All the Colors of Darkness ib-18

by Peter Robinson

  “—then another killer might not have shed any. Yes, I can see where you’re going with this, DI Cabbot,” said Gervaise. “But it won’t wash. While we do have a lot of evidence to suggest that Mark Hardcastle killed Laurence Silbert and then hanged himself, we have none whatsoever to suggest that someone else did it. No one was seen entering or leaving the house, and no other suspects have suggested themselves. I’m sorry, but it sounds very much like case closed to me.”

  “But someone from the theater might have had a motive,” Annie said. “I’ve already reported on the conversation I had with Maria Wolsey. She reckons—”

  “Yes, we know all about that,” said Gervaise. “Vernon Ross or Derek Wyman might have had a motive if Hardcastle and Silbert got their new players’ group together. I read your report.”

  “And?” said Annie.

  “I just don’t believe that either Ross or Wyman would have had the ability to kill Silbert and make it look as if Hardcastle had done it.”

  “Why not?” Annie protested. “They’re both theatrical types.

  They’re used to manufacturing illusions.”

  “Very clever, but I’m sorry, I don’t believe it. Surely someone would have seen them coming or going? And then they’d have had to get rid of their bloody clothing. I just don’t see it, that’s all. What about the CCTV cameras?” Gervaise looked toward Nowak.

  “We’ve checked all the footage, and there’s nothing out of the ordinary,” he said. “Too many blind spots, for a start, and number fifteen wasn’t covered directly.”

  “It’s a very insular neighborhood,” said Banks, “so it doesn’t necessarily mean anything that no one was seen entering or leaving. I’ll bet you the secret intelligence services are very good at moving about un-noticed, even under surveillance cameras. Maybe the locals would 1 2 2

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  notice a yob or a tramp, or some kid in a hoodie, but not someone who fit in with the neighborhood, drove the right car, blended in. I agree with DI Cabbot. Hardcastle could have gone out, and while he was gone, someone else—Ross, Wyman, some spook—could have entered and killed Silbert. When Hardcastle returned and found the body he became distraught and committed suicide. He could have picked up the cricket bat then, after the murder, after the real killer had wiped it clean. Hardcastle would have been in shock. Given that we have a photograph from an unknown source of Laurence Silbert in London with an unknown man, that Silbert was known to be an MI6

  agent and that they’re pretty good in the dirty tricks department—”

  “That’s neither here nor there,” snapped Gervaise. “I don’t suppose you’ve identified this mystery man in the photograph, have you?”

  Banks glanced toward Annie. “We’ve shown it around to a few people,” she said, “but nobody admits to recognizing the unknown man.”

  “And there were no fingerprints on the memory stick itself,” added Nowak.

  Gervaise turned to Banks. “Have you learned anything yet about the location in the photographs?”

  “No, ma’am,” said Banks. “I’m pretty certain the first two were taken in Regent’s Park, but I haven’t heard back from technical support on the others. Or on Julian Fenner’s dodgy phone number, either.”

  “It seems as if you’re getting nowhere fast, doesn’t it?” Gervaise commented.

  “Look,” said Banks, “I don’t think it’s irrelevant that Silbert was a spook or that Mr. Browne, if that’s his real name, came to see me last night and basically told me to lay off. You know as well as I do that we’ve run into a brick wall every time we’ve tried to find out anything about Silbert this week. The local police said they’d handle the Bloomsbury pied-à-terre business, and the next day they phoned us back, said they’d checked it out, and all they told us was that there was nothing out of the ordinary. What does that mean, for crying out loud? And can we trust them? Perhaps if there was something out of the ordinary they made it disappear? We all know how Special Branch and MI5 have been pecking away at us from the top lately, picking off 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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  tasks and turf for themselves. Terrorism and organized crime have given the government their excuse to do what they’ve been wanting to do for years anyway, to centralize and consolidate control and power and use us as an enforcement agency for unpopular policies.

  You’ve all seen the results when that’s happened in other countries.

  How do we know that the police who checked out Silbert’s f lat weren’t inf luenced by them in any way? How do we know they weren’t Special Branch?”

