All the Colors of Darkness ib-18

by Peter Robinson

  The others all sat on the edge of the stage listening closely. “What makes you think that?” Winsome asked.

  Ross looked at her. “Well, you’re here, aren’t you? Major Crimes.”

  “We don’t know what we’re dealing with yet, Mr. Ross,” Winsome said. “In all cases of suspicious death there are certain protocols to follow, certain procedures.”

  “So he didn’t just drop dead of a heart attack, then?”

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  “Did he have a bad heart?”

  “It was just a figure of speech.”

  “No, he didn’t drop dead of a heart attack. Was he ill?”

  “His health was fine,” said Ross. “As far as we knew. I mean, he was always healthy enough, lively, full of energy and vitality. Mark loved life.”

  “Did he take drugs?” Annie asked.

  “Not that I was aware of.”

  “Anyone?” Annie glanced around the room. They all shook their heads. She counted six people on the stage; that made seven, including Ross. “I’ll need to talk to you all individually at some point,” she said.

  “For the moment, though, can any of you tell me anything at all about Mr. Hardcastle’s recent state of mind?”

  “Did he commit suicide?” asked the young woman who had been paying close attention from the start. She had a pleasant, heart-shaped face, free of makeup, and her light brown hair was tied back in a po-nytail. Like the rest, she wore jeans and a T-shirt.

  “And you are?” Annie asked.

  “Maria. Maria Wolsey.”

  “Well, Maria, why do you ask?”

  “I don’t know. Just the way the two of you are talking. If it wasn’t an accident or a heart attack, and he wasn’t killed . . .”

  “Suicide is one possibility,” Annie said. “Was he depressed or upset about anything?”

  “He’d been a bit edgy lately,” Maria said. “That’s all.”

  “Edgy? In what way? Why?”

  “I don’t know why. Just . . . maybe, like there was something worrying him.”

  “I understand that Mr. Hardcastle was gay,” Annie said.

  “Mark was quite open about his sexuality,” said Vernon Ross.

  “Open without being . . . well, without overdoing it, if you understand what I mean.”

  “This trip to London with Derek Wyman,” Annie went on. “Anything in it?”

  Comprehension dawned on Ross’s face. “Good Lord, no,” he said.

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  “Derek’s a happily married man. With children. Has been for years.

  They’re just colleagues with a shared interest in theater and film, that’s all.”

  “Did Mark Hardcastle have a partner?”

  “I think so,” said Ross, clearly a bit embarrassed by the whole idea.

  “Maria?”

  “Yes, he did. Laurence.”

  “Do you know his surname?”

  “I don’t think it ever came up.”

  “Were you a particularly close friend of Mark’s?”

  “I suppose so. I like to think so. I mean, as much as you could be.

  He never let you really close. I think things had been difficult for him.

  He’d had a hard life. But he was one of the best men I’ve ever known.

  Surely he can’t be dead? Just like that.”

  “Was this relationship recent?”

  “Six months or so. Just before Christmas, I think,” said Maria. “He was very happy.”

  “What was he like before?”

  Maria paused, then she said, “I wouldn’t say he was unhappy, but he was definitely more restless and superficial. He lived for his work, and I also got the impression that he was doing the rounds—you know, going through the motions, sexually, like, but that he wasn’t very happy. Don’t get me wrong. On the surface he was always cheerful and had a kind word for everyone. But deep down I think he was very unhappy and unfulfilled in his life until he met Laurence.”

  “For God’s sake,” said Ross. Then he turned to Annie. “You’ll have to forgive Maria,” he said. “She’s our resident romantic.”

  Maria blushed, with equal parts of anger and embarrassment, Annie guessed. “I can forgive her that,” she said to Ross, then turned to Maria again. “Did he talk much about this relationship?”

  “Not in any sort of detail. He was just more . . . comfortable, more settled, relaxed than I’d seen him before.”

  “Until recently?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you ever meet Laurence?”

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  “A few times, when he came to the theater.”

