All the Colors of Darkness

5

The morning's rain was long gone by the time Banks got to the Burgundy Hotel, and Edwina Silbert was taking a gin and tonic and a cigarette in the small quiet courtyard, once the stables, at the back of the building. Banks got the impression that it wasn’t her first drink of the day. She had one of the Sunday newspaper style supplements open before her, photos of skinny models in clothes you never saw anyone wearing, but it was clear that she wasn’t really paying attention to it; her gaze was fixed on the line of distant hills framed by a gap in the buildings.

Banks pulled up a chair and sat opposite her. “Comfortable night?” he asked.

“As well as could be expected,” she said. “Do you know, there’s absolutely no smoking anywhere in the hotel? Not even in my own room. Can you believe it?”

“Sign of the times, I’m afraid,” said Banks, ordering a lemon tea from the hovering white-coated waiter. Edwina was looking her age this morning, he thought. Or closer to it. She was wearing a black woolen shawl over her shoulders, a sign of mourning, an indication that she felt cold, or perhaps both. Her gray-white hair and pale, dry skin stood out in stark contrast.

“Where’s that pretty girlfriend of yours today?” she asked.

“DI Cabbot isn’t my girlfriend.”

“Then she’s a damn fool. If I were twenty years younger...”

Banks laughed.

“What? You don’t believe me?”

“Edwina, I believe you.”

Her expression turned serious. “Anything new to report?” she asked.

“Not much, I’m afraid,” said Banks. “I just called in at the station and discovered that your son’s blood type is A positive, along with about thirty-five percent of the population, and that the only blood types we found on Mark’s person were A positive and B positive, which is much rarer, and happens to be his own.”

“So you’re saying it looks more and more as if Mark killed Laurence?”

“We’ve a long way to go to be certain of that yet,” said Banks, “but blood typing certainly supports the theory.”

Edwina sat in silence. Banks felt that she might be debating with herself whether to tell him something, but the moment passed, and when nothing was forthcoming after a minute or so, he slipped the photos Annie had printed out of their envelope and pushed them over to her. “We found these in Mark’s study,” he said. “Any idea who the other man is?”

Edwina took some reading glasses from a brown leather case beside her and studied the photos. “No,” she said. “Never see him before in my life.”

“It’s not Leo Westwood?”

“Leo? Good Lord, no. Leo’s far more handsome than the man in this photograph, and not quite so tall. A little stockier, even, with tight, dark curls. Rather cherubic, actually. How do you know about Leo?”

“We found some letters.”

“What kind of letters?”

“From Leo to Laurence. Nothing... shocking. Just letters.”

“They’d hardly be shocking,” Edwina said. “The Leo I knew was definitely not the sort to let it all hang out.”

“When were they together?”

“About ten years ago. Late nineties until the early two thousands.”

“Do you know what happened?”

She stared at the distant patterns of drystone walls. “Whatever usually happens to split people apart. Boredom? Someone new? Laurence didn’t tell me. He was brokenhearted for a while, then he got over it and got on with his life. I assume Leo did the same.”

“Do you know where Leo is now?”

“I’m afraid not. We lost touch after he and Laurence split up. He might still be living in the same place, I suppose. It’s on Adamson Road, Swiss Cottage.” She gave Banks a street number. “I had dinner with them there on several occasions. It was a nice apartment and an interesting neighborhood. Leo liked the place, and he did own it, so if he didn’t have to move for any practical reason, the odds are that he’s still there.”

“Their relationship was serious?”

“I would say so, from what I saw of it, yes.”

“Were there any others?”

“Lovers or serious relationships?”

“Serious relationships.”

“I’d say Leo was the only one until Mark came along, except perhaps for his first love, but that was many years ago, and I can’t remember the young man’s name now. I’m sure Laurence would have done, though. One never does really forget one’s first love, does one? Anyway, Leo was the only one I knew about, at any rate, and I think I would have known. There were casual lovers, of course.”

“Have you ever heard Laurence mention a man called Julian Fenner?” Banks asked.

