All the Colors of Darkness

16

What's this all about?” Derek Wyman asked Banks after Annie had picked him up and kept him waiting in the interview room for an hour. “It’s Saturday. I have to be at the theater. I’ve got a play to direct.”

“They’ll manage without you,” said Banks. “They have done before. Remember, when you were in London?”

“Yes, but—”

“You agreed to come here, right? I mean, you came voluntarily?”

“Well, yes. I mean, one doesn’t like to be uncooperative. I’ve got nothing to hide.”

“Then we’ll try not to keep you too long. I appreciate your attitude, Mr. Wyman,” said Banks. “Believe me, our lives would be a lot easier if everyone felt the same way you do. The problem is that most people do have something to hide.”

“Are you charging me? Do I need a solicitor or anything?”

“You’re not under arrest. You’re not being charged with anything. You can leave at any time. You’re here simply to answer a few questions. I should also tell you that you do not have to say anything, but it might harm your defense if you do not mention, when questioned, something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

“My defense? In court?”

“It’s a formal caution, Mr. Wyman. Standard procedure. To protect all of us. As for the solicitor, that’s up to you. Do you think you need one? You’re certainly entitled, if you think it would help, in which case you can either drag your own solicitor off the golf course, if you have one, or one will be provided for you.”

“But I haven’t done anything.”

“Nobody’s saying you have.”

Wyman looked over at the tape equipment and licked his lips. “But you’re recording this interview.”

“Again, standard procedure,” said Annie. “A safeguard. It’s for everyone’s good.”

“I don’t know...”

“If you’re at all uncertain,” Annie went on, “DCI Banks has already told you that you’re free to go. We’ll find some other way of doing this.”

“What do you mean?”

“DI Cabbot simply means that we have a few questions, and we’d like some answers,” Banks said. “This is the easy way. There are other ways. Stay or leave. It’s up to you.”

Wyman chewed on his bottom lip for a few moments, then he said, “Okay. I’ll answer your questions. As I said before, I’ve got nothing to hide.”

“Good,” said Banks. “Shall we start now?”

Wyman folded his arms. “All right.” He looked stiff, tense.

Banks gave Annie the signal to begin the questioning. “Can we get you anything first, Mr. Wyman?” she asked. “Cup of tea, perhaps? Or coffee?”

“Nothing, thanks. Let’s just get on with it.”

“Very well. How would you characterize your relationship with Mark Hardcastle?” Annie asked first.

“I don’t know, really. I mean, I didn’t have one. Not in the way you mean.”

“Oh? What way do I mean?”

“Don’t think I’m not aware of the subtle insinuation behind what you say. I direct plays. I know all about subtle insinuations.”

“I’m sure you do,” Annie said, “but actually I wasn’t being subtle at all. And I wasn’t insinuating anything. I was being quite straightforward. You say you didn’t really have a relationship, but you were friends, weren’t you?”

“Colleagues, really, more than friends.”

“But you went for a social drink every now and then, didn’t you?”

“Yes, on occasion.”

“And you had Mark Hardcastle and his partner, Laurence Silbert, over for dinner with your family. You also went with your wife, Carol, to their house on Castleview Heights once. Is that correct?”

“Yes. You know it is. I’m not prejudiced about people being gay.” “So why do you constantly play the whole relationship down? Is there something you’re not telling us?”

“No. Everything is just as I said it was.”

“But it was more than just a working relationship, wasn’t it?” Annie went on. “Not only did you go to London with Mark Hardcastle, you went drinking with him on several occasions in the Red Rooster. We just want to know why you didn’t tell us about that earlier, when we first questioned you.”

“I didn’t think it was important where we went for a drink, that’s all.”

“And perhaps you didn’t want to get involved?” Annie suggested. “I mean, it’s not unusual for people to want to distance themselves from a murder investigation. It does get rather dirty, and that dirt can sometimes rub off.”

“Murder? Who said anything about murder?” Wyman seemed flustered.

“Laurence Silbert was certainly murdered,” said Annie, “and we do believe that someone deliberately engineered the argument between Silbert and Hardcastle. Perhaps they only expected a falling-out and got more than they bargained for, but even that’s a bit nasty, isn’t it?”

“Maybe. But I don’t know anything about it.”

“Remember, Mr. Wyman. If you don’t tell us something now that you later rely on, it could go badly for you. This is your chance for a clean slate.”

“I’ve told you all I know.”

“But you were a lot closer to Mark and Laurence than you made out at first, weren’t you?”

“Perhaps. It’s hard to say. They were a very difficult couple to get to know.”

“What were those drinks in the Red Rooster all about?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Oh, come off it, Derek,” said Banks. “You know what we’re talking about. It’s not the sort of place for sophisticated men of the world like you and Mark Hardcastle to hang out. Why go there? Was it the karaoke? Fancy yourself as the new Robbie Williams, do you?”