  “Could you describe him?”

  “About six foot, handsome, a bit sort of upper class. Dark hair with a touch of gray at the temples. Slender, athletic. Very charming, but rather remote. Maybe a bit of a snob. You know, a sort of public school type, to the manor born.”

  “Do you know what Laurence does? What his job is?”

  “Mark never mentioned anything. I think he might be retired. Or maybe he buys and sells antiques, works of art, something like that.”

  “How old?”

  “Early fifties, I’d say.”

  “Do you know where he lives? We really need to find him.”

  “Sorry,” said Maria. “I don’t know. I think he’s fairly well off, though, at least his mother is, so he’s probably got a posh house. I know Mark was spending more and more time with him. I mean, they were practically living together.”

  Annie saw Winsome make a note of that. “This change you noticed in Mr. Hardcastle lately,” she went on. “Can you tell me a bit more about it?”

  “He’d just been a bit moody this past couple of weeks, that’s all,”

  Maria said. “He shouted at me once for putting a table in the wrong place on the stage. He never usually does that.”

  “When was this?”

  “I don’t remember exactly. Maybe about ten days ago.”

  Vernon Ross glared at Maria as if she were betraying state secrets.

  “Lovers’ tiff, I should imagine,” he said.

  “Lasting two weeks?” Annie said.

  Ross gave Maria another stern look. “It didn’t appear serious at the time,” he said. “Maria did position that table in the wrong place. It was a silly mistake. It would have put the actor completely off his timing.

  But that was all. It wasn’t that serious. Mark was just in a bad mood. It happens to all of us. There was nothing that would drive him to suicide, for crying out loud.”

  “If he did commit suicide,” said Annie. “Do you have any idea what it was all about, Mr. Ross?”

  “Me? No.”

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  “Do any of you know if Mr. Hardcastle did have anyone he was close to, outside the theater scene? Someone he might have talked to, shared his problems with. Other than Derek Wyman.”

  No one said anything.

  “Anyone know where he was from?”

  “Barnsley,” said Maria.

  “How do you know that?”

  “He made jokes about it, said he had to support the local football team when he was growing up, or people would think he was a puff.

  Naturally, it came up when Barnsley got to Wembley for the FA Cup semifinal and everyone was talking about them beating Liverpool and Chelsea. Pity they didn’t go all the way. And Mark mentioned his dad once. Said he worked down the pit. I got the impression it was a tough place to grow up gay.”

  “I should imagine so,” said Annie, who had never been to Barnsley.

  All she knew about it was that it was in South Yorkshire and used to have a lot of coal mines. Certainly she wouldn’t have expected most mining communities to be sympathetic toward gays.

  Annie addressed the others. “Is there anyone else here apart from Ms. Wolsey and Mr. Ross
who was close to Mark Hardcastle?”

  “We all felt close to Mark,” one of the other girls spoke up. “He made you feel special. You could talk to him about anything. And there was nobody more generous.”

  “Did he talk to you about his problems?”

  “No,” the girl said. “But he’d listen to yours and give you advice if you wanted it. He wouldn’t push it on you. He was so wise. I just can’t believe it. I can’t believe any of this.” She started crying and took out a handkerchief.

  Annie glanced at Winsome to let her know they were done, then she took some cards from her briefcase and handed them out.

  “If any of you think of anything, please don’t hesitate to call,” she said. Then she looked at Vernon Ross again and said, “Mr. Ross, can you come to the mortuary with us now, please, if it’s convenient?”

  2

  GOT IT!” SAID ANNIE, PUNCHING THE AIR IN VICTORY.

  It was half past eight on Saturday morning, and she and Winsome were in the Western Area HQ squad room with DC Doug Wilson. They had called it a day at seven o’clock the previous evening, after Vernon Ross had identified Mark Hardcastle’s body, and after a quick drink they had each gone their separate ways home.

