All the Colors of Darkness

9

The fine weather had brought out the crowds by Wednesday lunchtime, and Oxford Street was clogged with the usual array of tourists, street vendors, shop workers and people handing out free newspapers or flyers for language schools. Banks had taken an indirect route to Sophia’s, and he was pretty sure he hadn’t been followed. Not that it mattered. Mr. Browne had known enough about Sophia already.

Banks had parked his car—a Porsche was hardly out of place on a Chelsea side street, and he was also legal there—left his grip in the house, then headed for Tottenham Court Road by tube, stopping to look in a shop window every now and then on his way. There were so many people about, however, that he had soon realized there was no way he would be able to pick out someone who was following him, especially if that person was well trained. Still, it was best to make caution a habit.

He had worked undercover for varying periods in his twenties and early thirties, and he still had the rudiments of tradecraft. Also, one of the reasons he had done so well at it was that most people said he didn’t look like a policeman, whatever that meant. He could blend into the crowd. In Waterstone’s, just down the street from the tube station, he bought an AA street atlas of London, not willing to trust his memory of years ago, then he called in at one of the electronics shops on Tottenham Court Road and bought a cheap pay-as-you-go mobile, paying cash. It would need charging, but that could wait. He wasn’t in a hurry. It was Wednesday afternoon, and he had spent Tuesday gathering most of the information he needed to do what he had to do in London.

As he walked along Tottenham Court Road, he was overwhelmed by memories. The last time he had been in London doing detective work alone had been when his brother Roy disappeared. And look how that had turned out. Still, there was no reason to think that this time would turn into a disaster of similar proportions. He put his hand in his pocket and touched the spare key to Laurence Silbert’s Bloomsbury flat. He knew it was the right one because it had been marked with a neat label when he’d found it in Silbert’s study drawer that morning. He remembered seeing it when he and Annie had carried out their search. The rules called for Banks to get in touch with the local police, let them know he was on their patch and ask permission to visit the house, but he hadn’t done so. No sense inviting trouble, he thought, or paperwork. Besides, he was on holiday.

He turned up Montague Place between the British Museum and the university and found the street he wanted off Marchmont Street at the other side of Russell Square. He was in the heart of the University of London campus area now, and there was also a healthy sprinkling of hotels for the tourists. The house he wanted was divided into flats, and the names under the brass number plates still listed an L. Silbert in flat 3A. It was a well-appointed building, not dingy student accommodation, as he would have expected for a man in Silbert’s position, with dark thick-pile carpets, flocked wallpaper, framed Constable prints on the landings and a hovering scent of lavender air freshener.

Banks didn’t know what he hoped to find, if anything, after the local police, and probably Special Branch, had turned over the place. He certainly didn’t expect any messages scrawled in invisible ink or written in a fiendish code. He told himself that he was there more to get a feel for Silbert and his London habitat than anything else.

The door opened into a tiny vestibule, hardly bigger than a hall cupboard. There were three doors leading off, and a quick check told him that the one on the left led to a small bedroom, just big enough for a double bed, wardrobe and chest of drawers, the one on the right to a bathroom—new-looking walk-in shower, toilet and pedestal washbasin, toothpaste, shaving cream, Old Spice—and the door straight ahead led to the living room with a tiny kitchenette. At least there was a view of sorts through the small sash window, though the narrow alley it looked out upon wasn’t much, and the buildings opposite blocked out most of the sunlight.

Banks started in the bedroom. The blue-and-white duvet was ruffled and the pillows creased. On impulse, Banks pulled the duvet back. The linen sheets were clean but wrinkled, as if someone had slept on them. More than likely, Mark Hardcastle had spent his night in London here.

There were a few clothes in the wardrobe: sports jackets, suits, shirts, ties, a dinner jacket and trousers, designer jeans creased along the seam. Banks found nothing hidden on the top or at the back of the wardrobe.

A copy of Conrad’s Nostromo lay on the chest of drawers beside the bed, a bookmark sticking out about three quarters of the way through. The top drawer held folded polo shirts and T-shirts. In the middle drawer was an assortment of odds and ends, like his grandmother’s old rummage box, which he used to love to root around in when he visited her. None of it was of much interest: old theater ticket stubs and programs, restaurant and taxi receipts from earlier in the year, a tarnished cigarette lighter that didn’t work, a few cheap ballpoint pens. No diary or journal. No scraps of paper with telephone numbers on them. No business cards. The room had a Spartan feel about it, as if it were somewhere merely functional, a place to sleep. The restaurant receipts also indicated an appetite for fine food: Lindsay House, Arbutus, L’Autre Pied, The Connaught, J. Sheekey and The Ivy. Clearly more Silbert’s than Hardcastle’s tastes. The bottom drawer held only socks and underwear, nothing sinister hidden among them.

The bathroom held no surprises and the living room was every bit as neat and clean as the bedroom. There was a small bookcase, mostly Conrad, Waugh and Camus, mixed in with a few Bernard Cornwells and George MacDonald Frasers and a selection of hardcover biographies and histories, along with the latest Wisden. The small stack of CDs showed a predilection for Bach, Mozart and Haydn and the magazines in the rack dealt mostly with antiques and foreign affairs. In the kitchenette, Banks found an empty Bell’s whiskey bottle and an unwashed glass.

