All the Colors of Darkness

15

Annie wondered why Banks wanted her to drive out to his Gratly cottage early on Saturday morning. She had assumed that he would be staying in London with Sophia, at least for the weekend, but obviously not.

All her attempts to phone him the previous evening had been frustrated, as he had been unable or unwilling to answer either mobile. After work, she had simply gone home and watched in horror the events unfold on television after the Oxford Circus bombing. Special counterterrorist units were already on the move in Dewsbury, Birmingham and Leicester, so it was reported, and there were claims that three people had already been arrested and one mosque in London raided.

The Muslim community was up in arms about the sanctity of their place of worship, but Annie doubted they had many sympathetic listeners, not after the images from the TV screen had seared themselves on people’s minds and Al Qaeda had already claimed responsibility. While Annie tried to respect all faiths, she knew that religion had been used as an excuse for more wars and criminal activities than anything else throughout human history. It was getting harder now, when religious extremism was on the rise, to cling to the sanctity of any system of belief as an excuse for mass murder.

Still, it was a lovely morning for a drive into the dale, she thought, putting the news images aside as her ancient Astra rounded the curves and bounced over the sudden rises. The Leas lay spread out to her right, flat wetlands around the river Swain, which meandered slowly through the meadows of buttercups, cranesbill and clover. Beyond, the daleside rose gently at first, crisscrossed with drystone walls, then more steeply to the higher pasture. The green of the grass turned more sere as it rose to the craggy uplands of limestone outcrops that marked the start of the open moorland. She had her window rolled down and a Steely Dan greatest hits CD playing on the stereo, “Bodhisattva.” Banks probably wouldn’t approve, but she didn’t give a damn. All was well with the world.

Almost.

Winsome had caught a break on the East Side Estate business when one of the local thugs had let slip that there was a new player on the block, “an Albanian or Turk or something” just up from London, and all the kids who had previously had free rein in what petty dealing of drugs went on, were now expected to bow out gracefully, work for him, or... perhaps get stabbed. They hadn’t yet been able to find the newcomer, who went by the name of “the Bull,” but Annie knew it was only a matter of time. There were also rumors that he had connections and was planning on importing heroin into Eastvale in a big way. Catching the Bull would definitely be a feather in their caps as far as Superintendent Gervaise was concerned, not to mention ACC McLaughlin and the chief constable himself, who would be able to appear on television and say they were winning the war against drugs.

Annie drove along Helmthorpe High Street, past the church, pubs and walking-gear shops, then turned left at the school and carried on up the hill to Gratly. She drove carefully over the narrow stone bridge, where a couple of old men stood smoking pipes and gabbing, then a few hundred yards farther on, turned right into Banks’s drive, pulling up by the stone wall beside Gratly Beck before the driveway ended at the woods. She was surprised to see that his car wasn’t there.

Annie had never ceased to marvel at what an isolated and beautiful place Banks had chosen to live after his marriage broke up. The renovations he had made after the fire had given him a lot more space, but it had all been tastefully carried out in the same local limestone, and the place probably didn’t look that much different than it had when it was built—in 1768, according to the gritstone door head.

Banks answered her knock and took her through the living room into the kitchen.

“Coffee?” he asked.

“Please.”

He knew how she liked it, Annie noted. Black and strong. He liked his the same.

“Let’s go out to the conservatory,” Banks said.

Annie followed him through the kitchen door. Honeyed sunlight poured in through the glass sides and there was just enough of a breeze through the open windows to keep it from being too hot. That was the problem with conservatories, Annie thought; one warm day and they overheated. In some ways, they were better in winter with an electric fire switched on, flickering fake coals and a couple of elements. But this early in the morning it was perfect. The view up the daleside to the limestone scar at the top, like a skeleton’s grin, was stunning, and sheep were dotted all over the hillside. The wicker armchairs, she remembered, were so deep and inviting and had cushions so soft that they were difficult to get out of once you sat down. She sat anyway and set her coffee down on the low glass table beside the morning papers, which hadn’t been touched yet. That wasn’t like Banks. He wasn’t so much of a newshound, but he liked to read the music and film reviews and grapple with the crosswords. Perhaps he had slept in. There was some strange orchestral music playing quietly in the background, funereal, discordant in sound, bells and trumpets, timpani, a choir coming and going.

“What’s the music?” Annie asked, when Banks sat down opposite her.

“ Shostakovich. The Thirteenth Symphony. It’s called ‘Babi Yar.’ Why? Is it bothering you?”

“No,” said Annie. “I was just wondering. It’s unusual.” It was hardly Steely Dan, but it was quiet enough to keep to the background. “What time did you get back last night?” she asked.

“Late.”

“I phoned during the evening.”

“Damn battery died on me, and I didn’t have the charger.”

He seemed more gaunt than usual, his bright blue eyes less full of sparkle. He also had a bandage on his left hand.

“What did you do to yourself?” she asked.

He lifted his hand. “Oh, this? Burned it on the cast-iron frying pan. The doc always told me my diet would kill me. It’s nothing. I was going to come back into the station this morning, but I’ve changed my mind. That’s why I asked you to come out here instead.”

“Because you hurt yourself?”

“What? No. I told you, this is nothing. It’s something else.”

“What?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

“Okay,” Annie said lightly. “Be mysterious. See if I care. We’ve got a lead on the East Side Estate stabbing.” She told him about the Bull. She could sense his attention drifting as she spoke, so she wound it up quickly and said, “What is it, Alan? Why did you want me to come here?”

