All the Colors of Darkness ib-18

by Peter Robinson

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  ten or fifteen years, as his mother had indicated, then he had probably done most of his overseas operations before all the major changes in Germany and the former USSR.

  Banks decided he might as well read up on it and find out as much as he could, so on Tuesday he had gone to Waterstone’s and bought Stephen Dorril’s MI6 and Peter Hennessy’s The Secret State. He had read Hennessy’s Having It So Good a few months ago and liked his style.

  On Wednesday evening, Banks was in the kitchen in his jeans and an old T-shirt putting together an Ikea storage unit, now that his collection of CDs and DVDs was getting close to pre-fire proportions again, cursing because he had got the top on the wrong way around and wasn’t sure he could get the back off to fix it without ruining the whole thing.

  Stanford’s Symphony No. 2 was playing in the background, and the agitated movement he was listening to at the moment echoed his frustration with IKEA. When he heard the knock at the door and got up off his knees to go and answer it, he realized that he hadn’t heard a car.

  That was odd. His cottage was isolated, even from the village it belonged to, at the end of a long driveway that ended with the beckside woods beyond, and nobody walked there except the postman. The music hadn’t been playing so loudly that he wouldn’t have heard.

  Banks answered the door and found a slightly stooped man of around sixty, with thinning gray hair and a neat gray mustache, standing there. Though it was a warm evening, and the sun hadn’t gone down yet, the man was wearing a light camel overcoat on top of his suit. His shirt was immaculately white, and his tie looked like old school, or old regiment, the emblem of a castle keep dotted between its maroon and yellow stripes.

  “Mr. Banks?” he said. “Detective Chief Inspector Banks?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry to bother you at home. My name is Browne, with an e.

  Er . . . may I come in?”

  “I don’t mean to be rude,” said Banks, “but I’m busy. What’s it about?”

  “Laurence Silbert.”

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  P E T E R R O B I N S O N

  Banks paused for a moment, then stood aside and gestured for Mr.

  Browne to enter. He did so, glanced around the front room and said,

  “Cozy.”

  “I was working in the kitchen.”

  “Ah,” said Browne, and followed him through.

  The media storage unit lay on the f loor, the untreated edge of wood that formed its top plain to see. “You’ve got the top the wrong way around,” said Browne.

  “I know,” Banks grunted.

  Browne grimaced. “Quite a job to put it right. I know. I’ve done it myself. It’s the back that’s the problem, you see. Flimsy stuff. I suppose you’ve already nailed it on?”

  “Look, Mr. Browne,” said Banks, “much I as appreciate your advice on constructing IKEA products, I do know the problem I’m facing.

  Please, sit down.” He gestured to the bench at the breakfast nook.

  “Would you like a drink?”

  “Thank you,” said Browne, wedging himself into the corner. He hadn’t taken off his overcoat. “A small whiskey and soda wouldn’t go amiss.”

  Banks found a bottle of Bell’s in the booze cupboard and added a touch of soda. He poured himself a small Macallan 18-year-old with the merest threat of water. He used to be a confirmed Laphroaig drinker, but a bad experience had put him off, and he was only recently starting to enjoy whiskey again. He found that he couldn’t take the peat, seaweed and iodine taste of the Islay malts anymore, but he could handle the richer, more caramel tones of the old Highland malts in small quantities. Mostly, he still stuck to wine or beer, but this seemed an occasion for whiskey.

  Browne raised his glass as Banks sat down opposite him. “Slainte,”

  he said.

  “Slainte.”

  “Stanford, I hear,” Browne said. “I knew you were a big classical music aficionado, but I would have thought Stanford was very much out of fashion these days.”

  “If you know that much about me,” Banks said, “then you must also know that I’ve never been very concerned about what’s in or out 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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  of fashion. It’s good music to build storage units to, that’s all.” As he took a sip of whiskey the desire for a cigarette f looded his being. He gritted his teeth and fought it off.

  Browne studied the rough edge of the top. “So I see,” he said.

