Wyman seemed surprised, but he answered quickly. “Having a drink. I told you we got together for a drink every now and then to talk about theater business.”
“Yes,” said Annie. “But the Red Rooster isn’t really the sort of place you go for a quiet drink, and it’s hardly just around the corner.”
“It was quiet enough when we were there.”
A laughing boy being chased by his friends bumped into Annie as he dodged his pursuers. “Watch where you’re going, Saunders!”
Wyman yelled after him.
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir,” said Saunders, and kept on running.
“Sometimes I wonder why I bother,” Wyman complained.
“The Red Rooster?”
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P E T E R R O B I N S O N
“Well, the food’s okay, and the beer’s not bad.”
“Look, Mr. Wyman,” said Annie. “It’s out of the way—at least two miles from Eastvale, where there are plenty of nice pubs, and it’s mostly a young kids’ pub. The beer might be passable, but the food’s crap. Anyone would think you didn’t want to get away from the kids once in a while, or that you went there because you didn’t want to be seen.”
“Well, to be quite honest,” said Wyman, “knowing the way tongues start wagging around these parts, and given Mark’s . . . er . . . sexual inclinations . . . I will admit that somewhere a little out of the way seemed more suitable.”
“Come off it, Derek. Your pupils drink there. And you went to London with Mark. You told us you met up for a drink every now and then. You said you don’t care whether a person’s gay or straight, and your wife wasn’t at all put out by your relationship with Mark Hardcastle, either. You expect me to believe that you went—”
“Now, you look here.” Wyman stopped in his tracks and turned to face her. “I don’t like this one bit. I don’t see why I have to explain to you why I drink where I do. Or who with. Or justify myself in any way.”
“What was Mark Hardcastle upset about?”
Wyman turned away and carried on walking. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Something you said upset him. Then you calmed him down again. What was it?”
“That’s rubbish. I don’t remember anything remotely like that happening. I don’t know who’s been telling you this, but someone’s spreading vicious rumors.”
“Don’t you?” said Annie. She was at the door, and Wyman stopped again. He clearly wasn’t coming any farther. “Funny, that,” she went on. “Other people remember it very well.” She pushed the door open and walked out toward Winsome, who was waiting on the steps.
“Bye, Mr. Wyman,” she said over her shoulder. “I’m sure we’ll talk again soon.”
11
AFTER A QUICK BURGER AND CHIPS AND A PINT OF
Sam Smith’s at Ye Olde Swiss Cottage, a rambling pub with wooden balconies, which did look rather like a large ski chalet stuck in the cleft of busy traffic between Avenue Road and Finchley Road, Banks made his way to the tube station and negotiated his route to Victoria. The carriage was hot, and several of the people he found himself crushed up against clearly hadn’t bathed that morning.
It brought back memories of going to work on hot days in London, the way you’d get all kinds of deodorant and perfume smells in the morning, while the evening rush hour was dominated by sad and wrung-out-looking people smelling of sweat. He gave his underarm a surreptitious sniff as he left the station and was relieved to find that his antiperspirant was still holding its own.
Banks found Wyman’s bed-and-breakfast hotel easily enough about five minutes’ walk from the underground, off Warwick Way. A sign in the window offered vacancies from £35 per night, which sounded remarkably cheap to Banks. He realized how money could be a problem for Wyman, with a wife who only worked part-time and two teenage children with appetites to match. A teacher’s salary was reasonable, but not extravagant. No wonder he stayed in places like this and ate at Zizzi’s.
Inexpensive as it was, the bed-and-breakfast turned out to be quite 2 0 2
P E T E R R O B I N S O N
charming. The entrance was clean and the decor lively and fresh. The man who answered Banks’s ring was a rotund Pakistani with a mustache and a shiny head. He was wearing a pinny and seemed in the midst of vacuuming the hallway. He turned off the vacuum, introduced himself as Mohammed and asked with a smile what he could do for the gentleman. A vague aroma of curry spices wafted from the back and made Banks’s mouth water, despite the hurried burger.
Maybe he would suggest to Sophia that they go out for a curry dinner or get a takeaway.
Banks took out his warrant card and Mohammed scrutinized it.
“No trouble, I hope?” he said, a worried expression corrugating his brow.
“Not for you,” Banks said. “It’s just information I’m after really.”
He described Wyman and the dates he said he had last been staying there. It didn’t take long before Mohammed knew exactly whom Banks was talking about.
“Ah, yes, Mr. Wyman,” he said. “He’s one of my regulars. Very fine gentleman. Educated. He’s a schoolteacher, you know.” Mohammed spoke with a trace of south London accent.
“Yes, I know,” said Banks. “Was he here on the dates I mentioned?”
“It was quite recent, I do remember that. Please, let me check for you.” Mohammed went behind the small reception desk and thumbed through a large book. “Yes, here it is. He arrived on Wednesday afternoon the week before last, and he left on the Saturday.”
“Was he any different than on previous visits?”
“In what way?”
“I’m not sure,” said Banks. “Excited, depressed, on edge, anxious?”
