All the Colors of Darkness

2

Got it!” said Annie, punching the air in victory.

It was half past eight on Saturday morning, and she and Winsome were in the Western Area HQ squad room with DC Doug Wilson. They had called it a day at seven o’clock the previous evening, after Vernon Ross had identified Mark Hardcastle’s body, and after a quick drink they had each gone their separate ways home.

Wilson had canvassed the local shops and discovered that Mark Hardcastle had bought the yellow clothesline from a hardware shop owned by a Mr. Oliver Grainger at about a quarter to one on Friday afternoon. He had blood on his hands and face, and Grainger had thought he might have cut himself doing some carpentry. When he had asked about this, Hardcastle had shrugged it off. He had been wearing his black wind cheater zipped up, so Grainger hadn’t been able to see if there was also blood on his arms. Hardcastle had also smelled strongly of whiskey, though he hadn’t acted drunk. According to Grainger, he had appeared oddly calm and subdued.

Now, while sorting through the SOCO reports on her desk, Annie discovered that a thorough search of Mark Hardcastle’s car had produced a letter mixed in among the newspapers and magazines in the boot. The letter was nothing in itself, just an old special wine offer from John Lewis, but it was addressed to a Laurence Silbert at 15 Castleview Heights, and somehow it had got mixed in with the papers for recycling. Castleview Heights was nothing if it wasn’t posh.

“Got what?” said Winsome.

“I think I’ve found the lover. He’s called Laurence Silbert. Lives on the Heights.” Annie got up and grabbed her jacket from the back of her chair. “Winsome,” she said, “could you hold the fort here and start the interviews if I’m not back in time?”

“Of course,” said Winsome.

Annie turned to Doug Wilson. With his youthful looks—which, along with the glasses, had earned him the nickname of “Harry Potter” around the station—his hesitant manner and a tendency to stutter when under stress, he wasn’t the right person to conduct the interviews, but all he needed, Annie reckoned, was a bit more self-confidence, and only on-the-job experience would give him that. “Want to come along, Doug?” she asked.

Winsome gave Wilson a nod, assuring him it was okay, that she wasn’t feeling slighted. “Yes, guv,” he said. “Absolutely.”

“Shouldn’t we find out a bit more about the situation first?” Winsome said.

But Annie was already at the door, Wilson at her heels. Annie turned. “Like what?”

“Well... you know... it’s a pretty posh area, the Heights. Maybe this Silbert is married or something? I mean, you shouldn’t just go barging in there without knowing a bit more about the lie of the land, should you? What if he’s got a wife and kids?”

“I shouldn’t think he has, if Maria Wolsey was right when she said he and Mark were practically living together,” said Annie. “But if Laurence Silbert is married with children, I’d say his wife and kids deserve to know about Mark Hardcastle, wouldn’t you?”

“I suppose you’re right,” said Winsome. “Just tread softly, that’s all I’m saying. Don’t tread on any toes. A lot of people up there are friends with the chief constable and ACC McLaughlin, you know. You’ll ring and let me know what happens?”

“Yes, Mother.” Annie smiled to soften the barb. “As soon as I know myself,” she added. “Bye.”

DC Wilson put on his glasses and dashed out of the door behind her.

Winsome was perhaps understating it when she described the Heights, as the area was known locally, as “a bit” posh, Annie thought as DC Wilson parked on the street outside number 15. It was a lot posh, with the reputation of being an exclusive club for Eastvale’s wealthy and privileged. You wouldn’t get much change from a million quid for a house up there. If you could find one on the market, and if the tenants’ association and neighborhood watch committee approved of your credentials. They must have approved of Laurence Silbert, Annie thought, which meant that he had money and status. The homosexuality would not necessarily be a problem so long as he was discreet about it. All-night raves with rent boys, on the other hand, might attract a bit of local disapproval.

Getting out of the car, Annie could see why the locals did their best to protect and preserve their habitat from the hoi polloi. She had been up there once or twice before during her time at Eastvale, but had almost forgotten how magnificent the view was.

To the south, straight ahead, she could see over the slate and flagstone rooftops and crooked chimneys of the terraced streets below to the cobbled market square, with its tiny dots dashing about their business. Just to the left of the Norman church tower, beyond The Maze, stood the ruined castle on its hill, and below that, at the bottom of the colorful hillside gardens, the river Swain tripped over a series of little waterfalls, sending up white spray and foam. Directly across the water stood The Green, with its Georgian semis and mighty old trees. Things got uglier after that, with the East Side Estate poking its redbrick terraces, two tower blocks and maisonettes through the gaps in the greenery, and then came railway lines. Even farther out, Annie could see all the way across the Vale of York to the steep rise of Sutton Bank.