Banks heard a noise outside and stood by the window watching the street cleaners go by at the end of the alley. There was nothing here for him, he decided. Either Silbert had been very careful or someone had already removed anything of interest.

Just before Banks left, he picked up the phone and pressed redial. Nothing happened. He tried again and got the same result. In the end, he concluded that it either wasn’t working properly or had been erased—most likely, he thought, the latter.

Annie took Winsome with her when she went to talk to Nicky Haskell after school that Wednesday afternoon. She felt more than one pair of eyes following them as she drove along the winding main street of the estate past some of the better-kept terrace houses to Metcalfe House. Building permission had been granted for only two tower blocks, despite the bribes and kickbacks to local politicians that were rumored to have exchanged hands. If Eastvale had been within the boundaries of the Yorkshire Dales National Park, there would have been no question of such atrocities going up, even though they were only ten stories high, but it wasn’t. And the maisonettes that surrounded the tower blocks were just as ugly.

The Haskells lived in Metcalfe House, which had one of the worst reputations of any area on the estate, and Nicky Haskell had a reputation for antisocial behavior. He was already on an ASBO, which was more of a badge of honor among his circles than the stigma or hindrance to criminal activity it was supposed to be.

One problem was that often the parents hadn’t been around much while their kids were growing up—not because they went to work, but because they were doing much the same then as their children were doing now. The parents were often products of the Thatcher generation, who had also had no jobs and no hope for the future, a legacy they passed on to their children. Nobody had come along with that magic fix to reverse the damage. Like the homeless, they were far easier to ignore, and the drugs that helped to take the pain away demonized them even more in the eyes of society.

Nicky Haskell’s parents were a good case in point, as Annie well knew. His mother worked on the checkout at the local Asda, and his father, well known to the police, had been on the dole since the day he got thrown out of school for threatening his physics teacher with a knife. The idle days and hours that followed had left him plenty of time to indulge in his favorite pastimes, which included drinking enormous quantities of strong lager, smoking crack cocaine and having the occasional night at the dogs just to get rid of any surplus money he might have left over from his other habits. It was up to his wife to supply food, clothing, rent and utilities on her own meager salary.

It was soon clear that they needn’t have waited for the end of the school day.

“Got a cold, haven’t I?” Nicky said, turning his back after letting them in. His lank greasy hair hung over his collar.

“I don’t know,” said Annie, walking into the living room behind him. “Do you? You sound fine to me.”

Nicky sank back on the battered sofa he had probably been lying on all day, if the empty crisp packets, loud television, overflowing ashtray and can of lager were any indication. The room smelled as if he had been lying in it all day, too. The apple hadn’t fallen too far from the tree in this instance. “My throat hurts,” he said. “And I ache all over.”

“Want me to call a doctor?”

“Nah. Doctors ain’t no use.” He popped a couple of pills and drank Carlsberg Special Brew from the can. The pills could have been paracetamol or codeine for all Annie knew, or cared. Well, she did care, but she wasn’t out to change society single-handedly, or even with Winsome’s help; she was on yet another futile mission for information. Nicky reached for his cigarettes.

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t drink or smoke in our presence,” Annie said. “You’re underage.”

Haskell smirked and put the cigarettes down next to the lager. “I can wait till you’re gone,” he said.

“Mind if I turn the TV down?” Annie asked.

“Knock yourself out.”

“Midsomer Murders,” Annie said as she turned the volume down. “I wouldn’t have thought that was your cup of tea.”

“It’s soothing, innit? Like watching paint dry.”

Annie quite liked the program. It was so far removed from the real policing she did that she accepted it for what it was and didn’t even find herself looking for mistakes. She and Winsome sat on hard-backed wooden chairs because they didn’t like the look of the dark stains on the armchairs. “Where are your parents?” Annie asked.

“Mum’s at work, Dad’s at the pub.”

Technically, as he was only fifteen, they weren’t supposed to talk to him unless his parents were present. But as he wasn’t a suspect— Donny was one of his crew, after all—and most likely he wasn’t going to say anything that would prove useful in court, Annie wasn’t inclined to worry much about that.

“We been over all this before,” said Haskell before she even started. “It’s over and done with. Time to move on.”

“Someone stabbed Donny,” Annie reminded him, “and we’re not moving on until we find out who it was.”

“Well, I don’t know, do I? It wasn’t me. Donny’s me mate. He’s all right, isn’t he?”

“He’ll be fine. And we know he’s your mate. That’s why we thought you might be able to help us. You were there.”

“Says who?”

“Nicky, we know there was a scuffle down by the waste ground next to glue-sniffers’ ginnel. We know you and your mates, including Donny Moore, hang out there every night, and we know you wouldn’t take kindly to Jackie Binns and his crew muscling in, but we know they did. So why don’t you make it easy for us and just tell us what happened?”

Haskell said nothing. He may have thought he was looking tough and defiant, Annie thought, but she could see the slight trembling of fear in his lower lip. She turned to Winsome, who picked up the questioning. Sometimes just a simple change of voice and tone worked wonders.