“No, none of those things. Not that I noticed. He seemed quite . . .
pleased with everything, quite happy with life.”
“What time did he leave?”
“Checkout time is eleven o’clock.”
That squared with what Wyman had told them when they talked to him. He said he had gone for a pub lunch then done some book shopping and visited the National Gallery before catching his train home.
His wife, Carol, had met him at York station at about a quarter past 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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seven. “Do you have any idea where he went or what he did while he was here?”
Mohammed frowned. “I don’t spy on my guests, Mr. Banks,” he said.
“I understand,” said Banks. “But you must have noticed him coming in or going out at certain times. Did he sleep here every night?”
“As far as I know. His bed was always slept in and he was always down for breakfast.”
“I don’t suppose you know what times he came and went?”
“No. He usually went out after breakfast, about nine o’clock, and he might call back at some point for an hour or so in the middle of the afternoon, perhaps to rest, and then he would go out again at teatime.
We don’t do any other meals, you see. Only breakfast. He was just like any other tourist.”
“Was he late back at night?”
“Not that I know of. I saw him come in about eleven a couple of times. I was usually making sure everything was tidy and shipshape for morning by then.”
“Did he have any visitors?”
“We don’t encourage visitors in the rooms. As I told you, I don’t keep a watch on my guests, and I’m not always here, so I suppose he could have sneaked someone in the room if he’d wanted. All I’m saying is that I don’t think he did, and he never had before.”
“Mr. Wyman is a regular here, right?”
“He likes to come down for the theater, the art galleries and the NFT, he told me. But it’s hard for him to get away. Schoolteachers get many holidays, but not always when they want to take them.”
My heart bleeds, thought Banks, who was supposed to be on holiday right now. Still, it was his own fault that he wasn’t.
“Mr. Wyman i
s a model guest,” Mohammed went on. “He never makes any noise. He never complains. He is always polite.”
“Good,” said Banks. “This might sound like an odd request, but is there any chance I might have a look at the room he stayed in the last time he was here?”
Mohammed stroked his mustache. “That is indeed a very unusual 2 0 4
P E T E R R O B I N S O N
request,” he said. “But as it happens, Mr. Wyman always prefers the same room, if it’s available. The prices of the rooms here vary, you understand, depending on the level of accommodation offered, but he didn’t mind the shared toilet and bathroom, or the noise from the street.”
“Your cheapest room?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.”
“And he always got it?”
“Most times. And you’re in luck. It’s empty now. Though what you hope to find there I have no idea. Other guests have stayed since Mr.
Wyman, you know, and everything has been cleaned and washed. I can vouch for that. My wife does the cooking and I take care of the cleaning myself.”
“Did you find anything odd or interesting when you cleaned the room after Mr. Wyman left last time?”
“No. I . . . Wait a minute,” said Mohammed, stroking his mustache. “It had slipped down the back of the radiator. It’s always difficult to clean behind there. There’s not enough space.”
“What was it?” Banks asked.
“Just a business card. I wouldn’t have noticed, but there’s a special attachment for the vacuum cleaner. The card was too big to go down the tube, so it got stuck over the end by the suction, and I had to remove it by hand. I remember thinking it must have fallen out of the top pocket of his shirt when he took it off to go to bed. Mr. Wyman was usually a most tidy guest.”
“Do you still have it?”
“No. I put it in with the rest of the rubbish.”
“I don’t suppose you can remember what the card said, can you?”
“Oh, yes,” said Mohammed. “It was the name, you see.”
“What about it?”
“ ‘Tom Savage.’ Wouldn’t you remember that?”
“I suppose I probably would,” said Banks.
“And,” Mohammed went on, beaming, “you would certainly remember it if it said, ‘Tom Savage Detective Investigations.’ Like Magnum P.I. or Sam Spade. I’m a fan of the American detectives, you see.”
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“Could it have been dropped there before Mr. Wyman came to stay?”
“No,” said Mohammed. “I’m most thorough. I clean every nook and cranny between guests.”
“Thank you,” said Banks. “I’m very glad of that. Was there anything else about it?”
“The top left corner was indented, as if it had been attached to something by a paper clip.”
“I don’t suppose you remember an address or telephone number?”
“I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay,” said Banks. “It should be easy enough to find out.”
“Do you still want to look at the room?”
“Yes, please.”
“Very well. Follow me.”
Mohammed took a key from a hook on the wall and came out from behind the reception desk. He led Banks up three f lights of carpeted stairs and opened a door off the landing. Banks’s first impression was of how small the room was, but everything else about it was clean and in order, the striped cream wallpaper giving it a cheerful air. He spotted the radiator. A hard-back chair stood right next to it. It was close to the bed and seemed a natural place to lay out one’s clothes for the morning, or to hang trousers and a casual jacket over the back. Easy for a card to slip out of a pocket and f lutter behind the radiator.
There was no television set and only a single bed, but there was a small armchair by the window, which overlooked the street. Banks could hear the traffic and imagined it could be noisy, even at night—
there was no double-glazing here to dampen the sound—but Wyman must be a good sleeper. All in all, if Banks found a room so snug and comfortable in London at that price, he would probably stay there himself. Most of the places he had ever stayed in around Victoria had been dives.
