All the Colors of Darkness ib-18

by Peter Robinson

  “And how could someone know about Hardcastle’s previous form for violence against a partner?”

  “Maybe he let something slip? Or, more likely, the people we’re talking about have methods of getting hold of whatever information they want, access to criminal records. I’ll bet you MI6 knew about it.

  They must have vetted Hardcastle. It obviously didn’t merit his being put on their out-of-bounds list—it didn’t make him a security risk—

  but I’ll also bet they tipped Silbert off, too, told him to be careful, even though he’d officially retired.”

  “Well, he wasn’t, was he? Okay, let’s assume all that, for the sake of argument. One big stumbling block still remains: How could they ever be certain of the result?”

  Banks scratched his temple. “Well, you do have a point there,” he said. “I’ve been grappling with that one. The previous form helps a bit. Hardcastle had a temper and it had got him into trouble with a partner before.”

  “Even so, there could be no guarantee he’d do it again. Maybe he’d learned his lesson? Taken anger-management courses?”

  “Push someone far enough and their reactions can be pretty predictable. People resort to patterns they’ve followed in the past. You see it all the time with abusers and the abused.”

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  “I know,” said Annie, “but I’m still saying that as a method of murder, it sucks.”

  “But why?”

  “Because you can’t be sure of the outcome, that’s why. Even if Hardcastle had turned violent, even if that was predictable, he hadn’t killed before, and there could be no guarantee that he would kill this time. Maybe they’d have just had a row? There’s no way anyone could depend on Hardcastle killing Silbert. I’m sorry, Alan, but it just doesn’t make sense. It’s not reliable.”

  “I know that,” said Banks. “I can see it’s a f lawed hypothesis. But I still think there are a lot of possibilities in it.”

  “Okay, then,” said Annie. “Let’s assume for a moment that you’re right. Then we come to the matter of motive. Why?”

  Banks sat back on the bench and sipped some beer before he spoke.

  “Well, that one’s easy enough,” he said. “It goes right along with who.”

  “I know what you’re going to say, but they just don’t—”

  “Hear me out, Annie. This Mr. Browne with an e comes to see me and basically tells me to lay off, that any publicity around the Silbert murder would be unwelcome. What sort of disaster? I ask myself.

  Now we know Silbert was an MI6 agent, and Lord knows what sort of things he got up to in his heyday. What if the government wanted rid of him for some reason? Say he knew too much? Something embarrassing? I’m sure they’ve got a good line in psych ops. They could have made certain that the information about Hardcastle’s temper resulted in the violence it did. I’ll bet they even have drugs that don’t show up on our tox screens.”

  “But they’d only act if he threatened to talk, surely? And we’ve no evidence at all that he would do that. Most don’t.”

  “Well, let’s say he posed some sort of threat to them. I don’t know what.”

  “That’s an awful lot to suppose.”

  “Hypothetically, then.”

  “Okay, hypothetically he posed a threat to the MI6.”

  “Or the present government’s credibility.”

  “Assuming they have any left.”

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  “Anyway, it’s not so far-fetched as it sounds, Annie. These things come home to roost. The people who were your enemies yesterday are your friends today, and vice versa. Often the only thing you have in common to start with is that you’re united against the same enemy.

  Alliances change and shift with the wind. Germany. Russia. Iraq.

  Iran. The bloody United States, for all I know. They’ve been known to get up to some pretty dirty tricks in their time. Maybe he’s got evidence they engineered terrorist attacks in the U.K. to keep us involved in the Iraq War. God knows. I wouldn’t put anything past any of them. Silbert could have been involved in something that shows MI6

  and the government, or a friendly foreign government, in a bad light, and with an election coming up . . .”

  “They’d stop at nothing?”

  “Something like that. If they felt threatened.”

  “I still don’t swallow it, Alan. Okay, so the victim was a spook.

  When these people want rid of one another, don’t they just stab them with poisoned umbrellas or slip them a dose of radioactive isotopes or something? They’d hardly be likely to go for such an unreliable method as trying to make Silbert’s partner jealous and just hope he does their job for them when they could just . . . well, push him under a bus or off a bridge.”

  Banks sighed. “I know there are holes in the theory,” he said. “It’s still a work in progress.”

  Banks seemed def lated, but Annie didn’t feel like giving any quarter. “Holes big enough to drive a lorry through,” she said. “And not much progress, if you ask me. No, I’m sorry, but it won’t wash.”

  “Have you been got at?” Banks asked. “Has someone got to you?”

  Annie’s jaw dropped. “I resent that. Have I ever given you any reason to think I wasn’t on your side? Don’t we play devil’s advocate as a matter of course? How could you even think something like that?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Banks. “It’s just . . . maybe I am getting paranoid.

  But look what happened. The day after Mr. Browne’s visit, Madame Gervaise says the case is closed, keeps me back after school and tells me to take some leave owing. Are you saying she hasn’t been got at?

  And I thought someone was watching me in the pub at lunchtime yesterday. I’ve also had the feeling I’m being followed more than once 1 5 0

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  over the past few days, since Browne’s visit. Things are just . . . confusing.”

