“I am following up on the stabbing.”
“Well, there you go. A couple of extra questions won’t do much harm, then, will they?”
“I’m at the school driveway now. I have to go.”
“You’ll ask around?”
“I’ll ask around.”
“And Annie?”
“Yes?”
“Rattle Wyman’s cage, too, if you get the chance.”
A C C O R D I N G T O what Edwina Silbert had told Banks, Leo Westwood had lived in a third-f loor f lat on Adamson Road, near the Swiss Cottage tube station. There was a row of farmers’-market stalls at the top of Eton Avenue, just opposite the Hampstead Theatre, and Banks thought he might pick up some Brie de Meaux, chorizo sausage and venison pâté on his way back. Sophia would appreciate the gesture, and he was sure she would know what to do with the chorizo. Left to himself, Banks would probably just put it between two slices of bread with a dollop of HP Sauce.
Adamson Road branched off to the left, with the Best Western Hotel to the right, a tree-lined street of older, imposing three-story houses with white stucco facades, complete with porticoes and col-umns. They reminded Banks of the houses on Powys Terrace in Notting Hill. There were plenty of people on the street and on the porches chatting; all in all, it looked like a lively neighborhood. According to the list of tenants, Leo Westwood still lived there. Banks pressed the 1 9 2
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bell beside the name and waited. After a few seconds a voice crackled over the intercom. Banks identified himself and the reason for his visit and found himself buzzed up.
The halls and landings had clearly seen better days, but there was a kind of shabby elegance about it all. The Axminsters may have been a little worn, but they were still Axminsters.
Leo Westwood stood at the door of his f lat. He was a short, pudgy man with silky gray hair and a smooth ruddy complexion, somewhere in his early sixties, wearing a black polo-neck jumper and jeans. Banks had expected an antique-laden apartment, but inside, beyond the hallway, the living area was ultramodern, all polished hardwood f loors, chrome and glass, plenty of open space, a fine bay window, and a state-of-the-art music and TV system. The f lat had probably been reasonably inexpensive when Westwood bought it years ago, but now would be worth somewhere in the region of half a million pounds, Banks guessed, depending on how many bedrooms there were.
Westwood bade Banks sit on a comfortable black-leather-and-chrome armchair and offered coffee. Banks accepted. Westwood disappeared into the kitchen and Banks took the opportunity to look around.
There was only one painting on the wall, in a simple silver frame, and it drew Banks’s eye. It was abstract, a combination of geometric shapes in various colors and sizes. There was something calming about it, Banks found, and it fitted the room perfectly. On a small media storage unit beside the sound system was a mix of books—mostly architecture and interior design—several DVDs ranging from recent cinema hits like Atonement and La Vie en Rose to classics by Truffaut, Kurosawa, Antonioni and Bergman, along with numerous opera boxed sets.
“I like to keep the space relatively uncluttered,” Westwood said from behind him, putting a silver tray bearing a cafetière and two white cups down on the glass coffee table before them. He then sat at a right angle to Banks. “We’ll give it a minute, shall we?” His voice had a slight lisp, and his mannerisms were a little fussy and effeminate.
“I was sorry to hear about Laurence,” he said, “but you must realize it was a long time ago. Ten years.”
“You were close then, though?”
“Oh, yes. Very. Three years. It might not sound like long, but . . .”
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“If you don’t mind my asking, why did you part?”
Westwood leaned forward and poured the coffee. “Milk? Sugar?”
“Just black, please,” Banks said. “It could be relevant, what I’m asking.”
Westwood passed him the cup. “I’m afraid I can’t take it without a little sweetener, myself,” he said, adding some powder from a pink sachet. He leaned back in his chair. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to avoid your question. I just find that if you leave the coffee brewing too long it takes on a bitter f lavor that even the sweetener won’t overcome.”
“It’s fine,” said Banks, taking a sip. “Excellent, in fact.”
“Thank you. One of my little luxuries.”
“You and Laurence?”
“Yes. I suppose it was his work, really. I mean, he was always heading off somewhere and he couldn’t tell me where. Even when he got back I’d no idea where he’d been. I knew that sometimes his missions involved danger, so I would lie awake and worry, but I rarely got a phone call. In the end . . .”
“So you knew what he did?”
“To a degree. I mean, I knew he worked for MI6. Beyond that, though . . .”
“Was he unfaithful?”
Westwood considered carefully before answering. “I don’t think so,” he said finally. “He could have been, of course. He was away often enough. A one-night stand, a weekend affair in Berlin, Prague or Saint Petersburg. It would have been easy enough. But I think I would have known. I do believe that Laurence truly loved me, at least as well as he could love anyone.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“There was a large part of his life that he kept secret from me. Oh, I understand it was his job, national security and all that, but never-theless it still meant that I only got a small part of him. The rest was shades of darkness, shadows, smoke and mirrors. Ultimately, you can’t live with that day in, day out. Sometimes it felt as if he was all surface when he was with me, and I had no idea what was underneath, what he was really thinking about.”
“So you wouldn’t be able to give me any idea of his personality?”
