All the Colors of Darkness ib-18

by Peter Robinson

  “How did they know?”

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  R O B I N S O N

  “They must have followed me. That’s my fault. I’m sorry. I’ve been trying to be careful, but it’s a crowded city.”

  “Tell me about it. I know enough about that to know how difficult it can be to spot a tail, particularly a professional team.”

  “I still should have been more careful. What were the other two doing while the man and woman were interviewing you?”

  “Searching everything, including my handbag. They took some of my files. And my laptop, my lovely Mac Air. Of course, they said everything would be returned when they’d finished with it.”

  “The Derek Wyman file?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were the photos in it?”

  “Yes. I made copies. And my report.”

  “Shit. Then it won’t take them long to work out why I was here.

  I’m really sorry to bring all this down on you, Tomasina.”

  She imitated an American tough-guy accent. “ ‘A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.’ Forget it. It’s all part of a day’s work for the modern girly private detective. But what will they do when they work out the truth?”

  Banks thought for a moment. “Probably nothing,” he said. “At least not for a while. Sometimes they’re hasty, but usually they like to gather intelligence before acting. That way they already know all the answers to the questions before they ask them. Anyway, they’ll be more interested in Derek Wyman now. They’ll likely put a tail on him, do a thorough background check, that sort of thing.”

  “And me?”

  “You’re no longer of any interest to them. You were just a professional doing a job. They understand that.”

  “But why?” Tomasina asked. “Why are they doing all this?”

  “I don’t really know,” said Banks.

  “And if you did you wouldn’t tell me.”

  “The less you know the better. Believe me. It’s to do with the other man in the photo, though. He was one of theirs. First they wanted to hush up what had happened, intimidate everyone involved into just dropping the investigation. I think that was natural instinct, damage 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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  control. Now they’re interested, though. And that’s all I can tell you.”

  “I see. At least I think I do.” She frowned. “But let me get it straight. Mr. Wyman hired me to take photos of a spy who met another spy on a bench in Regent’s Park and went to a house in Saint John’s Wood. Is Mr. Wyman a spy, too?”

  “No,” said Banks. “At least, I don’t think so.”

  “Then what?”

  “I don’t know. It’s complicated.”

  “You’re telling me. What if they think I’m a spy?”

  “I very much doubt they’ll think that. They know what your job is.”

  Neither spoke for a few moments, then Tomasina’s stomach rumbled.

  “I’m hungry,” she said. “I think you owe me at least lunch for this.”

  “Burger and chips?”

  She squinted at him. “Oh, I think you can do better than that.

  Bentley’s isn’t far, and it’s early enough to get a table in the bar.”

  Bentley’s was an expensive seafood restaurant, Banks knew, one of Richard Corrigan’s, owner of Lindsay House. With lunch and wine and service, the two of them probably wouldn’t get out for under a hundred quid. Still, Banks thought, it was a small price to pay for the guilt he felt at dragging Tomasina into it, though, strictly speaking, it was Wyman who had done that. “All right,” he said. “Just give me a couple of minutes to make some phone calls.”

  “In private?”

  “In private.”

  “I’ll be outside having a smoke.”

  W H E N A N N I E had finished getting her paperwork up-to-date at the office, it was lunchtime. The Horse and Hounds was out of the question, as was the Queen’s Arms, so Annie went to The Half Moon, a pub she had eaten in before, farther down Market Street, with hanging baskets of bright red geraniums outside and a shiny black facade.

  She went to the bar and ordered a vegetarian lasagna and chips along with a pint of bitter shandy. She was thirsty, and orange juice just didn’t quench it.

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  P E T E R R O B I N S O N

  She went outside and sat in the beer garden at the back. There wasn’t much of a view, as it was enclosed by walls, but the air was warm and the sun shone on the umbrella that shaded her table. There were a few groups and couples out there already deep in conversation, so anything she had to say on her mobile wouldn’t be overheard.

  She missed Winsome, she thought, as she had her first sip of shandy, and she felt guilty about leaving her to handle the East Side Estate business with only Harry Potter. She would make up for it this afternoon, she decided, and from then on she would devote herself to what she was supposed to be doing. Gervaise had been remarkably un-threatening yesterday, but Annie knew that if she went on the way she was, she would be in for a serious bollocking soon, at the very least.

  She might just find herself in front of the chief constable, as she knew she deserved.

  What else could she do for Banks, anyway? The next step was clearly to bring Wyman in and question him again in the light of their new knowledge. That might be difficult, since there was still actually no case being investigated, and the nature of any charges that might be brought against him were hazy, to say the least. But that wasn’t her problem. If it came to anything, it would be up to the Crown Prosecution Service to determine any charges that might be brought. If Banks wanted to come back home, tell all to Superintendent Gervaise, then perhaps they could give Wyman a slap on the wrist, send him home to his wife and get on with their jobs.

  That reminded Annie, and she took out her notebook. She had looked up Charlotte Foster, Rick Wyman’s bereaved girlfriend, and found her phone number easily enough from BT. It wasn’t unlisted.