“What did you see that night, Nicky?” Winsome asked.

“I didn’t see nothing, did I? It was dark.”

“So you were there?”

“I might have been somewhere around,” Haskell mumbled. “It don’t mean I saw nothing, though.”

“What are you scared of, Nicky?”

“Nothing. I ain’t scared of nothing.”

“Did you see a large hooded figure running away, down the ginnel?”

“I didn’t see nothing.”

“If this is some sort of code of honor about not ratting on—”

“There’s no code of honor, bitch. I told you. I ain’t scared of nobody or nothing. I didn’t see nothing. Why don’t you just chill and leave me alone?”

Winsome glanced at Annie and shrugged. It was, as expected, a wasted journey. “I don’t know why you bother to come talking to me, anyway,” Haskell went on, a sneer of a smile on his face. “Didn’t you ought to be spending your time taking care of those rich folk up on Castleview Heights? They be the ones doing all the murder and shit, seems to me these days.”

“Cut it with the black talk, Nicky,” said Winsome. “It’s really bad.” Like so many of his contemporaries, Haskell occasionally tried to emulate the black urban street talk he heard on television programs like The Wire, but it came out sounding lame. Haskell glared at her for a moment. He obviously thought he’d got it down pat.

“What do you know about Castleview Heights?” Annie asked.

“You’d be surprised,” Haskell said, tapping the side of his nose and grinning.

“If you know something, you should tell me.”

“You were asking me about Donny Moore and that ratshit Jackie Binns. Not about them two shirt-lifters on the Heights. What you got for me?”

“What if I were to ask you about Laurence Silbert and Mark Hard-castle?” Annie went on, intrigued by his mention of Castleview Heights. “What would you be able to tell me about them?”

“That Mark Hardcastle, he the one from the theater?”

“That’s right,” Annie said.

“I been there. School trip, few months ago.” Nicky eyed them defiantly, as if to say that he did go to school sometimes, when the mood took him. “Some Shakespeare shit, man. Macbeth. Dudes speaking some weird kind of language and offing each other all over the stage. That man, that Hardcastle, he answered some questions after the play, him and Mr. Wyman and some of the actors. That’s why I knew him when I saw him the next time.”

“Where did you see him the next time?” Annie asked.

“Like I say, what you got for me, bitch?”

Annie felt like saying that she had a clip around the ear for him if he didn’t tell her what he knew, but he would only laugh at that, and she wouldn’t do it. Instead, she reached for her purse and pulled out a five-pound note.

Nicky laughed. “You must be joking. That don’t buy shit these days.”

Annie put the five back and pulled out a ten.

“Now we talking the same language, bitch,” said Nicky, and reached for it.

Annie held it away from him, so that he would have to get up from his supine position on the sofa to grab it. As she expected, he didn’t. “Two things before you get this,” she went on. “First, you tell me where and when you saw Mark Hardcastle for the second time.”

Haskell nodded.

“And second,” Annie went on, “you don’t ever call me bitch again. In fact, you don’t even use the word in my presence. Got it?”

Haskell glowered, then grinned. “Okay. You got a deal, sweetheart.”

“Go on.” Annie sighed.

“Was in a pub, wasn’t it?”

“You were in a pub? But you’re only fifteen.”

Haskell laughed. “They don’t care about that in the Red Rooster. Long as you pay the price.”

“The Red Rooster? Down in Medburn?”

“That’s the one.”

Medburn was a village about two miles south of Eastvale, a short distance off the York Road, not far from the A1. A cluster of ugly stone-clad houses around an overgrown green, it had never been likely to win the Prettiest Village of the Year award. And there was one pub, the Red Rooster. They had live music on weekends and karaoke on Thursdays, and the place had a bit of a reputation for rowdiness and the occasional fight, not to mention the sale of drugs. A lot of young squaddies from Catterick Camp went there.

“When was this?” Annie asked.

“Dunno. Maybe two or three weeks before he offed himself. I saw his picture on the TV the other day.”

“What was he doing when you saw him?”

“That’s why I noticed him, man. I was just there having a quiet drink, you know, chillin’ with my friends, and then I see my fucking teacher and I have to get out real fast, or he’ll bring all kinda shit down on me.”

Annie frowned. “Your teacher?”

“Yeah. Mr. Wyman.”

“Let me get this straight,” Annie said. “You saw Derek Wyman in the Red Rooster with Mark Hardcastle a short time before Hardcastle died?”

“That right. You got it.” He glanced at Winsome. “Hey, give the lady a prize.”

Winsome returned Annie’s puzzled gaze. “What were they doing there?” Annie went on.

“Well, they wasn’t doing none of that fag stuff, if you know what I mean.”

“So what were they doing?”

“They just talkin’, man. Just chillin’ and talkin’.”

“Did you see Mr. Wyman hand Mr. Hardcastle anything?”

“Huh?”

“Did anything exchange hands?”

“Nope. This wasn’t no drug deal, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Were they looking at anything? Photographs or anything?”

“You mean, like porn? Pictures of men sucking—”

“Nicky!”

“No, they didn’t look at nothing.”

