All the Colors of Darkness

10

Sophia left for work early on Thursday morning while Banks was still in the shower trying to wake up. The Wilco concert had been great, and they had had a drink afterward with some of Sophia’s friends, which had made for a late night. At least Banks had remembered to charge his new mobile, and as soon as he’d dressed and had some coffee, he planned on phoning Annie to let her know his number.

He wasn’t sure whether to revisit the Townsends again that day. Probably not. He didn’t really see much point. On the one hand, the taciturn Mr. Townsend would be at work, and his wife might be more forthcoming if her husband wasn’t around. On the other hand, she would probably be terrified, refuse to open the door and ring the police as soon as she saw Banks on her doorstep.

If they were involved, it meant they were part of the intelligence service, or paid by them to run a safe house or some such thing, and if that was true, they were hardly going to give anything away. If, as Sophia had suggested, they ran a gay brothel, then it was clearly an elite one, and the same code of silence probably applied. Charles Lane was most likely a dead end in the investigation.

Banks’s only consolation was that perhaps what had happened there didn’t really matter. The important thing was that Silbert had gone there with a man, and photographs of that visit had ended up in the possession of Mark Hardcastle, who had either misconstrued the whole business or been right on target. Perhaps the identity of the man wasn’t as important as the identity of the photographer.

Humming “Norwegian Wood” for some odd reason, Banks dried himself and dressed. He thought he heard someone at the door, but when he went down and opened it, there was nobody there. Puzzled, he went through to the kitchen and blessed Sophia for leaving some coffee in the pot. He poured himself a cup, put a slice of wholemeal bread in the toaster and sat on a stool at the island. It was a small kitchen, especially given how much Sophia loved to cook, but it was organized and modern, with various high-quality pots and pans hanging from hooks above the island, a brushed steel gas oven and burners and just about every kitchen gadget you could want, from a set of J. A. Henckel knives and a multispeed mixer to a cheap plastic carrot peeler you wore on your finger like a ring.

The toast popped out and Banks spread it with butter and grapefruit marmalade then had a quick look through that morning’s copy of The Independent Sophia had left behind. The Hardcastle-Silbert case seemed to have slipped from their radar entirely, and there wasn’t much else of interest. Amy Winehouse was in trouble over drugs again. It was a shame, Banks thought, as it made people pay less attention to her amazing talent. Or perhaps it got her name across to a wider audience. Billie Holiday had had much the same problems— and she did go to rehab—yet she had made wonderful music. A lot of musicians had trouble with drugs, and Banks worried perhaps more than he should about Brian. The only great detective with a drug problem Banks knew of was Sherlock Holmes, and he had been pretty good at his job. Pity he wasn’t real.

Banks shut the newspaper and pushed it aside. He had to work out his day. What he needed was information about Laurence Silbert, and it wasn’t going to be easy to get. Sophia’s father had come across him in Bonn in the mid-eighties. At that time Silbert would have been about forty, and given his condition when he died, probably at the height of fitness. What had he been doing in Germany? Most likely the same as everyone else in his line of work had been doing then—getting defectors over the Berlin Wall, penetrating the Eastern bloc for information about scientific, military, industrial and political goings-on, perhaps even carrying out the occasional unofficial assassination. The whole business was such a complex jumble of espionage and counterespionage, single, double and triple agents, that it was probably impossible for an outsider and layman to know where to start. In addition, much of the information on the shady activities of those times had been lost or buried. Only the Germans seemed determined to reassemble their old Stasi files, even going so far as to invent a computer program that could put together shredded documents in the blink of an eye. Everyone else just wanted to forget the dirty deeds they had done.

There was, however, one place he could start.

Banks washed off his breakfast dishes, made sure the coffeemaker was turned off and that he had everything he needed in his briefcase. At the front door he paused and set the alarm system, then he headed up to the King’s Road and turned left toward the Sloane Square tube station, cursing not for the first time that it was served only by the District and Circle lines, which meant that he would either have to go all the way round to Baker Street or change at both Victoria and Green Park. But he wasn’t in a hurry, and it wouldn’t take long to get to Swiss Cottage and find out if Laurence Silbert’s old lover Leo Westwood still lived there.

