always the case with things like that. You might get something from the memory stick itself, if you’re lucky, but usually people tend to hold them by the edges.”
“This isn’t the stick?” Banks said, puzzled.
“I forgot to explain,” said Annie. “The stick fits into an adaptor, a kind of sheath, so you can slot it in the computer.”
“Okay. I see.” Banks thanked the SOCO, who went back down-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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stairs. “Let’s have a look at it, then,” Banks went on. “If it’s protected by the sheath, we can’t do it any harm, can we?”
“I suppose not,” said Annie, sitting down at the laptop. Banks watched her slip the stick into a slot in the side of the computer and heard it click into place. A series of dialogue boxes f lashed across the screen. Within seconds, he was looking at a photograph showing Laurence Silbert with another man sitting on a park bench. In the background was a magnificent cream-colored, two-domed building. Banks thought they were in Regent’s Park, but he couldn’t be certain.
Next the two men were pictured from behind walking down a narrow street past a row of garages on the right, each a different color painted in a series of distinctive white-bordered square panels, like a chessboard. Above the garages were gabled houses, or apartments, with white stucco fronts.
The final shot showed them entering through a door between two of the garages, which clearly led to the living space above, the unknown man in profile, his hand resting lightly on Silbert’s shoulder. It could have been a simple gesture of courtesy, the man ushering Silbert into the house first. To a jealous lover, though, it could conceivably have appeared as a sign of affection, especially if the lover knew nothing about such a meeting.
Whoever the man was, he certainly wasn’t Mark Hardcastle. Maybe he was Leo Westwood, Banks thought. Whoever he was, he looked about the same age as Silbert, perhaps a year or two younger, given the former’s access to the elixir of youth, and about the same height. Judging by the light and shadows, it was early evening, and beyond the garages, the rest of the houses on the street were brick with cream stucco ground f loors and steps leading down to basement entrances.
The photos were dated a week ago last Wednesday.
“Okay,” said Banks. “Can we get these printed up back at the station?”
“No, problem,” said Annie. “I can do it myself.”
“Let’s call back there first, then. We’ll show them to the people we’ve already talked to, starting with Edwina Silbert. And I’ve got a pal in technical support who might just be able to identify the street name if he can enhance the image enough. You can see the sign on 8 8 P E T E R
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the wall in the far background. There’s obviously a damn good reason that memory stick was there. It didn’t belong to either Silbert or Hardcastle, and you tell me that neither could have used it in their cameras.
I don’t think it was there by coincidence. Do you?”
“No,” said Annie.
Banks pocketed the letters and Annie took the memory stick out of the slot and turned off the laptop. They were just about to head back to the station when Annie’s mobile rang. She answered it immediately.
Banks glanced around the room again as she dealt with the call, but saw nothing he thought of any significance.
“Interesting,” said Annie, putting her phone away.
“Who was it?”
“Maria Wolsey, from the theater. She worked with Mark Hardcastle.”
“What does she want?”
“Wants to talk to me.”
“About what?”
“She didn’t say. Just that she’d like to talk to me.”
“And?”
“I said I’d drop by her f lat.”
“Okay,” said Banks. “Why don’t we go get the photos printed first, then you can talk to her while I have another chat with Edwina Silbert.”
Annie smiled. “Alan Banks, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you fancied her.”
5
THE MORNING’S RAIN WAS LONG GONE BY THE TIME
Banks got to the Burgundy Hotel, and Edwina Silbert was taking a gin and tonic and a cigarette in the small quiet courtyard, once the stables, at the back of the building. Banks got the impression that it wasn’t her first drink of the day. She had one of the Sunday newspaper style supplements open before her, photos of skinny models in clothes you never saw anyone wearing, but it was clear that she wasn’t really paying attention to it; her gaze was fixed on the line of distant hills framed by a gap in the buildings.
Banks pulled up a chair and sat opposite her. “Comfortable night?”
he asked.
“As well as could be expected,” she said. “Do you know, there’s absolutely no smoking anywhere in the hotel? Not even in my own room. Can you believe it?”
“Sign of the times, I’m afraid,” said Banks, ordering a lemon tea from the hovering white-coated waiter. Edwina was looking her age this morning, he thought. Or closer to it. She was wearing a black woolen shawl over her shoulders, a sign of mourning, an indication that she felt cold, or perhaps both. Her gray-white hair and pale, dry skin stood out in stark contrast.
“Where’s that pretty girlfriend of yours today?” she asked.
“DI Cabbot isn’t my girlfriend.”
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“Then she’s a damn fool. If I were twenty years younger . . .”
Banks laughed.
“What? You don’t believe me?”