South, past the square and the castle, on the left riverbank, she could also see the beginnings of Hindswell Woods, but the spot where Mark Hardcastle’s body had been discovered came after a bend in the river and was hidden from view.

Annie breathed in the air. It was another beautiful day, fragrant and mild. DC Wilson stood waiting for instructions, hands in his pockets, and Annie turned to the house. It was an impressive sight: a walled garden with a black wrought-iron gate surrounded the gabled mansion built of local limestone, with large mullioned windows and ivy and clematis climbing up the walls.

A short gravel drive led from the gate to the front door. Just to the right stood an old coach house, the lower half of which had been converted into a garage. The double doors were open, and inside was an extremely sleek, beautiful and expensive silver Jaguar. There would be plenty of room to hide Hardcastle’s old Toyota in there, too, Annie thought. It wasn’t the kind of car the neighbors would appreciate seeing parked on their street, though the houses were generally far enough apart here, and separated by high walls and broad lawns, that the people who lived in them need have as little to do with one another as possible.

So Mark Hardcastle hadn’t only got lucky in love; he had also found himself a rich boyfriend into the bargain. Annie wondered how much that had mattered to him. It was a long journey for the son of a Barnsley coal miner, and it made Annie feel even more intrigued to meet the mysterious Laurence Silbert.

Annie banged the brass lion’s head-knocker on the front door. The sound echoed throughout the entire neighborhood, quiet but for the sounds of traffic from the town below and the twittering of birds in the trees. But from inside there was nothing. She knocked again. Still nothing. She turned the handle. The door was locked.

“Shall we try round the back, guv?” asked Wilson.

Annie peered in through the front windows but could see only dim, empty rooms. “Might as well,” she said.

The path led between the coach house and the main building into a spacious back garden complete with hedges, a well-kept lawn, wooden garden shed, flower beds and a winding stone path. On their way, Annie put her hand on the Jaguar’s bonnet. Cool. In the garden, a white metal table and four chairs stood under the shade of a sycamore.

“Seems like everyone’s away, doesn’t it?” said Wilson. “Perhaps this Silbert bloke’s on holiday?”

“But his car’s in the garage,” Annie reminded him.

“Maybe he’s got more than one? Bloke this rich... Range Rover or something? Visiting his country estates?”

Wilson had imagination; Annie had to grant him that. There was a spacious conservatory attached to the back of the house, complete with rough whitewashed walls and rustic wooden table and chairs. She tried the door and found that it was open. A small pile of newspapers lay on the table, dated last Sunday.

The door that led through to the main house was locked, however, so she knocked and called out Silbert’s name. Her attempts were met with nothing but a silence that made the hairs at the back of her neck stand on end. Something was wrong; she knew it. Could she justify breaking in without a warrant? She thought so. A man had been found dead, and a letter in his possession clearly linked him to this address.

Annie wrapped her hand in one of the newspapers and punched out the pane of glass directly above the area of the lock. She was in luck. Inside was a large key that opened the dead bolt when she turned it. They were in.

The interior of the house was gloomy and cool after the bright, warm conservatory, but as her vision adjusted and she found herself in the living room, Annie noticed that it was cheerfully enough decorated, with vibrant modern paintings on the walls—Chagall and Kandinsky prints—and light, airy colors, paint and wallpaper. It just didn’t get much light downstairs. The room was empty except for a three-piece suite, a black grand piano and a series of bookcases built into the walls, mostly holding old leather-bound volumes.

They walked through to the kitchen, which was state-of-the-art— all gleaming white tiles, brushed steel surfaces and every utensil a master chef would ever need. Everything was spotless. The cooking area itself was separated from the dining room by a long island. Clearly, Hardcastle and Silbert liked to entertain at home, and one of them, at least, probably enjoyed cooking.

A broad carpeted staircase with gleaming banisters and wainscoting led from the hallway upstairs. As they walked up, every once in a while Annie called out Silbert’s name in case he was somewhere else in the house where he hadn’t been able to hear them earlier, but she was still met with that same chill and eerie silence. The dark-patterned carpet on the landing was thick, and their feet made no noise as they padded around, checking the rooms.

