All the Colors of Darkness

3

There were tea and custard creams in the boardroom of Western Area Headquarters just after five o’clock that Saturday afternoon, and the biscuits only served to remind Banks that he had missed lunch, a meal he should by all rights have enjoyed with Sophia at the Yorkshire Grey in London. Well, he supposed, tea and biscuits were better than nothing.

Four of them sat around the end of the long oval table nearest the whiteboard, pens and pads in front of them: Banks, Annie, Stefan Nowak and Superintendent Gervaise. The others had already brought Banks up to speed on the major events that had occurred in Hindswell Woods and on Castleview Heights. Annie and her team had been busy all day while Banks had been on the road, and the whiteboard was scrawled with names, circles and connecting lines.

“It seems to me,” said Banks, “that the first thing we need to do now is get the forensic results on the blood.”

“What would that prove?” asked Annie.

“If the blood on Mark Hardcastle’s body is Laurence Silbert’s, and no one else’s, then it would go a long way toward proving the murder-suicide theory.”

“A long way, but not the whole way,” Annie argued. “If Hardcastle found Silbert dead, his natural instinct would be to touch him, hold him, try to revive him, something like that. Maybe that’s how he got Silbert’s blood on him. But someone else could still have killed Silbert first. Then we’d have a murder and a suicide, but we’d also have a murderer still loose.”

“A good point, DI Cabbot,” said Gervaise. “DCI Banks?”

“I still think forensics should be able to tell us a great deal more about what happened. Stefan?”

“True,” said Nowak. “And we’re working on it. We’ll try to get the blood work done as soon as possible, but you know what the labs are like on weekends.”

“What about fingerprints?” Banks asked.

“The only fingerprints Vic Manson’s lifted from the cricket bat so far are Mark Hardcastle’s. And the bat belonged in the room, by the way. There was a special stand for it by the sideboard, brass plaque and all. We also have unidentified prints from the sitting room and other parts of the house, of course, but they could take forever to eliminate. We’ll be running them all through NAFIS.” Nowak paused. “I hesitate to express an unsupported opinion here,” he went on, “but this crime scene doesn’t look like a murder committed by an interrupted burglar. In fact, it doesn’t appear that the house was burgled at all. There’s a great deal of valuable stuff there, original paintings and antiques in particular, even some rather expensive bottles of wine, Château d’Yquem and the like, but none of it seems to have been removed. Of course, without a list of everything, we can’t be completely sure, but... Anyway, the attack on that body was emotional and deeply personal, and the only room that seems to have been damaged or disturbed in any way was the drawing room, and that’s entirely consistent with a frenzied attack occurring there, which is what we have.”

“Any signs of forced entry?” Banks asked Annie.

“No,” she said. “Only by us. Doug and I had to break a window in the back door to get in.”

“What about the neighbors? Anybody see or hear anything?”

“Uniform branch talked to most of the people on the Heights this afternoon,” Annie said, “and so far nobody admits to seeing or hearing anything. But that’s hardly surprising,” she went on. “The houses are detached, many are walled, and the people are insular, cautious. It’s hardly the kind of community where people live in one another’s pockets. Money buys you all the solitude you want.”

“Yes, but they like to be vigilant, don’t they?” Banks said. “Neighborhood watch and all that.”

“Not in this case,” said Annie. “Though we can be pretty certain that someone would have noticed if anyone had wandered over from the East Side Estate.”

“So if it was murder,” Banks theorized, “it could well have been someone who looked as if he fitted into the community.”

“I suppose so,” Annie said.

“I don’t suppose anyone saw a bloody figure in an orange T-shirt getting in a dark green Toyota and driving away from 15 Castleview Heights on Friday morning?” asked Superintendent Gervaise.

“No,” said Annie. “Nobody saw anything. They don’t want to get involved.”

“Do you think someone’s lying?”

“It’s possible,” Annie said. “We’ll be talking to them all again, and there are still a couple we have yet to track down, people who’ve gone away for the weekend. I wouldn’t hold out much hope, though. Perhaps the one bright spot is that some of the houses have surveillance cameras, so if we can get hold of the tapes... Anyway, one or two reporters were sniffing around this afternoon, too, so word is spreading fast. We’ve tried to delay them by telling them we can’t release the victim’s name until next of kin has been informed—which should have been done by now—but they’ll be able to work out whose house it is easily enough. We’ve left a couple of PCs guarding the gate and another inside.”

“Good,” said Gervaise. “I’ll handle the press. Do we know anything about the mother?”

“Not yet,” said Annie. “Not even her name. But it’s something we’ll be following up on. The Gloucestershire police said they’d inform her as soon as Harry Potter phoned them around lunchtime.”

“Have we found anyone who actually knew Silbert and Hardcastle yet?”

“We’re still working on that, too,” Annie said, a trace of irritation in her voice. “Certainly no one we’ve talked to so far admits to having them over for drinks or dinner on a regular basis. The closest seem to be Maria Wolsey and Vernon Ross at the theater, and neither of them knew Silbert well. Judging by the kitchen and dining area at Castleview Heights, Silbert probably did a fair bit of entertaining. He was sophisticated, obviously well-educated, a man of great discernment, and probably quite wealthy, though the suggestion is that his mother’s the one with the money. On the other hand, Mark Hardcastle was the son of a Barnsley coal miner. Also, Hardcastle wasn’t, as far as we’ve been able to gather, at all coy about his sexuality.” Annie glanced at Gervaise. “Did Chief Constable Murray have anything to add about Laurence Silbert?” she asked. “Idle chatter at the nineteenth hole or something?”

Gervaise pursed her Cupid’s-bow lips. “Not much. He said he found him a bit standoffish. They weren’t close; they simply played golf to make up a foursome from time to time and had a drink at the club. I think the CC would like to maintain a little distance on this matter. But he has other friends on the Heights, so he’ll be watching over our shoulders. What do you think of all this, DCI Banks? You’re the closest we’ve got to fresh eyes.”

