All the Colors of Darkness

4

Derek Wyman's household at half past ten on Sunday morning reminded Banks of his own before Sandra and the kids had left. It wasn’t far away from his old semi, either, just off Market Street about half a mile south of the town center. In the spacious living and dining area, pop music was blasting out from a radio or stereo, a teenage boy lay on his stomach on the carpet in front of the television playing games that involved killing futuristic armor-clad soldiers with a great deal of noise and gouts of blood, while his shy, skinny sister chatted away on her mobile, face completely hidden by hair. The smell of bacon lingered in the air as Mrs. Wyman cleared away the breakfast table by the bay window. Outside, the wind lashed sheets of rain across the street. On the opposite wall stood a large bookcase full of theatrical texts, an edition of Chekhov’s plays, the RSC Complete Works of Shakespeare, BFI screenplays and big paperback novels in translation—Tolstoy, Gogol, Dostoyevsky, Zola, Sartre, Balzac.

Derek Wyman had clearly been sitting in his favorite armchair reading the Sunday Times Culture section. How he could concentrate with all the noise going on Banks had no idea, though he supposed he must have done it himself at one time. The front section of the newspaper lay on the chair arm beside him, open to the news of the apparent murder-suicide in Eastvale. It wasn’t much of a story. Laurence Silbert hadn’t been named, Banks knew, because his body hadn’t been identified. Mark Hardcastle’s had, by Vernon Ross. At least the birthmark Edwina had told them about confirmed Silbert’s identity in Banks’s mind.

“So much for the fine weather,” said Wyman, after Banks and Annie had shown him their warrant cards. He nodded toward the paper. “I suppose this is about Mark?”

“Yes,” said Banks.

“Quite a shock to come home to, I must say. Dreadful business. I’m finding it very hard to take in. I would never have expected anything like that of him. Please, sit down.” Wyman cleared away some magazines and discarded clothes and offered them the sofa. “Dean, Charlie,” he said, “why don’t you go up to your rooms and play. We need to talk. And turn that damn music off.”

With slow, drawn-out movements, both kids gave their father a long-suffering look and dragged themselves upstairs, Dean switching off the radio on his way.

“Teenagers,” Wyman said, rubbing his head. “Who’d have ’em? I spend most of my days with them at school, and then I come home and have to deal with two of my own. Must be a masochist. Or mad.”

Complaining was usually staff-room routine for teachers, Banks knew, a way of fitting in and pretending they didn’t really love what they did and deserve their long holidays. In fact, Wyman seemed like a man with the energy and patience necessary to deal with teenagers on a daily basis. Tall, thin, wiry even, with a closely cropped scalp and an elongated bony face with deep-set, watchful eyes, he taught games as well as drama. Banks remembered that his own English teacher had also been a PE instructor and was particularly good at importing the plimsoll from one class to the other, where he swung it hard and frequently at his pupils’ backsides. At least he didn’t say, “This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you,” the way the divinity teacher did every time he slippered someone. Still, there was no slippering in schools these days.

A few framed photographs graced the mantelpiece, mostly Wyman and his wife and kids, and the children’s school photos, but Banks noticed one in which a slightly younger Wyman stood next to an older man in a uniform outside a train station, the man’s arm draped over his shoulders. “Who’s that?” he asked.

Wyman saw where he was looking. “Me and my brother,” he said. “Rick was in the army.”

“Where is he now?”

“He’s dead,” said Wyman. “Killed in a helicopter accident on maneuvers in 2002.”

“Where did it happen?”

“Afghanistan.”

“Were you very close?”

Wyman glanced at Banks. “He was my big brother. What do you think?”

Banks hadn’t been at all close to his big brother, not until it was too late, but he understood. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“Well,” said Wyman, “that’s what you sign up for when you join the bloody army, isn’t it?”

Mrs. Wyman finished clearing the dishes away and sat at the table. She was an attractive brunette with a button nose, in her late thirties, a little careworn, but she obviously worked at keeping her figure and preserving her smooth complexion. “You don’t mind me being here, do you?” she asked.

“Not at all,” said Banks. “Did you know Mark Hardcastle?”

“I met him a few times,” she said, “but I wouldn’t say I knew him. Still, it’s terrible, what’s happened.”

“Yes,” Banks agreed, turning back to her husband. “I understand you were in London with Mark just last week?”

“Yes,” said Wyman. “Briefly.”

“Do you visit there often?”

“Whenever I can get away. Theater and film are my passions, so London’s the place to soak it all up. The bookshops, too, of course.”

“Mrs. Wyman?”