  “Well, I haven’t been got at. I’m just trying to take a rational perspective on some of the half-baked ideas you’re coming up with.”

  “Can’t you at least accept that it might have happened the way I just outlined it?”

  “I don’t know that I can. Okay, I’ll accept your Othello theory up to a point. Maybe somebody did stir things up for Hardcastle. Or perhaps it was true that Silbert was having an affair. Maybe he was being blackmailed, then he told the blackmailer to bugger off, so the evidence—the memory stick—found its way to Hardcastle. But I don’t swallow all this spook junk, and I don’t care what you say about people falling back on previous patterns of behavior. Nobody could have predicted what would happen next. That’s the point I’m making.”

  “We’ve found no evidence of blackmail.”

  “We’ve found no evidence of anything except what forensics bears out and we all agree happened.”

  “That’s not true. We know that Silbert worked for MI6. We found the memory stick and the business card with a nonexistent phone number on it. Mr. Browne came to visit me and made veiled threats.

  He also knew a hell of a lot about me and my private life, by the way.

  And now everyone suddenly wants to drop the whole thing like a hot potato. I don’t call that nothing. And I don’t like it, Annie. I don’t like it one bit.”

  “Put like that, I suppose you’ve got a point.” Annie gave a little shudder. “I wish you wouldn’t put it like that, though. You’re giving me the creeps.”

  “So you believe me?”

  “Are you really being watched?”

  “Since Browne’s visit, yes, I think so.”

  “Well, I suppose you did send him away with a f lea in his ear. They must think you’re something of a loose cannon.”

  “My lot in life. He even knew about Sophia.”

  “Who? Browne?”

  “Uh-huh. He knows where she lives. He said something about my lovely young girl
friend in Chelsea.”

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  Annie said nothing for a moment. Somehow the image of Sophia’s loveliness got in the way of their discussion and distracted her, rolled over her like a wave of dissatisfaction with herself, her appearance, weight, everything. Christ, Banks hadn’t even noticed her new haircut. “So what are you going to do?” she asked.

  “I still need a couple more pieces of information,” he said, “then I think I’ll head down to London, check out the pied-à-terre for myself, dig around, see what I can find. I’ve still got a few days holiday left.”

  “Chasing shadows, tilting at windmills?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I don’t know,” said Annie. “It could be dangerous. I mean, if you’re right and they are capable of knocking off one of their own, they’d hardly think twice about killing a troublesome copper, would they?”

  “Thank you,” said Banks. “I was trying not to think of that.

  Anyway, what else can I do? Madame Gervaise has closed the case. I can’t expect any support there.”

  “I think you should be very careful.”

  “I will be.”

  “I suppose you’ll be staying with Sophia?”

  “I suppose so. If she’s not too busy.”

  “Oh, I doubt that she’ll be too busy for you. It’s just that . . .”

  “What?”

  “Well, are you sure you should be involving her in all this?”

  “I’m not involving her. Besides, they already know about her.”

  “Listen to me. You’ve got me as paranoid as you are.”

  “That’s all right. It’s good of you to be concerned. But don’t worry, I’ll be careful. For both me and Sophia.”

  Annie tore into her beer mat. “So what is it you want from me?”

  “I’d like you to be my eyes and ears up here while I’m away. Keep a lookout for anything out of the ordinary. And if I need any information, some record tracked down, another chat with Wyman and the theater people, fingerprints running through NAFIS, any sort of information I can’t get my hands on, I’d like to think you might help.”

  “Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb,” said Annie. “Anything else, while you’re at it?”

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  “Yes. Could you water the plants?”

  Annie gave him a playful slap on the arm.

  “I’ll be buying a new mobile as soon as I get down there,” Banks went on. “Pay-as-you-go, throwaway. I don’t want my calls traced, or any troublesome records kept. I’ll ring you and let you know the number.”

  Annie frowned at him. “Just like a criminal. You’re really serious about all this cloak-and-dagger stuff, aren’t you?”

  “You didn’t meet Mr. Browne. And there is one more thing before we go.”

  “What’s that?”

  “What did you do with your hair? It looks great.”

  T H O U G H B A N K S didn’t expect any further visits from the likes of Mr. Browne, he nonetheless kept his door locked, his alarm system on and his ears open at home that evening. After a Marks & Spencer’s beef Wellington washed down with a 1998 Eight Songs Shiraz, he decided to give up on the bookcase and settled down to an evening’s reading of Stephen Dorril’s book about MI6 instead, with John Garth’s cello concertos playing quietly in the background.

  The fire had been over three years ago now, Banks recalled, and the rebuilding, with the addition of the entertainment room, extra bedroom and conservatory, had taken the best part of a year. Whereas before he had lived in the kitchen or the front room, occasionally enjoying an evening on the wall by the beck, now he spent most of his time in the conservatory at the back, or in the entertainment room, using the kitchen mostly just for cooking—reheating might be more accurate—and the front room as a kind of study-cum-sitting room, where he kept his computer and a couple of battered old armchairs.

  MI6’s history proved to be complicated and tough going, hardly like the Ian Fleming novels he remembered from his teenage years, and after a couple of chapters, he wasn’t sure that he knew much more than when he had started. He also still had many chapters to cover to get up to the present.