“And there was nothing on the table in front of them?”

“Only drinks.”

“Was anyone else with them? Or did anyone join them?”

“Nope. Can I have my money?”

Annie gave him the ten-pound note. She wanted to ask if there was anything intimate about the meeting, any closeness, touching, whispering, meaningful glances, that sort of thing, but somehow she didn’t think Nicky would be attuned to such subtleties. She asked anyway.

“Don’t know nothing about all that stuff, man,” Nicky said, “but that Hardcastle, he sure seemed angry. Mr. Wyman had to cool him down.”

“Wyman was calming Hardcastle down?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Did they appear to be arguing?”

“Arguing? No. Like they were friends.”

“What happened next?”

“I got out of there, man. Before he saw me. Like I say, he can bring a whole lotta shit down on a person, Mr. Wyman can.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me?”

Haskell waved the ten-pound note at her. “Your time’s up on this, b—.”

Annie spoke between her teeth, with menacing softness. “I said is there anything else?”

Haskell held his hands up. “No. Hey. Chill out. They nothing else. Like I tole you, Mr. Wyman say something and got Hardcastle all upset, then he chill him right down again.”

“Mr. Wyman upset Hardcastle in the first place?”

“The way it look. They was in the other bar, in the corner, so I figure they couldn’t see me, but I wasn’t taking no chances. Plenty more places a dude can get a drink. Why’d I want to hang around a pub where my teacher’s drinking, man?”

“Nicky, the amount of time you spend in school, he probably wouldn’t even recognize you,” Annie said.

“Ain’t no need to be sarcastic. I do okay.”

Annie couldn’t help but laugh, and Winsome laughed with her. They got up to leave. “Back to Jackie Binns and Donny Moore for a minute,” Annie said at the door. “Are you certain you can’t tell us anything more about what happened? Did you see Jackie Binns with a knife?”

“Jackie didn’t have no knife, man. You got that all wrong. Jackie didn’t do nothing. I didn’t see nothing.” He turned away, picked up the remote control and turned up the volume on the television set. “Now look what you gone and done,” he said. “You made me lose track of the plot.”

The lifts hadn’t been working when Annie and Winsome had arrived, and they still weren’t working. It was easier to walk down the six floors, but the smell wasn’t any better. Mostly stale urine with the occasional piece of rotting garbage dropped by a dog or a cat. Around the third floor, a hooded figure came bounding up the stairs and brushed past them, bumping into Annie’s shoulder, knocking her against the wall, and carried on without a word of apology. She caught her breath and checked her handbag and pockets. All there. Even so, she was relieved to get down to the concrete forecourt. She had felt claustrophobic in the stairwell.

When they got to the car, Annie was happy to find it was still there, and that nobody had spray-painted PIG BITCH all over it. She checked her watch. Going on for five o’clock. “How about a drink?” she suggested to Winsome. “On me. The sun’s over the yardarm and I could certainly do with one.”

“Anything to get the taste of this place out of my mouth.”

“How about the Red Rooster?” Annie suggested.

As it was such a beautiful evening, Banks decided to follow Silbert’s route and walk through Regent’s Park to Saint John’s Wood. He took the paved path that paralleled the Outer Circle around the southern edge. There were quite a few people around, mostly joggers and dog walkers. Soon he came to the bench in the photograph, where Silbert had met his boyfriend, or contact, just opposite the boating lake. Soon after, the path ended, and Banks had to walk past the Central Mosque to Park Road and make his way through the crowds on their way to evening prayers. At the roundabout opposite the little church, he turned on to Prince Albert Road and crossed over to walk past the prep school and the graveyard along Saint John’s Wood High Street. The houses opposite were the kind that always made him think of confectioneries, about six stories high, redbrick with lots of fancy white trim like piping on cakes. Some of the flats had balconies with hanging baskets and big plant pots.

He found Charles Lane easily enough. It was a secluded mews, in some ways similar to where his brother had lived in South Kensington. From the High Street, it looked as if it ended at a brick house with a narrow white facade, but that was just a little dog leg, and beyond it he came to the garages in the photograph. He realized this must have been the corner where the photograph was taken from, using the zoom function. The door he wanted was between the sixth and seventh garages along, one painted in green panels with white outlines, the other, white panels with black edging.

Before anyone could find his loitering suspicious, he strolled down the street, crossed to the house in question and looked up to the lace-covered windows above the window box full of red and purple flowers.

There was only one thing to do. Banks took a deep breath, walked up to the front door and rang the bell.

After about thirty seconds, a woman opened the door on its chain and peered at him. He reached for his warrant card. She made him hold it close to the narrow strip that was all the chain allowed and spent so long studying it that he thought she wasn’t going to let him in. Eventually the door closed, and when it opened again, it opened all the way, revealing a neatly dressed gray-haired woman in her sixties.

“You’re a long way from home, young man,” she said to Banks. “You’d better come in and explain yourself over a cup of tea.”

She led him upstairs into a small cluttered living room above the garage, where a man of about her age sat in an armchair reading the newspaper. He was wearing a suit, complete with white shirt and tie. It certainly wasn’t the man in the photograph. He carried on reading his newspaper.

