All the Colors of Darkness

“I should imagine so,” said Annie, who had never been to Barnsley.

All she knew about it was that it was in South Yorkshire and used to have a lot of coal mines. Certainly she wouldn’t have expected most mining communities to be sympathetic toward gays.

Annie addressed the others. “Is there anyone else here apart from Ms. Wolsey and Mr. Ross who was close to Mark Hardcastle?”

“We all felt close to Mark,” one of the other girls spoke up. “He made you feel special. You could talk to him about anything. And there was nobody more generous.”

“Did he talk to you about his problems?”

“No,” the girl said. “But he’d listen to yours and give you advice if you wanted it. He wouldn’t push it on you. He was so wise. I just can’t believe it. I can’t believe any of this.” She started crying and took out a handkerchief.

Annie glanced at Winsome to let her know they were done, then she took some cards from her briefcase and handed them out.

“If any of you think of anything, please don’t hesitate to call,” she said. Then she looked at Vernon Ross again and said, “Mr. Ross, can you come to the mortuary with us now, please, if it’s convenient?”

2

GOT IT!” SAID ANNIE, PUNCHING THE AIR IN VICTORY.

It was half past eight on Saturday morning, and she and Winsome were in the Western Area HQ squad room with DC Doug Wilson. They had called it a day at seven o’clock the previous evening, after Vernon Ross had identified Mark Hardcastle’s body, and after a quick drink they had each gone their separate ways home.

Wilson had canvassed the local shops and discovered that Mark Hardcastle had bought the yellow clothesline from a hardware shop owned by a Mr. Oliver Grainger at about a quarter to one on Friday afternoon. He had blood on his hands and face, and Grainger had thought he might have cut himself doing some carpentry. When he had asked about this, Hardcastle had shrugged it off. He had been wearing his black wind cheater zipped up, so Grainger hadn’t been able to see if there was also blood on his arms. Hardcastle had also smelled strongly of whiskey, though he hadn’t acted drunk. According to Grainger, he had appeared oddly calm and subdued.

Now, while sorting through the SOCO reports on her desk, Annie discovered that a thorough search of Mark Hardcastle’s car had produced a letter mixed in among the newspapers and magazines in the boot. The letter was nothing in itself, just an old special wine offer from John Lewis, but it was addressed to a Laurence Silbert at 15

Castleview Heights, and somehow it had got mixed in with the papers 2 2 P E T E R

R O B I N S O N

for recycling. Castleview Heights was nothing if it wasn’t posh.

“Got what?” said Winsome.

“I think I’ve found the lover. He’s called Laurence Silbert. Lives on the Heights.” Annie got up and grabbed her jacket from the back of her chair. “Winsome,” she said, “could you hold the fort here and start the interviews if I’m not back in time?”

“Of course,” said Winsome.

Annie turned to Doug Wilson. With his youthful looks—which, along with the glasses, had earned him the nickname of “Harry Potter” around the station—his hesitant manner and a tendency to stutter when under stress, he wasn’t the right person to conduct the interviews, but all he needed, Annie reckoned, was a bit more self- confidence, and only on-the-job experience would give him that.

“Want to come along, Doug?” she asked.

Winsome gave Wilson a nod, assuring him it was okay, that she wasn’t feeling slighted. “Yes, guv,” he said. “Absolutely.”

“Shouldn’t we find out a bit more about the situation first?” Winsome said.

But Annie was already at the door, Wilson at her heels. Annie turned. “Like what?”

“Well . . . you know . . . it’s a pretty posh area, the Heights. Maybe this Silbert is married or something? I mean, you shouldn’t just go barging in there without knowing a bit more about the lie of the land, should you? What if he’s got a wife and kids?”

“I shouldn’t think he has, if Maria Wolsey was right when she said he and Mark were practically living together,” said Annie. “But if Laurence Silbert is married with children, I’d say his wife and kids deserve to know about Mark Hardcastle, wouldn’t you?”

“I suppose you’re right,” said Winsome. “Just tread softly, that’s all I’m saying. Don’t tread on any toes. A lot of people up there are friends with the chief constable and ACC McLaughlin, you know. You’ll ring and let me know what happens?”

“Yes, Mother.” Annie smiled to soften the barb. “As soon as I know myself,” she added. “Bye.”

DC Wilson put on his glasses and dashed out of the door behind her.

A L L T H E C O L O R S O F D A R K N E S S

2 3

* * *

W I N S O M E WA S perhaps understating it when she described the Heights, as the area was known locally, as “a bit” posh, Annie thought as DC Wilson parked on the street outside number 15. It was a

lot

posh, with the reputation of being an exclusive club for Eastvale’s wealthy and privileged. You wouldn’t get much change from a million quid for a house up there. If you could find one on the market, and if the tenants’ association and neighborhood watch committee approved of your credentials. They must have approved of