Edwina frowned. “Fenner? No, I can’t say as I have.”

Banks’s lemon tea arrived. He thanked the waiter and took a sip. Refreshing. Edwina took the opportunity to order another gin and tonic. Birds twittered in the shrubbery. The sun felt warm on the back of Banks’s neck. “We’ve also been thinking,” he went on, “that Mark may have had suspicions regarding Laurence’s faithfulness, or lack of it. Laurence might have been having an affair. Mark could have found out about it.”

“I wish I could help you,” said Edwina, “but I certainly wasn’t privy to all Laurence’s comings and goings. I would very much doubt it, though. While Laurence could be as promiscuous and unfaithful as the next man when his feelings weren’t engaged in a relationship, well... when he was in love, it was a different matter. He took that sort of thing seriously.”

“What about the man in the photo?” Banks said. “They’re touching.”

“I shouldn’t think that means anything, would you?” Edwina said. “It’s just a natural gesture when you usher someone through a door before you. I mean, it’s hardly sexual, or even sensual, is it?”

“But a jealous person might see it that way.”

“True. There’s no accounting for the way some people interpret things.”

“Might Mark have seen it that way?”

“He could have. I wouldn’t have said he was that jealous, mind you. Just a little insecure. When you think you’ve landed such a wonderful catch you’re understandably nervous about losing it. I’m not boasting about my son here. All these things are relative.”

“I understand,” said Banks, thinking that no matter how often the analysts told us the class system had disappeared, there was always plenty of evidence to the contrary. “What about Laurence’s business interests?” he asked. “I gather he was a retired civil servant?”

Edwina paused. “Yes,” she said.

“But he also helped you with Viva, didn’t he?”

She almost spilled her gin and tonic. “What? Where on earth did you get that idea?”

“But I thought that might explain some of his frequent trips to London and elsewhere, if he worked as a sort of business consultant.”

“Good Lord, no. You have got it all wrong, haven’t you?”

“Have I?”

“Office space in London is far too expensive. Our head office is in Swindon. Well, outside Swindon. One wouldn’t want to actually be in Swindon, would one?”

Banks cursed himself. They should have checked. It wouldn’t have been that difficult to find out where Viva’s head office was. “When I found out who you were, I just assumed that was perhaps why Laurence went to London so often, to help you take care of Viva.”

“Laurence? Viva? You must be joking. Laurence had no head for figures, no business acumen at all. Laurence? If I’d let him run things we’d be bankrupt or unemployed by now. I gave Laurence a percentage share in the business. That’s where his money comes from. He never played any actual part in the running of the company.”

“There were also a number of transfers from Swiss bank accounts we’ve been unable to account for. Would they have anything to do with Viva?”

“I very much doubt it,” Edwina mumbled, tapping out another cigarette and lighting it. “Though I should imagine that someone in the employ of the foreign service for as many years as Laurence was would have squirreled a certain amount away, wouldn’t you?”

“Expenses?”

She looked away, up at the hills again. “Expenses. Contingency fund. Mad money. Escape hatch. Call it what you will.”

Banks’s head was beginning to swim. Edwina seemed to have wrapped herself in a cloud of verbal smoke, as well as the real stuff, and her answers were vague and slow to come. He felt as if the interview were suddenly slipping away from him, and he didn’t know why. “Do you know why he went down to London so often, then?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Or why he’d go to Amsterdam? He was there from Tuesday until Friday morning last week.”

“I have no idea. Old friends, perhaps? Contacts. He had them all over the world. They were his life’s blood.”

“What do you mean? I don’t understand you.”

When she gazed at him, he sensed a guarded look in her eyes. “It’s perfectly clear,” she said. “Laurence had no business affairs. Whatever he did down in London after he retired, it certainly wasn’t business. I would guess that he was meeting old colleagues, talking shop, playing golf, perhaps, visiting casinos, lunching at various clubs. Who knows?”

“Could it have had anything to do with his job? The civil service job he retired from?”

“Oh, I should imagine so. One never really retires fully from that sort of thing, does one, especially in times like these?”