She smiled indulgently at her husband, as if rather pleased that he had a childish enthusiasm to fire him. “I’m more at home with a good book,” she said. “A Jane Austen or Elizabeth Gaskell. I’m afraid the dazzle of the footlights and the smell of greasepaint are a bit rich for my sensibilities.”

“Carol’s a bit of a philistine,” said Wyman, “though she’s not lacking in education.” He had a noticeable Yorkshire accent, but he didn’t use many Yorkshire idioms or contractions in his speech. Banks thought that was probably because he’d been to university and spent plenty of time away.

“Do you teach, Mrs. Wyman?” Banks asked.

“Good Lord, no. I don’t think I could handle any more adolescent angst,” she said. “And the little ones would be too wild for me. I’m a part-time receptionist at the medical center. Would you like me to make some tea?”

Everyone thought that sounded like a good idea. Seeming pleased to have something to do, Mrs. Wyman went through to the kitchen.

“Were many of these London trips made with Mark Hardcastle?” Banks asked Wyman.

“Good Lord, no! This was the first. And I wasn’t really with him.”

“Can you explain?”

“Of course. Ask away.”

“When did you go down?”

“Wednesday morning. I took the twelve-thirty train from York. It arrived at about a quarter to three. On time, for once.”

“Was Mark with you?”

“No. He drove down by himself.”

“Why was that? I mean, why didn’t you travel together?”

“I like the train. We were leaving at different times. Besides, I assume Mark had other things he wanted to do, perhaps other places to go. He needed to be mobile, and I didn’t want to be dependent on him. I’m quite happy traveling by tube and bus when I’m in London. In fact, I rather enjoy it. I can get some reading done, or just watch the world go by. I don’t even mind when they’re late. I get even more reading done then.”

“You should be doing adverts for National Express,” Banks said.

Wyman laughed. “Oh, I wouldn’t go that far. But the thought of driving down the Ml in a car... well, frankly, it terrifies me. All those lorries. And driving in London... Then there’s the congestion charges.”

Banks didn’t enjoy driving in London much himself, though he had got more used to it since he started seeing Sophia. Sometimes he took the train for a change, and she occasionally did the same when she came up north, though she had a little Ford Focus runaround and drove up now and then. “And the purpose of the trip was?”

“The German Expressionist Cinema retrospective at the National Film Theatre.”

“For both of you?”

“Well, we were both interested in it, certainly, but as I said, Mark may have had other things to do. He didn’t say. We didn’t spend that much time together.”

“Can you tell me what you actually did do together?”

“Yes, of course. We met for a bite to eat at Zizzi’s on Charlotte Street that first evening, about six o’clock, before the showing. It was a pleasant evening, and we managed to get a table on the pavement out front.”

“What did you have to eat?” If Wyman was puzzled by the question, he didn’t show it.

“Pizza.”

“Who paid?”

“We went Dutch.”

“Do you still have your receipt?”

Wyman frowned. “It might be in my wallet somewhere. I can check, if you like?”

“Later will do,” said Banks. “And after dinner?”

“We went to see the films. The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari and a very rare showing of Dmitri Buchowkhi’s Othello, a German expressionist version of Shakespeare. It’s very interesting, but ultimately not among the best. You see, I’m directing—“

“Yes, we know about that,” said Banks. “What about afterward?”

Wyman looked a little sulky at being denied his directorial bragging rights. “We had a quick drink in the bar, then we went our separate ways.”

“You weren’t staying in the same hotel?”

“No. Mark’s partner owns a small fl at in Bloomsbury. I should imagine he was staying there.”

“But he didn’t say so?”

“Not specifically, no. But why pay London prices when you’ve got somewhere you can stay for free?”

“Why indeed?” Banks agreed. “And what about you?”

“I stayed at my usual bed-and-breakfast near Victoria Station. Cheap and cheerful. It’s not the most spacious room on the face of the earth, but it does all right for me.”

“Do you have the address?” Banks asked.

Wyman seemed puzzled by the question, but gave Banks an address on Warwick Street.

“You mentioned Mark’s partner,” Annie said. “Did you know Laurence Silbert well?”

“Not well. We met a couple of times. They came to dinner once. They reciprocated, and we went to their house. The usual.”

“When was this?” Annie asked.

“A couple of months ago.”

“Did Mr. Hardcastle appear to be living there at the time?” Banks asked.

“More or less,” said Wyman. “He practically moved in the day they met. Well, wouldn’t you? Bloody big house on the hill.”

“You think it was the grandeur that attracted him?” Banks said.

“No, I don’t really mean that. Just being facetious. But Mark certainly appreciated the finer things in life. He was one of those working-class lads who’ve gone up in the world, done right well for themselves. You know, more your Chateau Margaux and raw-milk Camembert than your pint of bitter and a packet of cheese-and-on-ion crisps. They were a well-matched couple, despite their difference in background.”

