“What’s all this about, then?” Winsome asked, when they sat down with their drinks. A pint of Abbot’s for Annie and a glass of red wine for Winsome. “I thought the Hardcastle business was over and done with. Superintendent Gervaise said so.”
“It is,” said Annie. “At least officially.” She debated whether to bring Winsome into the picture. If she could trust anyone else in Western Area HQ, it was Winsome, but she could also be prudish and judgmental, and she tended to do things by the book. In the end, Annie decided to tell her. Even if Winsome disapproved, at least she wouldn’t go telling Superintendent Gervaise or anyone else.
“So DCI Banks is in London following this up instead of on leave?”
Winsome said, when Annie had finished.
“Yes. Well, he’s officially on leave, but . . . he’s not convinced.”
“And you?”
“Let’s just say I’m intrigued.”
“And he wants you to help at this end?”
“Yes.”
1 74 P E T E R
R O B I N S O N
“And that’s why we’re sitting in this lame pub in this gross village waiting for some naff food.”
Annie smiled. “That’s just about it, Winsome.”
Winsome muttered something underneath her breath.
“Want in?” said Annie.
“It looks like I’m stuck here, doesn’t it? You’ve got the car keys.”
“There’s always a bus.”
“On the hour every hour. It’s five past six.”
“Maybe it’ll be late.”
Winsome held her palm up. “Okay, all right, enough. I’m in.
Unless you start crossing any serious boundaries.”
“What’s a serious boundary?”
“One you know when you’re crossing it.”
Annie paused for a moment as their food arrived, a beef burger and chips for Winsome and a mini pizza margherita for her. She had strayed a little from her vegetarianism lately, to the extent of a coq au vin and a potted meat sandwich, and she was also finding that she enjoyed fish more often. On the whole, though, she tried to stick with it, and she certainly avoided red meat. Their knives and forks were tightly wrapped in serviettes and bound with a strip of blue paper.
Winsome’s knife was spotty from the dishwasher.
“What did you think of Nicky Haskell this time?” Annie asked as she picked up a slice of pizza with her fingers. “It’s the third time we’ve talked to him and his story hasn’t changed. The mention of Hardcastle was the only thing that was new, and he’d obviously just seen something about that on TV by accident. Not a newspaper reader, our Nicky, I shouldn’t think.”
“Dunno,” said Winsome around a mouthful of burger. “It was on the news the night before last. Silbert and Hardcastle.” She dabbed her lips with the serviette. “Did he seem more scared this time to you?”
“He did,” Annie said. “And he’s such a tough-enough nut himself that I really don’t think he’d be scared of Jackie Binns or his mates.”
“So what is it? Misguided loyalty? Instinctive aversion to talking to the police?”
“Could be either or both,” Annie said. “Could also be that there’s someone else involved he really is scared of.”
A L L T H E C O L O R S O F D A R K N E S S
1 7 5
“Now that would be an interesting development.”
They ate their meals in silence for a while, each pausing occasionally for a sip of beer or wine. When she had finished about half her pizza, Annie asked casually, “Got a boyfriend at the moment, Winsome?”
“Nah. There was . . . there was someone from technical support, but . . . you know, his hours, my hours, it just didn’t work out.”
“Do you want a husband and kids?”
“No way. Least not yet for a while, not for a long while. Why? Do you?”
“Sometimes I think so,” Annie said, “and then sometimes I feel the same way you do. Trouble is, my biological clock’s running out and yours has got plenty of time left on it.”
“What about . . . you know . . . DCI Banks?”
Annie rolled her eyes. “He’s in lo-ove.” Then she burst into laughter.
Winsome laughed, too. “Seriously, what you were saying before, this theory of his about the Hardcastle-Silbert case.”
Annie pushed her plate aside with one piece left and sipped some Abbot’s. “Yes? What about it?”
“Does DCI Banks really think the Secret Intelligence Service goaded Hardcastle into bumping off Silbert for some sort of twisted government reason?”