“Edwina, I believe you.”
Her expression turned serious. “Anything new to report?” she asked.
“Not much, I’m afraid,” said Banks. “I just called in at the station and discovered that your son’s blood type is A positive, along with about thirty-five percent of the population, and that the only blood types we found on Mark’s person were A positive and B positive, which is much rarer, and happens to be his own.”
“So you’re saying it looks more and more as if Mark killed Laurence?”
“We’ve a long way to go to be certain of that yet,” said Banks, “but blood typing certainly supports the theory.”
Edwina sat in silence. Banks felt that she might be debating with herself whether to tell him something, but the moment passed, and when nothing was forthcoming after a minute or so, he slipped the photos Annie had printed out of their envelope and pushed them over to her. “We found these in Mark’s study,” he said. “Any idea who the other man is?”
Edwina took some re
ading glasses from a brown leather case beside her and studied the photos. “No,” she said. “Never see him before in my life.”
“It’s not Leo Westwood?”
“Leo? Good Lord, no. Leo’s far more handsome than the man in this photograph, and not quite so tall. A little stockier, even, with tight, dark curls. Rather cherubic, actually. How do you know about Leo?”
“We found some letters.”
“What kind of letters?”
“From Leo to Laurence. Nothing . . . shocking. Just letters.”
“They’d hardly be shocking,” Edwina said. “The Leo I knew was definitely not the sort to let it all hang out.”
“When were they together?”
“About ten years ago. Late nineties until the early two thousands.”
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“Do you know what happened?”
She stared at the distant patterns of drystone walls. “Whatever usually happens to split people apart. Boredom? Someone new? Laurence didn’t tell me. He was brokenhearted for a while, then he got over it and got on with his life. I assume Leo did the same.”
“Do you know where Leo is now?”
“I’m afraid not. We lost touch after he and Laurence split up. He might still be living in the same place, I suppose. It’s on Adamson Road, Swiss Cottage.” She gave Banks a street number. “I had dinner with them there on several occasions. It was a nice apartment and an interesting neighborhood. Leo liked the place, and he did own it, so if he didn’t have to move for any practical reason, the odds are that he’s still there.”
“Their relationship was serious?”
“I would say so, from what I saw of it, yes.”
“Were there any others?”
“Lovers or serious relationships?”
“Serious relationships.”
“I’d say Leo was the only one until Mark came along, except perhaps for his first love, but that was many years ago, and I can’t remember the young man’s name now. I’m sure Laurence would have done, though. One never does really forget one’s first love, does one?
Anyway, Leo was the only one I knew about, at any rate, and I think I would have known. There were casual lovers, of course.”
“Have you ever heard Laurence mention a man called Julian Fenner?” Banks asked.
Edwina frowned. “Fenner? No, I can’t say as I have.”
Banks’s lemon tea arrived. He thanked the waiter and took a sip.
Refreshing. Edwina took the opportunity to order another gin and tonic. Birds twittered in the shrubbery. The sun felt warm on the back of Banks’s neck. “We’ve also been thinking,” he went on, “that Mark may have had suspicions regarding Laurence’s faithfulness, or lack of it. Laurence might have been having an affair. Mark could have found out about it.”
“I wish I could help you,” said Edwina, “but I certainly wasn’t privy to all Laurence’s comings and goings. I would very much doubt 9 2 P E T E R
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it, though. While Laurence could be as promiscuous and unfaithful as the next man when his feelings weren’t engaged in a relationship, well . . . when he was in love, it was a different matter. He took that sort of thing seriously.”
“What about the man in the photo?” Banks said. “They’re touching.”
“I shouldn’t think that means anything, would you?” Edwina said.
“It’s just a natural gesture when you usher someone through a door before you. I mean, it’s hardly sexual, or even sensual, is it?”
“But a jealous person might see it that way.”
“True. There’s no accounting for the way some people interpret things.”
“Might Mark have seen it that way?”
“He could have. I wouldn’t have said he was that jealous, mind you.
Just a little insecure. When you think you’ve landed such a wonderful catch you’re understandably nervous about losing it. I’m not boasting about my son here. All these things are relative.”
“I understand,” said Banks, thinking that no matter how often the analysts told us the class system had disappeared, there was always plenty of evidence to the contrary. “What about Laurence’s business interests?” he asked. “I gather he was a retired civil servant?”
Edwina paused. “Yes,” she said.
“But he also helped you with Viva, didn’t he?”
She almost spilled her gin and tonic. “What? Where on earth did you get that idea?”
“But I thought that might explain some of his frequent trips to London and elsewhere, if he worked as a sort of business consultant.”
