All the Colors of Darkness

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 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 sorry to disturb you at work,” said Annie, “but do you think you could spare me a few moments?”

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 flap. “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.

“Just a few routine questions,” said Annie as they crossed Market Street and headed for the Whistling Monk. The place was fairly quiet, as it was too late for the prework crowd and too early for the tourist coaches. They found a small table by the window. The blue-and-white-checked tablecloth was impeccably clean and ironed, and a menu printed on faux parchment in blue italics stood wedged between the salt and pepper shakers.

A young waitress scribbled their orders after apologizing that the espresso machine wasn’t working. Annie settled for café American and Carol went for a cup of herbal tea. Both also ordered toasted tea cakes.

“Remember the days when all you could get was Nescafé?” said Annie.

“Just the powdered stuff, before all those fancy granules and gold blends,” said Carol.

“If you were lucky you might get Kona.”

“But it was expensive.”

“Listen to us,” said Annie. “We sound like a couple of old women. Next we’ll be complaining about rationing.”

“Now I definitely don’t remember that,” said Carol. They laughed. The coffee and tea came, along with their tea cakes. “You’ve changed your hair since you were over at the house,” Carol went on. “It looks nice. It really suits you. Have you ever thought of going blond?”

“I don’t know if I could handle more fun,” said Annie. “Still, it’s a thought.” She blew on her coffee, then added a generous helping of cream. “Actually, it’s your husband I wanted to talk to you about.”

Carol Wyman frowned. “Derek? Why, what’s he done?”

“We don’t think he’s done anything,” Annie lied. “We just need to know a little more about his relationship with Mark Hardcastle and Laurence Silbert.”

“I thought that was all over. Your superintendent said so on the news.”

“Just tidying up a few loose ends,” said Annie, smiling. “Sometimes the job’s nothing but paperwork.”

“I know what you mean,” said Carol, pouring her pale green tea from the rose-colored pot. It smelled of mint and chamomile. “Mine’s just the same. And some of the doctors are real sticklers.”

“I don’t suppose you can read their writing, though, can you?” said Annie.

Carol laughed. “As a matter of fact,” she said, “it is a problem.”

“How long has your husband been directing plays for the theater?”

“Ages now,” said Carol. “I mean, not so much for the theater, but the Amateur Dramatic Society. They used to put on performances at the community center, even the church hall sometimes.”

“He seems very passionate about his work.”

“Oh, he is,” Carol said. “Sometimes I think he’s more passionate about his work than he is about me. No, that’s not fair. He’s a good husband. And a good father. It’s just that I think he sometimes takes too much on his plate. The teaching certainly wears him down and—”

“I thought he liked it.”

“Well, he does. I mean, something like that, it gives you a chance to make a difference, doesn’t it? To inspire future generations.” She glanced around the room and leaned forward, lowering her voice. “But a lot of them just don’t care. A lot of them don’t even bother turning up for school. It’s hard when you really care about something, to be constantly surrounded by people who mock it.”

“That’s what Derek feels?”

“Sometimes.”

“It must have made him a bit cynical about it all.”

“Well, he gets depressed sometimes, I can tell you that.” She took a sip of the steaming tea. “Mmm, that’s nice,” she said. “Just the ticket.”

“Why doesn’t he consider another line of work?”

“You try that at forty-two, when you’ve been a teacher for more than twenty years.”

“I see.”

“If he didn’t have his theater, I don’t know what he’d do. I think it’s the only thing that keeps him sane. He loves the new arrangement. You know, it makes him feel just that bit more important to be working in a real theater rather than a village hall or something.”

“I know what you mean,” said Annie. “He must feel like a real professional.”

“Yes. And he works so hard. Anyway, what is it you want to know?”

“Has your husband ever mentioned going to the Red Rooster pub?”

“The Red Rooster? In Medburn? But that’s a chain pub. Derek is strictly a real ale man. Used to be a member of CAMRA and all. He wouldn’t be seen dead in a place like that. Why?”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Annie, even more curious now. “As I said, I’m just tidying up loose ends. You get swamped with information in a case like this, and you have to sort out the wheat from the chaff.”

“I suppose so,” said Carol slowly.

Annie could see that she was starting to lose her. Any more questions that implied Carol’s husband was up to something, or behaving out of character, and that would be the end of their pleasant little chat. The door opened and an elderly couple stuck their heads around the door and decided the place would do. They said hello and settled down two tables away. “It must have been terrible for Derek when his brother died,” Annie said, making an abrupt turn, remembering the photograph in the Wymans’ living room.

“Oh, God, yes,” said Carol. “Derek simply adored Rick. Heroworshipped him. He was just devastated, gutted. We all were.” “When exactly did it happen?”

“Fifteenth October, 2002. I won’t forget that date in a hurry.”

“I’ll bet you won’t. Did you know him well?”

