All the Colors of Darkness ib-18

by Peter Robinson

  “What if I were to ask you about Laurence Silbert and Mark Hardcastle?” Annie went on, intrigued by his mention of Castleview Heights. “What would you be able to tell me about them?”

  “That Mark Hardcastle, he the one from the theater?”

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  “That’s right,” Annie said.

  “I been there. School trip, few months ago.” Nicky eyed them defiantly, as if to say that he did go to school sometimes, when the mood took him. “Some Shakespeare shit, man. Macbeth. Dudes speaking some weird kind of language and offing each other all over the stage.

  That man, that Hardcastle, he answered some questions after the play, him and Mr. Wyman and some of the actors. That’s why I knew him when I saw him the next time.”

  “Where did you see him the next time?” Annie asked.

  “Like I say, what you got for me, bitch?”

  Annie felt like saying that she had a clip around the ear for him if he didn’t tell her what he knew, but he would only laugh at that, and she wouldn’t do it. Instead, she reached for her purse and pulled out a five-pound note.

  Nicky laughed. “You must be joking. That don’t buy shit these days.”

  Annie put the five back and pulled out a ten.

  “Now we talking the same language, bitch,” said Nicky, and reached for it.

  Annie held it away from him, so that he would have to get up from his supine position on the sofa to grab it. As she expected, he didn’t.

  “Two things before you get this,” she went on. “First, you tell me where and when you saw Mark Hardcastle for the second time.”

  Haskell nodded.

  “And second,” Annie went on, “you don’t ever call me bitch again.

  In fact, you don’t even use the word in my presence. Got it?”

  Haskell glowered, then grinned. “Okay. You got a deal, sweet-heart.”

  “Go on.” Annie sighed.

  “Was in a pub, wasn’t it?”

  “You were in a pub? But you’re only fifteen.”

  Haskell laughed. “They don’t care about that in the Red Rooster.

  Long as you pay the price.”

  “The Red Rooster? Down in Medburn?”

  “That’s the one.”

  Medburn was a village about two miles south of Eastvale, a short 1 6 6

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  distance off the York Road, not far from the A1. A cluster of ugly stone-clad houses around an overgrown green, it had never been likely to win the Prettiest Village of the Year award. And there was one pub, the Red Rooster. They had live music on weekends and karaoke on Thursdays, and the place had a bit of a reputation for rowdi-ness and the occasional fight, not to mention the sale of drugs. A lot of young squaddies from Catterick Camp went there.

  “When was this?” Annie asked.

  “Dunno. Maybe two or three weeks before he offed himself. I saw his picture on the TV the other day.”

  “What was he doing when you saw him?”

  “That’s why I noticed him, man. I was just there having a quiet drink, you know, chillin’ with my friends, and then I see my fucking teacher and I have to get out real fast, or he’ll bring all kinda shit down on me.”

  Annie frowned. “Your teacher?”

  “Yeah. Mr. Wyman.”

  “Let me get this straight,” Annie said. “You saw Derek Wyman in the Red Rooster with Mark Hardcastle a short time before Hardcastle died?”

  “That right. You got it.” He glanced at Winsome. “Hey, give the lady a prize.”

  Winsome returned Annie’s puzzled gaze. “What were they doing there?” Annie went on.

  “Well, they wasn’t doing none of that fag stuff, if you know what I mean.”

  “So what were they doing?”

  “They just talkin’, man. Just chillin’ and talkin’.”

  “Did you see Mr. Wyman hand Mr. Hardcastle anything?”

  “Huh?”

  “Did anything exchange hands?”

  “Nope. This wasn’t no drug deal, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Were they looking at anything? Photographs or anything?”

  “You mean, like porn? Pictures of men sucking—”

  “Nicky!”

  “No, they didn’t look at nothing.”

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  “And there was nothing on the table in front of them?”

  “Only drinks.”

  “Was anyone else with them? Or did anyone join them?”

  “Nope. Can I have my money?”

  Annie gave him the ten-pound note. She wanted to ask if there was anything intimate about the meeting, any closeness, touching, whispering, meaningful glances, that sort of thing, but somehow she didn’t think Nicky would be attuned to such subtleties. She asked anyway.

  “Don’t know nothing about all that stuff, man,” Nicky said, “but that Hardcastle, he sure seemed angry. Mr. Wyman had to cool him down.”

  “Wyman was calming Hardcastle down?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Did they appear to be arguing?”

  “Arguing? No. Like they were friends.”

  “What happened next?”

  “I got out of there, man. Before he saw me. Like I say, he can bring a whole lotta shit down on a person, Mr. Wyman can.”

  “Is there anything else you can tell me?”

  Haskell waved the ten-pound note at her. “Your time’s up on this, b—.”

  Annie spoke between her teeth, with menacing softness. “I said is there anything else?”

  Haskell held his hands up. “No. Hey. Chill out. They nothing else.

  Like I tole you, Mr. Wyman say something and got Hardcastle all upset, then he chill him right down again.”

  “Mr. Wyman upset Hardcastle in the first place?”