Banks tapped the end of his yellow pencil on the desk.

“I think we just keep on asking questions while we’re waiting on forensics,” Banks said. “Try to build up a picture of Hardcastle and Silbert’s life. And we work on a detailed plan of everything they did during the last two or three days.”

“We’ve talked to Hardcastle’s downstairs neighbor at Branwell Court,” Annie added, “and she confirms that Hardcastle was only there from time to time. And one of Silbert’s neighbors says she’s noticed that a green Toyota had become something of a fixture at Silbert’s house lately, too, which seems to confirm the living-together bit. She didn’t sound too pleased about it. The car, that is.”

“Well, she wouldn’t, would she?” said Banks. “Lowers the tone of the neighborhood.”

“There speaks a true Porsche owner,” said Annie.

Banks smiled. “So, you think they were definitely living together?” he said.

“Yes,” said Annie. “More or less. I saw a lot of Hardcastle’s personal stuff when I had a quick look around the house,” she went on. “Clothes, suits hanging in the same wardrobe as Silbert’s; books, a laptop computer, sketch pads, notebooks. He used one of the upstairs rooms as a sort of office.”

“Why hang on to the fl at, then?” Banks asked. “Hardcastle can’t have been making that much money at the theater. Why waste it on a flat he only used occasionally? And you said he still got his post there, too. Why not put in a change of address?”

“Any number of reasons,” said Annie. “Insecurity. A bolt hole. A little private space when he needed it. As for the post, as far as I could see he didn’t get anything but bills and circulars, anyway. We need to do a more thorough search of both places, though, and I suggest we start with Castleview.”

“You and DCI Banks can have a good poke around the house tomorrow,” Gervaise said. “With DI Nowak’s permission, of course.”

“All right with me. I’ll probably still have a couple of men working there, but if you don’t get in each other’s way...”

“See what you can dig up,” Gervaise went on. “Personal papers, bankbooks, stuff like that. As you say, we don’t even know what Silbert did for a living yet, do we, or where he got his money? What about Hardcastle? Did he have any family?”

“A distant aunt in Australia,” Annie said. “A ten-pound pommie.” “Phone records?”

“We’re working on it,” Annie said. “Mark Hardcastle didn’t have a mobile, hated them apparently, but we found one in Silbert’s jacket pocket, along with his wallet. Nothing out of the ordinary on it so far. In fact, nothing very much on it at all.”

“No call log, address book or stored text messages?” Banks asked.

“None.”

“But he had an address book?”

“Yes. Not much in it, though.”

“That’s a bit odd in itself, isn’t it?” said Gervaise. “I understand you talked to the cleaning lady?”

“Yes,” said Annie. “Mrs. Blackwell. Highly regarded in the Heights, so we’re told. She wasn’t much help. Said Mr. Hardcastle was around more often than not these days; when Mr. Silbert was at home, at least. Apparently he traveled a lot. They were a nice couple, always paid her on time, sometimes with a nice little bonus, blah, blah, blah. Mostly they went out while she did her work, so they didn’t hang about and chat. If she knew any deep dark secrets, she wasn’t telling. We can talk to her again if we need to.”

“What brought the two of them together, I wonder?” Banks asked. “How did they meet? What on earth did they have in common?”

Annie shot him a cool glance. “You know what they say. Love is blind.”

Banks ignored her. “Was it the theater? Silbert didn’t appear to have any real involvement in that world, but you never know. Or could it have simply been money? How rich was Silbert exactly?”

“We haven’t had time to find and examine his bank accounts and holdings yet,” said Annie. “Partly because it’s the weekend. Maybe we’ll find something on Monday, and maybe his mother will be able to tell us something when she’s got over the shock of her loss. But, like I said, he must have had a bob or two to live where he did and buy some of those paintings. The car’s no old jalopy, either. Which reminds me.” Annie took a slip of paper sheathed in a plastic folder from her file. “We found this in the glove box of the Jag just a short while ago. It’s a parking receipt from Durham Tees Valley Airport timed nine twenty-five a.m. Friday. The car had been parked there for three days.”

“So wherever he went, he went on Tuesday?” said Banks.

“So it seems.”

“Have you checked the flight arrival times?”

“Not yet,” said Annie. “Haven’t had a chance. But from some of the restaurant receipts we found in his wallet, it looks as if he was in Amsterdam.”

“Interesting,” said Banks. “It should be easy enough to check on the flight passenger lists. We’ll get Doug on it. So what did Silbert walk into when he got home on Friday morning? I wonder. How far are we from the airport, about forty-five minutes, an hour?”

“Forty-five minutes, depending on the traffic on the Al,” said Annie. “And as far I know, they don’t service a lot of destinations directly through Durham Tees Valley. It’s a pretty small airport.”

“I remember,” said Banks. “We flew from there to Dublin once not long ago. I also think BMI flies to Heathrow. Anyway, that would fix his arrival at Castleview Heights around quarter past to half past ten.” “And by one o’clock he was dead,” added Superintendent Gervaise.

They all sat in silence for a moment to let that sink in, then Banks said, “And Mark Hardcastle was definitely in London on Wednesday and Thursday?”

“Yes,” said Annie. “He was there with Derek Wyman, the director of Othello. Hardcastle had a restaurant receipt in his wallet from Wednesday evening, and one for petrol dated Thursday afternoon, two twenty-six p.m. Northbound services, Watford Gap.”

“On his way home then,” said Banks. “If he was at Watford Gap at two twenty-six p.m. and drove straight home, he’d be here by about half past five, maybe a bit earlier. What’s the restaurant?”

