All the Colors of Darkness

8

Annie Cabbot wondered what Banks wanted with her as she slipped out of the squad room at four o’clock on Monday afternoon and headed for The Horse and Hounds, which had become the secret getaway for anyone who wanted to avoid Superintendent Gervaise and enjoy a contemplative pint during the day. It was almost knocking-off time, anyway, barring any unusual occurrences in the next hour or so.

She was in good spirits, as she had enjoyed a teetotal weekend, got all her washing done, meditated, worked out at the fitness center and spent a few pleasant hours in the open air painting a Langstrothdale landscape from a vantage point above Starbotton. The only bad moments had come on Saturday night, when she had had another nightmare about the end of her last case. Fragmented images and emotions of blood and fear made her heart beat fast, and floods of pity and pain surged through her. She had awoken crying, drenched in sweat, at about half past two and been unable to get back to sleep. After making a cup of tea, finding some quiet music on the radio and reading her Christina Jones novel for an hour or so, she had felt better and finally drifted off just as the sun was coming up.

Most of her working time had been taken up with the East Side Estate business, especially as it seemed that Superintendent Gervaise had kicked the Silbert-Hardcastle case into touch. Annie had spoken briefly with Donny Moore at the hospital on Friday. His injuries weren’t life-threatening, but he claimed to remember nothing of what happened the night he was stabbed, except that he was just innocently walking along the street when a big bloke in a hoodie came at him. Benjamin Paxton, the man who had reported finding Moore, had also mentioned a largish bloke heading away, so it was definitely worth following up. Winsome and Doug Wilson had tracked down most of the gang members they suspected had been present and, as expected, discovered nothing. None of them was particularly large, being just kids, but Winsome had nonetheless noted that one or two of them merited a follow-up visit, and Annie intended to be in on that over the week.

Annie had also gone for a radical haircut on Saturday, swapping her tumbling masses of auburn waves for the short layered style. She had been shocked to find a few traces of gray, but her hairdresser had applied the right chemicals and, voilà, all was well. She wasn’t sure whether she liked it yet, worried that it perhaps made her appear older, emphasized the crow’s-feet around her eyes, but she also thought it made her seem more professional and businesslike, which couldn’t be a bad thing for a detective inspector. She would have to get rid of the jeans and red boots, though, she decided, as they undermined her general air of competent authority. But she liked them. One thing at a time, perhaps.

Anyway, there was no way she was having a pint with Banks, she thought, walking into the dim interior. Whatever he drank, she would have a Britvic Orange. As expected, Banks was in the little window-less room, which had become a sort of home away from home, a copy of The Independent spread on the table in front of him and a full pint of Black Sheep Bitter in his hand.

He folded up the newspaper when he saw her. “Are you alone?” he asked, glancing toward the doorway behind her.

“Of course I am,” she said. “Why? Who else are you expecting?”

“You weren’t followed?”

“Don’t be silly.”

“Drink?”

Annie sat down. “Britvic Orange please.”

“Sure?”

“Certain.”

Banks went to the bar. She got the feeling he went to check out who was in there as much as to buy her a drink. While he was gone, Annie studied the hunting prints on the wall. They weren’t bad, if you liked that sort of thing, she thought. At least the horses were quite realistically portrayed, their legs in the right positions, which was a difficult thing to achieve. Usually horses in paintings looked as if they were floating an inch or two above the ground and their legs were about to fall off. She was quite proud of her Langstrothdale landscape, even though there were no horses in it. It was the best thing she’d painted in ages.

Banks came back with her drink and settled down opposite her.

“What’s all this about, me being alone, not being followed?” Annie asked.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Banks replied. “Just that you can’t be too careful these days.”

“The walls have ears and all that?”

“I always preferred the poster I saw in a book once, the one with the sexy blond and the two servicemen leering over her.”

“Oh?”

“The caption reads, ‘Keep mum, she’s not so dumb.’ ”

“Sexist pig.”

“Not at all. I like blondes.”

“So why all the cloak-and-dagger stuff?”

“Well, Laurence Silbert worked for the Secret Intelligence Service, which is more commonly known as MI6, so it makes sense, doesn’t it?”