“I wouldn’t know,” said Banks, feeling his scar begin to itch. “What do you mean? What was it exactly that he did?”

Edwina sipped her gin and tonic and remained silent.

“Edwina,” Banks said in exasperation. “You’re keeping something from me. I can tell. You were doing it last night, and now you’re doing it again today. What on earth is it? What are you holding back?”

Edwina paused and sighed. “Oh, very well. It is naughty of me, isn’t it? I suppose you’d find out sooner or later, anyway.” She stubbed out her cigarette and looked Banks in the eye. “He was a spy, Mr. Banks. My son, Laurence Silbert. He was a spook.”

Maria Wolsey's flat reminded Annie of where she had lived when she was a student at Exeter. She glimpsed an unmade mattress on the floor in the bedroom, and the bookcases in the living room were made of planks separated by bricks. Posters of Arctic Monkeys and The Killers vied for space with playbills for the RSC and the East-vale Theatre on the walls. The armchairs they sat in needed reupholstering and the mugs they drank their coffee from were chipped and stained.

Maria, it turned out, had only left the University of Bristol, where she had studied drama, a year ago. Eastvale was her first job, and she hoped to use it as a stepping stone to move on to higher and better things. Like Mark Hardcastle, her interest was in theater history, costume design and set production.

“You could say Mark was a sort of mentor to me,” she said, cradling her mug against her chest. The dark-rimmed glasses she had on made her look both older and more of an intellectual. She wore a loose off-the-shoulder top, and her straight brown hair hung over her pale skin. She sat in the chair with her legs crossed, feet bare below the frayed hems of her jeans. In the background, a girl with a wispy voice was singing and playing guitar on the stereo.

“Did the two of you spend much time together?”

“Quite a bit, yes. Usually after work, or on a lunch break, you know. We’d go for a drink or a bite to eat.”

“So you were close? Is that why you rang me?”

Maria’s brow furrowed. She put her mug down on the arm of the chair. “I didn’t want to talk in front of everyone. And Vernon acts like he’s the boss, you know. He’s always putting me down. I think he feels threatened by a competent woman.”

“What about a competent gay man?”

“Come again?”

“Vernon. How did he feel about working for Mark?”

“Oh, that. I see. Vernon’s like a lot of men. He thinks he’s okay with it, but really he’s a homophobe. The whole idea of it terrifies him, threatens his manhood.”

“What’s he doing working in the theater then?”

Maria laughed. “Only job he could get. He’s not a bad carpenter, but there’s not a lot of demand for his skills elsewhere around here.”

“Did he get along all right with Mark?”

Maria twirled a strand of hair as she thought for a moment. “I guess so. I mean, basically Vernon’s a do-as-you’re-told-and-get-on-with-your-work sort of bloke. Salt of the earth, as they say He was just uncomfortable sometimes, that’s all.”

“Did Mark make him feel that way?”

“Not deliberately, just by what he was.”

“Can you give me an example? Did Mark tease him or anything like that?”

“No, nothing like that. It was just... Like, Mark was a great mimic. He could take off just about anyone. You wouldn’t believe how funny he was when he got going. You should have heard his Kenneth Williams, or seen him do his gay John Wayne or his effeminate Barnsley coal miner. Talk about laugh.”

“Did Vernon find this amusing?”

“No. I think it embarrassed him when Mark started doing his outrageously gay routines. I mean, most of the time he was just... you know... ordinary. Well, I don’t mean ordinary, because he was a great bloke, really special, but he didn’t have any affectations or exaggerated mannerisms.”

“I think I understand,” said Annie. “Was Vernon at the theater all Friday afternoon?”

“We all were.”

“During the Calamity Jane matinee?”

“Yes.”

“But could somebody have slipped away?”

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

“Don’t believe what?”

“That Vernon would hurt Mark. I mean, it’s one thing to be a bit uncomfortable around gays, but quite another to go and kill one.”