Mrs. Wyman came back in with the tea at this point, and the inevitable plate of biscuits. They all helped themselves from the tray. Banks thanked her and resumed the questioning. “What about the next day, Thursday?”

“What about it?”

“Did you see Mark?”

“No. He said he had to go home. I was staying until Saturday, as you know. I wanted to fit in a few exhibitions, too, while I was down there. Tate Modern. The National Portrait Gallery. And some book-shopping. There were also a couple more films and lectures I attended at the NFT. Backstairs. Nosferatu. I can give you the details if you like.”

“Ticket stubs?”

“Yes, probably.” He frowned. “Look, you’re questioning me as if I’m a suspect or something. I thought—”

“We just want to get the details clear,” said Banks. “As yet there aren’t any suspects.” Or anything to suspect, he might have added. “So you stayed in London until when?”

Wyman paused. “Yesterday. I checked out of my B-and-B about lunchtime, had a pub lunch, did a bit of book-shopping and went to the National Gallery, then I caught the five o’clock train back to York last night. Got home about...” He glanced toward his wife.

“I picked him up at the station around quarter past seven,” she said.

Banks turned back to Wyman. “And you’re sure you didn’t see Mark Hardcastle after he left the bar on Wednesday evening?”

“That’s right.”

“Was he driving?”

“No. We took the tube from Goodge Street after dinner.”

“To Waterloo?”

“Yes.”

“And going back?”

“Actually, I walked along the embankment path and over Westminster Bridge. It was a lovely evening. The view across the river was absolutely stunning. Houses of Parliament all lit up. I’m not especially patriotic, or even political, but the sight always stirs me, brings a lump to my throat.”

“And Mark?”

“I assume he caught the tube.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

“Back to Goodge Street, I suppose. He could easily walk to Bloomsbury from there.”

“So that’s where he went?”

“That would be my guess. I didn’t go with him, so obviously I can’t say for certain.”

“What time was this?”

“About half ten, quarter to eleven.”

“Where had he left his car?”

“No idea. Outside the fl at, I suppose, or in the garage, if he had one.”

“What did you talk about over your drinks?”

“The films we saw, ideas for sets and costumes.”

“What kind of state of mind would you say he was in?”

“He was fine,” said Wyman. “Same as usual. That’s why I can’t understand—”

“Not depressed at all?” Annie asked.

“No.”

“Bad tempered, edgy?”

“No.”

Banks picked up the questioning again. “Only, we’ve been given to understand that he’d been a bit moody and irritable over the past couple of weeks or so. Did you notice any signs of that?”

“Maybe whatever it was, he’d got over it? Maybe the trip to London did him good?”

“Perhaps,” said Banks. “But let’s not forget that the day after he got back to Eastvale he went out and hanged himself in Hindswell Woods. We’re trying to find out what might be behind that, if there was any direct cause, or if it was simply a buildup of depression.”

“I’m sorry I can’t help you,” said Wyman. “I didn’t know he was depressed. If he was, he hid it well.”

“Did you get any sense that he and Laurence might have had some sort of falling-out?”

“He didn’t talk much about Laurence on the trip. He rarely did, unless I asked after him. Hardly, anyway. Mark was almost pathologically secretive about his private life. Not about the fact that he was gay or anything, he was very up front about that, just about who he was sharing his life with. I think he’d had relationships before that had gone bad, and he might have been a bit superstitious about it. You know, like if you talk about liking something or someone too much, it’s bound to go wrong.”

“I don’t mean to be indiscreet here,” said Banks, “but did Mark ever make a pass at you or show any undue interest in you? Anything other than companionship and shared interests, that is?”

“Good Lord, no! Mark was a colleague and a friend. He knew I was married, heterosexual. He always respected that.”

“Did you socialize often?”

“Not very often, no. We’d go for a drink now and then, mostly to discuss some theatrical matter.”

“Was he a jealous person?”

“Well, I got the impression once or twice that he felt a bit insecure.” “In what way?”

“I think he had a jealous nature—this is just an impression, mind you—and I reckon he sometimes felt that Laurence was a bit out of his class, kept thinking the bubble would burst. I mean, a Barnsley miner’s son and a wealthy sophisticate like Laurence Silbert. Go figure, as the Yanks say. His mother started the Viva chain, you know. Quite the celebrity. You have to admit it’s a bit of an odd pairing. I can understand where he was coming from. I’m from pretty humble origins myself. You never forget.”

“Are you from Barnsley, too?”

“No. Pontefract, for my sins.”