Annie was no stranger to Detective Superintendent Gervaise’s office and had no hesitation in accepting the offer of tea, which Gervaise immediately sent for. The last time Annie had sat in that chair she had been facing a lengthy torrent of both praise and censure for the way her last major case had turned out. She could understand that. Crimes solved was a good thing; dead bodies as part of the solution were not. In the end she was lucky to come out without any serious black marks against her. It was possible that Gervaise had gone easy on her because of her fragile emotional state at the time, but then Gervaise wasn’t known for making such allowances. On the whole, Annie felt that she had been fairly treated.

“How are things going?” Gervaise asked, making small talk while they waited for the tea. “That’s a nice new hairdo, by the way. It suits you.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” said Annie. “Everything’s going fine.” What else was she going to say? Besides, things were going fine. A little dull at times, but fine.

“Good. Good. Nasty business, this East Side Estate. Any ideas? What do you think about this Jackie Binns character?”

“He’s a waste of space,” Annie said. “Nicky Haskell is actually quite bright, once you get past the posturing and the imitation gangbanger talk. Despite his aversion to school, he might actually make something of himself. But Binns is a lost cause.”

“I’m not sure that it’s healthy to regard members of our community in such a negative way, DI Cabbot, particularly downtrodden members.”

“I’m sure it’s not, ma’am,” said Annie with a smile. “Just put it down to copper’s instinct.”

“Did he do it?”

“You mean did Jackie Binns stab Donny Moore?”

“That’s what I’m asking.”

“I’m not sure,” said Annie. “I don’t think so. I was talking with DS Jackman about that very thing and we agreed that Haskell is scared, and we don’t think he’d be that scared of Binns. They have a history, more a bit of mutual grudging respect than anything else. They’ve had a couple of scraps. Thing is, it’s not like Binns to take a knife to a kid like Donny Moore. I’m not saying he’s honorable or anything. It’s just...”

“Not his style?”

“That’s right.”

“Who says he did?”

“Nobody. That’s the problem. That’s what we’re trying to get someone to tell us. He’s certainly the leader of the south estate gang and if he felt Haskell and Moore were encroaching on his territory he’d probably feel he had every right to take action. He could have delegated the task. But no one has admitted to seeing anything yet.”

“So if not him, who?”

“No idea, ma’am. But we’re still investigating it. At least there haven’t been any more incidents or reprisals.”

“That’s a good thing,” said Gervaise. “Don’t want to upset the tourists, do we?”

“I doubt if any of them have even heard of the East Side Estate, unless they got lost like the Paxtons did the other night. They won’t forget it in a hurry.”

“Even so... We don’t want gangs bringing their problems into the town center. We’ve got enough problems already with weekend binge drinking.”

Despite the rape and murder of a young girl after an evening’s binge drinking a few months ago, the problem hadn’t abated much, Annie thought. Now it was almost a test of mettle among the kids involved to go walking around The Maze, that labyrinth of alleys beyond the other side of the market square where the girl was killed. Still, they had caught the killer quickly enough, and there had been no more attacks.

The tea arrived along with a couple of Penguin biscuits. Gervaise poured, added milk and sugar and passed the teacup and saucer over to Annie, who helped herself to a biscuit.

“I’m glad you have the situation under control,” Gervaise went on. “But that’s not really what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“No, ma’am?”

“No. You probably know that, on my advice, DCI Banks has taken a few days of leave owing.”

“Yes. Well deserved, I’d say.”

“No argument with that. I’m just wondering if... well... I can’t say that I sensed any real, true closure on his part regarding this other business.”

“Is there ever really true closure?” Annie said.

“Oh, please, DI Cabbot. Spare me the philosophical digressions. Do you really think that’s likely to throw me off course?”

“Sorry, ma’am.”

“I should think so.” Gervaise gripped her teacup, little finger sticking out, and sipped daintily. “You do know what I’m talking about?” she said as she put the cup down.

“I assume you’re referring to the Hardcastle-Silbert business?”

“Yes. Two solved cases. Looks good in the crime figures. And the chief constable is happy.”

“What are you asking me, ma’am?”

“What’s your opinion?”

“Of what? The case?”

“No. There is no case. Of DCI Banks.”

“Well,” said Annie. “He does have a new girlfriend, and he was called away from her in rather a hurry the other weekend. I should imagine he wants to finish what he started, maybe treat her to a few days at the seaside or somewhere and make up for lost time.”