  “I’m happy to banter about storage units and Charles Villiers Stanford for a while,” Banks said, “but you told me you came about Laurence Silbert. Whose interests do you represent?” Banks had a damn good idea of exactly who Browne was, or at least whom he worked for, but he wanted to hear it from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.

  Browne played with his glass, swirling the amber f luid. “I suppose you could say that I represent Her Majesty’s government,” he said finally, then nodded. “Yes, that would be the best way of looking at it.”

  “Is there another?”

  Browne laughed. “Well, there’s always another point of view, isn’t there?”

  “You’re one of Laurence Silbert’s old bosses?”

  “Please, Mr. Banks. Surely even you must know that MI6 doesn’t operate on British soil. Haven’t you seen Spooks?”

  “MI5, then,” Banks said. “I stand corrected. I suppose seeing some identification is out of the question?”

  “Not at all, dear chap.”

  Browne took a laminated card out of his wallet. It identified him as Claude F. Browne, Home Office Security. The photo could have been of anyone of Browne’s general age and appearance. Banks handed it back. “So what is it you want to tell me?” he asked.

  “Tell you?” Browne sipped some more whiskey and frowned. “I don’t believe I mentioned wanting to tell you anything.”

  “Then why are you here? If you don’t have anything to say relevant to the case under investigation, you’re wasting my time.”

  “Don’t be so hasty, Mr. Banks. There’s no need to jump to conclusions. We can work together on this.”

  “Then stop beating about the bush and get on with it.”

  “I was simply wondering what point your . . . er . . . investigation has reached.”

  “I can’t tell you that,” said Banks. “It’s not our policy to discuss active investigations with members of the public.”

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  P E T E R R O B I N S O N

  “Oh, come on. Technically speaking, I’m hardly a member of the public. We’re on the same side.”

  “Are we?”

  “You know we are. All I’m interested in is whether we are likely to encounter any potentially embarrassing situations, any unpleasant-ness.”

  “And how would you define that?”

  “Anything that might embarrass the government.”

  “A trial, for example?”

  “Well, I must admit, that wouldn’t exactly be a welcome outcome at this juncture. But there’s very little likelihood of that happening.

  No, I was asking if there might be any, shall we say, fallout we should be worried about?”

  “What did Silbert do?” Banks asked. “Put Strontium ninety in someone’s tea?”

  “Very funny. I’m afraid I can’t tell you what he did,” said Browne.

  “You know I can’t. That information is classified, protected by the Official Secrets Act.”

  Banks leaned back and sipped some Macallan. “Then we’re at a bit of an impasse, aren’t we? You can’t tell me anything and I can’t tell you anything.”

  “Oh dear,” said Browne. “I was hoping it wouldn’t be like this.

  Some people get so very agitated at the mere idea of a secret intelligence service. We are on the same side, you know. We have the same interests at heart, the protection of the realm. Our methods may differ somewhat, but our ends are the same.”

  “The difference is,” said Banks, �
�that you work for an organization that believes the ends justify the means. The police try to operate in-dependently of that, of what various governments need to get done on the quiet so they can stay in power.”

  “That’s a very cynical assessment, if I might say so,” said Browne.

  “And I’m more than willing to bet that you’ve taken a shortcut or two in your time to make sure someone you knew to be guilty got convicted. But that’s by the by. Like you, we’re mere civil servants. We also serve a succession of masters.”

  “Yes, I know. I’ve seen Yes, Minister.”

  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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  Browne laughed. “Surprisingly accurate. Did you see the one about the hospital without patients?”

  “I remember it,” said Banks. “My favorite.”

  “Wouldn’t that be the perfect world? Schools without pupils, universities without students, doctors without patients, police without criminals? Then we could all get on with the real work.”

  “A secret service without spies?”

  “Ah, yes, that would be a good one.” Browne leaned forward.