“You’re getting in character? You’re playing a game? Alan, I hate to tell you this, but it’s over. Superintendent Gervaise said so the other day. You’re on leave, remember? Whatever Laurence Silbert did or didn’t do for a living, or for his country, it had nothing to do with his death. Mark Hardcastle killed him and then hanged himself. End of story.”

“That may be the official version,” said Banks. “I don’t think it’s as simple as that.”

Annie could hear the drone of voices from the bar. The barmaid laughed at one of her customer’s jokes. “All right,” she said. “Humor me. Tell me what you do think.”

Banks sat back in his chair. “Have you ever read Othello?”

“Years ago. At school. Why?”

“Seen the play, the movie?”

“I saw the Laurence Olivier version once, yes. Again, it was years ago. What are you—”

Banks held his hand up. “Bear with me, Annie. Please.”

“All right. Go on.”

Banks sipped some beer. “What do you remember most about the play?”

“Not much, really. Is this an exam or something?”

“No. Try.”

“Well, there was this... this Moor called Othello, and he was married to a woman called Desdemona, but he got jealous and killed her, strangled her, then he killed himself.”

“What made him jealous?”

“Someone told him she was playing away. Iago told him. That’s the one.”

“Right,” said Banks. “Sophia and I went to see it at the Eastvale Theatre on Saturday night. The one Derek Wyman directed and Mark Hardcastle did the German Expressionist sets for.”

“How was it?”

“The sets were crap, a real distraction. It looked like it was taking place in an airplane hangar or somewhere. Anyway, the acting was pretty decent, and Derek Wyman has a fair grasp of things thespian, anorak or not. But that’s not the point. The thing is, Sophia and I were talking later—”

“As you do,” said Annie.

Banks glanced at her. “As you do. Anyway,” he went on, “she pointed out that the play was more about the power of words and images than it was about jealousy and ambition, and I think she’s right.”

“That’s what an English lit degree will do for you. I can’t say we ever got much further than ambition and jealousy at my school. Oh, and the animal imagery. I’m sure there was animal imagery.”

“There’s always animal imagery,” Banks agreed. “But if you think about it... well, it really makes sense.”

“How? What?”

“Let me just get another drink first. Remember, I’m on holiday. You?”

“I’m fine with this.” Annie tapped her Britvic Orange.

Banks went out to the bar and Annie thought about what he was saying, still not sure where he was going with it. She remembered bits of the Olivier movie, how strange he appeared in blackface, a big fuss about a handkerchief, a young Maggie Smith as Desdemona singing a sad song about a willow tree before Othello strangled her. Frank Finlay’s persuasive Iago. Just fragments. Banks came back with another pint and set it next to his paper. Briefly, he tried to explain what Sophia had said about the use of language to create unbearable images in the mind.

“Okay,” Annie said, “so Sophia says that Othello’s about the power of language. She may be right. And being such a manly man, he decides on the flimsiest of evidence that the only sensible thing to do is to strangle his wife?”

“Now’s not the moment for feminist criticism of Shakespeare.”

“I’m not criticizing. I’m only saying. Besides, I hardly think it’s especially feminist to point out that strangling your wife isn’t a good thing to do, whether she’s had an affair or not.”

“Well, Desdemona hadn’t. That’s the point.”

“Alan, this is all very stimulating and all, and I do love a literary discussion late on a Monday afternoon, but I’ve got ironing to do at home, and I still don’t see what this has to do with us.”

“It got me to thinking about the case,” Banks went on. “About Hardcastle and Silbert. Everyone’s pretty much decided how it happened, that no one else came in and bumped off Silbert while Hard-castle went out for a while, right?”

“That’s the general thinking.”

“Even though you pointed out that the absence of anyone else’s blood other than Silbert’s didn’t really prove anything.”

“Right,” Annie agreed.

Banks leaned back against the wainscoting, pint in his hand. “I think you’re right,” he said. “I don’t think Hardcastle did go out, and I don’t think anyone else did break in. I think it happened exactly as Superintendent Gervaise and Stefan say it did. Mark Hardcastle beat Silbert to death with a cricket bat, then went out and hanged himself out of grief.”