“There was no karaoke when we were there. It was quiet enough. And they do a decent pint.”

“The beer’s rubbish,” said Banks. “Don’t expect us to believe that’s why you went there.”

Wyman glared at Banks, then looked imploringly at Annie, as if she were his lifeline, his anchor to sanity and safety. “What happened there, Derek?” she asked gently. “Go on. You can tell us. We heard that Mark was upset by something you said and you were calming him down. What was it all about?”

Wyman folded his arms again. “Nothing. I don’t remember.”

“This isn’t working,” said Banks. “I think we’d better move on to a more official legal footing.”

“What do you mean?” Wyman asked, glancing from one to the other. “More official?”

“DCI Banks is impatient, that’s all,” Annie said. “It’s nothing. Just that this is a sort of informal chat, and we hoped it would resolve our problems. We don’t really want to move on to matters of detention, body searches, home searches and intimate samples or anything like that. Not yet, anyway. Not when we can settle matters as easily as this.”

“You can’t intimidate me,” Wyman said. “I know my rights.”

“Was it about work?” Annie asked.

“What?”

“Your discussion with Mark in the Red Rooster.”

“It might have been. That’s what we usually talked about. I told you we were more colleagues than friends.”

“I understand that you were a bit upset about Mark wanting to direct plays himself and trying to start up a professional acting troupe, using paid locals and jobbing actors, attached to the Eastvale Theatre,” Annie said. “That you thought it would threaten your position. I can see how that would get to you. It must be the only bit of real job satisfaction you get after a day at the comprehensive with the likes of Nicky Haskell and Jackie Binns.”

“They’re not all like that.”

“I suppose not,” said Annie. “But it must still be a bit depressing. You love the theater, don’t you? It’s the one thing you’re passionate about. And here was Mark Hardcastle, already a brilliant set designer, just waiting in the wings to take over directing, too. Artistic director of his own company. It would have been no contest, would it?”

“Mark couldn’t direct his way out of a paper bag.”

“But he was the up-and-coming star,” Banks said. “He had professional theater experience. He had big ideas. It would have put the Eastvale Theatre on the map a lot more significantly than a bloody Amateur Dramatic Company. You’re just a schoolteacher moonlighting as a director. As DI Cabbot says, no contest.”

Wyman squirmed in his chair. “I don’t know where all this is supposed to be leading, but—”

“Then let me show you,” said Banks. “DI Cabbot might want to go gently with you, but I’ve had enough pissing about.” He took some photographs from an envelope in front of him and slipped them across the table to Wyman.

“What are these?” Wyman asked, glancing down at them.

“Surely you recognize Laurence Silbert?”

“It could be him. It’s not a very good photo.”

“Bollocks, Derek. It’s a perfectly good photo. Who’s the other man?”

“No idea.”

“Who took them?”

“How should I know?”

Banks leaned forward and rested his arms on the table. “I’ll tell you how you should know,” he said. “They were taken by a young female private detective called Tomasina Savage. On your instructions. What do you have to say about that?”

“That’s privileged! That was a private... It... You can’t...” Wyman started to get to his feet but banged his leg on the underside of the bolted table and sat down again.

“Privileged? You’ve been watching too many American cop shows,” Banks said. “Why did you employ Tomasina Savage to follow Laurence Silbert and take those photographs? We know you gave them to Mark at Zizzi’s and he tore them up as soon as he saw them, but he kept the memory stick. Did he really just go to the cinema with you after that? Or was it all a lie?”

“Can I have some water?”

Annie poured him a glass from the pitcher on the table.

“Why did you pay Tomasina Savage to take those photographs?” Banks repeated.

Wyman sipped his water and leaned back in his chair. For a few long moments, he said nothing, seemed to be coming to a decision, then he looked at them and said, “Because Mark asked me to. That’s why. I did it. Because Mark asked me to. But as God is my witness, it was not my intention that anyone should die.”

Winsome was getting sick and tired of traipsing around the East Side Estate with Harry Potter by six o’clock on Saturday evening. It was time to go home, she felt, have a long bath, put on a nice frock and go to the Potholing Club social at the Cat and Fiddle. Maybe have a quiet drink later with Steve Farrow, if he asked her. But they were getting close to finding the Bull.

So far, they had discovered that one of Jackie Binns’s recent recruits, Andy Pash, a fifteen-year-old wannabee trying to ingratiate himself with the rest of the gang, had told the Bull that Donny Moore had called him a big ugly Arab bastard and said he was going to get what was coming to him. Apparently, Moore had said nothing of the kind—he was neither stupid nor suicidal—but the Bull believed that he had and had gone after him. Nobody had actually witnessed the stabbing—or so everyone said—but they all knew who did it and, as expected, someone had eventually let the name slip.