Annie wasn’t thinking of Mark, but she didn’t need to tell Maria that. “I’m not suggesting he did,” she said. “We have no evidence so far that Mark did anything other than take his own life. I’m just trying to get everything clear, that’s all. What about the morning? Were you all at work then?”

“We didn’t start until noon.”

So Vernon Ross could have killed Laurence Silbert, Annie thought. Maybe it was an unlikely scenario, but it was worth keeping in mind. “What about Derek Wyman?” she asked. “He and Mark went to London together last week.”

“The way I understand it, they really didn’t go together,” said Maria. “Derek told me they were meeting up down there to see some films. He sounded quite excited about it.”

“What did Mark say?”

“I didn’t get to talk to him about it. He was too busy.”

“Did you ever get the feeling that there was anything between Derek Wyman and Mark?”

“Good Lord, no. Derek’s not gay. I can tell you that for sure.”

“How do you know?” Annie asked.

“I can’t really explain it. Gay-dar. No vibe.”

Annie realized that Maria was right. Often a woman could tell. “But they’d never done anything like this before?”

“No. To be honest, it came as quite a surprise to me. I mean, it wasn’t as if they were best of friends or anything.”

“You mean they didn’t get along?”

“No, I’m not saying that. I think Mark just got frustrated with Derek sometimes, that’s all.”

“Why?”

“Because Derek kept trying to do his job, tell him how the production should look and all that. I mean, he is the director, but Mark was a professional. He’d done courses and everything. We were lucky to have him here.”

“I thought they were agreed on the German expressionist set?”

“Well, they were. But it was Derek’s idea, and he wasn’t always receptive when Mark brought fresh perspectives to it. It was as if he expected Mark just to do what he was told, to follow the plans, get the sets built and the costumes made and shut up. But that wasn’t Mark’s way. He was really creative, and he saw a production as more of a collaboration. Between all of us, really. He was always asking our opinions on things. The actors, too. Derek just gave orders. I don’t mean to give the impression that they didn’t like each other or anything. I mean, I know they met socially occasionally, too.”

“Artistic differences, then?”

“Yes. And they’re both from working-class backgrounds, you know, only Mark tried to play down his roots—he even talked a bit posh—while Derek, well, he’s one of those blokes who wears his workingman’s club membership card on his sleeve, even though he’s never been to a workingman’s club in his life, if you know what I mean.”

“I think I do,” said Annie. “Did Mark talk about himself much?”

“Sometimes. Not a lot. He was a great listener, though, was Mark. You could talk to him about anything. When I split up with my boyfriend in February, I must have talked his ear off, but he didn’t complain. And it helped me.”

“You said he’d been a bit strange the past couple of weeks. Do you have any idea why?”

“No. We didn’t really have a chance to get together for a chat or anything during that period, what with one thing and another. Not that he would have told me, anyway.”

“Did he ever tell you if something was bothering him?”

“There were a couple of occasions when he let his guard down.” She put her hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle. “Usually when we’d had a bit too much to drink.”

“And what did he talk about on these occasions?”

“Oh, you know. Life. His feelings. His ambitions.”

“Can you tell me more?”

“Well, you know about his background, don’t you? Barnsley and all that?”

“A bit.”

“It was something he was very uncomfortable about. He was an only child, you see, and he didn’t turn out to be exactly the sort of son his father wanted. His father was a miner and very macho, apparently, played rugby and all that. Mark wasn’t very good at sports. Worse, he wasn’t even interested. He did well at school, though.”

“What about his mother?”

“Oh, Mark adored her. That’s one thing he would go on about. But she broke his heart.”

“How?”

“She was so beautiful and so artistic, so sensitive and tender, or so he said. She acted with the am drams, read poetry, took him with her to classical concerts. But his father used to mock everything they liked to do, called Mark a mummy’s boy. It sounds as if he was a drunken brute. In the end, she couldn’t take it anymore, so she left them. Mark was only ten. He was devastated. I don’t think he ever got over it. Even when he told me about the day she left he was crying.”

Annie could hardly believe it. “She left her son with a brutal, drunken father?”