“So you agree with the official version?”

“Yes. But I also don’t think that’s the point.”

“What is, then?”

“Listen.” Banks leaned forward, elbows on the table. Annie saw that gleam in his piercing blue eyes she always associated with his fanciful theories. Sometimes, though, she had to admit they were right, or at least close to the mark. “Hardcastle and Silbert hadn’t been together all that long. Six months. By all accounts, they were very much an item, practically living together and everything, but the relationship was probably still a bit fragile, vulnerable, and we know Mark Hardcastle was a bit insecure. Both kept other apartments, for one thing. Also, as Stefan pointed out, Hardcastle’s got form for assaulting a previous lover, which may mean he has a short fuse. What if someone worked on him?”

“Worked on him? On Hardcastle?”

“Yes,” said Banks. “The way Iago worked on Othello. Plagued him with unbearable images of Silbert’s infidelity.”

“So you’re saying that someone goaded him into this?”

“I’m saying it’s a possibility. But it would be bloody difficult to prove. It’s a hands-off murder. Murder from a distance, murder by proxy.”

“I very much doubt that you could call it murder, even if it did happen that way,” said Annie. “And I’m not saying it did.”

“We’ll find a charge.”

“But why do it?”

“To get rid of Silbert.”

“Any idea who would want to do that?”

Banks sipped his beer. “Well,” he said, “I suppose there are plenty of possibilities. Means and opportunity are obvious and easy enough, so it would simply be a matter of looking for a motive. Anyone who was close to one or both of them could have done it, really. Vernon Ross or Derek Wyman, for example. Maybe even Maria Wolsey had a motive she’s not telling us about. Or Carol, Wyman’s wife. There’s no shortage of possibilities.” Banks paused. “On the other hand, it could have been someone acting for one of the secret intelligence services. It’s just the sort of labyrinthine plot they would come up with.”

“Oh, come off it, Alan! That’s a bit far-fetched, even for you, don’t you think?”

“Not necessarily.”

“But hold on a minute,” Annie argued. “You’re begging an awful lot of questions here.”

“Like what?”

“Who could have known that Silbert was seeing someone else, if he was?”

“It doesn’t matter. If information like that hadn’t somehow fallen or been dropped into the killer’s lap, he could have made it up. After all, that’s what Iago did.”

“And how could someone know about Hardcastle’s previous form for violence against a partner?”

“Maybe he let something slip? Or, more likely, the people we’re talking about have methods of getting hold of whatever information they want, access to criminal records. I’ll bet you MI6 knew about it. They must have vetted Hardcastle. It obviously didn’t merit his being put on their out-of-bounds list—it didn’t make him a security risk— but I’ll also bet they tipped Silbert off, too, told him to be careful, even though he’d officially retired.”

“Well, he wasn’t, was he? Okay, let’s assume all that, for the sake of argument. One big stumbling block still remains: How could they ever be certain of the result?”

Banks scratched his temple. “Well, you do have a point there,” he said. “I’ve been grappling with that one. The previous form helps a bit. Hardcastle had a temper and it had got him into trouble with a partner before.”

“Even so, there could be no guarantee he’d do it again. Maybe he’d learned his lesson? Taken anger-management courses?”

“Push someone far enough and their reactions can be pretty predictable. People resort to patterns they’ve followed in the past. You see it all the time with abusers and the abused.”

“I know,” said Annie, “but I’m still saying that as a method of murder, it sucks.”

“But why?”

“Because you can’t be sure of the outcome, that’s why. Even if Hardcastle had turned violent, even if that was predictable, he hadn’t killed before, and there could be no guarantee that he would kill this time. Maybe they’d have just had a row? There’s no way anyone could depend on Hardcastle killing Silbert. I’m sorry, Alan, but it just doesn’t make sense. It’s not reliable.”

“I know that,” said Banks. “I can see it’s a flawed hypothesis. But I still think there are a lot of possibilities in it.”

“Okay, then,” said Annie. “Let’s assume for a moment that you’re right. Then we come to the matter of motive. Why?”