“I thought we should talk about Wyman,” Banks said. “Given all the new information, we should consider bringing him in.”

“New? There’s not much, except we now know that he asked for the photos of Silbert to be taken.”

“That’s enough, isn’t it?” said Banks. “Besides, there’s more. Much more. Things are getting out of hand.”

Annie listened, her mouth opening wider and wider as Banks told her about Hardcastle tearing up the photos, and what had happened at Sophia’s house on Thursday evening, and in Tomasina’s office yesterday. When he’d finished, all she could say was “You were down in London yesterday, weren’t you? Isn’t it terrible? You can’t have been far away from Oxford Circus when it happened.”

“Just down Regent Street,” he said. “They closed all the stations for about four hours. That’s why I was so late back. Then I had to take a taxi from Darlington station.”

“I thought you took the car down?”

“I left it. Didn’t feel like driving. Sick of all the traffic. And I’d had a few drinks at lunchtime. What is this? The third degree?”

“Why didn’t you stay with Sophia? The poor woman must have been terrified.”

“She’s with a friend.” Banks stared at Annie, and she thought for a moment that he was going to tell her to mind her own business. A soloist struck up, then the choir joined him and the orchestra came back, loud brass and crashing percussion, staccato rhythms, a gong. It certainly was odd music for a beautiful Saturday morning. Banks appeared to listen for a moment until the music came to a crescendo and went quiet, almost like a Gregorian chant, then he said, “As a matter of fact, she didn’t want me around. She sort of blamed me for what happened, for not setting the alarm.”

“Did you?”

“Of course I bloody did.”

“Did you tell her that?”

“She was upset. She wouldn’t believe me.”

“Did you call the police?”

“You know who we’re dealing with, Annie. Do you think calling the police would have done any good? For crying out loud, I am the police, and I can’t do any good. Besides, she was dead set against it.”

“So did you tell Sophia the truth, who you think it was?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“What’s the point frightening her?”

“To put her on her guard?”

“What do you care, anyway? You don’t even like her.”

“That’s not true,” said Annie, smarting. “It’s you I’m concerned about. It’s always been you.”

“Well, you needn’t be. Besides, they won’t hurt her. Or Tomasina. They could have done that anytime, if they’d wanted. Me, too. No, they’ve delivered their message, and that’s all they wanted to do. For now. They’re just trying to scare us off. That’s why it’s time to bring Wyman in.”

“But they haven’t scared you off. Me, neither, for that matter.”

Banks managed the beginnings of a smile and said, “What did you find out?”

“A couple of interesting things.” Annie told him about her talk with Carol Wyman.

When she had finished, Banks said, “This business with Rick Wyman is interesting. SAS, indeed. You know where they get their orders from, don’t you? MI6, I’ll bet. This could be the link between Wyman’s and Silbert’s worlds. I always thought there had to be a lot more to it than professional rivalry. Did you follow up?”

“I talked to his...” What on earth did she call Charlotte Foster? “His widow,” she decided finally, though it wasn’t strictly true. “Of course, she wouldn’t tell me anything, but I did get her to admit that Rick Wyman was killed on active duty, not in a helicopter accident during a training exercise.”

“Interesting,” said Banks. “Very interesting. Now if only we could find out a few more details, such as what the mission was, who gave the orders and who supplied the intelligence, we might actually get somewhere. What if Wyman thinks Silbert was responsible for his brother’s death? What if he was? What if it’s something MI6 want to keep covered up?”

“Then they’ll do everything in their power to prevent you from uncovering it.” Annie reached for her coffee. A soloist was singing, bells chiming in the background, then the full choir came in again. “Besides, just how, exactly, do you plan on finding out?”

“Before you arrived,” Banks said, “I got a return phone call from a Detective Superintendent Burgess. Dirty Dick Burgess.”

“I remember him,” said Annie. “He’s a sexist, racist, homophobic pig who thinks he’s God’s gift.”

“That’s the one,” Banks admitted. “I’d been trying to reach him for a couple of days, leaving cryptic messages. He’s remarkably resourceful when it comes to this sort of thing. I’m not sure exactly what department he works for these days, but it’s connected with counterterrorism, and he’s very much in the loop. Made the political transition from Thatcher and Major to Blair and Brown seamlessly.”

“Well, there’s not a lot of difference, as far as I can tell,” said Annie.

“You’re too young to remember Thatcher.”

“I remember the Falklands War,” Annie argued. “I was fifteen.”

“Anyway, I didn’t hear back from Dirty Dick for a while, and I thought perhaps it was because I’m persona non grata with his bosses, or something along those lines. He’d be certain to know, if I was. As it happens, I am, and he knows it, but that wasn’t the reason. He’s not in London at the moment; he’s in Dewsbury.”

“Dewsbury,” Annie echoed. “But isn’t that where—”

“One of the bombers, or planners. Yes, I know. And that’s probably why he’s there. The point is, he’s agreed to meet me.”

“Where? When?”

“This morning, up at Hallam Tarn. It might be our only chance of finding a real link between Wyman and Silbert, this SAS and MI6 business, and maybe of finding out exactly what it was Silbert’s been up to these past few years, since his so-called retirement; meeting men on benches in Regent’s Park, and so on.”

“If there is a link,” Annie reminded him.