“Was Mark jealous about anyone in particular?”

“No, he didn’t mention any names. He just got anxious if Laurence was away or something. Which happened quite often.”

“I understand that Mr. Silbert was in Amsterdam while you were in London?”

“Yes. Mark did mention that.”

“Did he say why?”

“No. Business, I assumed.”

“What was his business?”

“Retired civil servant. He’d worked for the foreign office, traveled all over the place. Maybe it was some sort of reunion or something? Embassy staff. Or is it consulate? I never did know the difference between them. All I know is that Laurence was in Amsterdam and Mark was a bit worried about the nightlife there, you know, the Red Light district and all that. Amsterdam does have a bit of a reputation. Anything goes, and all that.”

“Indeed,” said Banks. “So Mark was anxious?”

“I didn’t mean it like that. It was just part of his nature to worry. He even joked about it. I told him he could always go to Soho or Hampstead Heath if he wanted a bit of fun himself.”

“How did he react to that?” Annie asked.

“He just smiled and said those days were over.”

“So nothing out of the ordinary happened on this trip you and Mark Hardcastle made to London?” Banks said.

“No. Everything happened exactly as I said it did.”

“Had you noticed anything unusual about Mark’s behavior over the past while?”

“Nothing at all.”

“Mrs. Wyman?”

“No,” she said. “Not that I noticed. I mean, I haven’t seen him for a few weeks.”

“Had you and Mark done anything like this before?” Annie asked Wyman.

“Like what?”

“You know. A few days away together.”

Wyman leaned forward. “Look, I don’t know what you’re insinuating, but it wasn’t like that. There was nothing untoward between me and Mark Hardcastle. And we didn’t go away for ‘a few days together.’ We traveled separately to London and back, and as far as I know he was only there for one night. Christ, all we did was share a meal and go to the pictures.”

“I was only wondering if you’d done it before,” Annie said.

“Well, no. I told you. This was the fist time.”

“And absolutely nothing occurred that night that could have set in motion the events of the next two days?” Banks asked.

“No. Not that I know of. Not while I was around. Who knows what he got up to after he left me.”

“Got up to?” said Banks.

“It’s just a figure of speech. Bloomsbury isn’t far from Soho, is it, and there are plenty of gay clubs there, if you like that sort of thing. Maybe he met a friend? Maybe he and Laurence had an arrangement and did their own thing when they were apart? I don’t know. All I’m saying is that I’ve no idea where he went after he left me, straight to the flat or somewhere else.”

“I thought you said he told you those days were behind him?” Annie said. “Was Mark in the habit of being unfaithful to Laurence Silbert?”

“I’ve no idea. Like I said, he didn’t confide in me about his love life. But remember, Laurence was in Amsterdam. If you want my honest opinion, no, I don’t think Mark was the type for a bit of hanky-panky on Hampstead Heath, cottaging, or whatever they call it. Or in the back room of a Soho club, for that matter. That’s why I could joke about it easily. But what do I know? It’s not a world I belong to.”

“I don’t suppose it’s much different from anyone else’s,” said Banks, “when you get right down to it.”

“I suppose not,” Wyman agreed. “But the point remains that I don’t know what he did, what he liked to do, or with whom.”

“Is there anything else you can tell us?” Banks asked.

“Not that I can think of,” said Wyman.

His wife shook her head. Banks had been watching Carol Wyman’s face from time to time throughout the interview, checking for telltale signs of concern, or the knowledge that her husband might be lying when the matter of Hardcastle and Wyman being away together came up, but she hadn’t shown anything other than polite interest and vague amusement. She obviously had no fears on that score and was liberal enough in her outlook not to mind too much if her husband met up with a gay friend in London. There was nothing more to be learned from Derek Wyman right now, Banks thought, so he gave Annie the sign to leave.

Banks and Annie managed to grab an early lunch at the Queen’s Arms, already busy with earnest people in waterproof walking gear that warm wet Sunday in June. The rain had stopped when they left Wyman’s house, and the sun was breaking through gaps in the clouds.

Banks snagged a dimpled copper-topped table for two in the corner near the gents, while Annie went to the bar and ordered roast lamb and Yorkshire pudding for Banks and veggie pasta for herself. Conversations buzzed around them, and the pretty blond schoolgirl working her weekend job as waitress, was rushed off her feet with orders. Banks eyed his grapefruit juice with disdain and raised his glass to clink with Annie’s Diet Coke. “Here’s to working Sundays.”

“It has been a while, hasn’t it?”

“I think we’ve got a pretty good head start, at any rate,” Banks said. “What did you think of Derek Wyman?”

“A bit of a trainspotter, really, isn’t he? An anorak.”