  “We’re not so different, you and I, Mr. Banks.” He gestured vaguely toward the source of the music, which still played quietly in the background. “We both like Stanford. Elgar, too, perhaps? Vaughan Williams. Britten—though he did have a few dodgy habits and left these shores for the United States at a rather inconvenient time. The Beatles, even, given today’s perspective? Oasis? The Arctic Monkeys? I can’t say that I have ever listened to any of these, but I know your tastes in music are somewhat eclectic, and they are British. Whatever you think of The Beatles, even they represented traditional British values in their heyday. The four lovable moptops. And sometimes one has to stand up and fight for those values, you know. Sometimes one even has to do things that go counter to what one would deem right.”

  “Why? That’s what I said about the ends and the means, isn’t it? Is that what Silbert did? Was he a government assassin? Did he betray people?”

  Browne finished his drink and edged out of his corner to stand by the kitchen door. “You’re letting your imagination run away with you. It’s not at all what the fiction writers say it is, you know.”

  “Isn’t it? I always thought Ian Fleming aimed for realism.”

  Browne’s lip curled. “I don’t think this is a very productive discussion, do you?” he said. “I’m not sure what it is that’s got you up on your moral high horse, but we still have a very real world to deal with out there. Take the Litvinenko business. That set us back years with the Russians. Do you know that there are as many Russian spies operating in Britain today as there were at the height of the Cold War? I came here seeking some sort of reassurance that, for the good of the country, your investigation into the death of Laurence Silbert wasn’t likely to cause any . . . any further ripples that might embarrass the service or the government. That it could be swiftly and neatly con-1 1 8

  P E T E R R O B I N S O N

  cluded, and you could head off back to Chelsea to see your lovely young girlfriend.”

  “As far as I remember,” said Banks, feeling a chill crawl up his spine, “Lugovoi denied that he had anything to do with murdering Litvinenko. Didn’t the Russians claim that MI6 did it?”

  Browne chuckled. “I wouldn’t have taken you for a fan of conspiracy theories.”

  “I’m not,” said Banks. “One just hears these rumors.”

  “Well, I hope you realize that’s as ridiculous as the claim that MI6

  had something to do with the death of Princess Diana,” he said. “Not to mention naive. As Sir Richard Dearlove said under oath, MI6 does not sanction or involve itself in assassination. Of course the Russians denied it. Of course they made a counteraccusation. That’s what they always do. Andrei Lugovoi left a trail of Polonium 210 that practically glowed in the dark and led the police to his front door.”

  “The police? Or you?”

  “As I said before. We’re on the same side.”

  “Are you telling me that Silbert was somehow connected with Russia? With the Litvinenko affair, even? Do you think there’s something about his murder that could stir things up internationally? Is there a terrorist connection? A Russian Mafia connection? Or maybe he was involved in the conspiracy over Princess Di’s death? Was he a double agent? Is that where the Swiss bank accounts come in?”

  Browne stared at Banks and his eyes narrowed, turned hard and cold. “If you can’t give me the assurances I seek, then I’ll have to seek elsewhere,” he said, and turned to leave.

  Banks followed him through the living room to the front door. “As far as I know,” he said, “it looks like a simple murder-suicide. Happens more often than you think. Silbert’s lover, Mark Hardcastle, killed your man, then he killed himself out of grief.”

  Browne turned. “Then there’s no need for a messy investigation, is there, no chance of an awkward trial, of anything uncomfortable slipping out into public view?”

  “Well, there probably wasn’t,” said Banks. “Not until you turned up, that is. I only said that’s what it looks like.”

  “Good night, Mr. Banks, and grow up,” said Browne. He shut the 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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  door firmly behind him. Banks didn’t hear a car engine start until a few minutes later, far away, at the end of the lane. He went back to the kitchen and stared at the mess he had made of the storage center. Suddenly he didn’t feel like dealing with it anymore. Instead, he topped up his whiskey, noticing that his hands were shaking a little, and carried it through to the TV room, where he replaced Stanford with Robert Plant and Alison Krauss, cranked up the volume on “Rich Woman” and thought about Sophia. Now, how on earth did Browne know about her?