It was behind the third door that they found Laurence Silbert.

Fortunately, they didn’t have to do anything more than stand at the threshold to see the body that lay spread-eagled on the sheepskin rug in front of the hearth. Silbert—or at least Annie assumed it was Silbert—lay on his back on the rug, arms spread out, making the shape of a cross. His head had been beaten to a pulp, and a dark halo of blood had soaked into the sheepskin around it. He was wearing tan chinos and a shirt that had once been white but was now mostly dark red. The area between his legs was also bloody, whether from cuts or overspill from the head injuries, Annie couldn’t tell.

She managed to drag her eyes away from the body and look around the room. Like the rest of the house, the upstairs drawing room, complete with Adam fireplace, was a strange mix of the antique and the contemporary. A framed picture that reminded Annie very much of Jackson Pollock hung over the empty fireplace. Maybe it was a Jackson Pollock. Sunlight poured in through the high sash windows, lighting the Persian carpets, antique desk and a brown leather-upholstered settee.

Annie became vaguely aware of Wilson’s grunt and the sound of him being sick on the landing before he managed to get to the bathroom.

Pale and trembling, she shut the door and reached for her mobile. First she rang Detective Superintendent Gervaise at home and explained the situation. It wasn’t that Annie didn’t know what to do, but something big like this, you let the boss know immediately, or things have a nasty habit of coming back at you. As expected, Gervaise said she would call in the SOCOs, photographer, police surgeon, then she said, “And, DI Cabbot?”

“Yes?”

“I think it’s time we called DCI Banks back. I know he’s supposed to be on holiday, but things could get very messy up here, and this is the Heights. We need to be seen to have a senior and experienced officer in charge. No criticism implied.”

“None taken, ma’am,” said Annie, who felt she could handle the situation perfectly well with Winsome and Doug Wilson. “As you wish.”

As she leaned against the wall watching an ashen Wilson sitting on the stairs with his head in his hands and picked Banks’s mobile number from her BlackBerry’s address book, Annie thought this would certainly put the kibosh on Banks’s Saturday-morning shag. Then she chastised herself for having such evil thoughts and pressed the call button.

Alan Banks stretched and almost purred as he reached for the lukewarm cup of tea on the bedside table. The sun was shining, the glorious morning warmth rolling in through the slightly open window, the net curtains fluttering. Tinariwen were singing “Cler Achel” on the alarm clock’s iPod Dock, electric guitar weaving in and out of the Bo Diddley-style riff, and all was well with the world. The little semicircle of stained glass above the main window filtered the light red and green and gold. The first time Banks had woken up in that room he had had a bad hangover, and for a moment he had felt as if he had died and woken up in heaven.

Sophia had had to go to work, unfortunately, but just for the morning. Banks was due to meet her outside Western House and go for lunch at a little pub they liked, the Yorkshire Grey, off Great Portland Street. That evening, they were hosting a dinner party, and they would spend the afternoon shopping for ingredients at one of her favorite farmers’ markets, probably Notting Hill. Banks knew how it worked. He had been with Sophia on previous occasions, and he loved to watch her choosing strangely shaped and oddly colored fruits or vegetables, an expression of pure childlike wonder and concentration on her face as she weighed them in her hands and felt their firmness and the texture of their skin, tongue nipped gently between her teeth. She would chat with the stall owners, ask them questions, and she always walked away with more than she intended to buy.

In the evening, he would offer to help make dinner, but he knew that Sophia would only shoo him out of the way. At best he might be allowed to chop a few vegetables, or prepare the salad, then he would be banished to the garden to read and sip his wine. The special alchemy of cooking was reserved for Sophia alone. He had to admit that she did it with exquisite style and flair. He hadn’t eaten so well in ages, ever, if truth be told. After the guests had gone, he would stack the dishwasher while Sophia leaned back against the kitchen counter, a glass of wine in her hand, and quizzed him about the various courses, seeking an honest opinion.

Banks put his cup down and lay back. He could smell the pillow where Sophia had lain beside him, her hair like the memory of apples he had picked in the orchard with his father one glorious autumn afternoon of his childhood. His fingers remembered the touch of her skin, and that brought back the one little wrinkle on the mantle of his happiness.