Banks sat back on the bench and sipped some beer before he spoke. “Well, that one’s easy enough,” he said. “It goes right along with who.”

“I know what you’re going to say, but they just don’t—”

“Hear me out, Annie. This Mr. Browne with an e comes to see me and basically tells me to lay off, that any publicity around the Silbert murder would be unwelcome. What sort of disaster? I ask myself. Now we know Silbert was an MI6 agent, and Lord knows what sort of things he got up to in his heyday. What if the government wanted rid of him for some reason? Say he knew too much? Something embarrassing? I’m sure they’ve got a good line in psych ops. They could have made certain that the information about Hardcastle’s temper resulted in the violence it did. I’ll bet they even have drugs that don’t show up on our tox screens.”

“But they’d only act if he threatened to talk, surely? And we’ve no evidence at all that he would do that. Most don’t.”

“Well, let’s say he posed some sort of threat to them. I don’t know what.”

“That’s an awful lot to suppose.”

“Hypothetically, then.”

“Okay, hypothetically he posed a threat to the MI6.”

“Or the present government’s credibility.”

“Assuming they have any left.”

“Anyway, it’s not so far-fetched as it sounds, Annie. These things come home to roost. The people who were your enemies yesterday are your friends today, and vice versa. Often the only thing you have in common to start with is that you’re united against the same enemy. Alliances change and shift with the wind. Germany. Russia. Iraq. Iran. The bloody United States, for all I know. They’ve been known to get up to some pretty dirty tricks in their time. Maybe he’s got evidence they engineered terrorist attacks in the U.K. to keep us involved in the Iraq War. God knows. I wouldn’t put anything past any of them. Silbert could have been involved in something that shows MI6 and the government, or a friendly foreign government, in a bad light, and with an election coming up...”

“They’d stop at nothing?”

“Something like that. If they felt threatened.”

“I still don’t swallow it, Alan. Okay, so the victim was a spook. When these people want rid of one another, don’t they just stab them with poisoned umbrellas or slip them a dose of radioactive isotopes or something? They’d hardly be likely to go for such an unreliable method as trying to make Silbert’s partner jealous and just hope he does their job for them when they could just... well, push him under a bus or off a bridge.”

Banks sighed. “I know there are holes in the theory,” he said. “It’s still a work in progress.”

Banks seemed deflated, but Annie didn’t feel like giving any quarter. “Holes big enough to drive a lorry through,” she said. “And not much progress, if you ask me. No, I’m sorry, but it won’t wash.”

“Have you been got at?” Banks asked. “Has someone got to you?”

Annie’s jaw dropped. “I resent that. Have I ever given you any reason to think I wasn’t on your side? Don’t we play devil’s advocate as a matter of course? How could you even think something like that?”

“I’m sorry,” said Banks. “It’s just... maybe I am getting paranoid. But look what happened. The day after Mr. Browne’s visit, Madame Gervaise says the case is closed, keeps me back after school and tells me to take some leave owing. Are you saying she hasn’t been got at? And I thought someone was watching me in the pub at lunchtime yesterday. I’ve also had the feeling I’m being followed more than once over the past few days, since Browne’s visit. Things are just... confusing.”

“Well, I haven’t been got at. I’m just trying to take a rational perspective on some of the half-baked ideas you’re coming up with.”

“Can’t you at least accept that it might have happened the way I just outlined it?”

“I don’t know that I can. Okay, I’ll accept your Othello theory up to a point. Maybe somebody did stir things up for Hardcastle. Or perhaps it was true that Silbert was having an affair. Maybe he was being blackmailed, then he told the blackmailer to bugger off, so the evidence—the memory stick—found its way to Hardcastle. But I don’t swallow all this spook junk, and I don’t care what you say about people falling back on previous patterns of behavior. Nobody could have predicted what would happen next. That’s the point I’m making.”

“We’ve found no evidence of blackmail.”

“We’ve found no evidence of anything except what forensics bears out and we all agree happened.”

“That’s not true. We know that Silbert worked for MI6. We found the memory stick and the business card with a nonexistent phone number on it. Mr. Browne came to visit me and made veiled threats. He also knew a hell of a lot about me and my private life, by the way. And now everyone suddenly wants to drop the whole thing like a hot potato. I don’t call that nothing. And I don’t like it, Annie. I don’t like it one bit.”