“That’s what you really think?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Bollocks, DI Cabbot. Would you be surprised to hear that Banks was asking questions of an elderly couple called Townsend in Saint John’s Wood late yesterday afternoon? They phoned the local police as soon as he’d left. Scared out of their wits. He’d shown them his warrant card and they were able to let us know his name. As far as the locals were concerned, DCI Banks shouldn’t have been trespassing on their patch in the first place without letting them know.”

“No, ma’am, I didn’t know.”

“So what do you have to say to that, DI Cabbot? There’s no seaside near Saint John’s Wood as far as I can remember.”

“It was just a figure of speech, ma’am,” said Annie. “DCI Banks’s girlfriend lives in London. Perhaps—” Annie’s mobile went off. It no longer played “Bohemian Rhapsody” but had the simple, straightforward bell tone of an old-style telephone. For once, Annie was glad of the interruption.

“Answer it,” said Gervaise. “It might be important.”

Annie answered. Banks’s voice came on. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t talk now. I’m in a meeting.”

“Gervaise?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Does she know?”

“I think I can manage that, Winsome. Bye.”

“DS Jackman?” asked Gervaise.

“Yes, ma’am. She wants me to meet her at Eastvale Comprehensive to talk to Nicky Haskell’s teachers.” This was something they had arranged earlier, so Annie didn’t feel that she was really lying, simply altering the order of the facts. And she was going to the comprehensive as soon as she got out of Gervaise’s office.

“And here’s me thinking it might have been DCI Banks.”

“I told you, ma’am. He’s on holiday.”

“Sounds like a busman’s holiday to me, going around questioning people.” She rested her arms on the table. “Annie, I like DCI Banks, I really do. I respect his abilities and I’d hate to lose him. I can’t always get through to him, myself, but you sometimes seem able to manage it. God knows how.”

“I don’t—”

Gervaise waved her hand in the air. “Please. Hear me out. I don’t like this any more than you do. As a criminal case, this Hardcastle-Silbert business was relatively easy to crack. The one killed the other, then killed himself. There are, however, complications. The people involved, or one of them, at any rate, happens to have some very strong connections with the secret intelligence services and, well, to make no bones about it, with the chief constable himself. I’ve been advised in very strong terms from the highest level that there is no investigation to be pursued and that neither I nor the chief constable can be responsible for the consequences to any of our officers who choose, foolishly, to pursue such an avenue. Do I make myself clear?”

“What are they going to do?” Annie asked. “Kill him?”

Gervaise banged her fist on the desk. “Don’t be flippant, DI Cabbot. These are serious matters of state we’re dealing with here. Things that people like you and DCI Banks can’t just go meddling in willy-nilly. It’s not only your heads on the block here, you know.”

The violent gesture had shocked Annie. She had seen Gervaise in many moods but hadn’t seen her lose her cool like that before. Someone must have really got to her. “I don’t know what you think I can do,” she said.

“I think you can let me know if DCI Banks gets in touch with you at all, and if he asks you for help in any way, you can refuse and come immediately to me. Let him know if he chooses to pursue this business he’s on his own.”

“You want me to act as an informant?”

“I want you to consider your career and DCI Banks’s career. I want you to grow up. I want you to turn your back on this one and report any anomalies to me. Do you think you can do that?”

Annie said nothing.

“DI Cabbot?”

“I’m not involved,” Annie lied.

“Then keep it that way.” Gervaise made a gesture for Annie to leave. When Annie got to the door, Gervaise called out after her, “And by the way, DI Cabbot. If I find that you have been involving DS Jackman or any other of my officers in this affair, I’ll not only have you tossed out on your arse, but them too. Got it?”

“Loud and clear, ma’am,” said Annie, and shut the door gently behind her, heart pounding, hands shaking.

Banks had picked up the Gervaise alert clearly enough when he phoned Annie, so he killed half an hour in a Starbucks on Finchley Road drinking a latte with a double shot of espresso, then phoned her back. This time she told him she could talk; she was walking down King Street on her way to meet Winsome at the comprehensive.

“So what is it?” Banks asked.

“Storm clouds gathering,” said Annie. “You’re definitely persona non grata around these parts.”

“And all those who sail in her?”

“Exactly.”

Annie sounded a bit breathless, as if she’d had a shock. She was walking, Banks realized, but the comprehensive was downhill on King Street, past the infirmary, and she was too young and fit to be out of breath. It made him feel nervous, too. He glanced around, but nobody was paying him undue attention. But they wouldn’t, would they; they were too clever for that. Holding his paranoia in check, he asked, “What happened?”