“I know. It sounds terrible. But there was another man in her life, apparently, and he didn’t want any children hanging around. They ran off to London. I didn’t get the full story, but I know it tore Mark apart. He loved her so much. He couldn’t stop loving her. But he hated her for leaving him. And I think after that he found it really hard to trust anyone, to believe that anyone he started to care about wouldn’t just up and leave him at a moment’s notice. That’s why it was so lovely to see him making a life with Laurence. They moved slowly, mind you, but it seemed to be working.”

“Go on,” said Annie. “What happened after his mother left?”

“Well, Mark was left with his father, who apparently just sank even deeper into the booze and became more and more angry and vicious as time went on. Mark lasted till he was sixteen, then he hit him with an ashtray and ran away from home.”

“He hit his father with an ashtray?”

“It was in self-defense. His father beat him regularly, usually with a thick leather belt, Mark said. The kids at school used to tease him and bully him, too, spit on him and call him a sissy. His life was hell. That one time, he told me, it just all came surging up in him and he couldn’t control himself anymore. He lashed out.”

“What happened to his father?”

“Mark didn’t hang around to find out.”

“And he never went back?”

“Never.”

Annie took a moment to digest this. She could see why Maria had not wanted to talk about it in front of the others. If Mark Hardcastle had shown an inclination toward violence, poor anger control, then it certainly supported the theory that he had killed Laurence Silbert in some sort of jealous rage and was then overcome with remorse. The blood-typing that she and Banks had just found out about also agreed with this view.

On the other hand, there was the redemptive image of the relationship that Maria painted, and that Edwina had touched upon the previous evening: Mark loved Laurence Silbert, had practically moved in with him, was making a life with him. Annie knew well enough that the presence of love doesn’t necessarily rule out murder, but she also wanted to believe in the positive view of the two of them.

“He did very well for himself, then,” Annie said. “But it sounds as if he had a lot of inner demons to overcome.”

“And prejudice. Don’t forget that. We might think we’re living in an enlightened society, but as often as not you’ll find it’s only skin-deep, if that. People might know the politically correct responses and attitudes and trot them out as and when required, but it doesn’t mean they believe them, any more than people going to church means they’re really religious and believe in God.”

“I know what you’re saying,” said Annie. “Hypocrisy’s everywhere. But it doesn’t sound as if Mark suffered a great deal from antigay prejudice here, at the Eastvale Theatre. I mean, you say that Vernon was uncomfortable, but he didn’t actively harass Mark, did he?”

“Oh, no. I didn’t mean to imply that. You’re right. It was a great place for him to work. And he had such great ideas. He was going to make so many changes.”

“What do you mean?”

“The theater. Well, you know what it’s like. It’s quite new, and they do the best they can. We get some good acts, but on the theatrical side, well... between you and me, the Amateur Dramatic Society and the Amateur Operatic Society aren’t exactly the cream of the crop, are they?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, they’re amateur. I’m not saying they’re not enthusiastic, even talented, some of them, but it’s just a sideline for them, isn’t it. With people like Mark and me, it’s everything.”

“So what was he going to do?”

“He had a vision of starting the Eastvale Players.”

“A rep company?”

“Not strictly speaking, no, but with some similar elements. It would be made up of some of the best local actors, along with jobbing actors. The idea was that Eastvale would be their home base, but they’d tour and we’d have reciprocal visits from other groups of players. Mark would be the artistic director and he said he’d put in a good word for me with the board, so I could have the job he’s got now. Had. Like he was grooming me. I mean, I’ve got the qualifications, but it’s not just what’s on paper that counts, is it?”

“This would be a professional company, then?”

“Oh, yes. Absolutely. They’d be paid and everything.”

“And Vernon?”

“He’d do the same as he’s doing now.”

“But wouldn’t he be upset if you became head of set and costumes? You’d be his boss then.”

“I don’t see why it should bother him. Vernon’s not ambitious. He’d still be paid, wouldn’t he? Nothing would change for him.”

