“Not particularly. I wondered before, speculated, perhaps, but I’ve 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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had a chance to think it through. I’ve got a contact who does know about these things, and he told me that Silbert had nothing to do with Afghanistan except for some joint mission with the CIA in 1985, and that his recent work involved the activities of the Russian Mafia.”
“You believe him?”
“About as much as I believe anyone in this business. I’ve known him for years. He’s got no reason to lie. He would have simply told me he didn’t know or couldn’t find out.” Or, knowing Burgess, to fuck off, Banks thought.
“Unless someone fed him misinformation.”
“Who’s paranoid now?”
Gervaise smiled. “Touché.”
“What I’m saying,” Banks went on, “is that we might never know for certain, just the way Edwina Silbert doesn’t know for certain that MI6 killed her husband. But she thinks they might have. They might also have had a hand in Laurence Silbert’s murder. Maybe he was a double agent and that’s why they wanted rid of him? We’ll probably never know. Despite all the scientific evidence, I still don’t think it’s beyond the realm of reason that someone in their dirty-tricks brigade got in the house and killed him. You saw as well as I did how useless those local CCTV cameras were when it came to covering the area we were interested in. But if that is the case, there’s no evidence and there never will be. I’m sick of the whole damn business. The point now is to stop all this before it gets worse. If Wyman hasn’t found shelter, a change of clothes, food and water, do you realize that the poor bastard could die of exposure out there? It’s got cold as well as wet. And for what? Because a couple of jumped-up Boy Scouts in suits have ransacked his home and scared the shit out of him the way they did with Tomasina Savage?”
“But what if Wyman’s working for the other side?” Gervaise asked.
“The Russian Mafia? Oh, come off it,” said Banks. “What use would a puny school teacher like Derek Wyman be to a bunch of neckless ex-KGB agents? And why would he hire a private detective if he was in with them? They’d have their own surveillance people to follow Silbert. Besides, if they were involved, they would have broken 3 4 2 P E T E R
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Silbert’s neck or pushed him in front of a car. Shot him, even. They don’t care. I will admit that what happened smacks of British secret service silliness, or the Americans, with their exploding cigars for Castro—it’s all a bit Pythonesque—but the Russian Mafia . . . ? I don’t think so.”
“When did you become an expert all of a sudden?”
“I’m not an expert,” said Banks, straining to rise above the pounding in his head. “I don’t pretend to be. It’s just common sense, that’s all. I think we all left a little bit of our common sense at home on this one, including me.”
“Perhaps,” said Gervaise. She glanced at her watch. “I’ve got a meeting with the chief constable in half an hour. I’ll put your idea to him. I doubt that he’ll go for it, but I’ll try.”
“Thank you,” said Banks. He topped up his coffee and carried his cup and saucer back to his own office, where he stood by the window looking down on the market square for a while. His head pounded and waves of nausea drifted through his stomach. His own fault. He still could hardly believe it. When he thought about it, yesterday evening on the King’s Road had the same surreal dreamlike quality as the Oxford Circus. But perhaps he could do more about last night. At the very least he could stop running and confront Sophia. Maybe she would have an explanation. Maybe he would believe it.
Rain slanted across the square and bounced on the cobbles. Deep puddles straddled all the intersections and people skirted them to avoid getting their feet wet. The sky was an unrelenting grit-gray and none of the forecasters could see an end in sight to the dreadful weather. Banks thought of Wyman, alone and frightened out there somewhere, hoped he was dry and sheltered in some cozy bed-and-breakfast, despite all the trouble he had caused. This business had started with a suicide; he hoped it wouldn’t end with one. When his phone rang, he hoped it might be Sophia calling to explain or apologize. Instead, it was Tomasina.
“Hello,” she said. “I had a hard job tracking you down. That phone number you gave me doesn’t work anymore.”
“Oh, sorry,” said Banks. “It was only temporary. I never thought . . .
It’s at the bottom of the Thames.”
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“That’s wasteful. Lucky I know where you work.”
“Lucky I’m actually here,” said Banks. “What can I do for you? No more problems, I hope?”
“No, nothing like that. They haven’t returned my files yet, though.”
“Give them time. So what is it?”
“Well, actually, it’s a bit awkward,” Tomasina said.
“Go on.”
“Well, you know about that concert, the Blue Lamps at the Shepherd’s Bush Empire?”
“Yes.” It had slipped Banks’s mind momentarily, but now that she mentioned it, he remembered. It was a big gig for Brian, and he knew he should try to be there. “Friday, isn’t it?” he said.
“That’s right.”
Banks had been intending to spend the weekend with Sophia, but now he realized he probably wouldn’t be doing that, barring some sort of miracle. Still, he could always find somewhere to stay. Brian and Emilia had a pull-out sofa. “You can still make it, I hope?” he said.
“Oh, yes. It’s just that, well, I was in the pub last night, and I ran into this old friend from uni. He’s really crazy about the Lamps and, well, we’d had a few drinks, you know how it is, and I said why didn’t he come with me, you know, to the concert, because I had tickets.