“Well,” said Annie, “government reasoning is usually pretty twisted, as far as I can make out, so he might not be far wrong. Thing is, though, what Nicky Haskell just told us changes things.”
“It does? Derek Wyman?”
“Well, yes. Think about it. If it was Wyman did the Iago bit, then it might have had nothing to do with Silbert’s MI6 career. Wyman probably didn’t even know about that, or even if he did, it wouldn’t necessarily mean anything to him. He did, however, stand to lose his position at the theater if Hardcastle got his new group of players going, and Hardcastle needed Silbert’s backing for that.”
“So why did this Browne bloke pay DCI Banks a visit, then?”
“A fishing expedition? To see which way the wind was blowing?
They’re bound to be interested if it was one of their blokes who copped it, aren’t they? Silbert probably knew all kinds of secrets, did 1 7 6 P E T E R
R O B I N S O N
all sorts of nefarious deeds that could bring down the government, or at least bring about a clean sweep of the intelligence services, if they became public. They’re running scared. Only natural they’d be worried about that, isn’t it?”
“But you’re saying that may not be the case?”
“I don’t know,” Annie said. “But if Wyman was the one stirred up the hornet’s nest, the motivation might be a whole other thing, mightn’t it? Professional jealousy. Revenge.”
“Maybe they were having a . . . you . . . know . . . a thing?”
Annie smiled. Winsome always got f lustered when she was dealing with matters of sex, whether gay or straight. “You mean an affair? A f ling?”
“Yeah,” said Winsome.
“Who?”
“Wyman and Hardcastle. They were in London together. They were the ones Nicky Haskell said he saw having a tête-à-tête.”
“He said he thought he saw Wyman say something to upset Hardcastle, then calm him down. It certainly fits.”
“They could have met on some other occasion, later, and Wyman could have given him the memory stick.”
“But when and how did Wyman get the photos? He couldn’t be running off down to London every time Silbert did. How did he know where to look, for a start?”
“I don’t know,” said Winsome. “It’s just a theory. Wyman was pally with Hardcastle and he knew about the f lat in London. Maybe he followed Silbert from there on one of his trips and got lucky?”
“And if Wyman and Hardcastle were having an affair, why would Wyman want Hardcastle to kill Silbert and then himself ?”
“He wouldn’t,” said Winsome. “I mean, maybe that wasn’t what he wanted. Maybe he just wanted to turn Hardcastle against Silbert so he could have him for himself.”
“It’s possible,” Annie said. “And it backfired. Hardcastle overreacted. Finished?”
Winsome drained her glass. “Uh-huh.”
“Let’s have a quick word with young Liam on the way out. He doesn’t seem too busy.”
A L L T H E C O L O R S O F D A R K N E S S
1 7 7
Liam turned when Annie called his name and immediately assumed a serious air when she showed him her warrant card. At the same time he could hardly stop looking at Winsome. He was a gawky lad with slightly bulging eyes, rubbery lips and a gentle face, so easily f lustered and excited, so easy to read, he wouldn’t have made a good poker player.
> “How long have you been here?” Annie asked.
“Since ten this morning.”
“No. I mean how long have you been working here?”
“That. Oh, sorry. Stupid of me. Six months. Give or take.”
“So it’s not your first day.”
“Come again?”
“Never mind.” Annie fanned out photographs of Hardcastle and Silbert on the bar. She didn’t have one of Wyman and regretted that now. Maybe she could get one later. “Recognize either of these men?”
Liam pointed immediately to the photograph of Mark Hardcastle.
“I recognize him. He’s the bloke who hanged himself in Hindswell Woods. Nasty business. I used to like to go for walks there. Peaceful sort of place.” He gave Winsome a soulful look. “You know, somewhere you can really just be alone and think. But now . . . well, it’s ruined, isn’t it? Spoiled.”
“Sorry about that,” Annie said. “Bloody inconsiderate, most suicides.” Liam opened his mouth to say something else, but Annie bull-dozed on. “Anyway, have you ever seen him in here?”