“Rick? Of course. He was a lovely fella. You know, you think these SAS chaps are all macho like someone out of an Andy McNabb book, and probably a lot of them are, but Rick was great with the kids, as gentle as could be. And he was considerate. Always remembered your birthday and anniversary.”

“Your husband’s brother was in the SAS?”

“Yes. I thought he said.”

“No.” Even Annie knew that the SAS carried out covert operations, and if Laurence Silbert had worked for MI6, he would probably have had some contact with them, might even have ordered missions or at least overseen the supply of intelligence to guide them. This was back in Banks territory again, but at least she was keeping an open mind. She did believe that someone, most likely Derek Wyman, had goaded Hardcastle into killing Silbert and then himself—more likely by accident than design—but she didn’t know why. It could have just been annoyance over the theater, but, on the other hand, it could have had more sinister roots, given Silbert’s past.

“Was Rick married?” she asked.

“Not technically, no. Common-law. He lived with Charlotte. Been together for years. He once told me he didn’t want to say the vows, you know, ‘Till death us do part,’ and all that, because of his job. He thought it might bring him bad luck or something. A bit superstitious, was Rick. But they loved each other so much. You only had to see them together.”

“Kids?”

“No.” Carol frowned. “Rick once told me that Charlotte wanted children but that he just couldn’t do it, given his job, like, the risks, and the kind of world they’d be born into. I think in the end Charlotte just accepted the situation. Well, you have to, don’t you, if you really love somebody?”

Annie didn’t know; she had never loved anybody that much. “Do you know the address?” she asked.

“No. It was called ‘Wyedene,’ though. I remember that from when we visited them.”

“What was Charlotte’s last name?”

“Foster.”

“So Rick was away a lot, was he?”

“I wouldn’t say a lot. They had a lovely house in the country. Ross-on-Wye. Charlotte still lives there. He did a lot of training, but he did go on missions, yes. That was what did for him, of course.”

“What?” said Annie. “I thought it was a helicopter accident.”

Carol lowered her voice again. “Well, that’s what they have to say, isn’t it? The official line. They don’t want people to know what it’s really like out there. What’s really going on. Like in the war, they didn’t want to give people the really bad news, did they? They made all those propaganda films.”

“True,” said Annie. “What happened?”

“I don’t know the full story.”

Annie could feel Carol pulling away again, but she didn’t want to let go of this line of questioning. Not just yet. “We never do, do we?” she said. “Even in my job, the bosses hold their cards close to their chests. Half the time we don’t know why we’re asking the questions we are, following the lines of inquiry we’re told to. It’s not like it is on television, I can tell you that.”

“Well, in this case I really don’t know. All I do know is that it was a secret mission, not an accident. Something went wrong.”

“How do you know that?”

“Derek told me. He’d talked to a couple of Rick’s mates after the funeral, when they’d all had a few, like. The funeral was back here, in Pontefract, where they grew up. Anyway, they didn’t give much away, either, they’re trained not to, but Derek said he got the impression that Rick’s mates wanted him to know that his brother hadn’t died in some stupid accident, but that he’d died in action, a hero.”

Annie didn’t know if this had any relevance at all, but it was something that Derek Wyman had skirted when they first talked to him. Perhaps Rick’s partner, Charlotte, knew? Annie would never get the SAS to talk to her, especially as she had no official backing on this case, or even a case, come to think of it. They were far more likely to come smashing through her window one night and cart her off to Guantanamo Bay or whatever their equivalent was. But Charlotte Foster of Wyedene might not be averse to a sympathetic ear, and it shouldn’t be too difficult to track her down.

“I realize this is a bit of a cheeky question, “ Annie said, “and please don’t take it the wrong way, but didn’t it ever worry you, your husband being close to a gay man?”

“Why should it?”

“Well, some people... you know...”

“Perhaps if I didn’t feel secure with Derek it might have done,” she admitted.

“But... ?”

Carol reddened and turned away. “Well,” she said, “let’s just say I have no worries on that score.”

“I’m sorry for asking,” said Annie. “How is Derek doing now?”

“Oh, he’s all right. I mean, he’s still a bit upset about Mark, a bit quiet and moody. Well, you would be, wouldn’t you? It’s not every day a good friend and colleague goes and hangs himself like that. I mean, someone you’ve had over to dinner and all.”

“How did they go? The dinners?”

“Fine. Except, when we had them over to our house, I overcooked the roast beef the way my mother always used to do.”

“Mine, too,” said Annie, with a smile, though she couldn’t really dredge up a memory of her mother roasting beef. “I meant the conversation. What did you talk about? What did Mark and Laurence talk about?”

“Oh, you know, after a couple of bottles of wine, the ice gets broken, it starts to flow. And Mr... Laurence told all sorts of stories.”

“About what, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I don’t mind. I just don’t see why it matters. About faraway places. I haven’t traveled much—oh, we’ve been to the usual places—Majorca, Benidorm, Lanzarote, even Tunisia once, but he’d been everywhere. Russia. Iran. Iraq. Chile. Australia. New Zealand. South Africa. It must have been so exciting.”