Now they were going to talk to Andy Pash, and Winsome had the feeling that he might just be the weakest link.

Pash lived with his mother and two sisters on one of nicer streets on the estate. At least there weren’t any boarded-up windows or rusted cars parked in the garden. The woman who answered the door, a bleached blonde in a micro skirt with too much makeup, cigarette in one hand and handbag in the other, turned out to be his mother, Kath. If she was surprised to find a six-foot-plus black woman and a detective constable who resembled Harry Potter at her door just after six on a Saturday evening asking to talk to her son, she didn’t show it.

“He’s up in his room,” she said. “Can’t you hear the bloody racket? And I m off out.”

“You should be present while we question him,” Winsome said.

“Why? He’s a big boy. Help yourselves. And good luck. Close the door behind you.”

She brushed past them. Winsome and Doug Wilson exchanged glances. “Did she just give us permission?” Wilson asked.

“I think so,” said Winsome. “Besides, we’re not arresting him. We just want him to tell us where the Bull lives.”

Wilson muttered something about “fruit of the poisoned tree,” which Winsome was sure he must have got from an American cop program, and they went inside and shut the door. In the living room, a young girl of about thirteen lounged on the sofa watching The Simpsons. She had just lit a cigarette, no doubt the moment her mother had gone out of the door.

“Hey, you’re too young to be smoking,” said Winsome.

The girl jumped. The television was so loud that she hadn’t even noticed Winsome and Wilson enter the room. On the screen, Itchy was chopping Scratchy into little pieces again while Bart and Lisa chuckled away, “Who the fuck are you?” the girl said, reaching for her mobile. “Perverts? I’ll call the cops.”

“No need, love, we’re already here.” Winsome showed her warrant card. “And mind your language,” she said. “Now put that cigarette out.”

The girl glared at her.

“Put it out,” Winsome repeated.

Casually, the girl dropped her cigarette into a half-empty mug on the coffee table—her mother’s, judging by the lipstick smeared on the rim. It sizzled and went out.

“Charming,” said Wilson.

It was a small victory, Winsome knew, and as soon as they were out of the way the child would light up again, but of such small victories the war is sometimes won. “We’re off up to see your brother,” she said. “You behave yourself.”

“Lucky you,” said the young smoker, turning back to the TV.

Winsome and Wilson climbed the stairs. The noise was coming from the second door on the right, but before they could knock, the door across the landing opened and another girl peered out at them. She was younger than her sister, perhaps about nine or ten, a gawky young thing with thick-lensed glasses. She was holding a book in her hand, and though she didn’t look scared, she did seem curious as to what was going on. Winsome walked over and stood at the threshold of the room.

“Who are you?” the girl asked.

Winsome squatted so she could be on eye level with her. “My name’s Winsome Jackman. I’m a policewoman. And this is Doug. What’s your name?”

“Winsome’s a nice name. I’ve never heard it before. I’m Scarlett. I think I’ve seen your picture in the paper.”

“You might have done,” said Winsome. She had last made the headlines after bringing down a suspect with a flying rugby tackle in the heart of the Swainsdale Centre’s Marks and Spencer food department. “We’ve come to see your brother.”

“Oh,” said Scarlett, as if it were an everyday occurrence.

“What are you reading?” Winsome asked.

The girl clutched the book to her chest as if she feared someone were going to steal it from her. “Wuthering Heights

“I read that at school,” said Winsome. “It’s good, isn’t it?”

“It’s wonderful!”

Winsome could see the room behind her. It was reasonably tidy, though clothes lay scattered around on the floor, and there was a bookcase almost full of secondhand paperbacks. “You like to read?” she said.

“Yes,” said Scarlett. “But sometimes it’s just too noisy. They’re always shouting and Andy plays his music so very loud.”

“So I hear,” said Winsome.

“Sometimes it’s hard to follow the words.”

“Well, that’s a very grown-up book for a little girl.”

“I’m ten,” said Scarlett proudly. “I’ve read Jane Eyre, too! I just wish they’d be more quiet so I can read.”

“We’ll see what we can do.” Winsome stood up. “See you later, Scarlett,” she said.

“Bye-bye.” Scarlett shut her bedroom door.

After a swift tap, Winsome opened Andy Pash’s door and she and Wilson walked in.

“Hey,” said Pash, getting up from his unmade bed. “What’s all this? Who the fuck do you think you are?”

“Police,” said Winsome, flashing her card. “Your mother let us in. Said we could ask you a few questions. Do you want to turn that down? Off would be even better. Your little sister’s trying to read over the hall.”

“That little bookworm. She’s always got her face buried in a book,” Pash complained as he went over to the sound system.

