All the Colors of Darkness ib-18

by Peter Robinson

  “There’s something else,” Annie went on. “I don’t know what it is, but there’s something else. Don’t you believe there’s something odd about the Hardcastle-Silbert business, something that doesn’t quite fit, that doesn’t make sense? You do, don’t you?”

  “You know as well as I do there are always things that don’t quite add up. But I would like to point out that, whatever baroque theories you and DCI Banks might have dreamed up, scientific evidence, combined with a thorough police investigation, proved beyond all reasonable doubt that Mark Hardcastle killed Laurence Silbert and then hanged himself. You’re not arguing with that, are you. With the facts?”

  “No. I’m—”

  “Then there is no case to pursue.” Gervaise regarded Annie. “Let’s say, just for the sake of argument, talking of baroque theories, that DCI Banks had some outlandish idea about someone putting Hardcastle up to it. Showing him fake photos, putting ideas in his head, making innuendos, getting him all riled up, that sort of thing. I went to see Othello the other night, and I understand DCI Banks took his girlfriend last weekend. Maybe he got it from there. I knew the play from school, of course, but I hadn’t seen it or thought about it for years. It’s really quite a powerful story. Interesting, don’t you think?

  Of course, Iago turned a man against his wife, but there’s no reason that shouldn’t translate into homosexual terms, is there, especially given the element of overkill we sometimes find in gay killings?”

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  “What?” said Annie. She knew she was on dangerous ground now.

  She hadn’t wanted to reveal the Othello theory to Gervaise for fear of being mocked, but now here the woman was quoting it to her. No doubt in order to demolish it in due course.

  Gervaise gave her a sideways glance and smiled. “Oh, don’t be so disingenuous, Annie. I’m not so green as I’m cabbage-looking, as I believe they say around these parts. Can you think of any other reason why you, or DCI Banks, should think it a case worth pursuing other than that you thought someone put Hardcastle up to it? I’m sure the two of you know as well as I do that our security services have any number of psychological tricks up their sleeves. I mean, even you two don’t usually f ly in the face of scientific evidence and f launt fact. You must have a reason for doing what you’re doing, and my guess is that that’s it. And as for DCI Banks, well, you probably know as well as I do that if you tell him to do something, he does the opposite. I just hope he realizes what happens to spies who go on missions behind enemy lines. Well, am I right? What’s wrong, Annie? Lost your voice?”

  B A N K S WA S in a quandary when he left Sophia’s. What should he do? he wondered as he sat in the Porsche down the street, his heart still pounding, hands still shaking. He supposed he could stay at Sophia’s house, though it would be unbearable sleeping there on his own after what had just occurred. It was late, but he could also just head home.

  He’d only had the one glass of wine, and that was some time ago, so he wasn’t over the limit. He didn’t even feel too tired to drive, though he knew he was distracted. There was always Brian’s f lat, too, or a hotel.

  Sophia had been inconsolable. No matter what he said, she couldn’t let go of the idea that he had forgotten to set the alarm and someone had been watching and had taken advantage. He supposed, in a way, that was preferable to the truth—that someone from their own intelligence services had done this, perhaps to give Banks a stern message.

  He also couldn’t entirely ignore the fact that he had talked to Victor Morton, Sophia’s father, about Silbert, and that Victor had spent his 2 3 6

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  working life in the various British consulates and embassies of the world. There had been that strange man at the bar of The Bridge, and all the other strange faces Banks had seen in the street lately. Paranoid?

  Perhaps. But there was no denying what had happened tonight. Someone with enough gadgetry or know-how to bypass a sophisticated alarm system had walked into Sophia’s house and calmly smashed a number of her most treasured possessions and left them in a heap on the living room f loor. Messages didn’t get much clearer than that.

  From what Banks had been able to gather from a cursory look around the whole house, nothing had been taken and no other room had been disturbed; there was just the mess on the living room carpet. But it was enough. It was more than enough.

  Sophia had kept insisting that he go, but he hadn’t wanted to leave her alone. In the end, he had persuaded her to phone her best friend Amy and spend at least the one night at her place. Reluctantly, Sophia had agreed and Amy had driven over to pick her up. Banks was glad of that. He wouldn’t have trusted Sophia not to tell a taxi driver to turn back. But Amy was sensible and strong, and a quick, quiet word in her ear while Sophia was packing her overnight bag was all it took. Banks felt he need have no worries that Sophia would do anything foolish tonight. His dilemma was whether he should stay in London to be around for her tomorrow, in case she had changed her mind about him. For the moment, though, he was about as far in the doghouse as a man could get. Not even his feet were sticking out.

  The woman across the street, he remembered, was a bit of a nosy parker, always at her window, lingering a little too long when she closed them at night or opened them in the morning. He got out of the car and went to knock on her door. If she was up to form, she would have seen him coming.

  The door opened shortly after his knock. “Yes?” she said.

  She was younger than he had imagined from the vague figure he had seen from a distance, and there was an air of loneliness about her, like the shapeless brown cardigan she’d wrapped around herself, despite the heat.