  “Now you’re being paranoid,” said Gervaise. “Why can’t you just accept that it’s over?”

  “Because I’d like some answers.”

  Nowak cleared his throat. “There is one more thing,” he said. He wouldn’t meet Banks’s gaze, so Banks knew it was bad news.

  “Yes?” said Gervaise.

  “Well, perhaps we should have done this earlier, but . . . things being the way they were . . . anyway, we ran Hardcastle’s and Silbert’s fingerprints through NAFIS and we got a result.”

  “Go on,” said Gervaise.”

  Nowak still didn’t look at Banks. “Well, ma’am, Hardcastle’s got form. Eight years ago.”

  “For what?”

  “Er . . . domestic assault. The man he was living with. Apparently Hardcastle f lew into a jealous rage and beat him up.”

  “Serious?”

  “Not as bad as it could have been. Apparently he stopped before he did too much damage. Still put the bloke in hospital for a couple of days, though. And got himself a six-month suspended sentence.”

  Gervaise said nothing for a few moments, then she regarded Banks sternly. “What do you have to say about that, DCI Banks?” she asked.

  “You said you ran Silbert’s prints through NAFIS, too,” Banks said to Nowak. “Find anything there?”

  “Nothing,” said Nowak. “In fact, as you pointed out, most inquiries connected with Laurence Silbert have run up against a dead end.”

  “Well, they would, wouldn’t they?” said Banks. “He was a spook.

  He probably didn’t even officially exist.”

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  “Well, he certainly doesn’t now,” said Gervaise. “That’s it. I’ve had enough of this. I’ll be talking to the coroner. Case closed.” She stood up and slammed her Silbert-Hardcastle folder shut on the table. “DCI Banks, could you stay behind a moment, please?”

  When the others had left, Gervaise sat down again and smoothed her skirt. She smiled and gestured for Banks to sit, too. He did.

  “I’m sorry we dragged you back from your holiday for this business,” she said. “I don’t suppose we can always tell when something’s going to be a waste of time, can we?”

  “It would make our lives easier if we could,” said Banks. “But with all due respect, ma’am, I—”

  Gervaise put her finger to her lips. “No,” she said. “No, no, no, no.

  This isn’t a continuation of the meeting. This isn’t about your theories or mine. As I said, that’s over. Case closed.” She laced her fingers together on the table. “What plans do you have for the next week or so?”

  “Nothing in particular,” Banks said, surprised at the question. “Sophia’s coming up tomorrow. We’re going to see Othello on Saturday.

  Lunch with her parents on Sunday. Nothing special.”

  “Only, I was feeling guilty,” Gervaise went on. “About dragging you back up here for nothing on the evening of your big dinner party.”

  Christ, Banks thought, she wasn’t going to invite them for dinner, was she? “It wasn’t for nothing,” he said. “But that’s all right. Water under the bridge.”

  “Only, I know how much trouble this job can cause a couple sometimes, and it must be really hard when you’re just starting out.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Just where on earth was she going with this? Ban
ks had learned that it was sometimes best not to ask too many questions, just to let Gervaise talk her own way around to her point. If you tried to nail her down too soon, she tended to get slippery.

  “I hope we didn’t put too much strain on your relationship.”

  “Not at all.”

  “And how is the lovely Sophia?”

  “Thriving, ma’am.”

  “Good. Good. Excellent. Well, I suppose you’re wondering why you’re here?”

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  “I’ll admit to a touch of mild curiosity.”

  “Aha,” said Gervaise. “Ever the wit. Well, seriously . . . er . . . Alan . . .

  I’d like to make it up to you. How does that sound?”

  Banks swallowed. “Make what up, ma’am?”

  “Make up for calling you back, of course. What did you think I was talking about?”

  “Thank you,” said Banks, “but that’s not really necessary. Everything’s fine.”

  “It could always be better, though, couldn’t it?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Right. Well, I’d like you to pick up your holidays where you left off. As of this weekend. A week, shall we say?”

  “Next week off ?”