“One of the Zizzi’s chain, on Charlotte Street. Pizza trentino and a glass of Montepulciano d’Abruzzo. A large one, going by the price.”

“Hmm,” said Banks. “That would indicate that Hardcastle probably ate alone. Or he and Wyman went Dutch, or shared the pizza. Any idea where Hardcastle stayed on Wednesday night?”

“No,” said Annie. “We’re hoping Derek Wyman might be able to tell us. He’s not back yet. I was planning on interviewing him first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Any idea what Hardcastle did on Thursday evening after he got back to Eastvale?” Banks asked.

“Who knows?” Annie said. “He must have stopped in, most likely at Castleview. The downstairs neighbor at Branwell Court says she hasn’t seen him since last week, and most of the letters are postmarked around that time or later. We haven’t been able to find anybody who saw him go out. He wasn’t at the theater. All we know is that the next day around lunchtime, he went into Grainger’s shop, smelling of alcohol, bought a length of clothesline and went and hanged himself in Hindswell Woods. So between late Thursday afternoon and Friday morning, he’d had a few drinks, or a lot of drinks, and he possibly killed Laurence Silbert.”

“Anything else of interest in Silbert’s wallet?” Banks asked.

“Credit cards, a little cash, a business card, sales receipts, driving license. He was born in 1946, by the way, which makes him sixty-two. Nothing yet to give a hint of his profession or sources of income.” “Business card? Whose? His own?”

“No.” Annie slid the plastic folder over to him.

“Julian Fenner, Import-Export,” Banks read. “That covers a multitude of sins. It’s a London phone number. No address. Mind if I hang on to it?”

“Okay by me,” said Annie. “Maybe it’s another lover?”

“More speculation,” said Gervaise. “What we need is solid information.” She rested both her palms on the table as if to push herself up to leave, but she remained seated. “Right,” she said. “We’ll keep at it. We still have a lot of questions to answer before we can close the book on this one. Is there much else on in Major Crimes at the moment?” “Not much,” said Annie. “Couple of gang-related incidents on the East Side Estate, a spate of shoplifting in the Swainsdale Centre— looks organized—and a break-in at the Castle Gift Shop. And the traffic cones, of course. They’re still disappearing. DS Hatchley and CID are dealing with most of it.”

“Good,” said Gervaise. “Then we’ll let DS Hatchley worry about the traffic cones and the shoplifting. Stefan, how long do you think it will take the lab to get the basic blood work done?”

“We can get the samples typed by tomorrow,” said Nowak. “That’s easy enough. DNA and toxicology will take longer, of course, depending whether we put a rush on it or not, and that costs money. I’d say by midweek, at best.”

“Any idea when Dr. Glendenning might get around to the postmortems?”

“I’ve spoken to him,” said Annie. “He wasn’t out playing golf like everyone thought. He was actually in his office at Eastvale General Infirmary catching up on paperwork. I think he’s bored. He’s willing to get started whenever he gets the go-ahead.”

“Wonderful,” said Gervaise. “He’s got his wish.”

“It’ll have to be Monday, though,” Annie said. “The rest of his staff’s away for the weekend.”

“I don’t suppose we’re in a rush,” said Gervaise. “And it is the Sabbath tomorrow. First thing Monday morning will do fine.”

“Just one point,” said Banks. “Do you think it might make sense if Dr. Glendenning autopsies Laurence Silbert first, rather than Mark Hardcastle? I mean, everyone is pretty sure that Hardcastle hanged himself. There’s no evidence of anyone else having been with him, is there, Stefan?”

“None at all,” said Nowak. “And everything about that scene, including the knot and the rope marks, is consistent with suicide by hanging. Textbook case. As I’ve said before, it’s difficult to hang someone against his will. The only questions we still have are toxico-logical.”

“You mean, was he drugged?”

“It’s a possibility. The shopkeeper said he was calm and subdued, though that’s not terribly strange in someone who has made the decision to take his own life, and we do know that he had been drinking. He might have taken pills. Anyway, we’ll be testing the blood samples carefully.”

“Okay,” Banks said. “Are we working on the assumption that if Hardcastle didn’t kill Silbert himself, then someone else did, and that Hardcastle found the body and hanged himself from grief?”

“Makes sense to me,” said Gervaise. “If he didn’t do it himself. Any objections?”

No one had any.

“In the meantime, then,” Gervaise went on, “as DCI Banks suggested, we ask more questions. We try to plot out their movements, the hours leading up to their deaths. We dig into their backgrounds, family history, friends, enemies, ambitions, work, finances, previous relationships, travels, the lot. Okay?”

They all nodded. Superintendent Gervaise gathered up her papers and walked over to the door. Just before she left, she half-turned and said, “I’ll try to keep the media at bay for as long as I can, now they’ve got wind of it. Remember, this is the Heights. Tread carefully. Keep me informed at every stage.”

After the meeting, Banks sat in his office listening to Natalie Clein playing the Elgar Cello Concerto and studied his copies of the materials gathered from Silbert’s wallet and Hardcastle’s car. It didn’t add up to a hell of a lot. He glanced at his watch. Just after six-fifteen. He wanted to talk to Sophia, see if she had forgiven him, but now would be the worst possible time. The guests were due to arrive at half past seven, and she would be right in the midst of her dinner preparations.

Idly he dialed the number of Julian Fenner, Import-Export, the card found in Laurence Silbert’s wallet. After only a few rings and several distant clicks and echoes, an automated voice came on the line to tell him that the number had been discontinued and was no longer in service. He tried again, slowly, in case he had misdialed. Same result. After a few attempts to find a matching address through reverse directories, he gave up. It appeared that the number did not exist. He called the squad room and asked Annie to drop by his office.