How little you know about people, Annie thought. Maria was being rather naive, given that she had mentioned earlier on how Vernon seemed to have problems working with competent women, let alone for one. “What about the amateur groups?” Annie asked.

“They’d do what they were doing before, I suppose, put on plays in the community center and church halls.”

“And Derek Wyman?”

“He’d still be their director.”

“I know, but it’d be a bit of step down for him, wouldn’t it, after working at the real theater?”

“But it’s not as if it’s his life, is it? Or even his real job. He’s a schoolteacher. The theater’s just a hobby for him.”

Try and tell that to Derek Wyman, Annie thought, remembering her talk with him that morning. “And who was going to finance this little venture?” she asked.

“Laurence Silbert, Mark’s partner, was going to help us get started, then the idea was that it would mostly pay for itself, maybe with a little help from the Arts Council lottery money every once in a while. We were sure the board would go for it. Laurence was on the board, anyway, and he thought he could convince them.”

Vernon Ross had never mentioned this, Annie thought. But he wouldn’t, would he, if it was something that angered him or made him look bad? “Interesting,” she said. “Just how far had all this got?”“Oh, it was still only in the planning stages,” Maria said. “That’s another reason this is all so tragic. It couldn’t have come at a worse time. Now nothing will change. If I want any sort of future in the theater, I’m going to have to look for another job. I don’t even think I have the heart to stay here without Mark being around.”

“You’re young,” said Annie. “I’m sure you’ll do fine. Is there anything else you can tell me?”

“Not really,” said Maria. “That was about all I had to say. I can offer you another cup of instant coffee, though, if you want?”

Annie looked at the cracked, stained mug with the gray-brown sludge in the bottom. “No, thanks,” she said, standing up. “I really have to be going. More reports to write. Thanks for your help, anyway.”

“Think nothing of it,” said Maria, seeing her to the door. “Just don’t tell Vernon what I said about him being homophobic and all that. I’m sure he thinks he’s the very model of tolerance.”

“Don’t worry,” said Annie. “I won’t.”

Edwina’s statement hung in the silence ready to burst like a piece of overripe fruit on a tree. Banks had had his suspicions that Silbert was up to something clandestine, but he would have guessed that it was sexual, or perhaps even criminal. Not this. Not espionage. He knew that it changed the whole balance and focus of the case, but it was too early to say exactly how. At least he could start by getting as much information out of Edwina as he could, though she seemed immediately to have regretted her little confidence.

“I shouldn’t have told you,” she said. “It’ll only muddy the waters.”

“On the contrary,” said Banks. “You should have told me the first time we talked to you. It could be important. How long had this been going on?”

“What do you mean?”

“The spying.”

“Oh, all his life. Well, ever since he graduated from university.” Edwina sighed, sipped her gin and tonic and lit another cigarette. Banks noticed the yellow stains ingrained in the wrinkles of her fingers. “His father, Cedric, worked for military intelligence during the Second World War. I don’t think he was very good at it, but at least he survived, and he still had the contacts, people he kept in touch with.” “Did he pursue it as a career?”

“Good Lord, no. Cedric was far too selfish to serve his country for any longer than he had to. He involved himself in a number of ill-advised business ventures. One after the other. I’m afraid, Mr. Banks, that charming rogue as he was, my late lamented husband wasn’t much good at anything. His main interests in life were fast cars and even faster women. We stayed together for appearances’ sake, as married couples did then, but God knows how long it would have lasted if it hadn’t been for his accident. The woman he was with walked away without a scratch.” Edwina gazed directly at Banks. “I always hated her for that, you know,” she said. “Not that I wished it had been the other way around. I just wished they had both died.”

She must have noticed Banks’s look of mingled curiosity and horror because she went on quickly. “Oh, I didn’t do it. Really. I didn’t fix the brakes or anything. I wouldn’t know how. Don’t think this is a murder confession. It was just the end of something for me, and it would have been an even more perfect end if his silly little whore had died with him. You can hardly imagine how miserable my existence was then. This was in late October 1956, well before Viva and the swinging sixties. In fact, it was right at the height of the Suez Crisis, and I think Cedric was involved in the oil business then. Suez was the main tanker route, of course. Typical of him to be putting his money in quite the wrong place at the wrong time. Anyway, things were very difficult all around. The only bright spot in my life was Laurence.”