“It’s a policeman,” the woman said to him. “A detective.”

“I’m sorry to intrude like this,” Banks said, feeling awkward.

“No matter,” said the woman. “I’m Mrs. Townsend, by the way. You can call me Edith. And this is my husband, Lester.”

Lester Townsend looked over his newspaper and grunted a quick hello. He seemed less than happy to be disturbed.

“Pleased to meet you,” said Banks.

“Sit yourself down,” Edith said. “I’ll just go and put the kettle on. Lester, put your newspaper away. It’s rude to sit and read when we have guests.”

Edith left the room and Townsend put his newspaper down, staring suspiciously at Banks before reaching for a pipe on the table beside him, stuffing it with shag and lighting it. “What is it we can do for you?” he asked.

Banks sat down. “Can we wait until your wife comes back with the tea?” he said. “I’d like to talk to both of you.”

Townsend grunted around his pipe. For a moment Banks thought he was going to pick up his newspaper again, but he just sat there smoking contemplatively and staring at a spot high on the wall until his wife returned with the tea tray.

“It’s not often we get visitors,” she said. “Is it, darling?”

“Hardly ever,” her husband said, glaring at Banks. “Especially policemen.”

Banks was beginning to feel as if he had wandered onto a film set, a period piece of some kind. Everything about the place was old-fashioned, from the flower-patterned wallpaper to the brass andirons. Even the teacups with their tiny handles and gold rims reminded him of something from his grandmother’s china cabinet. Yet these people were only perhaps ten or fifteen years older than he was.

“I really am sorry for interrupting your evening,” Banks said, balancing the teacup and saucer on his lap, “but this address has come up in connection with a case I’m working on back up in North Yorkshire.” It wasn’t entirely true, but the Townsends weren’t to know that Superintendent Gervaise had technically closed down the investigation and sent him packing.

“How exciting,” said Edith. “In what way?”

“How long have you lived here?” Banks asked.

“Ever since we were married,” her husband answered. “Since 1963.”

“Do you ever rent out the house?”

“What a strange question,” Edith said. “No, we don’t.”

“Do you rent any of the rooms or floors as flats or bedsits?”

“No. It’s our home. Why would we rent any of it?”

“Some people do, that’s all. To help pay the bills.”

“We can manage all that perfectly well by ourselves.”

“Have you been on holiday recently?”

“We took a Caribbean cruise last winter.”

“Other than that?” Banks asked.

“Not recently, no.”

“Did you use a house sitter?”

“If you must know, our daughter drops by every other day and takes care of the place. She lives in West Kilburn. It’s not far away.”

“You haven’t been away even for only a few days over the past month or so?”

“No,” she repeated. “Lester still works in the city. He should have retired by now, but they say they still need him.”

“What do you do, Mr. Townsend?” Banks asked.

“Insurance.”

“Might anyone else have... er... used your house, say, while you were out one evening?”

“Not to our knowledge,” Edith answered. “And we don’t often go out in the evenings. The streets are so unsafe these days.”

Banks put his cup and saucer down on the table beside his chair and reached for the envelope in his pocket. He took out the photographs and passed them first to Edith. “Do you recognize either of these men?” he asked.

Edith examined the photos closely and passed them to her husband. “No,” she said. “Should I?”

“You, sir?” Banks asked Townsend.

“Never seen either of them in my life,” he answered, handing the photographs back to Banks.

“You do agree it’s this house, don’t you?” Banks asked.

Edith took the photos again. “Well, it certainly looks like it,” she said. “But it can’t be, can it?”

She passed the photographs to Townsend, who turned to Banks without even reexamining them and said, “What on earth is all this about? What’s going on? You come barging in here upsetting my wife and showing pictures of... of I don’t know what, asking damn-fool questions.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Banks said. “I didn’t mean to upset anyone. One of our technical support officers was able to enhance the digital photographs I just showed you and read the street name. This street name. As you can see, the facade in the photos also resembles this house.”

“Couldn’t he have made a mistake?” Townsend said, handing the photos back. “After all, they’re a bit blurred and you can’t just blindly trust all modern technology, can you?”

“Mistakes are made,” said Banks. “But not this time. I don’t think so.”

Townsend stuck his chin out. “Then what’s your explanation? Eh?” Banks put the photographs back, pocketed the envelope and stood up to leave. “I don’t know, sir,” he said. “But one way or another I’ll get to the bottom of it.”

“I’m sorry we couldn’t be any more help,” said Edith, as she led Banks to the door.

“Have you ever heard of a man called Julian Fenner?” Banks asked. “He works in Import-Export?”

“No.”

“Laurence Silbert? Mark Hardcastle?”

“No, I’m afraid neither of those names is familiar to me.”

“Do you have a son?” he asked. “Or any other close relative who might have used the house in your absence?”

“Only our daughter.”

“Can I talk to her?”

“She’s away. In America. Besides, I can’t imagine any reason why she would think of coming here unless we asked her to. I’m afraid you’ll have to leave now. We can’t tell you anything more.”

And Banks found himself standing on the doorstep scratching his head.

