All the Colors of Darkness ib-18

by Peter Robinson

  “Because you hurt yourself?”

  “What? No. I told you, this is nothing. It’s something else.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll tell you later.”

  “Okay,” Annie said lightly. “Be mysterious. See if I care. We’ve got a lead on the East Side Estate stabbing.” She told him about the Bull.

  She could sense his attention drifting as she spoke, so she wound it up quickly and said, “What is it, Alan? Why did you want me to come here?”

  “I thought we should talk about Wyman,” Banks said. “Given all the new information, we should consider bringing him in.”

  “New? There’s not much, except we now know that he asked for the photos of Silbert to be taken.”

  “That’s enough, isn’t it?” said Banks. “Besides, there’s more. Much more. Things are getting out of hand.”

  Annie listened, her mouth opening wider and wider as Banks told her about Hardcastle tearing up the photos, and what had happened at Sophia’s house on Thursday evening, and in Tomasina’s office yesterday. When he’d finished, all she could say was “You were down in London yesterday, weren’t you? Isn’t it terrible? You can’t have been far away from Oxford Circus when it happened.”

  “Just down Regent Street,” he said. “They closed all the stations for about four hours. That’s why I was so late back. Then I had to take a taxi from Darlington station.”

  “I thought you took the car down?”

  “I left it. Didn’t feel like driving. Sick of all the traffic. And I’d had a few drinks at lunchtime. What is this? The third degree?”

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  “Why didn’t you stay with Sophia? The poor woman must have been terrified.”

  “She’s with a friend.” Banks stared at Annie, and she thought for a moment that he was going to tell her to mind her own business. A soloist struck up, then the choir joined him and the orchestra came back, loud brass and crashing percussion, staccato rhythms, a gong. It certainly was odd music for a beautiful Saturday morning. Banks appeared to listen for a moment until the music came to a crescendo and went quiet, almost like a Gregorian chant, then he said, “As a matter of fact, she didn’t want me around. She sort of blamed me for what happened, for not setting the alarm.”

  “Did you?”

  “Of course I bloody did.”

  “Did you tell her that?”

  “She was upset. She wouldn’t believe me.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  “You know who we’re dealing with, Annie. Do you think calling the police would have done any good? For crying out loud, I am the police, and I can’t do any good. Besides, she was dead set against it.”

  “So did you tell Sophia the truth, who you think it was?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “What’s the point frightening her?”

  “To put her on her guard?”

  “What do you care, anyway? You don’t even like her.”

  “That’s not true,” said Annie, smarting. “It’s you I’m concerned about. It’s always been you.”

  “Well, you needn’t be. Besides, they won’t hurt her. Or Tomasina.

  They could have done that anytime, if they’d wanted. Me, too. No, they’ve delivered their message, and that’s all they wanted to do. For now. They’re just trying to scare us off. That’s why it’s time to bring Wyman in.”

  “But they haven’t scared you off. Me, neither, for that matter.”

  Banks managed the beginnings of a smile and said, “What did you find out?”

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  “A couple of interesting things.” Annie told him about her talk with Carol Wyman.

  When she had finished, Banks said, “This business with Rick Wyman is interesting. SAS, indeed. You know where they get their orders from, don’t you? MI6, I’ll bet. This could be the link between Wyman’s and Silbert’s worlds. I always thought there had to be a lot more to it than professional rivalry. Did you follow up?”

  “I talked to his . . .” What on earth did she call Charlotte Foster?

  “His widow,” she decided finally, though it wasn’t strictly true. “Of course, she wouldn’t tell me anything, but I did get her to admit that Rick Wyman was killed on active duty, not in a helicopter accident during a training exercise.”

  “Interesting,” said Banks. “Very interesting. Now if only we could find out a few more details, such as what the mission was, who gave the orders and who supplied the intelligence, we might actually get somewhere. What if Wyman thinks Silbert was responsible for his brother’s death? What if he was? What if it’s something MI6 want to keep covered up?”

  “Then they’ll do everything in their power to prevent you from uncovering it.” Annie reached for her coffee. A soloist was singing, bells chiming in the background, then the full choir came in again.

  “Besides, just how, exactly, do you plan on finding out?”

  “Before you arrived,” Banks said, “I got a return phone call from a Detective Superintendent Burgess. Dirty Dick Burgess.”

  “I remember him,” said Annie. “He’s a sexist, racist, homophobic pig who thinks he’s God’s gift.”

  “That’s the one,” Banks admitted. “I’d been trying to reach him for a couple of days, leaving cryptic messages. He’s remarkably resourceful when it comes to this sort of thing. I’m not sure exactly what department he works for these days, but it’s connected with counterterrorism, and he’s very much in the loop. Made the political transition from Thatcher and Major to Blair and Brown seamlessly.”

  “Well, there’s not a lot of difference, as far as I can tell,” said Annie.

  “You’re too young to remember Thatcher.”

  “I remember the Falklands War,” Annie argued. “I was fifteen.”

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  “Anyway, I didn’t hear back from Dirty Dick for a while, and I thought perhaps it was because I’m persona non grata with his bosses, or something along those lines. He’d be certain to know, if I was. As it happens, I am, and he knows it, but that wasn’t the reason. He’s not in London at the moment; he’s in Dewsbury.”