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“I’m afraid I never knew. He was a chameleon. When we were together he was charming, attentive, kind, considerate, sophisticated, extremely intelligent and cultured, politically leaning to the right, an atheist, a man of exquisite taste in art and wine, an antique lover . . .
Oh, I could go on with the list. Laurence was many things, but you still felt you were hardly scratching the surface. And you couldn’t pin him down. Do you know what I mean?”
“I think so,” said Banks. “That’s what this case feels like, these people.”
“What people?”
“The ones Laurence worked for.”
Westwood sniffed. “Oh, them. Yes, well, you would feel that way about them.”
“When did you last see him?”
“Years ago, when we split up. He went off on one of his trips and I never saw him again.”
“Did you meet any of his colleagues?”
“No. They didn’t exactly have office parties. I tell a lie, though. I was vetted, of course, and interviewed. They came here once. Two of them.”
“What did they ask you?”
“I can’t really remember. Nothing very probing. Of course, a few years earlier a homosexual relationship like ours would have been out of the question because of the possibilities for blackmail it opened up, but that was no longer an issue. They asked me about my job, what sort of people I worked for, how I felt about my country, about the USA, about democracy, communism, that kind of thing. I assumed they got most of the information about me they needed from elsewhere. They treated me with the utmost respect and politeness, but there was an edge, you know. There was a veiled threat. ‘We’ll be watching you, mate. Any funny business and we’ll have the electrodes on your balls before you can say shaken, not stirred.’ ” He laughed.
“Well, something like that. But I got the message.”
Hardcastle had probably got the same treatment, Banks imagined, especially when they found out about his conviction. “What is your job?” Banks asked.
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“I’m an architect. Back then I worked for a small firm, but I’m on my own now. I work from home, which is why you found me in. I can’t say I do very many jobs these days. I get to pick and choose. I’m lucky. I don’t need to work full-time. I’ve made a fair bit of money over the years, and I’m a saver. I’ve also made some good investments, even in these troubled times, and I’ve got enough to see myself out in reasonable style.”
“Did you ever see these people after you split up with Laurence?”
“No. I suppose they lost interest in me after that.”
“Have you heard of someone called Fenner? Julian Fenner.”
“No, I can’t say as I have.”
“What about a couple called Townsend?”
“No, again the name doesn’t ring a bell.”
Banks showed him the photograph of Silbert with the man in Regent’s Park and at the door on Charles Lane, but apart from reacting a little emotionally to the image of his ex-lover, he said it didn’t mean anything to him.
“Can you answer me just one question?” Westwood asked.
“Perhaps.”
“How did you find out about me?”
“Edwina mentioned you, and we found some old letters from you in Mr. Silbert’s safe.”
“Ah, I see . . . Do you think, perhaps, when this is all over . . . ?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” said Banks. He noticed a tear glisten in Westwood’s right eye. He didn’t think there was anything more to be gained from talking to him. If Westwood had known Fenner or the Townsends, they had probably gone under different names then. They probably changed their names as often as most people changed their underwear. He finished his coffee, thanked Westwood and stood up to go. It seemed that every time he thought he was taking a step closer to Laurence Silbert or Mark Hardcastle he was actually moving further away from them. It was like trying to grasp a handful of smoke.
“ T H E Y ’ R E WA I T I N G for us in the staff room,” Winsome said, when Annie arrived at the front entrance of Eastvale Comprehensive. Some 1 9 6 P E T E R
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of the pupils running back and forth from classrooms shouting and laughing paused and gawked at them, Winsome in particular, and more than a few giggles and wolf whistles echoed in the high corridors.
They found the staff room close to the administration offices. Three teachers, one of them Derek Wyman, sat on battered sofas and armchairs around a low table littered with the day’s newspapers, the Daily Mail open to the puzzle page. Someone had done the crossword and sudokus in ink. The walls were painted day-care-center yellow, and there was a big corkboard with notices and memos pinned to it. There was also a small kitchen area with sink, coffee urn, electric kettle, microwave and fridge. Yellow Post-it notes clung to every surface, telling you to wash your hands, don’t touch other people’s items in the fridge, throw away your rubbish, use only your own mug, clean up after yourself, remember to pay your coffee money. Annie couldn’t imagine that even the pupils needed more rules spelled out for them than the teachers did. It was very quiet in the room, though, as if it had been sound-proofed from the noise outside, and Annie imagined that must be one of its great appeals, even after her short walk along the corridor.
“So you’ve found our secret lair,” said Wyman, standing up.
“I phoned. The school secretary told me where you were,” said Winsome.
“I can see you’re not a detective for nothing,” said one of the other teachers.
Winsome and Annie exchanged glances.
Wyman obviously noticed their reaction. “I apologize for my colleague,” he said. “He spent all morning with year ten, and he hasn’t recovered yet.”
“That’s all right,” said Annie, positioning herself so she could see them all and take control of the interview. Winsome sat next to her and took out her notebook. “This shouldn’t take long,” Annie went on. “We don’t want to keep you from your duties.”
They laughed at that.
“You’re here because you all teach at least two of the pupils we think might be involved in the stabbing of Donny Moore on the East Side Estate last week. We’re still trying to form a picture of exactly 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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what happened that night, and you might be able to help us. Can you start by telling us who you are and what you teach?”