The music was a sort of thumping, pulsating techno-beat rhythm that sounded to Winsome as if it had all been generated by computers and drum machines, though it did have a sort of Caribbean lilt. Most people assumed that Winsome was probably a reggae or calypso fan, but she actually hated reggae, which had been her father’s preferred music, and calypso, which her grandparents had adored. If she did listen to music at all, which wasn’t that often, she preferred the “best of” approach to classical music you got on Classic FM. All the catchy bits in one handy package. Why listen to the boring second movement of a symphony, she thought, if all you wanted to hear was that nice theme in the third?

Glumly, Andy Pash turned off the music, which originated from a shiny black iPod seated in a matching dock, and sat on the edge of his bed. It was a small room, and there were no chairs, so Winsome and Doug Wilson remained standing, leaning against the wall beside the door. The first thing Winsome noticed, glancing around, were the bookcases against one wall—or, more specifically, she noticed the rows of traffic cones that stood on them, all painted different colors.

“Quite the artist, I see, Andy,” said Winsome.

“Oh, that... yeah, well...”

“I suppose you know what you’ve done is theft?”

“They’re just traffic cones, for fuck’s sake.”

“Eastvale Road Department’s traffic cones, to be precise. And don’t swear while I’m around. I don’t like it.”

“You can have them back. It was just a lark.”

“Glad you can see the funny side of it.”

Pash peered at Wilson and said, “Anyone ever tell you that you look like—”

“Shut up,” said Wilson, pointing a finger at him. “Just you shut up right there, you little scrote.”

Pash held his hands up. “All right. Okay. It’s cool, man. Whatever.”

“Andy,” said Winsome, “have you ever heard of a bloke in the neighborhood called the Bull?”

“The Bull? Yeah. He’s a cool dude.”

American television had a lot to answer for when it came to the ruination of the English language, Winsome thought. She had been taught in a mountain village school by an Oxford-educated local woman who had come home after years in England to give something back to her people. She had given Winsome a love of the English language and its literature and inspired in her the desire to go to live in England one day, which had put her where she was now. Perhaps not exactly what Mrs. Marlowe would have wished, but at least she was here, in the land of Jane Austen, Shakespeare, Dickens and the Brontës. It was from her father, a corporal at the local station, that she had got her policing instinct, such as it was. “Know what his real name is?” she asked.

“No. I think it might be like Torgi or Tory or something like that, some sort of foreign name. Arab. Turkish, I think. But everyone calls him the Bull. He’s a big guy.”

“Does he wear a hoodie?”

“Sure.”

“Do you know where he lives?”

“I might do.”

“Would you care to tell us?”

“Hey, man. I don’t want the Bull thinking I sicced the cops on him.”

“It’s just a friendly chat we want, Andy. Like the one we’re having with you now.”

“The Bull don’t like the pigs.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t,” said Winsome. “So we’ll be especially careful not to oink too loudly.”

“Huh?”

Winsome sighed and crossed her arms. Clearly Pash was as stupid as he was obnoxious, which was fortunate for them, or he’d know to clam up. “Andy, did you tell this Bull that Donny Moore, Nicky Haskell’s right hand man, had called him an ugly Arab bastard?”

“Donny Moore is menkle. He deserved everything he got.”

“He deserved to get stabbed, did he?”

“Dunno.”

“Do you know who did that to him, Andy?”

“No idea. Not one of us.”

“What did you have to do to become a member ofJackie’s crew?”

“Whaddya mean?”

“You know what I mean, Andy. Usually you have to perform some sort of task, prove your loyalty, your courage, before you can be accepted into a gang. In some places it’s got as far as killing someone at random, but we still hang on to the vestiges of civilization here in Eastvale.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, man. I don’t know nothing about any vestergers.”

“Let me try to keep it simple then,” said Winsome. “What did Jackie Binns ask you to do to become a member of his gang?”

“He didn’t ask me nothing.”

“You’re lying, Andy.”

“I’m—”

“Andy!”

Pash turned away and stared sulkily at the wall. For all his surface bravado, Winsome thought, he was just a confused and scared kid. It didn’t mean he couldn’t be dangerous, or vicious, but she doubted very much that he would turn out really bad. A dumb petty criminal; at worst, the one who always got caught.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay. No need to shout at me. Nicky and Jackie, they never got along, right? Then along comes the Bull, and he’s, like, bigger than both of them. Jackie thought like maybe it would be a good idea to set them against each other, so, yeah, he said I should tell the Bull that Donny had bad-mouthed him. But I never saw anything. You’ve got to believe me. I don’t know who stabbed Donny, and I ain’t no witness to nothing.”

“Does the Bull carry a knife?”

“The Bull got a blade, yeah. A big one.”

“His address, Andy. The Bull’s address.”

“I don’t know no address.”

“Where does he live?”