  “Dewsbury,” Annie echoed. “But isn’t that where—”

  “One of the bombers, or planners. Yes, I know. And that’s probably why he’s there. The point is, he’s agreed to meet me.”

  “Where? When?”

  “This morning, up at Hallam Tarn. It might be our only chance of finding a real link between Wyman and Silbert, this SAS and MI6

  business, and maybe of finding out exactly what it was Silbert’s been up to these past few years, since his so-called retirement; meeting men on benches in Regent’s Park, and so on.”

  “If there is a link,” Annie reminded him.

  “Fair enough.” Banks studied her. “I know you still think Hardcastle was the intended victim and professional jealousy was the motive. Hold that thought; you could still be right. Wyman did give Hardcastle the photos, and he did react with shock and horror. But bear with me awhile longer, too.” Banks reached for a pen and note-pad from the bookcase beside him. “Have you got any more details about Rick Wyman?”

  Annie told him all she knew, which wasn’t much.

  “Should be able to track him down from that,” Banks said. “You’re sure about the date of the incident? Fifteenth October, 2002?”

  “That’s what Carol Wyman told me.”

  “Okay.”

  “What if there isn’t a connection?”

  “We’ll deal with that if and when we get there.”

  “So what’s next? If they’re on to Wyman, as you say they must be after ransacking this Tom Savage’s files, isn’t he in danger now?”

  “It depends how much of a threat he is to them. But, yes, I agree, we need to act fairly quickly, bring him in and get to the bottom of it.”


  Annie had lost the thread of the music now, but it alternated between frantic and loud orchestra and solo tenor. Sometimes it disappeared completely. “We need to talk to the super first,” she said.

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  “Can you do that?” Banks asked.

  “Me? Jesus Christ, Alan!”

  “Please?” Banks glanced at his watch. “I have to meet Burgess soon, and I don’t think we should waste any more time. I might have a few more answers in a while, but if we can at least get Superintendent Gervaise’s permission to bring Wyman in for questioning over having commissioned the photographs, we’re in business.”

  “But . . . I . . .”

  “Come on, Annie. She knows you’ve been on the case, doesn’t she?”

  “The nonexistent case? Yes. She knows.”

  “Present her with the evidence. Just stress the theater business and play down the intelligence service angle. That’s the only thing that really worries her. She’ll go for it, otherwise.”

  “All right, all right,” Annie said, standing up to leave. “I’ll have a go. And what about you?”

  “I’ll be in later. I’ll phone for a driver when I’m ready. Bring Wyman in after you’ve talked to Gervaise and let him stew for a while.”

  “On what charge?”

  “You don’t have to charge him, just ask him to come along voluntarily.”

  “What if he won’t?”

  “Then bloody arrest him.”

  “For what?”

  “Try for being a lying bastard, for a start.”

  “If only . . .”

  “Just bring him in, Annie. It might get us a few answers.”

  The orchestra was playing an eerie, haunting melody when Annie left, but the day didn’t seem quite so beautiful anymore.

  W H E N H E was alone again, Banks poured himself the last cup of coffee. “Babi Yar” finished, and he couldn’t think of anything else he wanted to listen to. It was almost time to go out now, and tired as he was, this was an appointment he didn’t want to miss. Wondering why 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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  he bothered with security, he locked up the cottage and struck out up Tetchley Fell to Hallam Tarn.

  He hadn’t slept a wink the previous night; his mind had still been full of the scenes he had witnessed at Oxford Circus, and he could still smell burning f lesh and plastic. Certain images, he knew, would be lodged in his mind forever, and the things he had only thought he had seen f leetingly—a headless figure in his peripheral vision, glistening entrails glimpsed through a film of dust and smoke—would grow and metamorphose in his imagination, haunt his dreams for years.

  But in some ways it was the feelings more than the images that affected him. He supposed he must have drifted off to sleep, at least for a few moments now and then, because he remembered those dreamlike sensations of not being able to run fast enough to escape something nightmarish; of being late for an important meeting and not remembering how to get there; being lost naked on dark, threatening streets, becoming more and more frantic as the hour drew near; of stairs turning sticky like treacle under his feet as he tried to climb them, dragging him down into the abyss, melting beneath him. And when he woke, his chest felt hollow, his heart forlorn, beating pointlessly, without an echo.

  After he had left Joe Geldard’s pub, he had bought new clothes in a Marks and Spencer’s and made his way on foot through the Bloomsbury backstreets to King’s Cross Station. Even from Euston Road, he could still see wisps of smoke drifting in the air and hear the occasional siren. He wasn’t sure exactly what time the bombing had occurred, but he reckoned it must have been about two-thirty, the heart of a Friday afternoon in summer, when people like to leave work early. It was after five o’clock when he got to the train station, and service was still suspended, though the building had been cleared of threats and had reopened an hour earlier.