“Yes,” said Annie. “I heard he was a well-traveled man. Did he mention Afghanistan at all?”

“As a matter of fact, he did. It came up when we were talking about... you know, Rick.”

“Of course. What did he say about it?”

“Just that he’d been there.”

“Did he say when?”

“No. I got the impression that he didn’t like it very much.”

“Dangerous place, I suppose,” said Annie. “Is everything else okay with your husband?”

“Yes, of course. Except I think this gang business is getting him down, too.”

“It must be,” said Annie. “I talked to him yesterday about a couple of his lads involved in that East Side Estate stabbing.”

“Did you? He didn’t say.”

Well, he wouldn’t, thought Annie. “It wasn’t important.”

“Anyway, like I said, you do it because you think you can make a difference, but sometimes...” She ran her finger around the rim of her cup. The nail was chipped and bitten, Annie noticed. “I don’t know. Sometimes I think maybe Rick was right. What a world to bring children into.”

“But yours are doing all right, aren’t they?”

Carol’s face brightened. “Oh, yes. They’re a handful, I can tell you that. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.” She glanced at her watch. “Ooh, is that the time? I really must be getting back now or Sue will be going ballistic.”

“I’ll walk with you,” said Annie.

Tomasina was sitting behind her desk when Banks arrived. She had clearly been crying, as he had heard over the telephone, but she had stopped now. A box of tissues lay on the desk by her hand next to a large mug of milky tea. The mug was white and had little red hearts all over it.

On a cursory glance, the office looked the same as it had on his last visit, as did the reception area. Either Tomasina had already done a good job of tidying up, or her visitors had been very neat.

“I’m sorry for being such a blubberer on the phone,” she said. “I could have kicked myself when I hung up.”

“That’s all right,” said Banks. He sat opposite her.

“No, it isn’t. But you wouldn’t understand.”

She was full of contradictions, this one, Banks thought. A young beauty, tough as nails, vulnerable, but with another hard center inside the soft one. And he hadn’t spent more than half an hour with her, all told. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?” he said.

She drank some tea, holding the mug with both hands. Her hands were shaking. “They came just after I got here, about nine.”

“How many of them were there?”

“Four. Two of them searched through everything while the other two... well, they called it an interview.”

“Did they treat you roughly at all?”

“Not physically, no.”

“Did they say who they were?”

“They just said they were from the government.”

“Did they show any identification?”

“I didn’t get a good look. It was all too fast.”

“Names?”

She shook her head. “Maybe Carson or Carstairs, one of them. And the woman was Harmon or Harlan. I’m sorry. It was all so fast, like they didn’t want it to register. I should have been paying closer attention, but I was too stunned. They took me by surprise.”

“Don’t blame yourself. They’re well trained in that sort of thing. One of them was a woman?”

“Yes, one of the interrogators. It was interesting, really, because she played the bad cop.”

“What were they like, the two who questioned you?”

“Oh, very proper. Nicely dressed. Trendy. He was wearing a dark silk suit and a fifty-quid haircut. Handsome in a Hugh Grantish sort of way. She wasn’t exactly dressed by Primark, either. Early thirties, I’d guess. The sort of woman Agatha Christie would describe as healthy and blond. Both a bit posh-sounding.”

“What did they want to know?”

“Why you came to see me yesterday.”

“What did you tell them?”

“Nothing.”

“You must have said something.”

She blushed. “Well, I said you were my boyfriend’s father, and you were in town on business, so you just dropped by to say hello. It was the best I could do on the spur of the moment.”

“Did they ask if you knew I was a policeman?”

“Yes. And I said that I did, but I didn’t hold it against you.”

“What did they say to that?”

“They didn’t believe me, so they asked all their questions again. Then they asked me my life story—where I was born, what schools I went to, university, boyfriends, girlfriends, where I used to work, how I got into the business and all that sort of stuff. Quite chatty, really. Then they got back to the nitty-gritty, and when I stuck to my story, blondie started threatening me with prosecution, and when I asked what for she said it didn’t matter and they could shut down my business as easy as swatting a fly. Is that true, by the way?”

“Yes. They can do anything they want. But they won’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because they’ve no reason to, and those things usually cause more trouble than they’re worth. Publicity. They’re like bats. They don’t like the daylight. They probably thought you’d make a fuss about it.”

“Damn right I would! What about my rights?”

“You don’t have any. Didn’t you know, the baddies have won?” “And just who are they?”

“Well, there’s a question. These people are ruthless and powerful, make no mistake about it, but their real weakness is their need for secrecy. You’re no threat to them. They won’t harm you. They just want to know what you were up to, why I visited you.”

“How did they know?”

“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 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.”

When Annie 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.

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 unthreatening 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?”

“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 conflicting reports about the death of your... of Rick Wyman and I was wondering if you could help me clear up any misunderstanding.”

“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 would 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.”

“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.