“Put like that, I suppose you’ve got a point.” Annie gave a little shudder. “I wish you wouldn’t put it like that, though. You’re giving me the creeps.”

“So you believe me?”

“Are you really being watched?”

“Since Browne’s visit, yes, I think so.”

“Well, I suppose you did send him away with a flea in his ear. They must think you’re something of a loose cannon.”

“My lot in life. He even knew about Sophia.”

“Who? Browne?”

“Uh-huh. He knows where she lives. He said something about my lovely young girlfriend in Chelsea.”

Annie said nothing for a moment. Somehow the image of Sophia’s loveliness got in the way of their discussion and distracted her, rolled over her like a wave of dissatisfaction with herself, her appearance, weight, everything. Christ, Banks hadn’t even noticed her new haircut. “So what are you going to do?” she asked.

“I still need a couple more pieces of information,” he said, “then I think I’ll head down to London, check out the pied-a-terre for myself, dig around, see what I can find. I’ve still got a few days holiday left.”

“Chasing shadows, tilting at windmills?”

“Maybe.”

“I don’t know,” said Annie. “It could be dangerous. I mean, if you’re right and they are capable of knocking off one of their own, they’d hardly think twice about killing a troublesome copper, would they?”

“Thank you,” said Banks. “I was trying not to think of that. Anyway, what else can I do? Madame Gervaise has closed the case. I can’t expect any support there.”

“I think you should be very careful.”

“I will be.”

“I suppose you’ll be staying with Sophia?”

“I suppose so. If she’s not too busy.”

“Oh, I doubt that she’ll be too busy for you. It’s just that...”

“What?”

“Well, are you sure you should be involving her in all this?”

“I’m not involving her. Besides, they already know about her.”

“Listen to me. You’ve got me as paranoid as you are.”

“That’s all right. It’s good of you to be concerned. But don’t worry, I’ll be careful. For both me and Sophia.”

Annie tore into her beer mat. “So what is it you want from me?”

“I’d like you to be my eyes and ears up here while I’m away. Keep a lookout for anything out of the ordinary. And if I need any information, some record tracked down, another chat with Wyman and the theater people, fingerprints running through NAFIS, any sort of information I can’t get my hands on, I’d like to think you might help.”

“Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb,” said Annie. “Anything else, while you’re at it?”

“Yes. Could you water the plants?”

Annie gave him a playful slap on the arm.

“I’ll be buying a new mobile as soon as I get down there,” Banks went on. “Pay-as-you-go, throwaway. I don’t want my calls traced, or any troublesome records kept. I’ll ring you and let you know the number.”

Annie frowned at him. “Just like a criminal. You’re really serious about all this cloak-and-dagger stuff, aren’t you?”

“You didn’t meet Mr. Browne. And there is one more thing before we go.”

“What’s that?”

“What did you do with your hair? It looks great.”

Though Banks didn’t expect any further visits from the likes of Mr. Browne, he nonetheless kept his door locked, his alarm system on and his ears open at home that evening. After a Marks & Spencer’s beef Wellington washed down with a 1998 Eight Songs Shiraz, he decided to give up on the bookcase and settled down to an evening’s reading of Stephen Dorril’s book about MI6 instead, with John Garth’s cello concertos playing quietly in the background.

The fire had been over three years ago now, Banks recalled, and the rebuilding, with the addition of the entertainment room, extra bedroom and conservatory, had taken the best part of a year. Whereas before he had lived in the kitchen or the front room, occasionally enjoying an evening on the wall by the beck, now he spent most of his time in the conservatory at the back, or in the entertainment room, using the kitchen mostly just for cooking—reheating might be more accurate—and the front room as a kind of study-cum-sitting room, where he kept his computer and a couple of battered old armchairs.

MI6’s history proved to be complicated and tough going, hardly like the Ian Fleming novels he remembered from his teenage years, and after a couple of chapters, he wasn’t sure that he knew much more than when he had started. He also still had many chapters to cover to get up to the present.