  What she hoped to gain by talking to Charlotte, she was uncertain, but it was worth a try. At least if Wyman knew they’d talked to her before they interviewed him, he might be worried enough to show it if he had something to hide.

  Annie waited until she had finished as much of the lasagna as she wanted, then she dialed the number. A voice answered after several rings.

  “Yes? Hello?”

  “Charlotte Foster?”

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  “Who is this speaking?”

  Annie introduced herself and explained as clearly as she could why she was calling.

  “I still don’t quite understand,” said Charlotte when Annie had finished. “How exactly can I help you?”

  “Well, I don’t know that you can,” said Annie. “Or will. I know these things are shrouded in secrecy. It’s just that I’ve been getting a few conf licting reports about the death of your . . . of Rick Wyman and I was wondering if you could help me clear up any misunder-standing.”

  “How do I know you’re who you say you are?”

  This was a question Annie had been dreading. All she could do was bluff her way out of it. “I can give you the police station number, the Western Area Headquarters in Eastvale, and you can call me back there, if you like.”

  “Oh, it’s all right,” Charlotte snapped. “Why do you want to know?”

  It was the other question Annie had been dreading, and the most natural one for Charlotte to ask. She hadn’t been able to come up with one good reason why the woman should talk to her, let alone tell her what were probably military secrets, even if she knew them. When in doubt, Annie thought, tell the truth as vaguely as possible. “It’s to do with a case we were working on,” she said. “It just came up in connection with one of the victims.”

  “And who would that be?”

  “A man called Laurence Silbert.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Well, I don’t suppose you wo
uld have,” said Annie.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude or anything, but I was having lunch in the garden with some good friends when you rang, and I—”

  “That’s all right,” said Annie. “I do apologize. I won’t keep you long.” If you tell me what I want to know, her tone implied.

  “Oh, very well. But I told you, I don’t know this Silver person.”

  “Silbert,” said Annie. That answered one question, anyway. But then why would she know Silbert? “It’s actually about your . . . about Derek Wyman.”

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  P E T E R R O B I N S O N

  “Derek? He’s not in any trouble, is he?”

  “Not as far as I know,” said Annie. “It’s a little bit complicated but mostly a matter of who said what to whom.”

  “And what does Derek have to do with this?”

  “Well, Derek told us that his brother’s death was due to an accident, a helicopter crash.”

  “That’s what was in the papers at the time, yes,” Charlotte said.

  “But is it true? We’ve also heard other versions.”

  “Such as?”

  “That he was on a mission and died in action.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to comment on that,” said Charlotte.

  “Surely you ought to have known.”

  “I guessed as much,” said Annie. “But it’s hardly breaking the Official Secrets Act, is it? I mean, it’s not as if I’m asking you what the mission objective was or the details of its failure.”

  “As if I’d know.”

  “Of course. I know you want to get back to your lunch, so do you think you could simply answer me by saying nothing, so to speak? If he really was killed in action rather than by accident, just hang up.”

  Annie waited, clutching her mobile tightly to her ear. She was aware of the buzz of conversation around her and thought she could hear distant women’s voices down the line. Just when she was certain Charlotte was going to speak again, the line went dead. She’d hung up.

  14

  BANKS’S WALLET WAS ABOUT £130 LIGHTER WHEN HE

  walked out of Bentley’s with his two companions later that Friday afternoon. But he had eaten the best fish and chips he had ever tasted, and it was worth every penny to see the smile on Tomasina’s face. One of the phone calls he had made earlier, while she had smoked her cigarette outside the building, had been to his son Brian, who had not only been available at a moment’s notice for lunch, his girlfriend Emilia being away in Scotland filming, but also more than willing to share his father’s company with a stranger in need. Or so Banks had put it. When Brian had arrived and joined them just as they were starting on the first glass of wine, Tomasina’s expression was a joy to behold and a thing to remember. She had been tongue-tied, of course, and blushed to her roots, but Brian’s natural charm had soon worked its magic, and they were all chatting away like old mates by the time the food came.

  Now they stood outside the restaurant on Sparrow Street between Regent Street and Piccadilly ready to go their own ways, Tomasina reaching for a Silk Cut, Banks’s old brand. For a moment, it made him envious. She offered them around and Banks was surprised when Brian accepted one, but he didn’t say anything. If they were being watched, it was from a distance. The street was so short and narrow that Banks would have immediately spotted any suspicious activity.

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  P E T E R R O B I N S O N

  “Sorry,” said Brian to Tomasina, “but I must dash. It’s been a pleasure to meet you.” He reached into his inside pocket. “We’re playing the Shepherd’s Bush Empire next week, so here’s a couple of comps and a backstage pass. Come see us after the gig. I promise you it’s not as wild and crazy as some people think it is.”

  “It had better not be,” said Banks.

  Tomasina blushed and took the tickets. “Thanks,” she said. “That’s great. I’ll be there.”

  “Look forward to it,” said Brian. “Got to go now. See you later, Tom. See you, Dad.” He shook Banks’s hand and then disappeared in the direction of Piccadilly Circus.

  “Thank you,” said Tomasina to Banks. “Thank you so much. That was really nice.”