Last night, making love, he had told her that she had beautiful skin, and she had laughed and replied, “So I’ve been told.” It wasn’t the little vanity that bothered him, her awareness of her own beauty—he found that quite sexy—but the dark thought of the other men who had been close enough to tell her that before him. That way madness lies, he told himself, or at least misery. If he surrendered to images of Sophia naked and laughing with someone else, he didn’t know if he would be able to hang on to his sanity. No matter how many lovers she had had, whatever he and she had done together, they did for the first time. That was the only way to think of it. John and Yoko had it right: Two Virgins.

Enough lounging around and slipping into dark thoughts, Banks told himself. It was nine o’clock, time to get up.

After he had showered and dressed, he made his way downstairs. He thought he would go to the local Italian café this morning, read the papers and watch the world go by, then he might just have time to drop in at the HMV on Oxford Street on his way to Fitzrovia and see if the new Isobel Campbell and Mark Lanegan was out.

Sophia’s terrace house was in a narrow street off the King’s Road. She had got it as part of her divorce settlement, otherwise she would never have been able to afford such a location. It had to be worth a fortune today. It had a pastel-blue facade that reminded Banks a little of the blue of Santorini, perhaps deliberate, as Sophia was half Greek, with white trim and white-painted wooden shutters. There was no front garden, but a low brick wall with a small gate stood about three feet or so from the front door, so it didn’t open directly onto the street. Though it looked very narrow from the outside, the lot was deep and, TARDIS-like, the space opened up when you went inside: living room to the right, stairs to the left, dining room and kitchen at the end of the hall, and a little garden out back where you could sit in the shade, and where Sophia grew herbs and cultivated a couple of flower beds.

On the second level were the two bedrooms, one with an en suite shower and toilet, and French windows leading to a tiny wrought-iron balcony with a couple of matching small chairs, round iron table and a few plants in large terra-cotta urns. They hadn’t sat out for a while, either because of the rain or the never-ending and noisy renovations next door. Above the bedrooms was a converted attic area, which Sophia used as her home office.

The house was full of things. Spindly legged tables inlaid with ivory or mother-of-pearl held artfully arranged displays of fossils, stone jars, amphorae, Victorian shell boxes, Limoges china, crystals, agates, sea-shells and smooth pebbles that Sophia had collected from all over the world. She knew where each one came from, what it was called. The walls were covered with original paintings, mostly abstract landscapes by artists she knew, and every nook and cranny was home to a piece of sculpture, contemporary in style and varying from soapstone to brass in material.

Sophia loved masks, too, and had collected quite a few. They hung between the paintings, dark wooden ones from Africa, tiny colored bead ones from South America, painted ceramic masks from the Far East. There were also peacock feathers, dried ferns and flowers, a chunk of the Berlin Wall, tiny animal skulls from the Nevada desert, spondylus from Peru, and many-colored worry beads from Istanbul hung over the mantelpiece. Sophia said she loved all these things and felt responsible for them; she was merely taking care of them temporarily, and they would continue long after she was gone.

Quite a responsibility, Banks had said, which was why Sophia had installed a top-of-the-line security system. Sometimes he felt as if her house were a museum and she was its curator. Maybe he was an exhibit, too, he thought: her pet detective, to be brought out at artistic gatherings. But that was unfair. She had never done anything to make him feel that way. Sometimes he wished he had a clearer idea of what she was thinking, though, of what drove her and what really mattered to her. He realized that he didn’t really know her well at all; she was, at heart, a very private person who surrounded herself with people to remain hidden.

Banks remembered to set the security code before he left. Sophia would never forgive him if he forgot and someone broke in. Insurance was no good. None of the stuff was valuable, except perhaps some of the paintings and sculptures, but to her everything was priceless. It was also just the sort of stuff on which a burglar, irritated at finding nothing he could fence, might take out his frustrations.

Banks stopped at the newsagent’s and bought The Guardian, which he thought had the best Saturday review section, then headed to the Italian café for his espresso and a chocolate croissant. Not the healthiest of breakfasts, perhaps, but delicious. And it wasn’t as if he had a weight problem. Cholesterol was another matter. His doctor had already put him on a low dose of statin, and he had decided that that took care of the problem and allowed him to eat pretty much what he wanted. After all, he only had to be careful what he ate if he wasn’t taking the pills, surely?

He had no sooner got his espresso and croissant and sat down to read the film and CD reviews at one of the window tables when his mobile buzzed. He pressed the answer button and put the phone to his ear. “Banks.”