The phone rang shortly after half past nine. It was Sophia. He was more than relieved for the interruption to his reading.

“Have a good journey home?” Banks asked.

“Fine. Just boring, that’s all. I think I’ll take the train next time. At least then I can get some work done, read a book.”

He thought he could hear her stifle a yawn. “Tired?”

“Long day. Sometimes I think there’s just one arts festival after another.”

“How’s your week shaping up?”

“More of the same. Lots of interviews. A fifteen-minute special on that new James Bond book by Sebastian Faulks, including a few comments from Daniel Craig.”

“Don’t tell me he’s coming to the studio.”

“Don’t be an idiot. But a girl can always dream.”

“Hmph. Right. Well, I hope to be down your way in a day or so. Could you maybe give Daniel Craig a raincheck and find a bit of room in your busy schedule to fit me in? I can easily get a hotel, if...”

“Of course I can, you idiot. You’ve got a key. Just come over. It’ll be great to see you. If nothing else, at least we’ll get to sleep together.”

Banks couldn’t help but feel his heart glow at the genuine pleasure in her voice. “Great,” he said. “I’ll ring you.”

“Is this trip business or pure holiday?” Sophia asked.

“A bit of both, really.”

“What sort of business?”

“Same as before.”

“That murder-suicide case?”

“That’s the one.”

“The one you were quizzing Dad about, with all the spooks?”

“One of the victims was an MI6 agent, that’s all.”

“How exciting,” Sophia said. “With you around, who needs Daniel Craig. Bye.”

Always, at the end of their telephone conversations, Banks was tempted to say, “I love you,” but he never did. The “l” word hadn’t been mentioned yet, and Banks got the feeling that it would only cause complications at this point. Best go on as they were and see where it led. There would be plenty of time for the “l” word later.

He kept the receiver off the hook a bit longer than usual, listening for that telltale click he had heard so often in spy movies. Then he chastised himself for being such a fool and put it down. With today’s technology, you could be damn sure a tapped telephone didn’t go “click” when you finished your call. Besides, he should have thought of that earlier. He would have to be more careful what he said over the landline from now on.

When he hung up, he turned on the TV for News at Ten, poured another glass of wine and sat through the usual lead stories on greedy politicians caught out in a lie, the upcoming American elections, a twelve-year-old schoolgirl gone missing on her way home from a piano lesson, famine and genocide in Africa, war in the Middle East and more trouble in the old Russian satellite states. His ears pricked up at a story about the Hardcastle-Silbert case.

The presenter stopped short at announcing that Silbert had worked for MI6, mentioning only that he was Edwina Silbert’s son, had been a civil servant, and that he lived with his gay lover, “the son of a West Yorkshire coal miner,” in an “exclusive” and “desirable” residential suburb of Eastvale. Typical southern nonsense, Banks thought. As if Eastvale had suburbs. And Barnsley was in South Yorkshire, not West.

The segment also stressed that police were satisfied it was a tragic case of murder-suicide, and then went on to refer to details of similar cases over the past twenty years or so. At the end, Detective Superintendent Gervaise appeared on camera looking cool and professional. She assured the interviewer that police were satisfied with the result, stressing that forensic evidence had borne out their investigative conclusions, and had no need for a further investigation, which, she added, would simply cause more grief to the victims’ families. That was a load of bollocks, Banks thought. Edwina Silbert could probably take anything the world could throw at her, and Hardcastle had no family except for the distant aunt. Well, whoever had assembled that story had certainly done a good job of assuring anyone who might be concerned that the business was well and truly over. We’ll see about that, Banks thought.

After the news, Banks had a sudden urge to play some more music and go outside to sit on the wall beside Gratly Beck. This was one of his favorite spots, and though he didn’t use it as often as he did before, he still enjoyed it when the weather was warm enough. His cottage was isolated, and a little quiet music in the background wouldn’t disturb anyone, even late at night, and it was only half past ten. Before he could pick out a CD from his collection, though, the phone rang again. Thinking it might be Sophia phoning back, Banks hurried and picked it up.

“DCI Banks?”

“Yes?”

“It’s Ravi here. Ravi Kapesh. Technical Support.”

