If they were involved, it meant they were part of the intelligence service, or paid by them to run a safe house or some such thing, and if that was true, they were hardly going to give anything away. If, as Sophia had suggested, they ran a gay brothel, then it was clearly an elite one, and the same code of silence probably applied. Charles Lane was most likely a dead end in the investigation.
Banks’s only consolation was that perhaps what had happened there didn’t really matter. The important thing was that Silbert had gone there with a man, and photographs of that visit had ended up in 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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possession of Mark Hardcastle, who had either misconstrued the whole business or been right on target. Perhaps the identity of the man wasn’t as important as the identity of the photographer.
Humming “Norwegian Wood” for some odd reason, Banks dried himself and dressed. He thought he heard someone at the door, but when he went down and opened it, there was nobody there. Puzzled, he went through to the kitchen and blessed Sophia for leaving some coffee in the pot. He poured himself a cup, put a slice of wholemeal bread in the toaster and sat on a stool at the island. It was a small kitchen, especially given how much Sophia loved to cook, but it was organized and modern, with various high-quality pots and pans hanging from hooks above the island, a brushed steel gas oven and burners and just about every kitchen gadget you could want, from a set of J. A.
Henckel knives and a multispeed mixer to a cheap plastic carrot peeler you wore on your finger like a ring.
The toast popped out and Banks spread it with butter and grapefruit marmalade then had a quick look through that morning’s copy of The Independent Sophia had left behind. The Hardcastle-Silbert case seemed to have slipped from their radar entirely, and there wasn’t much else of interest. Amy Winehouse was in trouble over drugs again. It was a shame, Banks thought, as it made people pay less attention to her amazing talent. Or perhaps it got her name across to a wider audience. Billie Holiday had had much the same problems—
and she did go to rehab—yet she had made wonderful music. A lot of musicians had trouble with drugs, and Banks worried perhaps more than he should about Brian. The only great detective with a drug problem Banks knew of was Sherlock Holmes, and he had been pretty good at his job. Pity he wasn’t real.
Banks shut the newspaper and pushed it aside. He had to work out his day. What he needed was information about Laurence Silbert, and it wasn’t going to be easy to get. Sophia’s father had come across him in Bonn in the mid-eighties. At that time Silbert would have been about forty, and given his condition when he died, probably at the height of fitness. What had he been doing in Germany? Most likely the same as everyone else in his line of work had been doing then—getting defec-tors over the Berlin Wall, penetrating the Eastern bloc for information 1 8 4
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about scientific, military, industrial and political goings-on, perhaps even carrying out the occasional unofficial assassination. The whole business was such a complex jumble of espionage and counterespio-nage, single, double and triple agents, that it was probably impossible for an outsider and layman to know where to start. In addition, much of the information on the shady activities of those times had been lost or buried. Only the Germans seemed determined to reassemble their old Stasi files, even going so far as to invent a computer program that could put together shredded documents in the blink of an eye. Everyone else just wanted to forget the dirty deeds they had done.
There was, however, one place he could start.
Banks washed off his breakfast dishes, made sure the coffeemaker was turned off and that he had everything he needed in his briefcase.
At the front door he paused and set the alarm system, then he headed up to the King’s Road and turned left toward the Sloane Square tube station, cursing not for the first time that it was served only by the District and Circle lines, which meant that he would either have to go all the way round to Baker Street or change at both Victoria and Green Park. But he wasn’t in a hurry, and it wouldn’t take long to get to Swiss Cottage and find out if Laurence Silbert’s old lover Leo Westwood still lived there.
A N N I E WA S no stranger to Detective Superintendent Gervaise’s office and had no hesitation in accepting the offer of tea, which Gervaise immediately sent for. The last time Annie had sat in that chair she had been facing a lengthy torrent of both praise and censure for the way her last major case had turned out. She could understand that.
Crimes solved was a good thing; dead bodies as part of the solution were not. In the end she was lucky to come out without any serious black marks against her. It was possible that Gervaise had gone easy on her because of her fragile emotional state at the time, but then Gervaise wasn’t known for making such allowances. On the whole, Annie felt that she had been fairly treated.
“How are things going?” Gervaise asked, making small talk while 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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they waited for the tea. “That’s a nice new hairdo, by the way. It suits you.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” said Annie. “Everything’s going fine.” What else was she going to say? Besides, things were going fine. A little dull at times, but fine.
“Good. Good. Nasty business, this East Side Estate. Any ideas?
What do you think about this Jackie Binns character?”
“He’s a waste of space,” Annie said. “Nicky Haskell is actually quite bright, once you get past the posturing and the imitation gangbanger talk. Despite his aversion to school, he might actually make something of himself. But Binns is a lost cause.”
“I’m not sure that it’s healthy to regard members of our community in such a negative way, DI Cabbot, particularly downtrodden members.”
“I’m sure it’s not, ma’am,” said Annie with a smile. “Just put it down to copper’s instinct.”