“Alan. Sorry to bother you on your weekend off,” said Annie, “but we’ve got a bit of a crisis brewing up here. The super says we could use your help.”

“Why? What is it?”

He listened as Annie told him what she knew.

“It sounds like a murder-suicide to me,” said Banks. “For Christ’s sake, Annie, can’t you and Winsome handle it? Sophia’s organizing a dinner party tonight.”

He could hear Annie’s intake of breath and the pregnant pause that followed. He knew she didn’t like Sophia and put it down to jealousy. A woman scorned, and all that. Not that he had ever really scorned her, though he had sent her packing a while ago when she had come to his cottage drunk and amorous. If anything, she had scorned him. Most people were pleased for him—his son Brian and girlfriend Emilia, his daughter Tracy, Winsome Jackman, ex-Detective Superintendent Gristhorpe, his closest friend. But not Annie.

“It’s not my idea,” she said finally. “I don’t even know why you’d think it would be. The last thing I’d want to do is spoil Sophia’s dinner party by stealing you away. But it’s orders from above. You know we’re short-staffed. Besides, it could turn into something big and nasty. There’s money involved—Castleview Heights—and the gay community. Yes, I agree, it looks like a murder-suicide so far, but we haven’t got the forensics back yet and we don’t know a great deal about the victims, either.” “And you know you won’t get forensics until the middle of next week. Maybe you should have waited until then before calling me.” “Oh, bollocks, Alan,” said Annie. “I don’t need this. I’m only the messenger. Just get up here and do your job. And if you’ve got a problem with that, talk to the super.”

And she left Banks listening to the silence, chocolate croissant halfway to his mouth.

Annie stood behind the crime scene tape that zigzagged across the door of the drawing room and watched Peter Darby, their photographer, go to work for the second time in two days. She was still inwardly fuming at Banks, but on the outside she was all business. She had been shaken by what she had seen and had overreacted, simple as that, but Banks could really get up her nose without trying very hard these days. Who the hell did he think he was, telling her what to do and what not to do?

Stefan Nowak was running the show for the moment. He stood beside Annie with a clipboard in his hand, checking off actions, his SOCO team kitted up and ready to go as and when required. A couple of them were working the landing, where there were bloodstains on the carpet and smears on the wall, as if the killer had brushed against it as he ran off.

The room wasn’t very large, and the fewer people who were in it at one time, the better, Nowak had said, so he was restricting admission and working according to a strict hierarchy of access. Everyone going in, of course, had to wear full protective clothing, and their names were entered in the log. Even Annie and Doug Wilson were properly kitted out. Dr. Burns, the police surgeon, the on-scene forensic medical examiner, had already pronounced death and now he went back to work to glean what information he could from the body.

The whole house and gardens had been cordoned off as a crime scene, but this room was the center of it all, and it was even more scrupulously protected. Nobody but those given the okay by Nowak would get past the door, and they’d do it in the order he decided. Luckily, Annie and Wilson had discovered the body, and neither had entered the room, so for once Nowak was pleased to find that he had as close to a pristine crime scene as he could hope for.

Annie went over to Wilson, who was still sitting on the stairs in his white oversuit recovering, and put her arm over his shoulder. “All right, Douggie?”

Wilson nodded, glasses dangling from his hand. “Sorry, guv, you must think I’m a right girl’s blouse.”

“Not at all,” said Annie. “Can I get you some water or something?”

Wilson pulled himself unsteadily to his feet. “I’ll get it myself, if that’s okay,” he said. “Back in the saddle and all that.” And he wobbled off downstairs. There were SOCOs working down there, too, Annie knew, and they would make sure Wilson didn’t touch anything he shouldn’t.

When Annie went back to the drawing room door, Dr. Burns was just finishing his external examination. As soon as Burns came out, Nowak sent in the trace experts to take blood, hair and whatever other samples they could find, along with a blood-spatter analyst. To the untrained eye, the place was a shambles, but an expert like Ralph Tonks could read it like a map of who had been where, done what to whom, and with what.

Annie went in with them. She needed a closer look at the body. She didn’t blame Wilson for being sick. She had seen quite a few crime scenes in her time, but this one had shaken her, too: the sheer frenzied violence of it, the blood and brains splattered everywhere, the sense of pointless overkill. Lacquered antique tables had been knocked over and broken, vases smashed, mirrors and crystalware shattered, along with a bottle of single-malt whiskey and a decanter of port; the floor was strewn with bright flowers, dark stains and shards of glass. Amid it all, now that she was closer, Annie could make out a framed photograph on the floor, its glass spiderwebbed with cracks, showing Mark Hardcastle with his arm around the shoulders of the dead man. Both were smiling into the camera.

