All the Colors of Darkness

“Everyone?”

“At the Eastvale Theatre. That’s where he worked. You know, the restored Georgian theater on Market Street.”

“I know where you mean,” said Annie. For years the local amateur dramatic and operatic societies had put on their Terence Rattigans or Gilbert and Sullivans at the community center and in various church halls around the dale, but the town council, aided by an Arts Council lottery grant and private funding from local businesses, had recently restored an old Georgian theater, which had been used as a carpet warehouse and then left in a state of disrepair for years. For the past year and a half, it had been the center for all thespian endeavors in town, along with the occasional folk- or chamber-music concert. “Are you sure it’s him?” she asked.

“Certain,” said Mallory.

“What did he do there?”

“He had something to do with props and scenery, that sort of thing.

Backstage stuff. My wife’s a member of the amateur operatic society,”

Mallory added. “That’s how I know.”

“Know anything else about him?”

“Nah, not really.” Mallory f lapped his wrist. “Except that he was a bit f lamboyant, you might say.”

“He was gay?”

“He didn’t hide it. It’s pretty common knowledge around the place.”

“Know where he lived?”

“No, but one of the theater crowd would.”

“Any family?”

“No idea.”

“I don’t suppose you know what kind of car he drives, do you?”

“Sorry.”

“Okay. Thanks.” What Mallory and Nowak had told her should certainly make her job a lot easier. Now she was beginning to believe 8 P E T E R

R O B I N S O N

that she and Winsome might get home before dark. She nudged Winsome. “Come on, let’s get over to the theater,” she said. “There’s nothing more we can do here.”

Just then a young PC came trotting up the path, out of breath.

“Excuse me, ma’am, but we think we’ve found the car. Want to see it now?”

T H E C A R was a dark green Toyota, an even earlier model than Annie’s old purple Astra, and it had definitely seen better days. It stood in the tarmacked parking area beside the caravan site, between the river and the main Swainsdale road. There were only three other cars in the park, which was how the officers had found it so quickly. They couldn’t be certain it belonged to the victim yet, of course, but as soon as Annie saw the jack-in-the- box with its paint peeling off and the elephant’s-foot umbrella stand on the backseat, she immediately thought of theatrical props.

And the driver’s door was unlocked, the key in the ignition, which was what had drawn the attention of the uniformed officers. The inside was a mess, but it was only the kind of a mess a person makes in his or her own car, to which Annie could well attest. Maps, petrol receipts, sweet wrappers and CD cases littered the passenger seat. The CDs were mostly opera, Annie noticed, something Banks would have appreciated. In the back, along with the props, were a broken windscreen wiper, an unopened bag of pork scratchings and a roll of cling film. There was also a black zip-up wind cheater.

Annie found the victim’s wallet in a side pocket of the wind cheater, along with a set of keys. He had forty-five pounds in notes, credit and debit cards in the name of Mark G. Hardcastle, a couple of business cards of local cabinetmakers and theatrical suppliers, a driving license complete with photograph and an address not far from the center of town, along with a date of birth that put his age at forty-six. As far as Annie could see, there was no suicide note. She riff led through the wallet again, then went through the pile of stuff on the passenger seat and on the f loor, under the seats. Nothing. Next she checked the boot and found only a large cardboard box full of old magazines and newsA L L T H E C O L O R S O F D A R K N E S S

9

papers for recycling, a f lat spare tire and a few plastic containers full of antifreeze and window-washing f luid.

Annie took a deep breath of fresh air.

“Anything?” Winsome asked.

“Do you think he just happened to be carrying a length of clothesline with him?”

“Unlikely,” Winsome answered. She jerked her head toward the car. “But just look at some of the other stuff he had in there. Who knows? Maybe it was a theatrical prop.”

“True enough. Anyway, I was thinking there might be a receipt.

Obviously if he was planning to hang himself, and he didn’t have any rope conveniently stashed in his car, he’d have had to buy some, wouldn’t he? We’ll get Harry Potter to check the local shops. It shouldn’t be too difficult to trace.” Annie showed Winsome a handful of receipts from Hardcastle’s wallet. “Three of these are from London—Waterstone’s, HMV and a Zizzi’s restaurant. All dated this past Wednesday. There’s also a petrol receipt from an M1 service station at Watford Gap dated Thursday morning.”

“Any signs of a mobile phone?” Winsome asked.