“Did he do it?”
“You mean did Jackie Binns stab Donny Moore?”
“That’s what I’m asking.”
“I’m not sure,” said Annie. “I don’t think so. I was talking with DS
Jackman about that very thing and we agreed that Haskell is scared, and we don’t think he’d be that scared of Binns. They have a history, more a bit of mutual grudging respect than anything else. They’ve had a couple of scraps. Thing is, it’s not like Binns to take a knife to a kid like Donny Moore. I’m not saying he’s honorable or anything. It’s just . . .”
“Not his style?”
“That’s right.”
“Who says he did?”
“Nobody. That’s the problem. That’s what we’re trying to get someone to tell us. He’s certainly the leader of the south estate gang and if he felt Haskell and Moore were encroaching on his territory he’d probably feel he had every right to take action. He could have delegated the task. But no one has admitted to seeing anything yet.”
“So if not him, who?”
“No idea, ma’am. But we’re still investigating it. At least there haven’t been any more incidents or reprisals.”
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“That’s a good thing,” said Gervaise. “Don’t want to upset the tourists, do we?”
“I doubt if any of them have even heard of the East Side Estate, unless they got lost like the Paxtons did the other night. They won’t forget it in a hurry.”
“Even so . . . We don’t want gangs bringing their problems into the town center. We’ve got enough problems already with weekend binge drinking.”
Despite the rape and murder of a young girl after an evening’s binge drinking a few months ago, the problem hadn’t abated much, Annie thought. Now it was almost a test of mettle among the kids involved to go walking around The Maze, that labyrinth of alleys beyond the other side of the market square where the girl was killed. Still, they had caught the killer quickly enough, and there had been no more attacks.
The tea arr
ived along with a couple of Penguin biscuits. Gervaise poured, added milk and sugar and passed the teacup and saucer over to Annie, who helped herself to a biscuit.
“I’m glad you have the situation under control,” Gervaise went on.
“But that’s not really what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“No, ma’am?”
“No. You probably know that, on my advice, DCI Banks has taken a few days of leave owing.”
“Yes. Well deserved, I’d say.”
“No argument with that. I’m just wondering if . . . well . . . I can’t say that I sensed any real, true closure on his part regarding this other business.”
“Is there ever really true closure?” Annie said.
“Oh, please, DI Cabbot. Spare me the philosophical digressions.
Do you really think that’s likely to throw me off course?”
“Sorry, ma’am.”
“I should think so.” Gervaise gripped her teacup, little finger sticking out, and sipped daintily. “You do know what I’m talking about?”
she said as she put the cup down.
“I assume you’re referring to the Hardcastle-Silbert business?”
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“Yes. Two solved cases. Looks good in the crime figures. And the chief constable is happy.”
“What are you asking me, ma’am?”
“What’s your opinion?”
“Of what? The case?”
“No. There is no case. Of DCI Banks.”
“Well,” said Annie. “He does have a new girlfriend, and he was called away from her in rather a hurry the other weekend. I should imagine he wants to finish what he started, maybe treat her to a few days at the seaside or somewhere and make up for lost time.”
“That’s what you really think?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Bollocks, DI Cabbot. Would you be surprised to hear that Banks was asking questions of an elderly couple called Townsend in Saint John’s Wood late yesterday afternoon? They phoned the local police as soon as he’d left. Scared out of their wits. He’d shown them his warrant card and they were able to let us know his name. As far as the locals were concerned, DCI Banks shouldn’t have been trespassing on their patch in the first place without letting them know.”
“No, ma’am, I didn’t know.”
“So what do you have to say to that, DI Cabbot? There’s no seaside near Saint John’s Wood as far as I can remember.”
“It was just a figure of speech, ma’am,” said Annie. “DCI Banks’s girlfriend lives in London. Perhaps—” Annie’s mobile went off. It no longer played “Bohemian Rhapsody” but had the simple, straightfor-ward bell tone of an old-style telephone. For once, Annie was glad of the interruption.
“Answer it,” said Gervaise. “It might be important.”
Annie answered. Banks’s voice came on. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t talk now. I’m in a meeting.”
“Gervaise?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Does she know?”
“I think I can manage that, Winsome. Bye.”
“DS Jackman?” asked Gervaise.
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“Yes, ma’am. She wants me to meet her at Eastvale Comprehensive to talk to Nicky Haskell’s teachers.” This was something they had arranged earlier, so Annie didn’t feel that she was really lying, simply altering the order of the facts. And she was going to the comprehensive as soon as she got out of Gervaise’s office.
“And here’s me thinking it might have been DCI Banks.”
“I told you, ma’am. He’s on holiday.”
“Sounds like a busman’s holiday to me, going around questioning people.” She rested her arms on the table. “Annie, I like DCI Banks, I really do. I respect his abilities and I’d hate to lose him. I can’t always get through to him, myself, but you sometimes seem able to manage it. God knows how.”