“Fair enough.” Banks studied her. “I know you still think Hard-castle was the intended victim and professional jealousy was the motive. Hold that thought; you could still be right. Wyman did give Hardcastle the photos, and he did react with shock and horror. But bear with me awhile longer, too.” Banks reached for a pen and notepad from the bookcase beside him. “Have you got any more details about Rick Wyman?”

Annie told him all she knew, which wasn’t much.

“Should be able to track him down from that,” Banks said. “You’re sure about the date of the incident? Fifteenth October, 2002?”

“That’s what Carol Wyman told me.”

“Okay.”

“What if there isn’t a connection?”

“We’ll deal with that if and when we get there.”

“So what’s next? If they’re on to Wyman, as you say they must be after ransacking this Tom Savage’s files, isn’t he in danger now?”

“It depends how much of a threat he is to them. But, yes, I agree, we need to act fairly quickly, bring him in and get to the bottom of it.”

Annie had lost the thread of the music now, but it alternated between frantic and loud orchestra and solo tenor. Sometimes it disappeared completely. “We need to talk to the super first,” she said.

“Can you do that?” Banks asked.

“Me? Jesus Christ, Alan!”

“Please?” Banks glanced at his watch. “I have to meet Burgess soon, and I don’t think we should waste any more time. I might have a few more answers in a while, but if we can at least get Superintendent Gervaise’s permission to bring Wyman in for questioning over having commissioned the photographs, we’re in business.”

“But... I...”

“Come on, Annie. She knows you’ve been on the case, doesn’t she?”

“The nonexistent case? Yes. She knows.”

“Present her with the evidence. Just stress the theater business and play down the intelligence service angle. That’s the only thing that really worries her. She’ll go for it, otherwise.”

“All right, all right,” Annie said, standing up to leave. “I’ll have a go. And what about you?”

“I’ll be in later. I’ll phone for a driver when I’m ready. Bring Wyman in after you’ve talked to Gervaise and let him stew for a while.”

“On what charge?”

“You don’t have to charge him, just ask him to come along voluntarily.”

“What if he won’t?”

“Then bloody arrest him.”

“For what?”

“Try for being a lying bastard, for a start.”

“If only...”

“Just bring him in, Annie. It might get us a few answers.”

The orchestra was playing an eerie, haunting melody when Annie left, but the day didn’t seem quite so beautiful anymore.

When he was alone again, Banks poured himself the last cup of coffee. “Babi Yar” finished, and he couldn’t think of anything else he wanted to listen to. It was almost time to go out now, and tired as he was, this was an appointment he didn’t want to miss. Wondering why he bothered with security, he locked up the cottage and struck out up Tetchley Fell to Hallam Tarn.

He hadn’t slept a wink the previous night; his mind had still been full of the scenes he had witnessed at Oxford Circus, and he could still smell burning flesh and plastic. Certain images, he knew, would be lodged in his mind forever, and the things he had only thought he had seen fleetingly—a headless figure in his peripheral vision, glistening entrails glimpsed through a film of dust and smoke—would grow and metamorphose in his imagination, haunt his dreams for years.

But in some ways it was the feelings more than the images that affected him. He supposed he must have drifted off to sleep, at least for a few moments now and then, because he remembered those dreamlike sensations of not being able to run fast enough to escape something nightmarish; of being late for an important meeting and not remembering how to get there; being lost naked on dark, threatening streets, becoming more and more frantic as the hour drew near; of stairs turning sticky like treacle under his feet as he tried to climb them, dragging him down into the abyss, melting beneath him. And when he woke, his chest felt hollow, his heart forlorn, beating pointlessly, without an echo.

After he had left Joe Geldard’s pub, he had bought new clothes in a Marks and Spencer’s and made his way on foot through the Bloomsbury backstreets to King’s Cross Station. Even from Euston Road, he could still see wisps of smoke drifting in the air and hear the occasional siren. He wasn’t sure exactly what time the bombing had occurred, but he reckoned it must have been about two-thirty, the heart of a Friday afternoon in summer, when people like to leave work early. It was after five o’clock when he got to the train station, and service was still suspended, though the building had been cleared of threats and had reopened an hour earlier.

Crowds of people milled around the announcement boards, ready for the dash when their gate was announced. It cost him a small fortune to buy a single ticket to Darlington, with no guarantee of when the train would actually leave. The sandwich stalls had all run out of food and bottled water. While he waited, Banks phoned Brian and Tomasina, who were both fine, though shaken at having been so close to disaster. He also phoned Sophia at home and got no answer, as expected. He left a message asking her to pick up his car and said he hoped she was all right. He wasn’t going to tell anyone about his afternoon; certainly not now, probably never.

As luck would have it, the first train north left the station at six thirty-five, and Banks was on it, sitting next to an earnest young Bangladeshi student who wanted to talk about what had just happened. Banks didn’t want to talk about it, and he made himself clear from the start. For the rest of the trip the student obviously felt uncomfortable, no doubt thinking that Banks didn’t want anything to do with him because he was Asian.

At that point, Banks didn’t care what the kid thought. He didn’t care what anybody thought. He stared out of the window, without a book or even his iPod to take his mind off the journey and the memories. He wouldn’t have been able to concentrate on words or music, anyway. His mind was numb, and a couple of miniature scotches from the food and beverages cart helped numb it even more.

He had taken a taxi home from Darlington, which was marginally closer to Gratly than York, and that had cost him a fortune, too. The driver’s constant chatter about Boro’s chances next season had been simply a free bonus. At least he hadn’t talked about the bombing; sometimes the north felt far enough away to be another country, with wholly other concerns. All in all, Banks thought, as he paid the taxi driver, it was turning into an expensive day, what with the hotel bill, lunch, new clothes, the train ticket and now this. Thank God everyone took plastic.