While he waited, he walked to the open window and gazed out on the market square. At that time of evening it was still fairly quiet. The shadows were lengthening, but Banks knew it would stay light until after ten o’clock. The market had packed up and moved on hours ago, leaving a slight whiff of rotting vegetables about the cobbled square. Most of the shops were closed, except Somerfield’s and W. H. Smith’s, and the only people around were the ones who wanted an early meal or a drink.

When Annie came, Banks sat opposite her and moved his computer monitor out of the way so he could see her properly. She was casually dressed in a russet T-shirt and short blue denim skirt, no tights. Her tousled chestnut hair hung over her shoulders, her complexion was smooth and free of all but the lightest of makeup, her almond eyes were clear, and her demeanor seemed calm and controlled. Banks hadn’t had a really good talk with her since he’d taken up with Sophia. He knew she had had one or two problems to deal with from their last case together, and he hadn’t exactly been a rock, but she looked as if she had managed it well. A couple of weeks down in Cornwall at her father’s place had obviously done her a lot of good.

Banks turned the business card to face her. “Did you try this number?” he asked.

“No time,” Annie said. “I’d no sooner got back from the Heights than Superintendent Gervaise called the meeting. Then you took it.”

“It wasn’t meant to be a criticism, Annie. I was just wondering.”

Annie raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Banks shifted in his chair. “It’s been disconnected,” he said. “Sorry?”

“The number. Julian Fenner, Import-Export. There’s no such number. And no address. I’ve checked. Discontinued. No longer in service.”

“Since when?”

“No idea. We can put technical support on it, if you like.”

“Probably a good idea. Maybe it’s just really old?” Annie suggested.

“Then why would Silbert continue to carry the card? It was the only one he had.”

“Don’t tell me you empty your wallet out every day? Every week? Every month?”

“About as often as you empty your handbag, probably.”

“Then that’s hardly ever. God knows what I’d find in the bottom of that if I had time to rummage through it.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Banks said. “It’s just another little oddity, that’s all, like the two of them being away at the same time but in different places. Hardcastle was in London with Wyman and Silbert was—”

“In Amsterdam,” said Annie. “Doug looked into it. Silbert stayed at the Hotel Ambassade on Herengracht for three nights—Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. He checked out early Friday morning and came back on the flight from Schiphol that got in at ten past nine. And it was on time that day. He left on Tuesday at nine fifty-five a.m.”

“Herengracht? Is that near the Red Light district?”

“No idea,” said Annie. “Want me to check?”

“Later. Why would they go to different places? Why not go away together?”

“They had different business to conduct, I should imagine. They obviously didn’t live in each other’s pockets. Hardcastle even kept his own flat.”

“I suppose so,” said Banks, rubbing his temples. “Sorry, I just don’t seem to be quite on the ball as far as this case goes yet.”

“Mind elsewhere?”

Banks glanced sharply at her.

Annie paused. “Look, Alan, I’m sorry you got dragged back from London,” she said. “But we used to work well together, remember? We were a team.”

“We still are.”

“Are we?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know. You tell me. Lately things have been a bit weird, that’s all. I could have used you... you know... a shoulder... a friend... after the Karen Drew case and all. But you weren’t there.” “Is that what you’re holding against Sophia?”

“I’m not holding anything against Sophia. We’re not talking about her.”

“Don’t deny that you don’t like her.”

Annie leaned forward. “Alan, honestly, I’ve nothing against her. I don’t care one way or the other. It’s you I’m concerned about. My friend. Maybe you’re... I don’t know... a bit oversensitive, a bit overdefensive? She doesn’t need it, believe me. She’s a survivor.”

“What does that mean? What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing. There you go again.”

“You said Sophia’s a survivor. It’s just an odd thing to say. I wondered what you meant by it.”

“All I’m saying is don’t get too caught up in it all. Keep some perspective.”

“Are you saying I’ve lost my perspective? Because—”

The phone rang.

Banks and Annie glared at each another, then Banks answered it. He listened for a moment, said, “Keep her there,” then hung up and turned to Annie. “PC Walters at Castleview Heights. Apparently a woman has just turned up there claiming to be Laurence Silbert’s mother. Want to come along?”

“Of course,” said Annie. She stood up. “I’ll follow you in my car. To be continued?”

“What?”

“Our discussion.”

“If you think it’s worth it.” Banks picked his car keys up from his desk and they left.

Laurence Silbert’s mother was sitting in the driver’s seat of a racing-green MG sports car outside number 15 Castleview Heights smoking a cigarette and chatting with PC Walters when Banks and Annie arrived not more than three or four minutes later. The soft evening light, after a brief shower, had turned the limestone gray-gold and softened the slate and flagstone rooftops. A few dirty gray clouds lingered in the blue sky, one of them occasionally blocking out the sun for a minute or two. There were still plenty of media people around the area, held back by a police cordon, but Banks and Annie ignored the call for comments and turned toward the MG.

The woman who got out had once been at least as tall as Banks, but age had given her a slight stoop. Even so, she was a commanding presence, and the gray hair drawn back tightly from her forehead, her high cheekbones over tanned, sunken cheeks, wrinkled mouth and twinkling blue-gray eyes spoke of a beauty not too long faded. In fact, she was still beautiful, and there was something vaguely familiar about her.

“Good evening,” she said, offering her hand in turn. “I’m Edwina Silbert, Laurence’s mother.”

Banks stepped back. “The Edwina Silbert?”

“Well, I suppose I did attract a certain amount of notoriety at one time,” she said, dropping her cigarette on the ground and stepping on it. She was wearing black high heels, Banks noticed. “But that was a very long time ago.”

Annie looked puzzled.

“Mrs. Silbert started the Viva boutique chain in the sixties,” Banks explained. “And it went on to become enormously successful.”

“Still is,” said Annie. “I shop there myself when I can afford it. Pleased to meet you.”