She could also see that one of Silbert’s eyeballs was hanging from its socket and his front teeth ran in a jagged line, the lips torn and shrunken back. He was recognizable, but barely, and Annie wouldn’t want to be the one responsible for asking a family member to identify him. DNA would be the best route to go for that.

When she peered more closely again at the framed picture on the wall that she had taken for a Jackson Pollock, she saw that it was a woodland scene sprayed with blood. In fact, it wasn’t a painting at all, but a blown-up photograph, digital, probably, and if Annie wasn’t mistaken, it was taken in Hindswell Woods, and it showed, on the far left, the very oak tree on which Mark Hardcastle had hanged himself. She felt a shiver run up her spine.

She ducked under the tape and went back out to join Dr. Burns on the landing. He was busy making notes in a black-bound book, and she waited in silence until he had finished.

“Jesus Christ,” Burns whispered, putting the notebook away and looking at her. “I’ve rarely seen such a vicious attack.”

“Anything you can tell me?” Annie asked.

Burns was almost as pale as Wilson. “According to body temperature and the progress of rigor,” he said, “I’d estimate that he’s been dead about twenty to twenty-four hours.”

Annie made a quick back-calculation. “Between nine a.m. and one p.m. yesterday, then?”

“Approximately.”

“Cause of death?”

Dr. Burns glanced back to the body. “You can see that for yourself. Blows to the head with a blunt object. I can’t say yet which blow actually killed him. It could have been the one across his throat. It certainly broke his larynx and crushed his windpipe. Dr. Glendenning should be able to tell you more at the postmortem. It may even be the one to the back of his head, in which case he could have been walking away from his killer, taken by surprise. He could then have turned over when he fell, trying to struggle to his feet, so the other blows landed on the front of his skull and throat.”

“When he was already down?”

“Yes.”

“Jesus. Go on.”

“There are defensive wounds on the backs of his hands, and some of the knuckles have been shattered, as if he held them over his face to protect himself.”

“Is the arrangement of the body natural?”

“Seems that way to me,” said Burns. “You’re thinking of the cross shape, did someone arrange it that way?”

“Yes.”

“I doubt it. I think when he gave up the ghost he just let his arms fall naturally the way they did. A posed body would appear far more symmetrical. This doesn’t. See how crooked the right arm is? It’s broken, by the way.”

“Weapon?”

Burns jerked his head back toward the room. “The SOCOs have it. A cricket bat.” He gave a harsh laugh. “And from what I could tell, a cricket bat signed by the entire England team that won back the Ashes in 2005. Read what you will into that.”

Annie didn’t want to read anything into it yet. Perhaps the cricket bat had just been lying around, the handiest weapon available? Or perhaps the killer had brought it with him? An angry Australian fan? Premeditated. That would be determined later. “What about the other wounds... you know...” Annie said. “Between his legs?”

“On a cursory examination I’d say they were also done with the cricket bat, and that the blood you see there was transferred from the head wounds.”

“So that happened after he was dead?”

“Well, he may have still been clinging on to some vestiges of life, but it was done after the head wounds, I’d say, yes. Probably a lot of internal damage. Again, the postmortem will tell you much more.”

“Sex crime?”

“That’s for you to decide. I’d certainly say that the evidence points that way. Otherwise, why attack the genitals after the head?”

“A hate crime, perhaps? Antigay?”

“Again, it’s possible,” said Burns. “Or it could simply be a jealous lover. Such things aren’t unknown, and the element of overkill points in that direction, too. Whatever it is, you’re certainly dealing with some high-octane emotions here. I’ve never seen such rage.”

You can say that again, thought Annie. “Was there any sexual interference?”

“As far as I can tell, there was no anal or oral penetration, and there are no obvious signs of semen on or around the body. As you can see, though, it’s rather a mess in there, very hard to be certain of such things, so again I’d suggest you wait for the full SOCO report and Dr. Glendenning’s postmortem before forming any conclusions.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” said Annie. “I will.”

And with that, Dr. Burns marched off down the stairs.

Annie was just about to follow him when Stefan Nowak came over, a small leather-bound book in his gloved hand. “Thought you might find this useful,” he said. “It was on the desk.”

