Laurence Silbert, Annie thought, which meant that he had money and status.
The homosexuality would not necessarily be a problem so long as he was discreet about it. All-night raves with rent boys, on the other hand, might attract a bit of local disapproval.
Getting out of the car, Annie could see why the locals did their best to protect and preserve their habitat from the hoi polloi. She had been up there once or twice before during her time at Eastvale, but had almost forgotten how magnificent the view was.
To the south, straight ahead, she could see over the slate and f lagstone rooftops and crooked chimneys of the terraced streets below to the cobbled market square, with its tiny dots dashing about their business. Just to the left of the Norman church tower, beyond The Maze, stood the ruined castle on its hill, and below that, at the bottom of the colorful hillside gardens, the river Swain tripped over a series of little waterfalls, sending up white spray and foam. Directly across the water stood The Green, with its Georgian semis and mighty old trees.
Things got uglier after that, with the East Side Estate poking its redbrick terraces, two tower blocks and maisonettes through the gaps in the greenery, and then came railway lines. Even farther out, Annie could see all the way across the Vale of York to the steep rise of Sutton Bank.
South, past the square and the castle, on the left riverbank, she could also see the beginnings of Hindswell Woods, but the spot where Mark Hardcastle’s body had been discovered came after a bend in the river and was hidden from view.
Annie breathed in the air. It was another beautiful day, fragrant and 2 4 P E T E R
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mild. DC Wilson stood waiting for instructions, hands in his pockets, and Annie turned to the house. It was an impressive sight: a walled garden with a black wrought-iron gate surrounded the gabled man-sion built of local limestone, with large mullioned windows and ivy and clematis climbing up the walls.
A short gravel drive led from the gate to the front door. Just to the right stood an old coach house, the lower half of which had been converted into a garage. The double doors were open, and inside was an extremely sleek, beautiful and expensive silver Jaguar. There would be plenty of room to hide Hardcastle’s old Toyota in there, too, Annie thought. It wasn’t the kind of car the neighbors would appreciate seeing parked on their street, though the houses were generally far enough apart here, and separated by high walls and broad lawns, that the people who lived in them need have as little to do with one another as possible.
So Mark Hardcastle hadn’t only got lucky in love; he had also found himself a rich boyfriend into the bargain. Annie wondered how much that had mattered to him. It was a long journey for the son of a Barnsley coal miner, and it made Annie feel even more intrigued to meet the mysterious Laurence Silbert.
Annie banged the brass lion’s head-knocker on the front door. The sound echoed throughout the entire neighborhood, quiet but for the sounds of traffic from the town below and the twittering of birds in the trees. But from inside there was nothing. She knocked again. Still nothing. She turned the handle. The door was locked.
“Shall we try round the back, guv?” asked Wilson.
Annie peered in through the front windows but could see only dim, empty rooms. “Might as well,” she said.
The path led between the coach house and the main building into a spacious back garden complete with hedges, a well-kept lawn, wooden garden shed, f lower beds and a winding stone path. On their way, Annie put her hand on the Jaguar’s bonnet. Cool. In the garden, a white metal table and four chairs stood under the shade of a syca-more.
“Seems like everyone’s away, doesn’t it?” said Wilson. “Perhaps this Silbert bloke’s on holiday?”
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“But his car’s in the garage,” Annie reminded him.
“Maybe he’s got more than one? Bloke this rich . . . Range Rover or something? Visiting his country estates?”
Wilson had imagination; Annie had to grant him that. There was a spacious conservatory attached to the back of the house, complete with rough whitewashed walls and rustic wooden table and chairs.
She tried the door and found that it was open. A small pile of newspapers lay on the table, dated last Sunday.
The door that led through to the main house was locked, however, so she knocked and called out Silbert’s name. Her attempts were met with nothing but a silence that made the hairs at the back of her neck stand on end. Something was wrong; she knew it. Could she justify breaking in without a warrant? She thought so. A man had been found dead, and a letter in his possession clearly linked him to this address.
Annie wrapped her hand in one of the newspapers and punched out the pane of glass directly above the area of the lock. She was in luck.
Inside was a large key that opened the dead bolt when she turned it.
They were in.
The interior of the house was gloomy and cool after the bright, warm conservatory, but as her vision adjusted and she found herself in the living room, Annie noticed that it was cheerfully enough decorated, with vibrant modern paintings on the walls—Chagall and Kan-dinsky prints—and light, airy colors, paint and wallpaper. It just didn’t get much light downstairs. The room was empty except for a three-piece suite, a black grand piano and a series of bookcases built into the walls, mostly holding old leather-bound volumes.
They walked through to the kitchen, which was state-of-the-art—
all gleaming white tiles, brushed steel surfaces and every utensil a master chef would ever need. Everything was spotless. The cooking area itself was separated from the dining room by a long island.
Clearly, Hardcastle and Silbert liked to entertain at home, and one of them, at least, probably enjoyed cooking.
A broad carpeted staircase with gleaming banisters and wainscoting led from the hallway upstairs. As they