“She knows where you were yesterday, who you talked to.”

“The Townsends?”

“Yes.”

That surprised Banks. He hadn’t expected them to call the police. When he thought about it, though, it made perfect sense if they were connected to the security services. Another possible way of getting him called off and put back in his cage before he did any real damage. Or perhaps they had told their masters and it was they who had phoned the police. Either way the result was the same. “What’s the bottom line?” he asked.

“What do you think? I’m to stay out of it if I value my career and let Gervaise know if you get in touch. Then I’m supposed to let you hang out to dry. Why don’t you just take Sophia to Devon or Cornwall for a few days, Alan, make everyone’s life a bit easier, including your own?”

“Et tu, Annie?”

“Oh, sod off, you idiot. I didn’t say I was going to do what she asked, did I? I was just outlining the sensible solution again. Only to have it shot down, as usual.”

“She’s a devious one, Madame Gervaise,” Banks said. “Besides, the sensible solution isn’t always the best one.”

“They’ll put that on your tombstone. Anyway, I’m almost at the school and I’ve got something to tell you before I have second thoughts. It might change things.”

Banks’s ears pricked up. “What?”

“Nicky Haskell mentioned seeing Mark Hardcastle drinking with Derek Wyman in the Red Rooster a couple of weeks ago.”

“The Red Rooster? That’s a kids’ pub, isn’t it? Karaoke and bad Amy Winehouse impersonations?”

“More or less,” Annie said.

“So why would they go there?”

“I have no idea. Unless it’s the sort of place where they didn’t think they’d be noticed.”

“But Wyman told us he had a drink with Hardcastle every now and then. There’s nothing odd about that, except their choice of location.”

“There’s more.” Banks listened as Annie went on to tell him about Wyman calming Hardcastle down.

“But nothing changed hands?” Banks said. “No pictures, no memory stick or anything?”

“Not that Nicky Haskell saw. Or Liam, the bartender.”

“Maybe you could ask again? Find someone else who was there. Who was Nicky with?”

“His mates, I suppose. The usual suspects.”

“Try them. One of them might have seen something. If Gervaise is watching you’ll just appear to be following up on the East Side Estate stabbing.”

“I am following up on the stabbing.”

“Well, there you go. A couple of extra questions won’t do much harm, then, will they?”

“I’m at the school driveway now. I have to go.”

“You’ll ask around?”

“I’ll ask around.”

“And Annie?”

“Yes?”

“Rattle Wyman’s cage, too, if you get the chance.”

According to what Edwina Silbert had told Banks, Leo Westwood had lived in a third-floor flat on Adamson Road, near the Swiss Cottage tube station. There was a row of farmers’-market stalls at the top of Eton Avenue, just opposite the Hampstead Theatre, and Banks thought he might pick up some Brie de Meaux, chorizo sausage and venison pate on his way back. Sophia would appreciate the gesture, and he was sure she would know what to do with the chorizo. Left to himself, Banks would probably just put it between two slices of bread with a dollop of HP Sauce.

Adamson Road branched off to the left, with the Best Western Hotel to the right, a tree-lined street of older, imposing three-story houses with white stucco facades, complete with porticoes and columns. They reminded Banks of the houses on Powys Terrace in Not-ting Hill. There were plenty of people on the street and on the porches chatting; all in all, it looked like a lively neighborhood. According to the list of tenants, Leo Westwood still lived there. Banks pressed the bell beside the name and waited. After a few seconds a voice crackled over the intercom. Banks identified himself and the reason for his visit and found himself buzzed up.

The halls and landings had clearly seen better days, but there was a kind of shabby elegance about it all. The Axminsters may have been a little worn, but they were still Axminsters.

Leo Westwood stood at the door of his flat. He was a short, pudgy man with silky gray hair and a smooth ruddy complexion, somewhere in his early sixties, wearing a black polo-neck jumper and jeans. Banks had expected an antique-laden apartment, but inside, beyond the hallway, the living area was ultramodern, all polished hardwood floors, chrome and glass, plenty of open space, a fine bay window, and a state-of-the-art music and TV system. The fl at had probably been reasonably inexpensive when Westwood bought it years ago, but now would be worth somewhere in the region of half a million pounds, Banks guessed, depending on how many bedrooms there were.