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  “I’m sorry to bother you,” Banks said, “but it’s just that we were expecting someone to come and service the computer across the street. I wonder . . .”

  “The man and the woman?”

  “Yes,” said Banks.

  “They’ve already been.”

  “What time, do you remember?”

  “Just after four o’clock. I hadn’t seen them before, so I was just a bit suspicious.”

  “Did they knock?”

  “Yes. Then one of them took out a key and they just walked in. It did appear odd, but they didn’t act suspiciously at all. They just opened the door and walked in.”

  “That’s all right,” Banks lied. “We did leave a key with their company in case we were both out. It was important. They just didn’t leave an invoice, that’s all.”

  The woman looked at him as if to say he must be insane leaving keys with strangers. “Maybe they’ll post it?”

  “Probably. Can you describe the couple for me?”

  “Why does that matter?”

  “I just want to know if they’re the ones I’ve dealt with before.”

  Banks could tell she was getting suspicious, that his subterfuge was as full of holes as a political manifesto. “I’d like to put in a good word for them.”

  “Just a man and a woman,” she said. “Nicely dressed. The kind of people you’d expect calling in a street like this. Though I must say she seems to go in more for the long-hair crowd. Present company excepted, of course.”

  “Long hair never suited me,” said Banks. “Young or old?”

  “Young, I’d say. Or youngish. Late thirties, perhaps. About her age.

  They didn’t seem like service people to me. More like debt collectors.

  Or bailiffs. Is something wrong?”

  “No, nothing at all,” said Banks, who had never seen a bailiff in his life. He wasn’t even sure if they still existed. At least it wasn’t Mr.

  Browne. But then, he wouldn’t do something like this himself; he 2 3 8

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  would send operatives. “It’s just computers,” he said. “You know . . .

  How long were they in the
re?”

  “Less than an hour, so don’t let them overbill you. I hope they did a good job.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d ever seen them before, had you?”

  “No. Why? Look, I’m sorry, but my dinner’s in the oven and the cat wants feeding.” She started to close the door. Banks muttered good night and went back to his car.

  Just as he had sat down, his new mobile rang. He had given the number only to Annie, Tomasina and Dirty Dick Burgess. It was Annie calling, he saw, and he owed it to her to answer. She was a part of it all, putting herself on the line for his half-cocked private investigation. He answered the call.

  “Alan?”

  “Yes. What happened?”

  “Don’t ask me how, but she found me in the Horse and Hounds.”

  “What did she say?”

  “I don’t really know. She told me a story about a young Muslim police officer drummed out of the force after pissing off the spooks.

  She told me the chief constable in particular wanted an end to this business. She told me there was no case to be investigated.”

  “All to be expected,” said Banks. “Anything else?”

  “Plenty. She said she’d been to see Othello and thought you might have based some theory of events on it.”

  “She what?”

  “My reaction exactly.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “I didn’t need to tell her anything. She was a step ahead of me the whole time.”

  “Did you tell her about the evidence? Tom Savage? The photos?

  The Red Rooster?”

  “Of course not. But she’s no fool, Alan. It’s only a matter of time.”

  “Does she know where I am?”

  “I told her you were in London. She’s suspicious that she can’t get hold of you on your mobile.”

  “Damn.”

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  “I had no choice, Alan.”

  “I know. I know. It’s not your fault. I just didn’t think it would all turn to shit so soon.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing. It doesn’t matter. Just be careful, Annie.”

  “That’s what she said, too. And she told me to pass on the same warning to you. She also said you’re the sort of person who does the opposite of what he’s told.”

  “So she knew I’d continue the investigation on my own time. She planned on it all along.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Annie said. “But she’s not surprised.”

  “I don’t like what’s happening.”

  “There was one more thing.”

  “What?”

  “When she’d finished, Gervaise seemed interested, seemed to think we’d actually got something. She even mentioned that the spooks knew how to use all sorts of psychological weaponry against people.”

  “Jesus Christ. She didn’t tell you to lay off, then?”

  “Well, she sort of did. Rather she told me the chief constable had said to lay off. But in the end she just started rambling on about spies getting caught behind enemy lines. You know what she’s like. I think she was just telling us—you specifically—not to expect any mercy if we get caught.”

  “Annie, you can get out of this right now,” said Banks. “Just back off and be seen to throw all your energies into the East End Estate business.”

  “You must be joking.”

  “I’ve never been more serious.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know. Come home, maybe. You know, what I could really do with right now is a cigarette.”

  Annie laughed. “Well, it probably wouldn’t be the worst thing that could happen to you. I’m on my third pint of Black Sheep all alone in the snug of the Horse and Hounds.”

  “I don’t know what your plans are,” Banks said, “but why don’t you call Winsome, stay at her place tonight?”

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  “You know, I might do just that,” said Annie. “I’ve certainly had too much to drink to drive home, and it would be nice to have the company, if she’ll have me.”

  “I’m sure she will,” said Banks. “Give her a ring.”

  “Okay, boss.”

  “I’m serious. Remember, be careful. Good night.”