“He’s been here once or twice, yes.”
“Recently?”
“Past month or so.”
“How often, would you say?”
“Dunno. Two or three times.”
“Alone or with someone else?”
Liam blushed. “With another bloke.” Liam gave a quick description that resembled Derek Wyman. “I know what it said about them, on the telly, like, but this isn’t that sort of a pub. We don’t have any of that sort of shenanigans here.” He gave Winsome a manly glance, as if to establish his hetero-cred. “Nothing went on.”
1 7 8 P E T E R
R O B I N S O N
“That’s good to know,” said Annie. “So they just sat there and stared into space?”
“No. I don’t mean that. No. They had a drink or two, never more than two, and mostly they just talked.”
“Ever see them arguing?”
“No. But the bloke that hanged himself, Hardcastle, got a bit agitated once or twice, and the other bloke had to calm him down.”
It was exactly as Nicky Haskell had described them on the one occasion he had seen Wyman and Hardcastle together. “Did they ever come with anyone else, or did anyone else join them?” Annie asked.
“Not when I was on duty.”
“Did you ever see anything change hands?”
Liam drew himself up to his full height behind the bar, which was still a few inches less than Winsome’s. “Never. That’s something else we don’t countenance in this establishment. Drugs.” He spat out the word.
“I’m impressed,” said Winsome, and Liam blushed.
“Ever see them looking at photos?” Annie asked, hoping she wasn’t going to get the same response she had from Haskell.
“No,” Liam said. “But they were usually here when we were pretty busy. I mean, it’s not as if I was keeping an eye on them or anything.”
He began to get f lustered and looked at Winsome again. “But if you want me to, I can keep my eyes and ears open. You know, if they come in again. I mean, I know Hardcastle can’t, like, he’s dead, right, but the other one, whoever he is, and I’ll certainly—”
“It’s all right, Liam,” Annie said, though Liam seemed to have forgotten her presence. “We doubt very much that he’ll be back. Thanks a lot for your help.”
“What you might do,” Winsome said before they left, leaning forward on the bar, so she was closer to Liam and a little shorter than he was, “is keep an eye open for underage drinkers. And drugs. We’ve had a few reports . . . you know . . . It would be a great help. Wouldn’t want you to get into any trouble, mind you.”
“Oh, God, no. I mean, yes, of course. Underage drinkers. Yes.
Drugs. I’ll do that.”
They were laughing as they went out the door. “ ‘Countenance in A L L T H E C O L O R S O F D A R K N E S S
1 7 9
this establishment,’ for crying out loud,” said Winsome. “Where’s he get that from?”
“Good one, Winsome,” Annie said. “You got him all f lustered.
You know, I think he fancies you. You might be in with a chance there.”
Winsome nudged her in the ribs. “Get away with you.”
BANKS MET Sophia in their local wine bar on the King’s Road just after eight o’clock that evening. It was crowded by then, but they managed to get a couple of stools at the bar. The place always reminded Banks of their first night together. The Eastvale wine bar was a bit smaller and less upmarket, of course, its wine list perhaps not quite so comprehensive, and certainly lighter on the wallet, but it had a similar ambi-ence: curved black bar, bottles on glass racks against a lit mirror behind the work area, soft lighting, candles f loating among f lower petals on the black circular tables, chrome chairs, padded seats.
That first night Banks hadn’t been able to take his eyes off Sophia’s animated face as they talked, and without his even being aware of it he had somehow forgotten everything else in his life and broken though his natural reserve, found his hand reaching out for hers across the table, not another thought in his mind at that moment but her dark eyes, her voice, her lips, the light and shade of the f lickering candle playing on the smooth skin of her face. It was a feeling that he knew would stay with him forever, no matter what happened. He felt his breath catch in his chest even as he thought about it now, sitting next to her, rather than opposite, in a place where they could barely hear each other speak, and whatever the music that was playing, it certainly wasn’t Madelaine Peyroux singing “You’re Gonna Make Me Lone-some When You Go.”