“The flats. Hague House. Second floor. It’s got a green door, the only one there with a green door. Side facing the castle. I don’t know the number, I swear it. But don’t tell him I sent you.”

“Don’t worry, Andy. I wouldn’t think of it. But first I’d like you to come down to the station so we can get down what you’ve told all nice and legal, with a solicitor and all.”

“Do I have to?”

“Well, let me put it this way. Right now, I’m inclined to be lenient about the traffic cones, but if you start giving us any trouble, I’ll arrest you for being in possession of stolen property. Is that clear enough?” said Winsome.

Pash didn’t say anything. He just grabbed his jacket from the floor and followed Wilson downstairs.

“Think of it this way,” Winsome said. “It’ll give your little sister a bit of peace and quiet to read Wuthering Heights.”

When they left, Winsome could smell cigarette smoke coming from the living room.

"Now let me get this straight,” Banks asked Derek Wyman in the hot and stuffy interview room. “You’re telling us now that Mark Hardcastle asked you to spy on his lover Laurence Silbert because he suspected that Silbert was cheating on him, right?”

“That’s right,” said Wyman. “It wasn’t meant to go that far. No one was supposed to get hurt. Honest.”

“Why not do it himself?”

“He didn’t want to be seen.”

“Why did you hire Tomasina Savage?”

“Because I simply couldn’t get down to London on every occasion Laurence went there. And he knew me, too. There was always a chance he might spot me. I just looked in the yellow pages and liked the name. It didn’t matter when I found out it was a woman. She did a good job.”

“And those conversations with Mark in the Red Rooster?”

“It was somewhere out of the way, that’s all. I didn’t know the kids from school had started to drink there. Mark was telling me all about his suspicions. No wonder he seemed upset. He was. He loved Laurence.”

“Did he also tell you that he had a previous conviction for domestic assault on an ex-lover?”

Wyman shot Banks a puzzled glance. “No, he didn’t tell me that.” “So you just decided to help Mark in this out of the goodness of your heart?”

“Well, yes.”

“Without any idea of what the repercussions might be?”

“Obviously not. Like I said, I never intended for anyone to get hurt.”

“It’s not so obvious to me, Derek,” said Banks. “What did you have against Laurence Silbert that made you pursue him so aggressively? At the very least, you knew what you were doing might cause him great pain. It clearly caused Mark pain.”

“Well, Laurence deserved it, didn’t he, if he was cheating on Mark?”

“Were you in love with Mark?”

“Good God, no! Where on earth did you get that idea? I’m not... I mean... no.”

“All right,” said Banks. “Calm down. We have to ask these questions, just for the record.”

“I was only doing what Mark asked. A favor. As a friend. I didn’t... I mean, what happened is awful. I would never have...”

“And you’re certain there was nothing else in it for you, that it was nothing to do with the situation at the theater and that you had no other reason to want any harm to come to Laurence Silbert?”

“No. Why should there be?”

This was sticky ground. Superintendent Gervaise had insisted that they not refer to Silbert’s occupation, but Banks thought there was no harm in taking a little digression. “When you saw the pictures and heard Tomasina’s report, what did it bring to your mind?” he asked.

“That Mark was right. Laurence was meeting another man.”

“But they sat together on a park bench and walked to a house in Saint John’s Wood, where an elderly woman opened the door to them. She might not have been visible in the photographs, but she was mentioned in Tomasina Savage’s report. Are you telling me that this looked to you like a man meeting his lover?”

“I don’t know, do I?” said Wyman. “It wasn’t my business to find out who or what he was, just to report to Mark that he met someone.”

“Even if it was innocent? In the sense that they weren’t having an affair but meeting for some other reason?”

“I wasn’t in a position to make those judgments. I just passed the photos on to Mark, told him what the private investigator had seen. Besides, why else could they have been meeting? Maybe the bloke was taking him home to meet his mother?”

“And how did Mark react?”

“How would you expect?”

“He tore them up in anger, didn’t he?”

“Yes. You already know that.”

“And you just carried on with your evening out together?”

“No. He took off. I don’t know where he went.”

“But you went to the National Film Theatre?”

“Yes.”

“So the rest was all lies, what you told us before?”

Wyman looked away. “Most of it, yes.”

“And did you also know that Silbert was a retired MI6 agent before I told you in the theater bar?” Banks said.

“No.”

“Are you sure about that, because you’ve lied to us before?”

“How would I know that? Besides, what does it matter? You already said he’d retired.”

“He might have been doing one or two little part-time jobs for his old masters. That would explain the visits to Saint John’s Wood, not an affair.”

“How could I know?”

“Surely Laurence would have let Mark know that his trips were work-related, even if he didn’t say what their purpose was. What made Mark think that Silbert was being unfaithful in the first place?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t say. Just little things, I suppose.”