  “The way it look. They was in the other bar, in the corner, so I figure they couldn’t see me, but I wasn’t taking no chances. Plenty more places a dude can get a drink. Why’d I want to hang around a pub where my teacher’s drinking, man?”

  “Nicky, the amount of time you spend in school, he probably wouldn’t even recognize you,” Annie said.

  “Ain’t no need to be sarcastic. I do okay.”

  Annie couldn’t help but laugh, and Winsome laughed with her.

  They got up to leave. “Back to Jackie Binns and Donny Moore for a 1 6 8

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  minute,” Annie said at the door. “Are you certain you can’t tell us anything more about what happened? Did you see Jackie Binns with a knife?”

  “Jackie didn’t have no knife, man. You got that all wrong. Jackie didn’t do nothing. I didn’t see nothing.” He turned away, picked up the remote control and turned up the volume on the television set.

  “Now look what you gone and done,” he said. “You made me lose track of the plot.”

  The lifts hadn’t been working when Annie and Winsome had arrived, and they still weren’t working. It was easier to walk down the six f loors, but the smell wasn’t any better. Mostly stale urine with the occasional piece of rotting garbage dropped by a dog or a cat. Around the third f loor, a hooded figure came bounding up the stairs and brushed past them, bumping into Annie’s shoulder, knocking her against the wall, and carried on without a word of apology. She caught her breath and checked her handbag and pockets. All there. Even so, she was relieved to get down to the concrete forecourt. She had felt claustrophobic in the stairwell.

  When they got to the car, Annie was happy to find it was still there, and that nobody had spray-painted pig bitch all over it. She checked her watch. Going on for five o’clock. “How about a drink?” she suggested to Winsome. “On me. The sun’s over the yardarm and I could certainly do with one.”

  “Anything to get the taste of this place out of my mouth.”

  “How about the Red Rooster?” Annie suggested. />
  A S I T was such a beautiful evening, Banks decided to follow Silbert’s route and walk through Regent’s Park to Saint John’s Wood. He took the paved path that paralleled the Outer Circle around the southern edge. There were quite a few people around, mostly joggers and dog walkers. Soon he came to the bench in the photograph, where Silbert had met his boyfriend, or contact, just opposite the boating lake. Soon after, the path ended, and Banks had to walk past the Central Mosque to Park Road and make his way through the crowds on their way to evening prayers. At the roundabout opposite the little church, he 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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  turned on to Prince Albert Road and crossed over to walk past the prep school and the graveyard along Saint John’s Wood High Street.

  The houses opposite were the kind that always made him think of confectioneries, about six stories high, redbrick with lots of fancy white trim like piping on cakes. Some of the f lats had balconies with hanging baskets and big plant pots.

  He found Charles Lane easily enough. It was a secluded mews, in some ways similar to where his brother had lived in South Kensington. From the High Street, it looked as if it ended at a brick house with a narrow white facade, but that was just a little dog leg, and beyond it he came to the garages in the photograph. He realized this must have been the corner where the photograph was taken from, using the zoom function. The door he wanted was between the sixth and seventh garages along, one painted in green panels with white outlines, the other, white panels with black edging.

  Before anyone could find his loitering suspicious, he strolled down the street, crossed to the house in question and looked up to the lace-covered windows above the window box full of red and purple f lowers.

  There was only one thing to do. Banks took a deep breath, walked up to the front door and rang the bell.

  After about thirty seconds, a woman opened the door on its chain and peered at him. He reached for his warrant card. She made him hold it close to the narrow strip that was all the chain allowed and spent so long studying it that he thought she wasn’t going to let him in. Eventually the door closed, and when it opened again, it opened all the way, revealing a neatly dressed gray-haired woman in her sixties.

  “You’re a long way from home, young man,” she said to Banks.

  “You’d better come in and explain yourself over a cup of tea.”

  She led him upstairs into a small cluttered living room above the garage, where a man of about her age sat in an armchair reading the newspaper. He was wearing a suit, complete with white shirt and tie.

  It certainly wasn’t the man in the photograph. He carried on reading his newspaper.

  “It’s a policeman,” the woman said to him. “A detective.”

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  “I’m sorry to intrude like this,” Banks said, feeling awkward.

  “No matter,” said the woman. “I’m Mrs. Townsend, by the way.

  You can call me Edith. And this is my husband, Lester.”

  Lester Townsend looked over his newspaper and grunted a quick hello. He seemed less than happy to be disturbed.

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Banks.

  “Sit yourself down,” Edith said. “I’ll just go and put the kettle on.

  Lester, put your newspaper away. It’s rude to sit and read when we have guests.”

  Edith left the room and Townsend put his newspaper down, staring suspiciously at Banks before reaching for a pipe on the table beside him, stuffing it with shag and lighting it. “What is it we can do for you?” he asked.

  Banks sat down. “Can we wait until your wife comes back with the tea?” he said. “I’d like to talk to both of you.”

  Townsend grunted around his pipe. For a moment Banks thought he was going to pick up his newspaper again, but he just sat there smoking contemplatively and staring at a spot high on the wall until his wife returned with the tea tray.

  “It’s not often we get visitors,” she said. “Is it, darling?”