“It used to be more affordable,” said Edwina. “That was one of the novelties about it at the time. Everyone could dress like the beautiful people. We used to dream of equality for all.”

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Banks said.

Edwina Silbert inclined her head. “Poor Laurence. I’ve been thinking about him all the way up here. It’s still very difficult to take in. Can I see him?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Banks.

“That bad?”

Banks said nothing.

“I’m not squeamish, you know. I saw plenty of things, many things during the war that would turn your stomach. I was a Queen Alexandra nurse.”

“Even so...”

“Surely I must have some rights? He was my son.”

Technically, the body was both still a crime scene and the property of the coroner, so Edwina Silbert really didn’t have any right to see it, at least not without the coroner’s permission. That was usually a formality, and a relative was generally required to identify a body, but that was not the case here.

“Mrs. Silbert—”

“Edwina. Please.”

“Edwina. I’ll be frank with you. It would be very difficult for you to recognize your son. We think we have enough to go on to make a positive identification for the time being, and I think seeing him the way he is now would cause you far too much pain and grief. Best to remember him as he was.”

She was silent for a moment or two, as if lost in thought. “Very well,” she said finally. “But there is something that might help you. Laurence has a very distinctive birthmark on his left arm, just above his elbow.” She tapped the spot on her own elbow. “It’s dark red in color and shaped like a teardrop.”

“Thank you,” said Banks. “We’d also like to take a DNA swab. Later, when you’re feeling up to it. It’s just a simple mouth swab. There are no needles or anything involved.”

“I’ve never been afraid of needles,” she said. “And you’re more than welcome to take your sample in any way you wish. Look, I don’t know about your rules and regulations, but I’ve come a long way and I could do with a drink. I happen to know that there’s a delightful little pub close by.”

Annie glanced at Banks, who turned to PC Walters. “Phil,” he said, pointing to the media phalanx. “Make sure none of those bastards follows us.”

Walters swallowed and turned as pale as if he’d been asked to hold back the massed hordes of invading Huns. “I’ll do my best, sir,” he said.

The Black Swan, literally just down the street and on the corner, was not one of the pubs that attracted the rowdies on a Saturday night. In fact, it attracted hardly anyone except people from the immediate neighborhood, as it was so well hidden and the prices were too high for the yobs. Banks had never been there before, but he wasn’t surprised it was so upmarket, with lots of horse brasses, framed Stubbs prints and polished brass rails around the bar. And they called the outside area the patio, not the beer garden. There was also no loud music or slot machines. The government might have banned smoking in pubs, Banks thought as he went inside, but here everyone seemed to have at least one dog. He felt his nose begin to itch. Why couldn’t they ban dogs, too?

“Shall we sit outside?” Edwina Silbert suggested. “I could do with a cigarette.”

“Fine,” said Banks, happy for the chance to get away from the dogs. Smoke he could handle.

They found an empty bench and table on the patio. It offered a magnificent view over the town and the distant hills, dark green as the light weakened, and it was still warm enough to sit outside in a light jacket. Banks suggested they all sit down while he went back inside to pick up some drinks. Edwina wanted a gin and tonic and Annie a Diet Coke. Banks studied the pumps and chose a pint of Timothy Taylor’s Landlord. The small round cost him an arm and a leg. He thought about getting a receipt for expenses, then thought better of it as he imagined Superintendent Gervaise’s reaction.

He managed to secure a tray and carried the drinks back to the table. Edwina Silbert was already smoking, and she accepted the gin and tonic eagerly.

“You shouldn’t have come all this way,” Banks said. “We were going to drive down and see you soon, anyway.”

“Don’t be silly,” she said. “I’m perfectly capable of driving a few miles. I set off shortly after the local bobby came round with the news this afternoon. What else was I supposed to do? Sit at home and twiddle my thumbs?”

If Silbert was sixty-two, Banks thought, then Edwina was probably in her eighties, and Longborough was two hundred miles away. She looked much younger, but then so had her son, by all accounts. Annie had told Banks that Maria Wolsey at the theater guessed Silbert to be in his early-fifties. Youthfulness must run in the family.

“Where are you staying?” he asked.

She seemed surprised at the question. “At Laurence’s house, of course.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” said Banks. “It’s a crime scene.”

Edwina Silbert gave her head a slight shake. Banks could see tears glistening in her eyes. “Forgive me,” she said. “I’m just not used to this. What’s that nice hotel in town? I stayed there once when the house was being decorated.”

“The Burgundy?”

“That’s the one. Do you think I’ll be able to get a room?”

“I’ll check for you,” said Annie, taking out her mobile. She walked over to the edge of the patio to make the call.

“She’s a nice girl,” said Edwina. “I’d hang on to her if I were you.”

“She’s not... I mean, we’re not. . .” Banks began, then he just nodded. He didn’t want to try to explain his relationship with Annie to a stranger. “Were you and Laurence close?” he asked.

“I’d say so,” Edwina answered. “I mean, I would like to think we were friends as well as mother and son. His father died when he was only nine, you see, killed in a car crash, and Laurence is an only child. I never remarried. Of course, when he left university he traveled a lot, and there were lengthy periods when I didn’t see him at all.”

“How long had you known Laurence was gay?”

“Ever since he was a boy, really. All the signs were there. Oh, I don’t mean that he was effeminate in any way. Quite the opposite, really. Very manly. Good at sports. Fine physique. Like a young Greek god. It’s just the little things, the telling details. Of course, he was always most discreet. Apart from the odd peccadillo at public school or Cambridge, I very much doubt that he was sexually active until his twenties, and by then it was perfectly legal, of course.”

“It didn’t bother you?”

She gave Banks a curious look. “What an odd thing to say.”

“Some parents get upset by it.” Banks thought of Mark Hardcastle’s father.