Medburn wasn’t much more than a postwar council estate with a pub, a post office and a garage clustered around the green, where bored kids lounged on the benches and scared off the few old folks who lived there. The Red Rooster had been there first, at the crossroads, and it was one of those ugly sprawling pubs with a brick-and-tile facade that had recently been taken over by a brewery chain and tarted up a bit—long bar, family area, children’s playroom, a bouncy castle in the garden, brass numbers screwed to every table to make ordering easier. And woe betide you if you forgot to memorize your table number, or it somehow slipped your mind as you waited at the bar half an hour to order, because there was usually only one person serving, and it always seemed to be his first day on the job.

This one’s name tag identified him as Liam, and he didn’t look old enough to be serving in a pub, Annie thought. Luckily, the place wasn’t too busy around half past five on a Wednesday afternoon—it was the kind of pub that filled up later, after dinner, when the quizzes or karaoke started, and at lunchtimes on weekends—and Annie and Winsome had no trouble getting a couple of drinks and putting in an order for table 17.

“What’s all this about, then?” Winsome asked, when they sat down with their drinks. A pint of Abbot’s for Annie and a glass of red wine for Winsome. “I thought the Hardcastle business was over and done with. Superintendent Gervaise said so.”

“It is,” said Annie. “At least officially.” She debated whether to bring Winsome into the picture. If she could trust anyone else in Western Area HQ, it was Winsome, but she could also be prudish and judgmental, and she tended to do things by the book. In the end, Annie decided to tell her. Even if Winsome disapproved, at least she wouldn’t go telling Superintendent Gervaise or anyone else.

“So DCI Banks is in London following this up instead of on leave?” Winsome said, when Annie had finished.

“Yes. Well, he’s officially on leave, but... he’s not convinced.”

“And you?”

“Let’s just say I’m intrigued.”

“And he wants you to help at this end?”

“Yes.”

“And that’s why we’re sitting in this lame pub in this gross village waiting for some naff food.”

Annie smiled. “That’s just about it, Winsome.”

Winsome muttered something underneath her breath.

“Want in?” said Annie.

“It looks like I’m stuck here, doesn’t it? You’ve got the car keys.”

“There’s always a bus.”

“On the hour every hour. It’s five past six.”

“Maybe it’ll be late.”

Winsome held her palm up. “Okay, all right, enough. I’m in. Unless you start crossing any serious boundaries.”

“What’s a serious boundary?”

“One you know when you’re crossing it.”

Annie paused for a moment as their food arrived, a beefburger and chips for Winsome and a mini pizza margherita for her. She had strayed a little from her vegetarianism lately, to the extent of a coq au vin and a potted meat sandwich, and she was also finding that she enjoyed fish more often. On the whole, though, she tried to stick with it, and she certainly avoided red meat. Their knives and forks were tightly wrapped in serviettes and bound with a strip of blue paper. Winsome’s knife was spotty from the dishwasher.

“What did you think of Nicky Haskell this time?” Annie asked as she picked up a slice of pizza with her fingers. “It’s the third time we’ve talked to him and his story hasn’t changed. The mention of Hardcastle was the only thing that was new, and he’d obviously just seen something about that on TV by accident. Not a newspaper reader, our Nicky, I shouldn’t think.”

“Dunno,” said Winsome around a mouthful of burger. “It was on the news the night before last. Silbert and Hardcastle.” She dabbed her lips with the serviette. “Did he seem more scared this time to you?”

“He did,” Annie said. “And he’s such a tough-enough nut himself that I really don’t think he’d be scared of Jackie Binns or his mates.”

“So what is it? Misguided loyalty? Instinctive aversion to talking to the police?”

“Could be either or both,” Annie said. “Could also be that there’s someone else involved he really is scared of.”

“Now that would be an interesting development.”

They ate their meals in silence for a while, each pausing occasionally for a sip of beer or wine. When she had finished about half her pizza, Annie asked casually, “Got a boyfriend at the moment, Winsome?”

“Nah. There was... there was someone from technical support, but... you know, his hours, my hours, it just didn’t work out.”

“Do you want a husband and kids?”

“No way. Least not yet for a while, not for a long while. Why? Do you?”

“Sometimes I think so,” Annie said, “and then sometimes I feel the same way you do. Trouble is, my biological clock’s running out and yours has got plenty of time left on it.”

“What about... you know... DCI Banks?”

Annie rolled her eyes. “He’s in lo-ove.” Then she burst into laughter.

Winsome laughed, too. “Seriously, what you were saying before, this theory of his about the Hardcastle-Silbert case.”

Annie pushed her plate aside with one piece left and sipped some Abbot’s. “Yes? What about it?”

“Does DCI Banks really think the Secret Intelligence Service goaded Hardcastle into bumping off Silbert for some sort of twisted government reason?”

“Well,” said Annie, “government reasoning is usually pretty twisted, as far as I can make out, so he might not be far wrong. Thing is, though, what Nicky Haskell just told us changes things.”

“It does? Derek Wyman?”

