All the Colors of Darkness

He thought he would go to the local Italian cafe this morning, read the papers and watch the world go by, then he might just have time to drop in at the HMV on Oxford Street on his way to Fitzrovia and see if the new Isobel Campbell and Mark Lanegan was out.

Sophia’s terrace house was in a narrow street off the King’s Road.

She had got it as part of her divorce settlement, otherwise she would never have been able to afford such a location. It had to be worth a fortune today. It had a pastel-blue facade that reminded Banks a little 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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of the blue of Santorini, perhaps deliberate, as Sophia was half Greek, with white trim and white-painted wooden shutters. There was no front garden, but a low brick wall with a small gate stood about three feet or so from the front door, so it didn’t open directly onto the street.

Though it looked very narrow from the outside, the lot was deep and, TARDIS-like, the space opened up when you went inside: living room to the right, stairs to the left, dining room and kitchen at the end of the hall, and a little garden out back where you could sit in the shade, and where Sophia grew herbs and cultivated a couple of f lower beds.

On the second level were the two bedrooms, one with an en suite shower and toilet, and French windows leading to a tiny wrought-iron balcony with a couple of matching small chairs, round iron table and a few plants in large terra-cotta urns. They hadn’t sat out for a while, either because of the rain or the never-ending and noisy renovations next door. Above the bedrooms was a converted attic area, which Sophia used as her home office.

The house was full of things. Spindly legged tables inlaid with ivory or mother-of- pearl held artfully arranged displays of fossils, stone jars, amphorae, Victorian shell boxes, Limoges china, crystals, agates, seashells and smooth pebbles that Sophia had collected from all over the world. She knew where each one came from, what it was called. The walls were covered with original paintings, mostly abstract landscapes by artists she knew, and every nook and cranny was home to a piece of sculpture, contemporary in style and varying from soapstone to brass in material.

Sophia loved masks, too, and had collected quite a few. They hung between the paintings, dark wooden ones from Africa, tiny colored bead ones from South America, painted ceramic masks from the Far East. There were also peacock feathers, dried ferns and f lowers, a chunk of the Berlin Wall, tiny animal skulls from the Nevada desert, spondylus from Peru, and many-colored worry beads from Istanbul hung over the mantelpiece. Sophia said she loved all these things and felt responsible for them; she was merely taking care of them temporarily, and they would continue long after she was gone.

Quite a responsibility, Banks had said, which was why Sophia had 3 0 P E T E R

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installed a top-of-the-line security system. Sometimes he felt as if her house were a museum and she was its curator. Maybe he was an exhibit, too, he thought: her pet detective, to be brought out at artistic gatherings. But that was unfair. She had never done anything to make him feel that way. Sometimes he wished he had a clearer idea of what she was thinking, though, of what drove her and what really mattered to her. He realized that he didn’t really know her well at all; she was, at heart, a very private person who surrounded herself with people to remain hidden.

Banks remembered to set the security code before he left. Sophia would never forgive him if he forgot and someone broke in. Insurance was no good. None of the stuff was valuable, except perhaps some of the paintings and sculptures, but to her everything was priceless. It was also just the sort of stuff on which a burglar, irritated at finding nothing he could fence, might take out his frustrations.

Banks stopped at the newsagent’s and bought The Guardian, which he thought had the best Saturday review section, then headed to the Italian cafe for his espresso and a chocolate croissant. Not the healthi-est of breakfasts, perhaps, but delicious. And it wasn’t as if he had a weight problem. Cholesterol was another matter. His doctor had already put him on a low dose of statin, and he had decided that that took care of the problem and allowed him to eat pretty much what he wanted. After all, he only had to be careful what he ate if he wasn’t taking the pills, surely?

He had no sooner got his espresso and croissant and sat down to read the film and CD reviews at one of the window tables when his mobile buzzed. He pressed the answer button and put the phone to his ear. “Banks.”

“Alan. Sorry to bother you on your weekend off,” said Annie, “but we’ve got a bit of a crisis brewing up here. The super says we could use your help.”

“Why? What is it?”

He listened as Annie told him what she knew.

“It sounds like a murder-suicide to me,” said Banks. “For Christ’s sake, Annie, can’t you and Winsome handle it? Sophia’s organizing a dinner party tonight.”

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He could hear Annie’s intake of breath and the pregnant pause that followed. He knew she didn’t like Sophia and put it down to jealousy.

A woman scorned, and all that. Not that he had ever really scorned her, though he had sent her packing a while ago when she had come to his cottage drunk and amorous. If anything, she had scorned him.

Most people were pleased for him—his son Brian and girlfriend Emilia, his daughter Tracy, Winsome Jackman, ex–Detective Superintendent Gristhorpe, his closest friend. But not Annie.

“It’s not my idea,” she said finally. “I don’t even know why you’d think it would be. The last thing I’d want to do is spoil Sophia’s dinner party by stealing you away. But it’s orders from above. You know we’re short-staffed. Besides, it could turn into something big and nasty. There’s money involved—Castleview Heights—and the gay community. Yes, I agree, it looks like a murder-suicide so far, but we haven’t got the forensics back yet and we don’t know a great deal about the victims, either.”

“And you know you won’t get forensics until the middle of next week. Maybe you should have waited until then before calling me.”

“Oh, bollocks, Alan,” said Annie. “I don’t need this. I’m only the messenger. Just get up here and do your job.