Westwood bade Banks sit on a comfortable black-leather-and-chrome armchair and offered coffee. Banks accepted. Westwood disappeared into the kitchen and Banks took the opportunity to look around. There was only one painting on the wall, in a simple silver frame, and it drew Banks’s eye. It was abstract, a combination of geometric shapes in various colors and sizes. There was something calming about it, Banks found, and it fitted the room perfectly. On a small media storage unit beside the sound system was a mix of books—mostly architecture and interior design—several DVDs ranging from recent cinema hits like Atonement and La Vie en Rose to classics by Truffaut, Kurosawa, Antonioni and Bergman, along with numerous opera boxed sets.

“I like to keep the space relatively uncluttered,” Westwood said from behind him, putting a silver tray bearing a cafetière and two white cups down on the glass coffee table before them. He then sat at a right angle to Banks. “We’ll give it a minute, shall we?” His voice had a slight lisp, and his mannerisms were a little fussy and effeminate. “I was sorry to hear about Laurence,” he said, “but you must realize it was a long time ago. Ten years.”

“You were close then, though?”

“Oh, yes. Very. Three years. It might not sound like long, but...”

“If you don’t mind my asking, why did you part?”

Westwood leaned forward and poured the coffee. “Milk? Sugar?”

“Just black, please,” Banks said. “It could be relevant, what I’m asking.”

Westwood passed him the cup. “I’m afraid I can’t take it without a little sweetener, myself,” he said, adding some powder from a pink sachet. He leaned back in his chair. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to avoid your question. I just find that if you leave the coffee brewing too long it takes on a bitter flavor that even the sweetener won’t overcome.”

“It’s fine,” said Banks, taking a sip. “Excellent, in fact.”

“Thank you. One of my little luxuries.”

“You and Laurence?”

“Yes. I suppose it was his work, really. I mean, he was always heading off somewhere and he couldn’t tell me where. Even when he got back I’d no idea where he’d been. I knew that sometimes his missions involved danger, so I would lie awake and worry, but I rarely got a phone call. In the end...”

“So you knew what he did?”

“To a degree. I mean, I knew he worked for MI6. Beyond that, though...”

“Was he unfaithful?”

Westwood considered carefully before answering. “I don’t think so,” he said finally. “He could have been, of course. He was away often enough. A one-night stand, a weekend affair in Berlin, Prague or Saint Petersburg. It would have been easy enough. But I think I would have known. I do believe that Laurence truly loved me, at least as well as he could love anyone.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“There was a large part of his life that he kept secret from me. Oh, I understand it was his job, national security and all that, but nevertheless it still meant that I only got a small part of him. The rest was shades of darkness, shadows, smoke and mirrors. Ultimately, you can’t live with that day in, day out. Sometimes it felt as if he was all surface when he was with me, and I had no idea what was underneath, what he was really thinking about.”

“So you wouldn’t be able to give me any idea of his personality?”

“I’m afraid I never knew. He was a chameleon. When we were together he was charming, attentive, kind, considerate, sophisticated, extremely intelligent and cultured, politically leaning to the right, an atheist, a man of exquisite taste in art and wine, an antique lover... Oh, I could go on with the list. Laurence was many things, but you still felt you were hardly scratching the surface. And you couldn’t pin him down. Do you know what I mean?”

“I think so,” said Banks. “That’s what this case feels like, these people.”

“What people?”

“The ones Laurence worked for.”

Westwood sniffed. “Oh, them. Yes, well, you would feel that way about them.”

“When did you last see him?”

“Years ago, when we split up. He went off on one of his trips and I never saw him again.”

“Did you meet any of his colleagues?”

“No. They didn’t exactly have office parties. I tell a lie, though. I was vetted, of course, and interviewed. They came here once. Two of them.”

“What did they ask you?”

“I can’t really remember. Nothing very probing. Of course, a few years earlier a homosexual relationship like ours would have been out of the question because of the possibilities for blackmail it opened up, but that was no longer an issue. They asked me about my job, what sort of people I worked for, how I felt about my country, about the USA, about democracy, communism, that kind of thing. I assumed they got most of the information about me they needed from elsewhere. They treated me with the utmost respect and politeness, but there was an edge, you know. There was a veiled threat. ‘We’ll be watching you, mate. Any funny business and we’ll have the electrodes on your balls before you can say shaken, not stirred.’ ” He laughed. “Well, something like that. But I got the message.”