Banks noticed the tears in her eyes, but with a supreme effort of will she seemed to absorb them back into the ducts. He could feel the sun warm on his cheek and his shirt was sticking to his back. “The spying,” he said gently. “How did that come about?”

“Oh, yes, that. Would you believe it but Dicky Hawkins—an old war colleague of Cedric’s—actually asked me for permission to recruit Laurence? This was in his last year at Cambridge, 1967. He’d shown a remarkable facility for modern languages—German and Russian in particular—and a keen grasp of contemporary politics. He was good at sports, too. Not for Laurence The Beatles, marijuana and revolution. He was about as dyed-in-the-wool blue as you could get. While others kids were out buying Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, Laurence was running around the hills playing soldiers with the army cadets and collecting military memorabilia. And he didn’t buy it to sell it to hippies on Carnaby Street later, either. Somehow all that just passed Laurence by.”

“They must have had a few reservations about taking him on, though,” Banks said. “Given your... well, your lifestyle at the time.”

Edwina laughed. “It was still early days for me, remember, but yes, I was starting to make a name for myself, and I was mixing with a rather heady crowd. Most people think the sixties didn’t start until the Summer of Love in 1967, but for those of us who were there at the beginning, in London, at any rate, it was all over by then. 1963, 1964, 1965. Those were the years. All the people I knew wanted to change the world—some from the inside, some through art or Eastern religion, some by violent revolution. But wasn’t that a wonderful bonus?”

“You mean Laurence spied on you and your friends?”

“I’m quite sure nothing slipped by him. But Dicky and his pals weren’t really interested in all that. They didn’t take that scene in the least bit seriously. Not here, at any rate. I mean, everyone sang and talked about revolution, but nobody actually did anything. Dicky’s lads knew who the real dangers were. And where. It was overseas they were interested in. Mainland Europe was the hotbed of terrorism back then, or starting to be. Germany. France. Italy. Cohn-Bendit, Baader-Meinhof and the Red Army Faction. We had our moments in little old Britain, mostly courtesy of the IRA or the Angry Brigade, but in comparison with the rest of the world we were still something of a sleepy backwater.”

“So you told this Dicky Hawkins that it was all right to recruit Laurence?”

“The question was a mere courtesy. It clearly didn’t matter what my answer was. Anyway, I can’t say I was happy about the idea, but I told him he was welcome to give it a try, that I wasn’t Laurence’s keeper and wouldn’t stand in his way. I wasn’t quite sure whether he would succeed or not, but he did. The next thing I knew Laurence was off on training courses for a couple of years, learning how to drive fast in city centers and God knows what else, and I didn’t see much of him. After that, he changed.”

“In what way?”

“It was as if he’d taken a part of himself, cut it off and hidden it away where no one could ever see it. It’s hard to describe, because on the surface he was as charming and funny and witty as ever, but I knew that he couldn’t tell me most of what he’d been doing since I saw him last. And I probably suspected that I didn’t want to know, either.”

“So what did you do?”

“What could I do? I accepted it and life went on. I’d lost part of my son, but not all of him. Whatever they did to him, they didn’t kill his love for his mother.”

“Do you know which branch of the intelligence services he worked for?”

“MI6. His facility for languages sealed it. That’s why he spent a good part of his time undercover overseas. East Germany, Russia. Czechoslovakia. I remember his first real assignment was in Prague in 1968. I don’t know what he was supposed to do there, but I assume he had to mingle with the students and help make things difficult for the Russians, or report on developments there. After that... who knows. I do gather that some of the assignments he handled were not without danger.”

“He never told you any details?”

“One thing Laurence could do better than anybody I have ever known was keep a secret.” She noticed that her glass was almost empty and swirled the dregs around the bottom.