The train journey had been slow, with unexpected and unexplained delays at Grantham and Doncaster, and Banks hadn’t got home until half past ten. He had to admit that he was relieved to be there and to shut the door behind him, though he had no idea what he wanted to do to distract himself. He knew he didn’t want to watch any news reports, didn’t want to see the images of death and suffering repeated ad nauseam and keep up with the mounting death toll. When he had poured himself a generous glass of red wine and sat down in front of an old Marx Brothers movie in the entertainment room, he didn’t really know what he felt about it all.

When he probed himself, he realized that he didn’t feel sad or angry or depressed. Perhaps that would come later. What had happened had taken him to a new place inside himself, a place he didn’t know, had never explored before, and he didn’t have a map. His world had changed, its axis shifted. It was the difference between knowing these things happened, watching them happen to other people on television, and being there, in the thick of it, seeing the suffering and knowing there’s nothing, or very little, that you can do. But he had helped the injured. He had to cling to that, at least. He remembered the blind Asian woman, whose grip he imagined he could still feel on his arm; the young blonde in the bloodstained yellow dress, her stupid little lapdog and the bag she just wouldn’t give up; the frightened child; the dead taxi driver; all of them. They were in him now, part of him, and they would be forever.

Yet for all the fear and sorrow, he also felt a deep calm, a sense of inevitability and of letting go that surprised him. It was like the walk he was on now. There was something simple and soothing about putting one foot in front of the other and making slow progress up the hill.

He was climbing Tetchley Fell, following a footpath that crossed several fields, scanning the drystone walls for the stile that led over to the next one. The sun shone in a bright blue sky, but there was a light breeze to take the edge off the heat. Every once in a while he glanced behind him to see if he was being followed, and he saw two figures, one with a red jacket tied around her waist by the sleeves, and another in a T-shirt with a backpack on his back. Banks was panting and sweating when he reached the Roman road that cut diagonally down the daleside to the village of Fortford in the distance, so he thought he would pause there for a few moments and let them catch up with him.

As they passed him, they said hello, the way ramblers do, then turned left and walked down the Roman road. They could turn off at Mortsett, Banks thought, or go all the way to Relton or Fortford, but they weren’t going in his direction. They were just kids, anyway, a couple of students out for a bit of country air. Even MI6 had to have an age limit, surely?

Banks climbed the stile on the other side of the narrow track and carried on through the fields up the hill. The grass grew thinner and browner, and soon he was walking around rocks and through clumps of heather and gorse. It would be in flower soon, he thought, brightening the dull moorland with its purples and yellows. The sheep grew few and far between.

He kept thinking he’d got to the top long before he had. It was one false summit after another. But finally he was there and only had to totter down the other side of a steep bank to get to Hallam Tarn. It was nothing much, just a hollowed-out bowl of water right at the top of Tetchley Fell, about a hundred yards wide and two hundred long. It was walled in places because children had fallen in and drowned. The body of a young boy had even been dumped there once, Banks remembered. But there was a path around the tarn offering a scenic walk, and today five or six cars were parked in the space at the far end where the road up from Helmthorpe came to a full stop at the water’s edge.

Legend had it that Hallam Tarn used to be a village once, but that the villagers took to evil ways, worshipping Satan, making human sacrifices, so God smote them with his fist, and the dent he made on crushing the village created the tarn. On certain days, so they said, if the light was right, you could see the old houses and streets beneath the water, the squat, toadlike church with its upside-down cross, hear the blood-curdling cries of the villagers as they whipped themselves up into a frenzy during some ritual ceremony.

Some days you could believe it, Banks thought, as he headed toward the car park, but today it seemed as far away from evil and Satanic rites as you could get. A couple passed him on the path, hand in hand, and the girl smiled shyly at him, a blade of grass in her mouth. One middle-aged man was jogging in a tracksuit and trainers, red-faced and sweating with exertion, a heart attack waiting to happen.

Banks reached the end of the tarn where the cars were parked, and then he saw the familiar figure. Standing at the side of the water, throwing fl at pebbles that sank rather than skipped, was Detective Superintendent Dirty Dick Burgess. When he caught sight of Banks, he clapped his hands and rubbed them together, then he said, “Banksy. So glad you could come. Who’s been a naughty boy, then?”

It was typical that Banks would give her the job of talking to Gervaise, Annie thought, as she pulled up outside the superintendent’s house later that morning. Gervaise had been a tad tetchy on the phone—her husband had taken the children to the cricket match, and it was her gardening day, she said—but had agreed to give Annie five minutes of her time.

As she drove along the quiet country road, Annie thought about Banks and his odd behavior earlier that morning. There had been something different about him, and she decided that the rift with Sophia must have been even more serious than he had made out. He had mentioned before how much Sophia valued the various natural objects and works of art she had collected over the years, so it must have really hurt her to witness such wanton destruction. Still, Annie thought, if the silly cow was more fond of her seashells than she was of Banks, then she deserved everything she got.

When Annie pulled up in front of the house and knocked on the door, she heard a voice call, “I’m round the back. Just come down the side.” A narrow pathway ran down the side of the house beside the garage and led to the back garden.

The sight of the superintendent in a broad-rimmed hat, baggy man’s shirt, white shorts and sandals, with a pair of secateurs in her hand, almost gave Annie a fit of the giggles, but she managed to restrain herself.