“Perhaps,” said Edwina. “But it always seemed to me that there’s no point in trying to change a person’s nature. A leopard’s spots, and all that. No. It was what he was. Part of what he was. His cross to bear and his path to love. I hope he found it.”

“If it means anything, I think he did. I think he was very happy these past few months.”

“With Mark, yes. I like to think so, too. Poor Mark. He’ll be devastated. Where is he? Do you know?”

“You knew Mark?”

“Knew? Oh my God, is there something you haven’t told me, something I don’t know?”

“I’m sorry,” said Banks. “I thought you would have heard. Please forgive me.” Why he had assumed that the Gloucestershire police would have told her about Mark Hardcastle, he didn’t know. Unless Doug Wilson had asked them to, and he clearly hadn’t.

“What happened?”

“I’m afraid Mark’s dead, too. It seems he committed suicide.”

Edwina seemed to shrink in her chair as if she had taken a body blow. She uttered a deep sigh. “But why?” she said. “Because of what happened to Laurence?”

“We think there’s a connection, yes,” said Banks.

Annie came back and gave Banks a nod. “We’ve got a nice room for you at the Burgundy, Mrs. Silbert,” she said.

“Thank you, dear,” said Edwina, reaching for a handkerchief in her handbag. She dabbed her eyes. “Excuse me, this is really very silly of me. It’s just rather a lot to take in all at once. Mark, too?”

“I’m sorry,” Banks said. “You liked him?”

She put her handkerchief away, took a sip of gin and tonic and reached for another cigarette. “Very much,” she said. “And he was good for Laurence. I know their backgrounds were very different, but they had so much in common, nonetheless.”

“The theater?”

“I like to think Laurence got some of his love for the theater from me. If it hadn’t been for the rag trade, you know, I might have become an actress. God knows, he spent hours hanging about backstage with me at various theaters.”

“So Laurence was interested in the theater?”

“Very much so. That’s where they met. He and Mark. Didn’t you know?”

“I know very little,” said Banks. “Please tell me.”

“I visited Laurence just before Christmas, and he took me to the theater here. It’s very quaint.”

“I know it,” said Banks.

“They were doing a panto. Cinderella, I believe. During the intermission we got talking in the bar, as you do, and I could see that Laurence and Mark hit it off immediately. I made my excuses and disappeared to powder my nose, or some such thing, for a few minutes, you know, just to give them a little time to exchange telephone numbers, make a date or whatever they wanted to do, and that, as they say, was that.”

“Did you see much of them after that?”

“Every time I visited. And they came to see me in Longborough, of course. It’s so lovely in the Cotswolds. I do wish they could have enjoyed summer there.” She took out her handkerchief again. “Silly me. Getting all sentimental.” She sniffed, gave a little shudder and sat up as upright as she could. “I wouldn’t mind another drink.”

This time Annie went and came back with another round.

“How would you characterize their relationship?” Banks asked when Edwina had a fresh drink before her.

“I’d say they were in love and they wanted to make a go of it, but they moved cautiously. You have to remember that Laurence was sixty-two and Mark was forty-six. They’d both been through painful relationships and split-ups before. Strong as their feelings were for one another, they weren’t going to jump into something without thinking.”

“Mark hung on to his flat,” Banks said, “yet it seemed they were practically living together at Castleview. Is that the kind of thing you mean?”

“Exactly. I imagine he would eventually have given it up and moved in with Laurence completely, but they were progressing slowly. Besides, Laurence has a pied-a-terre in Bloomsbury, so I should imagine Mark didn’t want to feel left out in that department.”

“Was he competitive?”

“He came from nowhere,” Edwina said, “and he was ambitious. Yes, I’d say he was competitive, and perhaps material things meant more to him than they do to some people. Symbols of how far he’d come. But it didn’t stop him from being a wonderful, generous person.”

“You mentioned a pied-à-terre. Would Mark have stayed there, too, when he was in London?”

“I can’t see why not.”

“Would you give me the address?”

Edwina gave him an address near Russell Square. “It really is very tiny,” she said. “I couldn’t imagine the two of them staying there together. It would drive any couple crazy. But if you’re alone, it’s perfect.”

“Did you ever sense any tension between them? Any problems? Did they argue? Fight?”

“Nothing that stands out,” said Edwina. “No more than any other couple. Actually, they laughed a lot.” She paused. “Why? You’re not...? Surely you can’t...?”

“We’re not really suggesting anything yet, Mrs. Silbert,” Annie said quickly. “We don’t know what happened. That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

“But that you can even believe there’s a possibility of Mark’s... of Mark’s doing something like that.”

“I’m afraid it is a possibility,” said Banks. “But that’s all it is at the moment. As Annie said, we don’t know what happened. All we know is that your son was killed in his home, and that shortly afterward Mark Hardcastle committed suicide in Hindswell Woods.”

“Hindswell? Oh my God, no. Oh, Mark. That was their favorite spot. They took me to see the bluebells there once, back in April. They were absolutely gorgeous this year. Grief, Mr. Banks. That would be why he killed himself. Grief.”

“That occurred to us, too,” said Banks. “And your son?”

Edwina hesitated before answering, and Banks sensed that something had crossed her mind, something she wasn’t sure that she wanted to share yet. “A burglar, perhaps?” she said. “Surely an area like this must attract them from time to time?”

“We’re working on it. What we need, though, is a lot more background on your son and Mark. We know so little about them, about their pasts, their work, their life together. We’re hoping you can help us with that.”

“I’ll tell you what I can,” said Edwina. “And I’ll submit to whatever tests you require. But can it wait until tomorrow? Please? I’m feeling suddenly very tired.”

“I don’t suppose there’s any hurry,” said Banks, disappointed but trying not to show it. She was an old woman, after all, and though she had managed to hide that fact for an hour or more, the mask was slipping. He wanted to get home, himself, anyway, so he was quite willing to postpone the rest of the interview until the following day. They should have the blood-typing back from Stefan by then, too, someone would have checked the birthmark, and Derek Wyman might be able to fill them in on some details of Mark’s life.

