tastefully carried out in the same local limestone, and A L L T H E C O L O R S O F D A R K N E S S
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the place probably didn’t look that much different than it had when it was built—in 1768, according to the gritstone door head.
Banks answered her knock and took her through the living room into the kitchen.
“Coffee?” he asked.
“Please.”
He knew how she liked it, Annie noted. Black and strong. He liked his the same.
“Let’s go out to the conservatory,” Banks said.
Annie followed him through the kitchen door. Honeyed sunlight poured in through the glass sides and there was just enough of a breeze through the open windows to keep it from being too hot. That was the problem with conservatories, Annie thought; one warm day and they overheated. In some ways, they were better in winter with an electric fire switched on, f lickering fake coals and a couple of elements. But this early in the morning it was perfect. The view up the daleside to the limestone scar at the top, like a skeleton’s grin, was stunning, and sheep were dotted all over the hillside. The wicker armchairs, she remembered, were so deep and inviting and had cushions so soft that they were difficult to get out of once you sat down. She sat anyway and set her coffee down on the low glass table beside the morning papers, which hadn’t been touched yet. That wasn’t like Banks. He wasn’t so much of a newshound, but he liked to read the music and film reviews and grapple with the crosswords. Perhaps he had slept in. There was some strange orchestral music playing quietly in the background, funereal, discordant in sound, bells and trumpets, timpani, a choir coming and going.
“What’s the music?” Annie asked, when Banks sat down opposite her.
“Shostakovich. The Thirteenth Symphony. It’s called ‘Babi Yar.’
Why? Is it bothering you?”
“No,” said Annie. “I was just wondering. It’s unusual.” It was hardly Steely Dan, but it was quiet enough to keep to the background.
“What time did you get back last night?” she asked.
“Late.”
“I phoned during the evening.”
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“Damn battery died on me, and I didn’t have the charger.”
He seemed more gaunt than usual, his bright blue eyes less full of sparkle. He also had a bandage on his left hand.
“What did you do to yourself?” she asked.
He lifted his hand. “Oh, this? Burned it on the cast-iron frying pan.
The doc always told me my diet would kill me. It’s nothing. I was going to come back into the station this morning, but I’ve changed my mind. That’s why I asked you to come out here instead.”
“Because you hurt yourself?”
“What? No. I told you, this is nothing. It’s something else.”
“What?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
“Okay,” Annie said lightly. “
She could sense his attention drifting as she spoke, so she wound it up quickly and said, “What is it, Alan? Why did you want me to come here?”
“I thought we should talk about Wyman,” Banks said. “Given all the new information, we should consider bringing him in.”
“New? There’s not much, except we now know that he asked for the photos of Silbert to be taken.”
“That’s enough, isn’t it?” said Banks. “Besides, there’s more. Much more. Things are getting out of hand.”
Annie listened, her mouth opening wider and wider as Banks told her about Hardcastle tearing up the photos, and what had happened at Sophia’s house on Thursday evening, and in Tomasina’s office yesterday. When he’d finished, all she could say was “You were down in London yesterday, weren’t you? Isn’t it terrible? You can’t have been far away from Oxford Circus when it happened.”
“Just down Regent Street,” he said. “They closed all the stations for about four hours. That’s why I was so late back. Then I had to take a taxi from Darlington station.”
“I thought you took the car down?”
“I left it. Didn’t feel like driving. Sick of all the traffic. And I’d had a few drinks at lunchtime. What is this? The third degree?”
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“Why didn’t you stay with Sophia? The poor woman must have been terrified.”
“She’s with a friend.” Banks stared at Annie, and she thought for a moment that he was going to tell her to mind her own business. A soloist struck up, then the choir joined him and the orchestra came back, loud brass and crashing percussion, staccato rhythms, a gong. It certainly was odd music for a beautiful Saturday morning. Banks