“You always say that about someone with a passion or a hobby.”

“Well, it’s true, isn’t it? Hobbies are so naff.”

“When I was a kid, everyone had a hobby. You had to have. There were clubs at school. Stamp collecting, making model airplanes, playing chess, collecting tadpoles, growing watercress, whatever. I used to have hobbies.”

“Like what?”

“You know, collecting things. Coins. Cigarette cards. Birds’ eggs. Writing down car number plates.”

“Car number plates? You’re not serious?”

“Sure. We used to sit on the wall by the main road and write down as many as we could.”

“Why?”

“No reason. It was a hobby. That’s the point about hobbies; you don’t need a reason.”

“But what did you do with them?”

“Nothing. When I’d filled one notebook, I started another. Sometimes I tried to jot down the make of car, too, if I recognized it and was quick enough. I tell you, it would make our job a lot easier if there were more people doing that today.”

“Nah, we don’t need it,” said Annie. “We’ve got CCTV everywhere.”

“Cynic.”

“What about the birds’ eggs?”

“Well, you had to blow them, or they went bad and started to smell. I found that out the hard way.”

“Blow them? You can’t be serious.”

“I am. You made little holes in each end with a pin and—”

“Yuk,” said Annie. “I don’t think I want to know.”

Banks studied her. “You asked.”

“Anyway,” she went on, making a dismissive gesture, “that was probably when you were about ten or eleven. Derek Wyman’s in his forties.”

“Theater’s a valid passion. There’s nothing anoraky about it. And it’s a bit more cerebral than trainspotting.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Annie. “Don’t you think there’s something rather heroic and romantic about standing there in your anorak in the wind and rain at the end of the platform, open to the elements, writing down the numbers of the diesels that zoom by?”

Banks studied her expression. “You’re winding me up again.”

Annie smiled. “Maybe just a little bit.”

“All right. Very funny. Now what do you think about Wyman? Do you think he was telling the truth?”

“He had no real reason to lie to us, did he? I mean, he knows we can check his alibi. And he got all those receipts and stubs for us before we left, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” said Banks. “They turned out to be very handy indeed.”

“They were just in his wallet. Exactly where you’d put something like that.”

“Cinema stubs, too?”

“People do.”

“I know.”

“So what is it?”

“Nothing,” said Banks. “Just my bloody scar’s itching, that’s all.”

“How did you get that scar?”

Banks ignored her. “Do you think there was something going on between them? Wyman and Hardcastle?”

“No, not really. I think he was telling the truth about that. And his wife didn’t react. If she had her suspicions, I think she would have found it hard to hide them. Not all gays are promiscuous, you know, no more than all heteros are.”

“Most blokes I know fancy plenty of women other than their wives.”

“That proves nothing,” said Annie. “Except that most blokes are bastards and your mates have probably never grown up.”

“What’s wrong with fancying? With looking?”

Annie turned away. “I don’t know,” she said. “Ask Sophia. See what she says.”

Banks was silent for a moment, then he said, “What about Derek Wyman and Laurence Silbert?”

“What about them?”

“You know.”

“Doubt it,” said Annie. “It doesn’t sound as if Silbert was much of a mixer.”

“Then what, for crying out loud, are we missing?”

Their food came and the waitress was in such a hurry that she almost dropped Banks’s lunch on his lap. She blushed and dashed away while he dabbed at the few spots of gravy that had landed on his trousers. “I swear Cyril’s help is getting younger every week.”

“It’s hard to keep them,” Annie agreed. “No kid wants to go to school every day and then work here on weekends. The pay’s rubbish, for a start, and nobody tips them. It’s no wonder they don’t last long.”

“I suppose so. Anyway, back to Derek Wyman.”

“I thought he was okay,” said Annie. “I don’t think we’re missing anything. Like I said, he’s a bit of an anorak, that’s all. He can probably name every gaffer and best boy on every film he’s seen, but I doubt that makes him a killer.”

“I didn’t say he was a killer,” Banks argued after a bite of lamb. “Just that there’s something niggling me about this whole murder-suicide business, that’s all.”

“But that’s just what it is: a murder-suicide. Don’t you think maybe we’re just taking it all a little bit too seriously? You’re annoyed because you got dragged away from your romantic weekend, and you can’t find a good mystery to make it worthwhile.”

Banks shot her a glance. “Wouldn’t you be?”

“I suppose I would.”