Banks knew he probably shouldn’t be asking his next question, that he was courting the farthest reaches of Superintendent Gervaise’s wrath, but he couldn’t help himself, not now that Wyman had opened the door. “Did Mark give you any reason to believe that Silbert had anything to do with your brother’s death?”

Wyman’s jaw dropped. “What?”

“Derek, I know that your brother Rick died on a secret mission in Afghanistan, not in a helicopter accident. I’m just wondering if there was something extra in this for you, an element of revenge, shall we say, payback?”

“No. No, of course not. That’s ridiculous. I didn’t even know that Laurence had worked for MI6, so how could I connect him with Rick’s death? This is way out of line. I told you, I only did it because Mark asked me to. I haven’t done anything wrong. I haven’t committed any crime.” He checked his watch. “I think I’d like to go to work now. You did say I could leave whenever I wanted?”

Banks glanced at Annie again. They both knew that Wyman was right. He’d been responsible for the deaths of two men, but there was nothing they could do about it, nothing they could charge him with. Whether he was lying about Hardcastle’s asking him to spy on Silbert, it didn’t really matter. Whether he had been after revenge, either because Silbert had some direct connection with his brother’s death, or because Wyman had something against MI6 in general because of it, it didn’t matter. They might never know, anyway, unless Dirty Dick Burgess came up with some answers. Technically, no crime had been committed. Banks still felt deeply unhappy with the result, but he brought the interview to a close, turned off the recorders and told Wyman he could go to work.

Glad to be away from the station and home for the evening, Banks slipped in the Sarabeth Tucek CD he’d got to like so much over the past few months, poured himself a drink and went out to the conservatory to enjoy the evening light on the slopes of Tetchley Fell. The London bombing still haunted him every time he found himself alone, but it had faded slightly in his mind, become more surreal and remote, and there were moments when he could almost convince himself that it had all happened to someone else a long time ago.

Even though the case was really over, there were still a few loose ends he wanted to tie up, just for his own peace of mind. He picked up the phone and dialed Edwina Silbert’s number in Longborough. After about six rings she answered.

“Hello?”

“Edwina? It’s Alan Banks here.”

“Ah,” she said, “my dashing young copper.”

Banks could hear her breathe out smoke. He was glad he couldn’t smell it over the phone. “I don’t know so much about that,” he said. “How are you?”

“Coping. You know they released the body? The funeral’s next week. If you had anything to do with it, thank you.”

“I can’t claim any credit,” said Banks, “but I’m glad.”

“Is this a social call?”

“I wanted to let you know that it’s officially over.”

“I thought it was officially over last week?”

“Not for me, it wasn’t.”

“I see. And?”

Banks explained about what Derek Wyman had done, and why.

“That’s absurd,” said Edwina. “Laurence wasn’t being unfaithful.”

“But Mark thought he was.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Why not?”

“I just don’t believe it, that’s all.”

“I’m afraid it’s true.”

“But Mark knew perfectly well that Laurence was still involved with the service.”

“He did? I had thought he might, but...”

“Of course he did. He might not have known exactly what he was doing, but he knew the trips to London and Amsterdam were work-related. Why would he ask someone to spy on Laurence?”

“I don’t know,” said Banks. “He must have become suspicious somehow.”

“Rubbish. I think your Mr. Wyman is lying,” said Edwina. “I think he did it off his own bat, out of pure vindictiveness. He worked on Mark’s insecurity and put his own spin on those photographs.”

“You could be right,” Banks said, “but unfortunately, it doesn’t matter now. I can’t prove it, and even if I could, he still hasn’t committed any crime.”

“What a world,” said Edwina, with another sigh of smoke. “Two dear people dead and no crime committed. Was that why you rang?”

“Partly, yes.”

“There’s something else?”

“Yes. Remember when we talked and you first told me that Laurence worked for MI6?”

“Yes.”

“It crossed your mind then, didn’t it, that they might have somehow been responsible for his death? Remember, you told me to be careful, too.”

There was a pause and Banks heard a tinkle of ice. “At first, I suppose, yes,” Edwina said. “When someone with Laurence’s... history... dies in such a violent way, one necessarily has suspicions. They are a devious crowd.”

“Was that because of Cedric?”

“What?”

“When you spoke about your husband, you told me he had worked for the Secret Intelligence Service during the war, and that he still had connections. He died in a car crash at the height of the Suez crisis, when he was involved in some Middle Eastern oil deal. Didn’t that set off any alarm bells?”

“I suppose it did,” said Edwina. “Cedric was a good driver, and there was no investigation.”

“So when Laurence also died under suspicious circumstances, it occurred to you that there might be a connection?”

“I asked Dicky Hawkins at the time of Cedric’s death. Of course he denied it, but there was something in his manner, body language... I don’t know.”