You don’t really mind, do you, only I thought you’d be able to get another ticket from Brian easily enough, and we could still meet up for a drink and get together backstage later and all that. I’m sorry.”
“Whoa, slow down,” Banks said. “You’re calling off our date, is that it?”
Tomasina laughed nervously. “It wasn’t really a date. Was it?”
“What else?”
“Well, it’s not as if you don’t have a girlfriend or anything. I mean, look, if you really insist, I know I promised you first and I can tell him—”
“It’s all right,” said Banks. “I’m only teasing. Of course you should take your friend. I might not even be able to make it, anyway.”
“Pressure of work?”
“Something like that,” said Banks. “Anyway, the two of you have a great time, okay? And if I’m not there, say hello to Brian from me.”
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“I will. And thank you.”
Banks put down the phone and looked out of the window at the rain again. He could hardly see the dalesides beyond the castle.
D A R K N E S S C A M E early that night, and by ten o’clock it was pitch black outside Banks’s Gratly cottage, and still raining. There would be no sitting on the wall by the beck tonight, Banks thought, tidying away the remains of his takeaway vindaloo. He had eaten it in front of the TV, drinking beer and watching No Country for Old Men on DVD, and the movie was about as bleak as he felt. He knew he was feeling sorry for himself when even the memory of Tomasina ringing to cancel their trip to Brian’s concert felt like a betrayal.
There had been no progress in the search for Wyman that day.
Annie had rung from Harrogate to say she had got nowhere there, and Winsome had reported the same from Ripon. The local forces were helping all they could, but resources were still limited. If they didn’t find him soon, it would be time to concentrate on the moors again, maybe drag Hallam Tarn.
Several times over the course of the evening Banks had been on the verge of ringing Sophia, but every time, he had backed off. She wanted time, she had said, and she also seemed to have another relationship
she wanted to pursue. Often the two went together. When a couple split up, Banks knew, the odds were that one of the partners had found someone else, even if that someone was only the excuse to leave, and the new relationship didn’t last. It had happened with Sandra, and she had married the bastard and had a child with him. It hadn’t been like that with Annie, though. She hadn’t left him for someone else; she had just left him.
Had he misinterpreted the situation last night? Had it really been perfectly innocent? How would he ever know if he didn’t ask her?
He switched to red wine, poured himself a generous glass and went through to the conservatory. He was just about to go ahead and ring her when he thought he heard a noise out in the back garden. It sounded like the click of the sneck on the gate. He held his breath.
There it was again. Something, or someone, out there in the bushes.
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He was about to pick up a kitchen knife and go outside to see what was happening when he heard a light tapping at the conservatory door. He couldn’t see any sort of shape through the frosted glass because it was so dark, but there was definitely someone there. The tapping persisted.
Eventually, Banks walked over and put his hand on the handle.
“Who is it?” he asked. “Who’s there?”
“It’s me,” a familiar voice whispered back. “Derek Wyman. You’ve got to let me in. Please.”
Banks opened the door and Wyman half-stumbled in. Even in the darkness, it was clear that he was soaked to the skin.
“Bloody hell,” said Banks, switching on the table lamp. “Look at the state of you. The spy who came in from the cold.”
Wyman was shivering. He just stood there in the doorway dripping.
“Come in,” said Banks. “I ought to put you over my knee and give you a bloody good spanking, but I think I can find you a towel and some dry clothing. Drink?”
“A large whiskey wouldn’t go amiss,” Wyman said through chattering teeth.
They went through to the kitchen, where Banks poured him a healthy shot of Bell’s, then they went upstairs and Wyman dried himself off in the bathroom while Banks dug out some old jeans and a work shirt. The shirt was fine and the jeans were a bit short, but they fit around the waist all right. Finally they went back to the conservatory. Banks refilled his wineglass.
“Where’ve you been hiding?” he asked, when they were sitting down.
Wyman kept the towel around his neck, as if he had just run a race or finished a football game and come out of the shower. “Moors,” he said. “I used to do a lot of walking and caving around here. I know all the spots.”
“We thought you’d gone to Harrogate and taken the train to distant parts.”
“It crossed my mind, but in the end it was too risky. Too open. I thought they’d be looking for me at the stations.” Wyman held the glass to his mouth and gulped. His hand was shaking.
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“Steady on,” said Banks. “Slow down. Take it easy. Have you eaten anything?”
Wyman shook his head.
“I’ve got some leftover vindaloo,” Banks said. “At least it’s fresh.”
“Thanks.”
Banks went into the kitchen, warmed up the vindaloo and half a naan in the microwave and put it on a plate for Wyman. He ate fast, much faster than anyone should eat vindaloo, but it didn’t seem to have any adverse effects.
“You said ‘they,’ ” Banks said.
“Pardon?”
“You said you thought ‘they’ would be watching the stations—not us, not the police.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Would you like to tell me why you ran?” Banks asked. “The full story.”
“I saw them at my house,” Wyman said. “The spooks. I was on my way back for tea after the Sunday matinee. They were carrying stuff out. The computer. Papers. Boxes. They don’t do that for nothing.”