  Wilson had canvassed the local shops and discovered that Mark Hardcastle had bought the yellow clothesline from a hardware shop owned by a Mr. Oliver Grainger at about a quarter to one on Friday afternoon. He had blood on his hands and face, and Grainger had thought he might have cut himself doing some carpentry. When he had asked about this, Hardcastle had shrugged it off. He had been wearing his black wind cheater zipped up, so Grainger hadn’t been able to see if there was also blood on his arms. Hardcastle had also smelled strongly of whiskey, though he hadn’t acted drunk. According to Grainger, he had appeared oddly calm and subdued.

  Now, while sorting through the SOCO reports on her desk, Annie discovered that a thorough search of Mark Hardcastle’s car had produced a letter mixed in among the newspapers and magazines in the boot. The letter was nothing in itself, just an old special wine offer from John Lewis, but it was addressed to a Laurence Silbert at 15

  Castleview Heights, and somehow it had got mixed in with the papers 2 2 P E T E R

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  for recycling. Castleview Heights was nothing if it wasn’t posh.

  “Got what?” said Winsome.

  “I think I’ve found the lover. He’s called Laurence Silbert. Lives on the Heights.” Annie got up and grabbed her jacket from the back of her chair. “Winsome,” she said, “could you hold the fort here and start the interviews if I’m not back in time?”

  “Of course,” said Winsome.

  Annie turned to Doug Wilson. With his youthful looks—which, along with the glasses, had earned him the nickname of “Harry Potter” around the station—his hesitant manner and a tendency to stutter when under stress, he wasn’t the right person to conduct the interviews, but all he needed, Annie reckoned, was a bit more self-confidence, and only on-the-job experience would give him that.

  “Want to come along, Doug?” she asked.

  Winsome gave Wilson a nod, assuring him it was okay, that she wasn’t feeling slighted. “Yes, guv,” he said. “Absolutely.”

  “Shouldn’t we find out a bit more about the situation first?” Winsome said.

  But Annie was already at the door, Wilson at her heels. Annie turned. “Like what?”

  “Well . . . you know . . . it’s a pretty posh area, the Heights. Maybe this Silbert is married or something? I mean, you shouldn’t just go barging in there without knowing a bit more about the lie of the land, should you? What if he’s got a wife and kids?”

  “I shouldn’t think he has, if Maria Wolsey was right when she said he and Mark were practically living together,” said Annie. “But if Laurence Silbert is married with children, I’d say his wife and kids deserve to know about Mark Hardcastle, wouldn’t you?”

  “I suppose you’re right,” said Winsome. “Just tread softly, that’s all I’m saying. Don’t tread on any toes. A lot of people up there are friends with the chief constable and ACC McLaughlin, you know. You’ll ring and let me know what happens?”

  “Yes, Mother.” Annie smiled to soften the barb. “As soon as I know myself,” she added. “Bye.”

  DC Wilson put on his glasses and dashed out of the door behind her.

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  * * *

  W I N S O M E WA S perhaps understating it when she described the Heights, as the area was known locally, as “a bit” posh, Annie thought as DC Wilson parked on the street outside number 15. It was a

  lot

  posh, with the reputation of being an exclusive club for Eastvale’s wealthy and privileged. You wouldn’t get much change from a million quid for a house up there. If you could find one on the market, and if the tenants’ association and neighborhood watch committee approved of your credentials. They must have approved of Laurence Silbert, Annie thought, which meant that he had money and status.

  The homosexuality would not necessarily be a problem so long as he was discreet about it. All-night raves with rent boys, on the other hand, might attract a bit of local disapproval.

  Getting out of the car, Annie could see why the locals did their best to protect and preserve their habitat from the hoi polloi. She had been up there once or twice before during her time at Eastvale, but had almost forgotten how magnificent the view was.

  To the south, straight ahead, she could see over the slate and f lagstone rooftops and crooked chimneys of the terraced streets below to the cobbled market square, with its tiny dots dashing about their business. Just to the left of the Norman church tower, beyond The Maze, stood the ruined castle on its hill, and below that, at the bottom of the colorful hillside gardens, the river Swain tripped over a series of little waterfalls, sending up white spray and foam. Directly across the water stood The Green, with its Georgian semis and mighty old trees.