“Sit down, DI Cabbot,” said Gervaise, a healthy glow on her face. “Barley water?”

“Thank you.” Annie accepted the glass, sat down and took a sip. She hadn’t tasted barley water in years, not since her mother used to make it. It was wonderful. There were four chairs and a round table on the lawn, but no protective umbrella, and she wished she had worn a hat.

“Have you thought about blond highlights?” Gervaise asked.

“No, ma’am.”

“Maybe you should. They’d look good in the sunlight.”

What was all this? Annie wondered. First Carol Wyman had suggested she go blond, now Gervaise was talking about highlights.

Gervaise sat down. “I suppose you’ve come to tell me about important developments in the East Side Estate stabbing?”

“Winsome’s on the case, ma’am,” said Annie. “I’m sure we’re expecting a breakthrough any day now.”

“Any moment would be better. Even the mayor’s getting edgy. And what about you, DI Cabbot? What case are you on?”

Annie shifted in her chair. “Well, that’s what I came to see you about, ma’am. It’s a bit awkward.”

Gervaise sipped her barley water and smiled. “Try me.”

“You know we were talking, the other day, about Derek Wyman?”

“You mean Banks’s Iago theory?”

“Yes.”

“Go on.”

“Well, what if there’s something in it? I mean, really something in it.” A wasp droned near Annie’s barley water. She waved it away.

“Like what?” asked Gervaise.

“Well, I was talking to Mr. Wyman’s wife, Carol, and she—”

“I thought I told you to leave them alone.”

“Well, ma’am, you didn’t exactly spell it out.“

“Oh, for crying out loud, DI Cabbot. Maybe I didn’t spell it out in words of one syllable, but you know exactly what I was telling you. It’s over. Leave it alone.”

Annie took a deep breath and blurted out, “I’d like to bring Derek Wyman in for questioning.”

Gervaise’s silence was unnerving. The wasp droned by again. Somewhere Annie could hear a garden hose hissing and a radio playing “Moon River.” Finally, Superintendent Gervaise said, “You? Or DCI Banks?”

“Both of us.” Now that Annie had said it, she was gathering courage fast. “I know you’ve been warned to lay off,” she went on, “but there’s evidence now. And it’s nothing to do with the secret intelligence services.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes. DCI Banks found the private investigator who took the photos of Silbert with the other man.”

“A private investigator?”

“Yes. They do exist.”

“I know that. I was just... go on.”

“He also talked to a waitress in Zizzi’s who remembered seeing a man we assume to be Hardcastle tearing up some photos.”

“Assume?”

“Well, it was Wyman who commissioned them, and he did tell us he had dinner at Zizzi’s with Hardcastle before going to the National Film Theatre.”

“But why?”

“To stir up Hardcastle.”

“Or so you assume?”

“Well, it makes sense, doesn’t it? Why else would he go to all that expense? He isn’t a rich man.”

“Why would he want to do it in the first place? He didn’t even know Silbert very well, did he?”

“Not well. No. They’d met once or twice, had dinner, but no, he didn’t really know Silbert. It was personal, I think. The target was Hardcastle, but when you set things like that in motion, you can’t always predict their outcome.”

“I’ll say. Do go on.”

“From what I can gather from talking to Carol Wyman, her husband’s sick of his teaching job and he’s got a passion for theater.”

“I know that,” said Gervaise. “He directed Othello.”

“That’s just it, ma’am,” Annie rushed on. “He wants to direct more. In fact, he wants it to be a full-time job. But like I said at that meeting when you closed the case, if Hardcastle and Silbert had succeeded in setting up their acting company the way they wanted, there would have been no room for Wyman. Hardcastle himself wanted to direct. Wyman would have been back to square one. That kind of failure and humiliation can really push a man to the limit, hurt his pride.”

“And you’re saying that’s Wyman’s motive for killing two men?”

“I don’t think he intended to kill anyone. It was just a nasty prank went wrong. I mean, I’m sure he wanted to hurt Hardcastle, or he wouldn’t have gone to all that trouble. I think directing Othello just put the idea in his mind in the first place. What he really wanted was to split up Hardcastle and Silbert so that Hardcastle would probably feel he had to leave Eastvale and abandon the theater.”

“I don’t know,” said Gervaise. “It still sounds a bit far-fetched. And correct me if I’m wrong, but I still don’t see that any crime has been committed.”

“We’ll work something out. People have killed for less—a job, a career, rivalry, artistic jealousy. I’m still not saying that Wyman intended to kill anyone, but what he did isn’t beyond the bounds of possibility. He may have incited Hardcastle to do what he did. He may have harassed him with the images and innuendos the way Iago did Othello. Maybe Wyman has a certain amount of psychological in-sight—you might expect it in a theater director—and he knew what buttons to push? I don’t know. All I know is that I think he did it.” Gervaise refilled her glass from the pitcher and offered Annie more. Annie declined. “What do you think?” Annie asked.

“I suppose there’s a certain low-level plausibility to it all,” Gervaise admitted. “But even so, we’d never prove it in a million years.”

“Unless Wyman confessed.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Guilt. If it was a prank gone wrong. If he didn’t mean to really hurt anyone. If we’re not dealing with a cold-blooded killer. He must have feelings. What happened must be a burden for him. His wife says he’s been a bit preoccupied lately. I’ll bet it’s weighing on his mind.” “All right, DI Cabbot,” said Gervaise. “Let’s accept that Wyman did cook up some scheme based on his directing of Othello to get at Hardcastle, and that it backfired. Are you able to guarantee me that this was nothing at all to do with the intelligence services and with what Silbert did for a living?”