Annie took the book from him and looked inside. It was an address book. There didn’t seem to be many entries, but there were two that interested her in particular: Mark Hardcastle on Branwell Court, and one written simply as “Mother,” with a phone number and address in Longborough, Gloucestershire. “Thanks, Stefan,” said Annie. “I’ll inform the locals and make sure someone goes out there to break the news.” Annie also remembered Maria Wolsey saying something about Silbert’s mother being wealthy, which was something to follow up on, in addition to his bank accounts. Money was always a good motive for murder.

Annie bagged the book and watched the SOCOs at work for a few minutes, then she went in the same direction Dr. Burns and Doug Wilson had gone. She needed some fresh air, and they wouldn’t be finished up here for a while. In the back garden, she found Wilson sipping water and talking to Detective Superintendent Gervaise, who had just arrived. To Annie’s surprise, Chief Constable Reginald Murray was also there.

“Ma’am, sir,” said Annie.

“DI Cabbot,” said Gervaise. “The chief constable is here because he was a friend of the victim’s.”

“I wouldn’t exactly say ‘friend,’ ” said Murray, fingering his collar. “But I knew Laurence from the golf club. We played a few holes now and then, met at some club functions. A murder on the Heights. This is a terrible business, DI Cabbot, terrible. It needs to be settled as soon as possible. I assume DCI Banks has been informed?”

“He’s on his way, sir,” said Annie.

“Good,” said Murray. “Good. I know ACC McLaughlin thinks highly of him. The quicker we get to the bottom of this, the better.” He glanced at Gervaise. “You will tell Banks... I mean...?”

“I’ll keep him on a short leash, sir,” said Gervaise.

Annie smiled to herself. Everyone knew that Banks wasn’t at his best around the rich and privileged. “Would you like to examine the crime scene, sir, seeing as you’re here?” she asked.

Murray turned pale. “I don’t think so, DI Cabbot. I have every confidence in the officers under my command.”

“Of course, sir, as you wish.”

Murray wandered off, not known for his iron stomach, hands behind his back, to all intents and purposes as if he were examining the rosebushes.

Gervaise gave Annie a stern look. “That was hardly necessary,” she said. “Anyway, how goes it so far? Any immediate thoughts?”

Annie handed Doug Wilson Silbert’s address book and asked him to go back to the station and get in touch with the Gloucestershire police. He seemed relieved to be leaving the Heights. Then Annie turned to Gervaise. “Not much yet, ma’am.” She summarized what Dr. Burns had told her. “The timing certainly fits a murder-suicide theory,” she added.

“You think Mark Hardcastle did this?”

“Possibly, yes,” said Annie. “As far as we know, he drove back to Eastvale from London on Thursday. He had a flat near the center of town, but it looked as if he only lived there part-time. Maria Wolsey at the theater said he and Laurence Silbert were practically living together. Anyway, he could either have gone back to Branwell Court and come up here Friday morning, or he could have come straight here and stopped over Thursday night.

“All we know is that Silbert was killed between nine a.m. and one p.m. on Friday, and Hardcastle hanged himself between one p.m. and three p.m. that same afternoon. Also, the amount of blood on Hard-castle’s body was inconsistent with the few scratches he might have got while climbing the tree to hang himself. Grainger, the man who sold him the rope, also said he had blood on him when he called in at the shop, and that he was oddly subdued and smelled of alcohol.”

“So it may be cut and dried, after all,” said Gervaise, almost to herself. She stood up. “Well, let’s hope we didn’t drag DCI Banks back from his weekend off for nothing.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Annie through gritted teeth. “Let’s hope not.”

Getting out of London was bad enough, but the Ml was an even worse nightmare. There were roadworks near Newport Pagnell, where the motorway was reduced to one lane for two miles, though there wasn’t a workman in sight. Later, two lanes were closed because of an accident just north of Leicester. The Porsche ticked along nicely, when it wasn’t at a complete standstill, and Banks was glad he’d decided to keep it. It was shabby enough now for him to feel comfortable in it. The sound system was great, too, and Nick Lowe’s “Long Limbed Girl” sounded just fine.