“It’s all so inconclusive,” said Banks. “I mean, was Hardcastle upset or wasn’t he? Some of the people he worked with said he was. Maria Wolsey, for example. Wyman said he wasn’t, but that he was generally insecure and jealous with regard to Silbert’s traveling. I don’t know. There are just too many questions.” Banks put his knife and fork down and started to count them off on his fingers as he spoke. “Why did Silbert travel so much if he’d retired? Had Hardcastle and Silbert had a fight, or hadn’t they? Did either, or both, of them play away or not? Who’s Julian Fenner, and why doesn’t his phone number connect? What was Silbert up to in Amsterdam?”

“Well, when you put it like that...” Annie said. “Maybe Edwina can help?”

“People don’t just beat their lovers to death, then hang themselves for no reason.”

“But the reason could be insignificant,” Annie argued. “If Hardcastle did it, then it could have been because of something that flared up right there and then. You know as well as I do that some of the most inconsequential of things can spark off the worst violence in people. Burning a piece of toast, breaking a valuable ornament, taking the piss at the wrong moment. You name it. Maybe Hardcastle had had too much to drink, and Silbert chastised him for it? Something as simple as that. People don’t like being told they’ve had too much to drink. Maybe Hardcastle was a little pissed, already aggressive, and before he knew it Silbert was dead? We know from Grainger’s statement that he’d been drinking when he called at the hardware shop for the clothesline.”

“Or someone else did it,” Banks said.

“So you say.”

“Look at the number of blows to Silbert after he was dead, the blood,” said Banks.

“Heat of the moment,” argued Annie. “Hardcastle lost it. Saw red. Literally. When he stopped and saw what he’d done he was horrified. That calmed him down, so when he bought the washing line off Grainger he seemed distant, resigned, his mind already made up. Then he went to the woods and...”

“But what about the damage inflicted on Silbert’s genital area? Doesn’t that suggest to you a sexual motive?”

“Perhaps.” Annie pushed her half-empty plate aside. “It’s nothing we haven’t seen before, though, is it? If there’s sexual jealousy involved, the killer will go to the area that symbolizes it. Maybe they argued about Hardcastle going to London with Wyman, or about Silbert going to Amsterdam? We might never know. It still doesn’t mean that someone else did it. Whatever the motive—jealousy, infidelity, criticism of drinking habits, some antique Hardcastle might have broken—the result’s the same: an argument turned violent and one man was left dead. The survivor couldn’t bear what he’d done, so he committed suicide. There’s nothing sinister or unusual about that at all. Sad to say, but it’s very commonplace.”

Banks put his knife and fork down and sighed. “I suppose you’re right,” he said. “Maybe I am just trying to justify losing my weekend. Or maybe you want to get this sorted quickly so we can concentrate on something really important, like all those police cones that have gone missing from the market square lately?”

Annie laughed. “Well, at least you’re thinking along the right lines.”

“Come on,” Banks said. “Let’s go have a shufti around Silbert’s house. The SOCOs should be pretty much done there by now. Then we’ll have another word with Edwina at the Burgundy. I get the impression that she’s got something else on her mind, too. We’ll see if we can find out something to shed a little more light on these matters.” “Sounds like a plan to me,” said Annie.

A couple of SOCOs were collecting the remaining trace evidence in Silbert’s upstairs drawing room when Banks and Annie arrived there early on Sunday afternoon, but apart from them, the place stood empty.

“We’ve had a good look around,” Ted Ferguson, one of the SOCOs, told them, “and there’re no hidden safes or compartments anywhere in the house. The only rooms with any personal stuff and papers in them are this one and the study down the hall.” He handed them some latex gloves from the crime scene bag on the floor near the door. “We’ve got a few more things to do downstairs, but we’re done up here for now. We’ll leave you to it. Wear these.”

“Thanks, Ted,” said Banks, opening the seal and slipping on the gloves.

The SOCOs went downstairs, and Banks and Annie stood on the threshold and took stock.

Even though the body and the sheepskin rug it had lain on were gone, the blood spatter left on the walls and the traces of fingerprint powder on every surface now marked it as a crime scene. The framed photo under the shattered glass still lay on the floor. It showed Mark Hardcastle smiling, standing next to Silbert. Banks picked it up carefully, brushed off some of the fingerprint powder and studied Silbert’s face. Handsome, certainly, cultured, slender and fit, and seeming much younger than sixty-two, he had a strong cleft chin, a high forehead and clear blue eyes. His dark hair had thinned just a little at the temples, and showed traces of gray above his ears, but it suited him. He wore a light blue cashmere jumper and navy chinos.

Annie pointed out the framed blowup of Hindswell Woods on the wall. Most of the blood had been wiped off, though a few drops had smeared here and there. “Not a bad effort,” said Banks. “Whoever took it had an eye for a picturesque woodland scene. The way the light filters through the leaves and branches is beautiful.”