  Things got uglier after that, with the East Side Estate poking its redbrick terraces, two tower blocks and maisonettes through the gaps in the greenery, and then came railway lines. Even farther out, Annie could see all the way across the Vale of York to the steep rise of Sutton Bank.

  South, past the square and the castle, on the left riverbank, she could also see the beginnings of Hindswell Woods, but the spot where Mark Hardcastle’s body had been discovered came after a bend in the river and was hidden from view.

  Annie breathed in the air. It was another beautiful day, fragrant and 2 4 P E T E R

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  mild. DC Wilson stood waiting for instructions, hands in his pockets, and Annie turned to the house. It was an impressive sight: a walled garden with a black wrought-iron gate surrounded the gabled man-sion built of local limestone, with large mullioned windows and ivy and clematis climbing up the walls.

  A short gravel drive led from the gate to the front door. Just to the right stood an old coach house, the lower half of which had been converted into a garage. The double doors were open, and inside was an extremely sleek, beautiful and expensive silver Jaguar. There would be plenty of room to hide Hardcastle’s old Toyota in there, too, Annie thought. It wasn’t the kind of car the neighbors would appreciate seeing parked on their street, though the houses were generally far enough apart here, and separated by high walls and broad lawns, that the people who lived in them need have as little to do with one another as possible.

  So Mark Hardcastle hadn’t only got lucky in love; he had also found himself a rich boyfriend into the bargain. Annie wondered how much that had mattered to him. It was a long journey for the son of a Barnsley coal miner, and it made Annie feel even more intrigued to meet the mysterious Laurence Silbert.

  Annie banged the brass lion’s head-knocker on the front door. The sound echoed throughout the entire neighborhood, quiet but for the sounds of traffic from the town below and the twittering of birds in the trees. But from inside there was no
thing. She knocked again. Still nothing. She turned the handle. The door was locked.

  “Shall we try round the back, guv?” asked Wilson.

  Annie peered in through the front windows but could see only dim, empty rooms. “Might as well,” she said.

  The path led between the coach house and the main building into a spacious back garden complete with hedges, a well-kept lawn, wooden garden shed, f lower beds and a winding stone path. On their way, Annie put her hand on the Jaguar’s bonnet. Cool. In the garden, a white metal table and four chairs stood under the shade of a syca-more.

  “Seems like everyone’s away, doesn’t it?” said Wilson. “Perhaps this Silbert bloke’s on holiday?”

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  “But his car’s in the garage,” Annie reminded him.

  “Maybe he’s got more than one? Bloke this rich . . . Range Rover or something? Visiting his country estates?”

  Wilson had imagination; Annie had to grant him that. There was a spacious conservatory attached to the back of the house, complete with rough whitewashed walls and rustic wooden table and chairs.

  She tried the door and found that it was open. A small pile of newspapers lay on the table, dated last Sunday.

  The door that led through to the main house was locked, however, so she knocked and called out Silbert’s name. Her attempts were met with nothing but a silence that made the hairs at the back of her neck stand on end. Something was wrong; she knew it. Could she justify breaking in without a warrant? She thought so. A man had been found dead, and a letter in his possession clearly linked him to this address.

  Annie wrapped her hand in one of the newspapers and punched out the pane of glass directly above the area of the lock. She was in luck.

  Inside was a large key that opened the dead bolt when she turned it.

  They were in.

  The interior of the house was gloomy and cool after the bright, warm conservatory, but as her vision adjusted and she found herself in the living room, Annie noticed that it was cheerfully enough decorated, with vibrant modern paintings on the walls—Chagall and Kan-dinsky prints—and light, airy colors, paint and wallpaper. It just didn’t get much light downstairs. The room was empty except for a three-piece suite, a black grand piano and a series of bookcases built into the walls, mostly holding old leather-bound volumes.