“It’s charming,” he said to Mohammed. “I can see why he liked it.”
“It’s very small, but clean and cozy.”
“Is there a telephone?”
“There’s a pay phone in the hall.”
“Mind if I have a look around?”
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P E T E R R O B I N S O N
“Please. There’s nothing here.”
Banks could see what he meant. A quick glance under the bed revealed nothing, not even the dust balls one might usually expect to find there. Mohammed was not lying when he said he was thorough.
The wardrobe, too, was bare apart from the coat hangers that rattled when he opened it. On the small desk, there was a note about breakfast times, along with a writing tablet and a ballpoint pen. The ubiqui-tous Gideon’s Bible lay all alone in the top drawer of the bedside table.
“I’m sorry to have troubled you,” Banks said.
“It’s all right. Have you finished now?”
“Yes, I think so. Thanks a lot for answering my questions and for letting me see the room.”
Banks followed Mohammed down the stairs and stopped at the public telephone on the lower landing. There were no phone numbers scribbled on the wall and no directory. “Do you know if he made or received any phone calls while he was here?” Banks asked.
“I don’t think so. He could have done. I wouldn’t necessarily have known. I do hope Mr. Wyman isn’t in any trouble.”
“So do I,” said Banks, taking Mohammed’s card, smiling and shaking hands as he left. “So do I.”
T H E D E T E C T I V E agency looked like a one-man operation housed in a nondescript sixties office tower on Great Marlborough Street, between Regent Street and Soho. Banks had got the address easily from the yellow pages. A group of casually dressed young men and women stood around outside the building smoking, chatting to bicycle couri-ers. It was about the only place they could smoke now outside of their own homes.
Banks took the jerky lift up to the fifth f loor and found the door marked tom savage detective investigations, followed by “Please Press Bell and Enter,” which he ignored. When he walked into the room, he was almost expecting a rumpled, hungover, smart-mouthed tough with a bottle of scotch in his filing cabinet, though he had met plenty of private investigators before and none of them had matched 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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that particular stereotype. Savage had a receptionist, but she wasn’t sitting behind her desk polishing her nails; she was actually stuffing papers in folders in a filing cabinet. She had to bend over to do it, too, and her low-slung tight jeans didn’t leave much to the imagination.
On hearing Banks arrive, she stood up, smoothed her jeans and blushed. She knew exactly what he’d been looking at. “Yes?” she challenged him. “I didn’t hear you ring. Can I help you?”
“I didn’t ring,” said Banks. “Mr. Savage in?”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Then I’m sorry—”
Banks pulled out his warrant card and showed it to her.
She gave him a sharp glance and said, “Why didn’t you say?”
“I just did,” said Banks. “Does it make any difference?”
She read the card again. “Are you . . . Alan Banks . . . You’re not? . . . Are you Brian Banks’s father?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Oh my God!” She put her hands to her cheeks. Banks thought she was going to jump up and down. “You are. You’re Brian Banks’s father!”
“I’m sorry,” said Banks. “I don’t—”
“I just love the Blue Lamps. I can’t believe it. I only saw them a couple of weeks ago. Your Brian was terrific. I play a bit
of guitar myself and write my own songs. Just an amateur band, like, but . . .
When did he start playing? How often did he practice?”
“In his mid-teens, and way too often, when he should have been doing other things,” said Banks. “Like homework.”
She managed a quick smile. It really lit up her face, which was very pretty, a pale oval with good cheekbones, clear, direct emerald eyes and a smattering of freckles framed by straight blond hair down to her shoulders. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “What must you think of me, acting like a silly schoolgirl?” She stuck out her hand. “Tom Savage.
Pleased to meet you. Actually it’s Tomasina, but somehow I don’t think that would go down very well in this business, do you?”
Banks tried not to show his surprise. “And the Savage?”
“My real name.”
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P E T E R R O B I N S O N
“Lucky you. How did you know who I was?”
“I read an article about the band, an interview, and your son mentioned that his father was a detective chief inspector in North Yorkshire. There can’t be that many called Banks. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to gush. It was just the shock.”
“That’s okay,” said Banks. “I’m very proud of him.”
“So you should be. Let’s go through to the main office. It’s more comfortable in there.” She gestured around the reception area. “It’s a one-woman show at the moment, I’m afraid. I really do have to do all the filing myself. I don’t have any client appointments today, hence the casual wear. It’s office clean-up day.”
“I know what you mean,” said Banks, following her into the office and sitting opposite her. The walls looked f limsy and thin, and there was no view. There wasn’t even a window. Her desk was uncluttered, and a slim Mac Air sat in front of her.
“My only extravagance,” she said, patting the sleek laptop. “I noticed you looking at it.”
“I wish I could afford one,” said Banks.
“So,” Tomasina said, resting her palms on the desk. “What can I help you with?”
“Maybe nothing. I found your card in a hotel room that may have been used by a murder suspect.” Banks was embellishing the truth, but he thought it might be the best way of getting her to talk.
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