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“A
“Yes. They do exist.”
“I know that. I was just . . . go on.”
“He also talked to a waitress in Zizzi’s who remembered seeing a man we assume to be Hardcastle tearing up some photos.”
“Assume?”
“Well, it was Wyman who commissioned them, and he did tell us he had dinner at Zizzi’s with Hardcastle before going to the National Film Theatre.”
“But why?”
“To stir up Hardcastle.”
“Or so you assume?”
“Well, it makes sense, doesn’t it? Why else would he go to all that expense? He isn’t a rich man.”
“Why would he want to do it in the first place? He didn’t even know Silbert very well, did he?”
“Not well. No. They’d met once or twice, had dinner, but no, he didn’t really know Silbert. It was personal, I think. The target was Hardcastle, but when you set things like that in motion, you can’t always predict their outcome.”
“I’ll say. Do go on.”
“From what I can gather from talking to Carol Wyman, her husband’s sick of his teaching job and he’s got a passion for theater.”
“I know that,” said Gervaise. “He directed
“That’s just it, ma’am,” Annie rushed on. “He wants to direct more.
In fact, he wants it to be a full-time job. But like I said at that meeting when you closed the case, if Hardcastle and Silbert had succeeded in setting up their acting company the way they wanted, there would have been no room for Wyman. Hardcastle himself wanted to direct.
Wyman would have been back to square one. That kind of failure and humiliation can really push a man to the limit, hurt his pride.”
“And you’re saying that’s Wyman’s motive for killing two men?”
“I don’t think he intended to kill anyone. It was just a nasty prank went wrong. I mean, I’m sure he wanted to hurt Hardcastle, or he wouldn’t have gone to all that trouble. I think directing
P E T E R R O B I N S O N
to split up Hardcastle and Silbert so that Hardcastle would probably feel he had to leave Eastvale and abandon the theater.”
“I don’t know,” said Gervaise. “It still sounds a bit far-fetched. And correct me if I’m wrong, but I still don’t see that any crime has been committed.”
“We’ll work something out. People have killed for less—a job, a career, rivalry, artistic jealousy. I’m still not saying that Wyman intended to kill anyone, but what he did isn’t beyond the bounds of possibility. He may have incited Hardcastle to do what he did. He may have harassed him with the images and innuendos the way Iago did Othello. Maybe Wyman has a certain amount of psychological in-sight—you might expect it in a theater director— and he knew what buttons to push? I don’t know. All I know is that I think he did it.”
Gervaise refilled her glass from the pitcher and offered Annie more.
Annie declined. “What do you think?” Annie asked.
“I suppose there’s a certain low-level plausibility to it all,” Gervaise admitted. “But even so, we’d never prove it in a million years.”
“Unless Wyman confessed.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Guilt. If it was a prank gone wrong. If he didn’t mean to really hurt anyone. If we’re not dealing with a cold-blooded killer. He must have feelings. What happened must be a burden for him. His wife says he’s been a bit preoccupied lately. I’ll bet it’s weighing on his mind.”
“All right, DI Cabbot,” said Gervaise. “Let’s accept that Wyman did cook up some scheme based on his directing of
It was as Banks had said, Annie thought. With the intelligence services out of the picture, Gervaise was far more willing to go along with the idea. “Yes,” she said.
Gervaise sighed, took off her hat and used it as a fan for a moment, then put it back on. “Why can’t things be easy?” she said. “Why can’t people just do as they’re told?”
“We have to pursue the truth,” said Annie.
“Since when? That’s a luxury we can ill afford.”
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“But two people died because of what Wyman did, no matter how he intended it, or even whether he’s