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  The phone rang shortly after half past nine. It was Sophia. He was more than relieved for the interruption to his reading.

  “Have a good journey home?” Banks asked.

  “Fine. Just boring, that’s all. I think I’ll take the train next time. At least then I can get some work done, read a book.”

  He thought he could hear her stif le a yawn. “Tired?”

  “Long day. Sometimes I think there’s just one arts festival after another.”

  “How’s your week shaping up?”

  “More of the same. Lots of interviews. A fifteen-minute special on that new James Bond book by Sebastian Faulks, including a few comments from Daniel Craig.”

  “Don’t tell me he’s coming to the studio.”

  “Don’t be an idiot. But a girl can always dream.”

  “Hmph. Right. Well, I hope to be down your way in a day or so.

  Could you maybe give Daniel Craig a raincheck and find a bit of room in your busy schedule to fit me in? I can easily get a hotel, if . . .”

  “Of course I can, you idiot. You’ve got a key. Just come over. It’ll be great to see you. If nothing else, at least we’ll get to sleep together.”

  Banks couldn’t help but feel his heart glow at the genuine pleasure in her voice. “Great,” he said. “I’ll ring you.”

  “Is this trip business or pure holiday?” Sophia asked.

  “A bit of both, really.”

  “What sort of business?”

  “Same as before.”

  “That murder-suicide case?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “The one you were quizzing Dad about, with all the spooks?”

  “One of the victims was an MI6 agent, that’s all.”

  “How exciting,” Sophia said. “With you around, who needs Daniel Craig. Bye.”

  Always, at the end of their telephone conversations, Banks was tempted to say, “I love you,” but he never did. The “l” word hadn’t been mentioned yet, and Banks got the feeling that it would only cause complications at this point. Best go on as they were and see 1 5 4

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  where it led. There would be plenty of time for the “l” word later.

  He kept the receiver off the hook a bit longer than usual, listening for that telltale click he had heard so often in spy movies. Then he chastised himself for being such a fool and put it down. With today’s technology, you could be damn sure a tapped telephone didn’t go

  “click” when you finished your call. Besides, he should have thought of that earlier. He would have to be more careful what he said over the landline from now on.

  When he hung up, he turned on the TV for News at Ten, poured another glass of wine and sat through the usual lead stories on greedy politicians caught out in a lie, the upcoming American elections, a twelve-year-old schoolgirl gone missing on her way home from a piano lesson, famine and genocide in Africa, war in the Middle East and more trouble in the old Russian satellite states. His ears pricked up at a story about the Hardcastle-Silbert case.

  The presenter stopped short at announcing that Silbert had worked for MI6, mentioning only that he was Edwina Silbert’s son, had been a civil servant, and that he lived with his gay lover, “the son of a West Yorkshire coal miner,” in an “exclusive” and “desirable” residential suburb of Eastvale. Typical southern nonsense, Banks thought. As if Eastvale had suburbs. And Barnsley was in South Yorkshire, not West.

  The segment also stressed that police were satisfied it was a tragic case of murder-suicide, and then went on to refer to details of similar cases over the past twenty years
or so. At the end, Detective Superintendent Gervaise appeared on camera looking cool and professional.

  She assured the interviewer that police were satisfied with the result, stressing that forensic evidence had borne out their investigative conclusions, and had no need for a further investigation, which, she added, would simply cause more grief to the victims’ families. That was a load of bollocks, Banks thought. Edwina Silbert could probably take anything the world could throw at her, and Hardcastle had no family except for the distant aunt. Well, whoever had assembled that story had certainly done a good job of assuring anyone who might be concerned that the business was well and truly over . We’ll see about that, Banks thought.

  After the news, Banks had a sudden urge to play some more music 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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  and go outside to sit on the wall beside Gratly Beck. This was one of his favorite spots, and though he didn’t use it as often as he did before, he still enjoyed it when the weather was warm enough. His cottage was isolated, and a little quiet music in the background wouldn’t disturb anyone, even late at night, and it was only half past ten. Before he could pick out a CD from his collection, though, the phone rang again. Thinking it might be Sophia phoning back, Banks hurried and picked it up.

  “DCI Banks?”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Ravi here. Ravi Kapesh. Technical Support.”

  “Oh, Ravi. Sorry, I didn’t recognize your voice. It’s a bit late for you to be working, isn’t it?”

  “Par for the course these days if you want to get ahead,” said Ravi resignedly. “Anyway, I think I might have something for you. You did say to ring as soon as I got anything.”

  Banks felt a tremor of excitement. “Absolutely. You do? Great.

  Look, I know this might sound a bit weird, but can you call me back on my mobile?”

  “Sure. When?”

  “Right now. I’m hanging up.” Banks didn’t know if his mobile was any more likely to be secure than his landline, but he thought it might be. He would certainly feel a lot less paranoid when he bought the pay-as-you-go. The thing to remember about mobiles was to keep them switched off when you’re not using them, or you might as well stand on the top of the nearest large building and shout, “I’m here!”