“How did you know who they were? It might have been us.”
“No. They’d already talked to me once. Warned me what to expect.”
“When?”
“The day before, Saturday, just after I left the police station after talking to you. They were waiting in the square in a car. Put me in the backseat between them. Man and a woman. They wanted to know why you were talking to me, what connection I had to Laurence Silbert’s murder. They think I’m hooked up with the Russian Mafia, for God’s sake. When I saw them at the house, I just panicked.”
“They must have got to Tomasina’s file on you,” Banks said.
“Tom Savage? What do you mean?”
“They raided her office on Friday morning, took most of her files.
They obviously had to read through them all, and you’re a W. It must have taken them until Sunday, then they came back for you, but you weren’t there.”
“How did they find her?”
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“Through me, I’m afraid. You dropped her card down the back of the radiator at Mohammed’s, and he found it.”
“You went to Mohammed’s? You didn’t tell me this before, when you interviewed me.”
“There’s a lot I didn’t tell you. You didn’t need to know.”
“And now?”
“It might help you to understand what’s going on and why.”
Wyman paused to digest this. He sipped some more whiskey. His hand seemed to have stopped shaking. “They knew I’d been to Russia.”
“That wouldn’t be hard to find out. As soon as they knew I was interested in you, they’d check you out, but Tomasina came into the picture later. When were you in Russia?”
“Four years ago. Moscow and Saint Petersburg. I was a bloody tourist, for crying out loud. I saved up for years for that trip. Went by myself. Carol wasn’t interested. She’d rather lie on a beach in Majorca.
But I love Russian culture. I love Chekhov, Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy, Tchaikovsky, Shostakovich—”
“All right,” said Banks. “You can spare me the cultural catalog. I get the picture.”
“They told me they knew about my visit,” Wyman went on. “They wanted a list of people I’d met and talked to while I was there.”
“What did you tell them?”
“The truth. That I couldn’t remember. I didn’t meet anyone. Well, I did, but no one . . . you know . . . I went to museums, galleries, the Bolshoi, the Kremlin, walked the streets.”
“And?”
“They didn’t believe me. They said they’d be back. Warned me about some of the things they could do to me if they thought I was lying. Lose me my job. Turn my family against me. It was awful.
When I saw them at the house on Sunday, I just panicked and took off.
But I ran out of petrol. I had a drink or two and tried to think what to do. I realized they’d be searching for my car, so I set out on foot. I’ve been living rough, up on the moors, ever since. Then I thought of you. You seemed a decent enough bloke when we talked. I thought if anyone could sort this mess out, you could. I haven’t done anything, Mr. Banks. I’m innocent.”
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“I’d hardly call you innocent,” said Banks. “How did you know where I live?”
“The fire a while back. It was in the local paper. I remembered the place from my walks, when the old lady lived here.”
“So what do you think I can do for you?”
“Get it sorted. Tell them the truth, with a solicitor and other people present, in the police station. I don’t trust them. I don’t want to be alone with them again.”
Nor did Banks. And he had told Gervaise that he wanted to set up a meeting. Perhaps it would be best to take Wyman in. It might give MI6 an extra reason to turn up at the table. With any hope, the matter could be settled once and for all. “Why don’t you tell me how it really happened first?” Banks said. “All that about Hard
castle asking you to spy on Silbert, it was crap, wasn’t it?”
Wyman hung his head. “Yes. Mark never asked me to check up on Laurence. He never suspected for a moment that he might be seeing someone else. It was me who suggested that. It was all me.”
“Why did you lie when we interviewed you?”
“It seemed the easiest way to explain it without making myself look too bad. There was no way you could prove I was lying. There was no one to contradict me.”
“But you’re telling me the truth now?”
“Yes. I’ve got nothing left to lose, have I?”
Banks poured Wyman another tumbler of whiskey and himself some more wine. The rain continued to slither down the windows of the conservatory, and a drainpipe gurgled by the door. “Why did you do it, then, if it wasn’t Hardcastle’s idea?”
“Does it matter?”
“It does to me, especially if it was nothing to do with the Russian Mafia or your brother’s death, either.”
“Rick? I told you before, I don’t know anything about that. I didn’t even know what Laurence did for a living. How could it have been anything to do with Rick?”
“Never mind,” said Banks. “Carry on.”
“I wasn’t interested in Laurence Silbert. I knew nothing about him, really, just that he was some rich bloke who’d taken a shine to Mark.
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He was just a means to an end. Mark loved him. That was who I wanted to hurt, the smug bastard. Mark.”
“Are you telling me this was all about the bloody theater, after all?
Your directing career?”
“You don’t understand. He was going to wipe out my job. With a professional acting troupe there, he was going to end up artistic director of the whole bloody show, and getting well paid for it in the bargain, and I was going to be stuck teaching the likes of Nicky Haskell and his mates for the rest of my bloody days. And he delighted in letting me know. He even used to bloody tease me about it. I put hours of work into those plays. They were my life. Do you think I was just going to stand around and have it all taken away from me by some Johnny-come-lately?”
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