  O N T H U R S D AY morning, Detective Superintendent Gervaise called a meeting in the boardroom, at which Banks, Winsome, Annie and Stefan Nowak were in attendance. Banks had told her about Mr.

  Browne’s visit beforehand, but she didn’t seem either particularly surprised or interested.

  After tea and coffee had been sorted, everyone turned to Stefan Nowak for his forensic summary. “I suppose I should note first of all,”

  Nowak said, “that I just got the DNA results this morning, and on the evidence of the birthmark on the victim’s arm and the DNA comparison with the mother, we can definitely state that the identity of the deceased found at 15 Castleview Heights is Laurence Silbert. According to Dr. Glendenning’s postmortems, Hardcastle died of liga-ture strangulation—the yellow clothesline he hanged himself with—

  and Silbert was killed by a series of blows to the head and throat from a hard f lat object—which we’ve matched to the cricket bat found at the scene. The first blow was to the back of the head, the left side, so he was moving away from his killer at the time.”

  “That would make sense,” Banks said. “Silbert was supposed to be pretty fit, and he might have been able to put up more of a fight if he’d seen it coming.”

  “But does it fit with the idea of a lover’s tiff ?” Gervaise asked.

  “I don’t see why not,” said Banks. “People turn away from one another in rows sometimes. Silbert must have misjudged the depth of Hardcastle’s rage. And the cricket bat was in its stand right by his side.

  But it could also fit other possible scenarios.”

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  “We’ll leave those for the moment,” said Gervaise. She turned to Nowak. “Go on, Stefan.”

  “At that point we think Mr. Silbert turned as he fell to his knees, and his assailant hit him on the right temple and in the throat, breaking the hyoid bone, crushing the larynx and knocking him backward into the position we found him in. It was one, or a combination, of those blows that killed him. After that . . . well, there was a series of other blows. Postmortem.”

  “And Mark Hardcastle was left-handed,” said Annie.

  “Yes,” sa
id Nowak, glancing at her. “Given that the only fingerprints we found on the cricket bat belonged to him, I’d hazard a guess that he’s your man. As I told you after blood-typing earlier this week, the odds were very good that the only blood at the Silbert crime scene belonged to Silbert himself. DNA analysis has now verified that beyond a doubt. The same with the blood we found on Hardcastle’s clothes and person. All Silbert’s, according to the DNA, with a small amount of Hardcastle’s own, most likely caused by scratches as he climbed the tree.”

  “Well,” said Superintendent Gervaise, glancing from one to the other, “I’d say we’ve got our answer, haven’t we? You can’t argue with DNA. What about toxicology?”

  “Nothing but alcohol in Hardcastle’s blood,” said Nowak. “Neither Hardcastle nor Silbert was drugged.”

  “Was there evidence of anyone else at the scene?” Banks asked Nowak.

  “Not at the scene specifically, no. Just the usual traces. You know as well as I do that there’s always evidence of whoever’s been in the room—friends, cleaners, dinner guests, relatives, what have you—and strangers a victim may have been in contact with, brushed up against.

  Trace evidence is all over the place—and don’t forget both victims had recently been in big cities—London and Amsterdam. Silbert had also been at Durham Tees Valley and Schiphol airports, too.”

  “I think it’s time you put your curiosity to bed,” said Gervaise to Banks. “Other people had obviously been in the room at one time or another, like they’ve been in my room and yours. Silbert and Hardcastle had brushed against people in the street or in a pub or at an 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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  airport. That makes sense. You’ve heard DS Nowak. There was no evidence of any blood at the scene other than Silbert’s.”

  “Begging your pardon, ma’am,” Annie said, “but that really doesn’t prove anything, does it? I mean, we know that Silbert was beaten to death with a cricket bat, so we’d expect to find his blood at the scene, but the fact that we haven’t found Hardcastle’s simply means that he didn’t shed any at the house. And if he didn’t shed any—”