  “Yes. DI Cabbot and DS Jackman can handle the East Side Estate business. They’ve got young Harry Potter to help them. He’s coming along quite nicely, I think, don’t you?”

  “He’ll be fine,” said Banks. “But—”

  Gervaise held up her hand. “But me no buts. Please. I insist. No reason you shouldn’t enjoy the rest of your leave. You’re owed it, after all.”

  “I know, ma’am, but—”

  Gervaise stood up. “I told you. No buts. Now bugger off and enjoy yourself. That’s an order.”

  And with that she walked out of the boardroom and left Banks sitting alone at the long polished table wondering just what the hell was going on.

  7

  SO WHAT DO YOU THINK?”

  It was hot and crowded in the theater bar at intermission. Banks felt the sweat prickle on his scalp as he stood by the plate-glass window with Sophia looking out at the evening light on the shops across Market Street. A young couple walked by holding hands, a man walking his dachshund stopped to pick up its leavings in a plastic Co-op bag, three girls in miniskirts wearing Mickey Mouse ears and carrying balloons teetered on high heels on their way to a hen night. Banks glanced at Sophia. She was wearing her hair loose tonight, over her shoulders, and its luster framed her oval face, the olive skin and dark eyes showing her Greek heritage. Not for the first time in the past few months he felt like a very lucky man.

  “Well,” said Sophia, taking a sip of red wine, “it’s hardly Olivier, is it?”

  “What did you expect?”

  “The lighting’s good, all that chiaroscuro and whatnot, but I’m not convinced about the whole German Expressionist idea.”

  “Me neither,” said Banks. “I keep expecting Nosferatu to jump out from behind one of those big curved screens and f lash his fingernails.”

  Sophia laughed. “And I still think those Georgians must have been tiny.”

  “With well-padded bums,” Banks added.

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  “Lord, they must have looked funny waddling around the place.

  Seriously, though, I am enjoying it. It’s a long time since I’ve seen Othello. Come to think of it, it’s a long time since I’ve seen any Shakespeare play onstage. It takes me back to my student days.”

  “You studied Shakespeare?”

  “Long and hard.”

  “We did Othello for O-Level English.”

  “Pretty tough when you’re only sixteen. It’s a very grown-up play.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I think I could understand jealousy even then.”

  Banks thought of the other night, down in Chelsea: Sophia saying,

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “But that’s not what it’s really—oops, damn!”

  Someone had accidentally jogged Sophia’s arm, and she spilled a little red wine on her roll-neck top. Luckily, it was a dark color.

  “Sorry,” the man said, turning to her and smiling. “There is a bit of a crush in here, isn’t there?”

  “Good evening, Mr. Wyman,” said Banks. “Haven’t seen you for a while.”

  Derek Wyman turned and noticed Banks for the first time. It might have been Banks’s imagination, but he sensed a cautious expression come into Wyman’s eyes. Still, that often happened when people found themselves confronted with a policeman. We’ve all got some guilty secret we don’t want the law to know about, Banks thought—a motoring offense, a couple of joints at uni, a touch of adultery, a false income tax return, an adolescent shoplifting spree. They were all the same in the mind of the guilty. He wondered what Wyman’s was. A bout of buggery?

  “It’s all right,” Sophia was saying.

  “No, let me get some soda,” Wyman said. “I insist.”

  “Really, it’s all right. It was only a drop. And you can’t even see it now.”

  Banks wasn’t sure he appreciated the way Wyman was staring at Sophia’s chest, almost as if he were going to pull out a handkerchief and start dabbing at the barely visible wine stain. “I’m surprised you’ve got time to mingle with the punters,” Banks said. “I would have thought you’d be backstage giving the cast a pep talk.”

  “Its not like a football match, you know.” Wyman laughed. “I don’t 1 2 8

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  go in the dressing rooms and yell at them during halftime. Anyway, why should I? Do you think they need one? I thought they were doing a fine job.” He turned to Sophia again and held his hand out. “I’m Derek Wyman, by the way, director of this modest little effort. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  Sophia took his hand. “Sophia Morton,” she said. “We were just talking about how much we’re enjoying the play.”