  Annie started to say something, but Banks pressed the end-call button. He thought about turning off the phone altogether, then he realized it probably didn’t matter with the new pay-as-you-go. It didn’t really matter with anything, when it came down to it, he realized. If they wanted to find him, they would find him. Or anyone else he came into contact with. They obviously knew he was still working on the case against their orders, and the mess at Sophia’s was a subtle attempt to warn him off. He couldn’t even call Brian. They obviously must know that he had a son and a daughter and an ex-wife, just as they knew about Sophia, but there was no sense in bringing Brian openly into the thick of things. Going to see him tonight would simply be marking him out for special attention.

  Banks sat with his hands on the wheel. He didn’t think he had ever felt so alone in his life. He was beyond even music. There wasn’t a song in the world that could alleviate or accompany the way he felt right now. Drink was a possibility. Oblivion. But even that somehow seemed pointless. In the end, he started the car and drove. He had no idea where he was going, only that he had to move on. Bad things happened when you stood still for too long in this game.

  13

  BANKS DIDN’T FEEL ANY BETTER AT NINE O’CLOCK ON

  Friday morning than he had when he had finally fallen asleep at three-thirty. After driving around for an hour or so the previous evening, keeping a close eye on his rearview mirror for any telltale signs that he was being followed, he had checked into the first decent hotel he had seen. He realized as soon as he offered his credit card that if anyone was really serious about tracking him down, that would do it.

  By then, he was just about ready to stop caring.

  He had thought of going to Mohammed’s B-and-B, but the idea of waking up in a room like the one Derek Wyman had usually rented when he was in town, or even in the same room, was just too depressing. He wanted a room with a shower and a bit of space, somewhere safe to park his car, a decent television set and a well-stocked minibar for numbing the mind and senses. He had got all of this at a little over a hundred and fifty pounds in a place off Great Portland Street, in Fitzrovia, though given the minibar prices, it probably wouldn’t turn out to be much of a bargain, after all. At least he hadn’t got completely pissed and ended up with a hangover.

  Physically, he felt okay after a long shower and a pot of room-service coffee.

  Over a latte and a cranberry muffin at a nearby Café Nero, Banks jotted down a list of things to do that day. Not much remained for 2 4 2 P E T E R

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  him in London, except to try to contact Dirty Dick Burgess again and see if Sophia would answer her phone.

  It would make more sense to head up back to Eastvale today and have another go at Wyman. Surely even Superintendent Gervaise would agree, after hearing Tom Savage’s story, that they had enough to arrest him, or at least bring him in for questioning, on incitement or harassment. Annie had done right not to tell her yesterday, but perhaps it was time she knew. If he could convince the superintendent that the business was nothing to do with Silbert and the spooks, but something personal between Wyman and Hardcastle, then maybe she would see the point in trying to find out exactly what had happened.

  Banks was about to try Sophia and Burgess again on the pay-as-you-go mobile when it rang. It wasn’t Annie this time, or Burgess.

  “Mr. Banks?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Tom. Tom Savage.”

  “Tomasina. What is it?”

  “Some people were here. They were waiting when I got in this morning. They . . . I’m scared, Mr. Banks.”

/>   Banks gripped the phone tightly. His palm felt sweaty. “Are they still there?”

  “No. They’ve gone. They’ve taken stuff . . . I . . .” Banks thought he could hear her sobbing.

  “You’re still at the office?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. Stay right there.” He looked at his watch. Great Marlborough Street wasn’t that far; it wouldn’t even be worth taking a taxi.

  “I’ll be over in about ten minutes. Don’t move.”

  “Thank you. I’m not usually so . . . a baby . . . I just don’t . . .”

  “It’s okay, Tomasina. Hang on. I’ll be there.”

  Banks turned off the phone, slipped it in his pocket and hurried out into the street cursing as he went.

  “ I ’ M S O R R Y to disturb you at work,” said Annie, “but do you think you could spare me a few moments?”

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  Carol Wyman turned to the young girl beside her. “Can you cover for me, Sue? I’m just off for a coffee.” Sue seemed a little surprised, but she smiled and said okay. They were both standing behind a counter.

  Two other women were sitting at a desk in the small anteroom surrounded by filing cabinets. From what Annie could see, the office behind was lined with cabinets too. Everyone appeared to be busy.

  There was nothing quite like the sight of the National Health Service meeting its quotas to get your blood rising, thought Annie.

  Carol Wyman grabbed her handbag and ducked under the f lap.

  “There’s a nice coffee shop just over the road,” she said. “If that’s all right.”

  “Perfect,” said Annie. It was nine o’clock on Friday morning, and she was ready for her second cup of the day. It had to be better than the swill they got at the station.

  “What’s it all about, by the way?” asked Carol as they stood at the zebra crossing in the morning sunshine waiting for the traffic to stop.

  The medical center was an old gabled three-story building, once a Victorian parsonage, made of limestone and millstone grit with a slate roof. Broad stone steps led up to the heavy varnished wood door. It was set back from Market Street behind a courtyard where the staff parked their cars, wedged between two strips of shops, about a hundred yards north of the theater on the other side of the street. Handy for Carol to meet her husband after work, Annie thought, though their hours were no doubt very different.