“Murder? Who said anything about murder?” Wyman seemed f lustered.
“Laurence Silbert was certainly murdered,” said Annie, “and we do believe that someone deliberately engineered the argument between Silbert and Hardcastle. Perhaps they only expected a falling-out and got more than they bargained for, but even that’s a bit nasty, isn’t it?”
“Maybe. But I don’t know anything about it.”
“Remember, Mr. Wyman. If you don’t tell us something now that you later rely on, it could go badly for you. This is your chance for a clean slate.”
“I’ve told you all I know.”
A L L T H E C O L O R S O F D A R K N E S S
2 9 5
“But you
“Perhaps. It’s hard to say. They were a very difficult couple to get to know.”
“What were those drinks in the Red Rooster all about?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Oh, come off it, Derek,” said Banks. “You know what we’re talking about. It’s not the sort of place for sophisticated men of the world like you and Mark Hardcastle to hang out. Why go there?
Was it the karaoke? Fancy yourself as the new Robbie Williams, do you?”
“There was no karaoke when we were there. It was quiet enough.
And they do a decent pint.”
“The beer’s rubbish,” said Banks. “Don’t expect us to believe that’s why you went there.”
Wyman glared at Banks, then looked imploringly at Annie, as if she were his lifeline, his anchor to sanity and safety. “What happened there, Derek?” she asked gently. “Go on. You can tell us. We heard that Mark was upset by something you said and you were calming him down. What was it all about?”
Wyman folded his arms again. “Nothing. I don’t remember.”
“This isn’t working,” said Banks. “I think we’d better move on to a more official legal footing.”
“What do you mean?” Wyman asked, glancing from one to the other. “More official?”
“DCI Banks is impatient, that’s all,” Annie said. “It’s nothing. Just that this is a sort of informal chat, and we hoped it would resolve our problems. We don’t really want to move on to matters of detention, body searches, home searches and intimate samples or anything like that. Not yet, anyway. Not when we can settle matters as easily as this.”
“You can’t intimidate me,” Wyman said. “I know my rights.”
“Was it about work?” Annie asked.
“What?”
“Your discussion with Mark in the Red Rooster.”
2 9 6 P E T E R
R O B I N S O N
“It might have been. That’s what we usually talked about. I told you we were more colleagues than friends.”
“I understand that you were a bit upset about Mark wanting to direct plays himself and trying to start up a professional acting troupe, using paid locals and jobbing actors, attached to the Eastvale Theatre,”
Annie said. “That you thought it would threaten your position. I can see how that would get to you. It must be the only bit of real job satisfaction you get after a day at the comprehensive with the likes of Nicky Haskell and Jackie Binns.”
“They’re not all like that.”
“I suppose not,” said Annie. “But it must still be a bit depressing.
You
“Mark couldn’t direct his way out of a paper bag.”
“But he was the up-and-coming star,” Banks said. “He had professional theater experience. He had big ideas. It would have put the Eastvale Theatre on the map a lot more significantly than a bloody Amateur Dramatic Company. You’re just a schoolteacher moonlighting as a director. As DI Cabbot says, no contest.”
Wyman squirmed in his chair. “I don’t know where all this is supposed to be leading, but—”
“Then let me show you,” said Banks. “DI Cabbot might want to go gently with you, but I’ve had enough pissing about.” He took some photographs from an envelope in front of him and slipped them across the table to Wyman.
“What are these?” Wyman asked, glancing down at them.
“Surely you recognize Laurence Silbert?”
“It could be him. It’s not a very good photo.”
“Bollocks, Derek. It’s a perfectly good photo. Who’s the other man?”