“Want another?” Banks asked, spotting the waiter hovering on the fringes.

“I’ve had enough.”

Banks gestured to the waiter that they didn’t require any more drinks. He went away. “Where was Laurence living during this period?”

“Oh, it varied. We’re talking about quite a long time, you know. 1967 to 2004. Though after the Wall came down, he spent less and less time abroad. He had a beautiful house in Kensington. He lived there for over twenty years, when he was in the country.”

“What happened to it?”

“He sold it when the market was good. That was what enabled him to buy the large house in Yorkshire and the little pied-a-terre in Bloomsbury.”

“I thought you said he had no business acumen?”

“Well,” she said with a hint of a smile, “he did get a lot of help.”

“You?”

“He’s my only son. Money soon came to mean nothing to me. I don’t mean that quite the callous way it sounds, but it just kept on rolling in, and it didn’t seem to matter whether I worked hard or not. What was I going to do with it all? It was one thing I could do for him.”

“What about the Swiss bank accounts?”

“I wouldn’t read too much into all that. I doubt it was a huge amount. Naturally, I don’t know the reality of it, but Dicky once let slip that when you do the sort of job Laurence did, there’s often loose money around—payoffs, bribes, hush money, blackmail, God knows what. Most of it is not recorded in any books or bank accounts, and sometimes it’s just, well, just there at the end of a job, and nobody else knows anything about it. When all one has to look forward to is a government pension, there’s naturally a tendency to feather one’s nest rather than the alternative.”

“Which is?”

“Hand it over to the government, of course.”

Banks smiled. “I can certainly understand why he wouldn’t want to do that. Anyway, we very much doubt that your son was killed for his money. We’re just curious to know as to how he came to acquire such wealth.”

“Well, that’s how. Me and his job.”

“Did Mark know about his past?”

“I would imagine so. They would have had to have him vetted.”

“Others?”

“I very much doubt it. As I said, Laurence could keep a secret. As far as everyone else was concerned, he simply worked for the Foreign Office. A boring old civil servant.”

Banks finished his lemon tea. It was cold and bitter. “What are you going to do now?” he asked.

“Hang around here for a couple of days, try to sort out Laurence’s affairs, then head back to Longborough. Have you any idea when I might be able to make plans for the funeral?”

“Not yet,” said Banks. “It depends on the coroner. There can sometimes be delays if there’s likely to be a trial and the defense requests a second postmortem.”

“In this case?”

“I honestly don’t know,” said Banks. “But I promise I’ll keep you informed.”

Edwina looked at him, a ghost of a smile playing across her lips. “Just give me back twenty years,” she said.

“Why didn’t you tell me about Laurence before?” Banks asked.

Edwina looked away. “I don’t know. Habit of secrecy? It didn’t seem relevant?”

“You know that’s not true. You know a hell of a lot more than you’re saying. It was the first thing you thought of when we told you what had happened.”

“Are you a mind reader, too? Maybe your colleague’s better off without you. I’d hate to be living with a man who can read minds.”

“Cut the crap, Edwina.”

Edwina laughed and swallowed the dregs of her drink. “My, my, you are a direct young man, aren’t you.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

She lowered her head and whispered, “Why are you asking me this when you know what the answer is already?”

“Because I want to hear it from you.”

Edwina paused for a moment, then she looked around the courtyard before she leaned forward and grasped the edge of the table with a talonlike hand. Her voice was dry and sibilant. “Because I’m not convinced that Laurence had completely retired, and because I’m not sure I trust the people he was working for. There, how’s that for you?”

“Thank you,” said Banks, standing up to leave.

“There’s something else,” Edwina said, relaxing in the chair as if she had exhausted all her energy. “If you’re going to proceed with this business, then I’d advise you to be very careful indeed and to watch your back. These are not nice men you’re dealing with, and they don’t play by your rules. Believe me. I know.”

“I’m sure you do,” said Banks. “And I’ll remember that.” He shook her limp hand, said good-bye and left her to stare out at the hills, lost in memories.