“Well, yes. Think about it. If it was Wyman did the Iago bit, then it might have had nothing to do with Silbert’s MI6 career. Wyman probably didn’t even know about that, or even if he did, it wouldn’t necessarily mean anything to him. He did, however, stand to lose his position at the theater if Hardcastle got his new group of players going, and Hardcastle needed Silbert’s backing for that.”

“So why did this Browne bloke pay DCI Banks a visit, then?”

“A fishing expedition? To see which way the wind was blowing? They’re bound to be interested if it was one of their blokes who copped it, aren’t they? Silbert probably knew all kinds of secrets, did all sorts of nefarious deeds that could bring down the government, or at least bring about a clean sweep of the intelligence services, if they became public. They’re running scared. Only natural they’d be worried about that, isn’t it?”

“But you’re saying that may not be the case?”

“I don’t know,” Annie said. “But if Wyman was the one stirred up the hornet’s nest, the motivation might be a whole other thing, mightn’t it? Professional jealousy. Revenge.”

“Maybe they were having a... you... know... a thing?”

Annie smiled. Winsome always got flustered when she was dealing with matters of sex, whether gay or straight. “You mean an affair? A fling?”

“Yeah,” said Winsome.

“Who?”

“Wyman and Hardcastle. They were in London together. They were the ones Nicky Haskell said he saw having a tête-à-tête.”

“He said he thought he saw Wyman say something to upset Hard-castle, then calm him down. It certainly fits.”

“They could have met on some other occasion, later, and Wyman could have given him the memory stick.”

“But when and how did Wyman get the photos? He couldn’t be running off down to London every time Silbert did. How did he know where to look, for a start?”

“I don’t know,” said Winsome. “It’s just a theory. Wyman was pally with Hardcastle and he knew about the flat in London. Maybe he followed Silbert from there on one of his trips and got lucky?”

“And if Wyman and Hardcastle were having an affair, why would Wyman want Hardcastle to kill Silbert and then himself?”

“He wouldn’t,” said Winsome. “I mean, maybe that wasn’t what he wanted. Maybe he just wanted to turn Hardcastle against Silbert so he could have him for himself.”

“It’s possible,” Annie said. “And it backfired. Hardcastle overreacted. Finished?”

Winsome drained her glass. “Uh-huh.”

“Let’s have a quick word with young Liam on the way out. He doesn’t seem too busy.”

Liam turned when Annie called his name and immediately assumed a serious air when she showed him her warrant card. At the same time he could hardly stop looking at Winsome. He was a gawky lad with slightly bulging eyes, rubbery lips and a gentle face, so easily flustered and excited, so easy to read, he wouldn’t have made a good poker player.

“How long have you been here?” Annie asked.

“Since ten this morning.”

“No. I mean how long have you been working here?”

“That. Oh, sorry. Stupid of me. Six months. Give or take.”

“So it’s not your first day.”

“Come again?”

“Never mind.” Annie fanned out photographs of Hardcastle and Silbert on the bar. She didn’t have one of Wyman and regretted that now. Maybe she could get one later. “Recognize either of these men?”

Liam pointed immediately to the photograph of Mark Hardcastle. “I recognize him. He’s the bloke who hanged himself in Hindswell Woods. Nasty business. I used to like to go for walks there. Peaceful sort of place.” He gave Winsome a soulful look. “You know, somewhere you can really just be alone and think. But now... well, it’s ruined, isn’t it? Spoiled.”

“Sorry about that,” Annie said. “Bloody inconsiderate, most suicides.” Liam opened his mouth to say something else, but Annie bulldozed on. “Anyway, have you ever seen him in here?”

“He’s been here once or twice, yes.”

“Recently?”

“Past month or so.”

“How often, would you say?”

“Dunno. Two or three times.”

“Alone or with someone else?”

Liam blushed. “With another bloke.” Liam gave a quick description that resembled Derek Wyman. “I know what it said about them, on the telly, like, but this isn’t that sort of a pub. We don’t have any of that sort of shenanigans here.” He gave Winsome a manly glance, as if to establish his hetero-cred. “Nothing went on.”

“That’s good to know,” said Annie. “So they just sat there and stared into space?”

“No. I don’t mean that. No. They had a drink or two, never more than two, and mostly they just talked.”

“Ever see them arguing?”

“No. But the bloke that hanged himself, Hardcastle, got a bit agitated once or twice, and the other bloke had to calm him down.”

It was exactly as Nicky Haskell had described them on the one occasion he had seen Wyman and Hardcastle together. “Did they ever come with anyone else, or did anyone else join them?” Annie asked.

“Not when I was on duty.”

“Did you ever see anything change hands?”

Liam drew himself up to his full height behind the bar, which was still a few inches less than Winsome’s. “Never. That’s something else we don’t countenance in this establishment. Drugs.” He spat out the word.

“I’m impressed,” said Winsome, and Liam blushed.

“Ever see them looking at photos?” Annie asked, hoping she wasn’t going to get the same response she had from Haskell.

“No,” Liam said. “But they were usually here when we were pretty busy. I mean, it’s not as if I was keeping an eye on them or anything.” He began to get flustered and looked at Winsome again. “But if you want me to, I can keep my eyes and ears open. You know, if they come in again. I mean, I know Hardcastle can’t, like, he’s dead, right, but the other one, whoever he is, and I’ll certainly—”

“It’s all right, Liam,” Annie said, though Liam seemed to have forgotten her presence. “We doubt very much that he’ll be back. Thanks a lot for your help.”