  Crowds of people milled around the announcement boards, ready for the dash when their gate was announced. It cost him a small fortune to buy a single ticket to Darlington, with no guarantee of when the train would actually leave. The sandwich stalls had all run out of food and bottled water. While he waited, Banks phoned Brian and Tomasina, who were both f ine, though shaken at having been so close 2 7 6 P E T E R

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  to disaster. He also phoned Sophia at home and got no answer, as expected. He left a message asking her to pick up his car and said he hoped she was all right. He wasn’t going to tell anyone about his afternoon; certainly not now, probably never.

  As luck would have it, the first train north left the station at six thirty-five, and Banks was on it, sitting next to an earnest young Ban-gladeshi student who wanted to talk about what had just happened.

  Banks didn’t want to talk about it, and he made himself clear from the start. For the rest of the trip the student obviously felt uncomfortable, no doubt thinking that Banks didn’t want anything to do with him because he was Asian.

  At that point, Banks didn’t care what the kid thought. He didn’t care what anybody thought. He stared out of the window, without a book or even his iPod to take his mind off the journey and the memories. He wouldn’t have been able to concentrate on words or music, anyway. His mind was numb, and a couple of miniature scotches from the food and beverages cart helped numb it even more.

  He had taken a taxi home from Darlington, which was marginally closer to Gratly than York, and that had cost him a fortune, too. The driver’s constant chatter about Boro’s chances next season had been simply a free bonus. At least he hadn’t talked about the bombing; sometimes the north felt far enough away to be another country, with wholly other concerns. All in all, Banks thought, as he paid the taxi driver, it was turning into an expensive day, what with the hotel bill, lunch, new clothes, the train ticket and now this. Thank God everyone took plastic.

  The train journey had been slow, with unexpected and unexplained delays at Grantham and Doncaster, and Banks hadn’t got home until half past ten. He had to admit that he was relieved to be there and to shut the door behind him, though he had no idea what he wanted to do to distract himself. He knew he didn’t want to watch any news reports, didn’t want to see the images of death and suffering repeated ad nauseam and keep up with the mounting death toll. When he had poured himself a generous glass of red wine and sat down in front of an old Marx Brothers movie in the entertainment room, he didn’t really know what he felt about it all.

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  When he probed himself, he realized that he didn’t feel sad or angry or depressed. Perhaps that would come later. What had happened had taken him to a new place inside himself, a place he didn’t know, had never explored before, and he didn’t have a map. His world had changed, its axis shifted. It was the difference between knowing these things happened, watching them happen to other people on television, and being there, in the thick of it, seeing the suffering and knowing there’s nothing, or very little, that you can do. But he had helped the injured. He had to cling to that, at least. He remembered the blind Asian woman, whose grip he imagined he could still feel on his arm; the young blonde in the bloodstained yellow dress, her stupid little lapdog and the bag she just wouldn’t give up; the frightened child; the dead taxi driver; all of them. They were in him now, part of him, and they would be forever.

  Yet for all the fear and sorrow, he also felt a deep calm, a sense of inevitability and of letting go that surprised him. It was like the walk he was on now. There was something simple and soothing about putting one foot in front of the other and making slow progress up the hill.

  He was climbing Tetchley Fell, following a footpath that crossed several fields, scanning the drystone walls for the stile that led over to the next one. The sun shone in a bright blue sky, but there was a light breeze to take the edge off the heat. Every once in a while he glanced behind him to see if he was being followed, and he
saw two figures, one with a red jacket tied around her waist by the sleeves, and another in a T-shirt with a backpack on his back. Banks was panting and sweating when he reached the Roman road that cut diagonally down the daleside to the village of Fortford in the distance, so he thought he would pause there for a few moments and let them catch up with him.

  As they passed him, they said hello, the way ramblers do, then turned left and walked down the Roman road. They could turn off at Mortsett, Banks thought, or go all the way to Relton or Fortford, but they weren’t going in his direction. They were just kids, anyway, a couple of students out for a bit of country air. Even MI6 had to have an age limit, surely?

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  Banks climbed the stile on the other side of the narrow track and carried on through the fields up the hill. The grass grew thinner and browner, and soon he was walking around rocks and through clumps of heather and gorse. It would be in f lower soon, he thought, brightening the dull moorland with its purples and yellows. The sheep grew few and far between.

  He kept thinking he’d got to the top long before he had. It was one false summit after another. But finally he was there and only had to totter down the other side of a steep bank to get to Hallam Tarn. It was nothing much, just a hollowed-out bowl of water right at the top of Tetchley Fell, about a hundred yards wide and two hundred long. It was walled in places because children had fallen in and drowned. The body of a young boy had even been dumped there once, Banks remembered. But there was a path around the tarn offering a scenic walk, and today five or six cars were parked in the space at the far end where the road up from Helmthorpe came to a full stop at the water’s edge.

  Legend had it that Hallam Tarn used to be a village once, but that the villagers took to evil ways, worshipping Satan, making human sacrifices, so God smote them with his fist, and the dent he made on crushing the village created the tarn. On certain days, so they said, if the light was right, you could see the old houses and streets beneath the water, the squat, toadlike church with its upside-down cross, hear the blood-curdling cries of the villagers as they whipped themselves up into a frenzy during some ritual ceremony.