with some answers. Technically, no crime had been committed. Banks still felt deeply unhappy with the result, but he brought the interview to a close, turned off the recorders and told Wyman he could go to work.
G L A D TO be away from the station and home for the evening, Banks slipped in the Sarabeth Tucek CD he’d got to like so much over the past few months, poured himself a drink and went out to the conservatory to enjoy the evening light on the slopes of Tetchley Fell. The London bombing still haunted him every time he found himself alone, but it had faded slightly in his mind, become more surreal and remote, and there were moments when he could almost convince himself that it had all happened to someone else a long time ago.
Even though the case was really over, there were still a few loose ends he wanted to tie up, just for his own peace of mind. He picked up the phone and dialed Edwina Silbert’s number in Longborough. After about six rings she answered.
“Hello?”
“Edwina? It’s Alan Banks here.”
“Ah,” she said, “my dashing young copper.”
Banks could hear her breathe out smoke. He was glad he couldn’t smell it over the phone. “I don’t know so much about that,” he said.
“How are you?”
“Coping. You know they released the body? The funeral’s next week. If you had anything to do with it, thank you.”
“I can’t claim any credit,” said Banks, “but I’m glad.”
“Is this a social call?”
“I wanted to let you know that it’s officially over.”
“I thought it was officially over last week?”
“Not for me, it wasn’t.”
“I see. And?”
Banks explained about what Derek Wyman had done, and why.
3 0 8
P E T E R R O B I N S O N
“That’s absurd,” said Edwina. “Laurence wasn’t being unfaithful.”
“But Mark thought he was.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Why not?”
“I just don’t believe it, that’s all.”
“I’m afraid it’s true.”
“But Mark knew perfectly well that Laurence was still involved with the service.”
“He did? I had thought he might, but . . .”
“Of course he did. He might not have known exactly what he was doing, but he knew the trips to London and Amsterdam were work-related. Why would he ask someone to spy on Laurence?”
“I don’t know,” said Banks. “He must have become suspicious somehow.”
“Rubbish. I think your Mr. Wyman is lying,” said Edwina. “I think he did it off his own bat, out of pure vindictiveness. He worked on Mark’s insecurity and put his own spin on those photographs.”
“You could be right,” Banks said, “but unfortunately, it doesn’t matter now. I can’t prove it, and even if I could, he still hasn’t committed any crime.”
“What a world,” said Edwina, with another sigh of smoke. “Two dear people dead and no crime committed. Was that why you rang?”
“Partly, yes.”
“There’s something else?”
“Yes. Remember when we talked and you first told me that Laurence worked for MI6?”
“Yes.”
“It crossed your mind then, didn’t it, that they might have somehow been responsible for his death? Remember, you told me to be careful, too.”
There was a pause and Banks heard a tinkle of ice. “At first, I suppose, yes,” Edwina said. “When someone with Laurence’s . . . history . . . dies in such a violent way, one necessarily has suspicions.
They are a devious crowd.”
“Was that because of Cedric?”
“What?”
A L L T H E C O L O R S O F D A R K N E S S
3 0 9
“When you spoke about your husband, you told me he had worked for the Secret Intelligence Service during the war, and that he still had connections. He died in a car crash at the height of the Suez crisis, when he was involved in some Middle Eastern oil deal. Didn’t that set off any alarm bells?”