“That’s the tree Mark Hardcastle hanged himself on,” Annie said, pointing out the oak. “It’s very distinctive.”

They both gazed at the picture for a few moments, Banks remembering what Edwina Silbert had said last night about walks in woods full of bluebells. Then they started the search.

Silbert’s computer showed nothing out of the ordinary on a cursory examination carried out by Annie, but it would have to be checked thoroughly by technical support if the evidence pointed toward a killer other than Mark Hardcastle. The desk drawers held only stationery, holiday snapshots and a few files full of business receipts, along with telephone and utility bills.

A set of keys in the middle drawer opened a locked antique wooden cabinet on the floor beside the desk. Inside, Banks and Annie found the deeds to the house, bank statements, checkbooks and all the other papers they needed to discover that Silbert had been in the millionaire-plus bracket. His civil service pension certainly didn’t account for it, but regular checks from Viva and its various subsidiaries did. There were also a few large transfers from foreign bank accounts, Swiss mostly, the nature of which remained unclear, but on the whole the mystery of Silbert’s wealth was solved. There was no will, so Silbert had either left one in the keeping of his solicitor, or he hadn’t made one, in which case his fortune would go to his mother.

On the bottom shelf of the cabinet, Banks found a small bundle of personal letters held together by a rubber band. The first was dated September 7, 1997, and was from someone called Leo Westwood at an address in Swiss Cottage. Banks read through it quickly, Annie looking over his shoulder. It was written in a neat, sloping hand, by fountain pen, judging from the varying thickness of the ink strokes.

Most of the content dealt with the death of the Princess of Wales and its aftermath. Westwood seemed to have little patience for Diana’s brother’s attack on the Royal Family in his funeral oration the previous day, finding it “inappropriate and ill-advised,” or for the general outpouring of grief from “the hoi polloi, who love this sort of thing almost as much as they love Coronation Street and East Enders.” Banks wondered what he would make of the recent inquiry and the accusations flying around about Prince Charles, the Duke of Edinburgh and MI6.

There were also references to an afternoon’s antique hunting, a George I card table with an inlaid pattern that Silbert “would simply have adored,” and a delicious meal, including foie gras and sweetbreads, with “Gracie and Sevron” at a Michelin-starred restaurant in the West End, where they saw one of Tony Blair’s cabinet ministers dining with an out-of-favor colleague.

The letter, like the rest, had been sent to Silbert, as diplomatic post, at the British Embassy in Berlin. Banks wondered if it had been read by censors. Gossipy as it was, there was nothing seditious in it, nothing calculated to bring the wrath of HMG down on Westwood or Silbert, and the only overt political reference was to Egon Krenz’s recent conviction for a shoot-to-kill policy on the Berlin Wall. All in all, it was chatty, well informed, snobbish and affectionate The writer was, no doubt, aware that his words would probably be read by people other than the intended recipient, so if he had been Silbert’s lover at the time, he had shown remarkable restraint. When Annie had finished reading it, Banks put the letter back in its envelope and returned it to the pile.

“Do you think these could have caused a row?” Annie asked, tapping the pile of letters.

“It’s possible,” Banks said. “But why now? I mean, they’ve probably been lying around since the late nineties, unless Silbert suddenly discovered them somewhere.”

“Maybe Hardcastle did a bit of prying on Thursday evening or Friday morning while Silbert was still away in Amsterdam?”

“Maybe,” said Banks. “But surely he’d had plenty of opportunities to pry before? Silbert traveled quite a bit. Why now?”

“Jealousy got the better of him?”

“Hmm,” said Banks. “Let’s go have a look down the hall.”

The room was clearly Hardcastle’s study, and it was much less tidy than Silbert’s. Most of what they found related to Hardcastle’s work at the theater and his interest in set and costume design. There were notes, sketches, books and working scripts marked up with different-colored inks. On his laptop was a computer program for generating various screenplay formats, along with the beginnings of one or two stories. It appeared as if Hardcastle himself had also been interested in writing a movie script, a ghost story set in Victorian England, judging by the first page.

In the top drawer of the desk, on the latest copy of Sight & Sound, lay a memory stick of the type most commonly used in a digital camera.

“That’s odd,” Annie said, when Banks pointed it out to her.

“Why?”

“Hardcastle has a digital camera. It’s over here on the bottom bookshelf.” She picked up the small silver object and carried it over to Banks.

“So?” said Banks.

“Don’t be such a Luddite,” Annie said. “Can’t you see?”

“Yes, I can see. Digital camera, memory card. I still say, ‘So what?’ And I’m not a bloody Luddite. I’ve got a digital camera of my own. I know what memory cards are for.”