Banks was still annoyed at Detective Superintendent Gervaise for giving the order to call him back. He knew it wasn’t Annie’s fault, no matter how much she seemed to have relished the task. It was true, of course; they were understaffed. They didn’t even have a replacement for Kevin Templeton yet, and he’d been gone since March. It was also true that, if nothing else, the two deaths would generate a lot of paperwork and media interest, a lot of questions to be asked and answered. Young “Harry Potter” showed promise, but he was still too wet behind the ears to be trusted with something like this, and if the crime involved Eastvale’s gay community, such as it was, Detective Sergeant Hatchley could prove more of a liability than an asset. Nick Lowe finished and Banks switched to Bowie’s Pin Ups.

Though Banks had met Sophia during a difficult murder case, he realized this was the first time he had been called away from her on urgent business since they had been together. It was something that had happened with monotonous regularity throughout his career and marriage, and something that his ex-wife Sandra had complained of more than once, until she had decided to follow her own path and leave him. Even the kids had complained when they were growing up that they never saw their dad.

But things had been quiet recently. No murders since he had met Sophia. Not even a spate of serious burglaries or sexual assaults, just the usual day-to-day monotony, like stolen traffic cones. For once, Eastvale had been behaving. Until now. And it would be this weekend.

He had been making excellent time for a while, and just past the Sheffield cooling towers, his mobile buzzed. He turned down “Sorrow” and answered. It was Sophia calling from Western House.

“What is it?” she asked. “What’s wrong? I just came out of the studio. Sorry I’m late. I got a message from Tana to call you. Where are you?”

“Just north of Sheffield,” said Banks.

“What?”

“Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine. I’ve just been called in to work, that’s all.”

“That’s all! But I don’t understand. It’s your weekend off, isn’t it?”

“They’re not sacrosanct, unfortunately. Not in this job.”

“But the dinner party?”

“I know. And I’m sorry. I promise I’ll make—”

“Oh, this is too much. It’s too late to cancel at this point. And Gunther and Carla are only over from Milan for the weekend.”

“Why should you cancel? Go ahead. Enjoy yourselves. I’m sure I’ll get another chance to meet them. Offer my apologies.”

“A fat lot of good they’ll do. Oh, shit, Alan! I was really looking forward to this.”

“Me, too,” said Banks. “I’m sorry.”

There was a short pause, then Sophia’s voice came back on again. “What is it, anyway? What’s so important?”

“Nobody’s sure yet,” said Banks, “but there are two people dead.”

“Serious, then?”

“Could be.”

“Damn and blast your job!”

“I know how you feel. There’s nothing I can do about it, though. These things happen sometimes. I’m sure I warned you.”

“Couldn’t you have said no?”

“I tried.”

“Not very hard, obviously. Who called you?”

“Annie.”

There was another pause. “Surely there are other people who can deal with it? What about her? I mean, as brilliant as you are, you’re not Yorkshire’s only competent detective, are you? Isn’t she any good?”

“Of course she is, but it doesn’t work like that. We’re supposed to be a team. And we’re short-staffed. Annie’s doing the best she can.”

“You don’t need to defend her to me.”

“I’m just explaining the situation.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“No idea. You can still come up next weekend as planned, though, right?”

“And risk spending it by myself? I don’t know about that.”

“You know plenty of people up here. There’s Harriet, for a start. Won’t your parents be up, too? Aren’t we supposed to be having Sunday lunch with them? Besides, we’ve got a date for the theater.”

“A weekend with my parents and Aunt Harriet isn’t quite what I had in mind. Nor is a visit to the theater by myself.”

“I’m sure I’ll be around. Sophia, this isn’t my fault. Do you think I wouldn’t rather be with you right now than on my way to work?”

She paused again, then replied rather sulkily, “I suppose so.”

“You’ll go ahead with the dinner?”

“I don’t have a lot of choice, do I? But I’ll miss you. It won’t be the same.”

“I’ll miss you, too. Call me later?”

“If I’ve got time. I’d better get moving. I’ve got a lot to do, especially now I have to do it all by myself.”

“Soph—”

But she had already ended the call. Banks cursed. No matter what she had said, she did blame him. A terrible sense of familiarity swept over him, all the rows with his ex-wife Sandra before she gave up on him. He knew he had warned Sophia that things like this might happen, that his job might disrupt other plans, but how seriously do people take warnings like that when everything is going blissfully well? Perhaps it was for the best that Sophia had found out about the demands of his job sooner rather than later.

He turned Bowie up again. He was singing “Where Have All the Good Times Gone?” Banks hoped it wasn’t prophetic.