It was as Banks had said, Annie thought. With the intelligence services out of the picture, Gervaise was far more willing to go along with the idea. “Yes,” she said.

Gervaise sighed, took off her hat and used it as a fan for a moment, then put it back on. “Why can’t things be easy?” she said. “Why can’t people just do as they’re told?”

“We have to pursue the truth,” said Annie.

“Since when? That’s a luxury we can ill afford.”

“But two people died because of what Wyman did, no matter how he intended it, or even whether he’s technically committed a crime. Surely we have to do something?”

“I think you’ll find that in this matter the law is very much concerned with any criminal offense he might have committed, or lack of one, and I can’t think of any.”

“We’ll leave that to the CPS.”

“Hmph. Do you know how much pressure I’ve had from above to drop this? About the only one who hasn’t been on my back is ACC McLaughlin, and that’s only because he has no particular liking for the secret intelligence services. But the chief constable is adamant. I don’t want this on my plate. Bring in Wyman, by all means. Have a chat with him. And if he admits anything that supports your theories, send the file to the CPS and see what they come up with. Just you and DCI Banks make damn sure that there’s no room here for things to go pear-shaped.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Annie, draining her glass and standing up before Gervaise changed her mind. “I’ll do that.”

“Where is DCI Banks, by the way?”

“He’s finishing his holiday at home,” said Annie.

“Things not work out in London?”

“I suppose not.”

“Well, let’s hope they improve. The last thing I want is a lovesick DCI moping about the station. Go on, then. Get to it. I’ve got to get back to my herbaceous border before Keith and the kids get back from the cricket match and want their dinner.”

"This is a bloody godforsaken hole you’ve chosen for a meeting place,” said Burgess as they walked around the scenic footpath.

“It’s supposed to be a spot of great natural beauty,” said Banks. “You know me. I’m a city boy at heart. I have to tell you, though, Banksy, Dewsbury is a boil on the arse of the universe.”

“It’s got a nice town hall. Same architect who designed Leeds, I think. Cuthbert Broderick. Or Broderick Cuthbert.”

“Bugger the bloody town hall. It’s the mosques that interest me.”

“That’s why you’re up there?”

“Why else?” He sighed. “It just gets worse, doesn’t it?”

“So what’s the answer?” Banks asked.

“You tell me. I’ve been up in Dewsbury for a couple of weeks or so investigating various terrorism-related matters, and now we know that two of the young lads involved in planning yesterday’s bombing live there. They’re all homegrown these days. We don’t need to import our terrorists anymore.”

“Don’t feel so bad. They could have sent you to Leicester.”

“Not much in it, if you ask me. Anyway, for what good it’ll do, we’re searching for a garage, a lockup somewhere out of the way. Obviously to rig up the car and driver the way they did, they had to have a secure place, out of the public eye. Could be Dewsbury.”

“Leicester’s closer to London,” said Banks.

“What I said, but did they listen?”

“And why not use London as a starting point?”

“It’s not the way they do things. It’s their policy to use cells. Networks. Contract out. You can’t centralize an operation like that. Too many risks involved. Besides, we’ve got London sewn up tighter than a gnat’s arsehole.”

“I’d say there were plenty of risks involved in driving a car full of explosives down the Ml from Dewsbury to London,” said Banks. “Or even from Leicester. Haven’t you ever seen The Wages of Fear?”

“Great film. But they use much more stable stuff these days, for crying out loud. It was hardly nitroglycerin.”

“Even so,” Banks said

Burgess kicked a stone off the path. “Can you imagine it, though? Some bastard driving a car full of explosives two hundred miles or more knowing he’s going to die at the end of it.”

“Same as those terrorists on the planes that flew into the twin towers. It’s what they’re trained for.”

“Oh, I know all about their training, Banksy, but it still boggles my imagination. Twenty-two years old, the kid who did it. Bright lad, by all accounts. From Birmingham. Islamic Studies degree from Keele. Anyway, he’s wearing an explosive suit wired to a bootful of explosives and he drives two hundred miles to his appointed destination, where he promptly presses the button. The score’s forty virgins for him, forty-six dead, fifty-eight injured, some seriously, and seventy-three orphans for London.” Burgess paused. “I counted. Do you know, when they raided one of the flats, they found plans drawn up for possible similar attacks on Piccadilly Circus, Trafalgar Square and the front of Buck House, where the tourists all stand and gawp at the changing of the guard?”

“So why Oxford Circus?”

“Just lucky, I guess.”

Banks said nothing.

“Hang on a minute, you were in London yesterday, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” Banks said.

“Were you anywhere near? You were, weren’t you?”

“I was there,” Banks said. He hadn’t planned on telling anyone, but Burgess always had an uncanny knack of knowing these things anyway.

Burgess stopped and stared out over the water. Its surface was ruffled by a few ripples caused by the light breeze. “Bugger me,” he said. “I won’t ask you...”

“No,” said Banks. “Don’t. Thanks. I don’t really want to talk about it.” He could feel a lump in his throat and tears prickling in his eyes, but the sensations passed. They continued walking.

“Anyway,” Burgess went on, “I think I’ve got a pretty good idea of what you want to see me about. It’s to do with these dead shirt-lifters, isn’t it? The one who worked for MI6 in particular. The answer’s still no.”