“He was terrible, ” Sophia was saying, finishing a story about an interview she had produced that afternoon. “I mean, most crime writers are nice enough, but this bloke came on like he was Tolstoy or someone, proceeded to ignore the questions he was asked, pontificated about navel-gazing literary fiction and complained about not being nominated for the Man-Booker. If you even hinted that he wrote 1 8 0
P E T E R R O B I N S O N
crime novels, he’d snarl and practically go apoplectic. And he swore all the bloody time! And he smelled. Poor Chris, the interviewer, stuck there in that little studio with him.”
Banks laughed. “What did you do?”
“Well, let’s just say the technician’s a friend of mine, and thank God it wasn’t live,” said Sophia with a wicked smile. “And you can’t smell someone over the radio.” She knocked back a healthy draft of Rioja and patted her chest. Her face was a little f lushed, the way it got sometimes when she was excited. She prodded Banks gently in the chest.
“So tell me about your day, Mr. Superspy.”
Banks put his finger to his lips. “Ssshhh,” he said, glancing toward the bartender. “ ‘Keep mum, she’s not so dumb.’ ”
“You think the Rioja’s bugged?” Sophia whispered.
“Could be. After today, I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“What happened today?”
“Oh, nothing happened. Not really.”
“Am I going to see much of you while you’re down here, or are you going to be slinking among the shadows and darkness?”
“I hope not.”
“But are you going to be running out at all hours of the night on mysterious missions?”
“I can’t guarantee nine to five, but I’ll do my best to be home by bedtime.”
“Hmm. So tell me what happened today.”
“I went to this house in Saint John’s Wood, a house we had evidence that Laurence Silbert and an unknown man entered together about a week before Silbert died . . .” And Banks proceeded to tell Sophia about Edith and Lester Townsend. “Honestly,” he said, “I felt as if I’d walked right into the world of one of those strange fantasy novels. Or fallen down a rabbit hole or something.”
“And they said they were there all the time, that no one else lived there or had rented from them, and they didn’t know either of the men in the photo?”
&
nbsp; “That’s about it.”
“How very North by Northwest. Are you sure your technical support people didn’t make a mistake?”
A L L T H E C O L O R S O F D A R K N E S S
1 8 1
“I’m sure. It’s the same place. You can see that as soon as you stand outside.”
“Well, they must be lying, then,” said Sophia. “It stands to reason.
It’s the only logical conclusion. Don’t you think?”
“So it would seem. But why?”
“Maybe they’ve been paid off?”
“Possibly.”
“Perhaps they run a gay brothel?”
“A little old lady like Edith Townsend? In Saint John’s Wood?”
“Why not?”
“Or maybe they’re simply a part of it all,” Banks said.
“A part of what?”
“The plot. The conspiracy. Whatever’s going on.” He tossed back the rest of his drink. “Come on, let’s go for that meal and talk about something else. I’m sick of bloody spooks already. It’s doing my head in. And I’m starving.”
Sophia laughed and reached down for her handbag. “Talking about doing your head in,” she said, “if we hurry, Wilco are playing at the Brixton Academy tonight, and I can get us in.”
“Well, then,” said Banks, standing and holding out his hand for her.
“What are we waiting for? Have we got time for a burger on the way?”
10
SOPHIA LEFT FOR WORK EARLY ON THURSDAY MORNING
while Banks was still in the shower trying to wake up. The Wilco concert had been great, and they had had a drink afterward with some of Sophia’s friends, which had made for a late night. At least Banks had remembered to charge his new mobile, and as soon as he’d dressed and had some coffee, he planned on phoning Annie to let her know his number.
He wasn’t sure whether to revisit the Townsends again that day.
Probably not. He didn’t really see much point. On the one hand, the taciturn Mr. Townsend would be at work, and his wife might be more forthcoming if her husband wasn’t around. On the other hand, she would probably be terrified, refuse to open the door and ring the police as soon as she saw Banks on her doorstep.
All the Colors of Darkness ib-18 Page 21