“Oh, Ravi. Sorry, I didn’t recognize your voice. It’s a bit late for you to be working, isn’t it?”

“Par for the course these days if you want to get ahead,” said Ravi resignedly. “Anyway, I think I might have something for you. You did say to ring as soon as I got anything.”

Banks felt a tremor of excitement. “Absolutely. You do? Great. Look, I know this might sound a bit weird, but can you call me back on my mobile?”

“Sure. When?”

“Right now. I’m hanging up.” Banks didn’t know if his mobile was any more likely to be secure than his landline, but he thought it might be. He would certainly feel a lot less paranoid when he bought the pay-as-you-go. The thing to remember about mobiles was to keep them switched off when you’re not using them, or you might as well stand on the top of the nearest large building and shout, “I’m here!”

“Okay, let’s have it,” he said, when the mobile rang.

“I managed to enhance the street sign enough to get a name,” said Ravi. “It’s a little street called Charles Lane, off the High Street in Saint John’s Wood. Ring any bells?”

“None,” said Banks, “but I can’t say I expected it to. Thanks a lot, Ravi. Got a house number, by the way?”

“Sorry. You can tell which one it is from the photo, though.”

“Of course. Ravi, you’re a genius.”

“Think nothing of it. Talk to you later.”

“What about the phone number? Fenner.”

“Drew a blank. According to all my efforts it’s a number that has never actually been assigned in the U.K. Maybe it’s for somewhere overseas?

“Maybe,” said Banks, “but I doubt it. Just one more favor.”

“Yes?”

“Keep it under your hat, okay?”

“Okay,” said Ravi. “My lips are sealed.”

“Bye.” Banks hung up. Saint John’s Wood. Well, that was a posh enough area. So what was it all about? Banks wondered. A fancy man? One of Kate Moss’s parties? Sharing government secrets with the other side? Whatever it was, Banks felt sure it had contributed to Silbert’s death.

Perhaps Annie was right in that the Iago method couldn’t absolutely guarantee results, but if it didn’t work, the would-be assassin could always try something a bit more direct. If it did work, however, he would have brought off the perfect murder. A murder that wasn’t even murder. And it fit right in with the sneaky, underhanded way he assumed the secret intelligence services of the world worked. After all, who else outside of the realm of fiction would think of using a poisoned umbrella or a radioactive isotope to murder someone?

Banks picked up his wine, put on Sigur Rós’s Hvarf/Heim, then took his drink outside, leaving the door open just a crack so that he could hear the strange, eerie music. It harmonized naturally with the sounds of the beck making its way down the terraced falls, and the occasional cry of a night bird fit right in, almost as if the band had planned for it and left a little space between their notes.

It was after sunset, but there was a still a glow deep in the cloudless western sky, dark orange and indigo. Banks could smell warm grass and manure mingled with something sweet, perhaps flowers that only opened at night. A horse whinnied in a distant field. The stone he sat on was still warm and he could see the lights of Helmthorpe between the trees, down at the bottom of the dale, the outline of the square church tower with its odd round turret dark and heavy against the sky. Low on the western horizon, he could see a planet he took to be Venus, and higher up, toward the north, a red dot he guessed was Mars. Above, the constellations were beginning to become visible. Banks had never been very good at recognizing them. The Big Dipper and Orion were about as far as he got, and he couldn’t see either of them tonight.

Banks thought he heard a sound from the woods, and he had the odd sensation that he was being watched. It was probably just some nocturnal animal, he told himself. After all, he heard them often enough. There were badgers, for a start, and plenty of rabbits around. He mustn’t allow his nerves to get the better of him. He shook off the feeling and sipped some more wine. The water flowed on, here a touch of silver as it parted around a rock, a flurry of white foam as it dropped a few feet over a terrace, and everywhere else shifting shades of inky blue or black.

It was nothing, Banks told himself, nothing but the wind through the trees, the Icelandic music and a sheep, frightened by a fox or a dog, baaing on a distant daleside. Like the streets, the woods were full of shadows and whispers. After a while, even those sounds ended and he was left in a silence so profound that all he could hear was his own heart beating.