“I don’t—”
Gervaise waved her hand in the air. “Please. Hear me out. I don’t like this any more than you do. As a criminal case, this Hardcastle-Silbert business was relatively easy to crack. The one killed the other, then killed himself. There are, however, complications. The people involved, or one of them, at any rate, happens to have some very strong connections with the secret intelligence services and, well, to make no bones about it, with the chief constable himself.
I’ve been advised in very strong terms from the highest level that there is no investigation to be pursued and that neither I nor the chief constable can be responsible for the consequences to any of our officers who choose, foolishly, to pursue such an avenue. Do I make myself clear?”
“What are they going to do?” Annie asked. “Kill him?”
Gervaise banged her fist on the desk. “Don’t be f lippant, DI Cabbot.
These are serious matters of state we’re dealing with here. Things that people like you and DCI Banks can’t just go meddling in willy-nilly.
It’s not only your heads on the block here, you know.”
The violent gesture had shocked Annie. She had seen Gervaise in many moods but hadn’t seen her lose her cool like that before. Someone must have really got to her. “I don’t know what you think I can do,” she said.
“I think you can let me know if DCI Banks gets in touch with you at all, and if he asks you for help in any way, you can refuse and come 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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immediately to me. Let him know if he chooses to pursue this business he’s on his own.”
“You want me to act as an informant?”
“I want you to consider your career and DCI Banks’s career. I want you to grow up. I want you to turn your back on this one and report any anomalies to me. Do you think you can do that?”
Annie said nothing.
“DI Cabbot?”
“I’m not involved,” Annie lied.
“Then keep it that way.” Gervaise made a gesture for Annie to leave. When Annie got to the door, Gervaise called out after her,
“And by the way, DI Cabbot. If I find that you have been involving DS Jackman or any other of my officers in this affair, I’ll not only have you tossed out on your arse, but them too. Got it?”
“Loud and clear, ma’am,” said Annie, and shut the door gently behind her, heart pounding, hands shaking.
B A N K S H A D picked up the Gervaise alert clearly enough when he phoned Annie, so he killed half an hour in a Starbucks on Finchley Road drinking a latte with a double shot of espresso, then phoned her back. This time she told him she could talk; she was walking down King Street on her way to meet Winsome at the comprehensive.
“So what is it?” Banks asked.
“Storm clouds gathering,” said Annie. “You’re definitely persona non grata around these parts.”
“And all those who sail in her?”
“Exactly.”
Annie sounded a bit breathless, as if she’d had a shock. She was walking, Banks realized, but the comprehensive was downhill on King Street, past the infirmary, and she was too young and fit to be out of breath. It made him feel nervous, too. He glanced around, but nobody was paying him undue attention. But they wouldn’t, would they; they were too clever for that. Holding his paranoia in check, he asked,
“What happened?”
“She knows where you were yesterday, who you talked to.”
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“The Townsends?”
“Yes.”
That surprised Banks. He hadn’t expected them to call the police.
When he thought about it, though, it made perfect sense if they were connected to the security services. Another possible way of getting him called off and put back in his cage before he did any real damage.
Or perhaps they had told their masters and it was they who had phoned the police. Either way the result was the same. “What’
s the bottom line?” he asked.
“What do you think? I’m to stay out of it if I value my career and let Gervaise know if you get in touch. Then I’m supposed to let you hang out to dry. Why don’t you just take Sophia to Devon or Cornwall for a few days, Alan, make everyone’s life a bit easier, including your own?”
“Et tu, Annie?”
“Oh, sod off, you idiot. I didn’t say I was going to do what she asked, did I? I was just outlining the sensible solution again. Only to have it shot down, as usual.”
“She’s a devious one, Madame Gervaise,” Banks said. “Besides, the sensible solution isn’t always the best one.”
“They’ll put that on your tombstone. Anyway, I’m almost at the school and I’ve got something to tell you before I have second thoughts.
It might change things.”
Banks’s ears pricked up. “What?”
“Nicky Haskell mentioned seeing Mark Hardcastle drinking with Derek Wyman in the Red Rooster a couple of weeks ago.”
“The Red Rooster? That’s a kids’ pub, isn’t it? Karaoke and bad Amy Winehouse impersonations?”
“More or less,” Annie said.
“So why would they go there?”
“I have no idea. Unless it’s the sort of place where they didn’t think they’d be noticed.”
“But Wyman told us he had a drink with Hardcastle every now and then. There’s nothing odd about that, except their choice of location.”
“There’s more.” Banks listened as Annie went on to tell him about Wyman calming Hardcastle down.
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“But nothing changed hands?” Banks said. “No pictures, no memory stick or anything?”
“Not that Nicky Haskell saw. Or Liam, the bartender.”
“Maybe you could ask again? Find someone else who was there.
Who was Nicky with?”
“His mates, I suppose. The usual suspects.”
“Try them. One of them might have seen something. If Gervaise is watching you’ll just appear to be following up on the East Side Estate stabbing.”
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