“So you think Cedric might have been killed?”

“That’s the problem with these people, Mr. Banks,” Edwina said. “You just never really know, do you? And now I really must go. I’m tired. Good night.” She hung up.

When Banks put the phone down he could hear Sarabeth Tucek singing “Stillborn,” one of his favorites. So the Hardcastle-Silbert case, such as it was, was over, even if it had been all Derek Wyman’s malicious doing. They’d let Wyman walk out, a free man. There was nothing they could charge him with, and no matter what Edwina Silbert thought, no way they could refute his story, though Banks did suspect that there was more to it than he had told them, that what they had witnessed in the interview room was more of a performance than a confession, and that Wyman had simply managed to stay one step ahead and come up with a foolproof explanation when he needed one. Hardcastle and Silbert were dead, Wyman was responsible for their deaths, whether intentionally or not, and he had walked away.

Now that he was finished with Wyman, he could devote more thought to his other problem: Sophia. It couldn’t be insurmountable, he believed; there had to be a way of salvaging the relationship, perhaps it was even as simple as just letting a little time pass. Maybe it would also help to convince her that he wasn’t responsible if he let her into one or two more details of the case, including his conversation with Burgess. And a present wouldn’t go amiss, he was certain. Not a CD, but something unique, something that could become a part of her “collection.” He couldn’t replace what she had lost, of course, but he could offer something new, something that, in time, would grow into its own story, would acquire its own pedigree and tradition. By finding the right object, he could demonstrate that he understood, that he knew how important these things were to her, and that he knew it wasn’t just a materialistic obsession. And he thought that he did understand. It was a plan, at any rate.

Nearly an hour passed, and Banks had just switched Sarabeth for Cat Power’s The Covers Album, which opened with a slow, acoustic and almost unbearably sad version of “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction,” when his phone rang. He didn’t immediately recognize the voice. “Alan?”

“Yes.”

“This is Victor, Victor Morton. Sophia’s father. How are you?”

“I’m fine,” said Banks. “What can I do for you?”

“You can tell me what’s going on, for a start.”

Banks’s heart lurched into his throat. Christ, had Sophia told her father about the break-in? Was Victor going to blame Banks, too? “What do you mean?” he asked, with a dry mouth.

“I had a very interesting conversation with an old colleague yesterday,” Victor went on. “We met just by chance in the street, if you can believe that, and he suggested we have a drink together.”

“Who was it?”

“His name doesn’t matter. It was someone I knew from Bonn, someone I never liked, always suspected of being a bit... well, rather like the fellow we were talking about the other day.”

“Like Silbert? A spy?”

“Do you have to spell everything out for whoever’s listening?”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Banks. “The case is closed. Hardcastle suspected Silbert was having an affair and hired someone to get the evidence. Official version. It was just plain lover’s jealousy, after all, and it went terribly wrong. It’s over.”

“Well, perhaps someone should tell my colleague that.”

“What do you mean?”

“It started off as a pleasant-enough conversation, old times, retirement, pension plans and the like, then he started to ask about you, what I thought about you as a detective, how I felt about your relationship with my daughter.”

“And?”

“I don’t like being grilled, Alan. I told him nothing. Then he moved on, in a roundabout sort of way, started talking about how it is in consulates and embassies all over the world, how you pick up odd bits of information, pieces of the puzzle, things that are usually best forgotten. I simply agreed with him. Then he asked me if I knew anything about a man called Derek Wyman. I said no. Do you know this person?”

“He was the one,” Banks said. “The one who Hardcastle asked to get the evidence. But it was nothing to do with secrets, at least not the government kind. As I said, it was all to do with jealousy.”

“Well, he harped on about this Wyman for a while, was I sure I didn’t know him and so on, then he asked after my ‘lovely’ daughter Sophia—he actually mentioned her name—how she was doing. I told him fine as far as I knew and got my things together to leave. I’d had enough by then. Just as I was about to go, he grabbed my sleeve and told me to be careful. That’s all he said. No overt threat. Just ‘Be careful, Victor.’ Now what do you think that was all about?”

“Melodrama,” said Banks, nonetheless feeling his flesh crawl as he tried to shrug it off. “They love melodrama almost as much as they love games and codes.”

“Well, I hope so, Alan. I sincerely hope so. Because if anything happens to my daughter, I’ll—”

“If anything happens to your daughter, you’ll have to get in line, and I’ll be the first in the queue.”

“Just as long as we understand one another.”

“We do,” said Banks. “Good-bye, Victor.”

Banks sipped some wine and stroked his chin, feeling the two days’ stubble, thinking over what he’d just heard. Sometime later, Cat Power went into a stark and desolate “Wild Is the Wind” and a cloud cast a dark shadow shaped like a running deer as it drifted slowly over the daleside. Banks reached for the wine bottle.