Edwina got up to leave and Annie stood. “Can I drive you? Honest,” Annie said, “it’s no bother.”

Edwina touched Annie’s shoulder. “It’s all right, dear,” Edwina said. “I have to get the car there anyway. I might as well do it now. I know the way. I think I’ve got just about enough energy left.”

And she walked away.

“Should she be driving?” Annie asked.

“Probably not,” said Banks. “But I wouldn’t recommend you try to stop her. She didn’t get to run a multimillion-pound retail fashion empire by giving in easily. Sit down. Finish your Coke.”

“I suppose you’re right,” said Annie. “She’ll be okay. She barely even touched her second drink.”

Annie shivered, and Banks offered her his jacket to put over her shoulders. He was surprised when she took it. Perhaps she was being polite. Still, he knew that he didn’t feel the cold the way she did.

He could hear people laughing and talking inside the pub, and beyond the low wall, way below in the town center, he could see tiny dots of people crossing the market square, just the way Joseph Cotton and Orson Welles saw from the giant Ferris wheel in The Third Man, one of his favorite films.

“So what do you think about that pied-a-terre?” Banks asked.

“I don’t know,” said Annie. “I suppose it was worth hanging on to if he could afford it, and if he used it often enough.”

“We should probably check the place out. Hardcastle might have stayed there on Thursday night. He might have left some sort of clue behind as to his state of mind.”

“I suppose we should.”

“Do you think Edwina was right about why Hardcastle kept his flat?”

“Probably,” Annie said. “Though I’d incline more toward the moving-cautiously theory than the competitiveness. He’s got one, so I have to have one, too. I’m not sure I buy that.”

“Some people are like that.”

Annie shrugged. “Anyway, it’s not so unusual, is it? Sophia still has a cottage up here, doesn’t she, as well as a house in London?”

“It’s her family’s,” Banks said.

“Maybe Silbert’s mother bought it for him?” Annie said. “We’ll have to ask her about his finances tomorrow. She’s certainly an interesting woman, though, isn’t she. I gather she’s another of your adolescent fantasies, along with Marianne Faithful and Julie Christie?” “That’s right,” said Banks. “She was quite beautiful in her day, if a little older than the rest. I remember reading about her at the time, seeing pictures of her in the papers. One of the perks of doing a newspaper round. I think she started Viva around 1965. It was on Portobello Road then. It was famous for its reasonable prices, but everyone who was anyone at the time used to shop there, too. Mick Jagger, Marianne Faithful, Paul McCartney, Jane Asher, Julie Christie, Terry Stamp. She knew them all. All the beautiful people.”

“I didn’t know they were all so cheap,” Annie said.

“It wasn’t the prices. It was the cachet. She was right in the thick of things, party-going with all the big names, being seen at all the right clubs. She also had a brush with heroin addiction later on, and affairs with all the eligible stars. I didn’t even know that she had a son. She obviously kept him well out of the limelight.”

Annie yawned.

“I’m boring you.”

“Long day.”

“Then let’s call it a night. We’ve got a busy one tomorrow.”

“Good idea,” Annie agreed, handing Banks back his jacket.

“Look, what you said earlier, about my not being there for you...” “You were at first, very much so. I just... oh, Alan, I don’t know. Take no notice of me.”

“It’s just that you seemed to withdraw. I didn’t know how to reach you.”

“I suppose I did,” Annie said. She patted his arm and stood up. “Difficult times. All behind us now. Let’s just move on and try to get to the bottom of this business as soon as we can.”

“Agreed,” said Banks, finishing off his beer and standing up. They walked to their cars, still parked outside Laurence Silbert’s house, where a few die-hard reporters lingered on, and said good night to PC Walters, then to each other. Banks watched Annie drive away in her old Astra, then started the Porsche and headed for Gratly. Cameras flashed in his rearview mirror.

It felt like weeks since Banks had been home, but it had only been a couple of days. One night away, he realized. Only one night with Sophia. Even so, his isolated cottage greeted him with a silence that felt even more profound and oppressive than usual.

He turned on the orange-shaded lamps in the living room. There was only one message on the answer phone: his son Brian informing him that he was back in the London flat for a couple of weeks if Banks happened to be down there and fancied dropping by. Brian had recently moved into a very nice, if very small, flat in Tufnell Park with his actress girlfriend Emilia, and Banks often visited them when he was in London with Sophia. He had even taken Sophia there for dinner once, and she and Brian and Emilia had got along well — mostly because Sophia knew and liked many of the same bands as they did. For a while, Banks had felt a bit old and out of it, like a boring old sixties fart, even though he listened to a lot of new music himself. Still, as far as he was concerned, for great rock you couldn’t beat Hendrix. Dylan, Floyd, Led Zep, The Stones and The Who.

A dark turquoise afterglow shot with orange and gold remained in the sky over Gratly Beck and the valley below. Banks gazed at it for a few moments, drinking in the beauty, then closed the curtains and went through to the kitchen for a glass of wine. He realized he was hungry, hadn’t eaten since breakfast, unless he counted that custard cream at the meeting. The only thing remotely resembling a meal in his fridge was a carton of leftover goat vindaloo from the local takeaway, and the remains of a naan wrapped in foil. But curry wouldn’t go with the red wine he was drinking. Besides, it had been in the fridge too long. Instead, he dug out some mature cheddar, checked the bread for green spots and, finding none, made himself a toasted cheese sandwich, which he carried through along with his wine to the entertainment room.