“Well, you know who I am,” said Wyman. “I teach drama and games, for my sins.”
The man next to him, the one who had made the bad joke, said,
“I’m Barry Chaplin and I teach physics and PE.”
The third was a woman. “I’m Jill Dresler,” she said, “and I teach arithmetic and algebra. No sports.”
“And you all know Nicky Haskell?” Annie asked.
They nodded. “When he can be bothered to come to class,” Jill Dresler added.
“Yes, we know about his poor attendance record,” Annie said. “But he did appear on occasion?”
“Just enough to avoid getting suspended,” said Barry Chaplin.
“And Jackie Binns?” Annie asked.
“About the same,” Wyman answered, glancing at the others for agreement.
“Probably a bit more often,” said Chaplin. “But not much.”
“And what about the victim?” Annie went on. “Donny Moore.”
“Donny wasn’t a bad student,” said Dresler. “He was more of a follower than an instigator. You know, he drifted in with Haskell’s crowd just to belong. He’s harmless enough. The quiet one.”
“Not a scrapper?”
“Not at all,” said Chaplin. “Not like Haskell.”
“So Nicky Haskell likes to fight?” Annie pressed on.
“Well,” said Chaplin, “I wouldn‘t say he picks fights, as such. I mean, he’s not a bully. But people sometimes pick on him because he’s a bit shorter than the rest and they usually get a hell of a surprise.”
“So people underestimate his strength?”
“Yes. He’s good at games, too,” Wyman added. “Strong, fast, quick-witted, good coordination. I’d go as far as to say he could make a damn good football player if he put his mind to it.”
“But he doesn’t?”
“Oh, he’s interested. But it takes more than that. It takes dedica-tion. Haskell’s a bit of a dreamer.”
“Well, he’s young yet,” said Annie.
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“So’s Matthew Briggs,” Wyman answered.
“Right. Anyway, we believe that Haskell might be a witness, but he’s not talking.”
“That figures,” said Chaplin. “I mean, he wouldn’t, would he?
He’d lose face. These kids don’t rat out each other, even their worst enemies.”
“It’s just that he seems scared.”
“Of Binns?” said Chaplin. “I don’t believe it. I’ve seen them tangle on the football field and Haskell has never shown any fear of him.
What would you say, Derek?”
“I agree. He’s tough. And strong. Enjoys boxing and wrestling as well as football. As Barry says, it’s the lack of discipline that drags him down, not ability.”
“So you don’t think he would lie out of fear of what Jackie Binns might do to him if he did?”
“Absolutely not,” said Chaplin. “Binns isn’t that tough. He’s all bluster.”
“Haskell just wouldn’t split on anyone,” said Wyman. “He strikes me as the kind who stays loyal to his mates.”
Annie remembered Nicky Haskell telling her that he wasn’t obey-ing some stupid code about not splitting on his pals, and she wondered how true that was. If he wasn’t telling because he was scared of Binns, which was beginning to sound unlikely, or because he felt he shouldn’t betray Binns, then there had to be some other reason. Something they didn’t know. She would have to make a note to talk to some of the others involved again. Haskell and Binns were the leaders. Both dealt d
rugs, mostly Ecstasy, weed, crystal meth and LSD. Binns was known to carry a f lick-knife, though he usually only used it to show off and scare people, and Donny Moore hadn’t been stabbed with a f lick-knife.
“Is there anything else you can tell us?” Annie asked.
“I don’t think so,” said Jill Dresler. “I know what you probably think, but they’re not bad kids, really. Not all of them. I mean, okay, so they do break the law and sell drugs, but they’re not big-time dealers, and they don’t really have organized gangs, and you don’t have to shoot anyone to belong or that sort of thing.”
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“I suppose we ought to be thankful for small mercies,” Annie said, getting to her feet.
“I know how it sounds,” Dresler went on, “but Binns isn’t a killer, for crying out loud.”
“Luckily,” said Annie, “nobody’s dead yet.”
“Yes,” said Dresler, running her hand through her lank hair. “Of course. I’m just saying . . . you know . . . they’re not monsters. That’s all.”
“Point taken,” Annie said. “And I appreciate your defense of your kids. I know they’re not monsters. But somebody’s lying, and until we find out the truth we can’t get to the bottom of this. Things are getting a bit tense on the estate, as I’m sure you can imagine. People are scared to go out on the streets alone. What do you want us to do, send in the troops? Occupy the East Side Estate like it was a military zone?
We don’t have any no-go areas in Eastvale, and we don’t want them.
That’s why I’m asking questions.” She reached in her bag. “So if you do think of anything that might help us, here’s my card. Don’t hesitate to phone. Mr. Wyman, a word, please.”
“Of course. I’ll walk to the door with you,” said Wyman.
Once they were out in the noisy corridor, Annie let Winsome get a few feet ahead, remembering Superintendent Gervaise’s warning about not involving anyone else, then turned to Wyman. “Can you tell me what you were doing in the Red Rooster with Mark Hardcastle a couple of weeks ago?”
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