  “Hardly ever,” her husband said, glaring at Banks. “Especially po-licemen.”

  Banks was beginning to feel as if he had wandered onto a film set, a period piece of some kind. Everything about the place was old-fashioned, from the f lower-patterned wallpaper to the brass andirons.

  Even the teacups with their tiny handles and gold rims reminded him of something from his grandmother’s china cabinet. Yet these people were only perhaps ten or fifteen years older than he was.

  “I really am sorry for interrupting your evening,” Banks said, balancing the teacup and saucer on his lap, “but this address has come up in connection with a case I’m working on back up in North Yorkshire.” It wasn’t entirely true, but the Townsends weren’t to know that Superintendent Gervaise had technically closed down the investigation and sent him packing.

  “How exciting,” said Edith. “In what way?”

  “How long have you lived here?” Banks asked.

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  “Ever since we were married,” her husband answered. “Since 1963.”

  “Do you ever rent out the house?”

  “What a strange question,” Edith said. “No, we don’t.”

  “Do you rent any of the rooms or f loors as f lats or bedsits?”

  “No. It’s our home. Why would we rent any of it?”

  “Some people do, that’s all. To help pay the bills.”

  “We can manage all that perfectly well by ourselves.”

  “Have you been on holiday recently?”

  “We took a Caribbean cruise last winter.”

  “Other than that?” Banks asked.

  “Not recently, no.”

  “Did you use a house sitter?”

  “If you must know, our daughter drops by every other day and takes care of the place. She lives in West Kilburn. It’s not far away.”

  “You haven’t been away even for only a few days over the past month or so?”

  “No,” she repeated. “Lester still works in the city. He should have retired by now, but they say they still need him.”

  “What do you do, Mr. Townsend?” Banks asked.

  “Insurance.”

  “Might anyone else have . . . er . . . used your house, say, while you were out one evening?”

  “Not to our knowledge,” Edith answered. “And we don’t often go out in the evenings. The streets are so unsafe these days.”

  Banks put his cup and saucer down on the table beside his chair and reached for the envelope in his pocket. He took out the photographs and passed them first to Edith. “Do you recognize either of these men?” he asked.

  Edith examined the photos closely and passed them to her husband.

  “No,” she said. “Should I?”

  “You, sir?” Banks asked Townsend.

  “Never seen either of them in my life,” he answered, handing the photographs back to Banks.

  “You do agree it’s this house, don’t you?” Banks asked.

  Edith took the photos again. “Well, it certainly looks like it,” she said. “But it can’t be, can it?”

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  She passed the photographs to Townsend, who turned to Banks without even reexamining them and said, “What on earth is all this about? What’s going on? You come barging in here upsetting my wife and showing pictures of . . . of I don’t know what, asking damn-fool questions.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Banks said. “I didn’t mean to upset anyone. One of our technical support officers was able to enhance the digital photographs I just showed you and read the street name. This street name.

  As you can see, the facade in the photos also resembles this house.”

  “Couldn’t he have made a mistake?” Townsend said, handing the photos back. “After all, they’re a bit blurred and you can’t just blindly trust all modern technology, can you?”

  “Mis
takes are made,” said Banks. “But not this time. I don’t think so.”

  Townsend stuck his chin out. “Then what’s your explanation? Eh?”

  Banks put the photographs back, pocketed the envelope and stood up to leave. “I don’t know, sir,” he said. “But one way or another I’ll get to the bottom of it.”

  “I’m sorry we couldn’t be any more help,” said Edith, as she led Banks to the door.

  “Have you ever heard of a man called Julian Fenner?” Banks asked.

  “He works in Import-Export?”

  “No.”

  “Laurence Silbert? Mark Hardcastle?”

  “No, I’m afraid neither of those names is familiar to me.”

  “Do you have a son?” he asked. “Or any other close relative who might have used the house in your absence?”

  “Only our daughter.”

  “Can I talk to her?”

  “She’s away. In America. Besides, I can’t imagine any reason why she would think of coming here unless we asked her to. I’m afraid you’ll have to leave now. We can’t tell you anything more.”

  And Banks found himself standing on the doorstep scratching his head.

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  M E D B U R N WA S N ’ T much more than a postwar council estate with a pub, a post office and a garage clustered around the green, where bored kids lounged on the benches and scared off the few old folks who lived there. The Red Rooster had been there first, at the cross-roads, and it was one of those ugly sprawling pubs with a brick-and-tile facade that had recently been taken over by a brewery chain and tarted up a bit—long bar, family area, children’s playroom, a bouncy castle in the garden, brass numbers screwed to every table to make ordering easier. And woe betide you if you forgot to memorize your table number, or it somehow slipped your mind as you waited at the bar half an hour to order, because there was usually only one person serving, and it always seemed to be his first day on the job.

  This one’s name tag identified him as Liam, and he didn’t look old enough to be serving in a pub, Annie thought. Luckily, the place wasn’t too busy around half past five on a Wednesday afternoon—it was the kind of pub that filled up later, after dinner, when the quizzes or karaoke started, and at lunchtimes on weekends—and Annie and Winsome had no trouble getting a couple of drinks and putting in an order for table 17.