“Hear me out,” said Banks, and told him what he knew about Wyman, Hardcastle and Silbert, along with had happened at Sophia’s house and Tomasina’s office.

Burgess listened as they walked, head bowed. As his hair had thinned over the years, he had finally gone for the shaved look rather than the comb-over, which some people unwisely chose. He was in fairly good shape, his paunch diminished a little since their last meeting, and he reminded Banks physically a bit of Pete Townshend from the Who.

When Banks had finished, Burgess said, “No wonder you’re red-flagged.”

“It’s not just me,” Banks said. “If it were only me, I could deal with it. They go after your loved ones as well.”

“Well, the terrorists don’t discriminate, either. These are interesting times. Bad things happen. Difficult decisions are made on the fly. No pun intended, Banks, but there’s a darkness out there. You should know.”

“Yes, and the struggle is to keep it out there.”

“That’s too metaphysical for me. I just catch the bad guys.”

“So you’re defending their actions? What they did in Sophia’s house, Tomasina’s office?”

“They’re the good guys, Banksy! If I don’t defend them, whose side does that put me on?”

“Do you know a Mr. Browne?”

“Never heard of him. Believe it or not, MI5 and MI6 are not my outfits. I work with them from time to time, yes, but I’m on a wholly different detachment. I don’t know those people.”

“But you do know what’s going on?”

“I like to keep my finger on the pulse, as well you know. Can we sit down on this bench a minute? My legs are starting to ache.”

“But we’ve only walked round twice. That’s not even half a mile.” “I think the altitude’s getting to me. Can we just bloody sit down?”

“Of course.”

They sat on the bench, donated by some famous local moorland enthusiast whose name was engraved on a brass plate. Burgess examined the name. “Josiah Branksome,” he said in as close an imitation of a Yorkshire accent as he could manage. “Sounds very northern.”

Banks leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees and cupped his head in his hands. “Why did they do it, though?” he asked.

“Because they’re fucking crazy.”

“No. I mean MI5. Why break Sophia’s things and scare Tomasina out of her wits?”

“What makes you think it was MI5?”

Banks glanced at him. “Browne said he was MI5.” But when Banks cast his mind back, he couldn’t be certain that Browne had said that; he couldn’t be certain what Browne had said at all. “Why? What do you know?”

“All I’m saying is that Silbert worked for MI6. A whole different kettle of fish, they are. The two don’t exactly work hand in glove, you know. Half the time they’re not even talking to each other.”

“So you think MI6 are more likely to be involved in this than MI5?”

“I’m only saying that it’s possible.”

“But I thought their brief was working outside the country?”

“It is. Usually. But I’d imagine they’d want to investigate the murder of one of their own, wherever it happened. They certainly wouldn’t want MI5 to do it for them. Just a suggestion. Not that it really matters. They’re all pretty good at dirty tricks. The result is the same.”

“So what do you suggest?”

“If you want my opinion, and it’s only an opinion based on what little I know of them and the way they operate, I’d say they’d don’t reason; they react. They’re not really interested in your girlfriend. Or the private detective. Though I must admit that if she went around photographing an MI6 agent, retired or not, meeting people secretly in Regent’s Park, then they might have a justifiable concern for questioning her. But mostly it’s just a way of getting a message to you. Look at it this way. One of their own has been killed. There’s blood in the water. They’re circling. What do you expect?”

“But why not come directly after me?”

“Well, they did, didn’t they? This Mr. Browne you were asking about.”

“Bloody lot of use he was. He came once, got pissed off when I wouldn’t cooperate, and left.”

Burgess started to laugh. “Oh, Banksy, you’re priceless, you are. Did you expect more? Another polite visit, perhaps? ‘Please, Mr. Banks, do cease and desist.’ They don’t mess around, these buggers. Five or six. They don’t have time. Patience isn’t a virtue with them. Don’t you get it? This is the new breed. They’re a lot nastier than the old boys and they’ve got a lot of new toys. They’re not gentlemen. More like city traders. But they can erase your past and rewrite your life in the blink of an eye. They’ve got software that makes your HOLMES system look like a Rolodex. Don’t piss them off. I tell you in all seriousness, Banksy, do not fuck with them.”

“A bit late for that, isn’t it?”

“Then back off. They’ll lose interest in time. It’s not as if there isn’t plenty to occupy them elsewhere.” He paused and scratched the side of his nose. “I did talk to someone in the know after I got your message, just to see if I could find out what was going on. He was very cagey, but he told me a couple of things. For a start, they’re just not sure about Wyman, that’s all, and they don’t like to be not sure.”

“Why haven’t they questioned him?”

“Surely even you can work that out for yourself? When this Mr. Browne paid you a visit, and when those people entered your girlfriend’s house and broke a few of her things, they were trying to warn you off. They wanted you to shut down the investigation. It’s instinct with them, secrecy, second nature. Then they get the photos from the private detective woman, and they start to wonder about this Wyman character. What he might have been up to. Who he might have been working for. What he might know. And more important still, what he might tell. Now they’re letting you do their job for them, up to a point, watching you from a distance. You could still just let it drop and walk away. Nothing will happen to you or your girlfriend. There’ll be no consequences. That’s another thing, Banksy. People rarely murder each other in this business. They’re professionals. If it happens, you can be damn sure there’s a good political or security reason, not a personal one. Drop it. There’s nothing to be gained by antagonizing them any further.”