  “Thank you. Inspector Banks, you didn’t tell me you had such a charming and beautiful . . . er . . . companion.”

  “It just never came up,” said Banks. “How are the wife and children?”

  “Thriving, thank you, thriving. Look, I must dash. I—”

  “Just a minute, while you’re here,” Banks said, pulling out the photograph that had become a fixture in his pockets. “We haven’t been able to track you down during the week. Teaching duties, they told me. Do you recognize the man with Laurence Silbert, or the street where this was taken?”

  Wyman studied the photograph and frowned. “No idea, he said. “I wouldn’t know why you’d expect that I should.” He seemed anxious to get away.

  “Just that you were in London with Mark Hardcastle, that’s all.”

  “I’ve already explained all about that.”

  “When were you there previously? London.”

  “About a month ago. It isn’t easy to get time off school. Look, I—”

  “Do you own a digital camera?”

  “Yes.”

  “What make?”

  “It’s a Fuji. Why?”

  “A computer?”

  “Dell desktop. Again, why?”

  “Did you have any idea that Laurence Silbert had worked for MI6?”

  “Good Lord, no. Of course not. Mark never said. Now I really must go. They’ll be starting again in a minute.”

  “Certainly,” said Banks, edging back as much as he could to let Wyman by. “The pep talk, after all?”

  Wyman brushed past him without a word.

  “That wasn’t very nice of you,” said Sophia.

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  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, the poor man was only trying to be nice. You didn’t have to interrogate him in the theater bar.”

  “You call that interrogation? You should see me when I really get going.”

 
; “You know what I mean.”

  “He was f lirting.”

  “So what? Don’t you ever f lirt?”

  “I never really thought about it.”

  “Of course you do. I’ve seen you.”

  “With whom?”

  “That blond Australian barmaid in the wine bar, for one.”

  “I wasn’t f lirting. I was just . . . buying drinks.”

  “Well, it took you an awfully long time, and it seemed to involve a lot of back-and-forth chat and a few saucy smiles. I hardly think you were talking about rugby prospects, or the Ashes.”

  Banks laughed. “Point taken. I’m sorry. About Wyman, I mean.”

  “Are you always working?”

  “These things have a way of getting their hooks into you.”

  Sophia glanced at Wyman’s retreating back. “I think he’s rather attractive,” she said.

  “For crying out loud,” said Banks, “he’s wearing an earring, and he’s got a red bandanna tied around his neck.”

  “Still . . .”

  “There’s no accounting for taste.”

  Sophia looked at him. “Obviously not. You don’t think he’s guilty of something, do you? A murderer?”

  “I doubt it,” said Banks. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if he was mixed up in it somehow.”

  “Mixed up in what? I thought there was no case. You said they’d dragged you back from London for nothing.”

  “That’s what they say,” said Banks. “That’s how they want it to appear. Only I’m not so sure.”

  “But officially?”

  “The matter has been dropped.”

  “Good. Let’s hope it stays that way.”

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  The bell started ringing to announce that the performance was due to recommence. Banks and Sophia knocked back the rest of their wine and headed for the theater entrance.

  “ T H E R E ’ S S O M E T H I N G funny about that new bookcase you’ve got your CDs in,” said Sophia, relaxing on the sofa in Banks’s entertainment room while he f lipped through his collection trying to find something suitable for the late hour and the post- Othello mood. The rule was that when they were in his house, he chose the music, and when they were in Chelsea, Sophia chose. It seemed to work, for the most part. He enjoyed the music she played and had discovered all kinds of new singers and bands; she was a bit more finicky, and there were things he knew he had to avoid, such as Richard Hawley, Dylan, opera and anything that sounded too folksy, though she was happy to attend the occasional folk concert at the theater. She said she liked music that pushed at the boundaries. She liked his sixties collection, though, and most of the classical stuff, along with Coltrane, Miles, Monk and Bill Evans, so that usually gave him plenty of leeway. In the end, he decided that Mazzy Star would do nicely and put on So Tonight That I Might See. Sophia said nothing, so he assumed that she approved.