The shadows were lengthening when Winsome and Doug Wilson, along with the few uniforms they had brought with them as support, approached Hague House. If the Bull was armed, then he might be dangerous. The officers were carrying a miniature battering ram, affectionately known as a “big red door key,” which they would use to break the door down if they got no answer. More uniforms were stationed at the bottom of the stairwells, where a small crowd had gathered. Andy Pash had reluctantly given an official statement, which gave them sufficient cause to bring the Bull in as a serious suspect in the Donny Moore stabbing. They had also managed to dig up his real name, which was Toros Kemal—hence the Bull, though Winsome doubted that “toros” meant bull in Turkish—and his criminal record, which was lengthy.

The lifts were out of order, as usual, so they had to climb the stairs on the outside of the building. Luckily, Kemal lived on the second floor, so they didn’t have too far to climb. One or two lurkers in the shadows scarpered pretty quickly when they saw the uniforms.

Winsome found the green door easily enough. She could hear the sound of a television from inside. Andy Pash had let slip that Kemal was living with a young woman called Ginny Campbell, who was on the council list as the only tenant. She had two young children by another man, so there was a potential hostage situation and they would have to be careful.

“Step back a bit, ma’am,” said one of the uniformed officers. “We’ll take care of this part.”

“Be our guest,” said Winsome. She and Doug Wilson stepped back toward the stairwell, about twenty feet away.

The officer rapped on the door and bellowed, “Toros Kemal. Open up. Police.”

Nothing happened.

He knocked again, his colleague beside him with the battering ram at the ready, itching to use it. People were starting to appear in their doorways and at their windows.

Finally the door opened and a tall man stood framed in the doorway, stripped to the waist, wearing only a pair of tracksuit bottoms and trainers. He rubbed his head as if he had just woken up. “Yeah, what is it?”

“Mr. Kemal,” said the uniformed officer. “We’d like you to accompany us to the station for questioning in the matter of the stabbing of Donny Moore.”

“Moore. Don’t know him,” said Kemal. “Just let me get my shirt.”

“I’ll accompany you, sir,” one of the officers said. They went inside. The other officer lowered his battering ram, clearly disappointed, relaxed and shrugged at Winsome. Sometimes things were easier than you thought they’d be. Winsome was standing by the stairwell, Wilson behind her, when Kemal came out with the uniformed officer. Kemal was wearing a red T-shirt.

“I’ve gotta tie my laces, man,” he said in the doorway, and knelt. The officers stepped back, behind him. In less than a second, he had a knife in his hand, pulled from a sheath strapped to his lower leg. The officers took out their extendable batons, but they were too slow. The Bull wasn’t hanging around. Winsome and Wilson were the only ones blocking his way to the stairs, and Wilson was hidden behind her. The Bull came charging straight for her as if he’d just come into the ring, building up a head of steam, letting out an almighty yell, with his arm stretched out, mouth open, pointing the blade directly at her as he ran.

Winsome felt a chill run through her, then her self-defense training took over, pure instinct. There was no time for anything else. She stood her ground, readied herself, let him come to her. She grabbed his outstretched knife arm with both hands, let herself fall on her back, and using the impetus he’d built up, she wedged her feet in his solar plexus and pushed with all her might.

Kemal was traveling fast enough that it all happened in one seamless, choreographed movement. There was a gasp from the crowd below as he flipped heels over head in the air, then his back bounced against the flimsy balcony, and he disappeared over the edge with a scream. Winsome lay on her back on the concrete now, gasping for breath. She had long legs, she had pushed hard, and his momentum had been considerable.

In just seconds, Doug Wilson and the two uniformed officers were standing over her, muttering apologies and praise. She waved them aside and stood up gasping for breath. She felt lucky. One minor mis-judgment and she would probably have had a knife through her chest. They should have handcuffed and searched Kemal before bringing him out. Well, it would all go down in the reports, and bollockings would be freely handed out. For the moment, Winsome was just happy to be alive. She turned and looked over the balcony, down at the courtyard. The Bull wasn’t so lucky. He was lying on his back in a very twisted way, a darkening stain spreading slowly around his head.

Wilson was already on his mobile for an ambulance, so the best thing they could do now was get down there. In the melee, the woman Kemal lived with, Ginny Campbell, had come out of her flat and she was hanging over the balcony, a baby clutched to her breast, looking down at her lover’s body, crying and screaming, “You’ve killed him! You’ve killed him! You filthy murdering bastards!” The crowd was picking up on her outrage, too, calling out insults. Winsome didn’t like the way she could sense the mood quickly changing.

Before things got any worse, she phoned the station for backup, and slowly the four of them made their way down the stairs to see what, if anything, they could do for Toros “the Bull” Kemal.