“But there are still a few things I need to know.”

Burgess sighed. “It’s like talking to a fucking brick wall, isn’t it?” he said. “What will it take to get you off my back?”

“I want to know about Silbert’s background, what he did, what they think he might have been up to.”

“Why?”

“Because maybe Wyman knows. Maybe Silbert let something slip, pillow talk, perhaps, and Hardcastle passed it on to Wyman in one of their intimate boozy get-togethers.”

“But how does that give Wyman a motive to do whatever it is you think he did?”

“I don’t know,” said Banks. “But that brings me to my next request. Wyman had a brother called Rick. SAS. He was killed in Afghanistan on the fifteenth of October, 2002. According to the press, it was a helicopter crash on maneuvers, but according to other sources I’ve spoken to, Rick Wyman was killed on active duty, on a secret mission.”

“So what? It’s standard procedure to downplay your casualties in a war. That’s one way of doing it. That and friendly fire.”

“I’m not interested in the propaganda angle,” said Banks. “What concerns me is that Silbert might have had something to do with the intelligence behind the mission. He was still employed by MI6 in 2002. He and Hardcastle had dinner with the Wymans a couple of times and he mentioned that he’d been to Afghanistan. I’d guess the SAS was after Bin Laden or some important terrorist encampment or cell leader—this wasn’t too long after 9/11—and somehow or other, they’d got information on its whereabouts that turned out to be inaccurate, they got lost, or it was better protected than the agent thought. Maybe Wyman blames Silbert. I need to know when Silbert was in Afghanistan and why. I want to know if Silbert could have been involved in any of this, and if there’s a terrorist connection.”

“You don’t ask for much, do you? Even if Silbert was responsible for Rick Wyman’s death, how on earth could Derek Wyman know about it if it was a secret mission?”

“I don’t know. Pillow talk again? Silbert lets something slip to Hardcastle in bed after one of those dinners, and Hardcastle passes it on.”

“Crap, Banks. Silbert and his kind are better trained than that.”

“But it could have happened somehow.”

“You’re clutching at straws, mate.”

“Will you find out for me? You’re counterterrorism, you should have an in.”

“I don’t know if I can,” said Burgess. “And if I could, I’m not sure that I would.”

“I’m not asking you to break the Official Secrets Act.”

“You probably are, but that’s the least of my worries. What you are asking could possibly bring a whole lot more grief on the intelligence services, including me, who really don’t need that right now, thank you very much, as well as on you and all your friends and family. I’m not sure I want to be the one responsible for all that.”

“You won’t be. It’s my responsibility. Derek Wyman set in motion a chain of events that ended in the violent deaths of two men. It was a cruel trick he played, if that’s all it was, and I want to know why he did it. If it’s something to do with his brother’s death, if there’s a terrorist connection, I want to know.”

“Why does it matter? Why don’t you just beat a confession out of him and leave it at that?”

“Because I want to know what it takes to drive a man to a coldblooded act like that, something that, while he couldn’t be expected to be certain it would end in death, he had to know would at least bring a lot of unnecessary grief and pain into two people’s lives. Can’t you understand that? You of all people. And don’t try to tell me you’ve never suffered from copper’s curiosity. It’s what separates the men from the boys in this job. You can have a perfectly good career in the force without giving a damn about why who did what to whom. But if you want to learn about the world, if you want to know about people and what makes them what they are, you have to see beyond that, you have to dig deeper. You have to know.”

Burgess stood up and put his hands in his pockets. “Well, seeing as you put it like that, Banksy, how can I refuse?”

“You’ll do it?”

“I was joking. Look, it’s easy enough to find out about Silbert’s background—in general terms, without going into any incriminating details, of course—but it might be a bit harder to find any connection with a specific mission. If he was in Afghanistan ages ago, nobody’s likely to care about that now, but if it was more recent, that’s another matter. They don’t talk about things like that, and I don’t have unlimited access to files. They’d skin me alive if they knew I was even contemplating something like this. I’m not going to put myself in a position of risk, not even for you.”

“What can you find out?” Banks said. “What can you reasonably tell me?”

“Reasonably? Nothing. If I was behaving reasonably, I’d walk away from here right now, without even waving bye-bye. But I’ve never been a reasonable man, and perhaps I am as cursed as you are with copper’s curiosity. Perhaps it’s what makes me good at my job. You say you already know Silbert visited Afghanistan. That doesn’t necessarily mean a lot, you know. These people travel a lot, for all kinds of reasons.”

“I know. But it’s a starting place. Can you also tell me what Silbert was up to lately? Who he was meeting in London?”

“You must be joking. I think the best I can do for you is find out if Silbert was working in an area and in a capacity that made it at all likely he could have had a connection with SAS missions in Afghanistan in 2002. That shouldn’t be too highly classified. Will that do you?”

“It’ll have to, won’t it? But how can I trust you? You’re with them, even if you’re not technically with MI5 or MI6. How do I know you’ll be telling me the truth?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Banksy. You don’t.”

“I mean, you could be feeding me whatever you want to, couldn’t you?”

“And they could feed me whatever they want you to know. Welcome to the dizzy world of the secret intelligence services. Is your phone safe?”

“It’s a pay-as-you-go.”

“How long have you had it?”

“Week or so.”

“Get rid of it as soon as you hear from me. I mean it.” Then, muttering “I must be a fucking lunatic” under his breath, he walked back to his car, leaving Banks to sit alone on the bench in the sun.