Hardcastle had probably got the same treatment, Banks imagined, especially when they found out about his conviction. “What is your job?” Banks asked.

“I’m an architect. Back then I worked for a small firm, but I’m on my own now. I work from home, which is why you found me in. I can’t say I do very many jobs these days. I get to pick and choose. I’m lucky. I don’t need to work full-time. I’ve made a fair bit of money over the years, and I’m a saver. I’ve also made some good investments, even in these troubled times, and I’ve got enough to see myself out in reasonable style.”

“Did you ever see these people after you split up with Laurence?”

“No. I suppose they lost interest in me after that.”

“Have you heard of someone called Fenner? Julian Fenner.”

“No, I can’t say as I have.”

“What about a couple called Townsend?”

“No, again the name doesn’t ring a bell.”

Banks showed him the photograph of Silbert with the man in Regent’s Park and at the door on Charles Lane, but apart from reacting a little emotionally to the image of his ex-lover, he said it didn’t mean anything to him.

“Can you answer me just one question?” Westwood asked.

“Perhaps.”

“How did you find out about me?”

“Edwina mentioned you, and we found some old letters from you in Mr. Silbert’s safe.”

“Ah, I see... Do you think, perhaps, when this is all over...?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” said Banks. He noticed a tear glisten in Westwood’s right eye. He didn’t think there was anything more to be gained from talking to him. If Westwood had known Fenner or the Townsends, they had probably gone under different names then. They probably changed their names as often as most people changed their underwear. He finished his coffee, thanked Westwood and stood up to go. It seemed that every time he thought he was taking a step closer to Laurence Silbert or Mark Hardcastle he was actually moving further away from them. It was like trying to grasp a handful of smoke.

"They’re waiting for us in the staff room,” Winsome said, when Annie arrived at the front entrance of Eastvale Comprehensive. Some of the pupils running back and forth from classrooms shouting and laughing paused and gawked at them, Winsome in particular, and more than a few giggles and wolf whistles echoed in the high corridors.

They found the staff room close to the administration offices. Three teachers, one of them Derek Wyman, sat on battered sofas and armchairs around a low table littered with the day’s newspapers, the Daily Mail open to the puzzle page. Someone had done the crossword and sudokus in ink. The walls were painted day-care-center yellow, and there was a big corkboard with notices and memos pinned to it. There was also a small kitchen area with sink, coffee urn, electric kettle, microwave and fridge. Yellow Post-it notes clung to every surface, telling you to wash your hands, don’t touch other people’s items in the fridge, throw away your rubbish, use only your own mug, clean up after yourself, remember to pay your coffee money. Annie couldn’t imagine that even the pupils needed more rules spelled out for them than the teachers did. It was very quiet in the room, though, as if it had been soundproofed from the noise outside, and Annie imagined that must be one of its great appeals, even after her short walk along the corridor.

“So you’ve found our secret lair,” said Wyman, standing up.

“I phoned. The school secretary told me where you were,” said Winsome.

“I can see you’re not a detective for nothing,” said one of the other teachers.

Winsome and Annie exchanged glances.

Wyman obviously noticed their reaction. “I apologize for my colleague,” he said. “He spent all morning with year ten, and he hasn’t recovered yet.”

“That’s all right,” said Annie, positioning herself so she could see them all and take control of the interview. Winsome sat next to her and took out her notebook. “This shouldn’t take long,” Annie went on. “We don’t want to keep you from your duties.”

They laughed at that.

“You’re here because you all teach at least two of the pupils we think might be involved in the stabbing of Donny Moore on the East Side Estate last week. We’re still trying to form a picture of exactly what happened that night, and you might be able to help us. Can you start by telling us who you are and what you teach?”

“Well, you know who I am,” said Wyman. “I teach drama and games, for my sins.”

The man next to him, the one who had made the bad joke, said, “I’m Barry Chaplin and I teach physics and PE.”

The third was a woman. “I’m Jill Dresler,” she said, “and I teach arithmetic and algebra. No sports.”

“And you all know Nicky Haskell?” Annie asked.

They nodded. “When he can be bothered to come to class,” Jill Dresler added.

“Yes, we know about his poor attendance record,” Annie said. “But he did appear on occasion?”

“Just enough to avoid getting suspended,” said Barry Chaplin.

“And Jackie Binns?” Annie asked.