“What you might do,” Winsome said before they left, leaning forward on the bar, so she was closer to Liam and a little shorter than he was, “is keep an eye open for underage drinkers. And drugs. We’ve had a few reports... you know... It would be a great help. Wouldn’t want you to get into any trouble, mind you.”

“Oh, God, no. I mean, yes, of course. Underage drinkers. Yes. Drugs. I’ll do that.”

They were laughing as they went out the door. “ ‘Countenance in this establishment,’ for crying out loud,” said Winsome. “Where’s he get that from?”

“Good one, Winsome,” Annie said. “You got him all flustered. You know, I think he fancies you. You might be in with a chance there.”

Winsome nudged her in the ribs. “Get away with you.”

Banks met Sophia in their local wine bar on the King’s Road just after eight o’clock that evening. It was crowded by then, but they managed to get a couple of stools at the bar. The place always reminded Banks of their first night together. The Eastvale wine bar was a bit smaller and less upmarket, of course, its wine list perhaps not quite so comprehensive, and certainly lighter on the wallet, but it had a similar ambience: curved black bar, bottles on glass racks against a lit mirror behind the work area, soft lighting, candles floating among flower petals on the black circular tables, chrome chairs, padded seats.

That first night Banks hadn’t been able to take his eyes off Sophia’s animated face as they talked, and without his even being aware of it he had somehow forgotten everything else in his life and broken though his natural reserve, found his hand reaching out for hers across the table, not another thought in his mind at that moment but her dark eyes, her voice, her lips, the light and shade of the flickering candle playing on the smooth skin of her face. It was a feeling that he knew would stay with him forever, no matter what happened. He felt his breath catch in his chest even as he thought about it now, sitting next to her, rather than opposite, in a place where they could barely hear each other speak, and whatever the music that was playing, it certainly wasn’t Madelaine Peyroux singing “You’re Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go.”

“He was terrible,” Sophia was saying, finishing a story about an interview she had produced that afternoon. “I mean, most crime writers are nice enough, but this bloke came on like he was Tolstoy or someone, proceeded to ignore the questions he was asked, pontificated about navel-gazing literary fiction and complained about not being nominated for the Man-Booker. If you even hinted that he wrote crime novels, he’d snarl and practically go apoplectic. And he swore all the bloody time! And he smelled. Poor Chris, the interviewer, stuck there in that little studio with him.”

Banks laughed. “What did you do?”

“Well, let’s just say the technician’s a friend of mine, and thank God it wasn’t live,” said Sophia with a wicked smile. “And you can’t smell someone over the radio.” She knocked back a healthy draft of Rioja and patted her chest. Her face was a little flushed, the way it got sometimes when she was excited. She prodded Banks gently in the chest. “So tell me about your day, Mr. Superspy.”

Banks put his finger to his lips. “Ssshhh,” he said, glancing toward the bartender. “ ‘Keep mum, she’s not so dumb.’ ”

“You think the Rioja’s bugged?” Sophia whispered.

“Could be. After today, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“What happened today?”

“Oh, nothing happened. Not really.”

“Am I going to see much of you while you’re down here, or are you going to be slinking among the shadows and darkness?”

“I hope not.”

“But are you going to be running out at all hours of the night on mysterious missions?”

“I can’t guarantee nine to five, but I’ll do my best to be home by bedtime.”

“Hmm. So tell me what happened today.”

“I went to this house in Saint John’s Wood, a house we had evidence that Laurence Silbert and an unknown man entered together about a week before Silbert died...” And Banks proceeded to tell Sophia about Edith and Lester Townsend. “Honestly,” he said, “I felt as if I’d walked right into the world of one of those strange fantasy novels. Or fallen down a rabbit hole or something.”

“And they said they were there all the time, that no one else lived there or had rented from them, and they didn’t know either of the men in the photo?”

“That’s about it.”

“How very North by Northwest. Are you sure your technical support people didn’t make a mistake?”

“I’m sure. It’s the same place. You can see that as soon as you stand outside.”

“Well, they must be lying, then,” said Sophia. “It stands to reason. It’s the only logical conclusion. Don’t you think?”

“So it would seem. But why?”

“Maybe they’ve been paid off?”

“Possibly.”

“Perhaps they run a gay brothel?”

“A little old lady like Edith Townsend? In Saint John’s Wood?”

“Why not?”

“Or maybe they’re simply a part of it all,” Banks said.

“A part of what?”

“The plot. The conspiracy. Whatever’s going on.” He tossed back the rest of his drink. “Come on, let’s go for that meal and talk about something else. I’m sick of bloody spooks already. It’s doing my head in. And I’m starving.”

Sophia laughed and reached down for her handbag. “Talking about doing your head in,” she said, “if we hurry, Wilco are playing at the Brixton Academy tonight, and I can get us in.”

“Well, then,” said Banks, standing and holding out his hand for her. “What are we waiting for? Have we got time for a burger on the way?”