“Good Lord, no. You have got it all wrong, haven’t you?”
“Have I?”
“Office space in London is far too expensive. Our head office is in Swindon. Well, outside Swindon. One wouldn’t want to actually be in Swindon, would one?”
Banks cursed himself. They should have checked. It wouldn’t have been that difficult to find out where Viva’s head office was. “When I found out who you were, I just assumed that was perhaps why Laurence went to London so often, to help you take care of Viva.”
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“Laurence? Viva? You must be joking. Laurence had no head for figures, no business acumen at all. Laurence? If I’d let him run things we’d be bankrupt or unemployed by now. I gave Laurence a percent-age share in the business. That’s where his money comes from. He never played any actual part in the running of the company.”
“There were also a number of transfers from Swiss bank accounts we’ve been unable to account for. Would they have anything to do with Viva?”
“I very much doubt it,” Edwina mumbled, tapping out another cigarette and lighting it. “Though I should imagine that someone in the employ of the foreign service for as many years as Laurence was would have squirreled a certain amount away, wouldn’t you?”
“Expenses?”
She looked away, up at the hills again. “Expenses. Contingency fund. Mad money. Escape hatch. Call it what you will.”
Banks’s head was beginning to swim. Edwina seemed to have wrapped herself in a cloud of verbal smoke, as well as the real stuff, and her answers were vague and slow to come. He felt as if the interview were suddenly slipping away from him, and he didn’t know why.
“Do you know why he went down to London so often, then?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Or why he’d go to Amsterdam? He was there from Tuesday until Friday morning last week.”
“I have no idea. Old friends, perhaps? Contacts. He had them all over the world. They were his life’s blood.”
“What do you mean? I don’t understand you.”
When she gazed at him, he sensed a guarded look in her eyes. “It’s perfectly clear,” she said. “Laurence had no business affairs. Whatever he did down in London after he retired, it certainly wasn’t business. I would guess that he was meeting old colleagues, talking shop, playing golf, perhaps, visiting casinos, lunching at various clubs. Who knows?”
“Could it have had anything to do with his job? The civil service job he retired from?”
“Oh, I should imagine so. One never really retires fully from that sort of thing, does one, especially in times like these?”
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“I wouldn’t know,” said Banks, feeling his scar begin to itch. “What do you mean? What was it exactly that he did?”
Edwina sipped her gin and tonic and remained silent.
“Edwina,” Banks said in exasperation. “You’re keeping something from me. I can tell. You were doing it last night, and now you’re doing it again today. What on earth is it? What are you holding back?”
Edwina paused and sighed. “Oh, very well. It is naughty of me, isn’t it? I suppose you’d find out sooner or later, anyway.” She stubbed out her cigarette and looked
Banks in the eye. “He was a spy, Mr. Banks.
My son, Laurence Silbert. He was a spook.”
M A R I A W O L S E Y ’ S f lat reminded Annie of where she had lived when she was a student at Exeter. She glimpsed an unmade mattress on the f loor in the bedroom, and the bookcases in the living room were made of planks separated by bricks. Posters of Arctic Monkeys and The Killers vied for space with playbills for the RSC and the Eastvale Theatre on the walls. The armchairs they sat in needed reupholstering and the mugs they drank their coffee from were chipped and stained.
Maria, it turned out, had only left the University of Bristol, where she had studied drama, a year ago. Eastvale was her first job, and she hoped to use it as a stepping stone to move on to higher and better things. Like Mark Hardcastle, her interest was in theater history, costume design and set production.
“You could say Mark was a sort of mentor to me,” she said, cradling her mug against her chest. The dark-rimmed glasses she had on made her look both older and more of an intellectual. She wore a loose off-the-shoulder top, and her straight brown hair hung over her pale skin.
She sat in the chair with her legs crossed, feet bare below the frayed hems of her jeans. In the background, a girl with a wispy voice was singing and playing guitar on the stereo.
“Did the two of you spend much time together?”
“Quite a bit, yes. Usually after work, or on a lunch break, you know. We’d go for a drink or a bite to eat.”
“So you were close? Is that why you rang me?”
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Maria’s brow furrowed. She put her mug down on the arm of the chair. “I didn’t want to talk in front of everyone. And Vernon acts like he’s the boss, you know. He’s always putting me down. I think he feels threatened by a competent woman.”
“What about a competent gay man?”
“Come again?”
“Vernon. How did he feel about working for Mark?”
“Oh, that. I see. Vernon’s like a lot of men. He thinks he’s okay with it, but really he’s a homophobe. The whole idea of it terrifies him, threatens his manhood.”
“What’s he doing working in the theater then?”
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