“About the same,” Wyman answered, glancing at the others for agreement.

“Probably a bit more often,” said Chaplin. “But not much.”

“And what about the victim?” Annie went on. “Donny Moore.”

“Donny wasn’t a bad student,” said Dresler. “He was more of a follower than an instigator. You know, he drifted in with Haskell’s crowd just to belong. He’s harmless enough. The quiet one.”

“Not a scrapper?”

“Not at all,” said Chaplin. “Not like Haskell.”

“So Nicky Haskell likes to fight?” Annie pressed on.

“Well,” said Chaplin, “I wouldn‘t say he picks fights, as such. I mean, he’s not a bully. But people sometimes pick on him because he’s a bit shorter than the rest and they usually get a hell of a surprise.”

“So people underestimate his strength?”

“Yes. He’s good at games, too,” Wyman added. “Strong, fast, quick-witted, good coordination. I’d go as far as to say he could make a damn good football player if he put his mind to it.”

“But he doesn’t?”

“Oh, he’s interested. But it takes more than that. It takes dedication. Haskell’s a bit of a dreamer.”

“Well, he’s young yet,” said Annie.

“So’s Matthew Briggs,” Wyman answered.

“Right. Anyway, we believe that Haskell might be a witness, but he’s not talking.”

“That figures,” said Chaplin. “I mean, he wouldn’t, would he? He’d lose face. These kids don’t rat out each other, even their worst enemies.”

“It’s just that he seems scared.”

“Of Binns?” said Chaplin. “I don’t believe it. I’ve seen them tangle on the football field and Haskell has never shown any fear of him. What would you say, Derek?”

“I agree. He’s tough. And strong. Enjoys boxing and wrestling as well as football. As Barry says, it’s the lack of discipline that drags him down, not ability.”

“So you don’t think he would lie out of fear of what Jackie Binns might do to him if he did?”

“Absolutely not,” said Chaplin. “Binns isn’t that tough. He’s all bluster.”

“Haskell just wouldn’t split on anyone,” said Wyman. “He strikes me as the kind who stays loyal to his mates.”

Annie remembered Nicky Haskell telling her that he wasn’t obeying some stupid code about not splitting on his pals, and she wondered how true that was. If he wasn’t telling because he was scared of Binns, which was beginning to sound unlikely, or because he felt he shouldn’t betray Binns, then there had to be some other reason. Something they didn’t know. She would have to make a note to talk to some of the others involved again. Haskell and Binns were the leaders. Both dealt drugs, mostly Ecstasy, weed, crystal meth and LSD. Binns was known to carry a flick-knife, though he usually only used it to show off and scare people, and Donny Moore hadn’t been stabbed with a flick-knife.

“Is there anything else you can tell us?” Annie asked.

“I don’t think so,” said Jill Dresler. “I know what you probably think, but they’re not bad kids, really. Not all of them. I mean, okay, so they do break the law and sell drugs, but they’re not big-time dealers, and they don’t really have organized gangs, and you don’t have to shoot anyone to belong or that sort of thing.”

“I suppose we ought to be thankful for small mercies,” Annie said, getting to her feet.

“I know how it sounds,” Dresler went on, “but Binns isn’t a killer, for crying out loud.”

“Luckily,” said Annie, “nobody’s dead yet.”

“Yes,” said Dresler, running her hand through her lank hair. “Of course. I’m just saying... you know... they’re not monsters. That’s all.”

“Point taken,” Annie said. “And I appreciate your defense of your kids. I know they’re not monsters. But somebody’s lying, and until we find out the truth we can’t get to the bottom of this. Things are getting a bit tense on the estate, as I’m sure you can imagine. People are scared to go out on the streets alone. What do you want us to do, send in the troops? Occupy the East Side Estate like it was a military zone? We don’t have any no-go areas in Eastvale, and we don’t want them. That’s why I’m asking questions.” She reached in her bag. “So if you do think of anything that might help us, here’s my card. Don’t hesitate to phone. Mr. Wyman, a word, please.”

“Of course. I’ll walk to the door with you,” said Wyman.

Once they were out in the noisy corridor, Annie let Winsome get a few feet ahead, remembering Superintendent Gervaise’s warning about not involving anyone else, then turned to Wyman. “Can you tell me what you were doing in the Red Rooster with Mark Hard-castle a couple of weeks ago?”

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?”

“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 Hard-castle, 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.”