  “Feeling better?”

  “A lot.” She shuff led on her feet and tucked her hair behind her ears, the way she had done in the restaurant. “I don’t really know how to say this properly, and promise not to laugh at me, but I don’t really have anyone to, you know, share these tickets with. Do you want to come?”

  “With you?”

  “Yeah. That’s not such a horrible thought, is it?”

  “No, no. Of course not. I was just . . . yes, sure, I’d be delighted to.”

  “It’s easiest if you come by the office,” she said. “Then we can have a drink after work first. All right?”

  “All right,” said Banks, thinking of Sophia. He would most likely have gone to the concert with her, and he still would if she was speaking to him again by next week. On the other hand, he didn’t want to let Tomasina down right at the moment. She’d been through a lot because of him. Well, he decided, he’d let it lie as it was for now and see how things turned out. It wasn’t as if it was a date or anything.

  Tomasina was young enough to be his daughter. Mind you, Sophia was young enough to be his daughter, too, at least technically. Maybe the three of them could go together. Sophia would understand.

  “I’d better be going,” said Tomasina.

  “Office?”

  “No. I’ve had enough of that for the day. Home.”

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  “Where’s that?”

  “Clapham. I’ll get the tube from Piccadilly. See you next week.”

  Then she gave Banks a quick peck on the cheek and dashed off along Sparrow Street, a spring in her step. How resilient are the young, Banks thought.

  The car, with his suitcase in it, was still parked at the hotel in Fitzrovia, and he thought that was probably where he should go to begin the long drive back to Eastvale. The other phone call he had made while Tomasina smoked was to Dirty Dick Burgess, but again he had got no answer.

  Banks walked up Regent Street toward Oxford Circus, enjoying the sunshine and the slight buzz from two glasses of white wine, but keeping an eye open as best he could for any sign of a tail. He went into the Bose shop for a couple of minutes and tried out some noise-canceling headphones he liked. Around Great Marlborough Street, the crowds of tourists got too thick, so he turned right to avoid Oxford Circus altogether. He wanted to call at Borders and HMV, anyway, before heading back up north. He was somewhere between Liberty and the Palladium when he heard an almighty explosion, and the pavement shook beneath him as if there had been an earthquake.

  High windows shattered and glass and plaster fell into the street.

  For a moment, the world seemed to stop, freeze-frame, then it was all sound and motion again, and Banks became aware of people screaming and running past him, confused and terrified expressions on their faces, back toward Regent Street or deeper into Soho. To his left, up the narrow side street, he could see a pall of black smoke mixed with dark orange f lames. Alarms sounded everywhere. Without thinking, he ran up Argyll Street, against the panicking crowds, to Oxford Street, and he found himself in a scene of carnage that might have come straight out of the blitz.

  There were fires all over the place. The dark thick smoke stung his eyes. It smelled of burned plastic and rubber. Plaster dust filled the air, and rubble lay scattered everywhere. Broken glass crunched under-foot. At first, everything happened in slow motion. Banks was aware of sirens in the distance, but where he was, in the smoke, felt like a sort of island separated from the rest of the city. It was as if he had arrived 2 6 0 P E T E R

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  at the still center of darkness, the eye of the storm. Nothing could survive here.

  Wreckage lay everywhere: bits of cars; twisted bicycles; a burning wooden cart; gaudy souv
enir scarves and pashminas and cheap lug-gage strewn over the road; a man lying halfway though his windscreen, still and bleeding. Then, out of it all, a figure stumbled toward Banks, an elderly Asian woman in a bright-colored sari. Her nose was gone and blood streamed from her eyes. She had her arms stretched out in front of her.

  “Help me!” she cried. “Help me. I can’t see. I’m blind.”

  Banks took her arm and tried to murmur words of comfort and encouragement as she gripped on to him for dear life. Maybe she was better off not being able to see, he thought f leetingly, leading her over the street. Everywhere people were staggering about in the haze, their arms f lailing like zombies in a horror film. Some were shouting, some screaming, f leeing from burning cars, and some were just sitting or lying, moaning in pain.

  One man lay on the road on fire, thrashing about, trying to douse the f lames that consumed him. There was nothing Banks could do for him. He stumbled on and tripped over a leg. It wasn’t attached to a body. Then he walked through stuff that squished unpleasantly under his feet and saw body parts strewn everywhere. After he had got the Asian woman out of the smoke and sat her down on the pavement until help came, he picked his way back through the wreckage and the rubble. He found a disoriented boy of about ten or eleven and half-dragged him away to the edges of the scene where the smoke thinned, and where he had left the Asian woman, then he went back and guided the next person he saw out of the carnage.

  He didn’t know how long he went on doing this, taking people by the arm and leading them away, even scooping them up off the road into his arms, or dragging them to the edge of Oxford Circus, where the air was still full of the stink of burning plastic but was at least breathable.

  A burning taxi lay on its side and a pretty young blonde in a bloodstained yellow sundress was trying to climb out of the window.

  Banks went to help her. She had a lapdog held to her chest like a ball 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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