He felt like listening to something mellow but sensuous, and, thinking about new music, he put on a Keren Ann CD. The distant, distorted guitars and eerie, hushed vocals of “It’s All a Lie” that filled the room were perfect. Just what he wanted. He lounged back in the armchair and put his feet up, mind ranging over what he knew of the Hardcastle-Silbert case so far.

It resembled a textbook murder-suicide, a crime of passion distinguished by extreme violence and overwhelming remorse. From what Banks could remember of the study he had read in Geberth’s Practical Homicide Investigation, homosexual murders were often characterized by extreme violence directed toward the throat, chest and abdomen. In this case, the larynx had been shattered by a powerful blow. Ge-berth said the throat was a target because of its significance in homosexual lovemaking, and the violence so extreme because both parties are sexual aggressors. That sounded a bit politically incorrect to Banks, but he didn’t really care. He hadn’t invented the theory.

He wanted to know what Laurence Silbert had been doing in Amsterdam, a place as famous for its Red Light district and permissive attitudes to sex as for anything else. Perhaps Edwina would be able to help tomorrow? Her sadness over the loss of both Laurence and Mark seemed genuine to Banks, as did her absolute shock at the idea that Mark could have had anything to do with it.

Banks also wondered if Mark Hardcastle’s trip to London with Derek Wyman had played a part in the events that followed, however innocent it might have been. Was it so innocent? Had Laurence Silbert found out? Had he flown into a violent, jealous rage? Was that how the argument that led to both their deaths had started? Banks and Annie would talk to Derek Wyman in the morning and perhaps find some answers to those questions, too. It was Sunday, but there would be no time off for Banks, not when he’d come all this way and given up his weekend with Sophia. A DCI didn’t get paid overtime, nor did Annie, a DI, so the best he could hope for was a little time in lieu, then maybe he and Sophia could manage a long weekend in Rome or Lisbon. That might just make up for missing the dinner party.

It was half past eleven when the phone rang, and Keren Ann had long since given way to Richard Hawley’s Cole’s Corner, another late-evening favorite.

Banks picked up the extension beside his armchair. It was Sophia, and she sounded a little tipsy.

“How did it go?” Banks asked.

“Great,” she said. “I did Thai and everyone seemed to like it. They just left. I thought I’d leave the dishes. I’m tired.”

“I’m sorry I’m not there to help you,” said Banks.

“Me, too. Just sorry you’re not here, I mean. Is that Richard Hawley you’re listening to?”

“It is.”

“Yuk. So that’s what you get up to when I’m not around?”

Sophia didn’t like Richard Hawley, called him a yob from Sheffield with pretensions to easy listening. Banks had once countered by dismissing Panda Bear, one of her new favorites, as watered-down Brian Wilson with cheap sound effects. “A man has to have some vices,” he said.

“I can think of better ones than Richard Hawley.”

“I was listening to Keren Ann earlier.”

“That’s better.”

“I think I’m in love with her.”

“Should I be jealous?”

“I don’t think so. But I had a drink with Edwina Silbert this evening.”

“Edwina Silbert! From Viva?”

“One and the same.”

“My God, what’s she like?”

“Interesting. She’s definitely got charisma. And she’s still a very beautiful woman.”

“Should I be jealous of her, too?”

“She’s eighty if she’s a day.”

“And you prefer younger women. I know. How did you get to meet her?”

“She’s the mother of one of the victims. Laurence Silbert.”

“Oh dear,” said Sophia. “The poor woman. She must have been absolutely devastated.”

“She managed to put a brave face on it for a while,” Banks said, “but yes, I think she was.”

“How’s the case going?”

“Slow, but we’re making some progress,” said Banks. “Chances are it might lead in the direction of London before too long.”

“When? I’ve got a really busy week coming up.”

“I’m not sure. It’s only a possibility, but I might have to check out a pied-a-terre in Bloomsbury. At the very least we should be able to manage lunch or something. More important, what about next weekend. Are you still coming?”

“Of course I am. But do promise me you’ll be around.”

“I’ll be around. Don’t forget, I’ve got tickets for Othello next Saturday night. The Eastvale Amateur Dramatic Society.” He didn’t want to tell her that the case was connected to the theater; he had got the tickets well before Mark Hardcastle’s suicide, well before he had ever heard of Hardcastle.

“An amateur production of Othello,” said Sophia with mock enthusiasm. “Wow! I can hardly wait. You sure know how to treat a girl well, Detective Chief Inspector Banks.”

Banks laughed. “Drinks and dinner before at one of Eastvale’s finest establishments, of course.”

“Of course. The fish and chip shop or the pizza place?”

“Your choice.”

“And after...?”

“Hmm. Remains to be seen.”

“I’m sure we’ll think of something. Don’t forget your handcuffs.”

Banks laughed. “I’m glad you called.”

“Me, too,” Sophia said. “I wish you’d been here, that’s all. It’s just so not fair, you being up there, me down here.”

“I know. Next time. And I’ll do the cooking.”

It was Sophia’s turn to laugh. “Egg and chips all round?”

“What makes you think I can cook an egg? Or make chips?” “Something more exotic?”

“You haven’t tasted my spag bol yet.”

“I’m going to hang up now,” Sophia said, “before I collapse in an unstoppable fit of giggles. Or is that a fit of unstoppable giggles? Anyway, I’m tired. Miss you. Good night.”

“Good night,” said Banks. And the last thing he heard was her laughter as she put down the phone. Richard Hawley had finished and Banks drained the last of his wine. He didn’t really feel like listening to anything else as the waves of tiredness rolled over him. The only sounds left were the hum of the stereo and the wind moaning down the chimney. Banks felt more alone and farther away for having just talked to Sophia than he had before her call. But it was always like that—the telephone might bring you together for a few moments, but there’s nothing like it for emphasizing distance. He hadn’t told her missed her, too, and he wished he had. Too late now, he thought, putting the glass down and heading for bed.