Annie sighed. “This is a Canon camera,” she said, as if explaining to a five-year-old. Though a five-year-old, Banks thought, would probably have known what she was talking about already. “It takes a compact flash card.”

“I know what you’re going to say,” said Banks. “This thing here isn’t a compact flash card.”

“Bingo. It’s a memory stick.”

“Won’t it fit in that camera?”

“No. It’s for Sony digital cameras.”

“Isn’t there an adaptor?”

“No. Not for the camera. I mean, technically I suppose someone could probably do it, but you just wouldn’t. You’d buy the right kind of memory. You can get card readers, and a lot of computers will accept different kinds of cards—Hardcastle’s laptop there does, by the way—but you can’t put a Sony memory stick in a Canon Sure Shot camera.”

“Maybe it was just meant for the computer, not the camera? You said most computers have card readers.”

“Possibly,” Annie said. “But I still think that’s unlikely. Mostly people buy those cheaper USB smart drives when they want portable computer memory. These little thingies are made for cameras.”

“So the question is, what’s it doing here?”

“Exactly,” said Annie. “And where did it come from? Silbert didn’t have a Sony, either. He’s just got an old Olympic. I saw it in his study.”

“Interesting,” said Banks, eyeing the small, wafer-thin stick. “Should we check it out?”

“Fingerprints?”

“Damn.” Banks went to the landing and called one of the SOCOs, who came up, examined and dusted the stick, then shook his head. “Everything’s too blurred,” he said. “It’s almost always the case with things like that. You might get something from the memory stick itself, if you’re lucky, but usually people tend to hold them by the edges.”

“This isn’t the stick?” Banks said, puzzled.

“I forgot to explain,” said Annie. “The stick fits into an adaptor, a kind of sheath, so you can slot it in the computer.”

“Okay. I see.” Banks thanked the SOCO, who went back downstairs. “Let’s have a look at it, then,” Banks went on. “If it’s protected by the sheath, we can’t do it any harm, can we?”

“I suppose not,” said Annie, sitting down at the laptop. Banks watched her slip the stick into a slot in the side of the computer and heard it click into place. A series of dialogue boxes flashed across the screen. Within seconds, he was looking at a photograph showing Laurence Silbert with another man sitting on a park bench. In the background was a magnificent cream-colored, two-domed building. Banks thought they were in Regent’s Park, but he couldn’t be certain.

Next the two men were pictured from behind walking down a narrow street past a row of garages on the right, each a different color painted in a series of distinctive white-bordered square panels, like a chessboard. Above the garages were gabled houses, or apartments, with white stucco fronts.

The final shot showed them entering through a door between two of the garages, which clearly led to the living space above, the unknown man in profile, his hand resting lightly on Silbert’s shoulder. It could have been a simple gesture of courtesy, the man ushering Silbert into the house first. To a jealous lover, though, it could conceivably have appeared as a sign of affection, especially if the lover knew nothing about such a meeting.

Whoever the man was, he certainly wasn’t Mark Hardcastle. Maybe he was Leo Westwood, Banks thought. Whoever he was, he looked about the same age as Silbert, perhaps a year or two younger, given the former’s access to the elixir of youth, and about the same height. Judging by the light and shadows, it was early evening, and beyond the garages, the rest of the houses on the street were brick with cream stucco ground floors and steps leading down to basement entrances. The photos were dated a week ago last Wednesday.

“Okay,” said Banks. “Can we get these printed up back at the station?”

“No, problem,” said Annie. “I can do it myself.”

“Let’s call back there first, then. We’ll show them to the people we’ve already talked to, starting with Edwina Silbert. And I’ve got a pal in technical support who might just be able to identify the street name if he can enhance the image enough. You can see the sign on the wall in the far background. There’s obviously a damn good reason that memory stick was there. It didn’t belong to either Silbert or Hard-castle, and you tell me that neither could have used it in their cameras. I don’t think it was there by coincidence. Do you?”

“No,” said Annie.

Banks pocketed the letters and Annie took the memory stick out of the slot and turned off the laptop. They were just about to head back to the station when Annie’s mobile rang. She answered it immediately. Banks glanced around the room again as she dealt with the call, but saw nothing he thought of any significance.

“Interesting,” said Annie, putting her phone away.

“Who was it?”

“Maria Wolsey, from the theater. She worked with Mark Hardcastle.”

“What does she want?”

“Wants to talk to me.”

“About what?”

“She didn’t say. Just that she’d like to talk to me.”

“And?”

“I said I’d drop by her flat.”

“Okay,” said Banks. “Why don’t we go get the photos printed first, then you can talk to her while I have another chat with Edwina Silbert.”

Annie smiled. “Alan Banks, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you fancied her.”